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cantuscorvi · 1 year

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[ Divinity ]

A small drabble from a few months ago that I found hanging around in my google docs and I decided to clean up. Set in mainverse, it's basically a memory of Raum's from a very long time ago.

“Chin up, pesar.”

A wooden sword parted the air in an unforgiving swat, and the demon growled, straightening his posture in response. A stone tablet, balanced precariously on his head, wobbled dangerously. “If you’re going to play at humanity while you’re here, you'd best be convincing. We need to kick your habit of hunching like a creature, Raim.”

“Do not call me pesar. I have always been senior to you by hundreds of–” Another swat at him and the demon gasped and teetered, trying not to drop the stone. To any onlooker, there were only two men – one older, one younger.

The older one scoffed.

“That may be, but you certainly haven’t matured much in the time since you left me, ‘ah?” The man spread his arms wide, his vermillion robe billowed behind him, his chest bare, brown and muscled – covered in hair and claimed with scars. “–Behold! I had counted fifteen summers last I saw you. Now I am a man. But you – you’re still a boy. And it shows, no matter what form you take. It’s that keeper of yours pressing you under his thumb again, isn’t it? Stifling your growth.”

“He is not stifling me. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”

Thwack. The wooden swords clashed and retreated. The tablet remained in balance.

Dark, bushy eyebrows raised in response. “Oh? Did you tell him you were coming here?”

“No.” Thwack.

“Ha!”

“–I do not need to tell him everything.” Thwack.

“Oh no, of course not, but he believes that you’re still in that City of Flames right now, doesn’t he?”

No response from the demon other than baring of teeth, and the man laughed at him in a booming sort of way, pointing the tip of his sword at the younger's expression.

“What a face! It’s not me you should be angry with, Daeva.” He gestured with a hand for the demon to come to him. “Come. Look here.” He pointed to the bronze mirror in the hallway, and Raum sighed and walked to him, tablet still balanced on his head. Once he was in in range Cyrus tutted at him and removed it, then took him by the shoulders to face the polished metal.

“Look. Look yourself in the eyes.” Raum did, looking past the unfamiliar human illusion of untamed dark hair and tanned skin and into his own ice blue gaze. “What do you see there?”

“...Myself,” he answered hesitantly, unsure of what the man was getting at. Cyrus nodded, squeezing his shoulders.

“Yes, yes. And him - do you see him?”

“Who? Malphas?”

Cyrus groaned in frustration. “Ai... no. Not Malfas. Him.” He poked Raum’s reflection in the mirror, the heat of his fingertip enough to smudge the coating and obscure the demon’s face. “The one you’re preparing to become. Your potential.”

Raum snorted, incredulous. “Who could ever see such a thing–”

The man tutted again and smacked Raum on the head, as though the demon were his unruly child.

“Who indeed? I, you fool! And you, soon. Your eyes are sharper than mine and they can see further ahead. It will become clear to you. Just wait, pesar.” Fed up at the way he was treated, Raum whirled on Cyrus and shoved him away with one hand.

His strength was such that it made the larger man stumble, even with little effort. Cyrus laughed, unbothered despite the wheeze it induced in his chest, rolling his shoulders.

“That’s the spirit!”

Raum hissed.

“I may consider you a friend but I will not allow you to mock me.” He turned, wrenching his shoulder out of Cyrus’ grasp, as if to leave. Cyrus sighed and dragged his palm over his beard, tone more serious than before.

“I do not mock you. I anticipate you. Just as I anticipate myself.” He set the tip of the wooden sword against the tiled ground with a thunk, both hands resting on the pommel. “You know what I see in myself when I look into that brass.”

Raum rolled his eyes like he’d heard it a thousand times, and didn't turn to face him. “A king.” He muttered.

“Yes! A king! And do you know what I see in you, Raim?”

Cyrus’ voice was jovial, but his eyes were burning holes on the demon’s back. Sincere.

“What.”

“Divine nature.”

It was the demon’s turn to laugh, the sound sharp and unfamiliar, a mocking rattle. “Divinity?” He spit the word like a curse. “Ah… this is what aging did to you. Yes, I see now. You’re now a man, wholly ridiculous and senile.”

Raum turned back to the mirror to look at his tentative human puppet, if anything just to escape the way Cyrus’ gaze followed him. He frowned when he met the man’s eyes over his shoulder, hating his knowing smile. The way he seemed so sure of himself - like he already knew all the secrets of the world.

“You wound me so. I’m not yet old enough to be senile and you know it.” Cyrus picked up the wooden sword and returned to his side, brandishing the weapon in a sweeping gesture.

“On the contrary – age has provided me with great clarity of vision. Scholars these days love to extol the virtues of divinity – and would see you solely as a force of malevolence. Most would call you unworthy of worship.” He tapped the wood against his own palm, punctuating the end of his sentence with the sound. “But not I. You are yet a Daeva. And – you'll make a fine man. Yes. You are a man. Aren’t you?”

Absolutely confused by the pace of Cyrus’ thoughts, Raum shook his head. Truth be told, he hadn’t really thought about it.

“I suppose I am.” Cyrus simply nodded at him, like he expected the answer.

“Of course you are. I saw you in the mirror. Now, guard up.”

He twirled the wooden sword in his grasp, offering Raum the duel again. Raum sighed at him, annoyed but undeniably curious about his vision. Knowing Cyrus, he would have to play the game to get it out of him. They resumed their positions, facing off.

“Then tell me, Kurus – which star are we under, this day?”

Cyrus inhaled, as if to continue his earlier poetical waxing, and then stopped, baffled in turn by Raum’s sudden change of topic.

“Why, Venant. You know it.”

A grin split the demon’s face, still so eerie on a human visage. He lunged forward with the wooden blade, taking advantage of the momentry lapse, and Cyrus stepped backward to avoid him. His spine met the wall and Raum stepped close enough to tuck the sword's edge under his bearded chin.

“One can only hope you’ll get to the point before Satevis is upon us.”

Cyrus dropped his weapon, grinned back.

“Ah, see. There you are.” He announced, with something like pride.

And then he planted his fist in Raum's face.

#( ;corvinum )#( ;fabulae )#filing this one under:#shit that probably makes zero sense to anyone but me.#but whatever. i want it here #i want more mainverse things here #regardless of how confusing they may or may not be lmao #embracing my own cringe and whatnot

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tinyjellyfishy · 4 years

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[Braids! Braids!!!.png]

I drew these all over the course of several months and it shows but I thought I should compile and post them since I won’t be using this program anymore, and also I really did like drawing the Aurora characters and their already fantastic hair done up all fancy

Characters and their fantastic hair from @comicaurora because it lives in my brain rent free go read it

#comicaurora #AuroraWebcomic #my art #digital art #Me @ myself: hey are you ever going to draw anything other than headshots with fancy hair?#me hunched over my tablet hissing: no!! NO!!!#i can draw One thing #precedent suggests I should @ the comic account but I always feel bad about it #like I feel like I'm running up to the front #throwing a brick through the window with my art attached to it in string #and then sprinting away really fast #it's a really specific feeling #aurora webcomic

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peachyteez · 3 years

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little wanderer ≫ DAY FIVE, THE MAN DRESSED IN BLACK.

this fellow stray cat hybrid has been hanging around jiyu’s condo for as long as he could remember, although jiyu may not have noticed him. the cold winter breeze and jiyu’s open bedroom window prompts him to sneak into her bedroom one night. it was just suppose to be one night, but the gods must’ve been smiling upon him.

PART OF THE HEAVEN SERIES.

✧ taglist: @defsoul15, @jaeminpeachy, @joongiebug, @sunsethw4, @t-tbinnie, @chanyeolol, @danibookmarks, @hello-its-ya-boi, @murralyn, @alienmashup, @panini, @moon8894, @koasworld, @taetae123094, @luv3rxcha, @treasure-hwa, @etherealbyeol, @hwaseongzzz, @lovely-sanie, @orbitiiny, @pirate-of-the-dark-seas, @babydolljo, @ms-starlight, @everrrlasting, @bls-luv-me, @atzgiggle, @arohabyeol, @rainbowmagicpixecorn, @soverystupid, @ayetothezee, @kingalls00, @sanstreasure0305, @sparklingmallow, @kpopnightingale, @rosesarethebest, @stillcantfindaproperusername, @bonbonhwa, @its-sarah-stark, @sanismybb, @frankenstein852, @peachseok, @woopetals, @exhofayemars, @pvrkacciosan, @c-sanshine

✧ notes: well this chapter took a turn 😭

✧ WARNING(S): mentions of misogyny, brief story of san attacking someone, a curse word (?)

back。| next。

if jiyu had a dollar for every time she had been woken up in the middle of the night in the past week—well, she wouldn’t be rich, but she’d have a substantial amount of pocket change.

“jiyu!” mingi whispered, gently shaking her out of her slumber. “wake up!”

groaning, she habitually scooted over to make room on the bed since mingi usually wandered into her room in the middle of the night due to nightmares. “just don’t take all the blanket—”

“no! this is urgent!” he frantically tried explaining. “i think someone’s trying to break in!”

her eyes instantly shot open and she immediately sat right up in bed. “mingi, why didn’t you just start with that?” she frantically whispered back, hurriedly slipping on a hoodie.

“i tried, but you kept grumbling!”

“okay, we’ll have this conversation again later. let’s just see if the others are awake.” slowly opening her bedroom door, she and mingi peeked their heads out to see if anyone was outside. while they didn’t see anyone, they heard footsteps and clutters out by the front door.

mingi clutched onto her hoodie as his eyes clamped shut out of terror and his ears were slumped down. jiyu took his hand in her’s and rubbed comforting circles on his knuckles. “shh, it’s okay mingi.”

while whispering to mingi, she noticed the others tip-toeing towards them as to not alert the perpetrator that they were awake. being the predator hybrids, seonghwa, hongjoong, and yeosang were on full alert. yunho scurried over to her and mingi, quietly whimpering, while san stood and frowned at the front door.

“i didn’t think they’d come so soon...” he mumbled once he caught whiff of the familiar human scent.

“was this the one that hurt you?” hongjoong whispered.

san nodded. “he works for my...old owners. i thought he stopped tracking me down a while ago until the other night.” he looked to the floor, guilt flashing across his features. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to drag you into my affairs—”

jiyu interrupted while holding onto yunho and mingi. “san, i’ve mentioned it before, we chose to help you, meaning we won’t abandon you even if we’re also pulled into danger. so don’t apologize, okay?”

seeing her small smile of reassurance, his guilt multiplied. but he couldn’t do anything about it now, so he just nodded while promising himself that he wouldn’t let a single hair on their heads get hurt. even if he would be the one to take the blunt of the pain.

“oi, choi san! i know you’re in there.”

they all froze at the unknown voice from the front door.

“why don’t you open the door and we can just talk this out like grown men?”

san climbed down the stairs and stood a distance away from the front door. seonghwa and hongjoong followed in case. “you beat me to a pulp the last time, and now you just want to talk? i don’t think so,” he hissed.

the person on the other side let out a low chuckle. “ah, apologies for that. although you and i both know that it’d be a shame if you were too badly...injured. they do want you alive and well, after all. i can’t kill you, san.”

a moment of silence passed as they all held their breaths, anticipating the next move. but much to their surprise, the person showed no signs of breaking down the front door and wreaking havoc.

“in all seriousness, san, i really did come to talk. no weapons, just to talk.”

“seonghwa,” jiyu whispered down to the wolf hybrid. “you can check the security camera over there,” she pointed to her tablet that was on the living room table. luckily, when they had first moved in, she had installed two security cameras, both so small to the human eye that anyone would just gloss over it.

“and again, what makes you think i’d believe you?” san asked, while watching the wolf hybrid from the corner of his eye. seonghwa pulled up the security footage to see a man wearing a long, black trench coat, and his face was obscured by a black fedora hat. he stood with his hands in his pockets, and his overall figure practically screamed danger.

suddenly, the man took out folded papers from his pockets and held it up—almost as if he knew they were watching him. “because i came with something that you’ve been after ever since you left.”

san’s eyes widened and his body froze. there’s no way—

“so what’s the move?” hongjoong asked to both san and jiyu.

judging from his reaction, jiyu had a hunch that whatever the unknown man brought was really important to san. she didn’t know what it was, but looking at the security footage, he didn’t seem like he was hiding anything. and his voice, she could be hearing things, but it seemed as if it held a tinge of remorse.

“carefully open the door,” she decided. “but don’t let your guard down.”

despite looking he had some objections, hongjoong and seonghwa carefully walked ahead of san, who was still frozen in spot, and cracked the door open. they both anticipated either gunshots or the person to come barging through them, but they both peeked out to see the man standing there patiently.

“oh? i see you made some friends,” he commented. “meaning...you’re taking refuge with another human?”

“try anything funny, i’ll make sure you never step out of here alive,” seonghwa snarled before opening the door wide enough for the man to come in. hongjoong stood eyed the man suspiciously, as he waltzed in, stopping in front of san.

with a better look at the man, they all noticed a mask that covered up to his eyes. the man was tall, but falling just a little short of yunho’s height, and he seemed to be in his mid-thirties or late-twenties.

despite being terrified out of there wits, and even though yeosang was standing protectively by them, mingi and yunho stood in front of jiyu, scared that the man would try to harm her. but their shaking didn’t go unnoticed from her. she held their hands, hoping it could comfort them.

“i see you’ve aged well,” the man noted, looking san up and down. “to be quite honest, i’m surprised you managed to survive out on the streets all these years. i—no we, were sure you’d give up and come back.”

“as if i’d ever go back,” san lowly, but firmly stood his ground.

the man smirked before taking a look around at each of them. “so where’s your little human friend?”

she stepped out from behind yunho and mingi before peering down over the railings. “what business do you have here?” with the exception of yunho and seonghwa, they were all surprised at her composed and level-headed state.

letting out a huff of disbelief, he started straight up at her. “i wasn’t expecting a woman.”

“hm, sorry to disappoint then,” she sneered.

she was used to the misogynistic treatment; even back at home, people always underestimated her abilities since she was a girl. she’s heard the comments, backhanded compliments, and seen the undermining looks as people doubted her. but she swore to prove them wrong one day, even though she took five years off.

“so again, what do you want here?”

the man chuckled again at her defensive tone before holding his hands up. “i come in peace, ma’am.”

“and for your own sake, i hope that’s true,” she bit back before coming down the stairs. she left mingi and yunho with yeosang. the man let out an airy chuckle before making himself comfortable on the couch, aware of seonghwa’s and hongjoong’s preying gaze on him.

“...did you really bring it?” san asked, not wanting to get his hopes up. this was the same man that hunted him down for years on end, yet he came here, claiming that he managed to retrieve the items san really wanted? it was near to impossible that he was telling the truth, but there was that sliver of hope.

bringing out the papers once again, the man laid it on the coffee table in front of him. “you can check for yourself. i may work for them, but i’m a man of my word.”

jiyu waltzed over and peered at the papers the man laid out. her eyebrows furrowed at the contents. his birth certificate and adoption forms?

coming up next to her, san stared at the forms with widened eyes. they were indeed what he had been after for the past few years, and the man really did bring it to him. so many questions ran through his head that he couldn’t even form a single sentence. the home was dropped into a tense silence, the only sound being the ticking of the clock above the dining table.

seconds turned into a minute before san could croak out a sentence, or rather, a question. “b-but, why—”

“i’ve had a lot of time—years—to think,” the man leaned back on the couch and stared up at san. “it’s pretty stupid and childish to chase you down for something that wasn’t even your fault, don’t you think?”

san was still cautious. “so you took these for me to do...what?”

“well, what do you think?” the man leaned forward, resting his arms in his lap.

jiyu’s eyes slightly widened with surprise. “you want to set him free, don’t you...”

“that’s one way of putting it, yes.”

“there’s a catch, there’s always a catch,” san sarcastically scoffed. “no way you’d give these to me for free after all these years—”

the man let out an exasperated sigh before leaning back on the couch and throwing his hands over his face. “oh my god, i ended my contract with them, you fucking idiot.”

san just silently stared at the man with the most comedic look on his face—widened eyes and his jaw slacked open like it was unhinged. meanwhile, jiyu just facepalmed at the revelation.

“now why didn’t you just open with that?” she grumbled. leaving out important information seemed to be the night’s theme.

“i thought i’d make it a little more fun. it’s not all that fun to just say my piece and go, now don’t you think?” the man mused before standing up. “my contract was ensued until i brought you back. i just told them a little white lie about how your trails went cold after a while so i just assumed you were dead. and poof, took these and left,” he gestured to the papers on the table.

“...will they still look for him though?” jiyu asked, unsure that they’d just give up looking for san just like that.

“probably not. they were one to never get their hands dirty anyways. especially since their daughter’s in the hospital—”

san tensed at the mention of hospital, something that certainly didn’t go unnoticed by the man. “so she doesn’t know, does she?” he referred to jiyu. “or all of them for that matter.” at some point along the way, yeosang, mingi, and yunho had joined them downstairs, yet they still stuck close to yeosang just in case things went downhill again.

san silently shook his head, mentally preparing for the worst when they found out about his sins.

“san here,” the man started, “is the one that put the family’s only daughter in the hospital.”

they glanced at san with the same thought. how did a cat hybrid manage to put a human in the hospital?

“to put it short, something provoked him to go feral, and he ended up attacking her until she almost bled out. we don’t know what provoked him to this day, but the family turned on him after that incident. and since he has no memories of the moments right before and when he was feral, it was hard for him to defend himself, so he ran away.”

taking a look at san, who looked like he just wanted to disappear, she felt her heart ache for him. he’s been alone for so long...all because of a potential misunderstanding.

