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gaitwae · 3 years

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Hello!! Mob!thor au please. You’re a successful and rising businesswoman and it’s your first time going to those rich people galas, there you catch thor’s eye and you spend the whole evening with him. Thank yew, stay safe😽😽

A/N: You have no idea how much I've been wanting to write this!! This is a Thor x F!Reader (anon requested businesswoman uwu)

Warnings: Slight harassment from Thor, implied only. Also a slight kidnapping. Non-threatening

Summary: Above!

Tags: @make-me-imagine @thorfanficwriter @bwemph @myraiswack @rorybutnotgilmore @loki-snape-our-hero @wolfish-trickster @lucywrites02 @mostly-marvel-musings @winterfrostsarmy @superheroesandstardust @castiels-majestic-wings @geekns @natandersonnla @cozy-the-overlord @megthemewlingquim @frostedgiant @whatafuckingdumbass @thebookbakery @delightfulheartdream @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @the-emo-asgardian @amwolowicz @itscomplicatedx @sophlubbwriting @darkacademicfrom2021 @lilyofthesword

You had picked the perfect evening gown. It billowed behind you, and you received many compliments from it. It was your favorite color, and it matched your complexion. You had done up your hair. You carried your clutch tightly to your side. Although you were sure the rumors were only rumors, if there was any place they’d be disproved, it was at the Marvel Gala.

It was hosted every year by Tony Stark. He took business seriously. On top of the Asgardian mob rumors, you had heard he had some deals with the Odinson family. Whether or not the Odinson family ran a mob, they were still dangerous in court. Their lawsuit could mean the loss of your entire company. You shivered to yourself, glad that you had yet to make any sort of dealings with Valaskjalf Enterprises.

You grabbed a flute of champagne off of a tray. You tried not to down the whole thing at once, but this was a nerve-wracking experience. You could make acquaintances that could — no, would — change your entire career. You smoothed your dress out in hopes of wiping your clammy hands away.

“Miss? Would you like to dance?” a deep voice asked behind you. You froze, slowly turning around.

Before you was a tall, broad, blond hunk of handsome with a thundering presence. He wore a crisp suit, and his face and hair were kept in an almost pretty manner. He was elegant, yet bold. He was massive, but perfect. You tried not to stare, but you found you couldn’t blink. The man smirked, extending his hand.

“Miss?” he laughed.

You shook yourself out of your daze, remembering why you were at the gala in the first place. “I apologize; who are you?” you asked, smiling awkwardly. “I don’t like to dance without knowing someone’s name.”

“My name is Thor,” he said. You set your flute down on an empty tray passing by, taking his hand. He tugged you to the dancefloor. “What is your name?”

“I’m Y/N L/N,” you say. “I’m the CEO of—”

“I know what company,” he cut you off, his eyes lighting up. “I was rather impressed when Father told us how far your little company had been progressing. Had I known the simple surname I’d been hearing was yours, why, I don’t even think we would be standing here.” He chuckled darkly. He began swaying with you as the music swelled. You shook at his tone. What could that mean? Who was Thor? “The other family business would have contacted you. You have a lot of potential at L/N Advancements.”

Oh.

Of course.

“You’re... Forgive me, I should have remembered. Thor Odinson,” you said nervously. You shook your head, unable to meet his eyes. Of course, the mobster would find you. Of course, the mobster would find you! Of course!

“Yes. I’ll assure you, no rumors you’ve heard are quite like the real deal.” He snaked his hand to the small of your back. “My brother often likes to... exaggerate our side company’s deals. I should really get you back to the business talk, but I want to keep you to myself a little longer.” Thor grinned a model’s grin. “Unless you’re scared of me, that is.”

“Oh, I’m not scared of you,” you said. You realized you still had your clutch in your grasp. That alone disproved your point. Thor took it from you, setting it on an empty table.

“You aren’t?”

“Maybe I was scared of getting mugged,” you admitted. “It’s silly.”

“I think the only thing you should be scared of is how you’re getting home tomorrow,” he flirted, pulling you closer. Much, much closer.

You put distance between yourself and the heir of Valaskjalf. “I don’t do that. I won’t. Sorry. I barely know you, and I’ve worked too hard to slip up or give in. I hope you can understand.”

Thor, who was taking the rejection as if it never happened, only smiled brighter. “You’re scared that I’ll take L/N Advancements away from you with just a night together?”

“I’m scared your father might decide I’m not worth trading with once he finds out I’ve done a little more than speak with his son,” you said in your firmest tone. Thor laced your fingers. You didn’t pull away from that.

“But he might decide you’re worth keeping around.” He stroked your cheek, moving to his own beat now. The music didn’t match your rhythm, but it was still as intoxicating. “I could get rid of all your enemies, you know. I could make you untouchable.”

“I’m not interested,” you said. You shook your head. “I need a drink.”

“You just downed a whole flute of champagne!” he tsked.

