#drawing big men with body hair??? god bless. god | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

coulson-is-an-avenger · 3 years

Note

kisses #14 for jmart? write or draw, whichever you prefer!

For the prompt "kissing each other breathless". I ended up going for Old Guard AU yonmartin for this one, and naturally it got VERY long and plot focused, so,, apologies hflksjdfk. There are some Pahlavi and Latin words/references in this, and I've put the meanings for all of them at the bottom of the fic! :0 Hope you enjoy!!

———————————————

Yonatan doesn’t generally consider himself a pessimist, but right now, he has to admit that he’d been expecting this whole trip to go wrong.

He had voiced as much when, days ago, Martinus had first presented the idea of returning to his hometown to see the sights, but Martinus had shaken his head and promised that all would be fine, that ten years would be far enough time for his former allies to give up searching for him, and they would be able to blend in as well as anyone.

Yonatan had been skeptical, claiming that ten years might have been enough to cease a rescue, but not enough to suppress the memory of a face, especially if they came across anyone Martinus had known, and if it came to a fight, Yonatan alone would not be able to hold back a whole force of Byzantine soldiers.

“Deliciae*, they won’t be looking for me,” Martinus had argued and taken Yonatan’s hand in his own, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. “You remember what we left behind. They have no reason to suspect there were survivors.”

Yonatan had squeezed his hand and frowned, glancing up at his love from where his head rested on his shoulder. “Even if that is true, you could still be recognized. People knew you.”

“We won’t stay long enough for that to happen,” Martinus had assured him; all confidence, all certainty. “Please, I want to share this with you.”

And Yonatan had said yes, because of course he had. Martinus had looked so eager, so excited to share this piece of his life with him, and Yonatan had never been able to refuse him when he glowed like that.

Now, however, he wishes that he had.

It hadn’t taken long for everything to spin wildly out of control. Ten years had in fact not been enough to dull the memory of Martinus’s old allies, and an aging man dressed in familiar armor had cried out in alarm as he turned his face upon the pair of them in the marketplace. A fellow soldier - Martinus had identified him as - who had fallen ill shortly before their battalion was sent out, stopped in his tracks to gape at Martinus, his face going slack in disbelief.

The man’s shock had turned to fury faster than Martinus could attempt to deny his own identity, and then the marketplace had been swarming with onlookers and soldiers, all straining for a look at the so-called ‘deserter’. Yonatan had held tight to his beloved’s arm through the mounting noise, but then there were rough hands pulling Martinus away from Yonatan’s grip, more and more of them appearing when he shoved them away, and Yonatan should have been able to hold them off, to push them back, away from his love, but he saw the look in Martinus’s eyes as his hand fell on the hilt of his sword, and had realized that the gathering forces would be too much for him even if he did strike, undying though he was, and he had hesitated when it mattered most. The other soldiers had gripped his arms then and wrenched him to the ground, sealing their separation, and then Yonatan had watched as his beloved was ripped away and degraded for a crime that these men had no ability to understand.

Coward, they had called Martinus with spitting voices. Traitor.

God, he can’t imagine how much it must hurt Martinus to be treated this way by those he once called friends. Yonatan’s hands had shaken with the weight of their ignorance, cast so effortlessly at a man who didn’t deserve a syllable of it, but his fury could not change the fact that Martinus had been taken, and so Yonatan found himself abandoned in the center of the marketplace, surrounded by fallen produce and pastries, utterly alone for the first time in a decade.

He is now trying not to fall into the panic of that isolation as he searches for the prison where they have dragged his beloved, asking pedestrians in the street and following the clearly defined tracks of a struggle marking the dirt roads. He tries not to look too hard at the scattered dust underfoot, tries not to imagine angry hands around his gentle wrists, cruel tongues lashing at his ears. What if they hurt him on the way there? These soldiers are known for the punishment they bestow upon their captive foes; what if they attempt to maim Martinus the same? And then… What if, in doing so, they realize his secret? What if Yonatan is wrong about where he’s been taken, and cannot find him again? What if Yonatan does find him, but he cannot free him? What if Martinus is separated from him forever; cast out to sea or buried beneath stone or locked away somewhere unreachable? Yonatan feels his heart pounding in his chest in fear and tries to get his thoughts under control.

He is a warrior, whether he likes that fact or not, and his long years of fond sparring with Martinus have only sharpened that training, so he can handle this. He will handle this, he corrects himself, as he finally catches sight of the prison where Martinus has been discarded. He is more than a soldier now; he is half of a whole, and he has no intention of letting his beloved go that easily, especially not to some pretentious, dujdaft** Byzantians.

Besides, he tries to reason with himself as he looks over the small, stone prison, it isn’t as if they’ve dragged him to Anōšbord***. The building before him is fortified, certainly, but hardly a castle, and Yonatan doubts that it counts as any sort of masterful architecture. It doesn’t look big enough to hold more than a few other prisoners anyways, so he will be fine. He will walk out with his love like always, and then they will go back to their sanctuary together. They will be safe.

Yonatan repeats this to himself for hours as he forces himself to be still, lying in wait with bouncing legs and tapping fingers until the darkness of night falls around his shoulders like a cloak, and he is able to sneak close enough to see the prison guard’s head begin to droop. Finally, he thinks, and unsheathes his sword.

Yonatan holds his breath as he slinks around the entrance to the prison and strikes the guard from behind. The man barely has time to gasp in surprise before Yonatan brings the wrapped hilt of his blade down hard against the back of his head, his knees giving out as unconsciousness quickly takes him over. Yonatan hadn’t aimed to kill; he remembers Martinus’s eyes in the marketplace when Yonatan’s hand had brushed his sword, and honestly, he can’t bring himself to feel anything but relief for the excuse to avoid any further violence. He has enough blood on his hands to last a lifetime already, and he isn’t exactly eager to dip his hands in more.

Once he’s certain the soldier is out cold, Yonatan does his best to prop him up against the wall where he had been standing, and then, carefully, nicks the keys from his pocket and slips through the front entrance into the prison.

He hadn’t expected it to be so dark, he thinks at first, noting only a few lone torches illuminating the inside of the structure, but he quickly brushes aside the concern. Even if there was no light in here at all, he would find Martinus by touch alone; by voice or by smell. He puts a hand to the wall and withdraws one of the dark torches from its position on the stones, strikes it alight, and ventures deeper into the prison.

The cells are unmarked, but there are only a few prisoners and metal doors are easy enough to see through, so Yonatan makes quick work of checking through them, not sparing a second glance to any sleeping forms he doesn’t recognize, letting his eyes slide off one person to the next until he finally catches the wide eyes of Martinus - very awake and silently waving towards him - and runs immediately to his door. The torch clatters from his hand as he falls to his knees at once, eyes locked on the face of the man he loves.

“Martinus,” he gasps out in relief, wrestling the keys from his pocket and wrenching the lock on the door open without care for silence.

“Took you long enough,” Martinus breathes as he tumbles through the door, although his eyes are shining in the torchlight, and his chest is hitching with emotion, and he is clinging onto Yonatan’s arms the moment they’re close enough to touch. Yonatan feels a smile bursting across his face and tears pricking at his eyes as he returns the touch, wrapping his arms immediately around his beloved, his partner, his grāmīg****, feeling the press of his body against his, all the softness of his chest and stomach and arms, fitting perfectly into Yonatan’s arms and heart.

“Dušāgāh wīr*****,” he mutters into Martinus’s hair, the teasing insult leaving his lips like a blessing, and then he’s pulling back from the embrace and grabbing onto Martinus’s gorgeously round cheeks and sealing their lips together firmly, the kiss all pent up worry and relief and love, always love.

Martinus makes a small noise of surprise, barely a whisper, but quickly melts into the kiss, hands coming up to cup the sides of Yonatan’s face as he kisses him again and again and again, answering Yonatan’s relief with his own.

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Yonatan pulls back suddenly, twisting Martinus this way and that in his arms, searching for drops of blood or torn fabric or anything to indicate that an injury might have befallen his loved one’s skin in his absence.

“No, no.” Martinus shakes his head, breathless. “I— They were going to, I think, but not yet.”

“Good,” Yonatan’s voice burns in his chest, relief scorching his throat, and he draws Martinus in to kiss him again, deeper this time, and a hint almost possessive in the way his hands curl around Martinus’s shoulders and his lips capture his. Martinus holds him back just as tightly, winding his hands in his hair and rubbing over his shoulders before finally tugging him away and breaking the kiss, ignoring the disappointed frown that tugs at Yonatan’s brow.

“Okay, okay. We still have to get out of here, cara******.” He mumbles, struggling to find the stuttering breath in his lungs, still overwhelmed by the kiss of the man he’s stood beside for over a decade.

“We will,” Yonatan agrees, his heart lighter now with the familiar presence of Martinus here to accompany him, and leans in to press one final kiss to his beloved’s soft jaw before stepping away and nodding. “Together, like always.”

Martinus smiles and takes his hand, and the pair of them take their steps together, like always.

* Deliciae - Latin for “darling” ** dujdaft - Pahlavi for “ill-breathing” *** Anōšbord - Also known as the Castle, or Prison of Oblivion. This was a castle and political prison in the Sasanian Empire that held several notable members of royalty over the centuries. **** grāmīg - Pahlavi for “dear” or “treasured” ***** Dušāgāh wīr - Pahlavi for “foolish man” ****** cara - Latin for “dear”

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #tma tog au #tma #tma fic #tma au #the old guard au #tma the old guard #touches prompts #my writing #answered #tumblr Ruined my formatting on this bc apparently its allergic to superscript #but UWU GWYNETH HERE YOU GO #also this is def not one of my most descriptive kisses ive ever written but i like it so hskfjkd

86 notes · View notes

dear-yandere · 3 years

Text

& just drown with me.

yandere! beidou x reader. general headcanons. tw: kidnapping, implied dubcon. disclaimer: this is not a healthy relationship.

art belongs to jay ash (pixiv).

“come out, come out to the sea, my love and just drown with me...”

beidou is...

reverent, delusional, honest, lenient (RDHL) + doting, protective, clingy

— reverent is she the moment she sets eyes on you, her heart skips a beat. she doesn’t mince words or skirt along bushes; she’s enamored the moment she sees you, and she ensures that you’re well aware of her attraction. you’re quick to pick up that she is terribly handsy—and perhaps a little touch-starved—especially when it comes to you. her hands are on you at all times, sometimes friendly, sometimes on the cusp of something more.

she wants to hold you close and never let go, she knows that much. you’re just so frail, so easy to break if the slightest wind were to brush your sides a little too harshly. in contrast, she’s strong beyond compare, able to best sea beasts and part mountains with only her sword; and yet, gentleness is not lost on her. she takes extra care in handling you, beyond scared that you’ll break apart between her fingers if she’s the slightest bit too rough.

and letting go quickly becomes difficult.

she likes feeling your skin against hers. your hand entangled with hers, your fingers delicate and unused to combat; she is forever fascinated by the soft swell of your palm, the way your hand looks as if it can hardly hold itself against the world. your skin is devoid of callouses and tears unlike her own which carries the sword as big as her stature. your hair’s disheveled and knotty, and your clothes carelessly strewn across the floor. she likes you best this way; completely without covers, so that she may take you in to your fullest, so that she may hold all of you within her grasp and never let go. her fingers are always wrapped around your waist, lips pressing kisses onto your head.

you are a treasure beyond compare.

— her thinking, you soon come to learn, lies upon the border of delusion, and yet her eyes hold an assurity when they look at you. you’re never allowed off her ship unsupervised. the decision was quick and painless, her voice doubtless and her intentions clear as the sea. she wants to flaunt you by her side, as she enjoys the way your body will grow warm with embarrassment when she walks into town with a pretty little thing by her side. pirates are known for their nonchalant approach to life, so for the great captain of the crux to show up in public with anything—or anyone—by her side apart from her trusty claymore is a curious sight. captain beidou isn’t known for her ability to settle in one place or with one person; the sea’s always been her true calling, after all. but to see her fingers gently settle on your shoulder as she pulls you close, the smirk on her reddened lips will quickly twist into a full-blown grin as the crowd she’s drawn erupts into cheers.

you know better than to make a scene in front of these people—people who look up to captain beidou, people who wouldn’t take you seriously if you explained the way she keeps you captive on her ship. you’re nothing more than a victim, you’ll say to them, and they’ll only laugh you off with a wave of their hand, certain this whole charade is some roundabout way for beidou to entertain herself. the sea must drive a man delirious, after all. no one can fault her.

and for that reason, no one can believe your pleads.

beidou is a free spirit enamored by the call of adventure, and yet her actions are anything but.

— dishonesty is something beidou hasn’t the time nor patience for. her words hold no lie when directed at anyone, but especially when directed at you. she couldn’t dream of lying to you—and she has, unfortunately. the moment she woke up from that terrible dream was the moment she shook you awake to apologize profusely, even if the language was colored with her own vulgar vernacular. yes... she apologized for a futile little lie she told in a dream.

dishonesty simply isn’t on the table.

she goes to great lengths to explain her day to you, taking the utmost care to not leave the slightest detail out. the main reason being her guilty conscience, really. there’s not much to do cooped up on a musty ship cabin—even if her quarters are decked out to the nines just for your liking. you weren’t keen on the idea at first, feeling more like a child being told stories before bedtime, rather than a fellow sailor and her beloved first mate. but her eyes will light up all the same, and she’ll tell you of her day and the new things she’s seen as if you were right there with her. you quickly learn to nod along and acknowledge her every so often, as the only alternative is to mope around in her cabin or on the deck—the few times she’ll let you accompany her out there. there’s only so many thoughts to think by yourself, and at some point, you grow to look forward to these fantastical stories every night.

— she doesn’t know fear—freedoms are yours for the choosing if you’re brave enough to set your sights on them. lenient and all too unfussed by the chance you’ll make it any further than the twenty feet from her person at all times, she’s well aware you won’t make it rather far. you wouldn’t call it much in the way of “freedom” really—and you start to envy the citizens of the ever-free mondstadt a few regions over. all freedoms are your for the taking; that is, all freedoms except a dismissal from her side. it’s where any good luck charm belongs, she’ll laugh and plant a wet kiss atop your lips. her good luck charm... she doesn’t need luck—not with strength rivaling a god’s—and yet she refuses to go anywhere without you close behind.

it’s no surprise that her crew had once joked that you follow her around like a lost seadog—unaware that you do so per her directions—only for the poor lads to regret ever having said anything. their captain’s eyes are dark when she pipes up behind them.

“haven’t you got better jobs to do than mess with my lass?” she jeers, that usual smirk not quite reaching her eyes. from your position behind the crew—the men now all lined up in terror before the captain of the crux—even you start to break into sweat. it’s clear from her tone that she’s irritated, and the fact she’s clutching onto her claymore as if its the anchor on her anger scares even you.

they were poking fun at you only moments ago, and now you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

“i’ll let you off the hook ‘cause you’re my dear brothers.“ despite her clemency, her expression tightens and not one man dares to let his tense muscles relax. “but i’ll only say this once, lads.” she explains, stepping down from the raised deck to saunter over to your side. all eyes turn to you two, a pair they’ve grown used to seeing day in and day out. beidou slings her arm around your shoulders, the curves of her body pressing into yours perfectly. “this here is my first mate; a jab at them is no better than a jab at me. the next time i hear a jab at them, i’ll do far worse than have you swimming with the fishes.”

— she loves drinking with you by her side, even if you can’t hold liquor down to save your life. her cheeks are quick to flush shades of pinks and reds, and you can never stop yourself from staring in awe, even when she slings an arm around your waist and pulls you close. her lips catch yours as if they belong there, a puzzle piece filled by its other half. her kisses are a hazy fire, fiercely warm and dangerously untamed; they always taste like strong beer, the beverage steeped in various spices that sit nicely on her lips.

you only wish she wouldn’t do so in public. her boisterous laughter and charisma draws the attention of the tavern-goers, most of whom know better than to interrupt beidou when she’s chugging down jugs of alcohol. her crew doesn’t mind the sight, nor do they mind your presence at the table—though, it’s not like they have much of a choice in protesting; although they don’t fully recognize you as a bonafide crew member of the alcor, it’s clear that captain beidou has something of a sweet spot for you.

still, they feel like they’re witnessing something they shouldn’t when she captures your lips with hers, her fingers drunkenly playing with the thin strap keeping your outfit intact.

— captain beidou carries her heart on her sleeves and her riches in each hand. riches and spoils are fully within your grasp at all times, sometimes to the point of annoyance when she insists on adorning you with a piece of jewelry she picked up at port. ‘it reminded me of you, s’all,’ she’ll laugh sheepishly, already unclasping the necklace to set it around your neck. ‘wear it and think of me, yea?’

it’s an order more than a romantic sentiment; you have no choice but to think of her at all times.

it’s only when you learn of her past that you come to understand her near-obsession with providing you with the best of the best. from the moment she opened her eyes as a newborn, her life had been mired by misfortune, as if the gods themselves were curious how long she’d survive a life of ordeals. as confident as she is now, you would’ve never guess that beneath the surface, she is forever humbled by her past. having grown up in a family with little money and even less to eat, she was to pick up on the way of thieves, learning the schedules and habits of merchants at the local market so that she could swoop in to steal fruits and veggies from their unattended stands.

“don’t worry about it too much, lass; me telling you such stories is merely for your amusement,” she’ll laugh as she explains this to you, sparing you the grisly details of starvation and malaise. she doesn’t tell you how her skin would cling to her ribs for years on end, hanging from her skeleton as if life had given up on it. she’s been on hard times for most of her life, and yet the only side you ever see is the one blessed by fortune and power.

“life and i have never gotten along, so i had to climb my way up in this world.” her tone is cheerful; you see right through it. “my life’s been tough, i’ll admit that much, but i have no intention of making you live through that too.”

— as much as she tries to run from it, she cannot outsail truth. as much as she’d prefer to keep you on her ship—where she can keep an eye on you, where you’re always free to join her in her quest for adventure and thrill—she’s aware that all things must come to an end; even the sea has an edge and an end.

this is just one of them.

“hey... if you really don’t want to be here, i won’t stop you. it’s your choice, and whatever you decide is set in stone. i can’t change that no matter how hard i try, but... could you do me a favor?... just, could you at least give me a chance?

i don’t like overstepping my boundaries where i’m not needed, but this is all i’ll ask of you. think long and hard about your decision. what you decide is up to you—and if you’re set on the idea, i’ll let you leave, no repercussions. sound like a deal?”

bonus.

— she isn’t herself at night. gone is the boisterous laughter that could raise the hair on a man’s arms. gone is the domineering aura she carries like a shield, its front aimed at a world that tries to hold her down. she craves adventure, but the moment night falls and she pulls you into the cot with her, she’s out like a light. the only time you manage to catch yourself every day is when she’s by your side rather than the other way around, her person quiet and gently breathing the sea-stained air.

the ship creaks, and you can hear it clear as night now that the crew is snuggled into their cabins and warm cots, and now that their even-louder captain has fallen asleep. you can finally hear your own thoughts. you have much to think about, having been spirited away to “adventure” against your will... and yet you only think of her.

you turn on your side and settle your weary eyes on your lover. her features are no longer sharp, no longer laden with the responsibility of power and might. nestled between a lavish blanket and the warmth of your body, she is no longer a paragon of otherwordly strength; she’s just human. this is just another side of the captain, just another beidou intended only for your eyes.

and it’s in these quiet moments that you realize you’re in love.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere beidou x reader #yandere beidou #beidou x reader #genshin impact x reader #*headcanons #tw kidnapping #tw dubcon #genshin impact #beidou #[ really hope she isnt ooc ]#[ i havent even met her yet smh .. . im bobo the clown ]

555 notes · View notes

rocorambles · 3 years

Text

Lifetime of Love

Pairing: Suga x Reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Overstimulation, Mythology AU, Demi-God!Suga

Prompt: Mythology

Summary: As the son of Aphrodite, Suga knows more than most when it comes to beauty and love. But knowledge and experience are two very different things. OR Suga finds true love.

A/N: This is my contribution for the HQHQ NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist here to see how everyone decided to run with this prompt. As always, thanks for beta-ing @sawamooora

Being the son of Aphrodite has its perks. Even as just a demi-god, Suga is borderline ethereal, naturally drawing men and women to him with his dazzling silver hair, enthralling hazel-brown eyes, and coquettish charm. It’s effortless, the way he wakes up looking just as radiant as ever, the way his hair is naturally shaped and styled even after tossing and turning in bed. Clothing is just a technicality, just fabric he wears to not risk indecent exposure. Why waste time and effort thinking of putting an outfit together when he could wear a burlap sack and still have admirers flock to him?

It’s not a bad life and he knows others stare at him with envy, wondering what it’s like to be so beautiful, so loved, so wanted, so desired. Never an off day. Never a hair out of place. And truth be told, maybe more of his mother runs in him than he likes to admit, if the swell of pride and satisfaction he gets from having everything in life handed to him on a silver platter is anything to go by.

Life is easier for beautiful people. It’s a hard pill to swallow for the masses, but a reality that Suga has no qualms taking advantage of. After all, he might as well get some benefit from being a goddess's son, even if his mother and him don’t always see eye to eye.

Suga can appreciate beauty and love. Aphrodite has taught him to have an eye for the finer things in life. He’s not stubborn enough to deny that he enjoys waking up entangled in silk and satin sheets, surrounded by a beautifully decorated apartment, to reject the ecstasy he feels when he has one or more playmates in his bed.

But love of the flesh is different than love of the heart, and he wonders, despite how blasphemous it is to question a deity, if his mother truly understands what love is.