“either way, i’m still the reason she’s been injured for so long. not only physically, but probably mentally, too. imagine the trauma from being attacked by a feral hybrid.” a deprecating chuckle escaped san’s lips.

seeing him look so down, she stroked his head. “hey, it wasn’t your fault. hybrids can’t help themselves when they go feral. it’s like you’re trapped out of your own body, so don’t blame yourself. you might have attacked her, but it wasn’t you.”

it was amazing to him how reassuring her words were, and how it was so easy for him to almost believe. there always will be that small part of him that will always blame himself for what happened, whether he liked it or not.

the man stood up and brushed his pants. “i believe i’ve overstayed my welcome, so i’ll take my leave now,” he bowed to the six of them. “and i apologize for the fright i might’ve caused.”

before the man could open the door to leave, san felt compelled to at least thank him for what he’s done. “wait! thank you...for everything...”

after a moment’s pause, the man turned around, and judging from how his eyes turned upward, it seemed as though he was smiling. “it was the least i could do after everything i’ve put you through the last few years. i’ll see you around, choi san.”

and with that, the man took his leave.

once he closed the door, he heard their muffled voices, most likely discussing san’s future. he smiled before looking up to the sky. “well now, where am i to go next?”

#9th member of ateez #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #ateez angst #choi san #choi san imagines #san imagines #san scenarios #ateez san #hybrid au #kpop hybrid au #ateez hybrid #hybrid!ateez #ateez au

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kechiwrites · 3 years

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tension headache

Ground Zero x Publicist!Reader

wc: 2.2k

“Being Ground Zero’s publicist comes with its own set of challenges, luckily there are quite a few benefits to sweeten the deal.” warnings: anal play, dirty talk, light degradation, light spanking, d/s undertones (or overtones w/e), bakugo being the king of bullies

author’s note: i’ve been writing this since august and it’s finally done. special thanks to @lady-bakuhoe, @some-kindofgnome, and @nightly-tales for betaing!

Your head is throbbing. The sort of building tension headache you became most familiar with in high school; the kind that starts in the morning and gets stronger with every little irritant. You’re sure it's a tension headache from having your shoulders hunched up to your ears most of the day, a seemingly ever-constant by-product of trying to keep Pro Hero Ground Zero from biting a journalism student's head off. The obscenely large TV hanging above the receptionist’s desk plays Ground Zero’s greatest hits on mute as your heels click-clack towards the steel and glass elevators.

It’s almost the end of his patrol and you know he’ll be up soon, sidekicks and assistants (two this month, because the first had the good sense to resign soon, lucky bastard) in tow. Four consecutive texts rattle your phone in your pocket to confirm this. Each one an iteration of “on our way up!.” Waving at his secretary, you let yourself into his office setting your purse on the floor. Further behind you can already hear the clamor of voices and activity that announces Ground Zero’s arrival, people no doubt scurrying out of his warpath lest they incur his wrath. He pushes open the heavy door and says nothing to acknowledge your presence.

Your forehead throbs with irritation at the snub. You know it’s only a matter of time before either of you begin to push the other’s buttons but your employer seems to have a secondary quirk he uses only for you.

You like to call it Extreme Irritation.

“Would it kill you to be nicer to the press?” You give first, sitting on the overstuffed leather couch pushed against the easternmost wall underneath a frankly, unnecessarily large, framed photo of U-A’s graduating class. “Why do you insist on making my job so hard?”

“Can’t pay you for fucking nothing,” he scoffs, leaning against the desk in the center of his office. Carefully he divests himself of his gauntlets, handing one to his senior assistant, and placing its twin onto the desk next to his big gaudy nameplate, muttering; “Take this to Yumikawa, I think I broke the fucking thing.” When he’s halfway past the threshold, Ground Zero adds, “And tell her to do better with her shitty paint jobs!” His gaze snaps to the newest recruit, a tiny shivering thing who looks like a stiff wind could blow her over, “What the fuck are you standing there for? Go with him! Do I have to fucking tell you everything?”

She practically leaves a dust cloud in her wake. You roll your eyes and begin reading through news updates on your tablet, nails clicking lightly against the screen. Tweet after tweet and article after article summarize Ground Zero’s latest exploit, every title and byline more sensational than the last.

“Ground Zero Overshadows Daring Rescue with Another Tirade!”

“Is Ground Zero the Meanest Pro-Hero Ever?!”

‘imagine ground zero calling you stupid 🥴 #imahole’

You could almost laugh if it weren’t for the startlingly large amount of retweets on that last one. Finally, the pro hero deigns to address you; “I did as you asked, I smiled, I laughed, I didn't blow anyone up.” He actually sounds proud. You blubber in shock. “You called the reporter a fuck wit! They can't even air that!” For good measure you hold up the tablet to replay a heavily edited fancam of Ground Zero sneering at some poor junior reporter. “Isn't that what you wanted? Less of my insults on TV?” He is so smug, it drives you crazy. “Not like that!” You toss the tablet onto the couch beside you and stand, stomping towards Bakugo, who’s leaning against his desk, clenching his jaw, arms crossed, as if he didn’t spend the entire morning making you wish you’d never laid eyes on him. The two of you are growing more and more irritated with each other and it’s evident in the rapidly rising volume of your conversation.

"I'm serious, if you want to be ‘Number One’,” you stress through your teeth, “people have to like you, at least a little bit. That. Includes. The. Press.” Every word is punctuated with a strong poke to his sternum, and you try to ignore the pain of jabbing your finger into his brick wall of a chest. It feels as though the pristine white collar of your button-up shirt is digging into your throat while you try to restrain yourself from biting his stupid, perfect nose off.

Now it’s Bakugo’s turn to roll his eyes, “People like me.” He looks to his sidekicks for confirmation and you pointedly ignore them bobbing their heads in unison.

“Who?! Who are these people that like you?”

Bakugo gestures wildy at his sidekicks, “They like me!”

“They’re afraid of you! They respect you but they don’t like you!” You shake your head in disbelief.

“You like me!” He barks at you.

You almost choke on your surprised laughter. He really was absolutely ridiculous.

“I have to like you, you pay me!”

“That’s right. I sign your cheques, you deal with all the media bullshit and make me look good.”

“You make it impossible for me!” If it weren’t for the intense tunnel vision your arguing was giving you, you would have seen Ground Zero’s sidekicks inching slowly towards the door.

“Well maybe you’re just shit at your job!” He turns away from you to push papers to the side of his desk, the gesture a clear dismissal that only serves to rile you further.

“Oh fucking bite me, Katsuki!” As soon as it’s out you slap your hands over your mouth, eyes wide as dinner plates.

You were exhausted and tense and so mad but it’s not what you agreed on, never at work and never in front of subordinates. In an instant it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. Bakugo’s expression is furious when he whirls on you. You chance a look over at his assistants and all colour has left their faces, ‘Impressive,’ you think idly, ‘Considering Haruto is literally purple.’

“Out. Now.” He growls, and his teeth are clenched together so hard you think they might shatter, his throat is rapidly turning red and his hands are clenching and unclenching around nothing. The sidekicks hesitate and you’re a little grateful for their loyalty.

“Fucking out. NOW!” He yells, and they nearly fall over each other trying to get out the door.

“And there goes the loyalty,” you murmur while you watch their hasty retreat. “I’m sorry,” you say, turning to face him head-on, apology punctuated with the slamming shut of his office door. You focus on the wall of windows behind him, the city skyline slowly lighting up in the nighttime, preparing for an infamous Ground Zero meltdown. “That was inappropriate, especially in front of subordinates.” Idly, you wonder what the theme this time will be; Disrespect? Insubordination? Or just a good old-fashioned dress down? He’d become quite wordy over the years, you were almost beginning to enjoy them.

While you muse Bakugou inches closer to you, cheeks a mottled red. His shoulders rise and fall repeatedly, like he’s bringing himself down from the peak of his anger. For a moment you think he’ll just outright scream in your face, but when he pulls you, first towards him and then past him until your stomach presses against his desk, you realize quickly what he’s planning.

His forearm presses against your back until you’re bent over his desk, your hands palm down between the wood and your chest to prevent your face meeting the cool oak. It’s bordering on humiliating how easy he can manipulate you. But they don’t teach hand to hand combat in the business sector, and although you’d toyed with the idea - being in a high-risk industry and all - you never put stock in seriously learning.

The blond’s hand snakes over your shoulder, slightly damp palm advancing until it’s pressed against the smooth flesh of your throat. Katsuki pulls you towards him this way, and for a short moment breathing is a laboured task. The other hand makes quick work of divesting you of your skirt and underwear, coming down in an instant to make contact with your bare ass. He rubs at it covetously, a shallow attempt at soothing your stinging skin.

There’s no formality when he thrusts into you, only a few seconds between feeling the head of his cock parting your embarrassingly slick folds and him being fully seated within you. You grit your teeth against a whine, fingers scrambling for purchase when he withdraws and fucks into you again, and then again, pace slowly gaining momentum until you can swear the heavy oak desk (and seriously that thing weighs a fucking ton) is shifting with the force. Your stomach presses painfully into the gilded metal decorating its edge but it’s good. Katsuki is so fucking good at taking you apart with every inch he drives into you. Above you he mutters lowly about how fucking wet you are, how eager you must’ve been all day, waiting for him to fill you. It goes on like this for a while, you bouncing between his hips and the desk, him whispering filthy, untrue shit in your ears that makes your nipples hard and your breathing shallow.

He places his free hand on your back, first up under your shirt, then slowly slides it down, until it’s resting on the roundness of your ass again. You don’t know what he’s planned till his thumb’s parted you, sliding softly over the clenched furl of muscle above your stretched open cunt.

“Bakugou, no!” you whisper hoarsely, your voice just edging on hysterical as you struggle against his hold.

“Excuse me?” He hisses between his teeth, thrusts not slowing for a second. The hand around your throat tightens and when he pulls you closer so his sneering mouth is brushing the shell of your ear, you unwillingly tighten around his dick in response.

“(Y/N),” his voice is almost pleasant, and had you not been split open on his cock in his office, you’d ask him who taught him an ‘interview voice’.

“Can you tell me who's name is on the building?” While he teases you, you can feel yourself getting wetter around him, thighs tensing and relaxing with the sensation of being spread open beneath him.

“Yours.” You wish you could fall through the fucking floor.

“I’m sorry?” His thumb presses a little more insistently against your pucker. The pressure is foreign, but not at all bad. Dear God, you’re really about to let him do this to you.

“Yours, sir.” You pant, the burning sensation in your cheeks and neck a mix of exertion and shame.

“Fucking say it,” Katsuki tightens his hold on your throat and your whimpers are barely audible over the sound of his hips brutally meeting your ass.

“G-Ground Zero.” you choke out through your clenched teeth.

“Oh good, so you can read!” Katsuki releases you from his hold and you fall forward. With every thrust, your feet lift off the floor, and you lurch forward like a ragdoll. Katsuki pushes his thumb further inside you, belly-laughing when you cry out in pleasure.

“Where’d all that resistance go, sweetheart?” His digit fucks in and out of you in tandem with his cock, keeping you full constantly. “You know what? Next time, I’m gonna take my time stretching you, keep you wide open, maybe you can wear a plug for me, huh? And then after you’ve been soft and needy all day, I’ll slide right into you, fuck you till you gape for me.”

You’re incapable of firing back, mouth occupied with moaning incoherently while you drool against the desk. Katsuki chokes off his own moan, using his unoccupied hand to hike up your leg so he can have easier access to your clit. The calloused pad of his fingertips press hard against you. He goes so slow, pushing and nudging at you until your entire body feels feverish and your climax takes you by surprise, forcing a yelp from your lips when your legs begin to shake.

“That’s it. Come for me. Come on my dick.” Once he’s sure you're done, he pulls his finger from your ass and releases your leg, blanketing your back with his chest. His hips are quick to lose their rhythm as he fills you, ropes of his spend coating your insides. Katsuki shudders against you, hands running a course along your hips. He pulls away, the evidence of your time together sliding down the inside of your thigh without Katsuki’s cock to hold it in.

“I’m going back to working for Hawks.” Your voice is hoarse when you can finally speak again and levering your chest up off the desk onto shaky knees only serves to make your head spin more. You glare at your boss your boyfriend as he dresses.

Katsuki’s grin is derisive while he tucks his softening dick away, “Like fuck, you love working for me way too much to work for that fuckin’ pretty boy.” He leans down in front of you and slides your underwear up from your ankles back into place, followed by your skirt before pressing soft lips to your forehead, smoothing his hands over your cheeks.

At least your headache is gone.

taglist: @enjifuckersupreme @pleasantanathema

#katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bnha x reader #bnha bakugo #bnha x you #ground zero #ground zero x reader #bnha ground zero #katsuki x reader #kechiwrites

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gumnut-logic · 3 years

Text

His Father’s Place

It’s past midnight again and I’m exhausted, but here is a little ficlet for all my Scotty friends :D

And yes, I have used the above photo yet again... sorry to be boring but it says sooooo much :D

Thank you to @tsarinatorment and @janetm74 for the read throughs. And thank you also to @scribbles97 who also read through the next bit of Callisto, which I now have to work over a bit more. So you get ficlet instead :D

I hope you enjoy this little thing.

-o-o-o-

Scott was fidgeting.

Virgil sighed as his brother tugged at his collar and set his tie askew for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Without a word, Virgil stepped in and straightened it again. It was a good tie. The flecks of bright blue in the deep midnight offset his brother’s eyes perfectly. Combined with the pale blue-grey shirt and the charcoal jacket, Scott was the epitome of the chief executive he needed to be.

On the outside at least.

John sat in the corner of the austere atrium, head buried in his tablet with a frown on his face. “It appears that they are making a move. Becket…it has to be Becket.” His space brother went quiet again, his deep blue-grey suit wrinkling as he hunched over, poking at his tablet. His frown deepened.

Scott tugged at his collar again.

Virgil sighed.

This day had to come. They had been falling towards it since the day they lost Dad.

Virgil swallowed. It hurt so much. A blink and a flex of his shoulders. Now was not the time for grief. They had already grieved, but now the world was demanding more.

And if they didn’t soldier up, the world might take everything from them.

With the loss of their father, confidence in the Tracy brand and business had plummeted. Sure, the great Jeff Tracy had five sons to carry his legacy.

But they were not the great Jeff Tracy.

It had fallen on Scott’s shoulders to rescue the family business, to show strength where there was grief. To show that the next generation was just as tough and determined as the previous one.

Part of Virgil wished they didn’t have to take this on. After all, International Rescue was enough. The three of them were stretched to the limit.

But Dad’s legacy was more. And they had to step up and be more.

Dad had been one.

How the hell had he managed it all by himself?

Virgil knew the answer, but it hurt.

The only way his father had been able to do what he did was by sacrificing everything else.

But now was not the time for bitterness.

“Scott, please stop doing that.” It hissed between Virgil’s teeth as he had to straighten his brother’s tie yet again.

His brother grunted, letting his shoulders drop. “I just want to get this over and done with.”

There was a snort that was suspiciously triumphant from John’s direction. The whispered ‘Gotcha’ only confirmed that suspicion.

“What are you doing?” An edgy Scott made for a cranky Scott.

“Not much. Just dishing a few just desserts.”

Virgil frowned, but Scott spun on his heel with a groan. Virgil grabbed his arm.

“Hey, you’ve got this.”

Blue eyes darted to him. Scott was known for his confidence and his ability to charm anyone on the planet. But Virgil knew that underneath all the bravado lay a lot of doubt and a damaged self-esteem.

It was circumstance, but was also upbringing.

Virgil dropped his voice lower. “Do you trust me?”

The frown he got for that was deserved. “Of course, I do, you know that.”

“Then trust me now. You’ve got this. We’re not going to lose Dad’s company. You’re going to walk in there and introduce them to Scott Tracy.”

His brother straightened just that bit more, broad shoulders filling out the suit jacket to its fullest.

Blue eyes glistened.

John slipped out of his seat and strode over to stand beside Scott. “Now’s the time. They think they’re about to succeed.” The smirk on John’s face pretty much negated that result.

Virgil drew back his eldest brother’s attention. “We’re Tracys, Scott. You’ve got John, you’ve got me and we’ve got you. They don’t stand a chance.” Virgil fixed his eyes on his brother’s desperate to hammer the message home. “Dad would be proud.”

That did it. Something sparked in the blue of his brother’s irises and his face settled into the more familiar commander Virgil knew in the field.

One last line under his breath. “You’ve got this.”

Scott held Virgil’s eyes a moment longer before he suddenly spun and stalked towards the double doors of the conference room.

Virgil and John hurried to catch up.

But it was with pride that Virgil stood beside his brother as he strode through those doors. Virgil was at his right, while John was at his left.

The three eldest Tracy brothers walked into the boardroom and it fell deathly silent.

Commander Tracy raised his head just a little, eyes scanning the room, eyeing business men and women alike.

“I’m Scott Tracy. I’m here to take my father’s place.”

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy #Virgil Tracy #John Tracy

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kookie-doughs · 3 years

Text

Beta Tester

Kozume Kenma X Reader

-YN LN is a popular mangaka

Chapter 14: Drubk

With everyone who took part in the bet waltzing towards the buffet table you were left alone with strangers.

As awkward as it is being stuck in this situation you couldn't be bothered as you've almost won 500 bucks.

"Not slowing down at all huh?" Atsumu smirked.

"Not until I get that 500 bucks, nu-uh." You replied downing your glass.

You've halfed your 2nd bottle already. The stooges had gone to find the largest champagne they could for your third and last.

As far as they know... You don't show slightest bit of drunken actions or slurs. Not that you do those. Like what Tendou and Akaashi said, when you're drunk you do something stupid once.

"I worry about you. Too much alcohol is said to be incredibly bad for one's health."

"I heard alcohol makes you fat..."

"Slow down a bit YN-San."