“I still need one.” You lingered in Thor’s presence. He smelled of petrichor and fine cologne and a tiny bit of sulfur and something else that you couldn’t pick out. He hummed happily, as if he were drunk. He didn’t smell of alcohol, but his behavior could fool you in a second.

“You’re quite the prey,” he murmured. “I’ll get you a drink. I’ll get you multiple.”

“I can get my own drink,” you insisted. “Please, Mr. Odinson, I’m happy to be by myself.”

“You should relax,” he, too, insisted. He gripped your upper arms, taking you in once again. “Really. Don’t let your fear stop you from having fun.”

“I’ll do what I like.” You tore away from Thor. “Thank you fror the dance, but I have to go talk to Tony Stark and Steve Rogers.”

“Have fun mingling!” He caught your hand and kissed it. You felt your belly set itself on fire. Did Thor want one night? Clearly. But what did he want from a night? Did he want information about your business? Or did he want to take advantage? Did he want to use you, and let you use him in the same manner? “I’ll see you some other time, darling.”

“Don’t clear your schedule,” you warned.

Thor chuckled, “I’ll remember that.”

That didn’t stop him from following you around all night. He was by your side as if he was your partner. Whatever he had decided, it wasn’t going to change without a piece of paper signed by a judge...

Given that he was admittedly not only part of the city’s biggest mob, but a higher member, you couldn’t obtain that.

+-+--

Months later, and after many calls from Thor Odinson (who you did not offer your personal number), you finally started to cave. You let him have dinner with you. You took walks in the city during the daytime. You found he was a sensitive person, and almost three years of talking and dancing and Marvel Galas came and went before your first kiss.

Thor took a small sip of white wine, staring at you with electric blue eyes that you always got lost in. “Did I ever apologize for our first meeting?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think so,” you answered. “I didn’t think you cared enough to remember it...”

“If I wasn’t in love with you,” Thor began, “I wouldn’t have stayed for as long as I intend to.”

“It’s been three years,” you whispered. “How long do you intend to stay?”

Thor wet his lips. “As long as you let me.” He reached over, cupped your face, and brought your mouth to his.

That was when the first kidnapping happened.

The room was dark. Your hair was being pulled back by meaty hands behind you. Your clothes were torn, and your eyes wouldn’t stop shedding tears.

“Ms. L/N,” a deep voice mused. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m glad my brother has someone to entertain him that doesn’t include a mortal injury... Since that nurse hit him with her car, he hasn’t quite been the same.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked the voice, wheezing and stifling a sob. You sniffled. “I don’t know why I’m here...”

“You’re here so we can talk.” A small light switched on. You saw a raven-haired man sitting in a small chair, one leg crossed over the other like the Joker. “Do you intend on strengthening your company with my family’s conglomerate?”

“No,” you said. You were shaking. You tried to look back at the meaty hands that held your head, but whoever it was made sure you watched the man. “No, I want to make it with my own merit. I don’t want to be absorbed...”

“Do you plan on staying away from legal trouble by making my brother dearest your... intended?” he continued, pulling a gun from behind him. He cocked it, keeping his cool eyes on you. He aimed. “If I think you’re lying, I’ll shoot. And trust me... I know a liar when I see one.”

“No!” you said again. “No, I don’t!”

His expression never changed. He rolled his neck, then studied you some more. “Name your favorite thing about Thor.”

“His laugh.” You gulped. “I love when he laughs... really laughs. When he doubles over, cries, and then giggles about it hours later.”

The man sat back, turning off the safety. “Name his favorite drink.”

“Locally brewed beer.”

“What’s my name?” His forefinger slipped in front of the trigger.

“Loki!” Thor’s voice came from outside the room. You sobbed again. The door swung open, and the man stood from his chair. Thor gripped his brother’s lapel, throwing him on the wall. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Loki growled, dropping the gun on its side. “It wasn’t loaded! Calm down! Jane only wanted to stay for the secrets, I was simply—”

“I don’t care!” he snapped. “You have no right to kidnap her!” He was nose-to-nose with Loki, shaking him as he spoke.

“Thor!” you cried. He swerved his head, letting go of his brother to come and rescue you. He shoved the meaty hands off, throwing a solid punch.

“Come with me,” he said, lifting you into his arms. You wrapped your arms around him, shaking and trying not to cry too much. He held you tightly. He took Loki’s gun off the ground. “Don’t touch her. She’s nothing like Jane, and if you’d listen to me when I talk to you, Father wouldn’t have put you on lackey duty!”

“Take me out of here,” you whispered.

“I can’t,” Thor said. He kissed your head. “This is my life... I love you, but if you can’t handle this...”

You held him tightly. “We should talk about this later...”

