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izzy-b-hands · 1 year

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An argument. Talking about the past, and a flashback.

TW violence, blood, sex, an open relationship that really needs better communication (Ed/Izzy)

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In theory, they should be safe for the rest of the day.

Stede helps him unpack and arrange the blood bags in the fridge. He also pushes him against the counter, a thigh between Izzy's legs, and kisses him until he's out of breath.

The rest of his day's work is only chores, and he knows Ed rarely wakes before sunset unless absolutely necessary. Even then, he demands the windows thrice covered over in thick black curtains, and certain rooms are avoided for safety.

Still, he's jumpy. Every noise, no matter how small, sounds like the lid of Ed's coffin moving.

"You're fine," Stede takes the broom from his hands. "We're outside. Even if he did get up, we wouldn't have heard it."

"That's worse," Izzy says. "Trust me."

Stede looks visibly nervous for the first time.

"You don't really know me," Izzy continues. "You have no obligation to stay here. Not that I don't appreciate it-"

"I like you," Stede interrupts. "I'd like to see if there's more there. But I won't do that if I don't spend time with you. Even if it's doing chores for your batshit boss."

A thud from inside the house, and Izzy winces.

Of course, Ed would hear that.

"You're back," Ed says dryly as they walk inside. "Should I wait to touch anything until Izzy's disinfected it?"

"It's nice seeing you again too," Stede replies with the iciest, yet nicest, smile Izzy's ever seen. "Sleep well?"

"He knows?" Ed scoffs. "Izzy, the fuck?! What else have you told him?"

"It's not a big deal," Stede says gently. "I employ some vampires, and-"

"Lovely, glad you filled your supernatural minority hire quota," Ed spits. "Izzy, we're talking. Now."

"If you're upset because I'm fucking him, then maybe you should have acted faster," Stede says smoothly. "I've only known him for two days, and I have no idea why you haven't made a move."

Izzy can tell Ed is seeing red. "Ed, just. I understand why you're upset. I'm probably moving too fast, but...I like him. I trust him. Would it help to see his bar, meet his staff, see he's harmless?"

"Well, not totally harmless," Stede chuckles, and steps behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. "May I demonstrate?"

Izzy has a good idea of what he's about to do. And that means he should say no.

"Of course," he murmurs, and sighs when Stede nips at his neck, licking and sucking at the sore spot.

His eyes are closed, but he hears Ed give a disgusted gasp, then storm away.

"I think I'm the only thing holding you up," Stede mumbles against his skin. "Is there anywhere we can go he probably won't interrupt us?"

Izzy nods. "Not in here though. I'll show you."

There's a bit of land behind the house. Not much, but enough for a large shed.

Ed has never mentioned it, so Izzy made it his own.

"Wow," Stede breathes. "You did a lot here. You don't sleep in here, do you?"

Izzy shrugs. "I have before. Probably will again. Some nights if we piss each other off enough it's easier to leave. By morning we carry on as usual."

"That's not great for either of you though," Stede says, and it definitely isn't a question. "Have you always butted heads with him?"

"Not really," Izzy replies. "Not like we do now."

He drifts back to one of his early years with Ed. Twenty-one years old and starting to get a hang of how things had to go:

They'd arrive in a new town, buy the cheapest house available, no matter how rundown. Ed paid in cash, though Izzy had no idea if he'd simply saved and invested well over the years, or if he somehow had some other cash flow.

That made him seem the eccentric sort of wealthy, and that meant they were left alone. Often more or less shunned, if the city was on the smaller side.

Those were more dangerous, and they never spent much time in those before the inevitable next steps:

Blood supply would start to dip for one reason or another, or they'd be limited in hospitals and other suppliers. Ed would subsist off animal blood if he had to, but over the years he'd become more and more reluctant to do so.

Izzy couldn't blame him, the way Ed described it made it sound disgusting. But the other options were a little more difficult, and then some.

The next was Izzy offering himself up, but Ed could only feed so much before Izzy would pass out, or he would risk killing him.

Izzy had told him he could always just turn him if he drank too much, and that would be that.

Ed never said anything in reply to that.

If Izzy was exhausted, the final option was hunting.

Izzy did that portion. He knew Ed's tastes by twenty-one, and how they ranked in terms of what Ed would want.

He had a particular taste for blond men, the prettier the better. Hence Izzy's fear that Ed might literally swoop in and steal Stede away.

After that, it varied some, but he could usually tell by how Ed acted that day as to what he wanted.

It felt like a twisted art form, right down to the chloroforming or stabbing or strangling. Just enough to get them knocked out and in Izzy's car, picked off late at night, in as isolated of areas as he could find.

Then it was home to Ed, to present him his meal.

From there, Ed took over. If they weren't entranced by his eyes right away, a touch of hypnosis kept them in place.

Some nights, it was almost erotic. Ed nearly naked, cradling his victim in his arms. Blood running down rapidly paling skin, Ed moaning with each breath he took.

Those nights he had to step out into the hall and will himself to calm down. Ed would be absolutely delighted to see him come in his pants like that. Not that Izzy wasn't into the kink, but it felt slightly malicious with Ed now.

He wished it could be otherwise, but that was like wishing he didn't have to clean the mess Ed made other nights.

Those nights were loud and violent. Ed's nails raking into skin until he drew blood, fangs ripping out shreds of flesh. Blood would gush with every remaining heartbeat, ruining countless rugs and floors despite Izzy's best cleaning efforts. He sometimes wondered how much Ed actually drank those nights, because most of it seemed to end up on his scrub brushes and in his mop water.

The night he found himself telling Stede about, they were reaching that desperate point.

"Not rats tonight," Ed shakes his head. "Not rabbits either."

Izzy sighs. "We haven't been here that long. I told you this one was too small to be sustainable."

"We couldn't know for sure until we got here and tried," Ed protests. "Anyone else in my position would do the same thing."

"It's real fucking convenient for you to decide to just up and rush the routine," Izzy scoffs. "You may have the final hit, but I do the real killing. Even if you didn't drink from them, they'd almost all still have died. That affects me, Ed. I didn't expect to be a fucking murderer by twenty-one!"

He feels the tears rolling down his face, and wishes he could will them to stop.

Ed stares. "Izzy, I love you. But come on, man. I showed you what this all encompassed before you chose to come with me. You didn't have to come with me."

"Like you would have let me live after watching you drain someone?" Izzy scoffs again. "How stupid do you think I am?"

Ed looks hurt, a surprise. "I don't think you're stupid. You made an educated decision based on what I showed you. That decision can still end up being the wrong one, but don't you dare put all of that on me."

Izzy can't decide if he wants to kiss or kill Ed, in a desperate attempt to shut the argument down. Finally, kiss wins out.

Ed moans against his lips, then pushes him back. "You can't do that every time we disagree. It doesn't mean anything after that."

"How fucking romantic," Izzy spits. "What means more to you in the end, the people I kill for you, or the kisses?"

"Go get me some food," Ed hisses, and turns on his heel, open robe swishing behind him.

"Of course, I can't end an argument like an asshole, but you can!" Izzy mutters.

"I heard that!" Ed shouts.

Izzy doesn't stick around to reply. After all, he has a meal request to fill.

Or rather, prey to hunt.

In bigger cities, he would have certain areas he'd try first. A railyard, shipyard, any outskirts. But in smaller cities, it didn't really apply. There was a higher risk of being caught in the act, and a good chance he'd end up beaten to death by some rural sheriff looking for any excuse to use excessive force.

So he takes to the streets looking for anyone, anywhere. Walking aimlessly, aware that the longer he took, the angrier Ed would be.

Even then, it doesn't take long.

"Izzy," Howell waves him over. "Awful late to be out! What has you out at this time?"

Izzy's heart sinks. Of course, it would be him. Howell Davis, the director of the community theatre company, and one of the first to welcome them to town.

"Uh, Ed's feeling unwell," Izzy lies. "And he asked me to go out and get him something to eat. Soup."

"Funny enough, I'm headed the same place," Howell smiles. "William has a terrible cold, and of course, we're out of medicine."

"Better to walk together this late, right?" Izzy asks. "Never know who else is out and about."

"Oh goodness," Howell laughs. "Around here? No. We almost all know each other."

"Yeah," Izzy nods. "We do."

They make it to the one open corner store, and he ends up buying himself dinner as if it were for Ed. Not a useless trip after all, and at least his last experience with anyone in town will be a good one.

Until the very end, of course.

"Say, you offered to walk with me to the shop," Howell says as they near their original meeting point. "Why don't I walk you home? Return the favor."

Izzy shrugs. "If you don't mind."

"I don't," Howell says, but he stops mid-step.

"Everything okay?" Izzy stops and turns to ask.

Howell is on him in a second, hands cradling his face, lips warm against Izzy's.

He knows Ed has his dalliances with Jack, whenever Jack happens to cross their path. Why shouldn't Izzy be allowed his own?

"Not here," Izzy gasps out in between kisses. "We're in the middle of the street."

Howell takes his hand, and leads Izzy down the road towards the park.

Behind a line of thicker trees, Howell pushes him against one. Bags from the shop are tossed aside, and there's no thought that their respective partners might wonder what's taking so long, when the shop isn't far away.

He should care. But Howell nips at his neck and his mind goes blank.

"Please don't tell William," Howell whimpers. "I don't do things like this normally, but...I mean, I married the first man I dated. We didn't even live together before then."

"Is that what you tell every twenty-something you fuck in the park?" Izzy smiles. "I won't tell him. We're leaving town as soon as Ed is feeling better anyway."

"Fuck you, I'm twenty-nine," Howell scoffs. "Why are you leaving?"

"Ed likes change," Izzy replies, grinding himself against Howell's thigh between his legs. "And he's the one that makes our money, so when he wants to move, we move."

"Sounds so healthy," Howell mutters.

"Says the man cheating on his husband with the first person he saw at night," Izzy snaps. "Are we doing this or not?"

Howell bites his neck hard, and Izzy feels his cock pulse.

"I'll take that as a yes," Howell smirks, and drops to his knees in front of Izzy.

"It is," Izzy says. "I don't care. Like I said, we'll be gone soon enough. It won't matter if this gets out."

"What if Ed finds out?"

Izzy balks. "I suppose we'll be having a serious talk. But he has his play time away from me as well, with no thought as to if I care or not."

Howell undoes the laces of his leather trousers, and pulls his cock out from his pants. "Huh. And here I thought he'd just kill you."

As Howell takes him into his mouth, Izzy silently panics. What exactly does everyone think about Ed?

"Howell," Izzy says softly.

"Already, seriously?" Howell scoffs. "I hope you give better head than you get."

"No," Izzy hisses. "What. What did you mean, about thinking Ed would kill me? Was that a joke?"

"Not really," Howell shrugs, absentmindedly pausing to suck one of Izzy's balls into his mouth. It lolls out off his tongue, and he continues. "He just gives a lot of people around here the creeps. We understand he has his sun allergy, but when he's been out at night he's been nothing but rude. There's no need for that."

Izzy nods, and leans back against the tree as Howell goes back to sucking him off. So that's it then. Even with Ed rarely going out, even at night, there's no hiding that he's different compared to others. A little bit sharper, a little bit smarter, and a little bit scarier. Somehow, it shines through no matter what. Not always a bad thing, but then, there was this.

Truthfully, Howell isn't doing much for him. He'd rather it was Ed licking the precum off the slit of his cock, taking him as deep as possible in his throat.

He knows they can't take forever, so he thinks of Ed.

Ed, on his knees, albeit with a good cushion underneath them. He'd been old enough to have had chronic knee injuries, but he refused to let that stop him from sucking Izzy off that way.

Ed, looking up at him with those soft brown eyes, through thick lashes, fluttering shut as he chokes on Izzy's cock. He'd let Izzy's cock pop out of his mouth, and giggle.

He bites down gently on his own hand to keep quiet. Howell moans around his cock, and it's almost enough.

Finally, Ed would pause to beg him to come, show off his own leaking cock, and occasionally simply stick out his tongue and wait for Izzy to jerk off onto it.

It was overtly, ridiculously pornographic, so it wasn't something they did often. But that made it all the more memorable: watching Ed swallow his cum and politely ask if he could jerk off on Izzy's tits.

Izzy taps Howell's shoulder twice, and moans around his hand as he comes. Howell swallows him down, moaning.

"I fucking knew it!"

Izzy's eyes snap open. William, in an extra heavy coat, running towards them.

He puts himself away as Howell practically spits out his cock, and makes a decision.

He yanks out the guitar strings garrote he's made, and swings behind Howell to wrap it around his neck.

William stops dead in his tracks and screams. Perfect, exactly what he needs right now.

Howell fights him, and it seems like it takes ages to get him down. William was unfrozen by then, and charges their way again.

Before he can plan an angle of attack, a shadow swoops in and drags William along the ground to rest by Howell and Izzy.

"How fucking hard is it to just get one meal?" Ed scoffs. "Fucking hell, Iz."

"You don't understand," Izzy starts, but Ed holds up a hand.

"I saw everything," Ed says. "Forget it. You forgave me for Jack, I can forgive you for this."

He watches Ed drain both of them that night. They drag the bodies home, and do their usual disfiguring and dismemberment. The parts get packed in duffel bags, and tossed in random locations as Ed and Izzy drove away with what little they had.

"Fuck," Stede breathes shakily. "Iz."

Izzy nods.

"That's a bit bigger than butting heads," Stede continues. "Come here."

Izzy snuggles inside Stede's hug. "I haven't been able to tell anyone that before. Thing is, I'm almost proud of it. Could have gone so much worse. Yet I've been hesitant to mention it to anyone, not even other familiars we've met on the road."

"I can sort of see why," Stede says softly. "Shall we lay down, maybe?"

Izzy leads him to the cheap, barely big enough for them both, cot he had shoved in the shed. It was rather big to be called that honestly, but not enough to be a garage either. Who knew what it had been before Izzy had made it over.

Stede is gentle and slow and exactly what Izzy needs right now.

Stede's hands wander, his fingers dipping underneath Izzy's shirt to trace patterns on his bare skin. It makes him shiver, and leaves him moaning into Stede's mouth.

Their hips bump, hard cocks grinding through their clothes, and Stede is just panting needily into his mouth when there's a pounding on the shed door.

"Ed," Stede mutters.

"Let me," Izzy tries, but Stede is already up.

"What the fuck is your problem?!" Stede demands.

Ed growls. "You."

#text post #ofmd fic #stizzy #blackhands #howell davis/izzy hands #i swear the steddyhands will make a full appearance as we go on #this is just turning out longer than i anticipated kandkfnfjg #it was gonna be a one shot #whoops

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benefits1986 · 6 months

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Dead-ends

That hyphen on the word "dead-end" makes more sense and no sense, at once. Or it is just me and my dyslexic moody nothingness, yet again? This morning, dad was supposed to go on a long ride in ode of the long weekend. In an hour or so, we heard a loud sound that seemed like a firecracker, a loud one to be exact. Since I am still recovering, I asked him to check it out. He opened the door of our tiny house and looked around. Lo and behold, his three-year old bike tire exploded. We were talking about how mother dragon must have been breathing down my neck and today, my dad's neck, too. LOL. I asked him to thank mom because he could have gone wild on the roads especially during lusongs na malala. He stopped and looked at me. I knew he misses mom more and more.

I nebulized today because I can feel my breath shorten a bit which is not usual for me. Asthmatic era na ba talaga ako as an old lady with pets who shed their furs a whole lot this time of the year? LOL. I said sorry to Vici as he had to sleep on his own because mhie, I am literally and figuratively breathless-ish. Damn this bug. Ang lala but we are not stopping. Dad asked me saan ba ako pupunta this long weekend. LOL. I said that he should stop irking me because I can't afford a binat. A number of close friends are recovering from the flu for two weeks and counting; and I CANNOT imagine me in that scenario. Anyhow, I am supposed to backpack in no less than Bicolandia. However, I need to prioritize my health not only in time for the mega mad dash to the end of Q4, 2023. More importantly, the past days and weeks taught me that I am not getting any younger. Yes, I am not taking any maintenance drugs, thankfully; but it does not mean that I can go all out non-stop. LOLOLLOLLOLL. FML. I went easy on OD-ing vitamins and meds because my liver maybe crying out loud. I remember LA Tenorio's post which talks about his bout with CA. It's not just about the game but most importantly, the one who drives the ball and is part of the team. It begins and end with the self... always. This is easier said than done especially when I along with countless millennials are experiencing the pull of gravity; regardless of BMI, insulin resistance, number of zeroes in our bank accounts or the emoji reacts that our feed grants us. :D LELS.

We're all racing toward our own versions of dead-ends. We're all bound by our breath and nothing else, really. We're all but a speck of dust in the wind. It's funny how we often say that dogs' dead-ends are shorter than ours; however, I'd like to believe that all dogs have a life well-lived. They know what true love, compassion, loyalty and pure intention are. Enough said. I might be too dramatic for tonight's thought fart. I guess this is my way of resisting the AI boss bitch streak which is where I'm swimming in and will be in for the next X number of years. I guess I'd want to believe that there is a better version of Her (the movie starring Joaquin Phoenix) in this lifetime. I guess, humanity will prevail if and only if there'd be people who'll choose to make their versions of dead-ends worthwhile. Can I just say that I kinda feel like Anne Frank right now? So many social unrest, injustice towards the women and the disadvantaged. So many unnecessary factions that can actually be tackled if and only if people come together to over-communicate and negotiate. If only we work toward our dead-ends to heal the world instead of lambasting it more and more, maybe, just maybe, we'd be in a better ground. Let's see. For the meantime, I shall rest my case. Catch you in the next one!

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theweasleysredhair · 4 years

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In Safe Hands [G.W.]

Character: George Weasley

Word Count: 4339

Requested?: Yes/No

Summary: George is just very attractive and his hands are even more attractive.

WARNING: this is NSFW, 18+, smutty, sexy times, idk how else to say it. including oral (female receiving). also a lot of mentions of hands, arms and veins bc i canny control myself apparently.

Tags: @gracemayhateyou @acciotwinz @rexorangecouny @mischi3f-manag3d @obsessedwithrandomthings @whizbangs-78 @heart-of-tempered-steel @harrysweasleys @ickle-ronniekins @wand3ringr0s3 @theweirdsideofstuff | message or send an ask to be added to my smut taglist - you must be 18+!

Disclaimer: Gif isn't mine, credit to whoever made it

A/n: i put two requests for my event together as i decided to write a full fic based on george’s hands purely because prompt 9, which both requesters selected, refers to hands - enjoy!!

Prompts used:

3. “I may or may not have left some... marks.”

9. “God I love your hands.” “Let’s put them to good use then.”

23. “Didn’t know you wanted to get into my pants that badly.”

49. “Behave.”

~*~

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK! REBLOGS ARE ABSOLUTELY FINE! <3

+ + + + +

You’d always liked George - why wouldn’t you? He was funny, charming, handsome. You’d be stupid not to. It had started back in Hogwarts - you were friends with the twins; close friends. And that’s all you thought of them as, until one fateful day in your 7th year where you made the regrettable decision to meet the twins after one of their last games of Quidditch before Umbridge had banned them, and George had emerged from the Gryffindor tent freshly showered, shirt hanging over his shoulder, trousers low on his hips.

And that’s when you’d realised you liked George as much more than just friends.

You hadn’t known how to deal with him at first, how to act around him, once you’d realised how you felt. Because every time he laughed, every time he ran a hand through his hair, you felt yourself positively swooning, as cliché as it sounded.

It took a lot not to accidentally blurt out your feelings to him, not that you were helped by Fred, who noticed the slight differences in your behaviour - holding onto hugs from George a tad longer, the way you looked at him when he didn’t realise, how flustered you got when he’d rest a hand on your knee - and made it his mission to make your feelings as obvious as possible in front of his brother.

George must’ve been the most oblivious person however, as he never noticed the hints or the longing smiles. Or maybe that was because he was busy trying to stop Fred from making his own crush on you so obvious, trying to hide his own longing smiles, and the way his eyes lit up when he made you laugh.

The twins had left Hogwarts soon after you’d realised your feelings, in a fit of fireworks, and then suddenly you were dealing with Umbridge alone, with her detentions alone. Not that you blamed them for leaving at all - you knew they were out living their dream and all you could wish to do was support them. It didn’t make being at Hogwarts any easier though, dealing with all the Educational Decrees. However, you thought the space and distance would help you to get over George, and it did.

Until you saw him again in his shop. The twins had sent you a letter in the middle of your NEWTs asking you to come and work for them, an offer that you gladly accepted, however arriving at their store on your first day - after the initial overwhelming feeling of pride at seeing how well their store was doing, how successful they were - you knew you weren’t at all over him.

He stood there, a smirk etched on his face, suit fitted to him as he crossed his arms over his chest, standing on the stairs in the shop as he looked down at you, and your felt your heart racing, cursing yourself over still being so hung up on the man.

His eyes slowly took in your appearance - you’d worn a cute sundress, due to the warm weather, your hair falling loosely around your shoulders and George felt his own heartbeat quicken.

He’d fancied you since his 6th year, most likely before that, the realisation hitting him when he had seen you dancing with some prat from Ravenclaw at the Yule Ball, when you should have gone with him. After that, after seeing how utterly stunning you’d looked that day, with your ballgown and hair done, he knew he’d never be able to look at you the same.

And even now, after not seeing you for months, you didn’t fail to leave him speechless, so effortlessly beautiful in his eyes that he couldn’t help but look at you as though you’d hung all the stars in the sky.

“Long time no see, eh love?” He spoke, moving down the last couple of steps and towards you, “Still gorgeous as ever.”

You grinned at him, “Always the charmer, eh Weasley?”

He chuckled, opening his arms to wrap them around you to bring you into a warm hug, one you gladly accepted as you wrapped your own arms around his waist, taking a deep breath as the familiar scent of his cologne enveloped you, making you grin. He rested his chin on your head and closed his eyes, smiling as he felt you nuzzle into his chest.

Merlin, he thought being away from you had lessened his feelings for you but in that moment, with you in his arms, he was struck with the same realisation he’d had in his 6th year - that he was in love with you.

And, unbeknownst to him, as your grip around him tightened a little, the hug lasting a tad too long to be friendly, however neither of you mentioning anything about it, you’d come to the same realisation.

Which brought you to now.

Being around George again was amazing, you had to admit. And whilst you hated the way you kept fumbling with products, or how clumsy you’d get around him - something Fred still loved to tease you about - you also adored how he made you feel, how happy, how content - he made your life that much better, a light in an ever increasing darkening world.

You’d been working with the twins for a few months, and it was amazing, truly a better job than you could have predicted. What made the job difficult, however, was trying to keep cool when George walked around looking like he did, interacting with the guests, making the children laugh at his jokes.

Godric, could he get any more attractive?

He’d seemed to up the ante this week, almost on purpose you swore, constantly walking around in just his shirt and tie due to the summer heat, the lack of a jacket meaning you were faced with doing your job and working with customers whilst also trying not to stare at the way his shirt fit snugly around him, or how his forearms were showcased due to him rolling his sleeve to his elbows, veins appearing any time he tended his arms, whether that be due to moving things around the shop, demonstrating how certain products worked, or lifting and moving heavy equipment.

The latter of which currently occurring, as Fred had left George alone to deal with a delivery after the shop had shut.

You were stood at the Pygmy Puff display, moving cages around and making sure they were well looked after when you heard some grunts coming from the store room, as if someone had picked up something with a lot of weight. You then heard footsteps behind you, making you pause with the last - feisty - Pygmy Puff in your hand, the rest having been put into their cages.