Aphrodite’s love is a seemingly fleeting and fickle thing, a fire that blazes bright and strong, only to burn out just as quickly as it had risen. And he judgmentally watches as she bounces from man to God to man to God again and again, grimacing whenever he meets his “family”, knowing how she’s slept with most of the other gods in Olympus.

He has no doubt that in her own way, she truly has loved each entity she’s slept with. But he wants something different, something less promiscuous, something less shallow. He wants true love, a love rooted in something much deeper than superficial appearances, a love rooted in a connection of souls, a love rooted in the bond of two people truly seeing and knowing each other’s flaws and strengths, yet still determinedly pursuing each other.

So he steadfastly continues on, searching for the one.

There’s no end to the line of people who practically throw themselves at his feet, desperate for a chance to catch his attention. He goes on endless dates, entering and leaving countless relationships. Some attempts are longer than others. Some partners have hope churning inside of him, have hazel-brown eyes sparkling in interest. But in the end, they’re all the same and the flutters of his heart become anchors of disgust inside of him when he sees their leering eyes, the lust driving their actions, the way they never see past his handsome face and attractive body.

No one sees Sugawara Koushi. They only see the body of a man literally blessed by the gods.

Maybe it was naive of him to believe that he knew more about love than the goddess of love herself. Maybe sleeping around with other attractive bodies is all his life will amount to, can amount to. And as he watches the people around him break-up, divorce, chase after some happy ending that seems more and more unattainable, he gives up his rose-colored dream of a fairytale romance.

But life has a funny way of dropping something in your lap just when you’ve given up all hope.

Aphrodite had not been amused when Suga had told her he was going to be a teacher at a local elementary school in the countryside. Children and parental instincts have never been her forte, and he remembers the long winding back and forths they had as she implored for him to rethink his decisions, flaunting modeling and acting opportunities in his face, anything to have his handsome face plastered on televisions and magazines.

But he had remained steadfast in his decision and she had finally relented, shaking her head and letting him know that she’d be ready to help him when he’s done wasting his gifts and time.

“You’re only part-god, Koushi. Your beauty will only last so long.”

He knows there’s no malice behind the words. It’s just a cold hard fact, a reminder. And he simply nods in response, secretly wondering if that would be so bad, letting age take its toll and put him on the same playing field as the rest of the world.

But he has years before he crosses that bridge and he dedicates himself to finding fulfillment in life by caring for and teaching the children in his class. A megawatt smile spreads across his face as he watch them play and excitedly call his name, politely ignoring his fellow teachers who parade themselves in front of him for an ounce of his attention, never entertaining the married mothers of his students who try to lavish him with unnecessarily exuberant gifts and woo him with fluttering lashes.

It’s a tiring never-ending dance, so when he hears about the arrival of a new female colleague, he internally sighs, no doubt in his mind that you’ll be just like the rest. So imagine his surprise when you just casually smile at him when you’re introduced, no interest in your eyes, no lingering gaze, before turning your attention away from him without a second glance back.

He wonders if it’s a fluke, hopes and prays that it isn’t. It’s almost comical, complete insanity, how his heart races, his eyes blow wide, just from your sheer nonchalance. And for the first time, it’s Suga who’s left wistfully staring as his eyes trail after your figure even long after you’ve turned the corner of the hallway.

He’s seen his mother’s work, seen the way humans pursue their love interests with almost fanatical effort. But he had never understood, not until now.

It’s an intoxicating feeling, addictive, the thrill of the chase energizing him in a way he’s never felt before. It’s hard, meticulous work finding reasons to visit your classroom, finding ways to weave himself in conversations you’re a part of. But it’s always worth it when he sees the genuine fondness in your eyes, the way you look and really see him, the way you care about the man underneath the shiny facade, in a way no one ever has before.

And when the two of you go out for a friendly lunch one day, when you order his favorite dish that he’s only briefly mentioned to you once in passing, without even missing a beat, his heart stops. It’s something no other partner has bothered even taking note of, too busy trying to impress him with high-end meals and fine dining. And just like that, he blurts out his confession, heart hammering, fingers nervously twitching as he awaits your response.

For many years to come, the two of you will debate whether or not that lunch counts as your official first date as a couple.

Dating you is everything he’s dreamed of and more. And for once, Suga feels like just another regular man, a normal human being as he holds your hand in his, giggling and sharing stories, feeding each other bites of food, lazing around on his sofa watching TV.

But as a romance movie runs in the background and the main couple kisses after the male lead raves about how stunning his lover is, he turns his attention to you, curiosity nagging at him, a tiny tendril of lingering fear squirming inside of him.

“What do you like about me?”

There’s silence as you owlishly blink and look up at him, surprise and confusion flitting across your face as you try and process where this question is coming from. But when you see the worry, doubt, and insecurity muddling your boyfriend’s eyes, you interlace your fingers with his and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his shoulder as you continue gazing at him.

“I like the way you always insist on getting the highest spice level at every Chinese restaurant we go to that serves mapo tofu, even though you complain about your mouth burning all night long afterwards.”

Suga chuckles, unable to deny the truth of those words.

“I like the way you act like a clueless angel even when you’re wreaking havoc and chaos, you big trouble maker.”

This time Suga does try to plead innocence, although all he can do is sheepishly grin when you start listing off event after event of mischief he had instigated and encouraged, much to Daichi’s and Asahi’s dismay.

“I like how patient and gentle you are with your students and your old underclassmen. I like the way you nurture them, mentor them, encourage them to keep on going, keep on trying even when the going gets tough. And I like how you instill that belief in your own life. If we have children of our own one day, I know you’ll be the father I’ve always wanted for my future kids.”

The weight of your last sentence hangs heavy in the air, the meaning, the hope of a lifetime promise has Suga’s jaw dropping. But when you shyly look away, nervously biting your lip as he just dumbly stares at you, he jolts back to reality and you yelp as lips suddenly crash against yours.

Sex with Suga is always sweet, with a hint of spice when your lover is feeling particularly mischievous. But it’s never been like this, full of desperation, untamed desire, a want so deep that it leaves both your minds in a hazy disarray. You gasp as you’re firmly pushed down, until your back hits the couch and you’re moaning into the mouth pressed against yours, your tongues tangling with each other in an attempt to taste every crevice.

The wet sounds of your lips connecting and disconnecting over and over again, the frantic sounds of fabric being rustled and tossed off, they all mix in a passionate symphony punctuated by breathy declarations of love, by whimpered names.

You throw your head back as a hot wet mouth sensually carves a path down the column of your neck, to the delicate swoop of your collarbone, sighing in bliss as they end in the valley of your breasts, two hands gently tweaking and rolling your nipples. And then fingers are replaced with a tongue, with lips, and your back arches, body writhing, seeking more, more, more as you wildly grind against your lover’s body.

Usually Suga likes to take his time with you, unwrap you piece by piece, unravel the strings that tie you together, coax the prettiest sounds out of you. But today something more carnal, more desperate, more raw spurs him on, and he feels more beast than man as he devours you, plunders you, marks you as his for all eternity.

“Koushi!”

You wail as he wastes no time in quickly snapping his hips, filling your slick walls with his cock. There’s an urgency behind his pace you’ve never felt before and you dig your nails into his shoulders, eyes rolling back in your head, lewd moans echoing in the room as you wrap one leg around his back, the other dangling off the couch.

You’re not sure exactly what the trigger had been for this, but you’re not complaining, pussy walls only clamping down even more when you see the feral hunger in his eyes, the drag of his cock against your insides even more pronounced.

He can feel your end approaching, sees it in the way your head tosses side to side, the way your eyes glaze over, and he brings a hand between your bodies, toying with your clit, circling it, rubbing it, never losing his rhythm as you begin to convulse, body thrashing, nails scratching his skin, a debauched version of his given name rolling of your tongue. Only when you begin to whimper, shaking hands trying to grasp his fingers still playing with your oversensitive nub does he relent, smiling down at you as you entwine your fingers with his as he continues to thrust in and out of you.

Suga’s been told he looks like an angel time and time again, but as he stares down at your completely ravaged and exhausted form, the way your chest heaves up and down, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the after tremors of your body, the duality of how you cling onto his hand despite your wanton state, he thinks you’re the true angel here. Maybe a fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless and he can feel his balls tighten, the last shreds of his endurance ripping apart at the seams as he takes in your breathtaking appearance.

But he needs more than that, needs you, needs you here and with him, and he meets your lips in a bruising kiss, a silent demand for your attention, adjusting his hands until your fingers are interlocked on either side of your head.

“Look at me.”

He patiently waits, peppering your face with butterfly kisses, slowing down the rocking of his hips. You’re so tired, heavy eyelids wanting nothing more than to close, but you’re still in a rocky ocean of pleasure, body still registering and reacting to every touch, every move. And when his soft voice makes its way through the fog, you know you need to listen, you want to listen. So you turn your eyes until they lock with hazel-brown, a weak smile plastered across your face when you see the love and affection pouring down onto you.

“I love you.”

Both of you grin as the three words unanimously exit your mouths, but the smile is wiped off your face as he resumes his pace, tempo beginning to stutter, his own head being thrown back in ecstasy as he approaches his end. Your overstimulated body is barely hanging on by a thread, pathetic mewls dripping from your lips, and you keen when sticky spurts fill you, Suga’s cock buried balls deep inside of you as he breeds you, coating your quivering walls with his essence.

Suga gently lowers his body on yours, capturing your mouth in another kiss, one much gentler as both of you catch your breaths, bodies feeling soft and pliant as post-coital bliss wraps around you like a fluffy blanket.

Beauty is a fleeting thing. His mother’s not wrong about that.

But love? Love isn’t nearly as fickle as beauty, he thinks, as he holds you in his arms. And he smiles, letting himself be lulled to sleep by your rhythmic breathing, dreaming of the long and full life still ahead for both of you.

#haikyuu smut #suga x reader #sugawara x reader #suga smut #sugawara smut #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fic #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader

196 notes · View notes

princess-of-riviaa · 4 years

Text

My Captain

Pairing: Captain Walter Syverson x Reader

Summary: You are the only one by his side to heal him after Captain Syverson gets attacked in the field. As an army medic, you do your best to stay professional, but Syverson makes it a bit of a challenge.

Warning(s): gore, injury, mentions of suicide, handjob, blowjob, dirty talk, slight voyeurism/exhibitionism

Word Count: 3,930

A/N: Apologies for no gif, i couldn’t find any that fit this scene and I didn’t want to settle for a random one of Sy, so I put nothing:(

The door to the bathroom slams open as you half-limp to the bathtub, your captain struggling to remain conscious. Syverson is a big guy, even for military standards, but your thorough army training allows you to help keep him on his feet, though you struggle to do much more than that. You place him in the bathtub but accidentally lose your grip at the last second. He falls with a cringeworthy thud that is sure to leave a deep bruise on his glute.

“Shit, I’m sorry--I lost my grip,” you get out as you hurry back through the captain’s main room--damn, his quarters are way nicer than yours; he’s living like a king in comparison to your shared dorm--and find his emergency aid kit. There’s enough gauze and stitches in it to cover his wounds. You rush back to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Hot water comes pouring out, instantly filling the room with steam.

Syverson’s eyelids droop. That’s a worrying sign, especially since the skin around his mouth is still blue.

You reach for your swiss knife on your belt--the last clean weapon you have--and slice open the captain’s bloodied shirt. He isn’t much help in getting his clothing over his shoulders and down his legs, but after a minute or two of awkward struggling you toss the ruined clothes in the corner to deal with later.

By now the tub is halfway full, sloshing around Syverson’s legs as you maneuver around his body, trying to clean out the wounds on his arms before stitching them shut with half-shaking hands. You’ve dealt with wounded soldiers in the field before, too many times to count, but this is different. This is your captain, your leader, the person you and the rest of your unit turn to for guidance on anything and everything, and he’s bleeding out right in front of you--while simultaneously suffering from hypothermia.

Syverson mumbles something, but he speaks too softly for you to understand him. Still, the sound of his voice gets your attention and you look up to see his eyes closed. You tap his cheek three times to get him to wake up again.

“...fucking hurts,” you hear him mumble.

You nod. “I know, but it’s almost over. You just gotta hold on, okay? Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You turn your attention back to his bicep, pulling the thread through your last stitch to his bullet wound. You sigh in relief just as you see the water begin to stir. One glance down at Syverson’s body tells you that his legs are shaking--he’s shivering.

“I shouldn’t be… shiverin’ … in hot water, right?” He struggles to get out through waves of fatigue and pain and cold.

“It’s good,” you assure him. “Shivering means your body is warming up again. You were too cold to shiver before. The blood loss wasn’t helping either, but your wounds are closed now, so that should help.”

Silence passes between you. He makes an obvious effort to keep his eyes open and not let his teeth chatter. You watch as the color in his face returns to normal, a lively red filling his cheeks and lips again.

You begin to rise to your feet. “Okay, I’ll wait in the room--”

He grabs your hand before you can move. You stare down at it, your brain trying to process the sight in front of you. He didn’t just grab your hand. He laced his fingers through your own. He holds your hand with a desperate grip, a terrified grip. Syverson has never let himself look like anything other than a god of war in front of his men. But right now is different. Your captain is in enough pain to make him scared; ten minutes ago he was giving death a stare-down, so you can’t entirely blame him. It’s just… alarming. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He’s never seemed so… human.

Just one more thing to add to the neverending list of things that makes Syverson hot as fucking hell.

“S-stay,” he whimpers out. His voice is so weak that you suddenly feel bad for ogling over him, even if it was only for a few seconds.

“I won’t go anywhere,” you promise him and move to sit beside the tub.

The water fills with blood and dirt and grime quickly. You have to drain the tub and refill it twice before the water is anything close to clean. By that point Syverson is back to his senses and refuses to tell you how bad the pain is, no matter how many times you remind him that you’re the medic and it’s crucial that he be honest with you.

I ain’t dying, so quit acting like I am, is all he says.

Now that the mood in the room has settled, you can no longer ignore the fact that your captain is completely naked in front of you. You force yourself to keep your gaze on his wounds, refusing to look anywhere south of his chest, but the temptation is still there. A taut warmth makes its home in the pit of your stomach. It takes everything in you to not focus on the… particular body parts you can sneak into your peripheral vision.

Stay professional, you scold yourself.

“I’m dirty as all hell,” Syverson says suddenly, breaking the tense silence. He nods towards the sink. “There’s a sponge under the sink. Hand me it, will ya?”

You find it easily, though hold back from laughing at the fact that Captain Walter Syverson owns a pink shower puff.

“Don’t you dare.” He scowls as he takes it from you and begins to scrub his arms clean of dirt, careful to avoid his fresh stitches.

You hold your hands up innocently. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were thinking it.” Syverson struggles to reach his shoulders and winces as he stretches to scrub his back.

You move to sit behind him and tell him you can do it. He offers you the shower puff and you slowly, gently begin to clean his back, mesmerized by the artpiece between his shoulder blades. You’ve never seen Syverson completely shirtless before, so this is your first time seeing the tattoo. It’s two rows of dates written in thick Roman numerals: 08.12.1980 - 09.11.2001. You’ve seen these kinds of tattoos before. They’re in remembrance of someone you’ve lost, usually their birthday to their death date. You get the urge to ask Syverson who died, who he lost, but you know him well enough to know that he’d be grateful if you didn’t pry. So you stay silent, instead continuing to scrub his back and the parts of his arms he missed.

Once his back is clean you move back to his side and start to clean his legs, starting at his ankles and working your way up. You’re so focused on the water and soap in your hands, in every scar and fresh cut your hands rub against as you clean him, that you hardly hear him speak.

“It was my brother,” Syverson says.

You look up at him, not knowing what he’s referring to. “What was?”

“The tatt,” he confesses. “I know you saw it.”

You’re quiet, resisting the urge to voice every question you’re thinking right now. You never knew Syverson had siblings, let alone a brother that he’d lost.

“Thank you,” Syverson says as you make your way to his knees, your heart racing faster the further up his leg you move.

You pause. “Why are you thanking me?”

“You didn’t ask about it,” he explains. “Most people are too curious to be respectful and shut their mouths. And you didn’t look at me with pity when I told you it was my brother. Everyone does. I fucking hate it.”

You shrug. “It’s your story. You shouldn’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“You’ve lost someone,” he realizes.

You’re quiet. It’s hard to grow up in a military family and not have lost a few people. Of course you’ve lost someone. Doesn’t mean you ever want to say the words out loud. But Syverson told you, and it’s only fair. “My cousin. He, um… he killed himself.”

Syverson doesn’t say anything, just nods, but the look in his eyes when he holds your gaze… you feel seen. You feel like he’s heard everything you didn’t say. It’s a weird feeling. Not bad, but not exactly good either. But it helps.

You return to cleaning his legs. You move as slow as you can, making sure to clean over every inch of skin twice, but it’s only a matter of time before you make it past his thighs and have nothing left to clean but his navel.

“Um…” Shit, your breathing is unsteady. He can no doubt hear the nerves in your voice. You avoid his gaze as you ask, “Do you want me to…?” Do you want me to clean your navel? I’ll happily clean your cock too, just say the word.

Instead of answering he grabs your wrist and draws your hand and the shower puff towards the pit of his stomach. Your heart skips a beat. Two. Fuck, you can feel how wet you are suddenly. For the first time you let your gaze drop to his manhood. He’s blessed with a good eight inches and thick girth, so thick you have to wonder how the hell he can get inside a woman without splitting her in two. Dark hairs curl above the base of his shaft, and his balls look heavy and smooth. Heat rushes to your face as you feel your mouth begin to water. What the hell is wrong with you? You have no doubt that Syverson is aware of exactly which part of him you’re staring at, and you can practically feel him gloating. Still, you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from him.

“Sy--”

“I want you,” he confesses.

You swallow, unable to meet his gaze. He’s delirious from the blood loss, or maybe the heat in the room is getting to you and you’re hallucinating--

“I’ve wanted you since that night you walked in on me and Captain Gonzalez,” Syverson continues, and his words bring back a flood of memories that, until now, you’ve managed to suppress.

You’d been wandering to the captain’s quarters--you were bringing something to him, but now you can’t remember what it was--and stopped to knock on his door when you heard the sound of someone moaning in what you thought had been pain. So you’d opened the door, your mind switching from Sergeant to Medic in less than a second, and froze when you saw what was actually happening.

Captain Gonzalez, one of the three captains on base, was on her hands and knees. Her black hair--normally combed back into a perfect low bun--was knotted and sticking to her face with thick droplets of sweat. Her eyes were closed in what could only be described as pleasure so intense it’s borderline painful. She gripped the bedsheets in front of her like they were a lifeline while Captain Syverson fucked into her from behind like a dog in heat. The muscles in his stomach and arms flexed with each thrust, and the way his brow furrowed in concentration on top of the animalistic grunts he made with each movement made you gasp. Luckily, Gonzalez didn’t hear and therefore didn’t open her eyes amidst her blissful orgasm, but Syverson heard. Syverson looked from his lover to you. His pace didn’t stop, merely slowed as he held your gaze. And then, when he realized you couldn’t seem to look away, he sped up his movements, pounding into the other women with such strength and intensity that the headboard banged against the wall. He was putting on a show for you. A predator toying with his prey, making you completely aware of every ounce of power inside his body. Making you aware of everything he was capable of, the pain and pleasure he was able to make someone drown in. For several seconds you stood frozen, unable to walk away from this side of him. He was the pure embodiment of strength and dominance--though there was nothing pure about it. You raced out of the room as soon as your brain figured out how to work again. You didn’t dare look back.

You thought he’d forgotten about it. You thought you’d imagined him catching you. You thought the entire encounter had been a dream.

But Syverson’s words make your worst nightmare come true.

You pull your hand away, dropping the shower puff and letting it bounce on the surface of the water. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to walk in on you--”

“But you were glad you did,” he says. “I can see it all over your face. You haven’t been the same around me since that night. You barely look me in the eyes anymore. Because you liked it, right? Because you liked watching your captain fuck someone, liked knowing I can make a woman scream so easily, huh? Tell me, did you touch yourself to the thought of me when you went back to your dorm that night?”

“Syverson--” you begin.

“Would it make you feel better if you knew I jerked off to the thought of you, too? The way you looked at me, that cute little blush on your cheeks and your eyes glued to my body--fuck, it left me unsatisfied even after Gonzalez had had her fill.” He lifts his hand from the water and grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He searches your face for something. “I want you, and I know you want me.”

You open your mouth but he beats you to it.

“Am I wrong?”

You hesitate before shaking your head, admitting what you always swore you would keep secret. “But you’re my captain.”

“I don’t care about rank,” he insists. “Not in here. Not right now.”

You swallow, unable to walk away from him. You want this--god, do you want this with him. You didn’t realize how much until that night you walked in on him, but it was undeniable after that. And you’ve spent too many nights since then getting yourself off to the thought of him fucking you just like that, doing your best to muffle your moans into your pillow so as not to wake your roommate. You’re tired of just using your own hand to find your release; you want to know what it would feel like with his fingers between your folds instead.

“I want you to touch me,” Syverson says. “But I won’t force you. You’ll only do this if you let yourself.”

You hesitate. You don’t even know where to start. “H-how?”

“The way you’ve thought about doing since that night.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it sends shivers down your spine and steals the breath from your lungs.

Before you can talk yourself out of it you lower your hand into the water and wrap your hand around the base of his shaft. He’s long enough that his tip breaks the water’s surface. You can see how red it is, and you can’t tell if it’s bath water or precum making his tip shine, but you want to taste it nonetheless.

“Fuck, you’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to see this,” Syverson curses. “How long I’ve wanted to feel your hand wrapped around my cock. Go ahead, baby, move your hand up and down.”