"I shouldn't have went here if you'll just barf everywhere."

The worried replies of the volleyball players(minus Atsumu) was ignored as you poured your last drop of your 2nd champagne bottle.

"Fucking hell... Those Lil shits better bring me my last one. Momma needs a new tablet!!"

Finally downing your last glass you stood up. Stretching you went to the tables on your left.

"Mr. Jisei, right?" You asked the man with messy black hair and petting a cat. He smiled seeing you and gave his cat to the girl beside him who sighed. The long haired male beside her started sneezing.

"Ms. L/N, congratulations to your game. The investment that Sakujo had begged was indeed worth it." He smiled.

The thought of Sakujo begging this man was permanent in your mind, good and bad reasons.

"I'm glad you think so." You nodded. "Jinko, it's nice to see you again."

"Likewise Y/N! By the way, this is Heiwa my wife!" She grinned pulling the girl with the cat beside her. The cat hopped from Heiwa and landed on the Korean male.

It was a mess, that you chose to get away from. With the silver haired actor's ruckus, you figured it's a hint to get away from them. And thought of food.

Greeting some people and thanking them for the "congratulations" they've said, you went back to your now empty table. Setting down the food you've gathered you sat alone at your table and started eating.

"Lonely..." You pouted.

Standing up you turned to the table on your right. Kenma, Goshiki's date and Kuroo's date were the only ones that remained at the table. Seeing the free spot beside Kenma, you brought your plate and sat beside him.

Kenma was hunched over focused on a game, most likey to be PPM. Feeling your pressence he turned to face you and grimaced.

Flipping Kenma off, you faced the two women. "Hey! I'm Y/N! I hope the party's to your liking!"

"Alisa Haiba, I came with Kuroo." The long haired girl smiled. "This is great! The food is amazing!"

"I know! Goshiki got seconds!" The other girl exclaimed. "I'm Maiko by the way! Maiko Yonezawa, I came with Goshiki."

You sighed and leaned on Kenma who pushed you away with a scowl.

"I came with this hermit." You frowned poking him.

"Y/N!!!" Kuroo came back holding three trays of food. "They have desserts! A lot! Holy shit this is the best place!"

"For me?" Alisa's eyes shown at the plates Kuroo held. "Hell no. Get your own. You got two hands don't you?" Alisa's face dropped. "Your date is also eating flounder at the buffet table not bothering to get out of there."

The two girls sighed and stood up to leave.

Kuroo winked at me, "I want desserts!"

Kenma glared at the rooster. "You haven't eaten your food yet."

"Your point?" He stood up and left.

Seeing that you were alone with Kenma you flopped beside him. "Kenmaaaaa..."

"Shut up."

"Kenmaaaaaaaaa..." Pulling him closer to you and making sure he won't be able to escape your grasp no matter how much he strugged.

With a frown he turned to you. "Let me go." He hissed.

"Pspsps..." You whispered petting his head.

"What the fuck? Stop it." He tried swating your hand away but failed. "Let me go! Stop it's annoying! Are you drunk or something?"

"No I am not drunk. I only drank champange you can't even smell a drop of alcohol from me, I am perfectly sober."

"Then let me go."

"You can still play..."

"No I can't let me go or I'll break your arms." He glared.

Looking at him you smirked. "You're cute when you're annoyed.

Without thinking you leaned closer and... "Chuu~~!" You wrapped your arms around his neck pulling him closer, his soft lips against yours. After a few minutes you pulled away proud of yourself.

Kenma sat there a frozen at his spot. His face slowly started heating up.

He stood up and left without words.

"Kenma not again!" With a groan you flopped on the table. "Friking...Pudding..."

"You ready for bottle 3?!" You turned behind and saw the friends who left you holding a champange bottle at least 2 liters large.

"Bring it bitch!" You smirked.

Sakujo set down a glass and Tendou poured.

"I wonder what stupid thing she'll do."

"I bet it's tea so hot that the media would want to buy it.

You've drank about 1/4 of your bottle. Kenma hadn't return since he left 30 minutes or so ago. As you were about to drink your glass. The sight and memory of Kenma and your kiss came. You spit out your drink at the now very disgusted Akaashi.

"What the fuck?" They all asked you.

With your face so red you ran to the bathroom.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Fuuuuuckkkkkkk meeeeee!! I can't write UwU.

Shit keeps getting worse. I'm just trying to get to the romance fast lmao

Who gon take u hom noe?

Guess ur walkin

-kookie-doughs

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @synx-ed @normalisthenewnorm @0majuh0 @leachann @nikanikabitch @almondeupeach @immxnty @mer-majesty @yamayoomi @simpingoveranime-men @lostmarimoismyhubby @mariishat

#Haikyuu!!#haikyuu-smau #Haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu kenma #kenma x reader #kenma smau #kozume kenma #Haikyuu smau #smau #hq smau #hq!!#hq #x reader

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maeve-writes · 3 years

Text

Little Red Corvette

Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky x Reader

Rating: 18+; Minors DNI

Warnings: Fluff, some angst, public sex, slight praise and daddy kink.

Summary: Bucky finds happiness in fixing up classic cars. He has his sights set on one in particular. When he can’t find it, you make it your mission to do whatever it takes to get it.

a/n: This is written for @buckyblues 4k Follower Challenge. (Congrats again!) I chose Little Red Corvette by Prince. Normally I’m inspired by lyrics, but the idea of Bucky in a sexy red two seater with a pretty lil’ thing next to him made me weak. I wanted this to be straight up smut but feelings got in the way.

This is not beta’d. Forgive any mistakes!

When Bucky came to terms with his new life, found some peace in a world without Soldat looming over his shoulder, he found solace in his tinkering. He would often take apart whatever technology he could find to see how it worked only to put it together again. It was therapeutic, a constant reminder that things were never broken for long, someone would always be there to fix it.

You were the one to piece him back together. Sam helped, too, of course, tightening any loose screws you may have missed, but you did all of the heavy lifting. You found out what made Bucky work, what parts needed replacing and you fixed him. He would never be the original James Barnes, but no one ever stayed the same, and you didn’t want him to be. You liked the man you woke up next to every morning, who blinked at you with sleep hazed eyes and pressed lazy kisses across your face. You loved the man that ravaged you at night, on any surface, buried as deep as he could go so he could become a part of you, to feel you against his soul.

While you found his tinkering irksome at times, especially when he would steal the coffee maker or microwave when you were in a rush to get to work and just need to zap fry breakfast and fill up your thermos, it was mostly endearing to see his nose scrunched up in concentration as he disassembled things with childlike fascination.

What broke you was when you flopped down on the couch with controller in hand and no console to receive its signal.

Storming into the garage, you slammed open the door to find him hunched over his work bench. “James,” you hissed through clenched teeth. You could see his muscle tense underneath the grey henley he had on, his breathing stilled. Only two women ever used that tone with him, one was his mother, the other was you, and he wasn’t sure which he was more afraid of. When he didn’t answer, you leaned against the door frame and glared at the large frame of his back. “Care to tell me where my PS5 is?”

His shoulder dropped slightly and he dared to look over it at you. Bucky had seen death, had seen war, had seen the near end of the universe itself and nothing made his blood run colder than the receiving end of your icy stare. “I’ll put it back together,” he offered. The grinding of your teeth made him flinch and he dropped his tools to cross the room and make things right.

It took two months to find a replacement for your beloved PlayStation. How could he have known how hard it was to find one in stock? Even when it came in and he hooked it back up for you, you still held out one more day before you finally caved and forgave him with a two day fuckfest that ended with a proposal that Bucky moved on from electronics to cars.

He took the suggestion and ran with it. The next day he and Sam went to the junkyard to find a good frame with potential and towed it back with that bright, genuine smile of his and an eagerness to get started. He spent days on the internet ordering parts, looking up facts on what modern modifications worked best, and watched video after video of reviews on classic sports cars.

You found him in the garage most nights when his dreams became too much and he didn’t want to wake you. Some nights you would bring him snacks with a kiss and leave him to his work. Other nights you would climb behind him on his bench, wrap your arms around his waist and sleep against his back. Either way, you allowed him to work because that’s what Bucky needed.

When he wasn’t off on a mission or wrapped up in you, he was researching cars or fixing them. After one was finished from the base up, he’d give it away or offer it to a charity auction, then start all over. He had his favorites, every “car guy” did, and he also had his white whale.

One night you felt him crawl up your body impressively hidden behind the spread of your book. You lifted a curious brow but before you could lower your novel, he shoved his tablet in your face as he took a seat on your thighs. “Every time I try to find one, someone snatches it away,” he told you, voice a little huffy as if he was seconds away from a tantrum.

“It can’t be that hard,” you tutted, tucking your book away to help him with his search. It turned out that it was incredibly hard to find any sort of form of his new obsession. Every post that either of you found had been sold or had a sale pending. Even body frames were hard to come by, much to your luck. “I’m sorry, babe, but we’ll find one soon.”

Bucky resigned himself to finding a filler car. While he was still enthusiastic about fixing up something new, you could tell his heart was set on it - the 1965 Corvette Convertible, specifically, Rally Red in color. There wasn’t much that your man asked for in life, even though it owed him so much, so for him to yearn for one thing so much and not be able to obtain it, it upset you.

So, you were going to make it happen.

You spent your days working as usual and your nights searching for his coveted car. Your browser was filled with tabs, each watching car auctions, only to be outbid on all of them. Frustrated, you flipped on your VPN, opened up your TOR browser and dipped into the dark web to dig deeper. It wasn’t your first time going through back channels to get what you wanted and it wouldn’t be your last. If it would make Bucky happy, it would be worth the risk.

Two weeks later you told Bucky you would be working later than usual. You had been playing up a huge project at work and the deadline was coming closer. He, of course, hated when you were out past dark without him, but he never vocalized his concerns because he knew the bite he would receive in return. You could take care of yourself, he knew that, but he would still worry because that was his job.

You took an Uber from work to meet the seller at the small airport on the edge of the city. The man was from Germany and specialized in vintage cars; if he didn’t have one you wanted, he’d find one for a hefty price, of course. But any amount was worth your man’s happiness, at least that’s what you tell yourself as you held the small bag of cash in your hand as you crossed the airfield.

Sitting outside what you assumed to be a private jet was the cherry red two seater, top already down and looking as beautiful as the picture you saw online. Yeah, it was going to be worth every penny. “Jonas,” you asked as you approached the man standing cross armed next to the car. He towered over you by at least a full foot and a half and was just as wide. His dark eyes watched you approach, a curious flint sparked in them.

“Yes. You are early,” he noted. He held out a beefy hand and you placed the money in it. “Not one for pleasantries, hmm?” His laughter echoed across the runway and you offered him an amused smile. “Your man is a lucky one.” His other hand was held out, this time with the keys to the car. “For you to meet a complete stranger in the middle of the night, it is dangerous, no?”

You narrowed your gaze and lifted a brow. It seemed your look was enough of an answer because Jonas gave you another laugh. “A woman of very little words, I like you. We will do business again, yes?” It was a statement rather than a question. “Enjoy.”

He swept an arm toward the driver seat and you slid inside. With a turn of the key, the car purred to life and a smile grew on your face. You revved the engine twice, nodded to the man a few feet away before you sped towards your house to give Bucky his gift.

When you got home, he wasn’t there. You found a note left on the kitchen counter: Beers with Sam. -B

Normally you wouldn’t mind him going out because you were happy that he would be even willing to leave the house, but to only leave a note and not text you seemed worrisome.

You pushed any more negative thoughts out of your mind and headed to take a shower. By the time you got out and headed back to the kitchen to make yourself a quick sandwich, Bucky was home, sitting on the counter and watching you. “Hey, handsome, how’s Sam?” You leaned up to kiss him, but it wasn’t returned. “Something wrong?”

“You weren’t at work,” Bucky said evenly. “We stopped by to grab you dinner and you weren’t there.”

Your skin heated and you sighed. “Bucky, I can explain-“

He cut you off with a dismissive wave of his metal hand. “Don’t bother. If you’re seein’ someone else, you can just tell me.”

You recoiled like he slapped you across the face. “James,” you snapped, which caused him to tense up, “I would never, ever even dream of being with anyone but you.” You forced your way between his legs and cupped his face in your hands to make him look at you. “You are all that I want and no one will ever compare to you. Don’t ever say that again, okay? You’ll break my heart.”

He didn’t say anything, not for a few minutes, and neither did you. All he could do was stare into your eyes and see the truth in them. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay, I know why you did,” you assured him and pressed another kiss to his lips, this time you received one in response. “Now, can I tell you why I wasn’t at work?” He nodded once, a tiny glint of worry still lingering in his eyes. “Well, I’d rather show you.”

You stepped away from the counter and pulled him along with you. With his hand in yours, you led him to the garage and flipped on the light with a, “Ta-da!”

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed as he let go of you and stumbled into the room towards the car, all of the fear, worry and angst melting away instantly. “How did you-“ You pinched your forefinger and thumb together and twisted them in front of your pursed lips. He rolled his eyes but smiled and gestured to the driver seat.

“All yours, handsome,” you winked and hit the button to open the garage door.

He shook his head and patted the seat next to him, “You’re comin’ with me.” When you protested saying you were in your night clothes, he waved it off. “We’re just goin’ for a drive, sweetheart, nothin’ to dress up for.” You joined him with a reluctant sigh and flopped into the passenger seat.

When the key turned and the engine purred, Bucky let out a pornographic moan. You turned to him, brow perked. “Sweetheart,” he rasped, “you have no idea what this car does to me.” Your eyes flickered to the quickly growing bulge in his jeans before his deep chuckle caught your attention, “Or maybe you do.”

He reached over to pinch your chin between two metal fingers before crashing his lips against your own. His tongue fought its way inside of your mouth and licked sinfully against the roof of it. “Buckle up,” he whispered against the gasp you released as he sat back.

Lightheaded, you did as instructed and watched him adjust the mirrors and lights before he pulled out of the garage and sped down the driveway and through the neighborhood. His face was bright in the evening light, his smile outshone the moon. “You’re gorgeous,” you told him breathlessly, and you would have most likely not been heard over the wind whipping around you by any other person, but your super soldier caught every syllable and flushed at the compliment.

He took your hand into his and brought it to his lips, kissing each knuckle before it came to rest on his thigh. You could feel the happiness radiating off of him, seeping into your own pores and filling you up until your lips turned up into a matching smile. “What’re you thinkin’ about,” he asked you, flicking his attention from the road to you and back again.

“You,” you replied, “always you.”

The smile on his face grew and he squeezed your hand once more. He found a new happy place, one outside of your shared home, one not between your legs. It was there, in that car, racing free down the open road with his best girl in the seat next to him. “I’m thinkin’ about you, too,” he said as his hand guided yours towards his lap.

“Mr. Barnes,” you gasped playfully but allowed him to rest your hand against his tented jeans, “we can’t do this, it’s sinful.”

“Live a little, darlin’,” he played along, forcing you to squeeze him which caused him to groan.

You pinned your bottom lip between your teeth and rubbed at him over his clothes, feeling the heat of his arousal coming off him in burning waves. Your fingers worked open the button of his pants and with a little maneuvering, you were able to fish out his cock, hard and thick, violently red and dripping with need. His hiss as it hit the cool air caused you to jump back for a moment, but his needy whimper drew you back again. “I swear to god, Bucky, if you crash and kill me, I’m going to haunt you,” you warned him.

He blinked, taken aback by the rather brash statement, about to ask what you meant by that but you were already unbuckled, bent forward and taking him into your mouth. “Oh fuck,” he groaned, metal hand gripping the steering wheel tight enough to pop the stitching on the leather coating.

Your tongue swirled around his tip, gathering what leaked out before you flattened your tongue and took more of him in. He was thick and long, hard to take all at once, but you had learned from many hours of practice just how to get all of his glorious cock down your throat. Your hands worked what wasn’t wet with your tongue yet as you bobbed up to suck on his head and relax your jaw. “Feels like heaven, sweetheart,” he cooed above you, his free hand bundling up your hair to keep it out of the way. “Fuck, your mouth works my cock so good.”

Delighted at his praise, you hummed in return that sent sparks to his core. You took more of him in, nearly all of him, with your cheeks hallowed and your tongue dancing along his skin. More praise fell from his lips, encouraging words and filthy promises, you almost forgot you’re in the car until the tires started to hit the bumps along the white line - an indication that Bucky was veering off of the road.

You pulled off of him much to his disappointment and saw that he parked along the side of the road. “What’re you doing,” you asked, wiping your spit away with the back of your hand.

“You told me not to crash,” he shrugged and undid his seatbelt. “Now get over here and ride Daddy’s cock.”

The words hit you dead center and you nearly collapsed from how weak and needy they made you. “We seriously can’t do this, Buck, anyone can come by and see.”

“That’s livin’, darlin,” he replied. His flesh hand wrapped around his cock and started to pull on it, staring at you with half lidded eyes and a groan rumbled in his throat. “Are you gonna just sit there and stare or are you gonna enjoy the ride?”

Absently, you licked your lips and watched his hand work himself and honestly felt a little jealous of it. That was your cock, it was your responsibility to make it feel good. Thoughts of getting caught and thrown in jail over public indecency were thrown out of the window and you crawled over to him, losing your sleep shorts on your way over.

“No panties? That’s my good girl,” Bucky grinned, his hand moved from himself to your hips as you climbed into his lap. “Been thinkin’ about this pretty pussy all day.” He hungrily licked his lips and reached between your bodies to run his fingers through your folds, drawing a gasp from you. “Absolutely soakin’, hm? Been thinkin’ about me, too?”

You nodded, your pussy clenching around nothing as Bucky’s fingers teasingly danced around your hole. “Daddy,” you whined, desperate for any sort of attention, “please?”