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lilyrachelcassidy · 4 years

Text

Blank

A/N: Everyone, care to explain why shit leaks out of me over here, instead of using it to study?? Probably, my brain is like: “I’m in refusal to do anything else, so just shut your mouth, and-”... Anyway, here is a little inspiration I got yesterday, under the shower (yes!! I know!!), and I decided to write it down today. It may or may not be cohesive - sorry! Hope you enjoy guys (:

Summary: The traumatic experience shows that commitments and choices bring up responsibilities for themselves. In an attempt to prove the rightness of this conviction, Voldemort forces Draco to make the next complex and life-changing decisions.

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: a lot of injuries; death(!); language (very little of swearing, so congrats to me!); sexual allusions; crudeness; violence; Unforgivable curses; the dark themes; sooo angsty

Tags: @drawlfoy

Her insides were burning.

The body felt as if it was on fire, with every flame slowly and unbearably torturing each of her… well, everything.

Her throat was far too dry to be so-called on the regular standard, and was asking for an evident need of water; the eyes were watering with the same speed as the emotional roller-coaster she was undergoing through at this moment; the heart was pumping too much blood to her veins, making her head dizzy enough for her not being able to think clearly; the breath was rapid and shallow, and even if she had known what she wanted to say, it surely wouldn't have allowed her to do so; also the bone-breaking impression could be, as well, considered as one of the factors influencing on the sanity.

And the feelings she was experiencing? Helplessness, sorrow, and something similar to dejection. Perhaps, it was a realization of the final end that was about to show up soon.

The vision was way too blurry to let her see and get hanging on what was happening around her. Just the hearing was one and the only sense used as a hint on that she was still alive. Or, at least, she hopefully thought so.

“Please, make it stop!” Draco’s faint and breaking voice begged. It was so much different than a normal tone of her Draco’s she used to know. “I’ll do everything! Just make it… stop, please.”

Voldemort smiled broadly, revealing the slight part of his psychopathic nature and allowing view-access to his peculiarly yellowish teeth. “Young Draco, I want you to be well-aware of the consequences of the decisions you make next time. You did not obey the established rules and the task I have designated. And now the girl is suffering,” he laughed. “However, there is one proposition I could kindly persuade.”

Draco nodded merely for him to continue, his features expressing nothing else but supreme worry and anticipation on his words.

"Kill her," Voldemort demanded loudly, turning the wand around, in his slender fingers. Seeing as Draco's eyes widen with shock and at the absurd of this offer, the grin reappeared on his mouth. "Do as I say and spare her agony. Death caused by Crucio curse seems to be an extreme torment compared with simple Avada Kedavra."

The silence fell over, and the only sound heard in the room were quiet sobs coming out from the floor, where Y/N was laying. At the sight of the devastated state of the most relevant person in Draco's life, his heart felt as if broken into pieces. All he wanted to do was to run up to her curled on the ground body, taking it into a warm embrace and comforting her with the truth that everything had come up into the end.

But the truth it, unfortunately, wasn't. Or otherwise, not one he believed in anymore.

Draco shook his head. "I'm-I'm-" he stuttered, the gaze never leaving Y/N's figure. He tried to sound casual and failed completely. "It's impossible. I mean, I can't."

"Well, then - Crucio!" said a firm, deep voice, and the next surge of pain passed through Y/N, making the room fill with a rush of empty screams again. It was too much for her to endure.

"Stop, please. My Dark Lord, I swear I'll do eve-"

"Quiet boy!" hissed Voldemort, evidently coping with frustration at Draco's defensive attitude. "You have undertaken the task, in which the accomplishment was unsuccessful. Resolutions require choices, and choices need responsibility for themselves. So now, do as I say or enjoy the show of the girl's misery."

Draco ceased talking, seemingly making up his mind that it wasn’t worth arguing any longer on the matter. He tightly clenched his jaw, hating a little clutching in the chest at the imagination on what was about to happen and at the flashback of memories from previous years.

And a few things flitted through his brain, try as he might to suppress them.

The pair of the lips, their lips, synchronously moving along.

His pale hands wandering all over her soft skin, trailing small circles on her back, then quickly finding their way on her outer hips and her minty breath pleasantly tingling hair on the back of his neck.

A whisper, his own, half-subtle and half-assured: "I fucking love you."

A giggle in his ear, hers, accompanied with an answer, short and careless as if nothing mattered, and yet so meaningful to these days: "I fucking love you too, Dray."

Every recollection of those words and moments, after all, made him realize how ungrateful he had been for never truly appreciating this precious time he had had with her; for fulfilling his life with happiness that he couldn't thank her for enough. Bloody egocentric prick.

"I'm impatient, boy," Draco heard from behind. And indeed, as he turned, Voldemort was. Sauntering around with Nagini following shortly after his black cloak, he was still twirling the yew-wand around, and there was no bigger necessity than glancing briefly sideways to register radiating blinding rage.