You’re hesitant at first. Even once you begin to move, your hand is shaky and unsure. Syverson wraps his hand around your own--fuck, he makes your hand look so tiny, it’s almost laughable--and guides you up and down his cock at a pace and grip that he prefers. He closes his eyes in pleasure. The sight of him like this--open and vulnerable and lustful and godlike--makes your thighs clench together. You almost lose yourself in the sight of the blissed-out expression on his face before remembering that you have a task to do and you turn your attention back to his shaft. He drops his hand back to his side and lets you continue. You take pride in the fact that you know how to do it now, and when he releases his first “fuck!” and a deep moan quickly after, you’re practically glowing with pride. Or you would be, if the sight of him and the sounds he’s making only for you weren’t so arousing. You speed up your ministrations and even add a second hand to the water to begin massaging his balls. You’re not entirely sure what you’re doing--you’ve never actually been physical with a guy before--but you’ve watched enough porn to know the basics. Syverson’s breathing speeds up and he throws his head back. You watch with lustful adoration as his abs clench and unclench with every breath he struggles to take.

“Does this feel good?” you dare to ask, your voice breaking through the quiet in the room.

“Shit, baby, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he growls.

The way he says baby with that Texan accent of his makes you swoon. How can he make such a simple word sound so dirty?

Your hand moves up and down his shaft twice, three more times before he squeezes your wrist to make you stop. You freeze, thinking you’ve done something wrong. When you look up at him, his blue-eyed gaze is on you.

“I ain’t wasting my seed in this bathwater,” he says. “The only way I’m coming is if it’s inside of you.”

Your eyes pop. The alarm must be written all over your face because he’s quick to explain himself.

“Your mouth, baby,” Syverson says. “I wanna cum in your mouth.”

His candor leaves you speechless. Your entire face is burning with an intense blush and your mouth is dry. You know you won’t be able to answer him verbally. So instead you turn towards the drain and pull it up. Syverson’s gaze is so intense that it burns a hole in the side of your face, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. He’s turned you into shaking putty, but you’re not complaining. The way he makes you feel wanted more than any other woman with just his words, the way he makes you feel sexy and powerful with the way he looks at you… it’s definitely startling, but it’s addicting too.

“When I’m healed,” Syverson begins, “and I can actually move without it feeling like every bone in my body is breaking, I’m going to fuck you.”

He’s not asking for permission. He’s telling you. There’s something so dominant about that. It makes your toes curl.

“I need to be inside of you, darlin’,” he continues. “I need to know what you feel like when I enter you, need to know the sounds you make when I fuck you to your fifth orgasm. You got that?”

You finally bring your eyes to his and nod. Somehow your body is burning up yet covered in goosebumps. Have you ever wanted someone with the intensity that you want your captain?

The last of the water finally drains out of the tub and you hop inside. Syverson is large enough that it’s a tight fit with the both of you, but you manage to fit between his legs. You move to your hands and knees, staring at his cock just inches from your face.

“Put me in your mouth baby,” he moans.

And you do. The salt of his precum hits your tastebuds instantly, but it’s not a completely horrible taste. You manage to fit the majority of him inside of your mouth, something he’s clearly surprised about.

“Fuck baby, have you done this before? Let other soldiers fuck that perfect little mouth of yours?”

You don’t answer, instead just focus on not gagging too much around his shaft. You don’t succeed for long. By the time you pull back and take in a deep gasp of air, spit is running down your chin and your eyes are watering.

“You’ve no idea how fuckin’ hot you look right now,” Syverson says, sounding like he’s under a trance.

His filthy words spur you on and you put him back in your mouth. You begin to bob your head up and down and move your hand along the base of him, which you still can’t manage to fit inside your mouth. He only lasts a few seconds with you in control. You jump when you feel his good hand move to the back of your hand.

“Can I fuck your mouth?” he asks.

You moan in response, and you hope he knows that means yes.

He knots his fingers in your hair and begins to move your head along his shaft at a much faster pace. You can’t breathe through your mouth anymore and instead focus on getting air through your nose as your eyes water again. Syverson makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before--a sound of someone tumbling over an edge, a sound of losing control and loving every second of it--and a second later your mouth is filled with the warm, salty taste of his cum. You swallow every warm drop that falls against your tongue.

It’s only when you finally pull away from him that you realize the gravity of what you’ve just done. You just gave your boss a blowjob. You just bathed him while he was completely naked. You just admitted that you have a crush on him, even if you didn’t use as many words.

“Shit,” you breathe out.

“What is it?” Syverson asks, still fighting through his haze of pleasure.

“I can’t believe we just did this,” you admit. “I can’t believe I just…” You can’t even say it out loud. What had you been thinking?! You hadn’t been thinking, that much is clear.

“No one has to know,” he assures you. It doesn’t make you feel any better. So he adds, “And if someone does find out, which I’m sure as hell won’t happen, I’ll tell them the truth.”

You frown. “The truth?”

“That I came onto you,” he says. “And with me being your superior, you didn’t want to say no.”

“Syverson, that’s not true--”

“No one needs to know that,” he assures you. “I ain’t gonna let you get in trouble for this, alright? You gotta trust me.”

Well… he’s never let you down before. He’s kept his promises. He’s a good, trustworthy leader. You have no reason to not believe him. But still… “I can’t let you take the fall for this.”

He shrugs, then winces, instantly regretting the nonchalant movement. “The worst that’ll happen is I get probation. I won’t be able to go out to the field with y’all for a month. You’ll probably be under Gonzalez’s jurisdiction for a bit. That’s all.”

“That sounds serious,” you say.

He just brings his good hand to the side of your face and brushes his thumb across your cheek. “I knew the stakes when you carried me in here, Sergeant. I took the risk anyway. I’m gonna be the one who takes the fall for it. But trust me when I say it’ll be okay. I ain’t letting anything happen to you.”

And with the way his blue eyes shine with sincerity, you can’t help but believe him.

***

Tag Squad:

@agniavateira @hnryycvll @littlefreya @celestial-vomit @lestersglitterglue @watermeloncavill @honeychicana @penwieldingdreamer @mary-ann84 @elixasays @buckysgoldenheart @noz4a2 @trippedmetaldetector @omgkatinka @lunedelorient @aphrodites-punch @yespolkadotkitty @sweetybuzz25 @iloveyouyen @deathonyourtongue @utterlyhopeful @wondersofdreaming @tsukuyomi011 @the-soot-sprite @desperate-and-broken @jayismz @emelinelovesjc @palaiasaurus64 @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @henrythickcavill @secretlyactivated @madbaddic7ed @persephonehemingway @geralt-of-baevia @stargazingfangirl18 @thedarkplume @spookypeachx @pensieveforyourthoughts @aletheladyinred @littlemissthistle @designerwriterchic @becs-bunker @angelic-kisses13 @captainbigdy @sestrasasylum @boundtomyfate @wednesdaybraids @harlotforhenry @radkesgirl83 @xuxszx @kitkatd7

Let me know if you want to be added/removed from my taglist!

#captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #captain syverson smut #sand castle #captain syverson sand castle #henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill sand castle

677 notes · View notes

fandom-puff · 4 years

Text

Involved

Pairing: no pairing Requested by: anon Prompts: // Summary: Being the littlest sister is often the best thing in the world. But sometimes, YN Shelby wants nothing more than to be involved with her older siblings... AN: Okay, so this is only my second shelby sister fic, so it might not be brilliant. If you’re looking for amazing shelby sis fics, I’d definitely recommend @theshelbyclan <3 Also, Finn is about 13/14 in this, and the reader is about 7/8. as usual, gif creds to owner Warnings: swearing, violence

Being the baby of the family was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, your brothers and sister doted on you, often slipping you sweets and lollies when Pol said you couldn’t have them. They were fiercely protective of you, and no one could make Tommy, Arthur and John smile and laugh like you could. You loved when Arthur would let you sit on his shoulders (especially good when they took you to fairs, as you were too short to see over the crowds), when Tommy sat and read to you, when John played chase.

But lately, all they spoke about was business and men with strange names like Solomons and Sabini. Even Finn, who was closest to you in age, was starting to spend more time with the older brothers and less time with you.

“Tommy?” you asked across the table as you munched on your toast. Tommy didn’t look up from his stack of paperwork. You frowned. “Tommy?” you said a little louder.

“What, YN?” he said, a sharp edge in his voice that he never used with you (even when you had accidentally used a very important document to draw on). Your lower lip wobbled slightly and you ran off, your chair toppling over. Tommy rolled his eyes. He really had no time for your tantrums, not today at least.

You carried on running until you reached John’s house. You knocked on the door. “YN, what’s up, love?” John asked, although he seemed very distracted.

“Please can I play with Katie, John?” you asked. John smiled sadly and ruffled your hair.

“Afraid not, YNN,” he said gently. “She wasn’t feeling very well last night. She’s stuck in bed today. I thought Tom was looking after you,”

“He was. But he’s doing business. I got bored and was gonna ask if I could go and play, but he snapped at me before I could ask so I just thought I would leave him alone while he’s busy, ‘cos I don’t want him to be cross with me,” you looked at your feet. Although Tommy snapping and doing business was nothing new, John could see that it had upset you.

“Go home, YN,” he said softly, squatting down until you were eye level. “Katie will be better in a day or two, I’ll send her down to play when she is, alright? In the meantime, Finn will be back soon. Maybe you could convince him and Isaiah to get up to mischief, eh?”

Feeling a little better, you nodded, throwing your arms around John’s neck briefly. “Okay! See you in a bit, John. Tell Katie I said to get better quick!” you tore off into a sprint back home, excited by the prospect of hanging around with Finn and Isaiah. John shook his head fondly and went back inside.

You burst through the front door, calling for Finn. He poked his head round the kitchen door and grinned at you. “C’mon, YN,” he grinned, dragging Isaiah behind him. “Let’s go somewhere fun, away from that grump in there,” he murmured the last bit so Tommy wouldn’t hear him.

You were more than happy to follow along, eager to not be on the receiving end of tommy’s temper. You chattered happily to the boys (and learned a new swear word from them which you had to promise not to repeat in front of aunt pol) as you sauntered to the old warehouse which had been converted to a boxing ring. You hung away from the door, shuffling your feet slightly. “Tommy says I’m not allowed to go boxing,” you told them.

“Tommy ain’t here though, YN,” Isaiah said, nudging your shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m in charge of you, and I say it’s okay,” Finn said, puffing his chest out importantly. You giggled and nodded.

“Alright then,” you said, grinning.

You let them take you in. A few people murmured about the presence of a little girl in this predominantly male run backstreet boxing ring, but soon shut up when they saw that you were a Shelby. You sat at the edge of the ring as Finn and Isaiah began boxing with eachother. They let you play as the referee, purposefully making cheap shots to get told off, trying not to burst out laughing at the sound of your firm, yet higher pitched voice as you tried to do your best Aunt Polly impression.

There was a sudden commotion at the other side of the warehouse, and everyone froze.

“He’s lost it again!” you heard someone shout out, and you frowned, looking between Finn and Isaiah as they exchanged worried looks.

“Arthur, pack it in! Arthur! Get off him!”

you gasped, knowing in your gut that they were talking about your big brother. While you didn’t really understand what your brothers did for a living, you often saw the end results, asking questions about the black eyes and cuts they had on their faces.

“Get her home, Shelby. She don’t need to see this,” one man said to Finn and he nodded.

“Er... come on, YN... we’ll stop by the bakery on the way back,” Finn said, though you noticed the wobble in his voice. As you were walked away, you turned to see Arthur, his trembling hands stained red, a glazed look in his eyes as the boy’s body was dragged away.

***

“Tommy, Arthur’s lost it again, down the warehouse!” Finn called as you slipped into the house.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tommy groaned. “I swear to god, Finn, if I find out you’ve taken YN to that fucking boxing ring again, I’ll skin you,”

The door slammed shut and your lip wobbled. “What’s this about YN going to the boxing ring?” came the sharp voice of Polly. You tucked your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them. “Finn Shelby, if you’ve let your little sister box with you lot-” you wrapped your arms around Polly’s waist, hiding your face. She soon felt tears soaking through her blouse and sighed softly, stroking your hair. “What’s happened, love?” she said soothingly. “Aunt Pol’s listening,”

You looked up at her and bit your lip slightly. “I-I wanted to go and play with Katie so Tommy wouldn’t be cross at me while he was working, but John said she wasn’t well, so I came home, and- and Finn and isaiah said we could go to the boxing ring ‘cos Finn was in charge not Tommy, and I just wanted to play referees with them b-but...” a fresh load of tears rolled down your cheeks. “But... but then everyone started shouting, saying Arthur had lost it again, a-and when we were leaving, I saw him... but he didn’t look like arthur, Aunt Pol,” You shook your head as if trying to shake away the memory. “His eyes were weird and... and he was all bloody,”

Polly said nothing, instead drawing you into her chest and letting you cry, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. Once you had calmed down, she held you at arms length. “Sometimes, YN, the boys get very upset, and very angry about what happened to them in France. They can’t help it. It creeps up on them when they least expect it. But you mustn’t be frightened of it, alright? They are still your brothers and they all love you very dearly, d’you understand me?”

You nodded quickly. “I’m not scared, Aunt Pol. Not even of Tommy when he’s cross with me. Not even of Arthur when he’s cross with himself,” you said. Polly smiled slightly and kissed you on the forehead.

“Good girl, c’mon, put your cardigan on. You can come to the market with me while the boys sort themselves out,”

***

That night, when everyone had gone to sleep, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. You should’ve been asleep ages ago, but you didn’t care. Silent as a mouse, you crept out of the room that you used to share with Ada before she went to London, careful not to tread on the squeaky floorboards. You stopped outside your oldest brother’s bedroom and eased the door open so it didn’t creak and startle him.

Arthur wasn’t asleep either. his back was to you, but you could see his shoulders shaking slightly as he cried, his fist shoved in his mouth to keep quiet. “Arthur?” you whispered. He turned around, shoving the tears off his face.

“YN, what’re you doing out of bed, eh? It’s a bit late,” he said. You walked over to him and clambered into his bed despite him saying he was okay. “You’re not frightened of me, YN? You... you saw what happened today, love, didn’t you? Why aren’t you scared?”

you snuggled into his side and squeezed his hand. “’Cos you’re my big brother, Arthur, that’s why,” you whispered, though your voice had a no-nonsense tone to it. “You’re my big brother and I love you and even if you really tried, not even you or Tommy could scare me, not ever,” you insisted and Arthur’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, hugging you.

“You’re a stubborn girl, our YN,” he said fondly. “You’re gonna give us all a run for our money when you’re older,”

You smiled, glad you had made him feel better. “C’mon. You need to go to sleep, otherwise Aunt Polly will tell us off. She’s the only one who can scare me, Arthur, but only when I’m in trouble,”

Arthur laughed and you shushed him, settling down to sleep (and totally hogging most of the blankets. perks of being the little sister). “Alright, alright, I’ll go to sleep before aunt pol shouts at a grown man that it’s past his bedtime,”

Tag List: @lotsoffandomrecs @rai-strangebr @peakyswritings @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby @zodiyack @haphazardhufflepuff

Be on my Tag List!

Support me on Ko-fi <3

#shelby sister #shelby sister oneshot #shelby!reader #shelby!sister #peaky blinders oneshot #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby oneshot #aunt polly #polly gray #arthur shelby fluff #arthur shelby #finn shelby

581 notes · View notes

sabitosthirst · 3 years

Text

Meeting him- Sabito x Reader- Part 8

Next -> Part 9

NSFW

The story takes on our reader being invited to become a pillar. While meeting everyone, she encounters Sabito, and from that point on she’s a total goner.

Previously⬇️

Part 7 Part 6 Part 5 Part 4 Part 3 Part 2 Part 1

*@PPKyume on Twitter, posted Mar 21, 2020*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perspective of (y/n)

“What a beautiful surprise, I hope I’m not interpreting something”

OH GODS!

I quickly pull my fingers out from my core and lay them on my thighs, quickly positioning myself to play it off as if I was just sitting down.

My eyes dart to the seductive voice, and there he was. Standing in the middle of the room in his topless glory. His smile was teasing, and his eyes were stripping my already naked self.

Can he really see me through this cloudy water?

I however, could see clearly- a blessing. My eyes were sucked, following the dips of his muscles; starting from the top and going all the way down. The only thing that stopped me from going any further was the towel wrapped around his hips.

Oh.. my… gods

*@Veenau on weheartit.com*

“Sabito! I was simply…simply washing up,” I finally let out.

“Hmm, I see-“ his scar slightly lifts, smirking at my exposed body. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I joined you, I’ve had a rather long mission. However if you prefer I come back when you’re done-“ he starts to turn, ripping away what my eyes were so desperately feeding on.

“No! It’s fine, I mean-there’s plenty of room.” I shrugged, trying to play off my flustered self.

His body slowly turns back to me, placing his hand on on the thin cloth that wrapped around him.

*source unknown- help*

“That’s my girl”

In that moment, I nearly choked.

The barrier that blocked my view of his member was thrown off-gone. My lips parted in wonder. I’ve never seen a naked man before, but even I knew this was impressive.

His face was beautiful, but looking down I felt a new kind of heat come over me. His muscles that turn to an arrow led me to his hardening length. I felt so embarrassed staring that I was frozen, I couldn’t look away!

Are they supposed to be that big?! I know they go inside but how is that supposed to fit into anyone?!

I swear I saw it twitch, when it did I gasped. My breath is caught and I couldn’t grasp it.

He could’ve been laughing at me, watching me stare, but I wouldn’t have known. My eyes were fixated on examining him. His quads and calves were firm and full, proportionately well for him. Then I saw them move. Wielding his body to come closer to the pool that we were about to share. Slowly, his new skin that I beheld disappeared into the water.

I was left with the view of chest and up. Finally my eyes found his, and oh my. They felt different, darker; lustful even.

“Will I be blessed with a show of my own?”

My mind finally realizes this is reality and scrambles to summons words.

“Maybe” I quietly let out.

“MAYBE?!” WHO AM I?! Saying such things! Staring at a man so shamelessly!?

“Is that so?”, an eyebrow of his raises, as do his arms to guide himself closer to me. The water ripples away, closing the distance between us. Finally, we’re together again.

Once again I’m left with a view that made me speechless. His nose, lips, scar, eyes, everything- everything made me want to touch his face.

“I see my mark on you has disappeared.” His voice was playfully sad. I reach out to my shoulder where it once was.

*from rent-a-girlfriend*

“Ah yes, I was worried at first as to what it was, but I figured it was you. So It’s fine. How about you? I didn’t hurt you did I?” I start to rub the back of my neck, not sure what to do. My back is against the edge and I’m practically left with no room to move since he closed me off.

“Me? Hurt? Ha! (Y/n), I’m flattered over the concern. In fact-“ he dips into the water, submerging his entire self under.

Huh?

Rough hands immediately grip the back of my thighs and raise me to sit over the edge. I’m left dripping, legs spread, and bare; revealing all the secrets my body held. His hands then moved to the tops of my legs, caressing them with his thumbs and massaging the edges with his fingers.

His lips twitch with satisfaction, opening up as if to take a deep breath in. “I’d like very much to see you try.”

*upset that I cannot find the source for this one*

Though I’m the one looking down at him, I feel small. His eyes slowly moving up my dripping form. It’s only now that I feel self conscious about my small breast; but when his eyes stopped to observe them, he didn’t seem displeased. My nipples harden when he gives my thighs another squeeze, turning my pink buds erect. He looked satisfied at that.

“However, let’s talk-“ his hands on me ease up “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I would’ve sent a crow but I honestly didn’t expect my mission to drag.” His eyes dart down to my unveiled core, exposed due to his position between my legs, “and as much as I’d like to take advantage of this position, I want to hear about you. So please, talk to me (y/n).”

Uh!? Why am I feeling disappointed ?

“You want to know about me? Umm, where should I begin?” my mouth nearly faltered, as his hands started to work their way up. Teasing my skin with his gliding fingers.

*artist @pomujoynet1 on Twitter*

“Don’t mind me, and yes, from the start, beautiful”

I swallow, taking a breath before continuing.

“Well... I am the youngest of 7. All girls. I don’t have many memories of my youth but I know my father worked us like men. So I’ve always had unfavorable hands. He was a harsh man, so harsh that all my sisters ran away one by one with their lovers. Soon enough, only I was left. One day, I remember falling to the ground after he hit me.”

Sabito hands stop around my hips, anger and sympathy swirling in eyes behind streaks of hair.

“I think it was then that I started to see the auras around others, I also believe thats what caused me to forget many things from my past. Eventually I too ran away, but not with a lover of course…I didn’t want to depend on someone else. I couldn’t stand another day”

Sabito’s hands move quickly. Sliding an arm around my waist, while the other slides down my bottom and thighs-the tips of his fingers almost touching my sex. He then lifts me again, bringing my torso to his face, giving it a gentle kiss before lowering me back into the water.

I feel him grab my left hand, stroking it with his fingers. After a few moments he turns it around to raise it to his lips, a soft kiss is laid on my overworked hands.

“I’m sorry about your father, but I assure you I’m not the kind of man he is.”

As tells me this, I see the honest purple hue that surrounds him. It’s so comforting, I want to cry. Even his eyes draw an emotion from me that makes me feel weak and wanting.

*artist unknown*

He pulls me flat against his body and my mind feels like it’s turning soft.