“What do you need, sweetheart,” he purred, his thumb ghosting over your clit as your slick began to run down your thighs.

“You, Daddy,” you answered, hoping that was enough. “All of you. Only you.”

Bucky seemed to be happy with that and slid two thick fingers inside of you. “Such a greedy little pussy,” he hummed, slowly pulling them out again as you whined above him. “You need to be filled, don’t you, baby? My fingers won’t be enough.”

Your teeth dug into your bottom lip once more, threatening to draw blood, when you shook your head in response. “Need your cock,” you told him. “Please.”

“Always askin’ so nicely, sweetness, how could I deny you?” He twisted his fingers inside you one last time before he held himself steady so you could line up. “Sink down on Daddy’s cock like a good girl.”

You steadied yourself with one hand on the headrest of his seat and the other was used to guide his tip towards your core. Once he slipped inside, your hand shot up to grip at his shirt as you lowered yourself with satisfied moan which was nearly drowned out by Bucky’s. “Too big,” you sighed, seated and feeling stretched and full.

“But you’re takin’ it, darlin’,” he smiled up at you, his skin flushed and covered in a thin layer of sweat. “You’re doing so good.” You preened at his compliment and returned his smile. “You move when you’re ready.”

You took the time to adjust to angle and his size, leaning down to exchange a lazy kiss. When you parted for air, you shifted your weight to wrap your arms around his neck and raised your hips to slide up his cock only to slam back down with a moan.

“Is that how you’re gonna to play it, sweetheart,” he asked breathlessly. When you replied with the same harsh roll of your hips, Bucky growled and his hands found your hips. You could feel the bite of his grip against your bone, you knew the bruises it would bring in the morning, but it would be worth it. “Can’t have a nice, slow fuck in the car, can we? My girl needs it hard and rough.”

He shifted his legs to plant his feet firmly on the floor of the car and started to meet your hips with a harsh snap of his own. Delighted at the feral snarl that curled his lips, you increased your speed, bouncing on his thick thighs as he fucked up into you, a growl erupting from him with each meeting of your hips. “Yes,” you gasped, “that’s it, Daddy. Just like that.”

“Yeah, I know how my dirty little girl likes it,” he grunted over the sound of your skin slapping and your slick sex sucking him in. “I can hear how much she likes it.”

Your head fell forward as he pounded up into you, the lewd squeak of the seat joined the chorus of your moans. “So close,” you told him.

But he already knew by the way you fluttered around him, coaxing him toward his own end. His metal hand left your hip and moved between you to seek out your swollen bud. “Gonna cum for me, good girl,” he asked. You tried to answer, tried to nod, but the way his hips shoved up into you and the cool metal against your heated sex that rubbed desperately at your clit was far too much.

A delicious snap came from within you and spread a white hot fire throughout your body. You came with his name on your lips, a desperate, holy cry. And he wasn’t far behind, a few hard thrusts and he spilled into you, whispering praise and adoration.

You stayed joined until the mess between your legs became itchy and the bugs started to swarm from the sweat on your bodies. “Best mill and half I’ve ever spent,” you sighed happily, lifting off of his lap.

“Wait, how much?!”

#bucky barnes x read #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #buckyblues 4k challenge

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Text

Morning After

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family Characters: Gordon, Scott

A part two/sequel to my fluffember fic Night Out. Not properly proof read and will probably go through some revisions before I archive it, but two Tracys, two hangovers, and one bed! Fluff time~

The first thing Gordon noticed upon awaking was that he was very much not alone in bed. A warm body was pressed up against him, arm draped over his chest in a quite frankly too tight embrace for sleep and the steady in and out of warm breath fluttered against his neck. Brain addled with sleep, he couldn’t identify who they were – surely Lady Penelope wouldn’t be quite so heavy, not that they were anywhere near the sleeping in the same bed stage of any relationship – and attempted to pull away.

That was scuppered by the fact that not only did his mysterious bedfellow have him pinned with the arm across his chest, but that his own arm was trapped beneath their body and was entirely dead because whoever they were was heavy.

Resorting to actually opening his eyes – and wincing at the light streaming in through the windows (was it that late already, and ow how much had he drunk last night?) – he squinted in the direction of his shoulder, where their head was pressed, to see dark brown hair.

Oh, yeah. Now he remembered.

After the absolute disaster that had been the end of their night out, he and Parker had all but dragged Scott to bed, where they’d determined that yes, he was concussed but it really was only minor and most of his behaviour was just because he was drunk. Gordon, as the responsible and caring little brother, had still decided it would be a good idea to spend the night with him, just in case. The bed was plenty big enough for both of them, so what was the problem?

The problem, he was now discovering, was that a drunk Scott was a cuddly Scott, and at some point during the night, Gordon had been relegated to plushie status.

Scowling, he prodded his brother’s cheek.

“Wake up, Scott,” he grumbled. Scott was typically a light sleeper – like Gordon – and woke up at dawn (like Gordon). Also like Gordon, he appeared to have lost both of those traits that morning. Instead of snapping awake, instantly alert, and getting off, Scott grumbled something unintelligible and tightened his grip. Damn alcohol. Why had they thought going out drinking was a good idea?

Well, the evening had been fun until Stool-Bastard decided to ruin it.

“Scoooooooott,” he groaned, jabbing his older brother again. It was even less effective than his first attempt, and he frowned. It was probably just the alcohol, but at the same time he was concussed, even if only mildly. “Scott!”

Whether it was simply a case of third time’s the charm, or if the change of tone had alerted Scott’s inner Smother Hen, that got a slightly more awake groan.

“Shuddup,” Scott grumbled. “Tw’early.”

“I’m fairly sure this is a lie-in by your standards, bro,” Gordon commented, nudging him again and making a fresh attempt to free himself from his brother’s hold. “Are you going to let go any time soon? Nature’s calling and all that.”

The noise he got in response was a clear protest.

“Scott, I love you, bro, but I’m not your plushie or your girlfriend. Or boyfriend, for that matter.”

“Mhrr?”

Honestly, if Gordon wasn’t mildly concerned about the concussion, this would be quite amusing. He’d never seen Scott this clingy in his life and the potential blackmail was stacking up with every passing second.

(He made a mental note to drink with him more often, as long as there were no Stool-Bastards around to concuss his brother.)

“Scott. Bro. Let go.” He punctuated the words with another, fiercer, escape attempt. It was enough to dislodge Scott’s head from his shoulder – or would have been, if Gordon hadn’t realised the danger and caught it. Counter-productive to his freedom, but he wasn’t risking that concussion with anything, even just a fall onto the pillow. “Scott, I will yell for Parker and then everyone will know there’s a cuddle monster in there.”

“M’nster?” Scott mumbled. “Wha’ m’nster, Grds? ‘Sno m’nster.”

“So you are listening to me! Sort of.” Gordon sighed loudly and dramatically, because he really did need to breathe, thank you, Scott. “There is a monster and it’s called Scott Carpenter Tracy, so if he would wake up properly and let a squid breathe it would be much appreciated.”

“’M ‘wake,” his brother protested, sounding about as far from awake as it was possible to be.

“Yeah, no,” Gordon said flatly. “This is not awake. And I really, really, need you to wake up, Scott.”

Right now, the only thing separating Scott from early morning Virgil was the lack of growling. It would be fantastic blackmail if it wasn’t so worrying. Gentle persuasion was clearly not working, and Gordon needed to be sure this was just typical hungover Scott and not a sign that the concussion was worse than they’d thought.

He pinched Scott’s cheek. Hard.

“Ow!” The arm that had been pinning Gordon’s chest moved, hand coming to rub at the abused cheek. “Gordon, what the hell?”

In answer, Gordon tugged at the arm still pinned under his brother, and swallowed a cry of victory when Scott shifted enough for him to reclaim it. Pins and needles immediately sparked to life in his previously numb arm, and he hissed.

Scott’s arm wrapped back around him, although not quite so tightly, and he groaned.

“Are you still drunk, Scott?”

The negative response was muffled by his neck – because apparently Scott hadn’t moved his head at all. “Hungover,” his brother continued, sounding less than pleased about that fact. “And concussed.”

Well, if he could recognise that, it definitely couldn’t have been too serious.

Doing his best to ignore the buzzing pins and needles in his arm – success on that front was minimal – Gordon ran his hand lightly over the back of Scott’s head, where he’d been hit. Scott made a quiet noise of protest but didn’t pull away.

“So hungover Scott is as much of a cuddle monster as drunk Scott?” he queried.

“Shuddup.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he chirped. “But seriously, bro, you need to let go now, okay?”

There was a pause, and Gordon could see the moment Scott realised he was being clingy by the way his spine stiffened. A split second later, his brother was rolling off of his shoulder and releasing him.

Not one to be caught a second time, Gordon immediately sat up and regretted it as his head reminded him that he too had been drinking the previous evening, and just because he’d snapped into something vaguely responsible when Scott was attacked didn’t mean the alcohol had miraculously vanished.

A quiet groan later, and he stumbled his way out of the bed. Nature really was calling, after all, and he ignored his brother’s mumbled attempt at his name – enough concern seeping into his voice that Gordon was confident it was just Smother Hen attempting to appear – to answer.

Scott was still in bed when he returned, now face down in the pillows and looking about as pathetic as Gordon had ever seen him. Wincing at the mild throbbing in his own head, Gordon made his way over and perched on the bed.

“How’s the head?” he asked.

Scott’s answering groan was closer to a whine. Gordon took that as a cue to lean over and take a closer look, only for his hands to be batted away by a disgruntled Scott, who then pulled another pillow over the top of his head in a move much more reminiscent of Alan.

“Don’t do that,” Gordon scolded, tugging it back. “You’ll suffocate yourself.” Scott made another wordless noise of protest.

Hungover Scott was, Gordon was discovering, a priceless source of entertainment.

“Fine, I won’t touch,” he promised, setting the pillow down out of Scott’s immediate reach. “How about I call Parker and get him to bring up some water?”

He could certainly do with some.

“’ff til shuddyup,” Scott mumbled into the pillow. Gordon took that as a yes and pressed the call button.

Parker materialised in the doorway so quickly he could well have been waiting there. In his hands was a tray, carrying a pitcher of water and two plain glass tumblers. To Gordon’s delight, there was also-

“h’Aspirin, for your ‘angovers.” Parker eyed both of them with what Gordon hoped was amusement and not disapproval. “Mr Scott, ‘ow h’are you feeling?”

He got the same groan of misery Gordon had been awarded earlier. Parker’s expression changed to something that looked fondly sympathetic; Gordon would love to know what Scott had done to get himself in Parker’s soft spot.

The tray was put down in Gordon’s reach, and he took the hint to help himself as the butler perched on the other side of the bed, hand lightly on Scott’s shoulder.

“Come h’on, Mr Scott,” he coaxed. “h’If you sit h’up, there’s water and h’aspirin.”

Scott grumbled but, miraculously, moved. He first pushed himself over onto his side, and then collapsed the rest of the way onto his back. Clearly, his spatial awareness was still offline, because the manoeuvre put him awkwardly draped over Gordon’s hip.

“Up you get,” Gordon encouraged, using the leverage to slip an arm underneath his brother’s shoulders and nudge him. From behind an arm, blue eyes shot him a baleful glare.

Still, Scott reluctantly obeyed, dragging himself upright and hunching forwards with another groan.

“Drink.” Gordon pressed a glass of water into his brother’s hand.

He wasn’t sure Scott had ever obeyed him without complaint before, rescues notwithstanding. It was a little bizarre to see his older brother promptly raise the glass to his lips and take a gulp without so much as a disapproving look.

While Gordon was for the moment content to uphold his agreement not to touch, he did find himself peering closely at the back of Scott’s head as he wrapped his arm around his back to support him.

Nothing seemed wrong, although he was willing to bet it was throbbing something awful, especially combined with the hangover. To help, he slipped a dose of aspirin into Scott’s hand, and watched the tablets get swallowed down with as much eagerness as his brother had shown for anything since they’d woken up.

Satisfied for the moment that Scott was handled, he continued his own drink, enjoying the bliss of his own aspirin as it began to take the edge off the headache he was attempting to ignore. Parker, bless the man, had made sure the curtains were closed, preventing the worst of the sun from assaulting his eyes, and with a bit of shuffling, he relocated until he was leaning against the head of the bed.

The sudden appearance of brown in his periphery as a weight settled on his shoulder was thoroughly unexpected.

“Scott?” he asked, looking across to see his brother had joined him and was apparently trying to mimic the previous night by using him as a pillow.

“Shuddup, Gordon,” Scott grumbled, but didn’t pull his head back or make any attempt to straighten from his slumped posture.

Oh, there was so much blackmail to be had here. Gordon reminded himself that he wanted to go out again with Scott, to see what he was like without the concussion messing things up. Just… maybe later.

After his head stopped complaining about last night.

He must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he knew, there were low voices in conversation and a click of a camera.

Dragging open eyes he didn’t remember closing, there was something blue and green and-

Uh oh.

“That makes one of you awake.”

Virgil sounded amused, at least. Gordon yawned, but found himself unable to stretch. Something was weighing down his left side, and as he glanced across he saw a shock of brown bedhead.

Huh, how had he missed that earlier?

And when had Virgil turned up? He wasn’t supposed to be picking them up until late afternoon.

“You’re early,” he accused, trying to escape pillow-duty and finding that his arm had at some point wrapped around Scott’s waist, holding him close.

“I’m not.” Virgil came closer, amusement fading to concern as he reached for Scott’s head and gently probed with his fingers. Parker had told him, then. “You two slept the whole day away.”

Scott grumbled discontentedly and burrowed further into Gordon’s shoulder, away from Virgil’s investigations. Their medic brother was not so easily deterred, however, and a subconscious hand trying to bat him away was instead captured and passed to Gordon to restrain.

“How is he?” Gordon asked, obediently clasping his brother’s wrist to stop him pushing Virgil away. He was fairly confident that Scott was fine, but Virgil was undeniably better at diagnoses.

“Stubbornly thick-headed,” Virgil concluded after another few moments. Blue eyes opened a crack, and the wrist in Gordon’s grip tugged harder. Virgil, ever attuned to their biggest brother, immediately swooped in with a penlight, which Scott grumbled loudly about. “Should clear up in the next day or two. Welcome back to the land of the living, Scott.”

“Did you have to shine that in my eye the moment I woke up?” their big brother complained, sounding much more like himself again.

Virgil was thoroughly unrepentant.

“Get dressed, you two,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”

“Already?” Scott winced, dragging himself upright and raising a hand to the side of his head. “Urgh.”

“It’s late afternoon, as agreed,” Virgil informed him. “Don’t worry, you’ve got another forty-eight hours of downtime to go.” He eyed them both, and Gordon realised that despite Scott raising his head they were still rather tangled together. “I’ll meet you in the drawing room when you’re ready. Don’t go back to sleep.”

“F.A.B.,” Gordon chirped, unwinding his arm from around Scott’s waist as his older brother peeled himself away from him.

One more assessing look from warm brown eyes – mostly focused Scott’s way – and Virgil left the room.

“Well, I’d say that’s time to move,” Gordon quipped once the door shut, leaving the two of them alone. “You good to get up?”

“I’m fine,” Scott retorted, inelegantly clambering off the large bed and narrowly avoiding face-planting the floor. There was the stubborn big brother Gordon knew. “Get dressed, Gordon.”

Gordon eyed him as he regained his balance and headed for his packed bag, before concluding that Scott was probably stubborn enough to not fall over. As the Creighton-Ward Manor was far from small, he himself had his own room, which was where his bag was waiting for him, so with one last assessing look at his big brother, he slipped out to get his stuff.

Scott was no doubt expecting him to go downstairs to join Virgil and Lady Penelope once he was presentable – and on any other occasion, Gordon would be doing exactly that, especially as he’d managed to sleep the day away instead of spending it with Lady Penelope as planned – but he was still concerned about Scott, so with his bag slung over his shoulder he returned to his brother’s room.

His brother was dressed and attempting to tame his bedhead when he walked in, pot of gel on the vanity table as he glowered at the mirror. Of course, Scott couldn’t possibly be seen with a hair out of place. Gordon rolled his eyes as his brother’s reflection winced, fingers obviously catching the origin of his concussion.

“Sit down,” he ordered. Scott jumped, apparently having missed him coming up behind him despite looking in the mirror.

“Gordon?”

“That’s me, bro.” Gordon hooked a foot around the stool and yanked it behind Scott before putting a hand on his shoulder and pressing down. “Sit.”

“What do you want?” Scott didn’t budge, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve barely started,” Gordon rebuked, flicking a particularly flyaway section of hair. “Virgil won’t wait forever, you know.” He put both his hands on Scott’s shoulders and pushed again. His brother reluctantly sank down onto the seat.

“Gordon, what are you doing?” Scott demanded. Gordon let his bag fall to the lushly carpeted floor and scooped up the hair gel.

“Doing your hair.”

“What?” His brother swivelled around sharply, before wincing. Gordon rolled his eyes again and gently prodded him into facing forwards again.

“You can watch what I’m doing in the mirror,” he reminded him, running his fingers lightly through his brother’s bedhead. At least part of it was obviously caused by using his shoulder as a pillow.

Blue eyes locked with his suspiciously via the mirror. He grinned at them.

“Relax, Scott,” he soothed. “I’m not going to do anything you wouldn’t.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d decided to take over his brother’s hair-care routine, except Scott had looked like he was going to fall over the way he’d been standing, and maybe he was still worried.

“You’d better not,” his brother threatened, which was also a surrender and permission. Gordon ran his fingers through a few more times, catching the flyaway strands and reminding them where they usually settled before scooping some gel out of the pot to work into the brown hair.