Draco, for the first time, looked so pale and grimly. All of his attention was entirely focused on Y/N, attempting to memorize her beautiful face, as a photograph, for last. He stayed rotted to the ground, gulping, whilst Y/N shrank, letting out the small groans of pain induced by all the injuries on her body and not well-taking to the situation. "Could I just say a proper goodbye to her?"

"There is no need for that, boy," Voldemort answered before Draco could barely finish his sentence. Clearly, he had come up to the edge between boredom and irritability at the played out love-display he was taking part in. "It is your ultimate chance."

Draco blinked. As he was told and taught -by his parents- while developing his Death Eater skills, it was sometimes easier to try to have part of your brain switch on and off, if it was about... solving matters. Something just like a detachment, helping through emotional-muddling; an ability to approach to action matter-of-factly, clearing out with redundant thoughts, and just doing things that were required to be done. It was useful, his mother proclaimed, when it was about saving himself or beloved ones from affliction.

And that's what he did now.

"It was a pleasure knowing you," he said in a brisk, distanced tone; and before she could say those words back; before she could get a snatch of the intensive-green light being released out of his wand; before he could fall apart, crying out for forgiveness.

Final blank.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco x oc #draco x you #Draco Malfoy #hp #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x you #hp fandom #hp fanfic #draco malfoy fanfiction #voldemort #draco malfoy fic #harry potter imagine #draco malfoy drabble #pottermore

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likesomekindofcheese · 4 years

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Can you write a hc for George and Paul where they take care of reader who came home soaked in rain?;)

OOOOooo, I can just feel the sexual tension bubbling! Ok!

Let’s start with George!

So I would say you would be walking out in public when all of a sudden there are dark clouds.

Soon the clouds darken and become rain out of the blue, you rush for the nearest shelter but it is too fast...and too heavy!!!!!!!

So you rush to the nearest place you can see, knock on the door, and lo and behold it’s George and your heart starts racing.

“Y/N...are you alright? C’mere, c’mon in!” he insists.

“I was just walking by and...well, all this rain started!” you begin as he leads you down, not caring how much mud and water trails behind your footsteps.

“Well, I’ll put a kettle on and you can stay here long as ya need, Luv...” he begins. Though as he picks the choice of leaves he notices how miserable and shivering you are in your soaked clothes. Like a bathed dog.

“I could...I have some clothes you could put on...at least for now” he offers.

He hands you a large shirt and pajama shorts and you accept it.

Though after a while, after you are sent to a bathroom to change, he starts swallowing hard at the thought of you being naked in the next room and he even starts to loosen his pants, just to be safe.

“And Y/N...would you like some biscuits?” he calls out.

“Yes please!” you answer from behind. Though George doesn’t dare even peek through the keyhole for just a glimpse of what you would look like though he’s imagined it a hundred times at night.

“Chocolate?”

“That’s perfect, George!” you answer.

So once you walk out in the pajama clothes you both enjoy your tea and biscuits at first in silence.

“George...you’re very kind to me...thank you,” you say. You get close to him and kiss his cheek in thanks.

George almost explodes inside and he becomes a red, stuttering mess. “O-o-o-o-oh, th-th-thank yew, Y/N! Oh! Not for anythin’! I mean, the kiss, yes, I really like you-er the kiss-er both!”

You smile and reach to him ask to kiss him properly this time.

Paul...

I feel at this point you would be dating and together

You would be on your way to Paul’s place when the storm hits. Although you brought your umbrella, it broke suddenly. Cursing, the rain pours down on you.

When you enter, Paul mother hens you. “Oh, Y/N! Poor darling, are you okay? Are you sick!? Do you have anythin’?”

You shake your head and laugh a bit “oh, no Paul! I’m okay!”

Like George, he would offer you a change of clothes but he would also draw you a bath.

Although he can’t find the darn towels, as soon as he does he gets so excited he bursts into the bathroom to give them to you...to immediately find you getting into the tub naked.

With a small yelp, you leap into it, covering your body with your arms and ducking as far in as you would allow and Paul turning red would cover his eyes (though secretly delighted at the sight of you).

“Here are the towels, love...” he quietly states, and he leaves immediately (especially to stand near the fridge with it’s cold air).

Once you come back int he clothes, he secretly loves the sight of how it looks on you.

Fighting back a smile, he says “I’m so sorry...I thought it you ‘adn’t got in! Can yew forgive me?”

You smile and say “it’s alright, I forgive you...can you put on that record? That’s the whole reason I’m here!” you say.

And so he does, it’s very peaceful, listening next to Paul. Though it isn’t long before your hands crawl to each other.

Then he starts pulling you close and kissing you and then draping a blanket over both of you.

Because if you are going to have a passionate make-out session, it might as well be dry and warm!