You turned around, breath hitching in your throat as you took in the sight before you. Namely, George Weasley holding what appeared to be quite a heavy box, if his staggered breathing was anything to go by. He’d shed his jacket somewhere in the back, along with his waistcoat, leaving him in just his shirt, which was tightly fitted and, you noticed as he placed the box down on top of another cardboard box, stuck to him a little with sweat from the heavy lifting. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showcasing his forearms, and you found yourself gulping as your eyes wandered down the prominent veins, to his large hands, one of which was pulled through his messy ginger hair, pushing the strands out of his face.

And he had no idea.

He had no idea at all that suddenly you couldn’t focus, that suddenly all the breath had left your lungs, that suddenly all you could think about was how his hands would feel on you, holding your waist, gripping your hips, squeezing your thighs. How his fingers would feel inside of you.

George looked over at you and shot you a grin, one that made your heart race even more than it already was, “Bloody big delivery today, eh? ‘S what happens when I let Fred order the ingredients.”

You gave him an almost starstruck smile, which he accepted gladly, before reaching up and undoing the top two buttons of his shirt, pulling at his tie to loosen it, your jaw dropping almost comically as you secretly watched him.

He noticed halfway through his action that you’d gotten extremely silent, your mouth open ever so slightly and George wondered if it was because of him. Merlin he hoped so, because if you wanted him as much as he wanted you, well, he’d be happy to take you right there and then against the till counter.

He turned away to disappear back into the stockroom, biting his lip as indecent thoughts filled his mind, heading to grab the next couple of boxes.

Back on the shop floor, you took a deep breath, rubbing your eyes and cursing yourself. You should not be stood ogling your best friend, much less your best friend who was also your boss, no matter how attractive he happened to be. You should be going through the boxes to separate ingredients out, helping with the displays and doing your job.

But no, instead you were stood, still holding the Pygmy Puff that was now trying to escape your hands, imagining all the things you wanted that man to do to you. And what you wanted to do to him.

Merlin.

You popped the Pygmy Puff into the cage, and wandered over to the box that George had just brought in, trying to push the thoughts of how you could see the outline of his abs through his shirt away as you began pulling out different ingredients.

He came back around the corner, holding two boxes this time, the top one covering most of his face due to the size, allowing you to stare longingly at the way his fingers were wrapped around the edges of the boxes, gripping tightly. You bit your lip as he turned from you to place the boxes down, watching as the shirt moved closely against his back, accentuating his shoulder blades as he bent down and Merlin did you wish you could see his muscles without the shirt.

“Need any help?” You managed to stutter out, trying to act as if you hadn’t been staring at him. Still bending over as he sorted out the boxes, he paused his actions and looked up at you, shooting you a cheeky grin. “Don’t you worry at all, love, I’ve got it, I am extremely strong after all,” he winked, and Godric, didn’t you know it, “You just stand there looking your best, that’s all the motivation I need.”

And suddenly you’d forgotten how to speak, how to breathe. You just nodded, though he didn’t see as his attention was back on the box in front of him. You watched him sift through the products, fingers moving nimbly, occasionally bringing out the odd jar or packet, sometimes throwing it in the air and catching it before placing it to one side.

He brought out a smaller box of vials, which he held from the top, placing it in front of you and gripping it tighter to emphasise his hands when he saw your gaze lingering.

He smiled to himself, pushing his sleeves up - making you swallow harshly - as he pretended not to know you were watching him, all the while flexing just for your benefit.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes kept drifting over to him, couldn’t help that watching him be so efficient with flipping glass jars in the air and holding different ingredients made you that much more attracted to him. You couldn’t help your thoughts racing, thinking about asking him to use his hands on you and-

“Godric, I love your hands.”

Your eyes widened in shock as his head turned to you, your own hand covering your mouth as you realised what you’d just said, and you began stammering out, “I-I... I didn’t mean- I- George-“

George gave a pretend look of shock, as if he hadn’t purposely been working you up for the last however-long. “You like my hands?” He asked with a smirk, glancing down at them before his gaze fell back on you, taking in the sight of you being so flustered. You got lost in the way his eyes held yours, and you could do nothing but nod slowly, making George bite his lip and step forward.

His heart was racing at your confession, not quite believing it was happening but very much wanting to do something with that information, “If you like them so much, let’s put them to good use.”

“W-what?”

George looked you up and down, his tongue darting out to wetten his bottom lip, “You like my hands, and I wanna use them on you, darling. You going to let me?”

You took in the way he was looking at you - like all his dreams had come true, like you were the only thing he cared about, like he loved you. “Absolutely,” you breathed out.

And suddenly his hands were on your waist, bringing you closer to him as he brushed his lips against yours, savouring the first few moments of you being so close to him, before kissing you properly. His lips were soft, moving against yours in a way that, had you not have known any different, you may have thought he’d been kissing you for years. It felt familiar, yet with an added layer of something new. A kiss that made your skin feel like it was on fire, that, as he angled his head to deepen it, made your stomach flutter, and mind race.

It was so perfect, even with the occasional bump of your noses - so perfectly George - that you didn’t want it to end. He pulled away a little, pressing more kisses to your lips before he began moving down to your neck, pressing open mouthed, hot kisses to your skin, making you let out small, breathy moans, feeling him smile against you.

You ran your hands down his chest, playing gently with the buttons and pulling his tie completely off, and heading towards his belt as he licked the skin just below your ear.

Beginning to unbuckle his belt, you also “accidentally” brushed against the evident tent in his pants, and he pulled away from you to grin, “Didn’t know you wanted to get into my pants that badly, love.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and bit your lip at him, making his heart beat a little faster, “Your fault for bringing that delivery in so attractively.”

You’d managed to unbuckle his belt and pulled him back in for a kiss, him mumbling against your lips, “Might get Fred to order stock more often then if this is what happens.”

He led you over to the stairs, stumbling a little up the bottom two steps before trapping you against the banister for a moment, holding you close to him as he continued to kiss you, his tongue easily gliding into your mouth.

Between kisses, and George pulling your shirt off, you made it to the apartment above the shop, heading down the hallway and bumping into the cabinet that was stood between the bathroom and Fred’s room, before arriving at his bedroom door, which he nudged open with his feet, bringing you inside.

He held you by the waist, fingertips tightening a little as he pulled away from the kiss for air, and to lift you up so he could throw you onto the bed, the impact making your breasts bounce and George breathed out a, “Fuck, c’mere.”

He crawled on top of you, your back arching into the mattress as your arms looped around his neck, playing with the tufts of ginger hair at the base of his neck as you brought him back in for another kiss. Your hands moved down to begin unbuttoning his shirt, something you’d been imagining all day, before throwing it to the other side of the room, George doing the same with your bra.

A few moments later, you’d both shed the rest of your clothes, leaving you bare against him, breasts pressed against his chest, his arms either side of your head, supporting his weight above you. You could feel his breath hitting your hitting your lips, his face centimetres from yours.

In stark contrast to the compromising position you were in, George looked down at you with love, a look that warmed your heart as you gave him a small, almost shy, smile.

“You know I- uh- I love you, right? I’m in love with you, darling.” He looked almost vulnerable as he said that, his eyes flickering across your face as his lips parted a little.

You lifted your head up so your forehead rested against his, hands clutching his shoulders, “I’m in love with you too, Georgie.”

“Me or my hands?” He joked, making you shake your head and laugh. You pretended to think for a moment before replying, “Maybe both.”

“Let’s see if I can make you come from just my hands then, shall we?” He grinned, making your heart race as his fingers danced down your stomach before pressing against your clit.

“So wet for me,” He commented, circling it slowly, smirking at the way you let out little breathy moans, before he entered a finger into you, taking advantage of the way your back arched in order to take one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucked on it, gently nibbling as he pushed his finger in and out of you, before adding a second finger, stretching you out a little.

“George,” you breathed out as he moved to your other breast.

He continued moving his fingers against you, in you, and you felt the familiar feeling of pleasure building in your stomach.

After being so wound up from watching him, you knew it wouldn’t take much more to reach your high, and as he continued to kiss your breasts, you breathed out slowly, almost embarrassed at how quickly he’d managed to turn you into a pile of mush at his touch.

“I’m close,” you whimpered, as George moved from your breasts to your collarbone, his thumb adding a little more pressure to your clit as his fingers moved.

Picking up his pace ever-so-slightly, he brought you closer to your high. He felt you clench around his fingers and pressed a kiss to your jawline. “Come for me princess,” he whispered against your ear in a low tone, making you shiver.

George watched the way you closed your eyes, mouth open and head tilted back as your high washed over you, pleasure running through you, and felt himself harden at the sight.

His fingers continued moving against you, although at a slower pace, and your hips jolted towards him at the overstimulation, “‘S a good girl.” He leant forward, pressing his body against yours as he kissed you gently.

“Think you can come for me again, love?”

You were breathing heavily from your first orgasm, though with the way his fingers were moving against you, you knew you’d be reaching your second before you could properly catch your breath. You nodded at him before he began trailing back down your stomach and settled himself between your legs.

You shivered as he lightly pressed kisses on the soft skin of your inner thigh, his hands squeezing your hips, before he licked into you, making you gasp out and clutch the bedsheets tightly. Letting out a moan as he pushed a finger back into you, you closed your eyes, head falling back against the headboard as you breathed out heavily from the way his tongue was moving against you.

You bucked your hips against him involuntarily, causing his free hand to push your hips back down and he looked up from between your legs, his eyes catching yours as he smirked against you, “Behave, darling.” You moaned as the vibrations of just those two words travelled through you, the hand not enclosed around his heading towards his messy hair and running through it, pulling at strands as you felt his tongue flatten against you.

Feeling your second orgasm creeping up on you, you wrapped your legs around his head and let out a moan as you felt George groan against you. Your second high felt more intense than the first, and the feel of George’s tongue pushing inside you made you moan out loudly, the feeling taking over you before you relaxed against him, legs falling onto his shoulders.

“You look so pretty when you come,” he grinned, moving back to hover over you. He pressed himself against you, rocking his hips against yours, arm muscles tensing as he held himself up over you.

You whined a little at the feel of him moving against your sensitive clit, making him smile.

“You ready for me, princess?”

You wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, the other reaching for his hand to intertwine your fingers together, “Always, Georgie.”

At your go-ahead, he pressed a kiss to your lips and eased himself into you, making you both moan out. “You feel so good wrapped around me, love,” he praised as he pulled out of you before pushing back in again, “Taking me so well.”

He moved against you, skin brushing against skin, his spare hand moving to touch any place he could, running his fingers down the curves of your body, before biting his lip as he pulled his hand from yours to grab your wrist, taking your other one from around his neck and holding them above your head, making you whimper as his arms flexed.

“Do you like what my hands can do to you, love? How I made you come from nothing but my fingers?” He groaned against you, feeling himself edging towards his own high.

“Yes... yes!” You breathed out, your eyes closing as you felt your high arriving fast, “George you feel so good.”

George groaned again, feeling you clenching around his cock in the same way you did around his fingers. He leant forward to kiss you, still holding your arms above your head and suddenly pleasure coursed through your body, and you sighed against his lips, him twitching and coming inside of you soon after with a deep growl.

He fell against your shoulder, pulling himself out of you before laying beside you, letting go of your wrists as you instinctively curled towards him.

George’s eyes wandered over to you, a smile small playing at his lips, taking in the way your hair was falling across his pillow, your eyes shut as you breathed heavily, eyelashes fanning across your cheeks, your hand resting on one of his biceps.

His gaze travelled across your neck and down to your collarbones, then across your breasts, a smug smile gracing his face. You opened your own eyes, catching his shit-eating grin and raised an eyebrow at him wearily, “What’s that look for?”

“I may or may not have left some... marks,” he replied cheekily, biting his lip, pupils blown wide as he took in the sight of you marked by him, pressed up next to him.

Your jaw dropped a little and you shook your head with a laugh, “Oh bloody hell, Georgie!” You stood up quickly and headed to the mirror across the room to check, fighting the urge to both laugh and smack him when you saw the red and purple marks littering your skin.

George sat back on the bed, eyes raking over your body, enjoying the sight of your bare bum and back, and found himself biting his lip and imagining all the things he wanted to do to you that night. His eyes lingered on the curve of your bum and he fought the urge to grab you again and pull you down onto him.

“I like them on you, they look hot,” George said with a grin, and you playfully glared at him in the mirror.

“You would think that.” Turning back around to him, you just missed the way his gaze flickered to the marks on your breasts and up to your neck, George feeling extremely proud of himself and his work.

“Yeah, it just shows people you’re mine I guess,” he shrugged unapologetically and gave you a smug grin, looking you up and down as you walked back over to him.

“Oh I’m yours, am I?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest and unintentionally accentuating your breasts to him, making him let out a groan as he reached for you.

“Of course you are.”

He pulled you back down onto him like he’d imagined before, your bare chest against his own, his large hands holding your waist as your nails gently scraped down his arms.

“Fancy a round two?” He asked, one of his hands already beginning to head back towards your clit.

Your eyes closed as you sighed contently as you felt his fingers press against you, enjoying the feel of him, “I could be convinced.”

As you were straddling him, you felt him harden more than he was against you, and you opened your eyes to meet his own, darkened with lust, his fingers still moving against you as his other hand gripped your hip.

“Oh princess, how about I make you come for a fourth time tonight? And then again. And then again. And again after that. Would that convince you?”

You bit your lip, pushing yourself against his hand and grinned at him, “I reckon it would. Or maybe I’ll just ride you instead.”

He picked up the pace of his fingers against you, and you let out a moan from above him as one of your own hands covered his on your hip, making him smile cheekily at you,

“Ride me then, darling, and then I’ll make sure you can’t walk in the morning.”

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley smut #george weasley imagine #george weasley imagines #4.6k follower drabble event #hp #harry potter #all queue have to do is follow the spiders

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Urban(e)🚬3

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; violence; criminal activity; alcohol; PTSD, warnings to be added as series progresses.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. It features Tommy Shelby x reader. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: when your father went away to serve in The Great War, you took over his side business in the shed. After the war, he struggles to recover from the damage of his trauma as an unexpected investor shows up at your door.

Note: Thanks to all who are following along. I'm having fun writing this show and the time period.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The biting cold of the English countryside sends a layer of dampness through the house and crawls up the wooden walls of the barn. The grass is frosty and yellow from the looming winter. The rains come harder and more often as the chill grows constant.

You sit by the window and stare out at the sky, the sun hidden behind the sheet of billowy clouds. The clink of dishes sounds from the kitchen along with the voices of your family. Much has changed in the month since Shelby’s broker and yet nothing at all.

Your father’s silence permeates the airy rooms and adds another edge to the cold. It’s mostly aimed at you, the one he blames. You didn’t expect any different.

“Waiting for the boss?” your father’s voice cuts through your isolation.

“Da,” you warn as you sit back and sip your lukewarm tea.

He has the grace to look guilty. “Shelby business is dangerous business,” he sits in his rocking chair, now inside to keep it from rotting through the wetter months.

“I know, da, you keep saying,” you murmur, “it wasn’t my choice, just like it wasn’t yours.”

“I didn’t show you how to work a still to work for a man like him,” he growls.

“So what do I do, eh? What are you gonna do? You know that rifle is as good as a feather against those men,” you shake your head, “he takes his whiskey and goes. It’s better than we can hope for.”

“And those brutes he’s left in the shed, yeah, they bother you?”

“I got Ali, da,” you argue, “and you.”

“Mmm,” he hums and nods, “that’s right, so that means you tell me if they try anything.”

“Da, look at me,” you snort, “they’d rather mess with one of our mares, even the stud.”

“You overestimate men,” he shakes his head, “I still don’t like the arrangement, never will, but I’ll be calmer if you keep me aware.”

“Alright,” you say, “you wanna see the new stills? You never did come out.”

“Perhaps,” he answers and closes his eyes, the chair creaking as he rocks, “if my wound does cease its throbbing.”

“Hope so,” you stand and kiss his forehead, “you know, I don’t like him either.”

“Aye, I see it your eyes,” he smiles at the ceiling, “never seen that before. Not in you.”

“Better get ready, those dullards can’t do much more than watch,” you squeeze his shoulder, “I’ll be back at noon, yeah?”

“Might come out,” he says, “might do.”

🚬

Dawson and Darren. Those are the two men sent by Shelby to assist your manufacture. Unfortunately, they’re more in the way than any help. The shining new vats are bigger than their predecessors but the output is just as slow.

You guide Darren for the dozenth time in how to heat the still and the delicacy of your cyclical processing. The repetition seems to do little to seep past his thick skull and your exasperation boils over with the still that’s done the same. Another spoiled batch.

He apologises but you say nothing. Dawson instead begins his reproach as he is the more capable of the two. The heat of the shed speckles your skin with sweat and your frustration adds to your discomfort. You leave the two louts to argue and step out into the brisk air.

You have the crates filled for the pending deliveries while the excess will go to Shelby as demanded. Still, you have an itch to drain them into the mud of the pen and laugh in his face. Your thoughts are always bolder than you. Never overly talkative but wholly stubborn. Your father always said no words could cut as deep as your eyes.

You pull your jacket closed and do up a single button. You smell like rye and dirty hay. You never notice as your nose has taken to the stench of the farm but every now and then, you think you stink of a horse. Better for it, you like your space.

The distant noise catches your ear. At first, you think the wind is picking up and you come around the front of the house. You smell your mother’s stew even from there and hear Ali’s voice through the closed windows as he yammers at your father. Da always says the two of you were different sides of the same penny, though he would add that you were at least a halfcrown. That’s on the days he smiled, as rare as they are.

You see the black dot along the horizon and you know. You sigh and sit on the steps as you await the man. It’s better to keep him without, your father declares the house no man’s land for the Shelbys. You do your best to keep the two veterans apart. For all they have in common, they have more that sets them apart.

You know soldiers, your father’s friends were all in France. They all wear the scars and you hear how they speak. They carry violence even if it's not in their soul. The war made them that way and you knew that too long together and a new battle will break.

The only surprise about Thomas is that he’s alone. He’s not come unaccompanied since his first visit to the farmstead, that day your father made the short voyage back to the trenches. You watch him step out of his car and the metal door slams.

“Your men are in the shed,” you say as you lean your chin in your hand, “figure it was better to let ‘em burn it down instead of me.”

“They aren’t the sharpest but most soldiers only know how to take orders,” Thomas strides up to the steps and props his foot up on the bottom stair. His leather gloves brush over his jacket and he tucks a hand in his pocket, “I prefer to talk to the commander of the troops.”

“Well, there’s bottles for you in the barn,” you say tritely, “not much else to report.”

He looks ripe to smirk but he just shakes his head, “tryna decide if I prefer you silent.”

You tilt your head and shrug. You stare at him as he drags his foot from the worn wood and stands straight.

“Fine, the whiskey,” he flicks you up with two fingers, “I’ve not driven this far to argue.”

You stand and sense movement behind you. You glance back as your father pulls back the curtain to glare through as he stills his rocking chair. He scowls and Shelby waves to him smartly. You give your father a pleading look and he drops the linen back to cover the glass.

“Right,” you sat, “let us get your due.”

Thomas trails behind you, playing at a gentleman as you lead him to the gate and unhook the pen. He’s unbothered as his boots sink into the muck but you suspect he’s walked through worse. You lift the heavy bar across the door and he helps slide it open.

As you enter, Martha, one of the mares, puffs and you pause to pat her nose. He bares her teeth and her tongue swipes your cheek. She’s more likely to bite Ali but you prefer the obstinate creature.

Thomas comes close and puts his hand out to the horse. She chomps at him and he rescinds his hand. He tuts and chuckles to himself.

“Not many horses don’t like me,” he remarks, “same for women.”

“Mhmm,” you mutter and carry on past the stalls, “back here, Mr. Shelby.”

He follows you to a stack of crates covered in patched wool. You pull back the blanket and present the brown bottles to him. He raises his chin and considers his haul.

“That’s yours,” you say, “we keep the locals up in the loft.”

“You need more men?” he unbuttons his jacket and reaches inside. He takes out his cigarette case, clicks it open then closed, and replaces it under his coat.

“To get in my way?” you counter, “no. Mr. Shelby, I don’t think you understand. We get out what we put in, regardless of the size of our stills or the number of our hands.”

“Something I have considered,” he nods, “we’ve got packaging sorted at least. Bottles comin’ in from Manchester, labels too.”

“You’ll still get the same,” you affirm.

“First step, many to come,” he points a finger, “tell me, you have any dresses?”

You look at him dully. He lets a small grin play on his lips.

“Well?” he prompts.

“Might,” you answer shortly.

“Oh, well, I think you might search it out,” he says, “don’t think this,” he pinches the seam of your jacket sleeve, “will go well with society.”

You narrow your eyes and pull away from him.

“Take your whiskey, Mr. Shelby,” you cross your arms.

“A car will fetch you, Friday, I expect you to dress like more than a farmhand,” he carries on, “you’ll come to Birmingham and we’ll review our new processes.”

“Mr. Shelby, I see no reason for me to venture far. Bring your bottles and your labels and we will fill them,” you sniff.

“Do you recall my warning?” he lowers his voice, “about denying me?”

“I was of the mind that you were interested in whiskey, sir,” you snip, “you have the whiskey.”

“I am doing you a favour,” he insists, “I could as easily write my name on this whiskey but I am offering you a bit of grace.”

“I can read labels whilst in trousers, Mr. Shelby,” you scoff.

“There are people you need to meet,” he says, “so, you will come and you will pack another dress because the next day, we must travel to London.”

“Ali can go as my agent,” you meet his unbending gaze, “I think men are better suited for business.”

“You can go yourself,” he edges closer and you resist the urge to retreat, “and you will do so with ribbons in your hair.”

“Mr. Shelby,” you force through your tight throat and his eyes fall to the small constriction.

“I’m certain your date book is wide open,” he backs away and turns back to the crates.

He bends and takes a brown bottle. He uncorks it and inhales the scent, wrinkling his nose at its pungency. He takes a swig then offers it to you.

“No, thank you, Mr. Shelby,” you say, “I’ll have Ali help you–”

“I can’t fit all this in my car,” he chuckles as he pushes the cork back in, “I’ll send a man with a lorry.”

“Sure,” you reply.

“Perhaps a taste from your still might be good for you,” he muses as he hugs the bottle under his arm, “you surely need something to dislodge the rod from up your ass.”

“As you make it known, Mr. Shelby, I am no soldier, I’m but a woman,” you swallow, “so do not speak to me as one of your accomplices.”

“You might tell your father of my regards,” he surpasses you and receives a snort from Martha as he heads for the door, “I know where the horse gets her teeth.”

🚬

You stopped wearing dresses years before and there were two among the forgotten pile that still fit. Your mother sewed them by hand and so you kept them, even if you never had occasion to wear them. Now, you want to burn them.

They are sorely out of date, you’re certain. Gwenyth Harper used to get all the fashion periodicals and show off the ever shortening hems of modern style. The sleeves and skirts of the plain cotton garments speak of the farm and a time forgotten since the war rearranged the world. Worse than wearing a skirt, you will face the city in an outdated frock. You’re certain you get some jabs and japes for that.

As you fix the fraying cuff with a needle, sitting on your bed as the windows rattle, you hear the floorboards creak without. You look up as your father peeks in through the slightly open door. He eyes the fabric in your hand as you nod for him to enter.

“What’s this?” he asks as he pulls up the square stool from the corner.

You haven’t told him about Shelby’s demands or the one-sided argument in the barn. You’re barely willing to accept it yourself. Pulling out the dresses was enough to make you want to hit your head against the wall.