Wait…Is… is it touching my stomach?!

~~~~~~~~Steaming up for part 9! Coming soon ~~~~~

#demon slayer #kny #kny fanfic #kny sabito #pillar men #sabito #sabito x reader #oh god #water pillar #kimetsu no yaiba

30 notes · View notes

bunnys-beetlejuice-blog · 3 years

Text

airhorn sounds in your ear as you try to sleep ITS FIC TIME, CHILDREN

His father’s first reaction is, predictably, nervous. They’re sitting in the living room as a family, all sort of hanging out, but doing their own thing. Hoarders is passively playing, Lydia is tucked under the couch with a book and flashlight, Emily is in the corner with her laptop, and BJ and Charles are each sitting on opposite ends of the couch, going through their phones. He gets a very sweet text from Adam, showing that the other teen has put the photo Lydia took of them in a frame, and he grins, and holds the device to his chest, feeling giddy and flustered. His dad notices. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” Charles smiles, and BJ figures this is as good a time as any. “I got a text from my boyfriend.” Charles stares. From her chair in the corner, Emily’s typing slows, and then stops, as her brain catches up with that sentence. His phone pings again, and he looks back down at a message from Barbara, then back to his parents. “And my girlfriend.” Emily closes her computer. Her smile is enormous. “Shut up.” “No, seriously!” he grins back at his mother, and then notes the color Charles is going. “Adam and Barbara?” Emily asks, knowingly, and he nods. “We made it official yesterday. I took em to th’ Smallpox Hospital.” “Awww! That’s so romantic!” “You’re dating?” Charles finally finds words. “Unclench your everything, dad, jeezus.” “It’s just… do you think that’s a good idea?” “I think it’s a great idea,” BJ says, a little defensive. “What, I’m not allowed to date? M’too weird for it?” “That’s not what I meant, BJ,” Charles frowns. But he can tell it kind of is.

“Charles, honey, he’s sixteen. He’s going to date,” Emily says softly, and Charles looks back at her. “But two people at once? And they’re-” “They’re what, Chuck?” “Humans. They’re human, BJ.” “Holy shit, they are? Here I thought they were just really crappy demons.” “I just don’t know if you’ve thought this through. Wouldn’t you be happier dating another demon?” “I don’t know any other demons, dad,” he growls, temper flaring. “Unless you want me to date Sam, an’ look like a total creep, since he’s stuck at like, ten.” “Stop it, BJ.” “You stop it! Just be happy for me!” “I am.. Happy. For you.” BJ sits back, crosses his arms, and scowls. “Got a funny way of showin’ it.” His father stands, and takes to pacing. Christ. “We should lay out ground rules.” “Me an’ Adam an’ Barb did that already.” “No, I mean, house rules,” Charles says, rubbing at his beard. “Things you’re allowed to do, and not. Oh, god, first things first, I’m going to get you a box of condoms.” Betelgeuse feels himself flush, and then Lydia finally pipes up, sticking her head out from under the couch. “Gross.”

“You’re seriously blowin’ this out of proportion. We’ve barely held hands!” “I was a teenager. I remember how things escalate. The last thing we need is someone pregnant. Especially with whatever a human and a demon would make.” “Th’ anti-Christ, maybe,” he says, unhelpfully, and he sees the way his dad’s expression twists into further worry. “It was a joke! Oh my god!”

His mother, bless her, swoops in, just then. “BJ’s just told us good news,” she says, standing, and putting a hand on Charles’ arm, which stops his pacing. “I need you to reassess how you’re making him feel, right now.” Charles looks from his wife to his son. BJ rubs at his nose, embarrassed and upset, and probably purple, and he sees his father make a choice. “BJ, I’m sorry,” Charles comes over, hesitantly reaches down, and Betelgeuse responds by throwing his arms around his dad. Chuck rubs his back. “Tell me about them,” he says, “and I promise to be cool. As cool as I can be, at least.”

That’s at least something. He can tell his dad is still worried, but he does listen, as Betelgeuse describes his two partners. “We spend a lotta time together,” he tells his father. “An’ they’re both goody two shoes. Seriously, they’re borin’, nice people.” “Tell us how you met them, BJ,” Emily smiles. He regales them with the story of Barbara and the flower, and then Adam in the library, and by the time he’s done, he’s back to feeling green, all smiles and excitement and stimming hands. It feels really, really good to not be alone.

Monday comes a day too soon, and he sort of misses the atmosphere of the library, because at lunch, he’s forced to pick up trash, with Honeywell watching him intently from a bench. The only consolation prize to this is the vice principal’s time is also being wasted. He doesn’t miss how a few kids walk by and intentionally throw things at his feet for him to pick up. They don’t get away with it, though, because either they trip and find their shoelaces are mysteriously tied together, or for those unlucky ones without laces, they’ll find a snake in their lockers. The miserable part is, Adam and Barbara aren’t allowed to hang out with him while he’s working. They’d tried, and were told in no uncertain terms to leave him alone, leave him to his task, or they’d be sent to the other side of the campus to do the same thing. A little bit of punishment, he understands. But he draws the line at threatening Sexy and Babs. He’s absolutely plotting exactly how he’s going to ruin the overbearing adult’s day when he feels a strange sensation in his chest, like a slight tug. He pauses. It’s not a pain, not really, more like a pull away from himself, which doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what it is. He has to assume it’s another demon thing.

He glances at his watcher, who seems engrossed in paperwork.

Man, if only this guy would fuck off, he could be enjoying lunch with his friends- The pull away from himself is stronger, this time. He concentrates on it, and then remembers how physical the summoning of clones is, requiring a motion like he’s tossing something, and he gives that a try, this time, gently lobbing nothing at a student passing by. The kid looks surprised, and then goes rigid, and he thinks maybe he’s killed someone for the first time, but then the teen straightens up, and stands, stiff, facing him, and BJ feels mentally split, between two bodies. He raises his right hand. The student mirrors the action, eyes wide, confused. He lowers it, then kicks his leg out to the side, and again, he’s copied. Not copied.. Followed? The other student is like a marionette, and his mind is the strings, or something close to that. “Possession,” he grins, wickedly, and then he pulls himself back all to one body, and the kid falls on his ass, confused, and scrambles away.

Oh, he is so going to use this new power for evil.

“BJ Deetz! I don’t see this quad getting any cleaner!” Honeywell has looked up from his paperwork to find Betelgeuse standing there, grinning to himself, and the teen responds by spinning around, and throwing nothing at the overbearing authority figure. Honeywell also goes rigid, and BJ lifts his hands, directing the VP to stand, and the hapless adult does so. “Looks clean enough to me,” he mouths, and hears that sentence come out of Honeywell’s lips. “Clean enough to eat offa!” With a swiping motion, he forces the man to knock his own hardly touched lunch to the ground, and then BJ crouches low, and the adult follows, shoving his face into what was clearly leftovers from some night’s dinner, and coming back up with a mouthful of noodles and dirt. The big man’s eyes are wide. He’s scared, confused. It’s thrilling. With a hand motion, BJ forces the breather’s face back into the mess of food and dirt, and doesn’t let him up until the muffled cries become truly panicked. Possession out in public might be a bit too noticeable, though, because there’s a gathering group of kids watching what the teacher is doing, their phones out, taking video, and he doesn’t need them connecting his own strange movements back to Honeywell’s. He makes a final hand motion, releasing the adult, and shoves his hands in his pockets, just in time for Adam and Barbara to appear as faces in the crowd. Honeywell, freed, sits up, coughing and sputtering, and looking horrified. “What the heck happened?” Adam asks, and BJ shrugs. “He started throwin’ a fit, outta no where,” he lies, but he feels the vice principal watching him, staring up from the dirt, where he’s still sat, dazed. He gives the adult a grin. “Totally fuckin’ weird.”

The rest of his lunch period is freed up, suddenly, as Honeywell goes to clean himself off in the men’s room.

This fun new ability requires further testing, but not right now, now when Adam and Barbara are around. Soon, though. Very soon. “I’m really bummed we can’t be in the library anymore. I tried to pop in to grab something this morning and the librarian chased me out.” Adam looks genuinely sad, at that, which startles BJ out of his downright vicious thoughts. “By the way,” Adam adds, “They put up the casting sheet today. Want to guess who got that dentist part?” Barbara is grinning wide. “Me?” he croaks. A few other kids tried for it.. He didn’t think he’d get picked, honestly, thought that maybe someone more likable, or more friendly, would be chosen over him, but Barbara squishes his cheeks in her hands. “You!” she cheers, and he blushes. “You’re going to be amazing! But that means,” she tells him, suddenly serious, “-that you have to actually try.” He nods, as much as he can, her hands still on either side of his face. “Effort,” he grunts. “Got it.” She leans forward and kisses the tip of his nose. He scrambles to throw his hood over his head, and cinches it closed, knowing for a fact he’s gone pink from the tips of his hair down to the roots. “BJ?” Barbara giggles, as he peers out at her from his hood. “Should I not do that?” “NO! No, no, I, uh, just.. Warn a guy, next time.”

He hadn’t thought through the logistics of this, clearly, because he can’t be scrambling away from them every time one of them kisses him, just because his stupid hair won’t behave itself. God, he’s going to have to start wearing a beanie, or something, until he can get this color thing under control. Annoyingly, his dad was right. He really hadn’t given this much thought, beyond, Adam and Barbara pretty, wanna kiss them. Now he’s got to work out the logistics of how he’s going to actually achieve that goal, without basically, for lack of a better word, outing himself. He doesn’t want to think that something like what happened with Kevin could happen again, but he hadn’t really seen that situation coming, and it had ended about as poorly as a budding romance can, with parental murder. So yeah, he’s not exactly confident he can trust them with this secret. Better to keep it to himself, play his cards close to the chest, not let them all the way in. That’s safest for all of them. Good plan, BJ, he thinks to himself, watching Barbara dust wood shavings out of Adam’s hair, a leftover byproduct of his shop class. No one gets hurt. No one has to know anything. He can keep playing human with his cute new partners for as long as they’ll let him.

Stretching before him, suddenly, he foresees a lifetime, several lifetimes actually, given the span of existence for a demon, lifetimes full of deceit and lies and partners who age without him, and it all makes him very tired, and sad. This is going to be how it is, he realizes. He’s going to pretend and mimic and do his best to fit himself into a template that he wasn’t made for, and he’s presumably going to be doing it forever, maybe until the minute the last human takes their last breath, because playing human is as close as he can get. It's easier to play pretend, throw a glamour on and act along, than to be himself and risk the pain and rejection, or the truth that maybe his worth is tied into what he can do, not who he is. It all leaves him dizzy, this sudden moment of unwanted clarity. He pushes it down, far down at it can go, to somewhere deep in his chest, and tries to come back to this moment, right now, because his boyfriend is looking at him. “You going to stay in that hood all day, shy guy?” Adam smiles, and BJ peels the hood back, and runs a hand through the mop of green mess that passes for his hair, and smiles, like he didn’t just have a mini existential crisis in the middle of a Monday afternoon. “What do you guys do for lunch when you’re not being wooed by an errant library assistant?” Betelgeuse forces an extra bit of pep that he doesn’t feel into his voice, and Barbara brightens. “You can come meet my friends!” She says, and he lets her lead him by the hand, across the quad, a corpse playing pretend at being alive, holding hands with the living.

They find Barbara’s friends at the lunch tables. He’s never sat over here, never really had reason to be over here at all, actually, because each table is always claimed by a friend group, and he’s never felt welcome enough to try and squeeze in with any of them. But he sort of has a group now, he supposes. If three can be a crowd, it can be a group. He does feel eyes on him as he’s directed on where to sit by Barbara, other kids at other tables watching him, maybe confused on how he’s ingratiated himself enough to actually have a place to sit. Barbara arranges where they sit, seemingly very intentionally, with herself between Betelgeuse and Adam, and Allison and Blair on the other side of the table, and they begin eating. The air is a little tense. He picks at his lunch, leftovers Charles packed for him. It smells amazing, but he doesn’t want to scarf it all down, not when he’s feeling watched, the way he is. And he is being watched, very intently so, by Barbara’s friends, who are apparently also Adam’s friends. Everyone but him seems to know so many other people. It’s almost insane, like, how do they keep them all straight? He’s only vaguely aware of which one of these similar white girls is Blair, because he’s spoken to her, at least once. Allison might as well be a balloon with a face painted on it. “So,” Blair puts down her fork. She’s eating a dry salad with little chunks of chicken in it, low carb, low cal. He’d be worried for her health if he gave a shit. “So,” he copies her instinctively, tilting her head the same way she does, holding his hands in front of himself in a mirror of her own movements. Barbara catches what he’s doing, and gives his arm a gentle pinch. “Is this for real?” Blair isn’t asking him, she’s looking between Adam and Barbara, who are both looking a little surprised at the sudden question. “What do you mean?” Adam asks, unsure, and Blair gestures between the three of them. “This whole.. This! When Barbara said she suddenly had two boyfriends, I had to check my calendar, make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s. And then it turns out to be you and..” Her eyes fall back on Betelgeuse. “Him. You, Adam, I get. You and Barbara together, that makes sense. But, like, BJ?” “Sure, if you’re offerin’,” he says, and Blair makes a face. Go on over to Ao3 to read the rest!! There's more waiting for your hungry eyes over there

#beetlelands fic #goldenbeetle #beetlejuice #adam maitland #barbara maitland #lydia deetz #charles deetz #emily deetz #beetlejuice fanfiction #my writing

26 notes · View notes

splat-dragon · 3 years

Link

Dutch had had it all planned out. A long speech to distract the lawmen as they edged towards the edge of the cliff. He’d gesture and nudge Arthur, and together they’d jump, land safely in the water, and be gone by the time the lawmen processed what happened.

But he hadn’t taken into account the waterfall.

“You can’t fight…” he nudged Arthur back, his own heels dangling over the ledge, “Gravity.” and with that Arthur, quick on the draw as ever, twisted and jumped.

They hit the water so hard it knocked the breath from their lungs. Dutch only just managed to keep from inhaling water, and he was just close enough to clap his hand over Arthur’s mouth to keep him from doing so.

They broke the surface with twin coughs, Arthur spluttering while Dutch coughed.”See son?” he laughed, flailing more than swimming as he dodged one of Arthur’s kicking feet, “I told you to trust me.”

“Sure Dutch,” his boy choked as a wave caught him in the face, “Real pretty.”

He laughed as Arthur was thrown ass over head, righting himself with a splutter, near-hysteric with the rush of survival.

“Dutch?” the man struggled to reorient himself, “Dutch!” Arthur’s eyes went wide, and Dutch’s bulged to match when he saw the source of the noise.

Rapids. Jagged rocks erupting from the river. Frothing white waves crashed across them, dashing the unlucky fish that were caught in the tide.

“Shit!”

Shit indeed.

“Swim son, swim!”

If Arthur weren’t too busy struggling to fight the tide, he’d have said ‘no shit, Dutch!’ but the river was pulling them closer and closer, exhausting them as they fought.

As foam filled his mouth, Arthur had just enough time to think ‘this is going to suck’ before he was slammed into the rocks.

He choked, cried out - and got a mouthful of water.

Arthur was there one moment, and gone the next. Dutch shouted his name, surging through the water but regretting it when he barely dodged a protruding stone, the thrown up water burning his eyes. “Arthur!” he squinted against the pain, kicking off an oncoming rock, barely managing to keep his own head above water.

But he couldn’t see him - not even a flash of his shirt, or his blond hair, and his head never broke water. He tried to call his name again, though what that would do he wasn’t sure, but he felt he needed to do something and he couldn’t dive under to save him, he’d never come up again and maybe, just maybe, if he called for him he’d hear him?

Arthur never disobeyed him.

Well, not until recently. But that was neither here nor there, because when it came down to the line, when it truly mattered, Arthur always obeyed him, always came when called. But Arthur was disobeying and just for a moment there was a flash of anger - that unsettling anger that had become to common to him as of late - and then it was drowned out by the chill of horror, because Arthur had been under too long and if he wasn’t responding… no, surely he’d been washed further downstream, surely he just couldn’t hear him over the crashing of the waves and the roaring of the rapids.

Because the alternative… well, Dutch didn’t want to think about it. And then he couldn’t think about it, because he was slammed into a sharp boulder and agony lit along his ribs and he cried out, swallowing water and spinning through the water like a piece of cloth in a modern day washing machine, barely managing to thrust his head above water long enough to catch a breath before he was being tumbled again. And he understood John’s deep rooted fear of the water, and his refusal to learn to swim, and his ‘hidden’ panic when he saw Jack on the shore back at Clemens’ Point and Shady Belle. Granted, the second had been warranted on account of the gators but - well, that didn’t matter at the moment, considering he couldn’t breathe.

He tumbled and spun, clawed frantically as he abandoned all the lessons Hosea had given him in swimming (and would he be seeing Hosea soon? he couldn’t help but to wonder as his chest squeezed and his lungs burned) to instead flail desperately, the energy draining from his body, beginning to slow and weaken as he grew painfully heavy—

—and then his head broke water and half his breath was water but, though it burned and he choked and coughed, he couldn’t have cared less because it was blessed air, air that loosened the iron grip on his chest and returned life to his limbs, and he twisted and had enough breath to scream as he tumbled over the edge of the waterfall, seeing his death before him because he’d seen men hit water and break every bone in their body, had personally put down a young boy who’d leaped to avoid a train and shattered everything, something had gone wrong inside him and he hadn’t been able to breathe and it had been kinder to shoot him.

He still hurt for it, Jasper had been a good young man, but he’d been dying anyway and a death of choking on your own blood was a long, painful death and so he couldn’t regret it.

But somehow, impossibly, he hit the water and sunk, only the briefest of pain from the impact and a shooting pain in his side where he’d struck it, and then his head was breaking water again and he could breathe, could get the breath that gave him the strength to strike out for the shore that was so, so close, and when he struck it it hurt, pebbles and sticks digging into his skin but it might as well have been a caress for how relieved he was, clawing up the bank and there was some pain there, yes, as his palms tore open and his nails were pried off by the stones but when he collapsed on the shore, even his feet free of the water, it was a welcome pain because he’d made it. He’d escaped the water, managed to survive—

where was Arthur?

—he jackknifed up, scrabbling at the stones and having to take a moment to bend trouble, coughing and choking as he cleared his lungs of the water, burning eyes snapping this way and that, darting first to the water which grew shallow not long after the water pooled beneath the waterfall, and he feared seeing Arthur splayed across those rocks, feared he’d not had Dutch’s luck and had hit the sharp stones, feared seeing his blood darkening the water and his limbs at horrible angles.

But he didn’t - pink water was trickling, a ribbon that spread slowly across the pool, but there was no body broken on the rocks and his eyes followed the ribbon to a blue lump that bobbed in the water, something he couldn’t make out with his blurry eyes but he knew, Arthur had landed in the pool too but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t trying to get to the shore, was floating motionless in the water and he didn’t even remember getting to his feet, lurching through the water to paw at the lump until he managed to find an arm and flip him over, his head finally breaking the water and thank god Arthur could breathe as he slung the arm over his shoulder, grabbing the other and awkwardly swimming back for shore.

He laughed a hysterical thing, breaking into coughs as he managed “I told you — I told you son — we made it!”

But Arthur didn’t laugh, or respond in any way, and Dutch didn’t want to look but he had to.

A pale face, blue lips and far-away eyes looked back at him and his heart skipped one-two-three-four beats, because Arthur was never still, even in sleep he moved, twitched and shifted and curled in on himself, but Arthur wasn’t moving — his chest wasn’t moving — he wasn’t coughing or clearing his throat and vomiting up water, he was laying there like… like a corpse and Dutch refused that, he’d already lost Jenny, Mac and Davey, Sean and the O’Driscoll boy (Kieran, his name was Kieran, he deserved as much as to be called by his name), Lenny and poor Hosea and he couldn’t lose Arthur too.

He drew Arthur up, fumbling him when he was far lighter than he expected because Arthur had always been a big man, not since he’d been young and terrified of them had he been this light, even when he and Hosea had half-carried him across camp when he’d returned after the parley they’d struggled under his weight.

But picking up Arthur was easier than lifting his saddle and his heart jumped into his throat, he’d have worried more but Arthur’s head lolled in a way that could only be accidental, water trickling from his mouth but he didn’t cough or so much as clear his throat and Dutch hurried to prop him up, leaning him over his knee and beginning to thump him between the shoulder blades as hard as he could. His ribs screamed as he struck Arthur harder and harder, the man’s body jolting but only producing small bits of water from his mouth and he began to count in his head because how long had it been since Arthur had breathed?

Too long, even Arthur who seemed superhuman couldn’t hold his breath so long.

He set Arthur down more heavily than he’d meant to, cringing at the clattering of his body against the rocks. He threw his coat down, taking just a moment to tug Arthur onto it, before shifting to kneel awkwardly over his prone son, lacing his fingers together and beginning to push on his stomach in rhythm, trying to work the water out of his lungs. With each push water trickled from the corner of his mouth and he leaned forward, tilting his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke.

“C’mon son, come on!”

(“Do you trust me son?”

“...Always, Dutch.”

“Then just follow my lead.”)