It wasn’t quite up to Scott’s usual standards, because Gordon wasn’t Scott and didn’t usually use so much hair gel – and also because no matter how gentle he was, Scott still flinched when his fingers brushed where he’d been bashed. Still, it was a pretty good attempt, if he did say so himself, and Scott wasn’t voicing any complaints.

Then again, Scott was probably surprised Gordon had done as promised and not added any twists to the hairstyle. Another time, maybe.

“All done,” he declared, after one last time running his fingers through. Scott squinted at the mirror, touching his hair lightly, before passing judgement.

“It’ll do.”

Coming from Scott, that was suspiciously high praise. Gordon eyed him as he pulled himself to his feet.

“You okay, bro?” he asked.

“Fine.” The response was so fast it had to be automatic, but Scott made no move to retract it. Instead, he reclaimed the pot of hair gel and tossed it in his bag. Gordon stooped to retrieve his own, slinging it over one shoulder. “Best not to keep Virgil waiting, otherwise he’ll come see what’s taking us so long.”

He wasn’t wrong. Gordon was somewhat surprised their brother hadn’t already returned to check up on them. He said as much, and Scott gave a grimaced smile.

Big brother could dish the smothering, but he wasn’t so good at taking it.

“I’m fine,” he said, despite the fact they both knew his head was still hurting him. Scott shouldered his bag and headed towards the door, only to pause and wrap an arm around Gordon’s shoulders in a clear half-hug. “But thanks for looking out for me last night.”

The words were accompanied by a smile, and Gordon reached out to squeeze him back.

“What else was I supposed to do?” he asked, only half-joking. “You’re my brother. I get dibs on messing with you, not some drunk down the pub.”

Scott huffed out a laugh. “Love you, too, little brother. Now we need to find Virgil before he starts worrying.”

As though he thought he’d ever stopped. Still, Gordon grinned. “Let’s get you home, big brother.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #gordon tracy #scott tracy #aloysius parker #virgil tracy #fluffember #tsari writes fanfiction #thunderfluff

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buckypcrker · 3 years

Text

mission as usual // i love y'all 3000 challenge

hi everyone! this is a submission for @pagesoflauren's i love y'all 3000 challenge. i saw this come up on my dash and figured i would do a prompt (or two, maybe). i haven't written anything in quite a bit, and the inspiration may as well have slapped me in the face. here is the link to her original post!

pairing: Clint Barton x James "Bucky" Barnes [WinterHawk]

warnings: hurt/comfort, possible fluff overload, typical canon violence

prompt: "Who did this to you?"

word count: 1.5k

Mission As Usual

After most Avengers missions the tower became chaotic. The brisk footfalls of new agents discussing upcoming missions. Stark's R&D engineers tweaking and updating weapons and transportation vehicles. The medical staff taking care of patients and preparing for those who would be coming from other missions.

You could say that the Avengers were a kind of group who believed in self-sacrifice — even if it was a subconscious effort — and the worst of the bunch had to be one-Clint Barton.

Clint had this streak of consecutive medical visits post-mission going — he was currently weighing in at 62, and that's not counting the various clumsy accidents he gets into in the tower.

But the only problem he truly faced was getting past his mother-hen of a boyfriend. Bucky meant well, truly. He just can't help it when he gets his Sargent voice going and telling Clint to "be more careful".

"He was like this with me when we were kids", Steve had laughed, "glad to see that hasn't changed."

The only difference is Steve Rogers was the most sickly kid in all of Brooklyn, hell, all of New York and Clint was just a huge, self-sacrificing klutz.

Missions with just himself and Natasha were rare nowadays. They hung out all the time in the tower regardless, but there was nothing quite as special when they got to team up against HYDRA or former members of the Red Room.

Half the time that they were out in the field they were back to back watching each other's six. Clint's bow always drawn tight with an arrow and Natasha's batons buzzing in her hands. No one worked quite as in sync as the two of them, well, unless you look at Steve and Sam Wilson.

Their mission this time was tracking down a rogue HYDRA agent who escaped their grasp during their last roll in the mud with the whole team. Seemed simple enough. In, out, get the guy, interrogate, and have time to catch a new episode of The Blacklist.

As most injuries to the Avengers happen, one minute Clint was in a Mexican stand off with the HYDRA agent, Natasha coming up from behind, and the next his face was slammed down onto the asphalt.

His ears were ringing, head throbbing. There's another one, he must've called backup. Clint slowly pushed himself up to his knee, blood trickling down his temple. He flung his head around, seeing his attacker coming back for another blow.

Clint ducked under his leg that was out to kick him and snatched a knife from his boot, swiping at the back of the man's knee. A hiss sounds above him as the agent joins Clint on his knees, slamming his knee hard into his stomach.

All of the air that was in his lungs rushes out, and he's sitting hunched over, suffocating, and trying to regain his breath. "I'm supposed to be watching Nat's six", he thinks.

He finally returns to his feet, wheezing but breathing better than he was. His and Nat's grunts are heard as they continue to fight the HYDRA agents. In due time, Clint knocks out the agent by kneeing him in the head and Nat had apprehended the other.

"Alright Squad Four come in for clean up." Nat says briskly into comms.

Two quinjets land, and suddenly the steps Clint needs to take to get to them seem so impossible. Thankfully, Natasha comes up next to him and helps him to bear his own weight. Bless her and her red head.

A few SHIELD agents rush out of the first quinjet armed and with handcuffs to apprehend the HYDRA agents. The second one that Nat leads him towards has a pilot and a few medical techs to give them a basic once over before Bruce and Dr. Cho can get to them at the tower.

The flight from their mission site to the tower pass by in a total blur. Clint is fading in and out of consciousness, his head is throbbing, and everything hurts.

"Mr. Barton, sorry to interrupt," one of the med techs signs, "your hearing aids were damaged during the fight, Mr. Stark is going to have to make some new ones for you."

"Aw hearing aids, no." Clint says slurred and he knows he's a bit loud due to not being able to hear himself.

Landing at the tower winds up being more of an affair than usual. With Clint's lack of hearing, he had no clue what was happening. Lips were impossible to read as hurried conversations occurred around him.

Of course, Bruce and Dr. Cho tried to gang up on him and force him onto a gurney, hell, at least a wheelchair to wheel him to an exam room. As the sharpshooter does, he makes a big stink with slurred words and glassy eyes.

Natasha had pushed him into a wheelchair anyway.

Clint really just wanted to crawl into a vent and hide until he felt better — and maybe pop a few ibuprofen tablets too. But there he was, post-checkup with Bruce, sitting on the counter in the communal kitchen.

As with most of Clint's now 63 consecutive medical visits, bandaids were on multiple parts of his face. He was also sporting some nice bruises on his stomach and temple where his head had been slammed into the ground.

He looked and felt like he was hit by a truck filled with 17 elephants, and then ran over by a train. Ok, maybe he was getting a bit dramatic now.

Nonetheless, he was sitting with Natasha, Tony, and Peter — this new spider-child that he swears Tony picked up off the street and he has to stop calling him 'Mr. Hawkeye, sir'. His injuries were on full display, only because after having to cut Clint's shirt off to give him that once over Bruce didn't even want to try and get a shirt back on the poor man.

"You know, I know I'm an asshole, but you look like shit, Legolas." Tony snarks as his hands move quickly.

"Thanks, Tony. You are so sweet to get me a glass of water." Clint pulled this master guilt-tripping look that always got to Tony and like their game always goes, the short man retrieved what Clint wanted.

And that sure put a large grin on his face. Ow, it hurt... damn bruises. It also helped when he saw Peter laughing and the shaking of Nat's head as she sipped from a wine glass.

Everything was finally settling down, and as he got sucked into a tough game of Angry Birds on his phone, he was stunned at the sudden movements in his periphery.

Looking up — and completely missing his shot with the bird that was simultaneously a bomb — he saw Bucky rushing at him, pressing into his space between his legs. Words were tumbling out of his mouth but Clint couldn't begin to comprehend them. Too much, too fast.

"Buck, no aids, they broke." Clint signs quickly.

He watches Bucky's face change from concerned and kicked puppy to an angry scowl and back in two seconds. His metal hand reaches to cup Clint's cheek, the archer immediately pressing into his hold.

"Who did this to you?" Bucky signs with his other hand, face serious.

"HYDRA agent. Thought there was one, turns out it was two." Clint sighs in exhaustion.

Clint watches as his boyfriend looks him over, grimacing at the bruising and the bandages covering him. He knows Bucky worries when he goes on missions without having him as a backup, and this just further proved that.

He watches as Bucky turns to Tony and say something, but Clint doesn't bother to try and follow along to the conversation. He looks to Steve and Sam, both dressed in their running gear, the sweat on their brows, and they share a knowing look.

Clint was about to be put on bed arrest by one Bucky Barnes. So much to his plan of hiding out in the vents.

He watches Sam mouth 'Buck, overreacting again', and shakes his head with a fond smile. As much of a pain he was when Clint was hurt, he found it very endearing. At times when Clint had been injured way worse, Bucky had helped him into a warm bath to soothe his aches and pains, massaging his scalp, and rambling to him about his day.

Bucky taps Clint's knee twice, their signal to pay attention so they can see each other signing, he looks up into his steely blue eyes and catches a small smile on his face.

"How many now?" Bucky signs with a smirk.

"63, and counting!"

"Stop that Clint Frances."

"You did not just middle name me."

"Hm, whatcha gon' do about it doll?" Bucky smirks, signing something vaguely inappropriate as their friends had cleared out the room to give them privacy.

"Nothing. Although, I could use some good ole Bucky-bear cuddles." Clint smiled softly, looking at his boyfriend lovingly.

"Of course, I'm always going to take care of you. No matter what."

Even with Bucky's overprotective nature, Clint still couldn't help but blush at the affection from his boyfriend. He knew he still had to face the upcoming Sergeant speech, but in that moment, nothing else really mattered as he sat in Bucky's arms.

#winterhawk #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x clint barton #clint barton #bucky barnes fan fic #clint barton fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #buckypcrker #ap.fic #i love y'all 3000 challenge #pagesoflauren3000challenge

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kazmirone · 3 years

Text

obikin rough draft fic excerpt (abo)

Here, have some tattooed omega!Obi-Wan. Someday I will fill it out and complete it. Maybe, lol.

Oh, and in case you didn’t catch it in the post title, this is A/B/O. There’s nothing explicit in this excerpt, though.

It's not that Anakin's looking, alright.

But when Obi-Wan strips off his under-tunic after their lengthy sparring session, Anakin's attention is possibly a little bit more drawn to the movement than it should be.

And it’s why he spots the mark on Obi-Wan’s flushed skin. The mark is palm-sized, a murky whorl of sooty, ashen color blossoming across his ribs too nicely to be a bruise.

"I didn’t know you had tattoos,” Anakin says, gesturing to the blooming color there.

Obi-Wan follows his hand movement and lifts up his arm to look at the space below it. “I - don’t.”

"Is it contagious?" Ahsoka asks, once Obi-Wan's returned from the Halls of Healing. "Because Rex said you can catch a fungus if you don't wear shoes in the showers."

“Ahsoka,” Anakin says.

“No, young one. I don’t think it’s contagious,” Obi-Wan patiently answers.

“Is it because you’re an omega?” Ahsoka asks.

“Ahsoka!” Anakin hisses.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Obi-Wan says, bemused, then draws a small datapad from his robes. “At any rate, Healer Che asked me to monitor the condition with daily stills.”

Anakin frowns, and he’s fixed on the tablet in Obi-Wan’s hand when the terrible, horrible offer just spills right out of his terrible, horrible mouth, “I could help you. Take the stills, I mean. It’s in a weird spot, so it might be hard to get the angle right.”

Obi-Wan stares at him, and Ahsoka does, too, and this is how it starts.

Day 1

“No changes,” Anakin says.

Obi-Wan snorts, tugging his tunic back into place and taking the datapad from Anakin’s hands. “It’s been less than a day since the onset.”

He follows Obi-Wan out of the ‘fresher and into the small living space. It’s a lot neater these days, now that Anakin’s moved out and taken his mess with him. His scent, too.

Now, Obi-Wan’s scent permeates every inch of the place, fresh and clean and undeniably omega. Something in him – a little ugly, a little primal – is urging him to leave his mark, run his hands over every surface and claim this place as his own, again.

He doesn’t, of course. Obi-Wan would pitch a fit. But if Anakin maybe smooths the tips of his fingers down the front door as he leaves, well, what’s the harm in that.

Day 4

Obi-Wan frowns. “Does it look darker to you?”

Anakin leans over his shoulder and peers down at the datapad in Obi-Wan’s hands, where a procession of images is pulled up on its screen. He shrugs. “Not really?”

Day 9

“I’m not sure how to say this--” Anakin starts, watching from the door as Obi-Wan fold ups his tunic and sets it near the sink.

“Then you should just say it,” Obi-Wan says.

“--I think it’s spreading,” Anakin finishes.

Obi-Wan stills, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Are you quite sure?”

Anakin brushes his elbow, directing him, and Obi-Wan lifts up his arm to a horizontal plane. The position, they’ve found, least distorts the shape of the mark. He regards it, the dark smudge on Obi-Wan’s pale, muscled flesh.

Before, he could have covered it up entirely with his palm. Anakin holds his hand over the mark, not touching but close enough to feel whisper soft vellus hair when Obi-Wan pulls in a particularly deep breath.

Now, the cloud of black and gray has extended well past his fingertips, blossoming across the side of Obi-Wan’s ribcage, creeping towards the front of his body.

“Well?” Obi-Wan asks, above him.

Anakin straightens up. “It’s definitely spread.”

“And your method of measurement was what, your hand?” Obi-Wan asks, mildly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Anakin shoots back. “Did you have a ruler laying around?”

Day 13

“You look terrible,” he says, breezing into Obi-Wan’s quarters.

Obi-Wan sighs, close behind him, and Anakin can feel the heat of it brush the back of his neck.

Day 14

“Oh,” Anakin says, when the door opens.

The scent of oncoming heat is unmistakable, and it’s overpowering, and it hits him with enough force to send him shuffling back a step.

If Obi-Wan had looked terrible yesterday, he looks even worse today. There are deep shadows under his eyes, his hair limp across his brow, and his clothes are damp with sweat.

“It’s best we didn’t today,” Obi-Wan says, finally.

“Right,” Anakin says, voice rough like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Is - can I get you anything before I go?”

Obi-Wan smiles tightly. “No, thank you, Anakin. I will see you in a few days.”

Anakin doesn’t even get the chance to say goodbye before the door is sliding shut in his face. It sends a billowing waft of something that feels like, well, like untouched, unmated, unprotected, into the hallway, and Anakin holds his breath while he walks away.

Day 15

Obi-Wan will be livid if he finds out, Anakin thinks, as he slips the glove off his right hand and steps up to the door, sometime in the dark, early hours of the morning.

He runs both hands – organic and prosthetic – over every surface of the door’s control panel. The transparisteel display screen, the durasteel plating, the rubber-padded plastoid buttons, even the sharp edges where the box itself is bracketed to the wall.

After he’s satisfied with the way his scent has shrouded the doorway, he pulls his glove back on and leaves.

Day 21

“Master Obi-Wan is here!”

Anakin rolls his shoulders to ease the achiness there. He’s been hunched over his mechnoarm for the last hour, at least, trying to reconnect a fragile strand of loose wiring.

“Having trouble?” Obi-Wan asks.

He glances up from the needle-nose pliers lodged in his wrist. Obi-Wan looks better, well-rested, he supposes, and a lot less…sweaty. “It’s fine,” he says. “Just give me a minute, then we can go do the thing.”

Obi-Wan takes the seat across from him, brow raised. “The thing?”

“The picture thing,” Anakin tacks on.

“About that,” Obi-Wan says. “I think we ought to do the thing, as you say, here, for the time being. My quarters – well –”

“Your quarters, what?” Anakin asks. “Smell bad?”

“Yes, Anakin, my quarters smell bad.”

“I guarantee they don’t smell as bad as you think they do,” Anakin says, just to push him, just a bit.

Day 28

Obi-Wan touches little in their quarters and never stays long enough to leave much of a trace, but it must leave something. Ahsoka’s nose crinkles every time she walks through the door.

Day 32

“Well,” Anakin says, powering down the datapad and setting it on the cluttered sink. “I took five stills this time. To get everything.”

Obi-Wan exhales. He moves away from Anakin, then, and reaches for his tunic. The movement twists and pulls at the grayscale whorls spiraling out over his side, down his abdomen, and his entire left pectoral.

Faint, fine lines and the lightest shading spill out across his skin around the edges of the marking, but it’ll be swallowed up by darker color soon enough, if this thing keeps up, keeps spreading.

As it stands, it’s a hair’s breadth away from the cleft of his spine, and Anakin watches the muscled flex of his back as Obi-Wan slides his tunic back over his head.

Anakin’s known from the start that Obi-Wan sends off the holostills to Master Che every day-cycle. What she does with them – or doesn’t do with them, since it’s not like she’s figured it out yet – really isn’t Anakin’s business.

So he is well aware he’s not the only one to see the monochrome tendrils creeping across Obi-Wan’s skin. And, he realizes in a numb but sudden sort of way, it bothers him utterly that there are others who do.

The feeling makes itself known when Anakin happens across Che and Jocasta Nu and Nu’s padawan in the library later that afternoon, grouped around a computer terminal, studying his still of Obi-Wan’s body.

“Exquisite,” Nu says, and her gnarled finger raises up to trace across the screen one of the swooping lines on Obi-Wan’s right oblique. “Simply exquisite. I have never seen anything like it.”

Che sighs. “Nor have I. That is the problem.”

“I shall begin my research straight away, Vokara,” Nu says, resolved. “You will keep me apprised of any changes to Master Kenobi’s condition?”

“Of course. Thank you, Master Nu.”