“Well, you know,” you lower your chin and focus on the stitches, “certain expectations for city folk.”

“‘City folk’?” he echoes, “what… what’re you goin’ there for?”

“Da,” you purse your lip as you tie off your last stitch.

“No,” he says staunchly as he sits straight, “no, not with that man.”

You raise your eyes and fold the dress over the edge of the bed. You frown as he stares at you. His face falls. For all the stubbornness you inherited from him, you both know it’s not within his will.

“Why’s he need ya in the city?” he asks.

“Something about labels, bottles, dressing up the fucking piss,” you sneer and your father’s eyes round.

“Ah, girlie, the mouth on you,” he lets himself chuckle, “I'd tell ya not to but can’t say I didn’t teach ya that myself.”

“I don’t wanna go,” you admit, “I told him as much but he listens as well as any man.”

“Truly. I don’t know how we made it through the war, the way men cling to their daftness,” he shakes his head, “I would go–”

“Yeah, I tried that,” you interject, “he’s playing his game, I know it. I’m not stupid like he thinks. He likes to hear himself talk, likes to make people listen. He’ll get bored of it.”

“Your ma won’t be happy, see ya away like that, with a man,” he clears his throat, “not that I am but… I just wish I could tell him to fuck off back where he came from. Not that I haven’t but do wish he’d listen.”

“I’ll be fine, da,” you say, “he wants to embarass me, that’s all. Wants to show me how much better he is, that he isn’t part of the caravan anymore.”

“Mmph,” he leans his elbows on his knees and holds his chin as he thinks, “you read people like books.”

“No, I just assume the worst,” you take the next dress, a citrine green cotton, “think if any man sees me in this, he might send me right back where I came from.”

He watches you and slowly sits up. He sighs and taps his fingers on his leg.

“Men are men,” he says, “you remember–” he holds up his fist.

“Aye, trust me, I remember,” you assure him, “just ask Ali.”

You pull out a new spool of thread as you recall your father’s lessons. The old sack he stuffed with hay and had you punch, to keep you busy, he said, but now you suspect it was something else.

“You shoulda told me,” he tisks.

“And what? You go off and get yourself hurt,” you poke the needle through the fabric, “you had your fight, it’s over. I don’t want you doin’ it again for me.”

“You’re my daughter, why do you think I went off in the first place?” you meet his glossy eyes.

You shove aside the dress and stand. You frame his square jaw and bend to kiss his head, “and where do ya think I get it from?”

“I’ll kill ‘im myself,” he whispers as he embraces you, “he pulls anythin’ and I’ll do it.”

You stay silent. He won’t. He can’t. It would be more than just his life, it would be your mother, your brother, and you. He knows his threats are empty but you let him say it.

It’s a nice fancy to keep close to your heart, like the tales of Excalibur or the pot at the end of the rainbow.

#thomas shelby #dark thomas shelby #dark!thomas shelby #tommy shelby #dark tommy shelby #dark!tommy shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #urban(e)#peaky blinders #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #series

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wolves-in-the-world · 2 years

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Miscellaneous vampire au thoughts, with the standard ‘Moreau being an abusive jackass’ content warning:

- While Eliot was still working for Moreau, he got captured by someone who fully intended to turn him into a vampire and use him against his employer. It was a bad plan - no supernatural bond could stop Eliot Spencer from killing you if he set his mind to it - but Eliot was terrified. If he was turned, on some basic level he would no longer be so useful to Moreau.

He broke free before it happened, and he killed the people responsible, and worked even more on becoming better and sharper and stronger so Moreau would never think of discarding him.

- Chapman is a vampire - older than Quinn, maybe seventy or so. He's lower down on the ladder than Eliot and pissed about it, but at least he can pretend it's because Eliot's offering the boss something else. He calls Eliot dog, calls him Moreau's pet and always slightly means it, and tries not to keep resenting when he finally takes the job opening.

- Vampires always recognise their own kind. "Ms Devereaux," he greets her, acknowledgement and assurance in one. "Mr Quinn," she replies. They don't address it beyond that for years.

In many ways it's barely a part of her life anymore. Live as long as Sophie has, shed as many old names and faces, and it becomes easy as anything to slip into a new shell and make it your own. This one she's worked to make her home. This one she's settling in, around people who know - at least a little - what she is.

What she does to stay alive is another matter. The makeup she orders specially and the hats and gloves she finds excuses for when her skin needs to recover. The tricks she uses on marks, though not audiences - she wants too much to be recognised for herself there, a weakness she thought she’d lost centuries ago - are put down to skill and charisma, and that's true enough. She doesn't really lie to her team. She doesn't kill. And it never once seems to bother them that they don't know what kinds of lives she's left behind.

(She finds Quinn so strange to watch - so young and so open. It makes her feel ancient at first. It makes her feel like she might as well be that young herself.)

- Vampires don't, in fact, live forever, and they age at something closer to normal when they feed too infrequently or rely on blood packs for too long. Quinn relies on them sometimes for work.

Moreau, stuck in his cell, won’t outlive any standard human by long.

- At some point, just like wondering why Nate didn't ask Sophie for money when his son was dying, you have to wonder if he ever considered finding a vampire to help him. Thing is, Nate had some sort of faith right until the end. Oh, he still believes in God and Hell afterwards, but he loses some fundamental faith in the world's goodness, and it's a lot easier to betray your principles when you know nothing else is going to save you. On some level, though he'll work with vampires and doesn't think any less of Sophie once she strategically shows him enough for him to piece it together, he does think they're... something. Monsters, or damned, or just not quite people anymore. He isn’t even sure.

It took his son dying for him to realise he'd rather have his son be a monster than dead. Even years later, he can't quite get to grips with the selfishness of that.

- I haven't actually decided on how Quinn was turned, or how turning humans into vampires would work. He's definitely young, and definitely didn't have a traditional vampire ‘upbringing’.

Let's go the accidental route for now: he bit a vampire as a distraction during a very close fight, got hit in the head so hard he shouldn't have survived it, and woke up on the floor three hours later thinking huh. He tidied up, sent his best excuses to his employer, and took two months to get to grips with his new situation. Then he calmly went back to work. A year later Eliot found him in a warehouse in Kyiv to offer him a job.

- Vampire bites don't normally scar. The ones Quinn makes on jobs (these days, at least, it took a little practice) close up so quickly they're sometimes only a tender spot by the time the person wakes; generally, people are too embarrassed to report it as anything but ‘knocked out on patrol.’

They don't normally scar, but they can if they're too deep, too soon after each other, or if the vampire takes something to affect their venom. It isn't unusual for hitters to have messy bite scars obtained during fights or captivity, just like messy scars from anything else. Eliot flies under the radar. Not many people know what his was meant to mean.

Once Moreau is locked away, once the others float the idea, he briefly considers getting it removed. In truth, though, it's not the only scar that reminds him of those days. Not the only scar that reminds him what he did or who he belonged to. Some part of him doesn't want that excised - too like pretending none of it happened. He doesn’t get to do that.

Quinn bites him wherever Eliot asks him to, but he won't leave any scars. That's not something either of them wants. Eliot keeps the results of his x-rays to himself: the rib that healed fine, really, just a little misaligned. From the first time they met.

He’s felt the slight notch on Quinn’s rib, too.

#*gestures helplessly*#I have a normal amount of feelings about punchy people breaking each other's ribs dammit #leverage angst #vampire quinn au #it's the VIBES of the eliot/moreau fuckery. the class difference and the power differential and the loyalty.#it's so awful so quickly and I can kind of only focus on aftermath #YOU KNOW I think parker might be so chill around vampires because she's worked with some before. maybe even archie.#who is also a well-mannered monster thank you. he'll teach a homeless kid to be a thief but he won't be any worse than that.#(I am secretly Okay with archie but I recognise my views in that area are not the most well-adjusted. anyway. don't worry about him.)#I'd like to have more vampire au fic in me but like all my writing is a happy accident these days #(because that is the Writing That Happens and thus preferable to the writing that doesn't)#so no plans and no promises though it would be nice

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floraltypes · 3 years

Text

Distraction

leroy jethro gibbs x reader

fluff, drinking, mentions of sex, death,

based on earlier seasons

AN: ahh my first NCIS little drabble! requests are open so request something!

The moon was shining into the windows of the dimly lit bar. It defiantly wasn’t the nicest one you’d ever been in, but when a old friend insisted on bringing you, you gave in.

She had been babbling to you, for days, about the man who owns it and how they are sleeping around with each other. She continued to then beg for you to come and check it out, then maybe bring some of your coworkers so the guy she liked so much could have more customers.

“Come on Y/n!” Your friend, Elise, whined. She sat up from her position on the couch in your apartment, and locked her fingers around your wrist to get you to stand. “Let’s go! It’s a good place! Popular! Fun! Drinks are cheap,” She was very cheery and trying her hardest to convince you as well.

“Not now,” You groaned, trying to use your weight to stay on the couch. “Brandon is coming over and I had plans to have a nice dinner with him,” You told her, the girl giving up.

Brandon was your current boyfriend, for about two months. Both of you were always incredibly busy with your jobs, him a FBI agent, you a NCIS special agent. So, it made it very difficult to truly see each other and have fun.

✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧

He was helping with the investigation due to the victim of the crime (at the time) being a old navy friend of his. They were going to meet up and try to regain a old friendship before the man was murdered. But Brandon decided to stay a bit and try to help with the case, to find his friends murderer, and to talk to you a bit more.

“A shame to see him go. Wish I’d have see him sooner,” Brandon admitted, rubbing his eyes a little while staring at the body bag.

“I’m sorry for your loss Agent Jordon,” You put a arm on his shoulder and he looked down at you with a small smile. “Trust us, we’ll find him,” You tried to reassure him.

“Thank you Agent L/n,” He nodded, turning fully around to face you now, while they lifted up the body bag to carry it into the van. “I would hope it will be okay if I join you with finding him,” He looked towards you for a answer.

“Oh! Well, uh, I-”

“Talk to your supervisor,” Gibbs interrupted, throwing a camera into your hand. “We still need to hear about your alibi. L/n, get to work on those photos. Todd!” He called out to the other female agent who was walking over with DiNozzo.

“Yeah, Gibbs,” She walked over, fixing the hat that was covering a bit too much of her face than she wanted.

The park was empty, they had found the body slumped up next to a tree with a cup of coffee in hand, which was going to be tested by the lovely Abby, along with everything else he had on him.

“You and DiNozzo go ahead and check out the areas around here, take another camera,” He commanded Todd and DiNozzo, who soon left. “L/n, pictures,” He snapped, now standing right next to you. You quickly nodded and left to go do the job by taking some more pictures of where the body formally was.

“Sir, I hope you’ll let me join you on this investigation. I was at my office, up until I got news of his murder, you can check with coworkers of mine and even my boss,” Brandon told Gibbs, hands now in his pockets and pulling out the FBI badge.

“I know what you are,” Gibbs sneered, motioning for him to put it away. “We don’t need FBI for this, it’s our job,”

“Just for a extra eye, nothing more, I just want to know I did all I could do to get justice for my friend,”

“Come on Gibbs,” You piped up, walking over with the camera in hand and zippering up your jacket with the other. “A extra hand, another person to boss around, and that person being a FBI agent. It kinda sounds like something you might want,” You joked, slowly lowering your voice as his intimidating gaze was put on you. “Or not?”

“I obviously don’t boss you around enough that you feel the need to bother me instead of doing your job,”

“I took the photos!” You lifted up the camera and pulled up a photo of something you found near the body. “Looks like boot marks on the grass, they were bigger and I measured, bigger than our victim. That can help narrow down the search, they were also heavier boots, something someone who’s in the navy might wear,” You handed him the camera and walked to stand across from him, next to Brandon.

“You’re good,” Brandon complimented, smiling down at you.

“Than-”

“It’s the bare minimum, let’s go,” Gibbs, once again, interrupted, and the three of you started walking to his car. “Y/n, up front with me,” He commanded and you quickly jumped in the seat.

“So, can I help?” Brandon asked after there were a few minutes of silence.

“As long as you don’t get in our way,”

Once you made it back to the iconic building, you were excited to show Brandon around a bit, DiNozzo and Todd already doing some research based on some things they found.

“Oh! The autopsy is where Ducky is working at the moment. You have to go and see down there, but Ducky is a talker, so be warned. Sometimes I go down there, on paperwork days, to learn more about anatomy,” You informed the Agent who was happily listening besides you.

“L/n, you are at work, during your work hours, where you get payed to do work. Also known as working on the case, not giving tours, he can figure it out himself,” Gibbs commented, dropping off a couple of files at your desk. You let out a little groan, and apologetic smile to Brandon and walked back to your desk. “Figure out his closest friends, got it, people he was closely working next to,”

“Yes sir,” You plopped yourself down and started to open a file when another chair was soon pulled up.

“Boss is in a extra bad mood today, huh?” DiNozzo laughed, grabbing one of the files near you.

“Big surprise,” You rolled your eyes, flipping to the next page.

“I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t like little FBI agent,”

“Well of course not, he is a FBI agent after all,”

“I’m thinking for another reason,” DiNozzo sent you one last smirk before rolling his chair back to the desk next to you.

“What’s tha-”

“Need help?” Brandon wondered, pulling up a extra chair and grabbing a file. The two of you chatted while going through it. Gibbs down checking in with Abby and then Ducky to see what more they could find out.

Soon, you were all able to find out who exactly killed the victim, leaving to go to the home the man was with another navy agent. You and Brandon took the front of the house, Gibbs and Dinozzo taking the back entrance of the farm house and land, going to check where some animals were located. Todd and Mcgee then headed to a shed that was also present on the land.

You looked back at Brandon, who nodded at you, signaling it was okay to open the door, and you turned the knob. Walking into the entrance and started to sweep the area with your gun in front of you. Brandon motioned you over to a door where he was hearing noises and soon swung it open.

“Liam Han! Put the gun down!” You yelled at him, then pressing your ear piece and letting the rest of the team know you had found the man. You watched the life drain out of the mans face, the first beam of sweat truly drip down, the way his eyes widened every so slightly, and his gun quickly moving to be aimed at Brandon.

You soon shot the mans arm while he shot Brandons leg, other agents soon rushing in and putting Liam into handcuffs and helping the petty officer, who was kidnapped, out of his seat.

“Agent Jordon,” You got on your knees besides him, looking at the wound which seemed to hit a bit below his knee. “Don’t worry medics are on their way, um, are you okay?”

“I might be FBI, but I tend to due more paperwork than field work,” He laughed a little, clutching the wounded leg.

“Why wouldn’t you inform us of that?” Gibbs asked him, same tone in his voice like always.

“It’s not like I’m never on the field, I know what to do,” He didn’t look at Gibbs at all just looking at you. “But hey, maybe this little wound will make it more convincing for you to let me take you out on a date,” He smiled widely, despite his bloody leg.

“Uh.” You looked at him in disbelief and Gibbs rolled his eyes.

“Might as well call of the medics,” Gibbs commented, moving towards the door.

“Wait! No! I still need them!” Brandon called out after.

“That’s something I’m gonna have to try,” DiNozzo mentioned.

“Yeah, ‘cause it would be real charming if you did it,” Todd added.

“Sure,” You told him, laughing a bit while the medics came in to truly address his leg.

✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧

Two more dates, after the first one, he soon asked you to be his girlfriend and the two of you have been going strong for two months!

“I’m in town, please, do this one thing for me!” Elise continued to beg.

“And I never see Brandon,” You fired back. “I’ll think about it, but your flight is tomorrow, so you better go spend the last of that time with your boy toy and I’ll email you,” She quickly nodded and grabbed her stuff, saying a quick goodbye.

A few hours later Brandon arrived to your apartment, yet, not so thrilled to see you. He had a stressed look on his features and no bags in his hand, just a frown and a envelope.

“Brandon?” You got up from the couch you’d been waiting on for the past two hours and slowly walked over to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I think we should break up,” His eyes connected with yours, tears littering the edge of his eyes.

“Wha-why?”

“I need to focus on my work, I’ve always wanted to be a unit chief and in order to gain that goal, I need to do better at my job, and that means cutting off any distractions,” He explained, placing the envelope on your kitchen counter.

“Distractions?”

“I don’t mean for it to come off in a rude way, but this is just the best for me, and now you can even focus on your work more and how to deal with a insane boss,” He lightly laughed, slowly walking to you a patting your shoulder. “I hope to see you soon,” He turned back to the door and left like he was never there.

✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧

That’s how you found yourself in the crappy bar. Elise sure talked it up enough to make it sound decent, but in all reality is was one of the worse you’ve ever been too. But the drinks were kind of good and cheap, so staying a little longer didn’t seem so bad.

Later, when you indulged in a few more weeks, you realized it would be best to head back, yet Elise was off having fun with her boy and you came here with her, in her car.

“DiNozzo,” You spoke into the phone, coughing a bit afterwards. “Pick me up,”

“You’re drunk?” He asked into the phone. “Weird, I’ve only seen that a few times. Not pretty,” He laughed. “Would love to, we’ll not really, but I’m with this smoking hot blonde and she wants to do it in the shower, later,” He hung up, leaving you to dial another friend.

“Y/n?” Caitlins voiced echoed through the phone. “What’s up?”

“I’m drunk, and want to sleep, pick me up Cait, please?”

“I’m out with my family, maybe ask Abby?”

“At some weird rock concert,” You groaned. “I’m not even a crazy drunk, or that drunk, but I don’t feel comfortable driving and I just want to sleep,” You complained.

“I’ve got to go, good luck,” Caitlin then hung up, leaving you to let your forehead fall onto the bar counter.

“Ugh, I guess I have no choice,” You groaned, again, and dialed a number you were dreading to call.

“L/n? It’s late, what is it?”

“Gibbs, I need to call in a favor,” You quietly voiced into the phone.

“What’s this, favor?”

“Can you pick me up,”

“You sound twelve,”

“I can’t drive and everyone’s busy, come on, for me?”

“Tch, I was finally making some real progress on my boat, but now I have to go and save a dumb drunk coworker of mine,” He grumbled underneath his breath, which was still able to be heard through the phone. “Tell me the address,”

You soon told him and hung up. Paying the money you owed the bartender and getting your purse all ready for when the grey-haired man would show up.

“This place is a dump,” A familiar voice muttered, stepping through the door. “What the hell?”

“Gibbs!” You shot up and tumbled your way towards him. “I absolutely hate this place, and fuck-”

“Woah,” He caught your body which just about fell onto him. “You sure can talk normally but not walk normally,” He noted, swinging one of your arms to fall onto his shoulders and his to snake around your waist.

Since the place was about deserted it was easy to get a parking spot in the front and guide you to the car. Once Gibbs opened the passenger door you flopped down, and Gibbs leaned over to buckle your seatbelt, your eyes closed.

“Fell asleep, already, damn, I don’t know where you live,” He mumbled, getting into the drivers seat and pulling out of the nasty bar.

“Gibbs,” You whispered, stirring around in the chair and moving one of your hands to reach for his thigh, though his full attention was already on you, the red beaming onto your features.

“Y/n,” He spoke again, ignoring the hand that was rested on his more lower thigh. “I’m taking you to my place, I have a extra bedroom so it shouldn’t be a problem. And if it is, I don’t care because you’re the one who decided to get drunk,”

“Mmk,” You hummed. “Gibbs,”

“Yes?” He moved his attention back to the road, the color changing.

“You’re my favorite agent,” You laughed a little after, now the true side affects of when you were sleepy and drank too much, kicking in.

“Thanks, I guess,”

“Am I yours?”

“Sure,”

“Good,” You closed your eyes again, letting a grin take over your features. “Gibbs,”

“Yes,” He said with a bit more irritation this time.

“I miss Brandon,”

“Weren’t you supposed to see him tonight?”

“He broke up with me, said I was a distraction. So he needs to cut me off and focus now. Am I a distraction to you?”

“Yeah,” He chuckled a little at the droppy tone of your words and the funny memories of you flashing through his mind at the question. “But sometimes distractions are a good thing. Like distracting you from the troubles that just can’t be fixed at the moment, that’s what you do for me, so it isn’t a horrible thing,”

“Ah,”

“Brandon was a idiot anyway,”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause he was FBI,”

“Yeah, that’s true, but,” Gibbs stopped for a moment, thinking about the words he was about to mutter, contemplating if he was willing to take the risk or not. “He’s also a idiot for getting rid of a distraction like you,”

“You mean that? Gibbs I-” You stopped your sentence after feeling a pair of lips being pushed up against your own. You opened you eyes wide to look at the man who had connected his with yours. “Gibbs what about rule-”

“Who cares, I made the rules, therefore I can break them,” He smirked, grabbing the hand in his lap. “Let’s head to my house and get you to bed and some medicine in your stomach for the hangover you’re going to have tomorrow,”

“Oh, okay,”

“After I finish up on my boat,”

#gibbs x reader #ncis fandom #ncis fanfiction #ncis fic #ncis x reader #leroy jethro gibbs #tony dinozzo #abby sciuto #ducky #timothy mcgee #donald mallard #jimmy palmer #caitlin todd #caitlin mcgee

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bi-bi-buckleydiaz · 3 years

Text

deep breath, do your job | owen joyner

requested; yes! - Could you do a Owen x reader where the reader is Owens personal assistant while filming JATP and while they are filming the reader starts catching feelings for Owen but Owen is in a relationship. Owen and his girlfriend breakup and the reader comes over to comfort Owen and Owen confesses that the reason him and his girlfriend broke up was because of the reader.

word count; 6.4K ... yeah kinda got away from me there. longest fic i’ve ever written

warnings; language, implied sexual content but no actual sex or description thereof

a/n; lol, so i just wrote from 1AM - 4AM because i’m procrastinating my child dev. project thats due today that’s worth a quarter of my grade. i really didn’t mean for this to be so long so it’s probably not this good and the ending is a lil’ rough, but oh well. hope whoever requested this likes it. i kinda do even though it’s long and only slightly proofread.

“Owen Patrick Joyner! Get your ass into hair and makeup before - oh, um, okay oops. Sorry ‘bout that. Should have knocked. I’ll just - yep, i’ll just go.”

You thought he’d be sleeping. It’s nap time for him anyway, so he should’ve been sleeping. Instead, your technically boss and definite crush, was on his trailer couch with a girl you’ve never seen before. Kissing her. Without a shirt. Yeah, you definitely need to get out of there.

You’re quick to close his door and begin to walk back to the hair and makeup trailer to tell them Owen will be a minute.

“Y/N! Hey! Wait up! It’s um, it’s not, well it is, but -” He grabs your arm, causing you to turn around and face him, which, big mistake. Abort. Abort. Turn around. His post make out face is something you did not want to see. Liar.

“It’s fine Owen. What you do in your free time is not my, well, actually it is since i’m your PA, I just mean who - WHAT, what you do in your personal time, in your trailer, is not my concern. Just, you’re needed in hair and makeup like, an hour ago. So, yeah, just, get there.” You stumble over half your words and watch his face fall as you near the end of your spiel. When he lets go of your arm you’re quick to turn around and leave him alone, walking right past hair and makeup and to set where you can curl up in your chair and eat your weight in brownies, if Madi hasn’t taken them all that is. You hope he goes to get his hair done. You know you should walk with him there because if you’re not practically dragging him to where he needs to go he never gets there on time, as just witnessed. But it’s usually because he’s goofing off with Charlie, not sucking face with a random girl.

You don’t notice the brownie in your hand has crumbled until a whistle comes from behind you. You turn around a little too quickly, sending the brownie bits flying to the floor.

“Shit.” You kneel down to begin picking it up, another hand coming into help. Charlie, based on the rings adorning the fingers.