Something cracked beneath his hands and he groaned, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Arthur’s, blowing a breath into his mouth and pulling away with the taste of brackish water and metal on his lips, pinching his nose and trying again when his chest didn’t rise and this time it did with a horrible gurgling and he pulled back, beginning to push down on his chest over and over and over, bones crackling with the force of it, counting off fifteen (or was it supposed to be twenty? thirty?) compressions before leaning forward, alarmed at the taste of blood as he gave him two breaths, praying to a god he didn’t believe in as he returned to his compressions.

He’d lost so many people, he couldn’t lose Arthur too.

Annabelle... Hosea… so many he’d considered family.

He’d raised Arthur up from a boy, just a young thing, scared and cowering as Dutch helped him off the ground. From a kid that cowered when they raised their voices and flinched when they moved their hands, to a father, to a man who stood tall and proud, the backbone of his family, always at his side—

“With you watching over us, I’d walk into Hell itself.”

—always there, no matter what. No matter how angry he’d gotten, how frustrated he was—

“We each got... fifteen dollars. Oh, and a quarter. Don't forget the quarter.”

“Shut up, Arthur.”

—he’d always been there. Even when Hosea had left them for a time, wanting to start a proper family with Bessie, he’d cried, and hidden, but never left him behind. And he’d paid for it, hadn’t he?—

“So, I met up with Leon. That situation with the workers is dealt with. Captured, tied-up, beaten…”

“Poor bastards.”

“No, that was me.”

“I told you it was a set-up Dutch…”

“My boy… my dear boy, what?”

“They got me… but I got away.”

“Yeah… that you did.”

—more, probably, than he’d been rewarded. Always crawling home to lick his wounds, digging out bullets and stitching wounds, having to be wrestled into bed to keep him from going right back out and doing it all over again. How many times had one of the girls come to him because they found blood on his clothes and they’d found Arthur hiding a wound so he could ride out again or join them on a job?

But he wouldn’t let Arthur suffer this time, he’d make sure he was rewarded. But to do that, he’d have to breathe breath back into his lungs, uncaring of the blood he tasted on every rescue breath, of the crunching of broken bones shattering beneath his hands. He could fix broken bones, could let Arthur rest for as long as he needed to recuperate, if only he would breathe.

His arms buckled, each breath shooting pain through his ribs, his hands sinking into Arthur’s chest so much had he broken his bones, his muscles burning from the force of the compressions and his chest tight with how hard he blew breath into his boy’s lungs. Each time the man’s chest rose hope soared in his own, but he crashed back to earth as he never did continue breathing.

Dutch crumpled atop of Arthur, arms giving way and gasping for breath, shaking his head even as he did so. “No, Arthur, please…” but Arthur, of course, couldn’t respond.

A month later, Dutch developed a cough.

8 notes · View notes

waiting4inspiration · 4 years

Text

Hefna VII: Stridha

Summary: You wake, tell Estadir what your Goddess has said to you and it makes him change his mind about meddling in a war he didn’t want to. The night is a festive one.

Warnings: angst, sluff, strong language, animal sacrifice, blood, pagan things, mentions of war, magical elements, unrequited love

Word Count: 2,873

Hefna Masterlist II Vikings Masterlist

The tribe knows that after an incident with a God through you or Estadir while they’re on the road, there won’t be any movement the next day. It’s the first calm day Ivar’s seen since he’s been here where the music is quiet and the fires barely burn. But Ivar’s actually more interested in your tent’s flap that hasn’t moved since Estadir took you inside. He wonders what might be going on inside.

Ivar doesn’t know that Estadir has been sitting by your side the entire night, never sleeping as he waits for you to wake. You could be asleep for hours, or minutes. He doesn’t know. But he wants to be awake the moment you come around and he’ll stay up all night if he has to.

It’s only at sunrise that you stir, making his head lift from between his shoulders. Seeing your head turning to him and your eyes to slowly open as you take in a deep breath, Estadir pushes himself off his chair and kneels beside you. He takes your hand in his a while lifting the other to your forehead to make sure you don’t have a fever.

Once, you did. And he was afraid that he would lose you with how sick you became.

But now, you’re fine. There’s no fever and it makes him breathe a sigh of relief. “Estadir,” you whisper, knowing his touch immediately and leaning your face into his hand.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, caressing your cheek as he leans forward to press his forehead to yours.

You hum, lifting a hand up to touch the side of his face as you start to recall what happened last night. “It’s all my fault. Last night, it was my fault,” you whisper, your hand falling away from his face to touch where you’re used to finding your father’s pendant. The pendant of Yggdrasil. And a token from a religion you do not follow.

Estadir shakes his head as he pulls away from you, still holding your hand in his and he gently strokes it. “How is this your fault? We see moments like this as blessings. You know this,” he whispers, a deep frown creases his forehead and his hand twirls the band on your wrist he had gifted to you a long time ago.

“I was holding on to my old Gods. The ones my father followed,” you say, dropping your gaze to your empty chest as you pull your hand away. “By holding onto my father’s pendant, I was holding onto the belief of Odin and the Aesir. The only way I could let that go was to burn down the thing holding me back,” you explain, closing your eyes to remember seeing the Great Hall burst into flames.

He shakes his head, and shifts in his spot to get you to look at him. “That doesn’t mean it is your fault. Virheia is not angry at you. I know because if she was, she would have withdrawn her blessing of having you as her envoy. And if that happened, you would have died,” he mentions, pushing a piece of hair away from your face and cupping your face as you smile and chuckle at his words.

You know he’s right. Virheia keeps you alive after every connection. And because you are still alive, it means that Virheia is still with you.

Pushing yourself up, you shift to make space for him to sit beside you. He moves beside you and pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as your head rests on his shoulder. “I asked Virheia to tell me why Vidar did that to my father. To Nork,” you whisper, resting a hand on his chest as his fingers trail up and down the side of your arm.

“And what did she say?”

“That the answers lie with Vidar.” Your words make him take in a deep breath and tense slightly as his hand stops stroking your skin. “I know what you’re going to say-”

“Do you?” he stops you, your head turning up to look at him and you frown in confusion. “You know what I’m going to say about the man that has hurt you?” he questions, an almost angry sound on his voice makes your face drop as you shake your head. “I saw how brokenhearted you were when you saw your father. Do you think I’m going to just let that go? You know what I do when someone makes you cry,” he says, bringing his hand up to your face and stroking your cheek as if he’s wiping away the tears he remembers seeing on your face.

You bite your lower lip and stare down at his chest. “You mean…”

He hums when you trail off and nods his head. “I will help the foreign king fight against Vidar,” he states, leaning closer to press his lips to yours.

It’s not a long kiss, but just long enough to make your smile. Then he pulls away from you and stands abruptly. “You must rest. Tonight, we’ll make a sacrifice and ask the Aestad to bless our travel and our upcoming war,” Estadir mentions, walking toward the entrance of your tent but stopping before he exits to turn around and face you. “I adore you.”

A bright smile grows on your face along with a small blush. That has always been the way he tells you he loves you, but he has never told you why. “And I adore you,” you whisper back, placing your hand on your chest above your heart as he does the same. Then you kiss the tips of your fingers as he bows his head to you before walking out.

Ivar’s head snaps up when he sees someone walk out of your tent. It’s Estadir. But the moment the mountainous man’s gaze lands on Ivar, he knows that it’s his intention to speak with him. Especially when he begins to walks forward.

Maybe he has come to ask for your pendant you pulled off last night. Ivar had gone back to see if anyone had picked it up, feeling as though he might make an impression if he returns a valuable object to you.

Estadir stands in front of him, the tribe gathering to see what their leader will say, what has happened to you. What message VIrheia has spoken to you, through you. “King of Kattegat. Your war with the man who tried to take your kingdom, it is important to you that you win?” he questions, his words thick with the accent Ivar had almost grown used to hearing, but now that Estadir speaks to him, he almost doesn’t understand his words.

But nonetheless, Ivar nods his head, waiting to see what’s going on in his mind. “We will fight with you in your war.” Estadir’s words cause a murmur and cheers to fall over the tribe and he turns around to face his people. A smile grows on Ivar’s face. You are probably the one to convince him to do this.

Then, Estadir speaks words that Ivar doesn’t understand, but they sound harsh, almost like a low bark that resonates in his chest and it makes the tribe shout in battle cries and cheers of elation.

And on Estadir’s words, the entire atmosphere in the camp changes. The fires seem to roar to life almost instantly and there is suddenly music spreading through the camp.

Ivar watches Estadir for the rest of the day, walking around to inspect people sharpening swords and axes, making arrows, or training to prepare for war.

It’s only until the sun is touching the earth that men and women stop their preparation for war and begin what Ivar imagines to be a feast. And when he sees a goat being brought out of a pen and tied to a pole beside a table containing a bowl and a knife, does he realize that this will be a sacrifice to your Gods.

Then, he catches you walking out of your tent. Finally. It must be the music that led you out of the tent.

You have paint on your face, just like you did when he first met you. He almost forgot how Goddess-like you look, how much you remind him of a Valkyrie with that paint on your face. And when he realizes that your mind is set on the goat that is to be sacrificed, he perks up in interest and walks forward to get a close viewing of it.

Estadir stands beside the table, picks up the knife, and hands it to you when you reach him. As you glance down at the animal beside you, you whisper something that Ivar can’t hear over the drumming and he watches you grab the bowl before kneeling in front of the goat. As you press the knife against the goat’s neck, Estadir removes his shirt.

Alke walks up beside Ivar, making his glance down at her for a moment before looking at you again at the sound of the goat bleating in pain as you slit its throat. You collect the animal’s blood in the bowl, not caring that some of it spills onto your hands as you stand to your feet again.

“She will paint the symbols of war on his chest, and that of Dedon, to ask for his protection for him and the tribe while we are at war,” Alke explains, knowing that this might be confusing to Ivar as he does not know their ways. As she speaks, you dip your fingers into the bowl of blood and begin to draw images on Estadir’s chest and stomach. “This is a very big thing for us all. This war,” she adds, looking up to him with a small smile on her face.

Ivar smirks and chuckles to himself. “He’s doing this for her. To prove himself to her,” he states, remembering how Estadir has a year to prove himself to be a good husband to you.

But Alke shakes her as a smile grows her face. “He’s doing this because he doesn’t like to see her heartbroken. Like how she was in that Hall,” she corrects, making Ivar think about your scream. “Because he loves her.”

When you are finished with the symbols on Estadir’s body, you place the bowl to the side but keep your stare on his face. He reaches for your hands, still stained with blood, and weaves his fingers with yours. Leaning forward, he presses his forehead to yours and tries to step forward to press his body to yours.

But you walk backward and shake your head, trying to keep him from staining your dress with the blood on his chest.

Ivar watches your interactions with the tribe members like he does every night, waiting for a moment he can get alone with you. Like he does every night. Even though Estadir has blood on his chest and you won’t let him pull you into his chest, he still tries to stay as close to you as possible. Ivar notices how Estadir keeps your hand in his, how he tries to make up for the lack of contact he normally has with you.

Then Estadir leans forward to kiss your forehead before he walks away from you. That’s the moment Ivar’s been waiting for. Again. And he follows you to your tent without a second thought, without even thinking about the implication of that.

As you wash your hands in a bowl in the corner of the tent, your owl screeches and makes your head turn over your shoulders to see who has entered. Your smile falls slightly when you see that it’s not Estadir, who you were expecting, but Ivar. Nonetheless, you keep your smile - even if it’s not as bright - and turn around to face Ivar as he walks deeper into the tent.

“I trust you are having a good time while you are with us,” you say, folding your hands in front of you as you walk forward.

Ivar chuckles and glances back to the flap of your tent for a second, listening to the music from outside before he looks back at you. “You’re people do things a bit differently than what we do,” he states, smirking at you as he takes one more step forward.

You shrug your shoulders and gesture to a seat beside him. Just as you did the first time he was in your tent. “Well, I think this world would be boring if everyone did things the same way,” you laugh. Running your fingers through your hair, you begin to pull the braids out as you slowly sit in the seat opposite from him

“You don’t miss your past life? When you worshiped Odin?” he questions, your hand stilling for a second as you breathe out a sigh.

With your hair loose and hanging over your shoulders, you look more relaxed, more at peace. Ivar thinks you should wear your hair down more. “No. I don’t miss it,” you confidently say, leaning back into your seat and resting your arms on the arms of the chair. “Virheia always keeps me on my toes. So, there’s never really a dull moment,” you chuckle.

But Ivar’s not amused. “And last night? You don’t mind going through that pain when your Goddess speaks to you or...uses you?” he questions with a slight shake in his head.

You don’t know if you should be offended by that question. You might have been if it was asked by someone in the tribe. But you have to remember that Ivar doesn’t fully understand the way things are here yet.

Still, you shake your head at him and bite your lower lip. “You don’t understand it. It’s a blessing to be Virheia’s voice and I wouldn’t give it up for anything,” you state, keeping a stern look on him as you don’t budge in your seat.

Ivar, thought, shifts in his seat and rests his chin on the back of his hand. “And is there anything you enjoy doing that doesn’t involve being the mother of this tribe and an envoy of a Goddess?” he questions, wanting to get to you more personally.

The question makes you go stiff and your eyes widen at the knowledge of his intentions. No one has ever really asked you this question. Estadir knows you well enough to not have to ask such things. Everyone else in the tribe...well, they don’t need to know something like that and they know their place.

He notices your stiffness and shifts forward. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable-”

“No, no, it’s alright,” you stop him, raising a hand to stop him from apologizing before you glance down to the ground. “It’s just that, I haven’t really been asked that kind of question before,” you mention, smiling to yourself as you think about an answer to his question. “But if you must know; maps.”

Your answer makes him frown, but he leans forward and smiles in interest, urging you to continue. “Sometimes, I look at the maps we have and I imagine what it would be like to travel to those places, what kind of people live there, what kind of life they live,” you explain, lifting your gaze up to him and smiling to yourself as you think of one particular map. “One place is called India. The stories I’ve heard of it… It’s indescribable,” you add, the awe in your voice and your eyes make Ivar smile.

All he can think is how he can give you that. He would sail with you to the end of the world. He would travel wherever your heart desires. He doesn’t know if Estadir would do the same, but Ivar would give you the entire world if he can.

He’s about to tell you about how Bjorn has traveled to other seas, how it can be possible for him to take you there one day, but when your owl screeches, he knows without turning around that his time with you is over.

You stand to your feet at the sight of Estadir walking into the tent and step forward to tear his glare away from the back of Ivar’s head. “You should get some sleep, King of Kattegat,” Estadir states when Ivar finally looks back at him. “We leave for your city at dawn.”

Ivar looks back at you and you give him a small smile with a reassuring nod. He stands and stares at you for a moment longer before turning around. Mimicking Estadir’s glare, Ivar passes him slowly.

It makes Estadir think that it’s a challenge and you can tell by the way his shoulders tense and his hands curl into fists. You quickly step forward and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, making his head turn down to you and his body to relax.

And out of a need to assert his authority over the foreign king that thinks he has a chance with you, Estadir presses his lips to yours and holds your face in his hands causing Ivar to roll his eyes and quickly walk out the tent.

Like my work? Buy me a Ko-fi HERE!

Permanent Tags- @cassindeansass @simsadventures @fandomfic-galore @belovedcherry @a-mess-of-fandoms @what-just-happened-bro @sucker-for-malfoy @geekandbooknerd @lonewolf471 @rainbowkisses31 @moonie-flower101 @p8tn0lish @rinkashirikitateku @readsalot73 @louisolos @petlaufeyson @bangtan-serendipity @aworldwideapart @mythicalbullshit @ateliefloresdaprimavera @xbuckxnastyx @madithemagicalfangirl @ivarthebloodyking @shannygoatgruff @a--1--1--3 @nerdypinupcrystal @mblaqgi @tephi101 @coconutqueen21 @wonderlandfandomkingdom @babypink224221 @dreams-of-sunlight-and-starfire

Vikings Tags- @lol-haha-joke @alicedopey @tempt-ress @lordsexmachine @ietss @cruelfvkingsummer @absolutelynotanidiot @thelastemzy @naaladareia @grav3yard-gh0st @heavenly1927 @chipster-21 @buckysjuicyplums @tgrrose @funmadnessandbadassvikings @the-jess-life @beacosta27 @poisonous00 @lisinfleur

#ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #ivar imagine #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #King Ivar #ivar ragnarsson #vikings ivar #ivar lothbrok #vikings #vikings fanfic #estadir x reader #reader x oc #vikings imagine #hefna

81 notes · View notes

wendimydarling · 4 years

Text

The Soldier’s Wife (Chapter Seven)

Title: The Soldier’s Wife

Summary: Syverson and his wife navigate the ups and downs, the highs and lows, and the blessings and pitfalls of marriage.

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC

Word Count: 2049

Warnings: Implied sex.

A/N: Hey guys, looky here! I finally got another chapter written, and once I was inspired, it only took me an hour. Lucky you!! I hope this makes up for last chapter. Also, the sound of a baby’s heartbeat is one of my all time favorite sounds. Listen to it here. Enjoy!

Song Inspiration: “New Life” by Thomas Bergersen (HIGHLY recommend listening while reading!)

Tag list is open, please let me know if you’re interested!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I can’t do it, Sy, I can’t!!”

“Shhhh, babygirl, you’re almost there.”

“AAAAAHHHH!!!!!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There she is!”

Mabel smiled softly as Syverson jogged over to her, kissing her on the cheek. His green tee hugged his body well, a large, triangular sweat stain already formed over his chest. That was one of the things Mabel loved most about him; unlike the other Captains who generally just watched and barked orders, Syverson was always out there with his men, training them, showing them that he’d be there to help get them through it. Like he had for her this last year.

They headed toward the canteen for their traditional weekly lunch, but Mabel wasn’t very hungry. When Syverson indicated that she should order first, she just said “I’ll stick with water”. He eyed her suspiciously but didn’t argue, just ordered himself enough food to feed three grown men. His arms piled high, they found an empty table in the corner of the mess hall. Syverson set everything down and pulled Mabel’s chair out for her.

“Ever the gentleman,” she teased quietly as she sat down. Syverson squeezed her shoulders and dropped another kiss on her cheek, choosing to sit next to her rather than across the table. He tucked into his burger at once, half of it disappearing into his large mouth in one bite. Mabel sipped her water, spinning the cap on the table absent-mindedly. Syverson eyed her again, setting the burger down and wiping his mouth.

“Ya alright, Mabel?”

“Yeah, why?”

Syverson pointed at her drink with his nose.

“Ya never “stick with water”, ya always end up drinkin’ half o’ my sweet tea.”

“Jus’ not in the mood fer it today, I reckon.”

Syverson cocked an eyebrow at his wife, not even remotely convinced. Mabel shifted in her seat uncomfortably.

“Alright, what ain’t ya tellin’ me, Bug.”

“What makes ya thing I ain’t tellin’ ya somethin’?”

“Mabel Jean Syverson,” his tone was serious, “What ain’t ya tellin’ me.”

“Whaddaya think I ain’t tellin ya, Sy?” Mabel challenged him, staring him down. Syverson leaned forward, grasping her hand in his for a kiss.

“I think ya ain’t tellin’ me yer pregnant again.”

“Well, ya’d be right, then.”

Tears pricked Mabel’s eyes at the admission, but Syverson didn’t seem to notice. His face lit up and he smiled widely, brushing her knuckles with his lips.

“See? I told ya we’d--”

“No. No Sy, I can’t get attached. Not this time.”

Mabel swallowed thickly, the tears spilling over as pressure mounted in her chest. Syverson scooted his chair back and pulled her onto his lap, smoothing her hair back as he crooned little nothing-words in her ear. Mabel shook, clutching her arms around his neck tightly.

“All I feel is fear, Hunter. Fear that we’re gonna lose this one too.”

“We ain’t gonna lose this one, Mabel.”

“Ya can’t promise that.”

“I can.”

“No, ya can’t.”

The conversation seemed eerily familiar. Syverson tugged Mabel’s hair slightly so that she’d look at him, and he swept the tears from her cheeks as he comforted her.

“Look, when I promised ya that ya wouldn’t lose me, did I keep that promise?”

“Well yeah, but--”

“Then I can keep this promise too. We ain’t gonna lose this one, Bug.”

Syverson chucked her gently under the chin, pulling her in for a soft kiss and pressing his forehead to hers.

“Now come on, celebrate with me; we’re havin’ a baby!”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, a maybe baby.”

Mabel couldn’t help but laugh through her tears as she kissed him. God, she loved this man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sy?”

“I’m right here, Bug.”

Mabel clung to her husband, bending over as another contraction wracked her body.

“I didn’t get anything ready, I didn’t think we’d make it this far. There’s nothing prepared!”

Syverson chuckled, supporting his wife as she bore through the pain.

“Did ya really think I’d let this child come into the world without the stuff we need? It’s all ready to go, Ma’s gettin’ it set up for us while we’re here.”

Mabel looked up at him, grateful relief on her face.

“Really?”

“It’s all taken care of, Bug. Ya just focus on what ya need to do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mabel sat nervously in the exam room. They’d made it to twenty weeks, and Syverson was anxious to find out the sex of the baby. He was so excited, but Mabel couldn’t bring herself to find any joy. Every week brought them closer and closer to twenty-eight weeks, and the fear coiled tightly in her chest as the impending timeline loomed menacingly over her. She refused to buy anything, convincing herself they wouldn’t be able to use it.

The tech came in and Mabel laid down obediently, holding Syverson’s hand as he watched the machine. Mabel purposefully looked away. Syverson noticed and placed a hand on her cheek, drawing his head near hers so that he could speak softly.