Taglist: @queenlover05

#carrie writes #beatles fanfiction #george harrison #george harrison x reader #george harrison x y/n #paul mccartney #paul mccartney x reader #paul mccartney x y/n

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saey-bae · 6 years

Text

Know You By Heart (Pt. 3) - Saeran/Reader

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

w o w o w part 3!! i haven’t even started on pt 4 yet forgive me

tagging: @alice-707 @never-goinghome @pixxelbell @rainbowtalia

if you’d like to be tagged, please let me know :)

as always, thanks for reading 💜

Your fingers trace over the wooden heart sitting in your hand, across the smooth curve of the pale yellow alder wood. The small, palm-sized block you’re holding is well worn, the edges softened from years of caressing each contour similar to the motions you were doing now. “It’s beautiful,” you finally say quietly, handing the piece back to Saeran.

The two of you are sitting outside, under the shade of a large yew tree. Sunlight filters through the leaves and shines against Saeran’s hair, setting his red locks aflame, but the light dancing upon your head only highlights your closely-shaved hair and two lines of neat stitches.

“Thank you.” He lets you drop the heart in his hand, his fingers closing around the skin-warmed wood as his eyes dart up to meet yours hopefully. There must have been some kind of recollection there?

His heart swells when you hold his gaze for a brief moment, only to have that it shatter into a bitter sadness when you look away. The simple rejection tears at his heart and, for a moment, he considers falling to his knees in front of the wheelchair you’re sitting in to beg you to look at him for more than two seconds.

You haven’t settled your gaze on him for longer than a brief glimpse in the last three weeks, nor have you spoken much, and he swears it’s driving him to the brink of insanity.

Instead, he forces a smile --for your sake, because you were no longer smiling that beautiful smile of yours these days-- and tucks away the little heart in the breast pocket of his white button up as he swallows the lump in his throat. Saeran leans back against the bench as he watches a cool autumn breeze ruffle at your hospital gown and takes a moment to recollect himself, though his vision blurs with tears nonetheless.

He misses you.

He blinks them back and wipes away a stray tear that falls down his cheek, taking a shaky breath as he does so, though it does nothing to loosen the tightness in his chest.

All the while, you silently observe the birds hopping along the concrete grounds in the hospital’s courtyard, having not said a word about his minor episode. Maybe you didn't notice. Or maybe you didn’t care. Either way, it seems like another rejection.

You’ve grown quiet in the past few recovery weeks, almost meek in his company. Aside from Zen, whom you still remember from your high school days, you haven’t warmed up to the RFA members like how you did when you first met them. The doctors had learned that you retain memories from approximately five years ago, when you were eighteen; you no longer recall anything past that. It was all locked up in your brain somewhere, with a key no one held.

“S-Saeran.”

He jolts when he hears the sound of your soft voice pierce through the thick silence. Is he just imagining this? He’s sure that your mouth didn’t move--

“Saeran,” you repeat, your voice firmer this time. Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s an underlying hesitancy beneath the false kindness in your gaze. Even now, you still had a vacant stare that was rather uncharacteristic and heartbreaking all at once.

“Yes, Y/N?” His tongue darts out to wet his lips, feeling his nerves alight as he leans forward slowly, his elbows on his knees.

You drop your gaze, taking a deep, shuddering breath as if to brace yourself for what you‘re about to say. Your mouth opens, but when comes out first is a soft sob. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

Saeran swallows hard. “Y-Y/N?” His reaches out and wraps his fingers around your cast gently, stopping you from lifting your injured hand --carefully, as to not squeeze the shattered bones that were still mending-- and uses his other hand to thumb away the tears rolling down your cheeks. He can’t stop himself from cupping your cheek familiarly.

You turn your head away to the side uncomfortably, giving him a view of your profile. From the side, you look pale, gaunt, your jawline more prominent. When you speak again, your voice comes out raw, thick with emotion, “I can’t remember a thing. It’s almost as if I’ve slept and woke up five years later, and I’m being told this is my life now.”

“You’re you... you’re Y/N.” He doesn’t know what to say. You aren’t exactly the same, personality-wise, but... you are still you physically. And you still retained some memories. But Saeran doesn’t know how to convey that to you --he doesn’t even know how to reassure you-- and it makes him feel all the worse.

“I’m ‘me,’” you mutter under your breath, unsatisfied with the answer. The strained silence is heavy with unspoken words, and he thinks he dreads this even more than when you were speaking. The two of you sit like that for a while-- long enough that your tears had dried in time and the birds had flown off.

“If it isn’t lovely Y/N and Saeran!”

Saeran grits his teeth, but says nothing as he catches sight of Zen poking his head through the door leading into the courtyard. He sees the small, albeit warm, smile tugging at the corners of your lips at the sight of the actor, and he wishes that smile was for him.

The white-haired man walks over to the two of you and smiles brightly as he gets down on one knee in front of the wheelchair, offering you a single red rose with flourish. “How are you feeling?”

You take the rose with a bandaged hand, your smile widening. It only serves to wedge the crack in Saeran’s heart a little wider. “I’m feeling better... Saeran’s been taking me out here for the past week. The fresh air is nice.”