“Is Owen’s keeper okay?” You huff a laugh at the name the cast gave you a week into filming. You’re the only one who has managed to keep Owen in line since filming started, the only reason he’s ever on time for anything or actually has real food in the apartment or has his drumsticks when needed, etc. etc.

The boys didn’t want PA’s when Kenny proposed it during bootcamp, they were young adults, they didn't want to boss someone around, it felt wrong. But having more experience than the boys, Kenny vetoed how they felt and told them PA’s would help tremendously, especially on a project like this. That’s where you came in. You were trying to get into the directing and producing scene in Hollywood, you’re dream to be as good a director as Steven Spielberg or, well, Kenny Ortega. But you knew you had to start small, so you applied for a PA job on an upcoming Netflix show, getting hired within the week. Now here you are, a nineteen year old being in charge of another nineteen year old who acts more like he’s five.

In the beginning, it was purely professional. You were nothing more than his PA who got him from place A to place B in a timely fashion. But then he started to rope you into pranks with the rest of the band. He started inviting you to movie nights, and adventures to the grocery store, and ice skating with Charlie and Madi, and somewhere between helping him keep his life in order and watching him fall on his ass at the ice rink, you fell for the blonde. You know it’s a mistake, falling for him. You work for him. He’s your friend. That’s all he sees you as, but you couldn’t help it. But you’re good at compartmentalizing, so you took all the inappropriate feelings, shoved them in a box, locked the box, and hid it deep in your unconscious. You were doing well with ignoring the box, until you walked in on Owen kissing someone that wasn’t you.

“I’m fine Charlie, just, stressed. Owen was an hour late to hair and makeup so I kinda feel like a shit PA right now.” Charlie chuckles and hugs you as you both stand up.

“Please Y/N, you’re the best PA. If it weren’t for you, Owen would never know where anything is, including his head.” You laugh into his shoulder, reveling in the hug for a few more seconds. When you part, you see a flash of blonde enter the set and sigh in relief. He made it. He’s ready. You’re not fired today.

Just incredibly confused and upset.

But not fired.

“You better go, I know you’re in this scene with Owen.” Charlie nods and squeezes your shoulder once before running after Owen onto the set that holds Julie’s shed. Taking a deep breath, you try to push whatever the hell you saw ten minutes ago into your box, and get ready for the day ahead.

Four hours, six brownies, and two cookies later, Owen is officially wrapped for the day, meaning you can go home and continue to eat your feelings in ice cream. You’re quick to grab your binder full of Owen’s schedules to drop tomorrow’s off at his trailer before he sees you. You’re not really in the mood to talk to him about what happened earlier, so you fast walk to his trailer, fully intent on just leaving the paper on his counter where he’ll see it, but a brown haired, green eyed girl throws that plan right out the window.

You’re so stupid. You should’ve known she would still be here. Waiting.

“Oh, um, hi.” She says. She sounds nice. She looks nice. But when you look at her all you can see is her hands in Owen’s hair and his lips on hers.

“Hi.” You don’t know how, but you managed to put on a smile and put a little pep into your voice. “I’m Ashley. I’m waiting for Owen. Is he done?” You nod, not trusting your voice as you stand awkwardly in the doorway, one foot on the step the other in the trailer, hand outstretched ready to place the schedule on the table.

“He just wrapped for the day. Should be here in a few.” The girl - Ashley - nods.

“You’re Y/N, right? His personal assistant?” How does she know that. She giggles, “He talks about you all the time. Says the only reason he’s not fired or dead in a ditch is because of you.” OH, you said that aloud. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoo-

“Y/N! What are ya doing just standing in the doorway?” Fuck. You put a smile on and turn around. He’s smiling softly at you, still in Alex’s clothes, twirling those damn drumsticks around his fingers.

“Um, just dropping tomorrow’s schedule off. Here. Okay...bye.” You walk down the steps, letting the door shut behind you, fully intent on leaving, but Owen grabs your arm again, just like earlier, causing you to stop and turn to look at him.

“Wait. Can we talk real quick. About...earlier?” No. No absolutely not.

“Um, I really have to go. I have a lot to do tonight for tomorrow.” Owen sighs and lets go of your arm, face contorting into that of a sad puppy.

“Just, one minute Y/N. Please. Let me explain.” Screw him and his perfect freaking face.

“A minute.” His face lights up and grabs your hand, leading you back into his trailer, smiling even wider at seeing Ashley sitting pretty on the couch.

“Y/N, this is Ashley, my girlfriend.” Ashley smiles and waves, standing up to stand by Owen and grab his hand. A rock settles in your chest at the word.

Girlfriend.

“Nice. I’m Y/N. But you knew that. Just like you also know I’m in charge of getting him to places on time. Which didn't happen today.” Owen’s face flushes at that while Ashley terribly hides a smirk behind her hand.

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that Y/N. She surprised me today. We weren’t supposed to see each other until Thanksgiving but she finished classes early and flew out to surprise me. Kinda got, caught up in -” His face is beat red so you’re quick to cut him off.

“It’s fine. Just, try not to get ‘caught up’ tomorrow, yeah?” It’s harsh and full of hostility, but you want to leave, the word still bouncing around in your head, swirling around the scene you walked into earlier.

Girlfriend.

Kissing.

Girlfriend.

Flushed face.

Girlfriend.

Kissing.

“I have to go. See you tomorrow on set at 5 Am. Got it? Five A M. Don’t make me break into your apartment again. I almost got arrested for that.” Owen is still reeling from your harsh words said a second ago to laugh at the memory. Ashley however, has no qualms about speaking up.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s here on time.” She smiles and wraps around his arm like a koala. You hold back a scoff, throwing up a fake smile before turning and leaving.

Girlfriend.

It’s almost midnight.

It’s 11:48 PM and someone is knocking on your door.

Who the fuck is pounding on your door at near midnight.

You shuffle to the door wrapped up in your comforter, wiping the sleep out of your eyes. You don’t bother looking through the peephole, too angry at the person behind the door to bother, just wanting to yell at them and get back to bed.

“What the - Charlie?” He looks exhausted, hair ruffled and eyes puffy. He’s in joggers, a random band tee and his denim jacket. You’re pretty sure his shoes are on the wrong feet.

“Can I stay the night?” He doesn’t wait for your response before walking into your apartment, flinging his shoes and jacket off and walking to your room. You sigh, ignoring the way he just threw his stuff around and instead follow him to your room before he takes your side of the bed. You walk in just as he chucks his shirt off and woah. You were so not expecting that. An explanation as to why he’s here at midnight? Yeah. Him taking your side of the bed? Definitely. But not Charlie taking his shirt off and crawling onto the right side of the bed and curling around a pillow. You take a moment to collect yourself and your thoughts before crawling into bed next to him, making sure to drape the comforter over him as well. He hums in content and turns around to face you.

“Sorry for barging in like this. Just, ugh, Owen and that girl are not quiet if you catch my drift.” And it’s like the rock in your heart is now a boulder and it’s crushing your ribcage. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You’re frozen, staring at Charlie’s half asleep face. “Like I get it, you’ve missed each other. But c’mon bro I’m there too.” He keeps talking. Keeps pushing the boulder until all the ribs crack and puncture your lungs. “There’s somethings in this world I never wanted to hear, and Owen moaning was one of them.” He won’t shut up. Charlie shut up. You’re entire chest is fracturing, breaking at his words and he needs to shut. up.

“I didn’t really know where else to go, but I remembered how comfy your bed was last movie night so, here I am.” His voice is raspy, words slurring as he’s trying to fight sleep to explain to you why he’s here. But you can’t focus on him right now. Can’t think about a shirtless Charlie in your bed. There’s only one thing you can think about right now.

Girlfriend.

Shirtless.

Girlfriend.

Kissing.

Girlfriend.

“Thanks for letting me crash by the way. I’ll try not to kick you in my sleep.” He chuckles, then finally opens his eyes when you don’t laugh back. You don’t know how you look right now. You know you’re frozen. But is the panic and pure sadness showing on your face? It must be, because suddenly Charlie is wide awake and leaning up on his elbow to look at you fully. “Y/N are you okay?” He’s worried. You want to tell him you’re okay. It’s fine. Everything is fine. But you can’t move. You can’t talk. Because reality is crushing you. It’s ripping up your heart, suffocating you, consuming your mind.

Owen isn’t yours.

Owen will never be yours.

You’re just a friend.

You’re just his PA.

That’s when the tears finally start. They come slowly, one trailing down your cheek, then another. Then all at once your sobbing into Charlie’s chest, no doubt getting snot all over him. But he doesn’t seem to care. He just starts to hum some random song while he repeatedly runs his hand over your hair, the other holding you close to him. He keeps humming, his chest vibrating and giving you something to focus on that isn’t your depressing thoughts. It’s almost soothing, the petting and the hug and the humming.

You don’t know how long you sob into him, but when you stop, his humming stops too. He still holds you close, just lets go of your head so you can lean back a little and look up at him. He’s brows furrow in concern and he pouts at your post-crying face.

“Are you okay? Am I really that bad of company?” He tries for funny but you can’t bring yourself to laugh with him. Just pout and push his semi-wet chest. “Seriously Y/N, i’ve never seen you like this. What’s wrong?” Those two words.

What’s wrong?

What’s wrong? I fell for my boss and now he’s doing it with some girl and I can’t stop thinking about them and it’s killing me because before I could live with being his friend and PA because at least there was some sliver of a chance but now there’s nothing because he has someone and I have no one and I can’t breathe because oh my god I love him. I love that stupid fool and i’m nothing but his personal assistant.

It’s quiet for a minute, too quiet, and that’s when you realize you said all that out loud. You look up at Charlie, which was a mistake because his face is full of pity. It’s all sad puppy eyes and “Shit Y/N i’m so sorry.” A fresh wave of tears make their way out of your eyes, but Charlie is quick to wipe them away.

“Y/N I didn’t know I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have said all of that, God I was so stupid.” And then it’s like a whole new flood gate opens, this one full of laughter though. You start with a chuckle, but soon it’s full out belly laughing. Because Charlie isn’t the stupid one here. “I’m the stupid one. I mean, how idiotic does a PA have to be to fall for the one they’re in charge of? Never mix work with pleasure. It’s PA-ing 101, don’t fall for your boss. I’m so fucking stupid to ever fall for him or think he’d like me back because i’m just his stupid PA who has no talent what so ever, never has a good hair day, can’t go a day without eating their weight in sugar, and will never see him again after filming is wrapped.” Your laughing dies down by the end, and then ends completely when you see the look on Charlie’s face. It’s not exactly pity, but it’s not exactly sadness either. It’s hard to describe what exactly it is, but it’s not good.

“Y/N. Babes. I don’t ever want to hear you talk about yourself like that again, okay? I swear to God next time I hear anything like that come out of your mouth again, I’m hitting you with a pillow.” You giggle, but he stays serious. “Dead ass Y/N. Listen, was it probably not the smartest to fall for Owen? Yeah. But you didn’t know he had someone. I didn’t even know he had a girl and I’m his roommate. But, we can’t help who we like. It’s all brain chemistry and heart palpitations and whatever else. It’s something we can’t control. So don’t say you’re stupid because of something you can’t control.”

“You’re being really smart and caring for twelve am.” You both chuckle, a real smile gracing your face for once in the past twelve hours.

“I’m sorry for the breakdown it’s just, there’s a lot in my head right now and what you said really didn’t help.” Charlie sighs and pulls you in close.

“I’m sorry babes. You should’ve slapped me or something.”

“I probably would’ve had the breakdown at some point tonight anyway.” Charlie pulls back a bit to look at you, confusion on his face. “I kinda walked in on them making out earlier when Owen was late to hair and makeup.”

“Is that why you crushed that brownie earlier?” You sigh and nod.

“Y/N, i’m sorry. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”

“It’s fine Charlie. It’s, well, it’s not but, I’ll get over it. I’m a big girl. Besides, I have you to get my tears and snot all over right?” He groans while you giggle, but he isn’t really mad if the way he pulls you close and rests his face in your hair is any indication.

“Always babes.”

The next day you drive to set with Charlie who didn’t have to be on set at five like Owen, but joined you nonetheless. Taking his duty as your new ‘heartguard’ as he called it last night, you walk to hair and makeup with his arm around your shoulders. It’s comforting, even though he’s putting most of his weight on you because he’s exhausted, the coffee you gave him this morning clearly doing nothing to wake up.

“Charlie, you could’ve stayed in bed until you were actually needed.” You laugh as he trips up the steps to the trailer, nearly face planting if it weren’t for you wrapping your arms around his waist last minute.

“Char you good?” You hear BooBoo ask. Charlie grumbles something incoherent and shoves his face into your neck as you lean against the arm of the couch. BooBoo laughs, so do you, but quickly sober up when Owen walks in, Ashley on his arm. Charlie must have ESP or something because, without looking up at who walked in, he wraps his arms around your waist and murmurs in your ear, “Deep breaths. I’m here.” You do as he says, shooting Owen a friendly smile, but dropping it as he frowns at you.

What is that about?

“Glad to see you on time Owen. I wouldn’t have been able to break in this morning anyway because an octopus decided to break into my own apartment last night.” You ruffle Charlie’s hair as you say that and he grumbles some more, playfully biting your neck as well. “Ow. Asshole.” Owen frowns even deeper at that, while BooBoo chuckles. He get’s scolded a second later for moving.

“So that’s where you disappeared to last night. I was wondering why you weren’t home this morning.” Owen’s voice is tight while he says it, Ashley noticing as well if the tightened grip on his arm is anything to go by. Charlie squeezes your waist as a way to say, ‘prepare yourself’ before he moves his head to lean against your shoulder so he can talk.

“Yeah well, I wouldn’t have had to if you and your girl weren’t so freaking loud.” You tense up, mind starting to reel again, but a squeeze to your waist and a warm breath on your neck manages to bring you back. The trailer goes quiet, even the hair and makeup ladies tensing up and sensing the tension. Charlie, ever the wrong place, wrong time type of guy, grabs your hand and places it on his hair, then moves it back and forth.

“Pet me.” Despite the tension in the room, you can’t help but giggle at the stupid Canadian boy wrapped around you. Apparently that’s all the rest of the people in the trailer needed to go back to what they were doing. That or they just didn’t want to get involved in young adult drama. You shoot a look at Owen, his jaw tense and hands clenched into fists. Completely ignoring the way Ashley leans up to kiss Owen’s neck, you open your phone and begin to read off his schedule for the day, your left hand still running through Charlie’s hair.

“Hair and makeup at five AM, sit your butt down and let Shelly do her thing, costume fitting right after. First scene at six-thirty with BooBoo, you guys are doing the scene at the Orpheum where you talk about what’s been going on, you’re going to be sad so this whole frowny face you got going on? Keep it. A break after that then rehearsal with Charlie, Jer, and Mads for Stand Tall. Fitting for the Stand Tall suit is after that, but no actual filming for that scene yet, just getting the measures right so after that, you’re done for the day.” You take a deep breath after all that, BooBoo whistling at you from his seat.

“You could be an auctioneer with how fast you talk.” You smile and bow your head at him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment Boo.” He shoots you a smile and then raises his hand to high five Owen as he sits next to him. Owen ignores him. In fact, he stays silent throughout all of getting his hair and makeup done. Only smiling occasionally when Ashley shows him a meme on her phone. You watch them, the boulder in your chest rolling around as you do so. But not for jealousy, no, for concern. Owen is acting very unlike himself. You may be upset right now, especially with him, but it doesn’t mean you still don’t see him as a friend; still don’t worry about him. Something is wrong, and you can’t help but feel like it’s your fault.

“So did it work?” You jump in surprise at the voice behind you, the cookie in your hand crumbling and falling onto the table.

“Charlie! What did I say about sneaking up on me?” You turn to look at the boy who is smiling too wide at you for you to think this is about to be a completely innocent conversation.

“Did it work?” He’s practically vibrating where he stands.

“Did what work?”

“The cuddling this morning? Didn’t you see Owen? He was totally jealous.” And - what? That’s why he was so touchy this morning?

“I just thought you were tired, that was - you were trying to make Owen jealous? Charlie what the hell? He has a girlfriend!” Charlie rolls his eyes and loops his arm around yours, dragging you away from the cookies and towards the costume room.

“Yeah, but we both know she shouldn’t be. And the way he was acting this morning? I think he’s starting to realize that too.” There’s no way...right? No, the way Charlie described last night...no.

“No, okay, he was probably just tired and angry about having to be here so early.” Yeah, that’s it. He was not jealous of the friendly cuddling you and Charlie were doing. Totally...not. Holy shit. You hear Charlie giggling in your ear as you enter costume.

There, in front of you, is a very shirtless, very toned, very pretty Owen Joyner.

“You’re welcome.” Then Charlie is off to God knows where. Leaving you alone with Owen. Well, not really alone since Soyon is here too, running around looking for different fabrics and textures to throw on Owen. A still very shirtless Owen.

“Oh, hi Y/N. What are you doing here?” Owen asks, looking at you though the floor length mirror in front of him. He’s not smiling at you, but he’s not frowning either, so improvement from this morning.

“Oh, um, just making sure you got here on time. And look at that. You did! Good job.” You clap, who knows why, but it makes Owen laugh, which, whew, okay.

“Yeah, I reminded him.” A voice behind you says. You turn and look at Ashley walking in, coffee cup in hand. She bounces up to Owen, ignoring Soyon and placing a big, wet kiss onto his lips before moving to the couch off to the side. Owen seems shocked by the PDA, which makes sense, you know he’s not big on that, remembering one late night conversation you both had a few weeks ago.

“Anyway, Y/N, how does this one looks. I think the ruffles are nice. And then when he’s performing Stand Tall we can,” and then she begins to unbutton the shirt all the way down to mid chest and okay, seriously Soyon, now you just want to torture me.

“I like this.” Owen says, twirling in the mirror like a ballerina. This causes the shirt to fling open more, showing his chest more in the process.

Deep breaths.

Be a friend.

You’re a big girl.

“Yeah. It’s good,” you say, walking over to him to tuck to the sides back together somewhat. “Are you going to keep with the pink theme for the jacket?” Soyon smiles and nods, walking away for a minute leaving you alone with Owen and Ashley.

“Should it really be unbuttoned that much? I mean, it is a kids show? I don’t want to share my boy with fangirls.” Ashley says. You can’t stop your eyes from rolling or the scoff that leaves your mouth. You watch Owen’s Adam's apple bob as he gulps.

“Please, Charlie is sleeveless for a majority of the show. Owen showing a little chest isn’t gonna hurt anyone. Besides, Soyon chose good. The way the shirt fits and settles it’s never going to open all the way. Unless, ya know, he twirls like some Carolynn Rowland wannabe.” You smile up at Owen and inhale sharply when you see he’s already looking down at you. “And with the jacket on it’ll stay put pretty well.” You’re still holding the shirt in your hands, looking at Owen’s face as you talk. For a second, it’s just you and him, looking at each other, smiling. Then Soyon comes back and clears her throat. The trance breaks and you back up. You wipe your sweaty hands on your jeans before backing up and standing next to the mirror. You feel eyes on you and look over to see Ashely glaring at you.

“Here we go. One pink jacket to match.” Owen slides it on and smiles wide. You have to say, it looks good. Professionally speaking of course.

“Soyon, have I ever said how freaking amazing you are. I mean, this is really good looking. Very Alex.” Owen praises. He’s smiling and it’s a nice sight after this mornings debacle.

“Alex is going to be the best looking one on that stage.” Owen looks over at you, his smile still there, and the boulder shrinks three sizes.

“Still think the shirt should be buttoned.” Ashley mutters. But everyone ignores her, even Owen, who does another twirl in front of the mirror.

“Well then, you’re all set Owen. Go ahead and change and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Soyon leaves, going off to do costume designer things, leaving you alone with Owen and Ashley again. Owen takes the jacket off, then looks around not knowing what to do with it. You sigh and smile softly, taking it from him.

“Here, just give me all the clothes and i’ll take them back to your rack.” He smiles thankfully at you, before frowning again and looking down at his outfit. Getting what he’s thinking, you chuckle and cross your arms. “Bub I just saw you shirtless it’s not a big deal. Now c’mon, give me the clothes before Soyon thinks you’re stealing them.” Owen looks up at you in a way you’ve never seen him look at you before. It makes you take a sharp breath in.

“Maybe you should go. I can give the clothes to Soyon. Don’t you have assistant duties to do?” Ashley is right next to you as she says it. It makes your ears hurt and hands clench. You’re quick to unclench though, not wanting to wrinkle the nice pink jacket. Ashley moves forward to unbutton Owen’s shirt all the way, but he grabs her hand before she can begin.

“Actually I need Y/N to stay. I have to talk to her about some, ya know, assistant stuff. And besides, she knows where Alex’s rack is and that’s where the clothes have to go. Why don’t you go wait for me in the trailer, I’ll be there in a few.”

I need Y/N to stay.

That shouldn’t make you feel as warm and tingly as it does.

Ashley scoffs and looks away, clearly trying to guilt trip him. Owen sighs and kisses her cheek.

“Trailer. Ten minutes.” Ashley sighs before nodding and finally leaving. He watches her go, then turns back to you when she finally disappears. You clear your throat and he looks back at you, face a bit red.

“Um, hey.” You chuckle.

“Hi.” He nods, and you sigh, walking so you’re right in front of him. “Seriously, O, you need to get this off because if they’re not on the rack for Soyon to fix up by the end of the day it’s my head on a stick, not yours.” Then you’re unbuttoning his shirt.

You’re unbuttoning. His shirt. You don’t realize you’re doing it until you hand grazes his navel when you untuck it from his pants. You hear him suck in a breath and you immediately take two steps back.

“Sorry, um. Sorry that was not, um, -”

“It’s okay. You were just, doing your job. Making sure I get stuff done on time, right?” But his voice is wobbly as he says it and his face is as red as a tomato. You couldn’t have made him that flushed, not you?

“Right. Yeah. Um, so, pants?” Owen looks at you with wide eyes. “I need to take the pants back too.” It’s quiet, but you know he heard you because he nods his head and begins to unbutton them. You suddenly feel very hot, very suffocated. You should’ve left when you had the chance, just let Ashley do this. You shouldn’t be here, watching as he pulls the velvet pants down his legs. Watching as he steps out of them and - oh God he’s falling. You grab his hand to help him but it’s too late, you both tumble to the ground. You’re on top of him, smushed up against his bare chest, faces centimeters apart, sharing breaths.

“Sorry.” You mumble. You watch him gulp and look down. Down at wha - oh.

“It’s, it’s okay. I’m the one that fell and pulled you down.” You nod, causing your nose to brush against his. You’re close, so freaking close that if you were to move not even a full centimeter, your lips would touch.

So.

Close.

“What. The. Hell!” SHit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You’re quick to scramble away from Owen, butt scooting across the floor to get as far away from him as possible. Owen jumps up, kicking the pants away then realizing that was probably not a smart idea because now he’s half naked in between Ashley and you.

“Ash I -”

“You were taking forever, wanted to know why. Thought you said there was nothing between you two?” She’s practically screeching. You know within minutes there will be a crowd. A crowd Owen will not want, his anxiety will not want. Ignoring his stuttering and the conversation in general, you push away the heat in your belly and the tingling in your spine and take a deep breath.

Deep breath.

Be a friend. Do your job.

You grab Owen’s clothes and put them in his hands, ignoring his speaking and Ashley ranting, you grab his hand and then hers, and shove them towards the back exit.

“This is a trailer conversation, not a wardrobe fitting conversation. Leave, now.”