“Even if it’s the end, Bug, these are the only pictures we’d get,” he admonished her, stroking her skin with his thumb. “Might be best if ya take a look.”

Mabel stared into his eyes, her lips pressed into a line as she tried not to cry. He was right, of course. She turned to look at the black screen, lit up with the white outline of the child growing within her womb. Mabel’s heart caught and her throat constricted as the tech smoothed the wand over her belly, air only returning to her lungs once she heard the familiar ‘wao wao wao wao’ of her baby’s heartbeat rushing through the monitor. It was still alive. She squeezed Syverson’s hand tightly, and laid her head back on her arm, choosing to watch her husband instead of the screen.

He’d missed this appointment last time; he’d been sent somewhere for three weeks and they’d been unable to reschedule. Mabel watched the lines of Syverson’s face as he stared intently at the image of his child. She noted the way his eyes lit up, the creases around them deepening as he smiled. He chuckled when the baby kicked and he could see it on the screen, and love took over his face as he watched the baby suck its thumb. He’s my joy, Mabel determined. She would enjoy this for him.

“Oh, look here… it’s a boy!”

Mabel snapped her head to look at the screen as Syverson hollered in excitement. Sure enough, the outline was unmistakable. He was Syverson’s, alright. Mabel couldn’t help the relief she felt; another girl would have been too much for her to handle. But she still wanted her girl. The tears came unbidden, and the tech cleaned her off and left them, giving them some privacy. Syverson climbed onto the table and cradled Mabel in his arms.

“I miss her too, Bug. She’da been such a great big sis.”

Sobs wracked Mabel’s body as she grieved once more for the baby she would never hold. Their son kicked her softly, as if to say ‘don’t cry, Mama, I’m here’, and Mabel placed a hand over the spot, smiling through her tears as she held him.

“Don’t you worry, little man. There’s plenty of love in my heart to go around.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright Mabel, ya ready?”

Mabel shook her head at the woman between her legs, sweat dripping down her brow, her chest heaving.

“I can’t… I can’t do this, I can’t.”

“Yes, ya can,” came a whisper in her ear. Mabel leaned her head back against Syverson’s chest, listening to him coach her through this. His caressing touch was everywhere; hands glided over her thighs, fingers brushed her sweat soaked hair out of her face, a well-placed fist pushed against the spot on her back that was causing her excruciating pain. His deep voice resonated through her mind, low and soothing.

“You are my Mabel. You’ve conquered everythin’ that’s been thrown yer way, includin’ death. So now, yer gonna conquer life, and yer gonna bring our son into this world. Ya ready?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What’re we gon’ name him, Bug?”

Mabel sighed and rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to have this conversation again; boy names were harder.

“Every time we have this argument, Sy, ya end up sleepin’ on the couch cause yer mad at me.”

“Yeah I git that, Mabel, but we’re four weeks away. He needs a name.”

“Scooter.”

“Scooter Syverson. I actually like that.”

“No, Sy, I was kiddin’!”

Syverson jumped on the bed, straddling Mabel’s legs and lifting her shirt to kiss her belly repeatedly. She squealed as he purposefully brushed his beard all over her taut skin, fighting to free herself from her husband’s grasp.

“Whaddaya think, Scooter?” Syverson said to the baby, pinning Mabel’s hands and blowing a raspberry underneath her belly. Mabel shrieked and the baby kicked right where Syverson’s lips had pressed against it. Syverson grinned, looking at Mabel with his eyes wide.

“Looks like Scooter here likes it,” he said seriously, taking a deep breath.

“No, Hunter nooo!!” Mabel cried as Syverson blew another raspberry, laughing as his mouth vibrated against her skin. The baby kicked again and Syverson chuckled with glee, loving the ability to bond with his child. He blew raspberry after raspberry on Mabel’s belly until she finally got a hand free and smacked his head. She pulled him up by his hair to meet her lips, and Syverson kissed her attentively, smoothing his hand over her stomach and relishing in the feel of his son’s movements.

“He still needs a name,” he mumbled against his wife’s lips. She tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him in deeper, tasting the rich flavor of his tongue.

“I just figured he’d be a junior,” she moaned as Syverson’s fingertips dipped beneath the band of her sleep shorts. He stopped a moment and looked at Mabel fondly.

“Ya mean it?”

“Yeah I do.”

“I’d really like that.”

Syverson picked up the pace, hooking his fingers into Mabel’s core and kissing her neck in earnest.

“I’m still gonna call him Scooter though.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“AAAAAHHHHH!!!!”

“One more push and you can rest, come on Mabel! You can do it!”

Another contraction swept through Mabel and she cried out. Syverson’s grip was firm under her knees, his chin tucked into her shoulder and a constant stream of comforting words and gentle encouragement poured into her ear. Mabel bent her head low and pushed, agonizing screams tumbling from her lips as her body was ripped open. She could see her son’s head in the mirror behind the doctor; they were close, they were so close. Just one more push.

Mabel braced herself and pushed with all her might, reaching down instinctively to catch her baby as he was expelled from her womb. Loud commotion filled the room as suddenly everyone was cheering. A loud wail sung out from the babe on Mabel’s chest and she and Syverson laughed with him, sobs constricting their chuckles. Mabel’s laughter turned to tears as she stared at her child, thinking of the baby buried beneath the Live Oak tree. Her brother looked just like her.

“You did it, Mama,” Syverson whispered in her ear, and Mabel turned to look up at him, kissing him softly.

“I wish he could have met Einsley.” she sniffed, drinking in the sight of her newborn son. Syverson brushed the back of his finger over the smattering of dark curls on the baby’s head, wrapping his other arm around his wife.

“I do too, babygirl. I do too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mabel heard a low, murmuring voice as her eyelids fluttered awake. She turned in the hospital bed and saw Syverson near the window, cradling their newborn son over his shoulder as he hummed his favorite tune. He heard Mabel stir and turned, gazing at her softly.

“I need to nurse,” she said quietly, reaching for the baby. Syverson brought him over and laid him in her arms, sliding next to them to cuddle on the bed. He watched as Mabel took out her breast and their son greedily latched on, drawing life-sustaining nourishment from her body. Syverson kissed Mabel gently on the forehead as he stroked her hair.

“Ya done good, Mama,” he whispered. Mabel smiled gently at him, and together they watched as the new piece of their souls entwined himself into their shared heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fan Club: @littlefreya @sciapod @thiccgeralt @fucking-hell-cavill @brexrif @peakygroupie @viking-raider @constip8merm8 @daniig95 @elinalfrida @hell1129-blog @oddsnendsfanfics @agniavateira @dearlybelovedluke @sofiebstar @wanderinglunarnights @magdelen69 @vania-marie @mary-ann84 @onceiwasanun @iloveyouyen @lestersglitterglue @yoursecretsmutblog @funnygirlthatgab @wondersofdreaming @wildwavehc @valkavill @kevia1000 @trippedmetaldetector @lifeofrileyp @captaingothgirl1996 @sasusakubae @princess-of-riviaa @vivodinson @paradisecitychild

(@wildwavehc and @kevia1000 - I tried to tag you but it’s not working; you’ve gotta turn tagging capabilities on on your end!!)

248 notes · View notes

voltagesmutter · 4 years

Text

Soryu - Pregnancy [Fluff]

Soryu pregnancy story, I apologise because its fluffy af and I cried whilst writing it and I can’t stop

Dedicated to the beautiful @brialoveskbtbb

You hid the test in your bedside cabinet, the steps of your husband coming upstairs early from work surprised you. You were just about to look at the result when he had called your name.

“Hey, you're early,” You giggled, getting off the bed and running into Soryu’s arms. He twirled you around, holding you tightly.

“It’s the weekend of our anniversary, of course I was coming home early, I just hope Inui can manage,” He mumbles as he presses kisses to your hair. You sighed in his embrace, it was your first wedding anniversary tomorrow and you were so excited to spend it with him.

“I’m going to get in the shower, if you care to join me,” He says, his fingers tracing up your arms, a suggestive look in his eyes. He had grown so much since you first met him, he never used to look or talk to you, he used to blush when your hands accidentally touched, he was always such a gentleman.

That was until one day you walked in on him touching himself, your name falling from his lips, his eyes were laced with lust as they met yours. Rather than being embarrassed or walking away, you gave into the desire of him, you yourself had touched yourself to the thought of him. That was the first night you spent together and had never stopped since, within 6 months of that you were living together, both deeply in love with each other. He had proposed to you on your one year anniversary then married in a big extravagant event a few months later.

You hadn’t been trying for a baby, you were still taking your birth control, but condoms had gone right from the wedding night, Soryu ravishing every moment he was able to spill into you properly.

Forgetting about the test that lay in your draw, you followed your husband into the shower, lips never leaving each other as your bodies entwined.

“That takes my breath away every time still,” Soryu panted as he wiped your body with the white fluff towel from behind. You smile at him, watching his actions in the mirror in front of you. He stood there, his hands on your waist and pressed small kisses to your shoulder, your skin was radiating with love and the passionate session you had just encountered and your eyes grazed to your stomach. You thought it was just a trick of the light or your infectious good mood but you swear you could see a small bump beginning to form. You had been experiencing some waves of nausea over the past couple of days, some strong enough to make you physically throw up. You also noticed you were currently late on your period, although you weren't exactly regular but nevertheless this had encouraged you to take a test.

When Soryu headed down stairs to check everything was okay with Inui, you took the opportunity to check the test and there it was, a pink positive sign. Your heart was racing and excitement rushed into your body. You pushed the test back into your draw and ran down stairs, wanting to tell your husband.

“Soryu! Soryu!-” You yelled, practically skipping down the stairs but your excitement died down as you saw him pacing across the room, muttering and yelling down the phone. He groaned as he ended the call and sat on the sofa, his hands buried to his face.

“Hey, whats wrong?” You asked, rushing to his side, now was not the time to tell him.

“One of the new members had screwed up some documents, they need me to go and fix it, but I told them no,” He said.

“Soryu its okay, I’ll be here waiting for you when you get home,” You says as you run your fingers through his hair as he lays his head onto your lap.

“You're perfect, I’m so glad I married you,”.

“Me too, now go, I’ll be here when you get home Mr.Oh,” You giggle.

A text from Soryu later that night indicated he wouldn’t be home until tomorrow and he wouldn't apologise enough.

It’s fine, it’s not our anniversary until tomorrow anyway, I’ll be here waiting for you.

Goodnight Mrs.Oh, I love you.

I love you too, Mr.Oh.

It still gave you goosebumps when he called you Mrs.Oh. Your daddy is going to be so shocked to find out about you, you say out loud and press a hand to your stomach, unable to stop yourself beaming. You fell asleep, basking in your afterglow of love and happiness.

The following your day, you headed out early in the morning, you was going to tell Soryu tonight over dinner and wanted something to surprise him with. Scanning the shop shelves you saw it, a baby grow with the words ‘Mafia Baby’ written on it. You beamed and smiled, placing it in your hands before heading to the till before you bumped into someone.

“Bella?”.

“Eisuke…?” You asked in slight shock. You had never seen the man make a cup of coffee before, why was he out in the shops? Soryu and you had moved out of his penthouse suite but you was still extremely close, still spending 90% of your time there with them.

“What you got?” He smirks before taking the item out of your hands.

“Eisuke no!” You reached for it before his eyes widened as he read the words before turning to you.

“Soryu doesn’t know!” You pouted, you didn’t want Eisuke to be the first person to know. He smiled, like he actually smiled, at you before pulling you into a hug. This had never happened before and you weren't sure how to react.

“Sorry, I’m just I’m really happy for you both,” He mumbled before pulling away and giving you back the item.

“Thank you, I’m telling him tonight, so if you can just not know until he does and wants to tell you all,”. He nods in response.

Soryu had texted you whilst you were still out, saying he was finishing soon.

“Hey! I’m out at the minute, I’m near the hotel, if you want I can meet you here?” You say down the phone as you had rang him. He agreed and you went to meet him in the lobby.

“Bella!” He said, racing to you and pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Hey honey,” You respond, your hearting beating rapidly, your adoring husband and father of your child smiling sweetly at you.

“Can we just run up, I could do with giving this documents to Eisuke, we’ve been shopping I see,” He asks, guiding you to the elevator, trying to sneak a peak into the bag.

“Hey stop! It’s a surprise for later,” You pouted, keeping the bag away from him.

“I hope it's the same surprise as our engagement night,”. You cheeks flushed at the thought, you had brought some new lingerie for him and both of you had gone pretty wild on each other. You arrived at the penthouse, all of the bidders were there sitting around the poker table with a drink in hand, including Eisuke. Shit, you knew he was a blabber mouth when he drank.

“It’s my best friend! I’m so happy for you man, just congratulations,” Eisuke mumbled, he was quietly obviously drunk, how you didn’t know. It had only been a few hours since you saw him in the shop.

“Well thank you, we’re having a celebration tonight,” Soryu chuckles wrapping his arm around you, clearly thinking its about your anniversary. Determined not have your special moment ruined by him, you quickly shove Soryu to Eisukes office.

“Just sort the documents, he’s clearly not in a state to sort do it,” You say before shutting the door, leaving him inside the office.

“You idiot! I haven’t told him yet!” You hissed at Eisuke, the other bidders looking giddy at you.

“Soryu and youuuuu had seeex,” Ota sang giggling. Brilliant he’d told them, they all knew before Soryu.

“Mamo! No, the smoke is bad for the baby,” Baba slurred, grabbing the unlit cigarette from the detective. Seriously, how drunk were they?

“Right okay, we’re playing the silent game! None of you can talk until Soryu and me leave,” You state, you’d seen them drunk before and knew this was the best way to deal with them.

“Can I be god-father,” Whined Eisuke, gently tugging your arm, he got so needy.

“Nooo, I want be god-father,”

“You can’t be god-father, you sleep too much, let it be me, I’m the oldest,”

“Bella pleeease, I’ll buy it cute matching outfits, it will look sooo good on my social media,”.

I don’t know why I’m excited for a baby, I already have four fully grown ones here.

“Right, you can all be god-fathers if you keep quiet,” You finally negotiated before Soryu came out. The men went silent and you pulled Soryu out of there as fast as you could.

“Oh wait, let me take this,” Soryu chuckles, grabbing a bottle of bubbly from the shelf.

“Waaa- no Bella can’t drink in her condition,” Eisuke yells and you kick his violently when Soryu isn’t looking.

“Condition?” Soryu asks puzzled.

“Yeah, do not remember the last time she drank and she threw up evvvverywhere” Ota giggled, chiming in to save Eisuke blurting something out.

“Oh yeah,” Soryu chuckled, thank god for Ota.

You had rushed home, you didn’t want anything else to get in the way or ruin your surprise.

“Come here, Mrs.Oh,” Soryu said, pulling you tight into his arms as he kisses you passionately, you pulling him down to deep the kiss. He snakes his hand over yous, and throws the bag you was holding to the floor but scooping you in his arms and carrying you bridal style to your bedroom, just like he had done on your wedding day.

After your long afternoon of love making you finally get to work on Soryu’s surprise. You were going to make him dinner and present him with the test. You had told him to stay away from the kitchen until you were done. You shook as you placed the food on the table, lighting candles across the room before putting the test you had sneaked out of your draw earlier into the bag with the baby grow and placing into the to table.

“Soryu!” You called with a deep breath. You watched as your husband emerged with a bouquet of red roses and white lilies, your favourite and presented them to you.

“I tried to get one for everyday I’ve loved you, but the florist said that amount of flowers would flood the room,” He says with a subtle blush and you feel your eyes tear up, god bless this man. You put the flowers down and gestured him to sit at the table. His eyes peaked at the bag and you took a breath.

“Open it,”.

He reached forward and tore the paper out from inside it like a child at christmas before pulling out the baby grow and giving a chuckle, clearly he hadn’t clocked. You gesture to him and he reaches future into the bag before pulling out the test and his hands begin to shake. His eyes look gaze of it before looking at you and then the baby grow and back to you.

“Your-” He says, trembling and you give him a nod. He stands up and rushes to you, the stone cold mafia man was on his knees, pressing kisses to your stomach lightly sobbing, making you over emotional as well.

“When did?”.

“I found out yesterday, I wanted to tell you as soon as I knew but you had to go work,”.

“Wait, is that why Eisuke said about your condition earlier?”. You sighed at his question.

“He saw me in the shop with this and it kinda clicked with him, I didn’t want anyone to know until you knew” You responded, running your fingers through his hair.

“I love you so much, thank you for giving me the greatest gift you ever could,” Soryu whispers before whispering more sweet words to your stomach.

“Oh there’s any other thing…” You say.

“We already have four god-fathers,”.

“That doesn’t surprise me one bit,” He chuckled.

“You're going to be so loved,” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your stomach.

Once you both officially told the bidders together there was a massive celebration amongst you all. The drinks between them all were flowing, each other so happy for you both. You told Soryu to relax and enjoy his night with them, after all this wouldn’t happen for a while once the baby arrived. You watched as Soryu and Eisuke shared a sweet but extremely drunk moment.

“Your going to be a dad! You! You hated women,”.

“I know, but I found the one and only woman for me,”.

“I’m so happy for you,” Eisuke said through sobs causing Soryu to also sob, being an absolute hormonal wreck you began to cry too.

You woke up one night unable to sleep, you were heavily pregnant.

“You okay?” Soryu said shooting up, he was on high alert and you gave him a reassuring nod.

“Yeah, she’s just being a madam and kicking again,” You whined. Soryu chucked and turned around.

“Now listen you, I know you're being stubborn, just like your mom and keeping us waiting, but don’t keep us waiting much longer, I can’t wait to meet you little girl,” He whispers, rubbing your bump and pressing kisses to it. You well up with emotions, this man was the definition of perfect.

“Can you help me up, I need to pee again,” You whine, physically unable to pull yourself up off the bed. Soryu helps you to your feet as you waddle to the bathroom before stopping.

“Soryu!”. He comes running in after you.

“My waters broke…”.

“Ohmygod, she coming? She’s coming!” He yells before slightly panicking. You had the hospital bag ready and packed at the door and he helped you into the car before ringing the group chat he had made with all the bidders.

“Just breathe, it's okay, guys, she’s ready, our baby girl is finally arriving,” He yells in a calm but panicked voice as he grips your hand, reassuring you over every step.

After hours of agonising labour, Soryu holding your hand through all of it, not leaving your side, she finally arrived. You enjoyed every moment and tiny detail of her, but you was exhausted. You held her tightly to you as Soryu leaned over you both, crying slightly, and stroking your hair.

“We made her, you did so good baby, so so good,” He whispered.

“I love you so much, both of you, both my girls,” His voice filled with love as he cradled you both close to him. He had changed so much since you first met him, no more being a stern reluctant man, instead he was full of love, joy and emotions.

There was a slight knock at the door and you watched as the four bidders came in, Baba already sobbing. They gathered around you, Soryu holding you both close to him, his face full of love as he introduced your baby to the rest of the family.

#kbtbb #voltage kbtbb #kbtbb soryu #kbtbb soryu oh #soryu oh #voltage soryu #soryu #kbtbb eisuke #kbtbb mamoru #kbtbb baba #kbtbb ota #fanfic #kbtbb headcanon #love 365 headcannon #love 365 #love 365 kbtbb #voltage inc #voltage romance games #voltage fanfic

121 notes · View notes

zelskzerker · 3 years

Text

Mangadex went down so I read alot 1/7

Lets review a bunch of isekai and related stuff I binged because mangadex went down. The scale will be a single thumbs up to a single thumbs down in terms of how much I would consider recommending it in general.

Legend

Chapters 1-51 Pretty straight forward in most aspects. For the best. Nothing crazy bad or good happening, making it surprisingly straight forward for an isekai. [Insert isekai startup here] but this time the MC is given a super magic body and the knowledge of ancient magic. Which he promptly uses to create a griffon buddy. Gets a THUMB IN THE UPPER CORNER for just being a nice, believable stay in a world, but I have read some stuff that really has interesting sparks the way this doesnt. MC is brutal at times and General Princess is cute. They make a good pair for each other. Although there are no ecchi situations, that artist really knows how to slide in the lewds, whether its mid combat flourishes or pre chapter artwork.

The Black Create Summoner: Revolt of Reincarnated

All Chapters

Truly is revolting. A resounding THUMBS DOWN. Apparently this was just an advertisement manga, which means that its intentionally incomplete and unsatisfying. Ontop of that, the sketchy artwork was generally rough and got worse to look at the more it went on. [Insert isekai startup here] but this time he has a grimoire that lets him summon stuff he draws. The power isn’t used that much though or in that creative of ways. Characters didn’t really leave an impact except maybe the elf little sister that is stubborn yet knows she is incompotent and recruits a dragon out of stubbornness.

Minotaur’s Sweetheart

Chapters 1-16

So what if a minotaur accidentally seduced the adventurer that was assigned to kill him? This is a good romance manga deserving a THUMBS UP because the pure-hearted minotaur boy and the unmarriageable adventurer girl actually develop a relationship and progress as people. The manga is ultimately about monsters and humans interacting and is fresh due to having a plot that evolves the situation a lot beyond the initial setup of the manga.

Moon-led Journey Across Another World

Chapters 1-64