The old librarian turns to her padawan, then. “And what do you make of this, boy?”

The boy shrugs, edging closer to the screen. “No clue. It’s pretty, though.”

Hidden away in the shadows of a towering bookstack, Anakin bites hard into the spongy flesh of his cheek, prosthetic knuckles whirring from the strain of his tightening fist.

Day 35

It’s been two weeks since Obi-Wan’s heat ended, more than enough time for the scent of it to air out and fade away. Still, Anakin leaves Obi-Wan’s quarters with the urge to claw out of his own skin.

Day 40

“Knight Skywalker.”

“Master Che,” he replies, scowling at her retreating back as the healer glides down the hall and out of sight.

“There’s been a development,” Obi-Wan says.

Anakin meets Obi-Wan’s flinty blue gaze. “I’m guessing it’s not a good one, then.”

Day 42

The markings on Obi-Wan’s legs are even more remarkable the third day he sees them.

A couple days ago, the lines had been faint, like the lightest press of graphite on a piece of flimsi. The markings had barely shown up in the stills he’d taken, and he’d had to mess with the datapad settings before Obi-Wan had sent them off to Master Che.

Today, though.

Today, the lines are the deepest shade of black, heavy and wide. They curve in on one another, then cleave apart, and splinter off into webs of thinner, still defined lines. From the curl of Obi-Wan’s toes to the knobby bones of his ankles and kneecaps, all the way up to the mid-center of his thighs, he is covered.

It’s so unlike the chaotic, celestial explosions swallowing up the surfaces of his torso and back. There’s a pattern here in these new markings, maze-like in their design. They’re mirror images, or pretty damn close, on Obi-Wan’s right and left legs.

“And this all appeared overnight?” Anakin asks, a little breathless.

“Essentially,” Obi-Wan says, eventually. “Are we finished?”

Obi-Wan shifts where he’s prone on the couch, and the hard muscles in his calves flutter and bulge, just a fraction of a second, really, but Anakin notices, crouched at Obi-Wan’s side and entirely too close.

Anakin’s brain stutters for a moment. “What?”

“The pictures, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. “Are we done?”

“Oh.” Anakin looks down at the glowing datapad, lax in his grip.

#obikin #my fic #tw: a/b/o #wip excerpt

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

Text

À la Carter

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Rating: T Word Count: 1572

Summary: Even when she’s helping Sam, Sharon has her own agenda.

Sharon’s fingers tap. They spread and pinch, manipulating the scale and definition of Riga’s rooftops. When she feels like she must be zeroing in, she stops, straightens from where she’s been leaning over the screen of her tablet.

She tosses back a swallow of her drink, a flinch around her eyes as the alcohol stings her cut lip. It had been a while since she’d had to fight her way out of a tight corner (or configuration of shipping containers), before Sam, Bucky, and their pet baron showed up in Madripoor. Her tongue prods the cut.

Her satellite access came through, like she knew it would, and John Walker’s no needle in a haystack. On her screen, he’ll be displayed as TRACKER 01, but his position might as well be stamped with the shield—that symbol of justice and virtue and treachery and regret and whatever else the thing stands for these days. She’s a little behind on American public perception when she only feels very loosely American herself. An expat snagged on the last unravelling thread of her former country’s flag.

Another sip, another wince, is punishment in advance. Sharon’s about to do what she does in this new life of hers: take her cut. Her deal with Sam is going to develop a deviation he doesn’t know about. It’ll be seamless, wasting very little of anyone’s time, a detour on the streets of Riga; the view lies between her forearms, resting on the glass surface of the table.

She likes Sam, likes him a lot. The patience and problem-solving in his eyes that say he’s actually listening. The way he looks without his shirt. His persistent trustworthiness when trust is something Sharon thought she no longer dealt in. No giving it out and no inviting it. People don’t just trust her here. That’s why she has hired security. But she’s already expecting Sam to follow through on his end of their deal and sort out her little being-labelled-an-enemy-of-the-state issue, so she’s committed to helping him. The instinct to is annoyingly natural.

Here’s the wrinkle in their verbal contract: the job’s personal. Sam and Bucky are aware of that, she’s certain, and she wonders if they’ve considered that she might be too. It isn’t about her freedom of travel between countries or the do-gooder urge—which Sam in particular appears to overflow with—to ensure Zemo is once again caught and held to account. It’s a Steve thing. She’s heard a lot of rumours (there’s one circulating in High Town at the moment, that Steve is on Mars, building the bones of Elon Musk’s Martian colony in exchange for a couple billion dollars and, presumably, his own self-respect), and it hurts that she can’t dispel any of them, even to herself. Sharon doesn’t know what happened to him. All she knows is that there’s a new guy slinging his arm through the straps of Steve’s old shield and that she doesn’t really feel as casual about it as she might’ve led Sam and Bucky to believe when she mentioned Walker to them. She’s angry. Because she looks at New Cap and wonders what it was all for.

She drums her fingers on the tabletop.

With a deep breath, Sharon touches the screen again. Now swiping intently, she finds TRACKER 01, AKA John Walker. She pulls her phone towards her because she should call Sam to tell him the location. And she will. What she’s going to do first is just for herself.

Hacking into Walker’s comms is surgical and effortless, not requiring payment or bartering like the satellite access, just the skills she keeps honed. Sharon enables a moderate vocal distorter and slides into the ‘secure’ channel. She’s determined to keep her anger and bitterness out of this side-mission, but with nowhere else to go, resentment climbs the back of her neck as an uncomfortable, spreading heat.

“Hey, John.”

“Who is this?” his voice snaps at the other end of the line.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Sharon tilts back in her chair until she can prop the heels of her boots on the table, posture perfectly at ease as she goads him. “Do you prefer ‘John’ or ‘Captain America’?”

“Who are you? A fan?”

Well, she has to laugh at that.

“Um, yeah,” she gushes, channeling the preteen goddaughter she might’ve had if she were living a life where she could make real friends and have neighbours instead of hosting underground art auctions and sniping hostiles from an open window while two idiots from her old life sprint past on the street below. “Is this the Captain America Hotline?”

“Let me tell you, you are seconds away from being located and identified by the U.S. government,” Walker threatens. At least he’s smart enough not to hold on to his fan theory any longer.

“At ease, Cap. I’m not doing any harm.”

“What you’re doing is something incredibly foolish and you will reap the consequences.”

“It’s been a few seconds,” Sharon taunts. “Either the government’s found me and they don’t want to rudely interrupt our conversation or my capabilities exceed theirs. Which one do you think it is?”

“What do you want.”

It comes out flat and hard.

“No more warnings? You’re not going to try to brute-force your way to the conclusion of your choosing?”

“That isn’t always the best method.”

“Something tells me somebody taught you a lesson recently,” Sharon observes, crossing her ankles and rocking her feet side to side on the table. “How bad were you humbled?”

“I went up against the Dora Milaje.”

“So you really got your ass handed to you. I’m surprised you’d be so forthcoming about that. Stiff-upper-lipped soldier type.”

“I figure you could find that information if you really wanted it.”

“You’re being generous then? Saving me time?”

“I just want you to get the fuck off this line.”

“Back to business then,” she says.

She can hear Walker’s breathing change, from a heavy pant to the sound of him clearly trying to control it. Less background noise too, like maybe he just entered a building. She assumes he’s trying to be stealthy. That means he’s either sneaking up on the Flag-Smashers or fears they’re sneaking up on him. It’s almost time to quit toying with New Cap and alert Sam so he can soar in, kick a few asses, maybe save a life. While she goes back to drinking alone in High Town, knowing Madripoor is beginning to tear itself to bloody shreds with so many sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” Walker repeats.

“To tell you I wouldn’t have minded calling you ‘Captain America.’” Sharon shrugs for her own benefit. “It’s just a name, and yet… I think it’s going to bother you. Realizing that you won’t live up to it, I mean.”

“You’re pathetic.”

His breathing’s a little harsher again. He might be climbing a flight of stairs.

“John Walker, I almost feel sorry for you,” she says. “I might if you came off as less of an asshole.”

“Don’t waste your condescension on me. I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

She laughs at him.

“That’s ridiculous. What sort of man agrees to be Captain America when someone as incredible as Sam Wilson has just given up the shield? When the world doesn’t need to close their eyes to picture Steve Rogers still standing behind it? Walker, you stepped into a shadow that was still fading because you were too vain to miss your opportunity. Well now that shadow’s never going to fade,” Sharon hisses at him, her feet hitting the floor as she hunches forward, studying the orange tracker. “You think you’re standing in the sun, but you’re not. And it’s only going to get darker for you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” His voice is hushed, but the tone is arrogant.

“I’m sure you will. You’ll take them without any regard for anyone around you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lectures. “I’m helping—”

“Of course you’ll say you’re helping people when, really, you can’t see past the larger-than-life persona you borrowed like a rental tux. It’s never going to fit, John. While you’re watching yourself, all those people are seeing the guy in the ill-fitting suit, the guy who thought he was going to pick up that shield and turn into Steve Rogers. You’ve got one thing in common with Steve: a name that would be forgettable without the actions you attach to it. Soon, you’re going to wish you really were that forgettable, but it’ll be too late. The world will be watching.”

Sharon closes the connection and throws herself back into her seat, slapping her phone to the table, almost too hard. She rubs her temple and mindlessly watches the tracker flicker back and forth; Walker must be moving around the building more rapidly without her in his ear to distract him. She could’ve done worse, gotten him discovered by the Flag-Smashers, gotten him shot. That’s further than she’s willing to go though because Sam’s given her this pesky sense of hope that her life won’t always have the blinding lustre of destruction. The high shine of a speeding car, the glint of the sun peeking past Icarus’s silhouette. It’s time to let Walker destroy himself.

And, because he must think he can get in the way of that and mitigate the fallout, it’s time to call Sam.

#my writing #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #Sharon Carter #John Walker

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chokemeanakin · 4 years

Text

Anakin Skywalker x Sick gn Reader Being a Dipshit

Summary: Reader has a cold and Anakin takes care of her despite the fact that she literally goes looking for trouble

masterlist

Read it on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24711994

You’ve never truly hated yourself until this moment.

You’re a capable individual, you know this. Living in the Jedi’s world during an intergalactic war was no easy ride, and you’d come to adapt to their hectic way of life. Through trials and tribulations, no matter how dangerous, exhausting, or mentally scarring, you’d always managed to come out on top.

Except for now.

When you needed yourself the most, you really let yourself down.

Colossal screwup, you cursed yourself as your sweaty hand slid off the top of the pill bottle once again. Your fingers were red and rubbed raw from the indents on the lid. Useless idiot.

The strain from trying to pry the lid off the pill bottle made your sinuses clog up and your headache worsen. You squinted your eyes, shielding them from the harsh fluorescent lights as you sat in the corner of the bathroom and struggled.

For some reason, you had thought joining the Jedi on their quest to destroy the separatists and restore peace to the galaxy would come with a ‘never get sick’ card. You never saw Yoda take a day off for the sniffles.

Alas; here you were, curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, wrestling with a child-proof pill bottle. Anakin was just outside, probably listening to your failing attempt to self-medicate. You promised him you’d be back in a second, but it’s been more like 5 minutes and you were sure he’d barge in at any moment now.

“Y/n?” speak of the devil. “You okay in there?”

“Fine,” you grit your teeth, tugging on the top once again. The directions said pull up and twist. That’s what you were doing, so why wasn’t it working?

“You need help with anything?”

You narrowed your eyes at his tone. He was holding back laughter.

“No.”

“If you say so…”

You had about 20 seconds before he used his weird Jedi tricks to sneak his way past the locked door and find you in your pathetic predicament. Desperately, you attacked the lid-- twisting and turning, pushing and pulling. You balled up your shirt and used it for more grip, to no avail. Finally, as a last resort, you grabbed for the scissors you kept in the drawer under the sink. You raised it over your head and were just about to stab the bottle open with the blade when the door to the bathroom suddenly opened, and Anakin was catching your wrist in his hand. He gently took the scissors out of your grip, setting them on the counter out of reach.

“What did I tell you about playing with sharp objects while sick?”

You scrunched your face up, half-glaring at him and half wallowing in your own miserable embarrassment. You had hoped you could at least take some painkillers by yourself, to prove to Anakin that you weren’t some helpless little fawn while you were feeling under the weather, but of course the child safety measures had other plans.

Anakin took the pill bottle from your stinging hands and twisted it open with ease. He shook a couple tablets out onto your waiting palm and then capped the bottle, setting it aside.

“See?” he handed a glass of water to you with a smirk. “Not so hard.”

“Can it, Skywalker,” you threw the pills back and sipped the water. The cold liquid soothed your aching throat. “I may be sick, but I can still kick your ass to Tatooine and back.”

“I’ll hold you to that, when you’re better I mean,” he took the empty glass from your grasp and set it back on the counter. Without skipping a beat, he bent down to wrap an arm under your shoulders, helping you to your feet.

“Geez Ani, I’m sick, not crippled,” you groaned, sniffling as he led you back to bed. You ended up tripping on your discarded boot, and would have fallen flat on your face if he wasn’t holding you. He had the decency not to mention it.

He brought you to your bed, helping you lay back against the pillows. You watched his face contort in concentration-- eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, eyes narrowed-- as he focused on pulling the blankets up over you, smoothing down the edges, adjusting your pillows, trailing his fingers down the side of your face in between. You couldn’t help the blush on your cheeks as he held your chin delicately in his gloved hand, leaning down to place a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead.

“You can always ask me for help you know.”

“I know,” you shrunk deeper under the covers, feeling squeamish under the intensity of his gaze.

“Is your throat still bothering you?”

You nodded, averting your eyes as you suddenly became bashful. It wasn’t just that you hated admitting to weakness-- it was also the fact that Anakin was so damn pretty, even up close, and he was fully using it against you. The boy had some wicked eye contact, and every time those dark blue eyes locked on you, you felt like melting.

Anakin caressed your cheek with his thumb, no doubt noting the heat that pooled there. The corner of his mouth tilted up in a slight smile-- he knew what he was doing to you.

“I’ll go make you some tea.”

As soon as he left the room, you let out a long breath. It was meant to relieve some tension built up in your chest, but it really resulted in you hunched over in a coughing fit. You pressed your arm against your mouth, trying to muffle the awful barking sounds coming from your throat. Each cough felt like nails were dragging against the walls of your throat. Your forehead broke out in a sweat with the exertion, and the headache came back with a splitting furiosity.

Screw this, you decided, throwing off the covers and standing from the bed. Fresh air was just what your ailing body needed.

You wobbled over to the balcony doors on weak legs, feeling like you could just collapse at the knees at any moment. Climbing onto the concrete wall of the balcony, you folded your legs criss-cross and watched the city lights twinkle before you. There was a cool breeze tonight and it did wonders to soothe your fever. This was possibly the best decision you had made since falling ill.

However, looking below you, there was at least a thousand feet between you and the ground. And no barrier stopping you from falling.

Oh well, you thought to yourself. It’s not like anyone’s gonna push me.

You sat on the balcony for a while, closing your eyes and breathing in the cold night air as you waited for Anakin to come back with the tea. It was very peaceful, and even the honking of impatient drivers in late night traffic was like a lullaby to your ears. Soon, you found yourself drifting off to sleep, your head falling forward as you slipped into unconsciousness.

“Force, Y/n, what are you doing on the ledge like that?!” Anakin’s voice ripped you out of your sleep. You startled, gripping onto the edge of the concrete as you blinked your eyes open to the millions of tiny city lights before you. You turned to see Anakin rushing toward you, floating the mug of tea he was holding away with the force.

He tried wrapping his arms around you, but you squirmed out of his grasp.

“You can’t touch me, Anakin, you’ll get sick,” you mumbled drowsily. You yawned and rubbed your eye with a fist as he sputtered something about how you didn’t care about that before.

“Just come away from the ledge, Y/n, it’s not safe up there!”

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself to unsteady feet slowly. “You worry too much,” you told him, turning around to face the city and opening your arms out wide. “See? I’m perfectly alri-- ah-- ah-- aaahh choo!”

The sneeze took you by surprise, and you pitched forward with the force it used to expel from your body. Suddenly you were too far over the edge of the balcony, and for a moment of heart-stopping terror you were falling…

… Until familiar strong arms caught you around the waist and pulled you back to the floor of the balcony.

“You are a pain in my ass,” Anakin hissed, ushering you inside. He closed the doors to the balcony a little too hard with the force, holding you tightly all the way back to bed.

“Damn,” you croaked, letting him drop you back into bed and tuck the sheets even tighter around you, like a straightjacket that’ll stop you from escaping again. “I almost just died.”

“You wouldn’t have died,” Anakin huffed, turning his back to retrieve the tea he left on the dresser. “I wouldn’t let that happen. I, however, just had a mini heart attack.”

“Just a mini one?”

“Stop talking, you’ll only hurt your throat more.” The panic was slowly leaving his eyes as he sat on the edge of the bed. To calm you down or himself, you weren’t sure, but he began brushing your bangs out of your face as you sipped on the tea.

You closed your eyes and let yourself melt into his touch, the soft tickling sensation of his hand grazing your forehead, the warm presence of him. You sniffled lightly, rubbing at your dripping yet somehow stuffed nose with your sleeve, hoping he would never stop carding his fingers through your hair.

“You should rest,” Anakin took the mug from you after a moment and set it aside. He waved his gloved hand, and the lights in the room darkened so that the only thing casting light was the single candle burning on the bedside table. It flickered in the dark, casting shadows over Anakin’s face.

Suddenly you felt his hand leave your face and his weight lift off the bed. Your heart dropped with the realization that he was leaving. Desperately, you reached for him before he could go too far, latching onto the hard metal of his gloved wrist.

“You can stay,” you told him quietly. Then you added, “Please.”