“No, I have a lot to say -”

“Listen to me, I’m trying to do my job and not get Owen in trouble. If you really care about him, you’ll take this conversation to his trailer. Now.” Then you shove them out the door before Ashley could screech some more.

Deep breath.

Do your job.

You go back to the fitting area, only to see Charlie, Jer, and Madi standing there, looking confused.

Deep breath.

Do your job.

“Hey guys. Owen just left. He and Ashley are having a date night.” Charlie gives you a look, but Jer and Madi nod, going to accept it, but Charlie has to open his big dumb Canadian mouth.

“Why’d we hear screaming then?” Charlie questions. Jer and Madi look at each other, then back at you.

“Oh, uh, mouse. I saw a mouse. Yep. Mouse. Anyway, I have to get this clothes hung up before they wrinkle, so excuse me.”

Deep breath.

Do your job.

You walk around the trio, gathering the suit and shaking everything out as you walk over to the Alex rack to hang them up. You hear the door to the room open and two sets of feet walking out.

“Charlie, everything is fine okay? Just a little misunderstanding.”

“Like?” You sigh and turn around from finishing hanging up the clothes.

“Like...Owen kinda fell and when I went to help him I feel too...on top of him.” There’s silence then,

“OH MY GOD! Y/N THAT’S LIKE FANFIC SHIT THAT WAS THE MOMENT! DID YOU KISS OH MY GOD TELL ME EVERYTHING!” He’s jumping up and down as he makes his way to you.

“Ashley walked in.” All excitement stops.

“Oh shit.” You nod, walking past him to settle on the couch, pulling a pillow to your chest.

“Yeah. And she started screeching and I knew Owen wouldn’t like to attention so I shoved them out the back door to his trailer.” Charlie’s arm goes around you, pulling you close. He goes to say something, but your phone ringing indicating a text from Owen stops him. You pull it out, opening it as Charlie watches over your shoulder.

My trailer plz.

Charlie starts shaking your shoulders, smiling like a maniac. “This is your chance Y/N go go GO!” you shake your head at Charlie’s antics, but leave nonetheless.

Anxiety creeps up on you as you get closer and closer to his trailers, not knowing what you’re going to walk into. Him firing you? Saying you can’t be friends anymore? Ashley ready to claw your face off?

Deep breath.

Be a friend.

You knock on his door. It opens a second later to a frantic looking Owen. Now you're anxious about him. Why does he look upset? Is he okay? He grabs your hand and pulls you into his, oh, empty trailer. Ashley is nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, thanks for coming.” You nod, still looking around expecting her to jump out and slap you. “Um, sit. Sit, I have to talk to you about something.” You go to sit on the couch, but then remember what occurred there yesterday and instead lean against the counter. He notices but doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah okay. What’s up?” You try to act nonchalant, but the anxiety is too high for that. ‘I have to talk to you about something’ never ends well. He walks over and sits on the bed pats the spot next to him. God, this can’t be a good conversation if he really wants you to sit.

“Ashley and I were never...on here.” He mumbles. You walk over and sit next to him, blushing that he caught on to why you didn’t sit on the couch.

“Must be serious if you need me to sit.” Owen takes a deep breath, another, another, and then there’s lips on your. They’re soft and nice and taste like carmex chapstick.

“Mhm, Owen, what, what are you doing?” Your faces are still close together, both of you not wanting to back away yet.

“I’m gonna talk. Okay I’m gonna talk and I want you to listen and not crawl inside your head too soon okay?” You nod, knowing in this moment you’d do anything to keep him this close.

“I knew Ashley from high school. She started texting me a few weeks back and one thing led to another and she was calling me her boyfriend. I didn’t want it but it happened and I let it because it got my mind off a girl I shouldn’t like because it would ruin so many things. I didn’t know she was coming to visit and when she knocked on my trailer she jumped me and just kept going. And I just went along with everything yesterday because I’m supposed to be her boyfriend and I’m supposed to think about those things with her and I’m supposed to want those things with her, but I don’t Y/N. I don’t want those things with her I never did. I, I want them with you. I’ve wanted them with you from the moment you finally stopped being shy around me and dragged me from crafts by my ear to hair and makeup. You’re so amazing Y/N and I thought if I did anything I’d ruin this and ruin your career and I didn’t want that. I never wanted that so I went along with Ashley but I shouldn’t have because the whole time I was thinking about you. It’s always been -” You kiss him. You grab him by the cheeks and kiss him. It’s a passionate kiss, an ‘about time’ kiss, an ‘i’m never letting you go’ kiss.

You only break away when you can’t breathe, and even then you only pull away enough to breath in each other’s air.

“She left. She’s gone. She knew I was never 100% in.” You nod, but you’re not really listening. You can’t hear anything other than your heartbeat.

He likes you.

Owen likes you.

Owen kissed you.

“It’s always been you, Y/N.” You smile. It’s a big one that you have to hamper down by biting your lip. Owen smiles back, then you’re kissing again.

And again.

#owen joyner #owen patrick joyner #owen joyner imagine #owen joyner fanfiction #owen joyner x reader #owen joyner x y/n #owen joyner fluff #owen joyner angst #owen patrick joyner imagine #owen patrick joyner x reader #jatp #julie and the phantoms #charlie gillespie #madison reyes #jeremy shada

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messwriting · 3 years

Text

Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

POISON AND PLEASURE

Osamu Miya (Post-Time Skip) x Mob Boss! Female Reader

“Backed into a corner, Osamu makes a deal with the devil -- you.”

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings: oh boy. Dub-con (Osamu does consent, but it is coercion); MANIPULATION AND EXTORTION; slight gun play, lasts for a moment; Rough sex; Hate-fucking; Degradation/Humiliation; Spanking, also just for a moment; Oral sex, fingering; Orgasm Denial; Choking; Violence; Dash of corruption and prey/predator; Deep throat; Facial. Fucking in a kitchen/public place. Also, just in case, toxic relationship and money talk (lol).

Word count: 9,889 (such a nice number)

A/N: Oh, this has been a ride. This is my contribution to The Smut Pile Collab, hosted by the lovelies @present-mel, @pleasantanathema and @linestrider. I’m very excited to participate, since it is my first collab and they are my (home) first server. Big, huge, gigantic thanks to Lauren (my wife) for reading this over and beta-ing for me. <3

Well, Osamu fuckers unite! :insert elmo fire: (i’ve been on discord too much)

Osamu gets up from his seat inside his small office, looking from the small window on his door inside the already closed restaurant lit only by the lights that come in through the windows, the time being well after closing. Shady deals are mostly done late at night, he thinks. Right as he’s leaving the office and closing the door behind him with a key, the movement outside catches his eye and Osamu turns just in time to watch as the black BMW sedan of the year quietly comes to a halt right in front of his store. He frowns, knowing who that means. He'd much rather deal with the soldier responsible for his loan initially than with you.

Two men emerge from the front doors of the car, one immediately heading for the passenger door while the driver checks the street; they exchange a small nod before the man on the side of the sidewalk opens the passenger door and when he does, he positions himself behind it and immediately out of the way. Osamu could be intrigued by the action if he didn't feel so represented by it - he, too, would prefer to always be out of your way.

There’s power in the way you move, ingrained in your body as you descend an expensive white heel onto the concrete beneath you on the sidewalk, the other following suit while you propel yourself out, holding the frame of the car for support. It’s late at night and the street is fairly dark, but your simple presence, clad in an impeccable white suit with a deep neckline showing immaculate skin, is enough to brighten the place. There’s an elegant, expensive-looking and equally unnecessary coat draped over your shoulders and your hair was flawlessly styled.

You draw attention as the color black absorbs light-- from all and everything. Maybe it is because of your soul, he muses.

Once you were standing outside the car, your driver marched to the door of the onigiri restaurant, holding it open for you while you strode inside, heels clicking on the pavement, the sway of your hips something Osamu may think beautiful to watch if it weren’t you.

“Hello, Miya-san. Hope you have better news for me this week.” You state as cheerfully as you can, calmly entering the establishment in a glory of white. You shed your coat once you passed the door, the driver catching it while the second man seemed to survey the outside area a little more before entering.

"Hi." Osamu extends his hand with the brown envelope. But you go around him and walk to the counter, calmly sitting down on one of the high stools while absentmindedly looking around his small restaurant.

“I missed my lunch today, so I hope you don’t mind me grabbing a bite before I leave.” You don’t look at Osamu when he doesn’t move for his place behind the counter immediately.

“We’re closed.” He says and you turn around just momentarily, piercing eyes on his profile. One of your men is still by the door and the look he gives the twin is also very compelling. Osamu feels his teeth gritting against the pressure he makes to shut his tongue. "Sure."

One of the goons comes closer and takes the brown envelope from his hands, without you even looking back as the burly tattooed man sits in one of the booths and starts counting the money.

“So, how’s business? I’ve heard you had a hard time these last two months.” You try to make small talk while checking the menu over the counter, carefully done nails threading along the restaurant menu. You only press a long nail against what you want and slide it to him, the 18K diamonds on your small and discreet Cartier watch and matching trinity ring on your finger catching more of his attention than your watchful eyes. Your jewelry is discrete, tasteful, and still amounting enough to buy the whole building where the Onirigi’s shop is located. Osamu's throat moves around nothing in reflex.

"Isn’t it obvious?" He grumbles while working against the counter, starting once he cleans his hands on the sink. He’d like to say his eyes keep diverting to your neckline because of your shining jewelry.

"So rude, Miya." you chuckle. “And I’ve been nothing but nice to you. Didn’t you pay for your little plumbing problem with my money? Is it only dirty to you once I’m present?”

"I don’t like people like you." Osamu doesn’t beat around the bush. And once he’s done with this payment he’d be completely free of you anyway, he doesn’t feel the need to pretend.

“Like me? You mean kind? All I ever did was help you out in a time of need.”

Osamu’s snort is disrespectful. The big man by the door moves but a simple turn of your hand in the air has him standing back, carefully looking down on Osamu, but unmoving. The other’s still counting the money rather calmly, the booth he’s seated unseeable from the shop window.

“You see, disrespect won’t take you far.” You say offhand, your watchful eyes on Osamu’s every move but with no real worry. You don’t trust him, but you know he’s not stupid.

"I don’t plan on it." He answers you after a beat, finishing wrapping the Salmon onigiri, disposing it carefully on a plate, and depositing it in front of you, accompaniments arranged around. Osamu doesn't use the fact that he doesn't like you as an excuse for a half-ass job; he's not the type, which is refreshing. Is what you like about him.

“Get started on a few others. I trust your recommendations.”

Osamu chooses to work quietly, in silence. You, however, are happily chatting away at his high stool as if this is just another day of bullying patrons. Maybe, for you, it is.

“You work very diligently.” You observe, eyes trailing from his toned arms to his deft fingers diligently working on the rice ball. He’s fast and experienced, rolling the nori around the triangled shaped steamed rice after successfully filling it with whatever he chose. Osamu just grumbles out something, or tsk, even when the way you look at his fingers takes an unexpected appreciative turn.

“Maybe I should have you working overtime more.” You muse when he finishes the new onigiris and carefully places them in front of you. Osamu eyes you nastily, clearly displeased at your comment, which makes your lips split in a bigger smile despite your teeth closing around the rice ball. Even so, you’re pleasantly surprised by their flavor.

“See, this is why I like you, Osamu.” The man frowned at your loose use of his first name, the way it rolls off your tongue so nicely. “You always deliver good work.”

“It’s my job.” Osamu retorts, unamused. “I do it right even if it’s for…” He catches his tongue right in time, his eyes catching movement from the man seated down at one of the tables, almost biting his tongue in the process. “--people like you.”

Osamu watches while the burly man with tattoos moves discreetly despite his size, bends down so his mouth can be on your ear level, and murmurs something to you that he doesn’t quite catch. Your steely eyes are momentarily looking down when they blink and fly back to his face, a deep, blank stare that makes Osamu’s brows furrow. His back becomes straighter, a gripping feeling in his gut that triggers his fight or flight.

He presses the urge down - tells himself he doesn’t have anything to fear.

He’s looking down at you, but Osamu feels small under your steady glare. Which in reflex, after several years of being stupid in pair, makes him want to act up.

"Seems to me you forgot some money, Miya."

"What?" His shocked tone is harsh and his eyes dart between you to the two men behind you, looking as steady as his walls and just as broad. "I counted it twice, everythin’ I owe ya ‘s there." His accent comes out pretty hard when he’s agitated.

"You only have fifty thousand here."

“I owe ya fifty thousand.” Osamu deadpans, almost sneering. “What ’re ya sayin’?"

“No, Miya. Fifty thousand is what you owed me two weeks ago.”

"You gave me an extension." He argues, brows furrowed.

"Exactly. I never said anything about the interest.”

"What?"

"You forgot the interest." You talk to him as if he’s a child, lips turning upwards at his confusion. Osamu has the gut feeling you’re enjoying every second of this. Every little moment of his deep discomfort. “You were informed about them when you accepted the loan, you know how they work. If you don’t pay on the due date, 10 percent interest each extra week you remain in debt.”

"Are you telling me I'm missin’ over 10K in interest rates?

"Yes." You say, smiling while tilting your head sideways, analytical. "Because you are."

“I'm paying you back,” Osamu grits through his clenched teeth, almost as if he’s willing it to be true, “Everything I owed ya is there. ”

"Not quite. You’re paying me back about--” You smile and press your lips in thinking, eyebrows furrowing while you calculate on your head the exact number. “-- 82 percent of what you owe me.”

Osamu’s fists close, veins bulging while his heart picks up with the adrenaline rush of a fit of rage. Aggression flows on his body to the point where his entire frame trembles. His teeth are clenched, tightly forced together by his pressed jaw. His brain cannot reason beyond the need to vent that outrage, and with every second he spends looking at your pretty-faced indifference sitting in front of him at the counter, his outrage slowly merges into fury. Osamu stares back at your emotionless eyes, turns, and walks two strides before burying his fist in the nearest plaster wall, the pain grounding him, soothing his nerves.

Pain is familiar -- what Osamu doesn’t like is to feel so deranged.

"Fuck!" He exclaims loudly but still controlled, turns his broad back to you, breathes deeply a few times, and then settles. You watch in delighted silence as he moves to the freezer, grabs an iced pack of random food, and puts on his busted knuckles, his eyes on the hole he left on the wall; The twin sighs audibly, then walks back while coldly regarding you and your two watchdogs who look over to him carefully, almost startled.

You, however, didn’t even flinch.

"So how much do I still have to give you?"

“I think the better question is: Can you pay?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Osamu grumbles out, his clenched jaw working over grinding teeth.

“That’s not how this works, Miya.” You tell him, your spine regally straight on the high seat as if it is your throne. Your lips move around the next word with malice. “When.”

“I--” Osamu stops to think for a moment, coldly calculating his financial situation. He has no way to withdraw money from the main branch to try and cover the losses of this branch, that would be simply stupid. There is no way for him to borrow money from Atsumu, who doesn’t know the concept of savings; Kita can not help him with such a great amount and he can’t recur to his poor parents. He also doesn’t want to resort to a bank at all, which doesn’t leave him many options. A new extension raises interests and he doesn't think he can do it beyond the amount he would need to add. Osamu's chest slowly fills with dread - he knows what’ll come if he doesn’t pay and he refuses to let his business become a Mafia parlor.

You watch Osamu slowly and quite meticulously calculate his options while engrossed in reasoning his dreadful situation; it’s thrilling, you almost can’t hide the contentment blossoming in your chest at his desperate situation.

His expression shifts and turns sour, before slowly building back his blank façade but it’s too late, you already know his conditions and capacities - it’s your job to know. And you pride yourself in never making bets, just assuming calculated risks, so Osamu is right where you wanted him to be.

You do suspect the black-haired male is the same, that disinterested stare in his handsome face nothing short of sharp, his aloof behavior making every second of rilling Osamu up to this manifestation of discomfort all the more delightful. His only problem is that the man plays by rules you don’t. And what you want, you take.

“I’ll need an extension for the rest.” He finally says, so absolutely angered it’s almost a curse. Even the hostility in his tone makes a shiver run down your spine, all the hairs on your arms standing on edge while your insides slowly melt, fed by the images in your brain.

“Really?” You playfully answer, faked surprise not made to convince anyone. Osamu seethes in place, labored breathing making his chest move up and down. “See, now I can’t help you out. I told you disrespect would only take you so far.”

You get up from your seat, a show of touching your expensive black plump Louboutin on the ground. “I can’t let you out like this, not when you did such a show of being… rude.”

“What do you want.” Osamu almost spits at you once you’re rounding his counter, entering his space, closing on him. But he holds himself in place by pressing his nails hardly against the inside of his palms.

“First, some respect.” You sultrily say at him, much as a viper luring its prey. It rolls off your scarlet lips while you look up at him from your long lashes and perfect face. It makes Osamu want to wreck it.

“I don’t respect you.” He says in undertone since you’re close, sounding much like a hiss.

“Doesn’t seem like a smart thing to say to someone to whom you owe so much.” You purse your lips, fake pout. “And you seem like a smart man, Miya. Or am I wrong?”

Osamu blinks, brows furrowing while he looks down at you, his mind working.

“Where are you going with this?” He eyes you warily, his eyebrows furrowing, his mind trying to gauge the target of your wicked intentions. “You want something.”

You smile, pretty red lips stretching to show a beautiful line of white teeth and he’s surprised that the poison isn’t dripping.

“See, I knew you were smart.”

“I’m not giving you my business.” Osamu hisses, like a cornered animal, but his instance shows he’s more prone to fight than flee.

“Don’t want it.” You’re quick to tell him, innocence so out of place that it makes even clearer that you’re being honest. “I may need… services, though.”

Osamu’s spine shoots straight once again, his eyes sharp boring into your face with cold disdain.

“I’m not laundering your money.”

“Money launder, Miya? That’s a federal felony.” You lean back, supporting yourself on your forearms against the balcony, vigilant eyes zooming on him. “Are you saying I’m a criminal?”

Osamu stays silent for the first time. There’s a predatory glint in your eyes that he understands as a warning, but that doesn’t stop him from upturning his brow and tilting his head in a small challenge. Osamu is appalled at what your upturning lips do to his guts, swallowing the saliva that pools in his mouth. He must be wrong in the fucking head to feel anything else than disgust in your sight, but even so, there’s no denying the way there’s a devilish pull around you, like the temptation of a capital sin.

“What I mean is… I have a specific service for you, personally. So you could pay me in...” Your tongue snaps against the roof of your mouth with a small noise, lips turning up in vile intention, “Different goods, per se.”

Osamu refuses to accept his train of thought, eyes pressing into slits while he watches you. His tone enunciates every word of his question.

“What do you mean?”

Your answering smile is sordid.

“You know what I mean Miya, we’ve just established you’re not stupid.”

“I’m starting ta’ think you are, though.”

Your laugh is loud, cheerful even. It makes him look at you as if you’re insane.

“Maybe.” You chuckle, retreating your arms back and straightening your posture on the tool, your neck tilting to the side. “But when I want something, I want it. So why deny myself that? I find the whole point of self-control to be so… pedestrian.” There’s this contempt in your tone at the word, mixing into trivial once your shoulders shrug your consideration for a whole chunk of what living in a society means. “Why hold myself to it if I’m above?” Osamu chooses to ignore that question.

“And what if I say no?”

“You’re free to do what you want, I don’t own you.” Yet, you think, smiling. “Then again you still owe me 10k in interests and with your measly weekly 5k profit and the increased interest percentage with the second extension, we know what’ll happen to you… And I’d hate for that to happen to you.”

The silence is heavy and acidic, burning on him. And you let the seconds pass, relishing in the way he seems to grow aggravated, jaw overworking around nothing to bite, hands in fists by his side.

Oh, you’re close to defiling the pristine white of your designer clothes, the feeling brewing inside you threatening to spill between your thighs. Osamu looks absolutely delicious while being so emotional.

You can see the gears turning inside his pretty dark-haired head, his eyes looking around and back at you, threading down your face, to your neck to the plunging neckline of your suit - you elongate your body while he watches, pleased to have his eyes on you, especially when they're burning with unattended violence and aggression.

Osamu’s always so detached from the events happening around him, so unshakable in that aura of apathetic tranquility that it has caused you to develop an almost macabre interest in making him desperate. And now you are continually enjoying the result, the awakening of the flames that you always knew existed inside the small business owner.

A few minutes pass while you’re just content to watch, the knot in your stomach growing tighter as you appreciate the size of his shoulders, the strength hidden in the strong biceps, the broad, defined torso that you know exists under that simple black outfit simply by gut feeling alone. You are tempted to ask him to turn around so that you can also enjoy his backside.

“Ok.” He says in a breath that seems more like it was ripped out of his chest. Like a dead man last world. You like this analysis. But of course, he can’t have it so easy.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear. Did you say anything?”

Osamu purses his lips in discomfort, almost bites his tongue in the process of not telling you to go to hell.

“I said,” he entones again, though his disdain is showing. “Ok”

“Ok, what?” You press. Oh, the way how his veins bulge on his forearms when his nails press on his palms have your hairs standing on end. You blink at him with a smile, all too pleased with yourself.

“Ok, I’ll do it.” Osamu squeezes out, brows furrowed in discovering your intentions. You’re leering with wicked prowess.

“I don’t think that's how you say it, Miya.” Your brows go up in the tiniest indication of irritation. Your voice is calculated, though unable to hide the elation.

“Ok… Miss. I’ll do anything you want.” The words come out of his mouth sounding nothing like submission and much like he just cursed your whole generation, teeth grinding. Still, it makes you smile. You don’t want to break his spirit -- that’s why you chose him.

“That’s what I like to hear.” You say, pushing yourself out from the counter where you supported yourself. Coat long forgotten on top of it, you cross your arms in front of your breasts, knowing exactly how you look and very pleased at the way his eyes ever so slightly thread down your plunging neckline. “But not so fast. I didn’t tell you I’d accept it-”

“Ya just--” Osamu almost explodes, the arms he holded closed in front of him being thrown in the air as if he’d be ready to grab you. You just turn a hand up and reels at how he actually shuts up right after.

“I just told you, you could pay me in services.” You continue, one step closer to him in your expensive shoes, plump red lips dripping wicked intent.

“But,” You start, closer to him enough that your breath is touching his heated skin and you can smell the sweat his aggression produced, your mouth salivating at the thought of tasting it on his skin.

Your finger rests on his chest and you thread it up while speaking, looking him in the eyes, so pleased at finding so much life in his usual dead stare, “I don’t know if you’re good enough for the job yet.”

Osamu stares back at you, hands in fists forcibly stuck next to his body, feeling the way your hot breath trails on his jaw and hating himself for what it brews in his insides.

You stretch up in your heels, mouth dangerously close to his, which rests ajar to let his breathing out, enough that he can taste your mint breath on his tongue.

“I think I may need a little…” Your eyes thread down to his mouth and then back to his eyes while you speak your next words, “--taste, you know?”

Osamu flexes his fingers, swallows dry around his closed throat, stares at your face -- so close the downright devilish smile on your red lips seems to narrow his field-view -- and he blinks.

The Miya thinks how he wants to wipe that smile off your sinful lips. How he wants to have you trembling, unattended, and disheveled. He thinks about you begging with his name on your tongue, for a release that he’ll keep denying at his disposition. Osamu thinks about leaving you sore and marked, thinks about wrapping his hands around your neck to watch as you struggle, turning purple, life evading you while he fucks you; consider this may be the only way he’d ever had the opportunity to get even close to a payback.