Zen smiles over at other man, though pity and sadness dwell in his crimson irises. “Has he now? That’s nice of him. He’s a great guy, huh?”

Saeran wants to punch the actor-- just once, right in his pretty face. He doesn’t want the pity. He knows you don’t remember dating him, and for once, he’s being selfless enough to keep that piece of information to himself. He knows what he’s giving up, but he just wants you to heal without feeling the pressure of dating someone. It’s the least he owes you.

“Yeah...” you mumble softly, glancing at the red head briefly before turning your eyes back on your friend. “Zen... Do... do you know if my parents are coming?”

Both men freeze in their spots.

“Y/N, your parents--”

“Zen.” Saeran’s voice is an icy warning. Don’t poke the sleeping bear.

“She needs to know.” The actor shoots the other man a look before turning those red eyes back on you. His voice is soft, gentle, not unlike how one would speak to a child. “Y/N, you and your parents haven’t been talking for a while.”

“What do you mean? I lived with them, didn’t I?” You’re understandably confused, and Saeran wants to reach out and shelter you from the truth.

“You were kicked out and... disowned. You’ve been estranged for a little more than five years now.”

Like his brother, Saeran likes cars. Not cars, in particular, but driving; he likes the firm wheel beneath his hands, allowing him to choose the exact path he takes.

The wind rolling over the open top ruffled his newly dyed red locks --the damn dye kept washing out within two months, revealing the hidden bleached strands beneath-- and he feels the need to speed up just a little, to feel the rush of wind and moonlight in his hair. It’s the closest thing to flying. To freedom. And when he does step on the gas, a rare smile tugs at his lips

Saeran turns up the bass music as he cruises down a quiet residential street until he sees the silhouette of a person jaywalking across the road. He slams on the brakes without even realizing he’s done so, his heart pounding.

“What the hell?” He stands up, lifting his upper half over the edge of the convertible’s windshield to glare at the person who’s now scrunched up in a flinch. “Jaywalking is dangerous, dumbass!”

The figure straightens out and quips, in a mocking mimic, “And so is speeding, dumbass!”

Wait... He squints at the the face illuminated by the headlight. He knows that face. “Y/N?”

And by the way your features twist into one of recognition at the sound of his voice, you probably realize you know this man, too.

Saeran exhales and for a moment, he’s fighting to keep a smile off his face. You really were an idiot, but the conviction in your voice --as if you weren’t in the wrong-- made it all the funnier. “Climb in.”

It’s late. You’re wearing paint-covered sweats and a t-shirt, a heavy-looking dufflebag thrown over your shoulder. It would make him uneasy to leave you walking around at night like this.

At least that’s what he tells himself as you slide into the passenger’s seat gingerly and dump the bag at your feet. The scent of fresh paint follows, and he wrinkles his nose as he takes a seat once more. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” You give him the address-- it’s on the bad side of town, in a trashy neighbourhood.

He doesn’t comment, just drives. But there’s a fluttering feeling in his chest that he can’t quite ignore... it’s similar to the feeling he gets when he speeds. He’s... excited?

Saeran has to admonish himself for feeling excitement in your presence. You were nothing special. You were just the girl with the fiery eyes and, what seems like, an even fiery personality. The girl with the happiest smile he’s ever seen before. The girl who holds music at her fingertips.

Nothing special.

“So, what are you doing out so late?” you ask, turning down the booming stereo. “Saeran, right?”

“Yes.” He’s mulling over his words, trying to come up with a lists of responses as he glances over at you before he realizes he’s been quiet for a moment too long. Awkward. “Driving. And you, Y/N?”

But you only smile brightly, and it instantly puts him at ease. “Ah... just the odd job. I was painting a few rooms for someone. It took me a little longer than usual, and well, time flies.” Your goofy grin and lighthearted tone didn’t distract him from what you just said.

“The odd job...?”

“Well...” You hesitate, then shrug, as if brushing it off. “The term ‘starving artist’ applies to some musicians, too. I do a few jobs here and there to scrap up enough for living expenses. There are a lot of people willing to pay cash for a decent outcome.”

Saeran falls silent for a moment. He wonders how much he’s allowed to ask before it’s considered rude, but you must have taken his silence as disapproval, because you add, “I don’t really have much of a choice.”

“No,” comes out of his mouth before his brain can process it. “I-I mean... I can respect the passion you have for music. It’s admirable. What kind of jobs do you do?”

He’s speaking without thinking much-- the words are just flowing out, and he has little control over them. Saeran bites his bottom lip, wondering if you can tell.

If you do, you don’t say anything about it. “Ah... painting houses, mowing lawns, shovelling snow, carpentry, a few electrician jobs, plumbing. Endless jobs.” Saeran catches the wry smile on your face.

“Sounds interesting. Like a ‘jack of all trades?’” He’s never met a woman who’s dabbled in plumbing. Granted, he’s never met many normal women.