[Insert isekai startup here] but this time the god of the new world calls the MC ugly and banishes him to the edge of the world to die off. In order to help out the MC, the god of our world (Tsukuyomi) gives him a bit of power. The MC is funny to watch once you realize that he is an incredibly cautious pureboy and expecting every common street thug to potentially end him but in reality he is a god-rivaling cataclysm himself and never realizes. He is so powerful that he recruits the blue haired mist dragon, Tomoe, and accidentally turns her into a weeaboo. Tomoe can read minds and access pocket space with her mist ontop of her sick weeaboo katana skills. She really shines as the most mature person in the story, gaining information that no one else in the story has and carefully withholding it from the MC in order to protect his innocence. She is a DAMN good tomboyish waifu and sarashii is a blessing. Other main girl is yandere spider, Mio, which has shockingly good and well conveyed bouts of emotion. She has an extremely rare “can’t cook at all” joke that is explained due to her “eat literally anything” nature. In terms of plot, the MC hates the god of the world he is in and pretty much plans to do everything she doesn’t want him to. Which means mingling with humans, and eventually, god slaying/usurption. Odd think about this manga is that it’s heavily Japanese-inspired. That may sound odd because its a manga, but generally isekai are most medieval/western skinned than this one which leans in on Japanese mythos. Just look at the god of our world in the manga.

THUMBS UP.

The Unsuccessful yet Academically Unparalleled Sage ~A Cheating S-Rank Sorcerer's Post-Rebirth Adventurer Log~

Chapter 1-10 So lets set up this genre here. This is a part of the “reincarnation” genre, which is a spinoff of isekai. They generally depict a very capable mage who reincarnates themselves into the future of their own world. At which point they realize that although they were pretty strong in their day, they are now practically a god in the deteriorated modern day. This genre will hereby be indicated by [Insert reincarnation startup here]. For this manga in specific, [Insert isekai startup here] but this time the MC could only use lightning magic and was the best at it but failed the gene gacha then [Insert reincarnation startup here] and he fails gene gacha again but is still the walking thunder god. These kinds of manga are always precious when the MC can walk through the world and see the fruits of their past labor. Specifically through Merlin, the MC’s adopted demon daughter who has grown up to be his heritor and bridge human/demon relationships. Truly adorable and heart warming. Lacks a bit of spice from themeing or ongoing plot due to its short length however. THUMB IN THE UPPER CORNER.

Older Elite Knight is cute only in front of me

Chapters 1-17.1

THUMBS UP. This is an oneshota manga where shota is a chad with incredibly good tastes. A really good ecchi manga with a light hearted story featuring Haru(the shota) knight that joins Karen’s(the oneesan) knight crew. As with all good romance manga, the main plot isn’t romance. Knight shenanigins are always happening, with a big (and lewd) bad entering recently. Top tier variation on the lewds, even including a princess loli in on the fun. Must read for all oneshota fans.

Lonely Attack on A Different World

Chapter 1-91

[Insert isekai startup forma de classroom here] but this time the MC gets leftover garbage skills and has to learn to survive. Learning to survive thus makes him the most op and he can magic trick his way out of literally anything. Strong start as the whole classroom first tries to get their footing, but after the starting arc is done this manga starts spinning it’s wheels. The manga is kinda lacking in themes, overarching plot and end goals, so stuff just happens to make this a sort of slice of life trap room escape manga. Magic “just works” in this universe so its not very dramatic when the MC pulls out a new trick out of his bag of million tricks. Just kinda stagnates too much for my liking. THUMB IN THE BOTTOM CORNER.

The Unwanted Undead Adventurer

Chapters 1-34

Rentt Faina, the MC, is a good guy with no talent who aspires to be a legendary adventurer. But then he gets turned into a skeleton, giving the chance to evolve his way to greatness, kinda like in Spider isekai or Dragon isekai. The MC is most like Goblin Slayer in his serious and knowledgeable approach to the world, how characters that know him revere him. End goal so far is just him seeing how far he can evolve as he comes across other vampires and vampire hunters. Really want to see him go to the top. Fuckin great art. Girls drawn perfect. Like the hat on the guild girl, but nothing beats the witch Lorraine. THUMBS UP.

Teihen Ryoushu No Kanchigai Eiyuutan

Chapters 1-13

THUMB IN UPPER CORNER. Pretty funny comedy about a lord of a poor land who wants to be a stereotypical evil lord but can only use healing magic. Therefore he bumbles his way into accepting a heretical cult nun, beast men who hate humans, etc. All the girls are to crazy for him to want to sex them(weak. give the assassin nun your babies). Most interesting parts are aforementioned nun, his fujoshi assistant, and the MC’s willingness to use his power to commit heretical and immoral warcrimes.

The Undead Lord of the Palace of Darkness

Chapters 1-11

Art average, don’t come to this one for spectacle. It’s strength is in the subertfuge that it’s recently-necromanced-back-to-life MC goes through to get his Master killed and to later, probably, evolve into a vampire. MC isn’t evil though, just wants to survive. Main girl on cover was born and raised to hunt vampires but has a compassionate heart. Obviously she goes easy on and relates to MC. Story is still kinda in it’s first arc so the overall trajectory of the story is a bit hard to gauge and not quite satisfying enough by its own right. Probably a thumb up with more chapters but for now THUMB IN THE UPPER CORNER.

The Reincarnated Inferior Magic Swordsman

Chapters 1-38

[Insert isekai startup here] but this time.... uh... THUMB SIDEWAYS. Usually I am patient, but 31 chapters with no goal and just barely plot? Wow. Saving grace is uh... I guess the world of “other isekai people existed but they sucked because they didn’t level uncap like MC” could go somewhere but. I take it back, lowering this one to a THUMB DOWN.

The Invincible Sage in the Second World.

Chapters 1-12

[Insert isekai startup here] but this time a pro mmo player in a game called “Broken Balance Online.” Guess what his class, the sage class, was considered in the game? Not far along enough to really pop off but it isn’t horrible. MC is moderately cautious to a healthy degree which is actually rare in most isekai. THUMB IN BOTTOM LEFT CORNER.

The Dark Queen and I Strike Back

Chapters 1-29.5

Although technically an isekai, no isekai startup here. This a battle manga with a big mystery on the backdrop of a war. That is to say, the MC gets teleported to a world to kill the demons but he ends up defending them from the humans with all he’s got. Of special note is the complete seriousness of this manga that whiplashes into debauchery like tentacles, the above cover, oneshota, and even really dark jokes in some of the omake. That tonal lash effect will be either make or break, and it is a HUGE make for me. I love when a single piece can have both absolute serious scenes and utterly lighthearted and fluffy ones. Or in this case utterly lewd ones. May the average-human-amount-of-perverted MC one day slam some demon lord loli. THUMBS UP.

Chillin' in Another World with Level 2 Super Cheat Powers

Chapters 1-24

THUMB SIDEWAYS. Has the feeling of a nerfed slime isekai. Nerfed in all ways except romance. Art surprisingly good.

#Legend #The Black Create Summoner: Revolt of Reincarnated #Minotaur’s Sweetheart #Moon-led Journey Across Another World #The Unsuccessful yet Academically Unparalleled Sage ~A Cheating S-Rank Sorcerer's Post-Rebirth Adventurer Log~#Older Elite Knight is cute only in front of me #Lonely Attack on A Different World #The Unwanted Undead Adventurer #Teihen Ryoushu No Kanchigai Eiyuutan #The Undead Lord of the Palace of Darkness #The Reincarnated Inferior Magic Swordsman #The Invincible Sage in the Second World.#The Dark Queen and I Strike Back #Chillin' in Another World with Level 2 Super Cheat Powers

3 notes · View notes

skinks · 4 years

Note

mr wentworth yes i help my son with his goofy voices yes i am a dilf tozier has the salt n pepper hair of god (oscar isaac) and the sexy librarian glasses to match

god I had never even considered that... the range of this...

Went starts going gray at 32 when Richie is 5 and it’s all the church women’s group can talk about... indirectly, of course. Oh, but he’s so young. Oh, he’ll be balding next. Oh I don’t know, doesn’t he look... distinguished? Mrs Nash from just down their street sees him doing rock-paper-scissors with his son Richard in the grocery store to determine whether or not Richard is allowed ice cream, and Dr Tozier is laughing because he’s winning, and he’s winning because Richard doesn’t know his father can see his little hidden hand reflected in the freezer cabinet, tucked behind his back. Richard’s laughing too, even though he’s losing, and bleats, “Again! Dad again,” eyes shining big as planets with coke-bottle rings.

“Don’t you know what best two out of three means? That was four draws ago.”

“No! No, I’ll win!” The boy shakes his head so hard his whole body rocks from side to side, then clings up at Dr Tozier’s middle with sticky hands. His very... trim middle. Helen’s own Rory, God love him, he enjoys a sudsy six-pack too much these days to keep a middle like that. “Two outta three! Three ice creams please Dad please please Dad please watch I can count to a hundred—”

“Well, we’re not playing hide-and-go-seek right now, Rich. And I beat you, didnt I?”

“Yeah!”

“Right. So why don’t you go get Dad six apples instead, alright? If you can do a hundred, six’ll be pie.” Dr Tozier claps his big hands gentle to the boy’s round cheeks, until they goldfish.

“Easy as,” they chant together. Helen props herself up with the handles of her own cart, the can of little hotdogs going slack in her hand.

“Six apples, then come right back. You got that, doc? You pick the color.”

Richard nods like he’s trying to detach his own head. Dr Tozier puts one hand just briefly on Richard’s dark mophead hair, like he’s giving the boy a blessing for his apple adventure. His hand is really quite broad, thinks Helen, popped out square at the thumb-joint. Matches that jawline of his, something whispers darkly in her stomach. Then the boy’s off, tearing down the aisle on a squeaking chariot of scuffed-gray sneakers and babbling what sounds like a Bugs Bunny impression, repeated on a loop. What’s up doc what’s up doc what’s up doc, fading around the corner to the fruit. Peculiar. Helen once saw the Tozier boy eat a worm at the park while pushing her youngest on the swings, after another solemn-eyed little boy with a faceful of freckles had carefully presented it to him in the sand box. Most peculiar.

Dr Tozier watches him go, then turns back to the freezer cabinet, and sticks two cartons of ice cream into his shopping cart—the very sugary kind. And the man is a dentist!

Helen puts her hand on her chest to calm the trilling schoolgirl rush of her heart, and then stops herself at the sight of her own wedding ring. Get a hold of yourself, Mrs Nash! For Pete’s sake! She trundles her cart over for some chit-chat. Afternoon, Doctor, she says, lovely weather. A perfect neighbourly opener. It is lovely; bright and warm and clear and golden, like honey outside. She’s quietly smug about her new blowout. Dr Tozier is wearing a crisp shirt with buttons like neat soldiers and short sleeves, exposing lean forearms. Yes, a lovely day. Helen swallows.

“Yes, good for the lawn,” replies Dr Tozier.

“We missed Margaret at book club this week,” Helen hedges.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Dr Tozier, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he grins are even more distracting without the facemask he’s usually wearing, when Helen drops in for her check-ups. He pushes his spectacles up the strong slope of his nose. They’re wiry like him, steely gray to match his eyes. “She meant for me to tell you, or Diana. Maggie’s been in Skowhegan for the week at her mother’s. My mother-in-law is a woman of... nervous disposition, shall we say. Maggie didn’t think she’d cope with two Tozier men at once, now that Richie’s started losing his teeth.”

“Ohhh,” Helen coos. That must explain the ice cream. She puts her hand near to Dr Tozier’s arm, then away, then near, then away again for good. A neighbourly distance. Margaret is a lovely, lucky woman, even if she does wear flared pants. Hippie to yuppie pipeline’s alive ‘n’ flowin’, Rory always grunts whenever the Toziers come up in conversation. Helen imagines a picket fence between their bodies, and calms. “My Wendy was the same, I’m sure you remember.”

“Yes,” says Dr Tozier mildly. “You brought her in six times as I recall it, Mrs Nash.”

Mrs Nash. Honestly, like she’s his schoolteacher. It’s a little rude. Admittedly he does look quite, quite young with his faintly curling weekend-hair, if not for the new gray blazing a trail back from his temples like virgin snow. Helen is undeterred, even if something quivers inside at the thought of the word virgin in conversation with Dr Tozier. Music tinkles tinny through the ceiling speakers, and it puts Helen in mind of potted plants, or elevators. This is a lovely chat. “Well, you hate to see them suffer, don’t you? I’m sure Richard’s the same, lots of tears—”

“No, actually, Richie keeps on finding things to hit himself in the face with and knock out more teeth,” Dr Tozier interjects. He raises his eyebrows and speaks hushed, as if this is a secret for Helen’s ears alone. The thought makes her dizzy. “It’s my fault, I made the mistake of giving him a quarter for the first one. That’s why he’s not invited to Grandma’s. Lot of antiques.”

“Oh,” says Helen, taken aback. She has three girls; little boy behavior is as yet mystifying. “Well.”

“I’m joking, Helen,” Dr Tozier says cheerfully.

“Oh. I—I see. What a relief.”

He opens a freezer chest to examine a bag of frozen peas. “Maggie’s mom is deaf as white cat, she’d never notice.”

Helen tries to wipe her clammy hands on her dress without being obvious. Her face is hot, but she hopes her cardigan conceals the effect that the chill of the freezer aisle is having under her bra. She also hopes that it doesn’t.

He really does have such a slender, pleasant face, always with an air of casual, amused expectancy hanging around him. Haloing him, like that bright yellow light above the chair in his practice, blocked out when he leans over and slips his fingers inside. Helen supposes that’s what graduating medical school must do to a man, what marrying and fathering young and having one’s own practice by the end of such a turbulent decade as the nineteen-seventies must elicit. The ability to put people at ease, to—to say open wide and know the people of Derry trust him enough to comply. To open themselves. Helen’s breathing catches. Dr Tozier idly checks his sensible watch, still smiling the unhurried smile of a man who very rarely does his own grocery shopping anymore. Everyone knows you pick up the ice-cream last.

Helen gathers herself. This is the longest conversation she has entertained with Dr Tozier without children or the squeaking of latex gloves between them, and she’s gripped by the terribly silly need to be interesting. “Speaking of white cats, I couldn’t help noticing your hair, Wentworth—”

“DADDY!”

Dr Tozier blanches, whipping around to scan the end of the aisle. He is a long line of tense instinct tuned to thrum into action at one specific frequency, knuckles white on the cart handle. His cart bumps into Helen’s. It is thrilling.

“Fuck,” Dr Tozier mutters, and that’s thrilling too, he swore, oh, the boy’s probably fine Wentworth, don’t go, why don’t we just stay right here with the frozen goods and—

Then Richard comes barrelling back down the aisle like a colt on new legs covered in old Band-aids, with his arms full. The fluorescent strip-lights gleam white on Dr Tozier’s broad shoulders and he sags, like snow dropping from a branch, with relief.

“Hey, lunkhead,” he says, sounding shaky, but Richard is only five and would never know it. He’s babbling again. Seems to Helen like the boy’s as a hydrant overflowing on a hot day; entertaining and welcomed at first, until it becomes a nuisance when you begin to understand it won’t shut off, and have to call the firemen.

“Nyyeeeeeah,” Richard greets his father, tousled and bug-eyed with clear adoration, breathing hard from his Supermarket Sweep. Then he makes the carrot-noise. Looks like Bugs, Helen thinks of the boy’s new adult front teeth, the beaverish jut of them exacerbated by his missing canines on either side. Then she feels abruptly un-neighbourlike for being jealous of a child for his father’s attention, good grief.

Dr Tozier regards his son for a long moment. Then says, “What’s up, doc?” in a spot-on Mel Blanc whine. Richard giggles so hard his too-big glasses start slipping. “How many apples is that?”

“Gotta apples and I was gonna put ‘em in a bag but I forgot and Dad, Daddy look, s’a dinosaur on the box for my dinner when Mommy’s at Grandma’s—”

Dr Tozier sighs, putting one hand on his hip and dragging the other over his clean-shaven mouth, watching Richard drop his armfuls everywhere, scattering the linoleum. He has two apples, four boxes of brightly colored cereal, a handful of pencils topped with cartoon-character erasers, and a kiwi fruit. For a moment, Helen sees the shining enamel of Dr Tozier’s everything-will-work-out-with-another-cup-of-coffee amusement slip, wear away to worry underneath.

“Rich,” he says, interrupting Richard’s blabbermouth, firm and patient. Helen’s thighs burn suddenly under her skirts at the tone of his voice, and she looks down, rearranging her own groceries. She should leave them to get on. She could offer to help. Margaret’s out of town, poor things, they probably haven’t eaten a cooked meal all week!

“Richie,” Dr Tozier says again. “Listen and pay attention when Mom or me ask you to do something, remember? How many apples did I ask you to get?”

Richard has to crane his neck to meet his father’s eyes. Dr Tozier is one of the tallest fathers in the Derry Elementary catchment zone, Helen has checked. “Six!”

“And how many’ve you got, Elmer Fudd?”

“Um.” Richard’s pale little face creases in thought, then brightens. When he speaks again his voice is strange, accented. “Twooo.”

“Some apple hunter you are, huh.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“That’s fine.” Dr Tozier stoops to gather Richard’s detritus, and Helen knows she has something to contribute, watching the boy stick one of the pencils up his nose.

“You know, apples are very good for you,” she says. Richard turns to her, slack-jawed, as if seeing her for the first time. “You should listen to your Daddy, Richard, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Richard stares for another few seconds. Then he bites down on his boogery pencil so that it threads through the gaps in his teeth, and hollers, “MY FRIEND BILL SAID THAT’S A PILE OF BULLSHIT.”

“No shouting indoors, Rich,” says Dr Tozier, still gathering. Helen rocks a step backwards, clinging to her cart like a life-preserver.

“Bill and my’s friend Eddie eats a thousand apples and sees the doctor all the time though Dad, and Miss Spiegel said if we eat apples we don’t have to see the doctors but Eddie eats them and—Bill said—”

“Pile of bullshit, yeah, I liked it. Bill’s an eloquent guy,” says Dr Tozier. This is the second time Helen has ever heard him curse in as many minutes. It comes out easy and amused as everything else does in his pleasant tenor. His legs and his jaw are so lean and angular that Helen can see the suggestion, the shadow of the shape of his perfect, swearing teeth through his cheek as he grins helplessly at his son, the fruit of his loins and someone else’s loins who isn’t Helen, and all of a sudden she feels a slick pulse of wet heat, up between her thighs.

She squeaks. Flutters her hand to her face without knowing why, perhaps to catch the noise before Dr Tozier notices, just another quivering Derry leaf tossed along by his breezy manner. He looks up anyway, with a frown.

“Everything alright, Helen?”

“Just—fine, yes,” she manages. Dr Tozier is still down on one knee, kindly face level with her skirts. She can see right down under his starched collar from this angle, a slivering glimpse of smooth, dark hair. No undershirt. Helen has lain naked against Rory’s nakedness before without feeling this alive, in every part of her body. She feels like a heart, beating.

“Oh, hang on.” Dr Tozier says, eyes widening, and turns Richard by the shoulders to face her. One pencil for each nostril, now. “Apologize to Mrs Nash for cussing, Richie.”

“Sorry!” Richard shouts, sounding less like he’s apologizing and more like he’s just deemed Helen it during a game of tag.

Helen is still floating in a dazed state of mild panic. Like a prey-mouse, bewitched into slack compliance by her own body’s snaking desires. “That’s alright, dear.”

F-word, Dr Tozier had said. Maybe cussing could be quite neighbourly when applied in the right context, thinks Helen.

“You mentioned my hair, earlier,” says Dr Tozier, straightening back up with a knowing sort of arch to his eyebrow as he smiles genially at Helen. He tilts his head down at Richard. “There’s the reason. Every last one, sprinkled onto my head at the tender age of thirty-two by the great salt-and-pepper shaker of fatherhood. Especially this week, with Maggie on sabbatical. Had to bring you to work with me, didn’t I, buckaroo?”

Richard bites and swings and tugs on his father’s long arm, a tearaway kitten with a much obliging scratching post. Dr Tozier hardly seems to notice. “Yeah! Daddy’s got fishes at work!”

Dr Tozier grimaces slightly at Helen, but also as if he’s seeing right through her to some past unnamable horror. “I liked those fish. Calmed down the nervy patients.” He sighs again.

Helen wonders briefly whether or not the residents of Dr Tozier’s waiting-room fish tank suffered the same fate as that worm in the park, and decides she’d rather not know.

“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” she says, gamely. She watches her hand reach towards Dr Tozier’s silver-black brindle, then snatches it back from his bland expression to brush the tips of her own feathered-out hair. “The gray, I mean.”

Dr Tozier blinks.

“It’s very—that is to say, you look, it makes you look, I mean, I think it’s—”

Dr Tozier’s left eyebrow joins his right, raised up high.

A tidy little jet of hysteria shoots up from Helen’s knotting stomach to spin like a top in her chest. She hears herself stutter out the word, “Dashing,” and immediately wishes to flee the store, leaving her cart abandoned like so much collateral damage.

But Dr Tozier only barks a laugh, a short, smooth hah like everything else he says. Entirely unperturbed. “Well, thank you.”

Too unperturbed. Helen is struck by a sudden bolt of terror, at the thought of the things Dr Tozier must surely hear every day, when people are lulled by the hypnotically intimate environment of a dentist’s chair and a touch of the laughing gas. Oh, this is terrible. Her face is on fire.

“But they—they make products for men now,” she says, and why, oh why can’t she stop talking? “Hair dyes, I mean, if it really does bother you? I’ve seen them in Keene’s.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” says Dr Tozier, looking down at Richard then with a soft edge, at his bouncing noise and scabbed knees and gently curling hair like a black spaniel’s. Like his father’s. “I find I’m rather grateful for it, truth be told.”

“Plus,” he continues, as if Helen wasn’t already melting harder than the Tozier’s ice-cream, as if Johnny Kitchener the shop-boy isn’t going to have to come along with a mop and bucket to clean up on aisle seven, “Maggie’d kill me if I got rid of it.”

Then Dr Tozier winks.

Oh Lord, oh Lord, Helen’s whole ribcage is so tight she can’t squeeze out a reply, because who could blame dear, pretty, annoyingly friendly, lucky, lucky, lucky Margaret for that when Dr Wentworth Tozier DMD is so—

So f—

So fffffff—

So fiddlesticksing handsome!

“Well, we’d best not keep you, Helen. This one is in dire need of a bath before his mother sees him, and hands me a divorce on the spot,” Dr Tozier says, when another few moments have passed and all Helen can do is try to desperately smooth the creases from her breathing. He’s humming mild interest at something Richard is saying, knelt back down to the linoleum to tie the boy’s loose-worm laces presumably before he gives himself any more skinned knees, and they’re leaving. Dr Tozier is leaving, and Helen hasn’t done anything but act like a ninny this entire time. She doesn’t want him to think her a ninny, a simpleton. She wants him to leave this bright, liminal church of bold colors and jazzy waiting-room music and return to his lemon-yellow two-storey house thinking my, what a lovely chat I had with Helen Nash.

She wants to linger, as he lingers. Like an amiable spirit hanging over the women’s group at church, waiting to be summoned at a moment’s eager notice. I bumped into Dr Tozier at Palmer’s on Saturday, she’ll say to the other jealous ladies, with triumph, and we had such a nice talk. He called me Helen.