Osamu wants you to experience mind-numbing pleasure you’d never before, uniquelly brought by him… and suffer through the rest of your fucking disgraceful life without being able to taste it again once he’s done paying his debt. Because Osamu swears on his fucking name and whole life, he’ll never give it to you again.

He can see your future already and in it you’re fucked - both by him and for him, while he’s the one who gets away. The twin wonders if you ever lost anything like this in your life, can feel himself growing hard at being the one to make you cry.

“Sure.” Osamu smiles, lopsided, the devil himself being safer than him. “I’ll give ya the taste ya deserve.”

Your eyes press slightly closer in mistrust, the wicked intention pouring from his body so close to yours impossible to miss. Either way, it's your win; that’s exactly what you’ve been bargaining for, despite your game being rigged from the start.

You bring your face close to his as if you were going to kiss him and you are delighted when his eyes go down, although not completely closed, his pupils focusing on your lips.

You smile and retreat, turning to your men still positioned exactly where you left them, behind the bench where you were sitting previously. They remain so observant and sharp as ever, despite looking more like gargoyles than men.

“I’ll need a moment.” You tell them in a serious tone, calm. They both look at you for a second and nod, their stances changing very little despite it. You turn back to him but walk inside his establishment as if you own the place, pushing through the doors that lead to the back and inside his small, equipped kitchen. Osamu follows in silence, briefly wondering if he’d be able to snatch a knife and bury it in your chest.

There’s not much outside cooking paraphernalia, with two big counters and taller than normal table in the center. You stop right in front of it, your hand threading over it for a moment.

“That’ll do.” You say while you turn around to look at him. You look so strikingly bright in the middle of his rather normal kitchen, clad in both lavish clothes and unblemished skin; he wants so much to be able to say your sight doesn’t thrill him -- but he can’t lie to himself.

But then you pointedly eye him and then the ground in front of you, “Kneel.”

Osamu considers his previous thought about burying a knife deep in your chest but walks, stiff, to where you indicated. He kneels with even less disposition than when he walked towards you, the descent slow until the ground’s hard tile is registered against his knee. He makes a point of looking into your eyes as he lowers, hatred overflowing in waves that seem to give you a sick satisfaction, your eyes becoming slightly out of focus.

The Miya’s about to ask what you’d want him to do next, like pledge himself or some shit, when your hands move to the hidden zipper on the side of your impeccable white pants.

It drops to the floor in one go, displaying the graceful planes of your hips, appeasing spanse of flesh, a small triangle of silk hiding your most private parts. Saliva pools in Osamu’s mouth at the sight, his teeth pressing against one another to avoid betrayal. He’s still unsure of what’s his next step until your heel digs on his shoulder painfully, using him as leverage to prop yourself up on the high table.

His eyes snap to yours while he bite his tongue to not curse you out loud. There’s a gun on top of his head that is a big warning for Osamu to behave -- not that he’d have the chance to escape with the watchdogs outside his only exit. If he had, you could be dead already.

Your suit threads up when you move up and slide on the table, the white silk panties peeking in between your open thighs. You move your beretta calmly off his face and thread it slightly, almost fondly, over your naked thigh.

You make a small show of removing your finger from the trigger and depositing it far on the table, enough to be out of his reach and almost yours too. You look back at him once you’re empty handed and just so open right there on the table for him.

“Behave, Osamu. You know you wouldn’t make it very far.”

Osamu grits his teeth but nods, your heel still supported on his shoulder but not digging on his skin anymore. You lay slightly back against his tabletop, forearms resting on the surface carefully. Dressed in a white, stylish suit like the last trend, the skin in between so bright it feels like a taunt, the curves of your breasts so ripe he wants to taste, the closed lapels looking like his own pathway to sin. He can feel his blood boiling, aggression throbbing, and he wants to paint you in red.

“Well then,” You start, happily above him, spread like a meal, “Show me if you’re good enough to pay your debt. Consider this your warrant.”

“Don’t worry.” Osamu drawls out with dripping distaste, his hand slowly, almost bored, threading up from your ankle to your knees. “I’ll fuck ya like you want it. Within an inch of your life.”

His hands lock on the back of your knees and he parts them forcefully, while you leave a yelp followed by laughter, your head thrown back with glee.

You smell of flowers and spice, so expensive he was surprised that you weren’t dripping fucking gold. His palms slide through the back of your thigh and the skin under his fingertips is soft and firm, all shapes of heaven despite being in sole service of the devil.

Osamu starts slowly, the table leaving you open just at the height of his neck while he’s kneeled on the ground, at the perfect height. His thumb presses on your skin while he holds one of your legs up, brings his lips to your knee. There’s a welcoming stain on your panties, and he scoffs at you despite the way his cock responds on his trousers.

“I haven’t even started and you’re already wet?” The way you smile at him is both infuriating and bewitching.

“What? Didn’t you enjoy our little foreplay earlier?” You tease him, plump lips locked under a row of teeth with mirth. His skin feels prickling and Osamu decides he needs more room, roughly pushing on your thighs until he can fit between them with room to spare.

It’s not fair, how good you feel, the delicious smell of your skin, the way your taunt alights him with fire in his veins.

Osamu knows it’s bait -- and he’s willingly falling for it.

When his lips start to thread on the inner part of your knee and up, the twin does it with the intention to mark; he sucks instead of kissing, licks instead of caressing, and bites once he finds the plush meat of your inner thighs.

It stings and you let the smallest of sounds, but Osamu feels it in his gut, brings his hot tongue to soothe over it, bask in the way you tremble under his fingertips just enough for him to sink his teeth and revel in the pain on your groan.

His nose treads along the furthest expanse of the joining of your thighs, touches the silk of your expensive panties, senses the way you tense and watches while your pussy trembles, even while still covered by fabric.

He considers holding back his tongue, but Osamu has never been the type to be held back by the threat of punishment. And you’ve shown to clearly enjoy his fiery side.

“Such an eager pussy right here, isn't it?” He threads his nose against the wet patch in the silk, carefully breathes against the covered lips. Osamu lets one of his shoulders bear one leg and brings his thumb to pass over the growing wet patch. “Sticky.” He presses it from the wetness to the place where your clit should be, watches as you respond to his touch with aborted movement. “Such a slut.” It’s supposed to be degrading, but there’s a hint of appreciation in his words that isn’t lost on you. “Is this all it takes for my debt? It’ll be finished in a second then.”

Your mouth opens to retort but closes in time to withhold a moan before it falls through your lips. His thumb’s pressing against your clit in tight circles while the index of his other hand threads over your covered cunt. Turns out Osamu has moves to back up the big talk.

He’s methodical, clearly good and deft with his fingers, controlled pressure applied in a way that has you writhing on the table despite your intention to make this hard on him. Your desire to make him work for it, apparently, is no match for his.

Osamu presses the tips of his fingers on your clothed entrance, enough force that it barely breaks inside you but the teasing has you churning on the table for him, legs trying to part beyond limits, body arching where it’s been relegated. Your chest feels hot and heavy despite the little clothing. You’re hoping for the moment where he’ll tease the hard nipples pressing against the flimsy lace of your bralet and the inside of your suit with the same intensity he’s depositing on your cunt.

Osamu, on the other hand, has no rush. You did this, gave this opportunity for him to wreck you, and he plans on enjoying it to the bitter end. He’s fairly surprised at how responsive you are, how quickly you melt for him, how vocal you can be despite doing little more than grunts and sighs. A thought flashes through his mind when he feels a renewed wave of wetness blossom against the fabric where his fingers are pressing, his lips turning in a self-satisfied smirk.

“Have you been so desperate for a good cock you’ve resorted to blackmail?” Your eyes snap open at his voice, a warm wave of something that you refuse to believe in being embarrassment depositing in your cheekbones. Osamu’s fingers prod harder against your entrance, fingers spreading against the wet fabric to your outer lips while his thumb keeps drawing endless circles around your clit. “Tsk, what a dirty move from an even dirtier slut.”

He slaps your clit once, then twice, his bulking frame preventing you from closing your legs against the sudden pain. Your body trembles on unsteady forearms. You choke on a breath and then release a moan, the sound outrageous to Osamu even as his cock throbs from it.

“Maybe I’ll give ya what you want.” The Miya teases, his voice sounding even despite the turmoil inside him. You look up at him with such eyes he could fool himself into thinking he wanted this.

His fingers teether on the edge of your underwear, rough fingertips just daring to cross into the emanating heat. Your hips twitch, the emptiness inside you accentuated by your muscles clenching around nothing, desire pouring out against the prodding fingertips. Osamu snorts, throws you a hard stare that is equal parts fire and contempt.

“You’re so wet. Are you enjoying this that much?” It drips acidic from his tongue against your neck, after he bends himself over you. From so close, Osamu’s warm breath is the same as a caress, his tongue teasing you with the way it threads over his lips but doesn't extend the courtesy to your skin. “You’re rather easy to rile up, hah? Or is it that you enjoyed playin’ with me before?” His teeth flash white above your head and you swallow around the desire of having them plunging on your skin. “How was it ya said? Foreplay, hah?”

You feel weirdly wound up inside your own skin, as if there’s not enough space and still a growing void inside you waiting for him to fill. It’s insane, it’s delicious, and a loud moan breaches your throat when Osamu plunges two fingers inside you without warning.

Your body arches in such a curve your breasts press against his chest, the relieving brush too shallow to register in your brain when you’re hyper fixated on the sensation brewing inside you.

It doesn’t even sting, instead you feel like your hunger escalates, fed by such little push that your want becomes need and for the first time in forever you actually consider asking for something.

Your mouth opens, and Osamu snickers. “What?” He presses his thumb over your clit fast, relinquishes in the way you groan, feels the way your insides beg him to keep going.

Still not enough though. He wants it ruined for you.

“Maybe I’ll just make you cum on my fingers right here.” He spreads, scissor and twists them inside you, enjoying the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him at his every move. Osamu’s skin feels on fire, body overheating, and the way your lips turn up to reveal a line of white teeth in glee has his gut twisting.

“You have a pretty loose tongue for such a quiet guy.” You look at him with semi-closed eyes, the victorious smile of the cat who got the mouse. “Maybe you like me more than you thoug--ahhhhh!”

Osamu shoves and prods around your insides for that special place even demons like you have and his assault is nothing short of merciless. Your eyes snap open at the force of his ramming, eyebrows furrowing at the way your pleasure seems to have forgone climb to skyrocket instead. Osamu watches in begrudging enchantment while your lips fall open to suck air into your breathless lungs and your eyes grow unfocussed, shoulders falling against the table so your hands can come to hold his arms but for what he doubts even you know.

He’s not stopping. Until he does.

You let out a noise like a wounded animal, tethering on the edge of mind numbing pleasure he won’t give you and when your body trembles from exertion of a denied orgasm instead of bliss, Osamu’s chest swells in pride.

“Whydidyoustop?” You lament in one breath, eyes are blinking back into focus, sweat and - oh he hopes those are tears - droplets dripping from the corner of your eyes while you turn to press your face on the cold metal surface of the table. “I was so close!” This time you rage, nails pressing against his skin enough to hurt.

“Wadidya mean?” Osamu tilts his head sideways, patronizing. “You didn’t ask for it. I’m just doing what you told me: being respectful.”

You laugh, still breathless, and turn to him in disbelief. “Fucker.”

“Not yet,” He corrects you, nuzzling his hips on your thighs. “Maybe if you ask nicely enough.”

Osamu retreats while you regulate your breath, letting your useless legs fall limp while both of his hands come to help your panties down, marveling at the way they’re peeled off your wet pussy lips. His cock aches and demands, but he’s used to reining in his dick. And he’s just started, anyway.

The Miya pushes you forward on the table, opening your legs wide like a treat. Your pussy is glistening, rhythmically calling for something to fill it while you leak. He plunges a finger back inside to watch you tremble, stimulation enough to make your eyes fall closed, long black lashes against beautiful sweaty skin.

“Look at this.” Osamu plunges a second finger inside, opening them wide enough to sting. “What a desperate whore.”

Your mind is swirling in urge, but you refuse to spill the words on your tongue. It would give you what you want, but at what cost? Osamu looks positively ferocious above you, dark eyes focused on your every move; it sends shivers through your spine, your body trembling and blossoming for him once again. You’re in your personal heaven, in company of the devil himself.

Osamu kneels again in front of your open legs, hook one on his shoulder while he holds the other thigh forcefully up with a grip so hard your muscle aches under his fingers. But you don’t care, in fact you sigh “more” for him right as his breath teases your folds.

“No.” He tells you, two fingers pumping at leisure. His tongue slurps at your inner thigh, teeth closing in a bite with nothing to sooth.

“Fuck.” You breathe out in a groan and his smirk is pronounced against your skin.

Osamu, as you’re learning, is a tease.

His moves are soft, lacking in everything but aim; his tongue moves along the sensitive parts of your body you’ve never really cared for, like the plush flesh of your thighs, underside of your ass, the juncture of your groin. He has yet to taste you but you feel wounded, body constricted under weak ministrations, feather-like teases. It sinks with a piercing revelation that you could cum like this -- in an unfulfilled manner with not-good-enough touches that somehow have made your body feel raw like an exposed nerve in which the minimum touch would be enough to warrant waves of pleasure.

When his tongue comes to thread along your slit slowly, nose caressing along his way, your body clenches and threatens to spasm around unmoving fingers. You’re so close, so close, your body is ready to burst, fraying at the seams of a control you’re not using, your hands flying to try and find your clit at the same time Osamu’s eyes flash and he holds it, presses it forcefully against your belly while his lips slurp at your folds, circle your clit, but it’s so soft, it’s fucking unfair.

“Goddammit, Osamu!” You scream, enraged at the way your second orgasm flies away from you as his fingers leave your quivering hole, his mouth doing nothing more than lap at your overflowing juices with no real worry, no urgency.

“Oh, look at that.” The Miya smirks, drawing back up to look at your disheveled state; flustered, sweating, dripping and unattended. “You wanted a taste.” His hand comes back to your cunt, fingers thread along puffy lips. “I’m giving it to you.”

“You bastard.” His fingers leave your heat just to plunge inside again, a loud gushing sound following it. “Shit.” You sigh while falling back, and Osamu feels his cock throb once more at how breathless you sound.

Your mind works around the feeling of being spread so far you feel as if you’re paper thin. Your mind goes rushing in its last attempt at working. Osamu looks self-satisfied, almost content, so you know where to hit. You want it, so you find a way to have it.

“Oh, poor Miya--” You coo at him with a hoarse voice in glazed eyes, but the condescending tone is clear as day. “Are you trying to hurt me?” You plant a hand on his black hair, pulling at it enough to hurt. “‘Cause I like pain.”

Fire explodes in his eyes and you tighten around his fingers in response, but other than his frown, Osamu remains calm.

He slams three fingers inside before you can mouth any new words, smirks down at you with mischief when you tremble and bite your lips to hold the noises in, eyes falling back closed to hide the way they turn inside your skull. His other hand is holding your thigh forcefully open once again and his palm presses with hurtful intention, fingertips buried in your flesh so hard his digitals may mark you for days.

“Let you cum on my fingers and nothing else, is that going to be enough for you?” Osamu snarls against your ear, hot breath tickling your jaw. His hips hold you open to his assault at your pussy and his hand abandons your thigh to glide over your body and close around your throat.

Osamu squeezes hard.

“Then again I could ruin your orgasm for the third time.” He bends over you, his lips right in front of your sight; eyes looking down at you with such fire you almost wonder if they’re the cause for the burn in your lungs. “Leave you writhing on the table, empty, until you learn to have a little respect.”

This.

Your lips spread in a smile almost maniacal, goosebumps rising on your skin as if you’re electrified. This is what you’ve wanted all along -- passion, fearless assault of words, electrifying pleasure; and also, the detachment, the murderous intent, all merging together in one perfect Osamu Miya. Shit, you think to yourself, at this hate you may actually come from his teasing alone.

“You talk too much for someone who didn't make me cum yet.” You pour gasoline into his fire.

Osamu pulls you up by the lapels of your suit, button flying open at the hastiness, your breasts protected by such a flimsy piece of lace you’re surprised it doesn’t turn to ash at his stare. Your hard nipples mark the white bralet, the air feeling cold at how hot they are.

A hand covered in your juices closes on your cheeks, forcefully opening your lips at the threat of pain, his fingers with lingering heat from your insides.

“Such a big mouth, should I shut you up?” Osamu asks you, eyes boring on yours. The plea is on the point of your tongue as if he’d shoved his hand inside you to yank it himself, and it tips out when his dark eyes steal one single snippet of your smeared red lips open by his hands.

“Fuck me.”

He nods negatively, presses hard enough that your teeth could cut your inner cheeks. He relents and your tongue grazes your lips, moistening them for his eyes.

Osamu smiles, a tilt of his lips up but so earnestly you’re almost hopeful, then: “No.”

Even if as he says it, it’s a lie. He knows he’ll fuck you, but right now he’s enjoying the build-up, toying with you as if you’re his plaything and not the opposite. You growl and curse, head falling back when he palms at your covered breasts, push the lace up, hears the way it strains and threatens to rip.

It’s oddly relatable -- Osamu also feels taut, stretched around a fleeting control that he feels will slip with one dip inside you. His past sexual experiences involved partners who he cherished and few one-night stands which, for the small time his dick was inside them, he was mindful and cared for their pleasure.

Right now, while he pinches and palm at your body, he has not a single worry about your pleasure and all the concern about his. This is for him. He bends his head over your bosom, sucks a nipple inside the hot cave of his mouth and bites. As his cock twitches and aches inside his trousers, he relishes in the pained noises you leave, even when they’re marked by breathless arousal.

“You sure are fucked up. Look how much you’re enjoying this.” His fingers force the howl of your cheeks, feeling your teeth nicking the insides of your mouth even through layers of flesh. There’s an infuriating elation in your expression, and Osamu retaliates by sucking harshly on your skin, teeth finding soft places to close on.

You moan loudly and his hand slides back onto your throat in the motion. Your hand shots up from the table to find his hard dick and your laugh makes his blood boil. “Clearly I’m not the only one.”

His heartbeat spikes at the words, even if Osamu knows it. The twin pulls the suit jacket half-down your arms and slams your body on the slight cold surface of the metal table, noise sounding thunderous but still no one comes after you.

Your skin erupts in goosebumps at the aggression, blood flying so fast through your heart you feel lightheaded. You’re about to spit some more fire into Osamu when two of his fingers gag you, other hand descending on your ass with such force and so unexpectedly your legs give out, dangling from the table as if you’re a ragdoll.

Something remarkably close to a whine turning sob slides through your throat and dies at Osamu’s fingers, just as something big and hot surges over your ass cheeks. Something coils on your chest, the emotion makes your eyes water and for a moment you blink it away, thanking the new position doesn’t let Osamu catch that.

Too soon. Osamu pulls your head back as his hand peels the globes of your ass apart and before you can breathe, the little air inside you is being knocked out with one thrust of Osamu’s hip.

He forces his dick inside you, tearing you open as your walls make way for his aggression, wetness dripping while Osamu fills you to the hilt, because yes, that's what you want. You want his hate, his passion, you want Osamu to tear you apart while you enjoy every second of it.

“‘Samu!” His name is on your lips as your eyes roll back, whole body tensing until you’re falling, just like that.

Then he retreats. “Fuck! Fuck no!” This time it’s a wail, a sob as your third orgasm turns to ashes, your insides trembling with nothing to hold, empty and meager pleasure.

“Wha--Cummin’ already? Nope.” The twin laughs above you, hands tilting your head painfully back. “So embarrassing.” Osamu mocks you and you swear you can feel a renewed wave of cream slide down your insides to greet the head of his cock, nudging along your swollen lips. Your tongue feels so heavy on your mouth, parched and breathless all at once, no way out but silence.

“You are disgusting, you know that? Such a greedy fucking pussy doesn’t deserve to be this tight.”

Your laugh turns into a deep moan when Osamu hits deep inside you. “God yes.” You twist one hand out of the suit’s sleeve just to pull him by the hem of his blouse, your nails digging against the skin of his neck, blooming red yelts. “Talk shit to me Osamu. I know you have better lines.”

“Fuck you.” The twin spits, his hips pistoning harder against yours until he just stops the motion, leaves you open and gapping for him to fill you again. “Of course a pig like ya has the hots for humiliation. Look at that, the slut’s pussy squeezing around my dick because she thinks I'm doing this for her pleasure.” His hand comes down on the other side of your ass, where he hasn't hit yet. It stings, but the way his palm massages and grabs at it before almost soothes the burn. “Disgusting sluts don’t get to say anything, not even begging will get you what you want. I decide what you get."

You look back from your shoulder to see his cock is standing proud and angry, swollen head shining red and dripping translucent white, as if he hadn't been wet from your juices before. Osamu’s big, especially thick and he presses inside you again without giving you time to adjust, unforgiving pace right from the start.

You curse at the way one of your hands keeps locked behind you by your suit, your nails digging on your own skin without anything else to find purchase on; the other tries to grab onto Osamu to no avail, falling on the table to help support yourself at the strength of his pounding. Your mouth is open, divided between sucking breaths and puffs of air. Osamu’s hand has since found purchase in your neck, the way he forces it back painful, the pressure on your throat growing and ceasing as he wishes.

Still, you can’t think. Your mind is lost in a sea of searing pleasure, your nipples pressed against the metal surface as Osamu finally fucks you as you’ve been dreaming. No, maybe even better. The past men you’ve fucked had all been afraid of hurting you, careful with retaliation. As Osamu fists your hair and forcefully presses you against the table; you think you may be having a religious experience. Your eyes water from the force of his manhandling, tears spilling while you left unbelievable noises fall from your lips. You want to scream and laugh, a hot sensation spreading from your fingertips to your core.

The wave of the orgasm is forming quickly, your toes curling against the insides of your Louboutins enough to hurt, the incessant pounding of Osamu’s hips against your ass sounding downright pornographic. As the peak approaches, doubt gnaws at your chest for the first time in forever.

The simple thought of Osamu robbing you of your orgasm this time is enough to make your whole body tremble and recoil, your mind too slow to catch on to his intentions. You consider biting your tongue to hold the plea in, but as you bolt into mind-blowing pleasure you’ve never even imagined before, the alternative feels like dying.

You’re tethering the edge and you feel Osamu pressing harder against you, and you break. “Please!” You cry out, “Pleasepleaseplease, don’t stop.” His movements slow down and halt, and the hand on your ass slides around you, a single finger taps repeatedly on your swollen clit.

“Say it.” He all but howls at your ear, bites on it for good measure.

“Please, ‘samu, let me fucking cum!” You beg but you’re already falling over, whole body shuddering just from the way he nudges his hips against your ass and taps on your sensitive bundle of nerves. Panic surges in between your pleasure that he’ll ruin this one when he retreats from your quivering insides, but Osamu rams back inside you with such power that your head rattles, hips hurting from the impetus of his fucking.

Sound rings in your ear while you drown in the thunderous waves of your pleasure for what feels like forever. It flows and flows and flows to a point you can’t tell if you’re seeing black or just closed your eyes.

Osamu watches, enthralled, how you go completely boneless under him. Your insides have stopped squeezing him tight but his hard, aching cock still throbs inside your heat. It’s honestly unbelievable how tight you feel around him, how fantastic he feels buried balls deep inside your walls. He had to stop trying to fuck you through your orgasm in worry he’d may cum. Poison and pleasure curl in his chest at the thought. Osamu feels like spanking you, choking you, to punish you for this undeserving heaven you have between your thighs.

But he’s not done yet.