“’But a master of none.’” There’s that wry smile again, paired with a dry chuckle.

“’Though often times better than a master of one.’” He can’t stop himself from grinning, having bested you. When Saeran glances at you, he realizes that you’re mirroring his grin.

The two of you arrive at your place --a crappy worn down apartment building-- all too soon. He reaches over and awkwardly offers his hand for you to shake.

You take it. Your delicate-looking hands are warm, rough, dry. Strong. Hands of a hard worker. “Thanks for dropping me off, Saeran. I appreciate it.”

He can’t seem to let you go just yet. “Don’t jaywalk next time.”

You stare at him for a moment, eyes widening, then you laugh; it’s a warm, bubbly sound that washes over him, heating his cheeks. “I won’t. Good night.” You give his hand a small squeeze before trying to slip away. You don’t succeed. “Saeran?”

“A-ah.” He lets go as if your hand had been lit on fire. “Sorry. Good night.”

There’s some semblance of understanding in your eyes before it’s swept away by an easy smile. “Alright, if you’re really that worried about me--” you say, taking out a business card and a pen from a pocket on the side of your dufflebag and scrawling something on it “--here’s my number. Call me?”

His gaze darts from you to the card, but before he can say anything, you’ve already shoved it into his hand with a wink. In another moment, you’ve climbed out of the car, your frame swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

And you’ve left Saeran a blushing mess.

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lizardphobia · 7 years

Text

Random AU Part 2: Where Kimberly Kicks Tommy’s Ass

A/N: Thanks be to @fuckyeahjasonkimberly for this little nugget of an idea for a scene that refused to get out of my head.

“Here she comes,” Jason said. He turned to Tommy with a gleam in his eye. “You’re on your own, man.”

She came up to him first, caramel hair swishing and he rose to greet her with a soft, “Hey.”

Her hand came up to touch the side of his face, and the other went around his neck to pull his head gently down so she could see the injury.

She bit her lip but didn’t say anything, leaning upwards for a lingering kiss instead.

“How’re your ribs?” she asked, lightly running her hand down the side of his body. She had chronicled a list of where he had chosen to take his blows, and was determined to run through each and every one of them.

“Sore, but nothing broken or bruised.”

“You sure?”

“Please, he can’t hit worth a damn,” Jason muttered.

She nodded with satisfaction. “I love you,” she told him.

“I love you too.”

Stepping away from him, she took a deep breath as she looked down to where Tommy sat, slumped on the ground.

“Anything broken?” she asked him, an edge to her voice, a complete one-eighty from the one she had used with Jason earlier.

He wiped off some blood that was trickling into his eye and shook his head, “No.”

She gave a short nod, reaching to hold on to Jason’s arm for balance as she stepped out of a shoe.

“Babe, I told you earlier that those six-inch monsters would be hell on your feet.” He steadied her with both hands on her waist.

“Yep,” she agreed, “but they’re gonna be worth it.” She looked down at Tommy again. “You sure nothing’s broken?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Great,” she purred. Her voice turned dark. “Well, now it’ll be.”

With that, she pulled her arm back and hurled a six-inch, two-pound platform stiletto straight at his face.

He let out a bloodcurdling howl as it landed with a sickening thwack on his nose. “Oh my GAWD! I theenk yew bwoke my dose! Crazy bitc–”

She aimed a savage kick at him with the other pointy-toed shoe still on her foot. “Don’t you dare!”

He squealed as it connected with his already bruised ribs.

“And how dare you” –kick!– “I never even let you” –kick!– “get to second friggin’ base!” she shouted, and swung her foot backwards, directing a particularly bloodthirsty one at his groin.

He barely had enough time to react sufficiently to pull himself out of harm’s way. As it was, it was Jason who managed to soften the blow when he hauled Kimberly backwards and off her feet so that she managed to make contact with only about thirty percent of the most valuable part of his anatomy.

He screamed nonetheless and she smiled down in vicious delight as he rolled face-ward onto the floor, one hand covering his nose and the other cradling his crotch.

“’Bout time you learn all your fancy-ass high kicks don’t mean squat if you can’t get them to land right.”

With a toss of her hair she straightened the silk of her white dress.

“And you can thank Jason that the Oliver dynasty may still have some hope of a future.” She turned up her nose at him and sniffed haughtily. “I’d have turned you into a goddamn eunuch.”

Hopping on one foot, she bent and grabbed her shoe from next to where he had curled up into a pathetic ball, noting with great satisfaction that it was stained with blood.

“You seem to really enjoy the sight of his blood,” Jason commented mildly.

She turned around and straightened, reaching up to touch her fingers to his lips. “He hurt you,” she said simply. “And you held back ‘cos you’re noble and honorable and wouldn’t throw him around like you could’ve.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug as a wicked glint came into her eye. “Me, on the other hand, I’ve no issues fighting dirty.”