“And when—when does Margaret get home?” she blurts. A very secret part of Helen wants Dr Tozier to leave this conversation with Helen and his wife both, entwined by association in his mind. She tries very hard not to think about the Toziers divorcing, because that is un-neighbourly, and feels least neighbourly of all when a dopey, dreamy look crosses Dr Tozier’s face like a brief sunbeam at her question.

“Ah. Tonight. Not too late, hopefully.” He jerks one of his knuckley thumbs at his shopping cart, licking the other to wipe something unidentifiable from Richard’s grubby face. “That’s why we’re here, stocking up for her miraculous return. Like a couple of noble emperor penguins in Antarctica, eh Rich?”

“Penguins like from Batman! Ka-pow.”

Helen takes a peek into their cart, curiosity getting the better of her now that permission is granted. Dr Tozier might not know it, but looking into another person’s cart is bad grocery etiquette, especially in a town like Derry, where gossip grows like a fungus in every sweaty and close little huddle of people. Not that Helen would know about that. Anyway, there isn’t much to gossip about besides the unfortunately liquefied ice-cream, the severe lack of crunchy vegetables characteristic of a young man in 1981 trying to provide for a tooth-shedding son, and—

A little cardboard box. Tossed unashamedly between the Wonderbread and a magazine about sports. Prophylactics. Rubbers.

36-pack. XL

Helen knows her jaw is hanging open and strains to close it, the back of her neck and her shoulders feeling hot and tight and shuddery. She kneads a fist into her skirts. Crosses her legs at the ankles as demurely as she knows how, because the very last thing she needs is for frank, sensible Dr Tozier to see right through her with that easy doctor-patient-confidentiality smile, and know she’s soaking through her underwear at the sight of his Saturday grocery run, and all it implies.

Dr Tozier is laughing, nudging Richard in the direction of the register, or perhaps the apples. “Ka-pow is right. I’ll make sure to use that on Mom, thanks. Say hello to Rory for us, Helen. Have a nice day,” he says from over his shoulder, startling her. Holds up one long hand in a wave with a grin, and is gone, shadowing the boy’s haphazard attempts to push the cart despite not being able to see where he’s going.

Helen stands amongst the humming freezers, trembling. “You too,” she rasps, but Dr Tozier has rounded the corner, and is evidently going to have a nice day and a much nicer night, regardless of whether Helen wishes it for him or not.

All the bright little branded characters are watching her from their shelves, a silent jury. Helen Nash opens a freezer cabinet with a weak arm, and stands there for a while, staring at a leg of ham and thinking cooling, neighbourly thoughts.

#long post #idk how to do readmores on mobile soz not soz #wentworth tozier #richie tozier #poor sexually unsatisfied helen nash #sometimes you just have to write the DILF went tozier fic you want to see in the world #stephen king: he was a pleasant looking man with a rather thin face #me cracking my knuckles: a l r i g h t #but what if... big dick richie was hereditary... what then 😳🤔👀🤔👀😳😳👀#ficlet

211 notes · View notes

sneezedarling · 4 years

Text

One of a Kind- MacCready/m!Sole Sneezefic (Fallout 4)

Hey guys! Sorry it took so long but I’ve written it. If anyone has any Fallout 4 or other video game requests send ‘em in! Anyways I hope you guys enjoy some allergic!MacCready.

MacCready usually agreed with the judgement calls Sole made, they were mostly sound, logical and fair in his eyes. But sometimes Sole was too curious for his own good. They had been walking through Diamond City Market, trading their loot from their travels for supplies and ammo when a guard had commented on The Museum of Witchcraft and how strange it was.

MacCready had immediately groaned as he watched Sole’s emerald green eyes light up at the prospect. Sole had shoved last of his ammo into his bag and stopped the guard to ask a barrage of questions and mark the location on his map. As they left Diamond City, Sole was still studying his PipBoy intently to work out the fastest route there.

“We’re not seriously heading there, right?” MacCready groaned.

Sole glanced up at him, “Why not? Maybe we’ll find something cool.”

“Or we’ll walk for days and find a creepy, crumbling building,” MacCready counters

He finishes examining his PipBoy and smirks, “C’mon, Mac, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Adventure doesn’t bring in caps.”

“Hey, I’m paying you what are you complaining about?” Sole objects, with no real fire.

It had taken a few months, but they’ve finally gotten to the point where MacCready says more than just standard agreeance in conversation and Sole’s sarcasm and witty commentary has become a light-hearted distraction rather than a point of annoyance.

MacCready just sighs and begins walking in the direction of the museum because sole leads, and he follows, that’s the deal.

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

It’s dusk when they approach the Museum of Witchcraft. It’s a large gothic building, looming and creepy by itself, but especially so in the fading light. MacCready glances at Sole who looks like a kid on Christmas and has to fight the smile working its way onto his face.

“C’mon, this is kinda cool,” he insists.

MacCready rolls his eyes, “Yeah, a big, creepy building, very inviting.”

Sole just grins and heads toward the back of the Museum, “stay outside if you want, I’m going to have a look.”

MacCready jogs to catch up with him only to stop short when he sees Sole’s boyish smile fade and become replaced by a hard frown as he reaches for the gun at his waist. The ground before him them is littered with the bodies of dead Gunners. As they loot the bodies, they shift into a familiar silence. Although Sole was all smiles and jokes usually, he was always dead silent when it got serious. It had taken some getting used to.

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

After listening to a horrifying holotape, they head inside. There’s a low rumbling that MacCready can’t identify, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The low visibility due to the darkness and copious amount of dust filtering through the air puts him on edge and he’s following Sole a lot more closely than usual. Suddenly, there’s an unmistakable and deafening roar from above them.

“And that’s a Deathclaw, so we should be going, right? Sole?” MacCready whispers, gently nudging sole, eyes trained on the rotting ceiling.

Sole shushes him and inches forward, trying to see through a hole in the floor above them. MacCready feels him flinch as there’s another roar followed by a loud thud as a dead body is thrown to the floor, mangled from the damage of Deathclaw jaws. Dust cascades down as the horrible noise of the Deathclaw finishing his meal fills the air.

MacCready draws in a fearful breath before realizing his mistake. The dust-induced tickle spreads through his nose immediately, his heart rate picking up as he scrunches his nose, desperately trying to quell the itch.

The Deathclaw above trudges away, sending more dust raining over them. MacCready’s eyes begin to water as his breath catches in his throat. Sole is blissfully unaware as he rubs dust from his own eyes and inches forward.

Sole peers through the floor for a few seconds before whispering, “If we catch it by surprise, we can avoid most of the confrontation. We might even be able to sneak past it to have a look, or we can go, I guess.”

MacCready reaches up and scrubs at his nose, breath hitching sporadically, “S-sole, you know I-ahhh I love a f-fight but whaa- what’s the point?”

“The Deathclaw will kill whoever strolls in here, how long until its someone who doesn’t deserve it?” Sole doesn’t seem to notice MacCready’s predicament as he examines the dismembered Gunner, scowl on his face.

MacCready curses internally at Sole’s stupid sense of civic duty as he pinches his nose closed but its too late, the damage is already done as the sneeze makes its way from deep in his sinuses to the tip of his nose, threatening to break the tense silence hanging in the air. MacCready’s heart skips a beat as panic rises, his sneezes aren’t known for being quiet and will certainly end in them being Deathclaw dessert.

He holsters his sniper rifle to give him better access to his nose. He clamps both hands over it, pressing down as hard as he can, a last-ditch effort of sorts. His eyes water so horribly that Sole becomes blurry in front of him. In his hyper-focused state, he’s completely missed whatever Sole just said.

“Mac?” Sole says as loud as he dares, turning to face him and doing a doubletake at his dishevelled state. “Are you…crying?”

MacCready glares at him through allergic tears, the angry gesture dividing his focus, allowing the sneeze to break free.

“Ngxt-chhhoo!”

Despite having both hands over his mouth, the sneeze is still moderately loud and if MacCready wasn’t desperately fighting the next sneeze, he would have been anxiously searching for a charging Deathclaw. Realisation immediately floods through Sole, and MacCready studies his face, waiting for anger, annoyance or even fear, just anything, but it remains blank.

MacCready’s breath begins to hitch again, eyes closing involuntarily. The heavy steps of the Deathclaw edge closer, sending more dust flying. The creature may not have heard the last sneeze but it would sure as hell hear this one.

It’s right above them. The itch is burning ferociously, MacCready can only hold out for so long. Sole’s face is still completely blank. Sole grabs MacCready’s arm and pulls him into a crouch position, pressing him between the wall and Sole’s body, so close that he can feel that rapid rise and fall of his chest as the Deathclaw footsteps stop, replaced by a low growl. The Deathclaw finally seems to be moving on when MacCready loses the battle.

“Hgxt-choo!”

Sole clamps a hand over both of MacCready’s to muffle the sneeze. It helps but both men grow still, waiting for any indication the Deathclaw heard it. When nothing comes, Sole takes one look at MacCready, who still has one hand covering his quivering nose and is trying to breath as little as possible, and roughly drags his arm dragging him back the way they came.

The heavy weight of guilt lands squarely on MacCready’s chest, but is pushed to the backburner by the infuriating itch that returns once again. MacCready knows that it’s not leaving anytime soon, especially not until he has sneezed properly and multiple times.

Sole glances back once more, an unknown emotion in his eyes, and proceeds to move faster, one hand on his rifle and the other dragging MacCready’s arm. As they near the door, MacCready gives in, his hands leaving his nose. MacCready sniffs hard, aggravating the itch, his mouth drifts open and his eyes begin to close as Sole shoves him out the door.

“Aaah- Act’choo! H-Hutch’oo! Ehk’tchoo!” MacCready sneezes so hard his hat shifts and falls off his head, exposing his chestnut brown locks.

Sole raises an auburn eyebrow, “Wow, holding all that in it’s a wonder you didn’t burst a blood vessel or something.”

MacCready half-heartedly gives him the finger as he tilts his head back, “Ha’choo…ehh…Ehk’choo!”

“Bless you…bless you,” Sole watches, face emotionless and arms crossed.

“Jesus C-Christ…Act’choo! I-“

“Bless you.”

“Sooh-Sole I- Ehktchoo…Ichhoo!”

“Bless you…Bless you.”

“I’m sorry…ihhhh…Itchoo…Act’tchoo..Het’choo! I should h-ha-”

“Bless you…Bless you…Bless you.”

“Ehk’tchoo! Sol-“

“Bless you.”

“Would you stop doing that! I’m tryin’ to freakin’ apologise here! I nearly go-ohh…got us both killed.”

Sole just blinks before bursting into laughter. Like a proper, full laugh that is almost non-existent in The Commonwealth these days.

MacCready sniffs hard, wiping the last of the allergic tears from his eyes. “What’s-snff-wrong with you? You get hit in the head or something?

“Could you imagine the story we would have had man? ‘Yeah we just walked in and were going to leave the Deathclaw but then MacCready decided to sneeze his brains out instead’.” He’s still laughing, an easy smile lighting up his face.

God he’s beautiful.

The thought slips into his head without permission, turning his face red. He knows he must look like shi- crap right now, puffy eyes, red nose and blotchy face but Sole’s looking at him like he invented the sun.

“I’m sorr- Ehk’tchoo!-”

“Bless you.”

“I’m also concerned about your mental state right now. Are you okay?” MacCready sniffs and scrubs at his nose a few times.

“Am I okay? Are you? You sure you didn’t pull a muscle or bruise something sneezing like that? You lost your hat!”

MacCready bites his lip, embarrassment tainting his cheeks. “I thought you’d be mad or something.”

Sole laughs again and MacCready feels a pang in his chest as he dusts off his hat and hands it to him, “S’not your fault and we’re alright, no harm no foul.”

MacCready just shakes his head as he plops his hat on, “You’re-snff! something else, y’know?”

“One of a kind,” Sole steps closer. “You should consider yourself lucky, maybe show some appreciation.”

MacCready leans against the wall, arching an eyebrow, trying to disguise the hammering of his heart, “Should I now?”

“Oh, definitely.” Sole leans in, lips grazing MacCready’s.

“I guess I can agree with that.” MacCready reaches for Sole and smashes their lips together.

#Fallout 4 #sneezefic #allergy #dust #MacCready #blessyou #sneezes

29 notes · View notes

littlewickedwiccan · 4 years

Text

For The Workers

Chapter 3

Alfie x Reader

Warning: Swearing, obvs

Authors note: We finally get some one on one time with Alfie. Enjoy! x

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2

Tags: @itsjusttaralove @advictedtohim

Today is the first day you are stepping foot into the Camden warehouse as a worker rather than as an uninvited visitor. You’d not slept much the night before, you have a current of electricity running through your body and a knot forming in your stomach. You feel oddly giddy about spending the whole day in the warehouse and you just can’t shake yourself out of it.

You’d been assured by Tommy before you left Birmingham, that there would always be a Peaky keeping an eye on you. Although it was meant to make you feel safer, it just made you very aware of all the eyes that were already being redirected in your direction.

As you made your way through the large oak door frame, Ollie’s youthful face greeted you at the door. Out of all the men you’d come across in this place, he seemed the least threatening.

“Welcome back. Alfie sent me to come show you to your office. It’s only small, but for the work you’ll be doing, it should be alright.”

Ollie gets straight to the point and starts leading you down the red brick corridors, past the workers that have already started on the day's tasks. You have to squeeze through men lugging heavy barrels on their sweat soaked backs, their caps pulled down over their tired eyes. You can feel the men stealing glances at you as you pass and you instinctively pull your ankle length coat closer around you.

“This here’s Alfie’s office” Ollie pointed to the room you’d sat outside of that first time you’d visited with Tommy. The door was wide open and you could now see Alfie’s big brown desk and cluttered shelves looming in the shadowy space.

“When the door’s open, feel free to pop your head in. If it’s closed, it’s best to steer clear.” Before you have time to get a better view inside, he carries on walking, making his way just a little further down the corridor and stopping at a room that only just manages to fit a small desk, a filing cabinet and a battered looking floor lamp.

“Cosy” you say as you glance inside at the sorry looking ‘office’, worrying about the lack of natural light and how humid the air feels in your lungs.

“Well, feel free to make yourself at home. There’s a pile of invoices that need checking there on the desk to get you started. If you need anything, just give me a shout, I’m always around somewhere.” With that, Ollie flashes you a sheepish smile before he turns on his heel and strides back the way you came.

Slowly, you step into your new office, placing your bag on the desk next to the papers and looking around at the flaking paint on the walls. There’s dust covering every surface and the light in the corner seems to dim in brightness every now and again, as if it doesn’t have the strength to carry on lighting the endlessly dull room.

There wasn’t a huge pile of work to look at, so you decide you have a bit of time to take a walk around the warehouse, to get the lay of the land.

You start to make your way deeper into the belly of the building. There’s not much to look at, mostly barrels stacked on more barrels. Every now and again you come across a worker hidden in the dark, sweeping, lifting or moving trolleys back and forth.

Before long, you reach some large double doors. They’re open just a crack and you can faintly make out a shadowy figure sitting in the almost empty room. You move in closer to get a better look and reach out a delicate hand, placing it on the heavy wooden door and push it open with a soft creak.

Finally, the hunched figure in the middle of the room comes into view, it’s Alfie, sat contemplatively in a rickety wooden chair, his large hands in his lap and his eyes closed. You falter for a second, wondering if you should just leave him to it, but just as you are about to turn and head back, he acknowledges your presence.

“My little cousin was born blind...”

The sound of his deep voice cutting through the silence makes you jump.

“As a result, I now donate a considerable sum of money to a charity, which gives dogs with eyes to blind Jews.” He shifts slightly in his chair making it squeak in protest under his hulking figure.

“The chairman of the board recommends that those of us who were blessed with the gift of sight, spend at least half an hour a day with our eyes closed so that we may better understand the darkness, and also, to increase our donations and that.”

You inch closer, moving to stand directly in front of him. You can see his face clearly now, he’s actually quite handsome considering he first appears a bit rough around the edges. His beard is golden and neatly trimmed, with a thin white scar cutting through the right hand side of his face and his hair is uncombed and slicked down with sweat.

There’s a faint smell of rum, fire and freshly baked bread coming off him in waves. It makes you feel unnervingly calm and starts to tease away the knots that had previously sat uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t help but think about those exotic plants you’d read about, that draw their prey in with delicious smells, only to clamp down around them when they were close enough and swallow them whole.

“What time is it?”

You snap out of your thoughts and glance around the room looking for a clock, but there was nothing but bricks and barrels.

“I’ve no idea, I think it’s...”

As you reply, you watch as his hand lightly pulls on a thin silver chain and a pocket watch pops out of the front flap of his waistcoat. He brushes his coarse fingertips lightly over the smooth steel of the antique trinket, before turning it to face the direction of your voice.

“Ere you go, what time is it?”

You step a little closer and bend your head low to read the hands.

“Twenty-five past nine”

“Right, five minutes left. What can I help you with love? Are you lost? Did Ollie show you your little office?”

You roll your eyes at Alfie’s description of your work space. The use of the word ‘little’ makes it sound like you are a child playing worker while the grown ups do the real work in the ‘big boy’ offices.

“Actually I was just having a look around when I stumbled on your little meditation session” You make sure to stress the word ‘little’, passive aggression is your strong suit. He seems to ignore it and continue as though you’d said nothing at all and this just irks you even further.

“I think there’s another chair over there. Go have a look and take a seat.”

You follow the direction of his flippant hand gesture and see the chair in question, propped up against the wall. Dragging it over screeching the legs on the concrete floor, you set it down a small distance in front of Alfie and take your place.

“I like to make sure to spend these moments thinking about the bigger things… it also means I get a bit of peace and quiet from people asking me stupid fucking questions. Do you believe in god?”

The question seemed to come out of the blue and it takes you a second to process what he just said.

“...No Mr Solomons, I don’t. It’s a hard concept to grasp when you’re involved in this kind of life, surrounded by these kinds of people.”

“Call me Alfie. Well I don’t blame you, but I’m telling you Y/N, believing in something bigger than yourself can be a saviour in the darkest of times. How long have I got left?”

You notice he doesn’t lift the watch up for you like the last time, the silver timepiece just sits loosely in his open palm lying on his lap. Hesitantly you reach forward and carefully lift the watch up to face you. He doesn’t flinch at your presence or the weight of the watch being lifted from his hand, as if he had hoped you would close the distance on your own terms.

“Twenty-eight past nine, two minutes left.” You lean forward again placing the watch back where you found it, again he doesn’t move.

“I never said I didn’t believe in something bigger than myself Mr Solom… Alfie, I just don’t like the idea that there is a man up in the clouds watching my every move. I like to be in control of my own decisions, of my own life and the direction I take it.”

“Hmmm. How’d you end up ‘ere then? Did you make your own decisions this time around? How’s that workin out for you?”

He had you there, you in fact did not make the final decision to come here, it had been made for you… by a man who apparently had more control over your life than you had originally thought. Of course you couldn’t admit this to Alfie.

“Actually I did make the decision to come here. I needed a change of scenery, so here I am. Is that a problem for you Mr Solomons?”

“Not at all love. But forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced of your exhilaration at being ‘ere with us. Look let’s stop fuckin about and address the elephant in the room, I don’t want to have to keep an eye on you every second you're here...”

Alfie leans forward in his chair, his eyes still tightly shut, elbows resting on the dirty linen of his knees and clasping his hands in front of him, his many bracelets jangling together as he did. You didn’t feel yourself do it, but you realise you’ve started to lean back in your chair.

“As a businessman, I get Tommy Shelby’s reasoning behind your presence here I really do, but as someone that is not an absolute fucking idiot, I am fully aware that this is not a place for a woman of your… standing.”

It was like he’d said a code word that set your blood boiling. You hated people telling you where you were and weren’t meant to be. It was like you were naive and had no idea the dangers that lay around every corner for someone like you. You were a woman that had been through a lot, been a part of many different societies and social classes. You were more than aware of what could happen if you took a wrong turn or said the wrong thing in front of these types of men.

“Forgive me Alfie...” you stressed his name between gritted teeth.

“But I’m perfectly aware of the environment I find myself in. Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need you to watch me like a child.”

You try to stay conscious of the tone and volume of your voice. It wouldn’t be a good idea to start cussing out your gangster boss on your first day.

“Hmmm. What time is it?” This time he showed you the watch again as he leaned back in his chair, creating more distance between you and causing you to have to scootch forward on your seat to be able to see the time clearly. To your surprise, Alfie hands you the watch to hold.

“You’ve got 10, 9, 8...”

As you count down, you notice the watch chain start to release tension. Alfie had started to move gradually towards you once again. You try to ignore the warmth of his body getting closer and closer.

“7, 6, 5, 4...”

He was so close now you can feel the light caress of his breath on your face. Your brain is telling you to move back a bit, but your body refuses to budge.

“3,2,1”

Right on cue Alfie opens his dark blue eyes and you feel like your body has turned to stone right there in that chipped wooden chair.

“Right then… hello”

#alfie imagine #alfie #peaky blinders alfie #alfie solomons #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #alfie x reader #alfie x ofc #alfie solomons fanfic

28 notes · View notes