Osamu retreats, the slide of his cock leaving your delicious walls -- cold air from outside so less welcoming -- and you sag on the table. He pulls you up on unsteady legs and smirks, proud. Your bare feet touch the ground and Osamu spins you around, swallowing on a tight throat after one look at your disheveled blissful state, but then he retreats and let’s you collapse to the ground.

The image of your legs sliding open on the cold tiled floor, unsteady hands finding purchase to hold your torso up while your head looks up at him in outrage is one he sears in his mind, a wicked satisfaction sliding over his spine at the sight alone. The wreck of you at his feet, by his hands, nothing short of perfect.

His cock throbs and pulses in front of your eyes, dragging your attention and Osamu steps closer, poses one hand on the top of your head, ruins the rest of your styled hair by dragging fingertips in it.

You’re still lightheaded, shockwaves making you twitch on the cold floor and Osamu is elated at how wrecked you look, makeup smeared, hair disheveled, body holded up by unsteady arms. Your lips are open, between breathless pulls of air and heavy exhales, but Osamu doesn't care, hands forcefully tugging your hair back and angling your mouth at his swelled cockhead. He counts as a win that you don’t bite him, your tongue threading flat on the underside of his length as he buries himself on your throat.

There’s resistance, so the Miya retreats, forcing it back a few other times until it finally slides a few inches more inside. While he maintains the force over your hair, his other hand engulfs your chin, thumb breaching your lips to hold your mouth open despite the fact you don’t make any move to close it.

It feels his chest with acidic bitterness that you welcome his aggression, glazed, tearful eyes looking up at him as if the fact he’s using you as little more than a cocksleeve is the brightest part of your day. Still, Osamu’s skin feels close to tearing under the sheer amount of pleasure flooding his insides. His hairs are standing on end, heart beating so fast his lungs burn, every muscle on his body tensed at his mindless pursuit of his high. He buries his cock deep inside the tight space of your throat, your gurgles and groaning enhancing his sensation. It looks painful to you to hold him inside, tears ending your makeup, face turning red at the lack of air. He closes both hands behind your head, making you nuzzle his pelvis even as your nails close on his thighs threatening to break skin.

He retreats to let you breathe just as your eyes go unfocused, feels something squeezing inside as you cough and wheezes and his throat squeezes a large gulp of air when you look up at him, tongue hanging out with a wide-open mouth just offered for him.

Osamu feels like hurting you at how good you are, infuriatingly obedient and willing to be at the end of his aggression. So he buries himself back inside at one go, both hands holding your head for him. There’s too much chaos inside of him, so he decides to pour some out through words.

“You like being used like this, huh? Like little more than a fucking cocksleeve for me.”

“What is it? Does being in power make you this needy? Does being wrecked make you feel this good?” Your groan makes your throat tighter around him, your eyes rolling back from his fucking and degradation.

It’s unfair, infuriatingly so, that this might be the most unbelievable great sex he ever had.

Osamu can’t hold back much longer, everything feeling just too good, his skin burning at the stretch of the tourbillion of emotions inside his chest, the captivating sight of tears dropping from your jaw and coating your long lashes as your face darkens by the lack of air, swollen lips stretched beyond capacity around his cock while you willingly let him go harder, faster, into your tight throat. There’s a warm sensation flowing from his limbs to his spine, melting his bones and weighing on his balls until it spreads over Osamu’s whole being.

He pulls back from your throat in time but presses his hands on your jaw and hair to keep you up and open as he coats your wrecked face with hot spurts of cum -- the final touch to the perfection of your wrecked image at his feet.

It lands haphazardly over your lips and even your eyelashes, tear-stained mess of a face marked by his essence. Osamu tells himself he could never feel anything towards you, but for a second there’s a hint of territorial pride at how you look -- and how it is all his doing. The twin is still swimming in searing pleasure as you lick over your lips, hands almost fondly landing over his as if you're assuring him that he can let go.

He does, trying to step back and slowly descending onto the ground when his knees give out. His eyes are glued to how his cum is dripping from your chin onto your chest, how you bring your fingers to sweep over it and end it by cleaning the digits with your tongue. If Osamu’s cock wasn’t so spent, he’s sure it’d swell right back up at the sight alone.

“Can’t say what’s better,” your hoarse voice is barely above a murmur, “the taste or the feeling.”

As you’re standing on unsteady legs and already fixing yourself while he sits on the floor questioning his life choices, Osamu feels as if he’d made a deal with the devil, and you’ll be coming back to collect his soul.

“Seems like the start of a nice partnership, doesn’t it?”

#osamu miya smut #osamu miya #osamu miya hq #haikyuu smut #tw dubcon #thesmutpilecollab #hq fanfic #osamu miya x reader

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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 3 years

Note

✏, hotchreid, first kiss 🥺

You don’t just get a blurb honey, you get the whole damn night. I’ll eventually start writing blurbs and not full-length oneshots for these asks, but Cee (my love my family my favorite always) is who got me back into CM in the first place so yours was always going to be the long, fleshed out version. I love you so my dear.

((P.S. Yes I’m still working on the 200follower asks xD I’m so sorry life got in the way and I discovered hcs but I’m being responsible and finishing all of these now I promise!!!))

Personal plot bunny: Hotch invites Reid over to help with a research paper/with Jack and Reid gets to see his boss all domestic and soft, and in turn Spencer just kind of fits in his home seamlessly and Hotch kisses him as he leaves.

Word Count: 3107

It’s a perfectly ordinary day in late November when Hotch opens his apartment door to Reid standing there in the clothes he’d worn to work earlier that day. Satchel over his shoulder, wrapped in jacket and scarf, and giving him a small quirk of a smile in greeting -- still very obviously thrown off kilter that Hotch had invited him over in the first place.

When Reid said he’d lend him a hand on his most recent research paper, the younger agent had probably expected them to do it at the office. Interviews and research were all a big part of having a Behavioral Science subunit at the FBI, and published papers were a requirement from all BAU members to aid in this endeavor. Every team had to keep a steady output of resources and research studies going just to keep funding for the department afloat. He may be Unit Chief, but Hotch was no exception to these requirements, even with as much work as he has to put in on the regular.

Usually, he can do his research and piece together papers in between his daily paperwork. But this week Jess is sick with a stomach flu, and Jack hadn’t gotten to spend time with Hotch in what feels like a month. So the easiest solution was obviously to invite Reid to have dinner with them at his home, entertain him while he read over the drafted paper and helped Hotch out.

Obviously.

The only reasonable option, really.

“Thanks for coming, Reid,” Hotch greets back with a softened expression as he looks him up and down. “Did you even go home first?” The very first thing Hotch always does is change out of his suit when he gets home, shedding that armour as best he can to switch mindsets between Agent Hotchner of the FBI, and Aaron Hotchner the ever-stressed-out single dad. That evening donning worn jeans and a heather grey Henley to better accommodate himself within the space.

“Oh -- no, I didn’t see much point,” Reid shrugs, then motioning to his satchel which is now filled with books that weren’t there when he’d left the bull pen a couple hours before. “I stopped by the law library in Georgetown and found a few more references, just in case you were using the Favero citations instead of Weston and I don’t have all of those read yet -- or I didn’t. I do now. But I still brought them--”

Hotch smiles, a real smile -- small as it is, but no less fond of Reid going out of his way to help him. But before he can thank him again Jack’s socked feet come thundering down the hall behind him.

“Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer!” And he’s slipping past Hotch, smooth and fluid as water, attaching himself to Reid’s legs and waist in a hug with a big smile that looks so much like Aaron’s own. When he’d been younger, only about three or four years old, Jack had been deathly scared of Doctor’s visits. It had been Reid’s idea to have Jack start calling him ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help alleviate some of that fear, associating the moniker with his non-threatening and familiar face. Reid had been much younger then, too, and that had helped the tactic work like a charm. Haley had been over the moon when his reverse psychology worked out so well.

“Jack! Woah, you got taller!” Reid’s whole demeanor changes. A little more animated, more comfortable, even -- and Hotch could remember a time when Reid hadn’t even wanted to hold a child for fear of the interaction. Now, he was always the first to talk to one if JJ didn’t beat him to it. “How’ve you been?” “Good!” Jack says excitedly, barreling over the small talk in ways only children can. “Dad says you’re going to help him with his homework, can you help me with mine too?!”

Reid smiles even wider and chances a glance at Hotch that he feels in his chest. “You bet, I love helping with homework.”

Jack just scrunches his nose up at him. “Why?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“Homework isn’t fun.”

“Well, maybe you’ve been doing it wrong.”

“Let’s let Dr. Reid in from the hallway,” Hotch interrupts with a laugh, herding his son and the younger agent inside. “Jack, go get your homework and you can do it at the table,” Hotch says as he takes Reid’s coat and watches him kick off his shoes by the door. Mismatched socks prominent against the hardwood floors. Making himself at home, shedding some of the layers and getting comfortable in the space much like Aaron does every day after work. “Hope you like spaghetti. It won’t be as good as Rossi’s.”

“Who doesn’t love spaghetti,” Spencer grins with a soft laugh. “Rossi’s is almost too fancy for me, anyway.”

“A man of simple tastes,” Hotch teases him.

“I’m easily impressed.”

“Lucky me.”

It slips out, the low, comfortable banter, and Reid’s eyes are alight and Aaron feels himself smiling enough his dimples show, and he leads the way to the kitchen where dinner is already in the works on the stove. Filling the small condo with the smell of tomato sauce and garlic.

Jack and Reid set up at the kitchen bartop where they can watch Hotch finish cooking and stay within reach of conversation. It doesn’t take long for Hotch to finish making dinner, or for Jack to finish his homework spurred on by Reid’s strange enthusiasm for math problems. With how much time they spend talking about psychology and sociology (and sometimes even philosophy) Hotch always forgets one of Reid’s Ph.D.’s is in mathematics.

“Numbers just make sense,” he explains, when Hotch brings it up while drizzling olive oil on the drained pasta on the stove. “There’s always a right answer and the rest are wrong. It’s comforting, to an extent, but predictable -- that’s why I shifted focus from sciences to humanities. There’s no right or wrong answers in philosophy, it’s all argumentative. Always evolving. I prefer that, it’s no fun having all the answers.”

And coming from someone who does always have all the right answers, that must mean something profound to the younger man. One conversation outside the walls of the BAU and Hotch already feels like he understands Reid more than he has in a long time.

Dinner runs so smoothly it’s as if Reid is always there for it. Jack even finishes all of his food and helps with the dishes before Hotch has to ask him to. Making the two men exchange a glance and Hotch ask, “You charge by the hour?” and Reid laughs into his water glass in reply. They end up talking a bit about the paper Hotch has been working on, along with about a dozen other things Reid launches into in side tangents -- from the books he’d read during his brief visit to Georgetown that afternoon, to his most recent philosophical debate he had with his doctoral advisor about his thesis paper he’ll have to submit at the end of next month.

“Do you need time to piece it together? I didn’t know you were that close to your next Ph.D.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Reid waves him off. “I just need a weekend where we are actually in town and not on a case, and I’ll get it finished.”

“I’ve been working on this paper for the past six months,” Hotch all but balks in disbelief. “How can you write a Ph.D. dissertation in a weekend?”

“Well, I’m not the Unit Chief or a single parent,” Reid points out with a gentle grin, and Hotch feels one pulling at his own lips as well. “But it’s mostly written anyway, just all up here.” He points to his head, and Hotch bets he could recite the paper verbatim with what he writes up when he has the time.

“You could always write it on the jet,” Hotch says.

“I do,” Reid smirks, and Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes. “In my head, someone is usually taking up the table with a headstart on paperwork.”

“I think they can be talked into relinquishing some table top space,” Hotch says, until Reid gives him a look. “Oh, you mean me?”

“You spread out everything to keep it organized in piles.”

“I’d share with you.”

“You told Rossi to use the couch last week when he wanted to answer emails,” Reid says with a barely contained laugh.

“Yeah, well, he’s not you,” Hotch admits before he can take it back, and Reid almost answers -- mouth open and everything -- when Jack comes back and is all but begging ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help him with his science fair project he hadn’t even decided on.

The rest of the evening ends up with the three holed up in Hotch’s office, Reid surrounded by Law books and reading material he hasn’t gotten to sift through before, Hotch with his drafted paper printed out for Reid’s ease of access, and Jack with his science textbook and a notebook already talking Reid’s ear off about a science project for the spring.

But once the time starts to tip into the later hours of the night, Hotch tells Jack to get ready for bed and say goodnight to Dr. Reid.

“Goodnight, Dr. Spencer. Thanks for your help,” Jack says politely, ingrained in him by his father and Reid smiles a little too bright and soft at the same time at how sweet it is he tries to be good for company.

“You know, Jack, you can just call me Spencer if you’d like,” he says, knowing that the older boy has already outgrown his fear of the doctor and the reverse psychology is no longer needed.

Jack looks a little confused for a moment. “Dad doesn’t.”

“Well, your dad can, too -- if he wants,” Reid says, looking to Hotch and they share a look he once again can feel in his chest. Watching the whole interaction with a carefully guarded expression, but it melts under Reid’s glance and he isn’t quite sure what is there anymore. But whatever it is, it makes Reid smile softly at him.

“Okay, goodnight Spencer,” Jack interrupts their moment, and hugs Reid around the neck from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. It jostles the younger man, and Hotch smiles wide and ducks his head down to hide it. But Reid hugs Hotch’s son back, and tells him goodnight, as well. “You’ll come back, right?”

“Of course, I’d love to,” Reid tells him, and -- satisfied -- Jack goes off to brush his teeth, leaving the two in a lull of heavy silence. “Sorry, I think I just invited myself over, some time.”

“You’re welcome anytime.” And he means that, knows Reid knows that as he looks at him a little more soundly than before. “Not just for work.” If that needed to be said.

And if Reid’s face flushes a little darker in the low lighting, Hotch doesn’t mention. No matter how much he can’t seem to look away.

Reid looks over his entire paper while Hotch tucks Jack into bed, and is already making notes on it at his desk when the man returns. The next hour rolls into two, and Hotch drags another chair in from the kitchen so they can share his desk and work through bullet points on the paper but… it was pretty much done, from the start. Even Reid’s edits didn’t take them long. After a while they dissolve into just talking, discussions and anecdotes and sitting maybe a little too close and laughing so much and so loud sometimes they have to quiet themselves so they don’t wake Jack down the hall.

It’s almost 10:30 by the time they resurface from each other, before Hotch realizes Reid probably needs to go home because they both have to be at work bright and early. But this was… this was the best night he’s had in a long, long time, and he wants to do it again. Soon. More than soon. More than once. He thinks about all of this as he follows Reid to the front door and helps him gather the rest of his things.

“We should do this again, sometime,” Hotch mentions, hands in his pockets and trying to be more cool about this than he feels.

“I’d like that, I had a lot of fun tonight,” Reid answers, standing up from tying his shoes and giving him that bright, wide smile he doesn’t always feel comfortable enough to allow. It never fails to stall Hotch in his tracks, staring a little too long at his mouth than he should be.

“What if, next time, it’s just us? And no Jack?” he continues, elaboration just in case Reid doesn’t grasp what he’s asking. Reid is watching him with this look as if he’s unsure he heard correctly, and Hotch is nothing if not patient.

“I’d… I’d be okay with that,” Reid answers, slowly as he weighs some unseen options and gauges Hotch’s facial expressions to the most minute detail.

“Good. How about Saturday?”

He can see the moment it all clicks into place.

“...Are you asking me on a date?” Reid asks, a little winded.

“If that’s alright with you,” Hotch says with a half smile. Once again sounding more confident than he should in the face of how Reid’s eyes start to dart around and he licks his lips nervously.

“I don’t know how -- how good I am with dates.” There’s a story behind that, and Hotch wants to know it, but he does his best to press Reid gently. Because… he’s been holding off asking the younger man for a long time, now, but after tonight he gets the feeling that he might not have needed to be so hesitant, after all.

“Oh?”

“Just -- the ritual of it all always throws me off. Dressing up and going out, and making conversation over dinner while trying to eat and maintain the other’s attention, and then keeping it all going if you manage to do that I just don’t always do so well one-on-one and --”

“Reid.” He pauses, then -- “Spencer.” And that stalls his stream of thought to words, catching Spencer’s attention and snagging it in the best way. “...we just did all of that. And it was great.” Hotch knows his own expression has softened around the edges over the course of the night, smiles easier to hold, eyes more expressive, and Spencer takes in every change and nuance with a well-practice eye and is… very obviously stunned by what he finds. “So -- I’d like to do it again. Saturday?”

Shocked, eyes a little wide, breath lost to the wind, Spencer waits a beat too long to answer. Enough to make Hotch nervous, before he answers in a sound that could have been a whisper if it had been quieter. A slight crack to it that betrays his emotion.

“Okay.”

Hotch gets a turn to be stunned, because he thought this had been about to take a very different turn. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“--Okay.”

Intelligent men that they were, that was the extent of the conversation, and then Reid is smiling that bright, sunshine laced smile and Hotch is trying to contain his own and -- Reid still needs to go home. So, biting his lip, Reid turns as if to leave -- is just about out the door when he stops and turns back so quick he almost runs into Hotch on the threshold.

“So… technically, that means this was our first date, then. Right?” he looks so goddamn hopeful, and like he has something further to add, that Hotch smiles outright and this time doesn’t bother hiding it.

“Technically, yes.” He supposes it was. And it really had been… a great night. Not a bad first date, at all.

Reid takes far too long trying to string together words after that. Keeps looking to Hotch then away to gather his thoughts, then back again as if in search of something; and it’s after about the third time that Hotch realizes what he’s getting at. What he’s trying to find a way to ask.

It hits him so silent and hard it about knocks the wind out of him.

Oh.

He can do that.

Hotch steps closer, about the same time Spencer opens his mouth like he’s finally figured out the right combination of words within the range of the English language to form a coherent sentence, and they all die on his tongue the moment Hotch guides him back with a hand on his hip. He’s done it before, gentle leading when Reid strays the wrong way or needs to be shifted in a crowded room on cases, and this time is just as easy and no different.

Except this time, Hotch isn’t maneuvering them to get past him. This time, he presses Spencer’s spine to the doorframe and leans in to capture his lips with his own. Right there, in the open doorway.

Hotch kisses him, and it’s perfect.

The gentle slide of lips is over before either know it, lasts longer than his racing heart can measure, and before Hotch can decide his next move Spencer tilts in closer and kisses him back, slow and methodical and Hotch feels that. Feels it the way he’s felt every moment they had and shared the whole night. His free hand finds that sharp jaw framed in messy curls getting longer all over again, and Spencer doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands beyond grasp at Hotch’s shirt at his sides and then --

Then Hotch pulls back enough that he can nudge his nose against Spencer’s carefully, a punctuation that ends the kiss soft and apologetic. Silently says that’s all they can do tonight. That there’s more, awaiting them, but that…

That had been one hell of a good first kiss.

“See you in the morning, Spencer.”

For once, Dr. Spencer Reid is speechless in an entirely new way, and he merely nods with lips still parted and a little darker from the kiss. From kissing him, and Hotch knows he stares more than he should, but that’s been a frequent occurrence lately. It’s just getting harder and harder to turn away, watch Reid -- Spencer -- smile at him in that quiet way only ever directed at him, and then walk away. But he lets it happen, feels every step even as he shuts the door behind him.

Because Hotch will see Spencer tomorrow.

And, one day, maybe he won’t have to watch him walk away at all.

#I'm so tired I can't even tell if this is good or not because OF COURSE these dorks would flirt over a damn research paper #tell me I'm wrong #also I'm a sucker for domestic hotchreid we all know this #but I hope you like this my dear I know it's hella long it just got away from me #Cee my love my light ilysm #asks #HotchReid #Heid #katyswriting #200followerasks

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333sth · 3 years

Text

dove. (frankie morales)

chapter i. previous.

pairing: frankie morales x ofc (’dove’) no use of y/n.

warnings: mention of ptsd/military service, language, violence, brief mention of torture/kidnapping, injury detail, fighting.

summary: frankie was going to propose, until dove found the ring and ghosted. even santi can’t track her down.

rating: mature. wc: 1.6k

Dove was a nickname coined by an old general during her training. He was a traditional man, though not disrespectful. It was a term of endearment that probably softened the influx of powerful women breaching into the male territory. He’d drawled, ‘I ought to call you Dove – I ain’t never seen a girl so swift, yet so fuckin’ lethal.’ She kept the boys in line too, he’d noted. When Benny got too reckless, or Tom’s temper ran away with him, she was the first to snap them out of it. In environments where peace was a very distant concept, she played the peacekeeper.

One time, during a two-month deployment in Nigeria, the group was shoved in the back of an ancient pick-up truck for six hours. Dove was wedged between Will and Frankie, sweltering in the humid air. The stale smell of sweat mixed with blood and diesel was permeating the air, and they were three hours from the nearest checkpoint. To pass the time, she asked them what they’d do if they weren’t special forces.

That was easy for Will – he’d be a teacher of some kind. Benny waffled about sports, making some brash comment about how he’s got to channel all his aggression somewhere. Tom and Santi couldn’t come up with anything that suited them more than the forces, which was not surprising. Frankie would still be a pilot somehow. Dove had never seen him more comfortable than in the pilot’s chair.

Dove dreamed of owning her own bar or café, somewhere relaxed and laid-back. A beach perhaps, somewhere quaint and peaceful, where the air is warm well into the late evening and the waves are gentle, collapsing onto the sand like white noise. She imagined the hum of conversation meeting tinkling music, beach lanterns dotted around the decking to cast an ambient glow beneath the stars. Maybe a chef on weekends could make bar snacks. Tom had snorted at that, throwing a jab about how she can burn the water they use to make their dried food sachets.

The men had recalled this conversation, desperately trying to fathom where Dove might have taken off to. It was met with an aching nostalgia for the type of teammate she was too. That conversation had been a tactic, a peaceful one, to prevent the terrible concoction of adrenaline, exhaustion and heat forming an argument in that truck. She was a natural tactician as well as a good friend.

Frankie had recounted each country they had been stationed and exactly how Dove had felt about them. She had loved Argentina, even when she got shot and Will spent three hours with his finger crammed in the wound to stop the bleeding. But she also liked Jamaica, Brazil and Hawaii. None of their contacts in the forces had any trace of her, not even Santi’s in South America. Her family were none the wiser – they brushed it off, her dad mumbling something about it sounding like her usual antics.

All he had was a scribbled note that read, ‘I need space. I’m safe. I love you.’ It was folded neatly in his wallet, like he was carrying the last piece of her that he had.

Mexico. That was where she was. A small town on the West coast that had enough life to keep her occupied, and the guarantee of anonymity.

If people asked, she was a retired nurse, which wasn’t entirely untrue. She told them she spent a lot of her career in humanitarian aid, to explain the occasional jitters on a rowdy Friday night and the nasty scars. There was a particularly gruesome one leading from the base of her throat up to her bottom lip from a knife fight. She told them it was shrapnel, flung from a collapsing building, and she was lucky it didn’t catch her jugular. The locals had gasped in awe at her heroism. She’d flinched against the memory of how her own knife buried into her attacker’s throat instead.

A few days into her move, Dove had found what could only be considered a derelict shed on the beachfront. It was probably the remains of an old boathouse. With some help from the locals, she had restored the ageing planks of wood. What was spare formed the bar and some rustic furniture. She pieced together a jumble of second-hand bar stools, chairs and lanterns that made for an eclectic combination. It had character and history in its walls, rather than some swanky, expensive build devoid of any personality. It was exactly what she had dreamed of, huddled in hypothermic temperatures or insomniac in her cot at base, sleep beyond her reach.