He laughed and took her hand in his, tenderly threading their fingers together. “C'mon, it’s time for our first dance.”

She forgot about Tommy in an instant, turning to look into her new husband’s eyes. They were halfway across the room when she let go of his hand, turning around purposefully and reluctantly grabbed a napkin off one of the tables as she marched back to Tommy’s prostrate form.

He opened a baleful eye, and barely stopped himself from flinching as he heard the clack of her heels on the polished floor.

She crouched down and non-too-gently helped him sit up, and then held the crisp white napkin to his nose, watching in fascination as it turned a deep red.

“You know,” she said, “Jason might be able to forgive you one day, but it’ll be a long, long time if I ever do, Tommy.”

He snorted, then winced as more blood trickled out. “Why. Because I ruined your wedding day?”

Her hand clenched and she applied more force than necessary to the napkin against his broken nose. He gurgled and gasped and she smiled sweetly at him.

“You can never ruin my wedding day.” Her eyes found Jason’s and a million things passed between them in a single look. “I married that man. You’d never be able to take that away from me.”

She stood up with all the grace and dignity that being a gymnast bred into her, walking towards the future and the love of her life, without giving the man of her past behind her a second glance.

#mystories #MMPRfanfic #tommysucks

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likesomekindofcheese · 4 years

Note

HC request! Paulie x fem! Reader, when he’s late for a date!

Of course!

cw: mentions of smoking, drinking, and briefly death.

So you arrive at the restaurant, thanking the valet for looking after your car. Your heels click on the pavement as you look up at the yellow glow.

You don’t know how on earth Paul got a place like this and would manage to eat without the press or an army of fans on his tail, but the crystal chandeliers and the soft violin music from the back gave you a hint why.

You catch a glance of yourself in the mirror, you have done your hair up so that it was put in a sixties-style swirling bun (if it’s long enough), wore a beautiful red dress with a crinoline skirt and strappy sleeves, adorned with white heels, a pearl bracelet, small white gloves, and diamond earrings complete with makeup. You felt beautiful.

As you walked in, you asked the host, donned in a pressed white blouse and a black vest “I am here for a reservation for Y/L/N, has a young man arrived here yet?”

The host shook his head and said: “no, he is not here, but would you like to be led to your table?”

This surprises you. Paul is such a perfectionist you knew he would normally show up somewhere at least an hour early.

“Oh, uhm, sure” you say.

After a few minutes and a couple sips of water, you look around at the place fully. There are little booths, secluded. A soft, white-yellow glow radiates from the lights above. You smell the heavy perfume and cigar smoke from a few tables ahead of you. Women with necks dripped with jewels and men adjusted their ties and straightened their jackets.

After people watching, you realize Paul hasn’t shown up.

After you read through a white menu the size of your head, he still hasn’t shown up.

After the second reading of everything on the menu to pass the time with some mild amusement, from the martinis to the raspberry cheesecake’s in full or small sizes, there is still no sign.

Your head is reeling through the possibilities,

It’s not his fault, perhaps there is the traffic you think after you order an appetizer. You’re famished.

As the minutes pass the appetizer arrives, your imagination starts reeling.

He’s running away to Antarctica with ten groupies and going to join a murder cult you muse worriedly.

You take nimble bites, torn between your anxiety and disappointment and the rumble in your stomach that sometimes catches a snooty glare from old ladies draped in fur coats.

You are about to order a dinner for yourself with a drink to go with it when you feel a sudden hand on your shoulder in the midst of your menu perusing and almost shriek!

“Paul! What on earth-what is happening!” you ask him.

You then look at how handsome he looks: his hair is grown out some but still neat, and he is in a dark suit that makes his eyes shine bright and beautiful. Though his face is a little red and his chest huffs some.

“Oh, Y/N, please forgive me it was...it was my dad. He showed up and surprised me and I couldn’t just leave him, oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry” he pleads, he even takes your hands in his and kneels down almost.

A part of your brain wants to give him a good dressing down for not alerting you or to dress down his dad but then Paul blinks a lot and lowers his head and speaks a little softly.

“Y’know, today’s the anniversary of...me mother. She...she died this day, remember?”

Suddenly, your grip on his hands lighten.

“Paul...you’re right...I forgot I’m so sorry, it’s a hard day for you.”

So you both enjoy the appetizer and a light drink when an idea hits you.

“Paul...your father shouldn’t be alone on this day too, wanna bring this dinner over to him? He might need some food as therapy?”

He smiles brightly “nothin’ sounds better than that, Luv, and he’d be ‘appy to see yew.”

Taglist: @queenlover05

#carrie writes #paul mccartney #paul mccartne angst #paul mccartney fluff #paul mccartney x reader #paul mccartney x fem! reader #paul mccarntye x y/n #paul mccarntye x fem! y/n #paul mccartney x you

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