Anakin tilted his head thoughtfully, staring at you for a moment. You were glad it was dark so that he couldn’t see the colorful emotion staining your cheeks. It’s not like you two hadn’t slept in the same bed together-- you were dating, after all-- but showing affection never came easy to you. Neither did asking for help, or admitting weakness.

Anakin, to his credit, didn’t hesitate for very long. Gently, he got back into bed with you, this time snaking his arm under your head so that it would rest on the soft cushion of his bicep. You turned and curled into his chest, breathing in his scent. He always smelled like leather and metal and spices. Your favorite scent in the whole world.

“How are you feeling now?” Anakin murmured as he rubbed your arm soothingly, cocooning you against his body in his own.

“Like shit,” you admitted truthfully, but burrowed your head deeper into his chest. “But this is nice.”

“I’m glad,” you could hear the smile in his voice.

You loved his voice. Just like his smell, his voice was one of your favorite sounds in the world, coming second only to his laugh. You wanted to keep talking, to keep hearing it, but you found yourself being weighed down with a heavy exhaustion. The warmth coming from the blankets and emanating from Anakin was enough to cloud your mind with sleep, the steady drag of his hand against your arm a soothing distraction from the miserable sickness waging war inside your body. Before you could say another word to the love of your life, you passed out right in his arms.

#anakin skywalker #sickfic #sick reader #playful reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x y/n #protective anakin #soft anakin #whump #fluff #headcold #star wars prequals #star wars fanfic

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zipstick-writes · 4 years

Text

Inktober 2020 Day 16 - Rocket

The crew of the brand-new Galactic Navy ship named the Skeld had just departed for a newly-discovered planet, Polus, that Earth scientists had determined would be able to support human life with minimal terraforming. Their mission was to join the established research centre and finish the job.

But for now, the crew, consisting of newly-trained Navy recruits Princey, Dad, Hot Topic, Logan, Trash Man, and Janusss, had to complete the in-flight maintenance to keep the ship in as perfect a condition as was possible while on board, as was made standard by the inter-planetary signing of the 3128-AD Quality Control Act.

Normally, this would be a relatively uncomplicated process. However, the crews of many other ships that had departed from the same Space-Dock had reported impostors murdering crewmates and interfering with vital functions of the ship, often resulting in total system faliures.

And thus, the crew of the Skeld were constantly on the lookout for any suspicious activity from their fellow Astronauts. This is their story.

Day 1

The six climbed down the ladder from the bunk-room above the cafeteria and checked the screen on the southern-facing wall to see which faults had been detected by the ship’s systems overnight. One by one they walked up and touched their tablets to the info-port on the side of the screen, logging their tasks to them.

“Looks like I’ve got to submit my bio-scan.” Logan said, reading from his tablet screen. “Would one of you please accompany me so that they can verify my innocence, should anything happen?”

“That’s quite suspicious of you, isn’t it, Logan?” Trash Man giggled. “Sounds just like what the impostor would say.”

Princey shook his head. “How do we know it’s not you, brother? Accusing another right off the bat like that-“

“Alright kiddos, that’s quite enough fighting.” Dad cut in, glancing at his tablet.

“I’m older than you, remember?” Princey interrupted again.

“Princey, will you shut up?” Sighed Hot Topic exasperatedly.

“I’ve got to scan myself in the Med Bay too,” Dad said through the mounting chaos. “I’ll come with ya, Lo.”

“Thank you. This will be adequate.”

Having downloaded the blaster records from the weapons room, Hot Topic was on his way to Administration to upload them to the International Space Agency database. He was at the door when he heard footsteps behind him in the cargo Storage. He turned around, seeing Trash Man standing in the door frame of the hallway.

“Hello, Hot Topic!” He greeted. Overly cheerful for there being a potential murderer on board, Hot Topic noted suspiciously.

“Trash man. Hi.” He responded, measuring his tone carefully so that his suspicion wasn’t noticeable. Hopefully. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I just came to swipe my card. How about you? What are you up to?”

“I’m uploading the data from our weapons systems to HQ.” He said, narrowing his eyes at Trash Man behind his helmet. Despite not being able to see past his helmet, Trash Man seemed to catch onto Hot Topic’s suspicion and stopped talking, moving on to attempting to swipe his Crewmate ID card.

“Ugh, why is this damn thing so goddamn difficult?” He mumbled, swiping his card furiously back and forth in the machine.

“Trash Man! Stop, you’re gonna damage the reader.”

Trash man stopped swiping and looked up at Hot Topic.

“It’s really not that difficult,” Hot Topic said, and having completed the upload was now walking over to where Trash Man was holding his card defeatedly. “Here, give me that card. I’ll do mine, then I’ll do yours for you. Okay?”

“Thanks, Topicy!” Trash Man responded.

“And don’t call me Topicy.” He said. Hot Topic swiped his own card, pleased when the light blinked green the first time. He then swiped, or rather attempted to swipe, Trash Man’s card, but was surprised when the red light blinked and the machine buzzed.

“A bad swipe? That’s weird.”

He was about to try again, when the warning lights began flashing and the alarm beeped loudly and repeatedly. The automated computer-voice repeated the phrase, Oxygen Filter Damaged, followed by a countdown of 30 seconds.

Hot Topic jumped, haphazardly throwing the card back at Trash Man and seeing him move from where he was leaning casually against the wall.

He rushed towards the oxygen room, hands shaking slightly as he inputted the code. Janusss and Dad were standing behind him, having entered O2 after him.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “That was close.”

“It sure was, Kiddo,” Dad remarked, “I wonder what could’ve caused that?”

“The Impostor, of course. Why else would the system fail?” Janusss said sarcastically.

“Oh of course, I’m so sorry for being so ignorant, Lord Janusss.” Hot topic snarked back, bowing over-dramatically. He (figuratively) straightened up, and said, more seriously this time, “I’m heading over to the Cafeteria. Trash Man’s acting off. And his card wouldn’t read in Admin.”

“Trash Man’s always acting off.” Dad replied. He paused to think for a moment, “But I suppose it’s better safe than sorry. I’ll come with you.”

EMERGENCY MEETING

The three remaining crewmates arrived at the Cafeteria and seated themselves around the central table.

“What happened?” Princey asked.

“There’s something off about Trash Man.” Hot Topic explained. “He followed me into Admin saying he was there to swipe his card, but the reader wouldn’t take it. Not even when I did it for him. And the O2 sabotage happened while my back was turned. He could’ve done it.”

“Was there any noticeable change of behaviour that indicated he was being imitated?” Logan asked.

“Well no,” Hot Topic replied, “But I can’t help but feel like the sabotage was a distraction to draw people away if he was about to.. y’know, kill me.”

“I’m sure that’s just your anxiety clouding your judgement. I realise my brother can be a bit… How do I put this? Bizarre, but that’s no reason to accuse him of sabotage.”

“I’m with Princey.” Logan said, and Hot Topic was sure he could hear him say ‘for once’ under his breath. “We understand your concern, but it’s simply not enough evidence to eject him.”

“Skip?” Dad asked.

“Skip.” Princey and Janusss responded in sync.

No one was ejected. (Skipped)

1 Impostor Remains

The nighttime alarm sounded, indicating the end of the work day, and the crewmates returned to their bunks and settled down to sleep.

Day 2

The crewmates once again descended the ladder and downloaded their daily tasks, this time in silence. There was no conversation as the six walked in different directions towards their daily tasks.

Logan and Princey set off towards storage to refuel the engines, and Dad went with Hot Topic towards navigation to set a course. Trash Man went off towards electrical maintenance to repair corrosion to the wires.

Janusss made his way over to the reactor.

Once inside, he opened a wiring panel to the reactor’s left. He took out a pocket knife and snapped a couple of wires.

Just enough to cause some trouble, he thought. Checking there was no one around, and glancing at the nearby camera to make sure it was inactive, and opened the hatch leading to the ventilation system. He quietly climbed inside, shutting the hatch behind him.

He lifted up the vent and poked his head out, checking he was alone.

Coast’s clear.

He climbed out silently, right as Trash Man rounded the corner. He was about to climb back in, but it was too late. He’d been seen.

Trash Man made to turn around, but Janusss was faster. He lunged, pulling out his knife, and stabbed him in the back.

“One down, four to go.” He hissed.

He was about to return to the vent when it occurred to him. He could get away with this easily.

Janusss opened the panel for the lights and flicked the switches up, disabling the lights on the whole ship. Satisfied, he then went back in the vents and crawled swiftly to the reactor. He poked his head out. Nobody was there. He set off back to electrical, and after a few moments Logan was beside him, having come from the upper engine.

The others were crowded around the panel, and as soon as a light switch was flicked into place it was switched back again.

I could get another one here.

He pulled out his gun, and fired at random. Logan dropped to the floor, and before the others could react, he hid the pistol in his pocket again.

The others abruptly abandoned the lights and looked around frantically. Janus did the same.

Dad was the first to realise who’d been hit.

“Logan.” He cried. “They got Logan!”

Janusss feigned a look of shock before realising that he was wearing a helmet that rendered his face unreadable. Princey stepped back, turning towards where Janusss had killed Trash Man.

“Look.” He said. “Trash Man’s dead too.” He knelt down beside his brother. “I swear on my beautifully manicured sword I will have revenge-“

He was cut off by Dad, who told him they were going to the Cafeteria to have a discussion.

“Who did it?” Hot Topic asked.

“It wasn’t me,” Dad said. “I was clearing asteroids with Princey. He can vouch for me.” It’s true.”

“It’s true.” Princey said. “We were together the whole time.”

“Well, me and Logan were in the top engine before the lights cut.” Janusss explained. It was a half-truth; as he’d always say, the best lies contain half the truth. “I was refuelling it and Logan was realigning it.” He could almost hear Logan (and probably Trash Man as well) screaming at him from beyond the grave. But he knew the others bought it. They had seen him and Logan enter together, after all, and they nodded along to the deception.

A sudden voice jolted Janusss out of his thoughts. “What about you, kiddo?” Dad asked, and it was directed at Hot Topic. “You’re the only one who’s not spoken yet.”

Hot Topic was hunched over, seeming nervous despite the space suit hiding his face. “I was in the Med Bay, inspecting the samples.”

I can get one more, Janusss thought. I just need to twist this a bit.

“It may just be me thinking this,” He began, “But it does seem a little suspicious that you’re the only one of us without an alibi.”

Princey and Dad nodded in agreement. “Although I hate to admit it, Janusss is right. You’ve got no-one to verify what you were doing.” Princey said. “Sorry, Emo.” He added.

Hot Topic sighed. “Fine. Eject me. But one of you is lying, I just know it.”

Princey and Janusss held Hot Topic’s arms behind his back as they led him to the airlock, and he didn’t struggle. Dad pulled down the lever to open the door, and Janusss smiled to himself behind his visor.

Hot Topic was not The Impostor.

1 Impostor Remains.

Day 3

There was no conversation as the final 3 remaining loaded their tasks onto their tablets. They each went in a separate direction. Dad towards communications, Princey to the Med Bay, and Janusss into storage.

Dad was scared. There were only him and two others left. One of them was the impostor, and they’d only know for sure if they were caught. If they didn’t, they’d all end up dead.

Dad’s hands were shaking as he frantically tried to fix the wiring of the computer.

He heard footsteps behind him.

He turned.

Janusss was standing in the doorway.

Dad froze.

This is it.

Janusss walked towards him, and time seemed to slow.

A gunshot sounded throughout the ship. Everything went black.

DEFEAT

“Dammit!” Roman slammed his fists on the table. “How are you so good at this?” He asked, glaring at Janus. “This is the third game in a row you’ve won!”

“What can I say?” He said, smirking. “Deceit’s my thing. This game was made for me.”

Patton rolled his eyes, smilling good-naturedly. “Alright, settle down. Who’s up for a rematch?”

“Oh, you’re,” Logan said, pausing to hold up a vocab card, “’On’.”

“If Jan gets impostor again he’s gonna win!” Roman shouted.

“I’m just better than you.” Janus snarked. “You’ll just have to deal with it.”

Virgil smirked. “I can’t wait till I get impostor. Oh, I am so gonna get my revenge.”

“Hey, revenge is my thing!” Remus shouted. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get it first.” He said quietly, smiling maliciously at Janus.

Virgil started another round. “Let’s do this.”

#fanfiction #my fics #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #inktober #inktober 2020 #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #janus sanders #remus sanders #among us #among us au

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jennsmischievousmind · 4 years

Text

Fucks not Found

White Flag

“Remember when Five said if you’re ever left behind in a mission, he’s not coming back for you.”

“hm, Seven said he was going to change that.”

“Because you trust Seven now? Four lifted an eyebrow, you shrugged.

A whizzed cut the humid air, the choke loose down, allowing you a sharp intake of air followed by multiple coughs.

Seven had snipe the big guy right in the head. Your brain took a second to recover from the lack of oxygen, Four hanging above the void flashing back into your eyes, you crawled to the edge. "Four," your voice was harsh, he hunched his body upward, grunting while you reached for him. Grabbing your hand and the net he hoisted himself up to safety.

You laid down holding onto each other "I've got you" your voice wavered, Four nestled his head on your chest, arms around your middle. He was breathing hard through his nose, the blood slowly coming down is head.

“Will you now get down, eaglets!” One’s annoyed voice filled your ear.

“Five, you sighed, I think I broke a rib.”

“Make it 3.” Four groaned trying to stand up.

The adrenaline rushing out you had trouble standing, Four and you stumbled in the freight elevator holding onto one another. His hand never leaving yours.

Soon crashing into the back seat of the Mini R55, a sense of warmth filled you seeing the team around you. Catching Seven’s eyes in the rear view mirror you nodded a thank you at him. He had break the rule. It’s not like you could blame One, he had warned you, if you were to get caught during a mission, he’d left you behind, for the sake of the mission. You breathed in deeply trying not to freak out at what just happened. Five was already looking at your ribs, pressing into your sides to feel anything abnormal.

One had called a “meeting” as soon as the sun would be up, so you had a few hours to tend to your injuries. Watching yourself in the big mirror bathroom, only in underwear, new bruises started to appeared on your ribs. Lifting your arm, a bruise was spreading from your waist to under your sports bra, another on your right hip. A faint red in a hand shape around your neck-this one was heavy- your fingers grazed the sensitive skin, you hissed.

Catching a glimpse of Four in the mirror reflection, you removed your hand almost shameful, he looked behind him before coming in and locking the door behind him.

“Give me hand would you” he took the gauze from your hand.

He stood before you, his jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed at the sight of your bruised body, he sunk to his knees slowly brushing your sides with hesitant hands. Warm breath fluttered on your injured skin, his forehead on your tummy he sighed, your fingers running through his dust blond hair.

He then talked for the first time since he entered the bathroom “I really thought I’d lose you up there.”

“Well same here” you chuckled bitterly, he wrapped the gauze around your middle.

“I mean, I can’t afford to lose you Y/N!” He never used your name lightly since you’d told him.

“What we’re doing, this … job in itself, we can die, for real, anytime, we’ve learned that, painfully.”

“That’s why I’m asking you to be careful, if I’m in trouble, that’s it you run and...”

“Would you? You cut him he looked at you shameful, "would you let me behind?”

“No.” he admitted

“I thought I had been clear. I’m not losing anyone else.”

You kissed his temple before leaving to surround yourself with ice bags and rest.

“You good?” it was the first time One had spoke to you since, yet not entirely showing real concern, casually leaning on the kitchen island, munching on some crackers.

“I’ll live,” You walked past him grabbing a few ice packs from the freezer, you weren’t mad at him per se, but slightly deceived. Ever since Six passed, a weird bond created itself between One and you, you weren’t sure what kind or why though.

“What’s between you and the boy?” he was serious, not like when he’d ask Two and Three, he was dead serious this time.

“Like Two said, transfer.” Hand in his bowl you took a handful of crackers, ice packs hanging in your t-shirt.

Finally at ease in your bed, body clad with ice bags you slept off the pain, you didn’t feel Four kiss your forehead before going back to his room.

In the morning you meet up at the market. Seven and One started violently arguing. Seven revealed his name, Blaine, and ask Four his and yours. He insisted that he had just save both of your life, which was true.

Four hesitated looking at One “It’s Billy.” You look at him with fondness, you knew his name since a while now. He did look like a Billy.

And everyone felt like revealing their name, Camille, Amelia, Javier….Well,

“Don’t look at me I’m not saying my name,” you leaned on the truck.

“Thank you, EIGHT! “ One emphasized on your number.

You liked this squad but saying your name was a no-go, for now at least, it implied saying your brother’s name too, because you knew they’d ask.

Seven tilted his head to you, clearly upset. Four smirked, he obviously knew your name.

One took a low blow with that argument but the mission resumed. Flying to Turgistan was the next move. The plan was to hijacked the TV radar to broadcast Murat’s speech instead of his evil brother’s.

Later on, you ended up in the back of a truck with Five. Just for assisting really. Seven and One were infiltrating the main power generator of Turgistan.

“Really FBI this set up” you nodded looking around you

“One’s idea, you know how he is.” She waved her hand at the monitors.

Within minutes One was completely ruining it. The guy they were trying to convince was not biting it. Five tried to help…

“Noor’s dead, say is dead!” Five rummage her papers

“paper, so archaic.” You mumbled to yourself, she threw you a paper cup, still rummaging the notes about the others generators’ head of power plants.

“Wrong guy is alive. Fuck!”

You started to laugh, Five panicked on the comm “Just recover, recover.”

Hearing One over the comm you completely lost it, “He was found with a belt tight around his neck in a unfortunate masturbating accident.” Five froze “One, shut the fuck up!”

Tears of laughter were rolling on your cheeks until Five slapped your thigh “Help me with him!” You unmute your mic, still laughing “One fucking hell, abort!” Four’s slang was creeping on you.

Five and you were totally dumbfounded at his ramble, worst is, it worked somehow.

Hours later you were ready to launch phase 1.

“Let’s go change the world.” One activated the inverter’s TV radar, Murat panicked in the inter comm saying he couldn’t go live. Then his face appeared on every TV of Turgistan. One broadcast it from his phone.

Murat gave his speech perfectly, concluded “It’s time for a revolution. Rise up and let’s take our country back!”

White Flag by Bishop Briggs started playing in the broadcast.

“Wh..who picked this?” One inquired almost offended.

Five and Seven both looked at you and Four.

“You're welcome,” Four lifted his finger – One clearly unamused looked at you.

“It’s a good song,” You agreed with Four

“This... No.” One sighed loudly

“It’s perfect!” Four argued

“That’s subjective!” One put an end at the discussion, sulking.

Four raised his fist your way- fist bumping- you were pretty proud of your choice.

“FOUR!!” you stood up clumsily from the bed with your tablet in hand, headphones on, only wearing a bra and sweats short. “This one is perfect!” you yelled through the building, focusing on White Flag’s lyrics, a grin on, you didn’t see Four rushing to you until his naked torso collided into your side.

“One’s coming, like right now!”

Running through the sandy corridor you slid in the bedroom, throwing everything on the bed. There were too many belongings of yours in the room “shit. Kitchen!” Grabbing back your tablet you saw yourself in the screen, “shirt!”

You’ve never walk -semi-run- so fast in your life. “Hey Uno!” Trying not to sound so out of breath as you had just sat on the dismantle kitchen bar as he arrived.

“Is your trailer too small?” he immediately asked

“… I need more space,” you pointed at your Nasa shirt

“That’s an awful joke.”

“Learning from the best … “ you taunt staring intently at him.

“So,” he changed the subject when Four arrived this latter glanced at you. “We’re good? video, inverter?”

“Yeah, yeah hum Eight was telling me about it, just need a tiny detail and I think we’re good.” You nodded, trying hard not to drool at his state, shirtless and shorts hanging low, you averted your eyes quickly. Yeah you were working on the last details before he walked in the bedroom looking like a Greek god and you got handsy.

“Great, now you, missy, can go back to your trailer,” One pointed at the door then to Four “and you can put a shirt on.”

You rolled your eyes, taking your best teenager voice ‘Yes, MOM!”

He flicked you off without looking back on his way out.

“Shit!” Four heaved himself on the edge of the window, you waited a minute, before jumping down the bar, tiptoed to Four who had his face in his hand. Yours eagerly padding his toned stomach. Some words whispered in his ear made him look at you.

“Luv ....” his Brits’ accent coming out rougher at the sweet name, he saw your eyes changed as soon as he said it.

“Fuck!” he lunged to you, caging your face in his hands and pressing his lips to yours, you giggled inevitably, hands on his low waist you step back to the bedroom, falling on the bed you squealed as he grabbed your thighs to anchor them around his hips.

One fired the bombs placed by Two and Three at the bottom of Rovach’s tower, destroying his statues and freaking him out, just what you wanted.

Back in the car on the way to the boat, you watched the streets’ CCTVs. You were blown away by the people following Murat’s words without doubts, News around the world were relaying the coup underway. Phase 1 was a success.

Settling on the boat everyone started to suit up.

“So I get a gun!” you beamed as One handed you an USP-45

“I’m not sure it’s safe after all.” He tried to retrieve it from your grip

“Three carries a gun, I think we throw safety away at that moment.”

One thought about it for a second. He handed you a second gun.

You kept a comm’ open for Two and Three just in case.

“Two, you’re good?” you called in her comm’

“The party is going crazy,”

“Great, we’re on our way. Over.”

“Three, what’s your ETA?” you waited a few seconds “Three?”

“you evil fuck!” he angrily yelled

“That’s..., not an ETA..”

Then you heard a loud crash, him scream and another crashing sound.

“Tell me you’re not dead, you idiot!” you let his comm’ open, updating One on Three status.

One wasn’t worried “He’s a strong motherfucker, he’ll make it.”

He was right, soon hearing gunshots and Three trash talk you caught yourself smiling relieved, this crazy dude is immortal!

Four got out the cabin as you passed by it “Ooo I love the wetsuit!” you eyed him up and down.

The corner of his mouth quirked up “Hands off lady,” he looked around for Five or One, “It’s to cover your cute ass out there,”

“And I’ll cover yours,” you swat his wetsuit-clad butt, he swiftly caught your hand and shove you into the cabin before the others could see anything. “What..,” his lips eagerly pressed on yours. Kissing you like it was the last time he’d be able to do so. Seeing his confidence fading in his eyes you hug him tight “It’s gonna work out,” as he tightened his embrace you saw One over his shoulder, at the door, watching you. Since when was he there you didn’t know, and right now you couldn’t care less. He disappeared as you kissed Four’s cheek.

“Is there metal in there?” One nodded at your neck, he didn’t assess anything about earlier.

You shrugged “I don’t know” strapping a knife at your calf.

“Leave it here”

“I’m not leaving it here!” you sounded offended

“Leave the cross here Eight!” One argued back

Groaning you removed the cross, kissing it, storing it in the inside pocket of your duffle bag.

“When will you stop defying everything I say,”

“You see any cross,” you dramatically pull your collar

“You know what I’m talking about,” he left to drop the submarines.

Seventh chapter - Haunt the living

Only 2 chapters left, not gonna lie my favorite is the last one. I’d like to already thanks everyone who’s be reading this fiction, I see you, thank you.

A/N: don’t forget to double tap if you liked it. 🙏

#billy x reader #four x reader #four imagine #6 underground Four x reader #6 underground imagine #ben hardy #fucks not found

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angstyaches · 4 years

Note

Ok so I freaking love belly rubs and now that we’ve seen Shayne receive a belly rub I want to see it reversed 😂 Charlie has an upset stomach for some reason and realizes that he just really needs to burp but he can’t and all day long the feeling just gets worse until he’s finally home and can lay down but still nothing will come up and when Shayne shows up and he lets him through the window he immediately knows something is wrong (p 1 of 2)

(P 2 of 2) somehow Charlie convinced him to help him by rubbing his stomach which of course helps and he burps into his fist a couple of times but it’s not releasing the pressure at all, actually it’s making him feel nauseous and before he knows it he suddenly vomits all over him and Shayne ( I know this doesn’t really fit with the plot you’ve got since the ending of the last fic with Shayne but i didn’t know how to make it fit 😂 you can ignore this prompt if ya want lol)

Milo, thank you, thank you, thank you. I had so much fun writing this. Baby’s first prompt.

Sorry if this is obnoxiously long; I have no idea how to judge length yet.

CW: vomiting

In the pub

Charlie had zoned out hours ago, upon realising that the three-year age gap between him and his oldest cousins meant a lot more when he was eighteen and they were fifteen. Whatever pop culture they were chatting about held no interest for him, and whatever gossip his parents, aunts, and uncles were engaging him would likely be just as boring.

He wished he could have gone and talked to Jonathan. He hadn’t seen his half-brother in months, yet he’d barely wanted to speak two words with Charlie all day. He’d brought two friends along, which Aunt Pauline had been annoyed about at the start of the day. She had gotten over it; Charlie, however, had not. The three of them had been skulking outdoors in the smoking area for hours.

Although, if he’d been given first pick, Charlie would have been chatting to been the pretty bartender with the gold lip ring. The guy looked run off his feet, yet had a smile for every one of Charlie’s relatives who had an order to bark at him, be it a chocolate-stained little cousin or his cane-wielding grandmother. He was so cute, but Charlie was too nervous to even look him in the eye. He also felt slightly… guilty, though he could think of no rational reason why he should feel guilty. He wasn’t spoken for by anyone; not even close. And that just made him sink further into his loneliness.

So, with no conversational opportunity, Charlie had occupied himself with the bar food that came out in waves. He didn’t often eat greasy food at home, and he ate exactly like a kid let loose in a store full of chicken goujons and potato wedges. His stomach started to feel kind of sloshy at one point, but that might have been from copious amounts of fizzy orange. More food would surely soak it up and settle everything down.

After the cute waiter dropped off a tray of drinks at the “adult” table, Charlie’s dad stood up and took a glass over to where Charlie was sitting.

“There you are, designated driver,” Trevor said. His cheeks were flushed red from drinking for pretty much the whole day.

“Thanks, Dad,” Charlie said, fidgeting with the keys in his hoodie pocket. “Can we go soon? I’m getting tired.”

“Of course. Last drink and we’ll hit the road,” Trevor winked, giving Charlie’s shoulder a squeeze. “You really are a blessing, son.”

He couldn’t tell if the flutter in his chest was because of the waiter still, or because of what his dad had just said. It might also have been indigestion, though he wouldn’t think of that until a little later.

“Maybe go and say goodbye to Jonathan before we head off, yeah?”

“Alright, Dad.” A blessing, he thought as his father went back to the proper adult table and sat next to his wife. Their half-demon offspring is a blessing to them. Part of him wanted to burst out laughing, the other half wanted to weep. He hovered somewhere in between, smiling despite the tightness in his chest.

He guzzled a few mouthfuls of the fizzy drink, stealing his courage as he stood up and went to talk to Jonathan.

In the car

The drive home itself was exhausting. Charlie’s energy was already spent after a whole day of socialising. His stomach was making some awful sounds, though it felt lazy and sluggish inside him after being fed such little amounts so many times throughout the day. The flavour of the fizzy orange kept repeating on him too, and he vowed never to touch the stuff again. He glanced over to see that his dad had fallen asleep against the passenger door. In the rear-view mirror, he saw that his mum was snoring with her head thrown back.

Charlie swallowed harshly. It felt like some of the fizzy orange was sitting in his throat, blocking his airways a bit. Gripping the steering wheel tightly at ten and two, he tried to let some of the air up from his stomach, but the bubbles stayed exactly where they were, gurgling amongst the sickly combination of food in his belly.

He slid his right hand from two to twelve on the steering wheel, glancing once again to make sure his dad was still asleep; Trevor would definitely yell at him for having one hand off the wheel, but it was a straight, empty road, and Charlie was decidedly below the recommended speed.

Besides, he could probably pull up enough strength to telekinetically steer the car, if he had to. Having acceleratingly strong demonic powers had its unexpected quirks, after all.

Charlie rubbed a hand across his belly, realising that it was filling out his hoodie a lot more than it should have been. He stifled a whimper as he pushed on the swell, hoping to force up at least some of what was making his stomach feel so bad. It gurgled under his hand, the pain shifting slightly but not upwards. There was a slight rumble in his chest, a fizzing in the back of his throat, but nothing more.

He put his left hand back on the wheel and sighed, surviving on the fact that at least he’d be home and lying in bed without the hour.

Back home

“Night, Mum, night, Dad,” Charlie called dully down the hall, though they’d probably both passed out on their bed in the time it had taken him to brush his teeth. He’d hoped the minty flavour would have soothed the burning acidity, but it had just mixed sickly with the fizzy orange reflux. He could finally hunch over a bit and rub his belly with a little more force, now he was alone in his room.

He reached for his bedside lamp, when a tap on the window made him jump. He almost knocked his little brown stuffed bear from the nightstand, and he rushed to straighten him.

“Sorry, Vincent,” he whispered before approaching the window. Another tiny pebble hit the glass and Charlie groaned under his breath. Couldn’t that boy learn how to send a text?

Charlie cradled his belly as he spotted the dark-haired figure in the back yard. Usually, the sight of Shayne gave him a very light, pleasant feeling, but right now he felt the furthest from light he’d ever been. He sighed and directed his gaze towards the back door, focusing on undoing the lock before ducking back into the room.

He leaned against the windowsill, rubbing his belly desperately. It was definitely too much to ask, that all of the burps trapped inside him come up in the time it took Shayne to get inside, take off his ridiculous boots, and creep upstairs. All Charlie succeeded in bringing up were a couple of orangey splashes that burned his tongue.

“Whatever it is, I’m not in the mood,” he whispered as soon as Shayne let himself quietly into the room.

The dark-haired boy frowned as he closed the door. “Hmm?”

Charlie sighed and sat down on his bed. “I don’t care if it’s a voodoo doll or a silver stake or a monkey’s fucking paw. Can we do it another time?”

“Okay, first of all; hi,” Shayne muttered. “Second; how would any of those things be useful in exorcising or communicating with a demon? And third; where were you all?”

“My cousin’s christening,” Charlie said, slipping a hand into his hoodie pocket so he could keep some pressure on his stomach. “It went on kind of late.”

“You’re telling me?” Shayne began to pace evenly back and forth. “This place gives me shivers on a normal day. Ten times worse when it’s all dark and unoccupied.”

“Well, you could try not hanging around on other people’s property,” Charlie grumbled.

“I caught three demons in the back yard,” Shayne said. “Three demons that will never possess your parents, so you’re welcome.”

“So, you’ve got fucking warding jars on you?” Charlie whined. He knew he was feeling awful for a reason, but if those jars were close-by, they certainly wouldn’t be helping.

“’Course not, I left them at the far end of the garden,” Shayne hissed. “Okay, you’re sounding more like me than me tonight. What’s going on?”

Charlie swallowed and looked up at his friend. His belly was groaning, and he hoped he was the only one hearing it. He pulled his hand from his pocket and started holding it a bit more firmly, giving up the secrecy.

“I don’t feel so good,” he whined, sitting forward. “My tummy’s really sore.”

“Oh. Well, why haven’t you taken any of those tablets you always try to force on me?”

“Because I’ll be fine once I can burp, but so far, nothing wants to come up.” Charlie’s face burned at hearing himself give so much detail. He lowered his head as he leaned towards his knees, curling around the knot of pain.

He felt the mattress take Shayne’s weight, and then a hand prying his away from his stomach. He took a sharp breath and looked up.

“Are you going to rub my tummy?”

“You’ll never hear me say it in those words, but… yeah.” Shayne was still frowning, though Charlie recognised a slight blush in his cheeks. “Here, straighten up. Stop sitting like an idiot.”

“That’s mean,” Charlie whined, slowly released his vice-grip on his belly and straightening his back. “Why do I feel like you’re going to be really bad at – mmm.”

Shayne’s hand could almost have covered Charlie’s whole belly if it hadn’t been so bloated and tight. His stomach churned uneasily alongside the movement of Shayne’s fingers, until Charlie felt gas bubbles press up towards his chest. He felt himself groan without deciding he was going to.

Shayne held his breath, pausing the motion of his hand. “What? Am I doing it wrong?”

“No, no, don’t stop,” Charlie groaned. “Can you rub my back, too?”

As soon as Shayne pressed on Charlie’s stomach and ran a hand up his spine, Charlie felt the gas bubbles release, making a deep rumbling sound in his chest. He pressed a fist to his mouth and turned his head away from Shayne. The burp was so loud Charlie worried it would wake his parents, and lasted about four seconds.

“Holy shit,” Shayne whispered. “I think I felt the room shake.”

“Shut up,” Charlie groaned.

“Feel any better?”

“Not really.”

“I’m going to lift your jumper, okay?”

Charlie almost squeaked as Shayne slid his hand under his hoodie, rubbing at the straining skin of his belly. Charlie dug his nails into the duvet to keep himself from wriggling. His skin was starting to feel prickly and warm, but that could have just been because of what was happening. Shayne was here and touching him, and not just through his clothes. He had his hand on Charlie’s bare torso. He was in pain, but he should have been enjoying this at least a little.

A weak smile twitched across his mouth as he nudged his cheek experimentally against Shayne’s shoulder. When the dark-haired boy didn’t flinch in any major way, he let himself lean a little harder, hoping his heart wasn’t pounding as loudly as he thought it was.

“What did you do to it, anyway?” Shayne asked, and it took Charlie a second to realise he was talking about his stomach. His fingers kneaded gently across it

“I, um, just kept eating, I guess.” Charlie turned his head to let out another burp, though this one sounded like it was strangled on its way up from his stomach. “And my dad kept bringing me fizzy drinks. Designated driver, you know? Aw – fuck, Shayne.”

Charlie frowned and winced as his stomach suddenly lurched under the pressure of Shayne’s hand.

“Shit – what is it?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie murmured, his cheeks suddenly tingling. A certain kind of panic began to ring in his ears. “Oh, god, I think I’m going to –”

He retched before fully realising it was happening, before he could do any kind of aiming or get his hands in front of his mouth. His hands did fly out, one landing on Shayne’s back, the other on his own knee. The majority of the thick, orange vomit landed down the front of Shayne’s jacket and t-shirt, the rest of it flicked across Shayne’s jeans and the duvet cover.

“Oh, my god, Shayne,” Charlie gasped. His hand was shaking as he brought it up to cover his mouth. Almost immediately, his head pitched forward again, another long gush of sticky orange liquid and chunks of bar food spraying over the sleeve of his hoodie as he tried to block it, but a lot still landed in Shayne’s lap.

Shayne sighed, though he really hoped Charlie didn’t hear it. He’d definitely take it the wrong way, thinking Shayne was sighing out of frustration when really, it was the only way he could release the intense sympathy he felt as the blonde boy clung to him and vomited. Shayne continued to rub Charlie’s back, though he wasn’t sure if it was helping or making things worse.

Charlie hiccuped into his sleeve, clearly forgetting that he’d just gotten sick all over it.

“Shayne,” he croaked, slowly lifting his gaze. “I’m so sorry.”

“Feeling any better?”

“Actually, yeah, I am.”

Shayne shrugged. “Then it’s fine. Jesus, if only exorcising you was so damn easy.”

#belly rub #belly rubs #shayne and charlie #sick charlie #emeto #my ocs #prompt #swallow the world #sickfic #nausea #emetophilia #tw vomit

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