It didn’t change the fact that every time she entered her bedroom, the old polaroid of Frankie pinned to the wall hits her like a ton of bricks. Frankie knows she took it – it was pinned to the fridge at their home before she left. It’s quintessential Frankie, sat with his arms folded to his chest, biceps straining slightly against an old denim shirt that was getting a little too snug post-retirement. It was at a barbecue, his skin tanned and flushed from a day in the sun drinking, tousled hair peeking out from the sides of a dog-eared cap. Every time Dove glances at it, she wonders if he still has that hat.

‘Of course he has,’ the voice in her head snaps back. Any piece of clothing she’d suggest replacing would be countered with, ‘over my dead body’. The man was sentimental, a little too attached to his home comforts. She’d also bought it him in a seedy gift shop in the middle of nowhere as a joke.

“To add some variety,” she’d said. He would never let it go now.

Once, Veronica had eyed the photograph on her mirror and asked, “Who is he then? An ex?”

Veronica, or Roni for short, had lived in the town her whole life until university. When she graduated and moved home to save money, she needed a job. Dove needed a friend, so she took her on as a bartender. She was young and giddy, but harmless. More importantly, she was too self-absorbed to notice or even care that her thirty-something year old boss had bullet holes in her back.

“Something like that.” Dove had replied, rifling through her sorry excuse for a makeup bag. She’d closed the bar early to have a rare night off in the next town over, which had considerably livelier nightlife.

“You never talk about relationships. Or men.’ Roni observed, peering over Dove’s shoulder to eye another photograph. It was a group picture of the boys, huddled in the same fraying booth in their favourite bar back in Florida. “Looks like you were spoilt for choice.”

Dove scoffed, meeting her friend’s twinkling gaze in the mirror. “Shut your mouth. They were friends from work.”

“Were? Does that mean you can’t set me up now?”

“They’re almost twice your age. You’d tire ‘em out.” Dove set down the lip-gloss she dragged out for special occasions. “Come on, I’m not getting any younger either. It’s already passed my bedtime.”

Thankfully, that was enough to amuse the younger girl into linking her arm and hauling her out the door to the taxi, no more questions asked.

The hollering of spectators and thudding of skin slapping against the mat was reduced to a distant buzzing in Frankie’s ears. It was dimmed by the incessant ramblings of Santiago and Tom, discussing the files Santi had put together on Lorea. He could feel the reawakening of his rusty military senses as he follows the familiar tactics, mentally registering his agreement or noting what he might do differently. He doesn’t vocalise it though, because he hasn’t even agreed yet. Joining the debate would inadvertently signal his agreement. He didn’t want that.

There was a shadow lingering in the space on the bench beside him. It was an empty presence, not Will, who was hooked on the cage of the ring yelling encouragement to his brother. Not Benny, thumping his leather gloves together with his teeth pulled harshly over his mouthguard, judging his competitor with a predatory glint in his eye.

The opponent was a monster, but he lumbered like his limbs were filled with lead. Frankie notes that Benny, nimble and tall, will have a breeze tiring him out. Dove would have joked that it wasn’t worth coming, that they’ll be sat here until their asses are numb watching Benny play cat and mouse. His chest twinges. Sometimes it’s too easy to remember what she’d do, what she’d say. He wished he knew what she’d make of Santiago’s proposition. She always saw through Pope’s glamourisation and Tom’s greed.

What Frankie misses while he observes his pitiful surroundings is Tom and Santi descending into a hushed conversation. Tom nudges Santi, “You got anything on Dove?”

Santi sighs, long and solemn, “Maybe.” As Tom’s face quirks in interest, he holds up his finger, “It’s just a hunch.”

“A hunch is better than what we’ve had in the last year.”

Santi takes a sip of his beer, casting a glance at Fish, whose eyes are trained on the floor and the swirling contents of his cup. He knows him well enough to know his thoughts are the only thing that have his attention.

“I worry about him. We all do.” Tom whispers. “Getting busted just made things worse.”

“Don’t get his hopes up, man. It’s nothing solid. It’ll crush him if I’m wrong.” Tom nods solemnly before Santi continues, “A friend of mine saw an ex-Delta in a bar, a woman. He knew ‘cause of a tattoo she had on the nape of her neck.”

Tom’s eyes widen. In front of them, Benny lands a sickening punch on his opponent’s nose, complimented by an audible crack. He’s barely breaking a sweat, dancing around as the guy heaves and stumbles forward.

Santi’s gaze doesn’t break from the ring. “Mexico. I think she’s in Mexico.”

#Frankie Morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier imagine #frankie morales imagine #triple frontier fic #francisco morales #Triple Frontier #frankie catfish morales #Frankie morales fic #Frankie Morales x OFC #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #benny miller #will miller #Santiago Garcia #santiago pope garcia #ben miller #dove fic

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viridwns · 3 years

Text

Can't help but fall in love with you.

Time: present

Paring: Chuuya x f!reader

Characters: Chuuya nakahara, Dazai osamu, Mori ōgai, Fukuzawa yukichi from BSD

Warnings: none ig.

Request from: @trixiegalaxy . I hope you are happy with this!

You were just looking for a job. A simple job.

You really went from being a secretary with mountains of paperwork your boss left you to being in the middle of a truce meeting.

"No illusions this time fukuzawa?"

"It's a truce meeting right? I don't see the use of using my members ability."

You really didn't want to be here. What were you even thinking! The job that you were offered after just moving into this city was to perfect to be true. You knew something was up, but you still accepted it anyway.

When you were asked to come to an important meeting by Dazai, you didn't think any of it. I mean maybe you had to take notes or something. So ofcourse being the good subordinate you were, you said yes.

Curse this handsome looking man. If only you had listened to your guts when he asked you to join him for a double suicide.

You tugged at Dazai's arm wanting to know why in the hell he brought you here. "What the actual fuck Dazai" you whispered at him a frown setteling upon your face. He looked at you with a grin and winked. Wanting nothing more to bash his head in a voice interrupted your thoughts.

"I can see you brought someone new. I've never seen her face here before."

You looked at the mafia boss. He was smiling at you.

Gulping down the lump in your throat you tried to look as brave as possible. Standing up straight with your chin up.

"She's our new secretary. Thought i'd bring her with us for some experience." You heard Dazai say.

Only Dazai, fukuzawa and you were here. On the other side you could see the mafia boss, a man with no eyebrows? And a short, but intimidating man with a fedora.

Yeah you didn't want to get caught up into this.

"I'm gonna quit the next opportunity i get" you muttered. Regretting not listening to your mother to stay in the little village and not moving to the city.

"Knowing you Dazai, she isn't just a secretary. Just tell us what her ability is."

Wait what?

"Hah?" You said without realizing.

First of all how did Dazai know about your ability. Second of all how could it be of any use here?

"Ah you caught me. She indeed has an ability. Up to you to figure it out."

Dazai said, his famous grin plastered on his face.

"Cut the crap mackerel. This is a truce meeting. Stop this shitty act and just tell us why she's here." The man with the fedora stept forward. His gloved hand pointing at you.

Honestly you don't even know anymore why you were here.

"Can we just set our agreement. My schedule is busy and the only way we can stop (bad guy name) is if we work together."

Your boss spoke up. Looking tired as usual.

"Sorry, but it seems like your hiding something from us. Are you going to attack us when we turn around hm?"

The mafia boss looked at him with an amusing smile.

"Stop this nonsense Mori. Just agree to the plan. You know it's the best thing to do."

"Fine. Tomorrow at midnight i'll send Chuuya and you'll send Dazai. Deal?"

"Deal."

----

Why the fuck.

wHY THE FUCKING FUCK WERE YOU HERE.

That chuuya guy and Dazai were supposed to be going on a mission together.

so why in the hell were you here waiting infront of a shed at 12 AM with Dazai at your side.

Simple answer: you fell for his tricks again.

"Isn't the sky pretty y/n."

"Say one more word and i'll make you regret using me for my ability."

An angry scowl was placed on your features as Dazai pouted.

"Ah come one y/n-kun don't be so mean."

You snapped your head to the right to face him.

"Oh i'm mean? You literally send me here to join you for a suicide mission. I'm only going to be dead weight anyway!"

He chuckled

"Oh don't worry, you're going to be a great help for this mission."

Giving him a confused look, you were about to say something when a voice interrupted you.

"And can i ask why she is here?"

You looked to the left to see Chuuya standing there with a hand on his hip.

"Why is everyone so irritated this night. Well i wouldn't expect less from Chuuya, but you are never irritated y/n."

"For everything there's a first time." You said with a sigh.

This was going to be a long night.

"Just shut up you mackerel. I'm not in the mood for your shit."

Chuuya walked closer to the two of you. He was intimidating as ever, but gosh did he have anger issues.

Dazai tried to open his mouth, but knowing him and his passion for annoying people you interrupted him.

"If we go left from here, we'll eventually see the base of the enemy. There's a way in from the left side of the building without being seen. It's our best shot to sneak in."

You finished looking at the two men.

You could see Chuuya staring at you with a certain look in his eyes.

"Is there something on my face?" You asked, your hands wiping your face.

It looked like you suprised him by the sudden startled look on his face.

"N-no Let's just go. The sooner we start, the faster we finish."

Chuuya walked past the two of you. Cursing something under his breath. You could swear you saw a light pink covering his cheeks.

----

"Where the fuck did that maniac go?!"

You sat on the ground covering your ears with your hands. Not wanting to listen to Chuuya's whines anymore.

It all happenend so fast. The three of you broke into the enemy's base and found a good hiding spot, but somehow the three of you got caught. Chuuya and you ran, thinking Dazai was right behind you two, but when you locked yourselves into a lab, he was gone.

Looking at the furious ginger you tried to calm him down.

"It's Dazai we're talking about. C'mon have some faith in your partner."

You smiled lightly, but it soon faded as you were met with an angry scowl.

"He was my partner. I can't even believe he brought you."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

You didn't know either why he brought you, but he could be atleast a bit nicer about it.

"Well i'm sorry for being here, but thanks to me we could break into this place. Also can you just calm your tits. Your behavior isn't helping the situation."

You stood up to look him in his eyes. Your smile being replaced with a more serious look.

"I-." He tried to say something, but instead moved to the other side of the room.

"You're such a nausionce."

Knowing if you would pick a fight with him now nothing good would come out of it.

"I know, now let's find a way out."

Looking around the room, you could only find some medical suplies and some samples of God knows what.

Chuuya began helping you after sulking for a bit in the corner. He checked all the cabinets and only found food and more medical supplies.

"I found nothing, you?"

You asked the man while sitting down on the large dental like chair in the middle of the room.

"Nothing useful no."

Chuuya leaned at the wall infront of you.

"Going outside is also not an option. There are cameras outside the door. So they'll know our location immediately."

You let out a frustrated sigh. Massaging your temples.

"God i'm so stupid. I should've paid more attention to our location."

The man infront of you scoffed.

"Not going to disagree with you on the first thing, but you couldn't have known where we were and we were all in a state of panic. It makes you forget things."

Being a little shocked that he also could be nice, i mean he did call you stupid indirectly, but the words he said did make you feel better.

"Thanks Chuuya. That means allot to me." You said to him smiling.

"Yeah yeah whatever." The pink hue could be seen again on his cheeks as he looked away.

Giggling softly at his flustered state.

"What are you laughing at brat?!"

Ah there was the angry chihuahua again.

"Nothing, just you."

"You bi-."

Chuuya was cut off by voices on the other side of the door. You jumped of your chair looking at Chuuya with a panicked expression.

He motioned to the closet and you nodded your head. Quickly moving over to the closet, you and Chuuya squeezed yourselves in.

The space was cramped, but it was the only solution for now. Knowing that Chuuya's ability would make to much of a commotion.

Feeling Chuuya's warm breath on your lips, you now noticed how short he actually was. His head not coming above your nose. It was adorable really.

He also smelled like wine, but it wasn't smelly or something. It was quite a pleasant smell and not to mention very attractive.

Blushing at your thoughts you looked up.

'Omg why am i thinking this now. He's so attractive- NO Y/N FOCUSE.' you internally screamed.

"This door is locked kiri, maybe the intruders are in here."

A soft rattling noise was heard and the door knob moved a little.

"Damn i don't got the keys. Let me go get them."

You heart footsteps leave the door, but you knew someone else was waiting infront of it.

Suddenly you could feel a light bulb just pop above your head. You had a plan, but you didn't know if it would work.

"Shit what do we do." You could hear Chuuya mutter.

"I might have an idea." You whispered.

----

"Are you crazy?! You can't just do that y/n!" Chuuya whisper yelled.

You were putting on one of the labcoats hanging in the closet. Your other clothes were in Chuuya's hands.

You were wearing your hair loose with a skintight labcoat flaunting every curve of your body.

"It's the only plan right now. And with my ability it is almost guaranteed it will work." You whispered back. You hated this plan as much as he did, but it was your only chance. And you felt sexy as fuck right now.

"I got them!." You heard a man's voice say. Footsteps getting closer. "Took you long enough, now open the door."

"Jeez okay fine."

"There is no time Chuuya." You said closing the closet doors. You could see Chuuya trying to protest, but he gave up.

Scurrying over to one of the counters pretending you were organizing something the door opened.

You heart starting to beat faster and your hands shaking. 'Calm down y/n. You got this you sexy motherfucker'. Your breathing slowed a little and a voice was heard from the doorway.

"Hey you! Put your hands up!"

You looked up to see two men in trenchcoats with guns pointing at you.

"What's this commotion all about gentleman? I'm just trying to do my job here."

You raised your hands and slowly walked over to the men.

"Stay still! Tell me your name."

Stopping your movements you bit your lip.

"My name is..." should you tell them you're real name? Or just make one up.

"Go on woman, we don't have all night."

Slightly annoyed by his tone, you decided to use your own name.

"L/n, y/n l/n." You said

"Never heard of you. Have you?" The man turned to his colleague.

"No, take her in custody."

Panicking internally, you needed to come up with a lie right now! Your ability won't work unless the men touch you.

"I uhmm. I was waiting for one of the men. He hired me for some private time. If you know what i mean." You winked at the two men. Hoping they would buy your lie.

You could see them blushing slightly.

"Who hired you?"

"Dunno. We do these things anonymous."

You walked over to the chair and slowly crawled on it. Trying to nonegelantly show your ass.

"Hey i said don't move!"

The second man said. Coming closer to you.

"Okay, okay calm down." You sat down and put your hands infront of you.

"I'm just here, because he still got 30 minutes left. Rules from my boss. Can't go away till the time is up." You shrugged and flipped your hair. Leaning on your knee with the other hand.

You really had to stop yourself from cringing.

"Well i got to ask you to leave ma'am." The first guys said, putting his gun down and walking over to you.

"Fine, but if you get a call from my boss, don't blame me."

"Ofcourse. You are just doing you're job." The second guy said with a blush on his face.

'Ugh men.'

"You have to lead me the way tho. The other guy insisted on blind folding me." You seductively bite your lip and winked again.

"Of- ofcourse come with us please."

The second guy cleared his throat and offered his hand. Smiling you took his hand and hopped of the chair.

'Now the other guy.'

'Accidentally' stumbling you fell into the first dudes arms, causing him to catch you.

"Oh shit. Clumsy me. Can't even walk properly."

You gave out a short laugh and the guy brushed his jacket.

"It's okay. Now come o-."

Not being able to finish his sentence, he fell to the ground. His partner following him.

"Yeah that's right you two go to sleep. I'll find my way out from here."

Chuckling at your own humor you snatched their guns.

"Wait how-."

Chuuya stepped out of the closet a blush on his cheeks and a confused expression.

Standing up straight you walked over to him and picked up your clothes from his hands.

"It's my ability 'sweet dreams'. If i touch the person and whisper 'sweet dreams' in the next 5 minutes. The person or persons will fall into a coma. They'll wake up when i fall asleep or when i forget i put them to sleep. So i have to keep thinking about them."

You finished off with a smile. Putting your own shirt on again.

"I can see now why Dazai brought you." He said with a slight smirk on his face.

"It isn't all that fancy and i never really used it before."

"Why come you never joined the port mafia or hell even the ADA."

You sighed a little.

"Well it could be a useful ability, but i don't want to be a hero or villian or other shit. I'm happy as i am now."

Chuuya looks at you with a soft expression.

"That's a shame. Would've loved to see you in action more. Or hell even fight against you."

He looked away from you. His hand behind his head. You laughed a little.

"I would absolutely demolish your ass." You said, crossing your arms with a triumph look on your face.

"Hah you wish princess. You won't be able to even come near me!"

You blushed at the sudden nickname. Your hands falling to your side.

"W-we'll see." You cursed yourself for stuttering.

He walked passed you to the door. Whispering something in you ear.

"I wouldn't mind seeing you try to seduce me like the two men you seduced just now."

Your ears felt hot and you were sure you looked like a tomato right now. Chuuya walked out the door and you just stood there. Coming out of your shocked state you ran out the door to slap him. "Come here you asshole." You whisper yelled. Chuuya almost dying from laughter shushed you. "We don't want the enemy to find us now. Do we. Otherwise you have to put on that outfit again."

Smacking him on the back of his head. You couldn't wait to get this mission done.

----

"Ah what a night. Good thing you guys saved me back there. They were cruel!"

The brunette man was stretching his limbs.

It was 5 in the morning and Chuuya and you were finally able to take the boss out (well Chuuya did that part while you freed Dazai.)

"Oh shut up you damn piece of shit. Thanks to you it took us the whole night to finish this job and most of all you brought y/n in unnecessary danger."

"Hey it's okay. I'm fine. Luckily we all are. Let's just head home go to sleep and go back to enemies in the morning." You quickly said walking inbetween the two men.

Dazai yawned.

"Sounds like a great plan y/n! Altough i thought you were gonna quit the job."

You put your hands around Dazais arm.

"Nah can't do that after such an adventure now can i?"

You and Dazai chuckled while Chuuya just sighed.

"Get a room jeez." He said annoyed.

"Ah c'mon Chuuya. We make a great team! I can't wait for the next truce." You said rather excited for this hour.

Coming at the end of the forest you knew you had to say your goodbye's to the men.

"Well y/n i wish you a pleasant night and i'll see you at work again. Chuuya i hope you get hit by a car."

Dazai smiled and turned around to walk away.

You laughed and waved him goodbye.

"That fucker." Chuuya muttered holding up his middle finger.

"Ah come on Chuuya. He may not show it, but i know he sees you as a friend."

"Pff sure in your dreams."

Sighing you face palmed yourself.

"Well i guess this is it then. Goodnight Chuuya."

You knew it was wrong. He was your enemy and you had to put your feelings aside, but you couldn't stop yourself. You never had so much fun in your whole life and to be frank, you didn't want the night to end here yet.

You kissed him on the cheek and turned around.

"Thank you for this wonderful, but crazy ass night." You gave a sad smile. Although he couldn't see it.

Suddenly you felt someone grab you wrist. Spinning you around. You were met with a flustered Chuuya his eyes fixated on the ground.

Standing there in an awkward silence for a few seconds, he finally spoke up.

"Look. I worked with many people before, but i never had so much fun with someone. And-" he became quiet for a bit. Taking a deep breath he continued: " and i never felt like this before. You give me this warm feeling and i hate it, but i can't get enought of it. When i first saw you at the meeting i just knew you were different. So please let's not end this night just yet."

He tilted his head to look at you a serious expression on his face.

"Chuuya-."

Your voice was cut of when a pair of warm lips crashed your own. They were rough, but soft at the same time. Being a little stunned you forgot to kiss back. Chuuya pulled away again taking a step back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what came over me."

This time you shushed him and kissed him back. His arms finding a way on your hips and your arms grabbing his hair to deepen the kiss.

After a few seconds you both pulled away, out of breath. Your fourheads touching eachother and your noses brushing eachother.

"That was- wow."

You said with a small smile.

Chuuya chuckled lightly.

"I won't go easy on you now if we meet again y/n."

"Oh i'm counting on it."

You grinned. Wanting to make this night last longer. He pulled you in for a kiss again and you let him. Nothing making you happier as you are right now.

Little did you two forbidden lovers know that a brunette man was staring contently as his assumptions were right.

----

Sorry it took so long :,)

#chuuya x y/n #x y/n #bsd headcanons #bsd x reader #y/n #bsd chuuya #chuuya headcanons #chuuya fluff #chuuya nakahara x you #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya nakahara #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #anime x reader #anime #chuuya x reader #×fics

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heliads · 3 years

Text

Firestarter

Y/N L/N is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the ability to control fire. She keeps her powers hidden to protect herself, although she doesn’t count on accidentally revealing them to Steve Rogers when she saves his life.

masterlist

You open your hand. Slowly, carefully. The flames spring up almost involuntarily, a gut instinct that you can’t seem to turn off. You stare for a while, and when you look away you can still see the inverses dancing across the walls. Hot tongues of fire that lick across your palm, soaring higher and higher with the slightest impulse.

You suppose you would appreciate your powers if it weren’t for your line of work. You became a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent before you realized their true attitudes towards people with abilities, and you’d discovered soon after that if you wanted to survive and stay out of the labs, you would need to keep your little fire habit a secret. No matter what all-inclusive, power-friendly aura S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to give off, they would always distrust and disregard people with abilities.

Even the best of you, the Maximoff twins, were greeted with raised eyebrows and knives up sleeves instead of open arms. Maybe that was because they were given their powers by HYDRA, but you knew better. It wasn’t the specific organization that bothered S.H.I.E.L.D., it was the fact that they had no way of controlling that much power. The only way S.H.I.E.L.D. dealt with superhuman abilities was by either taking them in or taking them out. If they were to find out that you, a high ranking agent with plenty of clearance codes, had powers, they’d kill you. They can’t take risks like that, not with someone like you.

That’s why you never let anyone see the flames darting from your hands and lighting up your eyes. That’s why you wait until you’re alone, in a room with no security cameras, to call up the first few sparks. It hurts to go without using your powers for that long, but the alternative is so much worse. As a senior S.H.I.E.L.D. operative, you’ve had the gruesome pleasure of seeing the labs firsthand. S.H.I.E.L.D. claims that the labs are harmless, only taking in willing participants so that their scientists can learn more about the complex world of those with power and those without. You’ve heard the screams to know that all of this is a lie, that nobody goes to those labs willingly. So, you play the part of the powerless, pretending that you’re a perfectly ordinary person, even if nothing could be further from the truth.

There’s a knock at your door and you snap your hand shut like a compact. When you slowly open your fingers once more, the tendrils of flame are gone. You wave your hand to disperse the last few curling fingers of smoke from the room, then call out to your visitor. “Come in.” A few moments later, a tall, familiarly strapping man enters the room. You smile at him. “Steve Rogers, what a surprise. To what do I owe this visit?”

Steve holds out a hand to you and you take it, standing up from your chair. “Have you forgotten already? We’ve got that debriefing from Cox in a couple of minutes.” You groan. “That’s why you came over? I thought it was something good.” Steve chuckles. “No. I refuse to go alone.” He’s already opening the door, tugging you out into the hallway despite your protests. “I was going anyway, there’s no need to drag me over.” The two of you walk side by side down the corridor, slowly making your way towards the debriefing room. Steve glances over at you, a joking smile on his face. “I know you were, I was just checking in to make sure you weren’t ditching me.”

You pull a face. “You’re a terrible friend.” Steve says nothing, just holds open the door to the debriefing room with a grin. He follows you inside, although the two of you walk to different sides of the room once the door closes behind you. Steve is an Avenger, he’ll sit with Sam, Natasha, and the rest. Despite your years of experience fighting alongside the Avengers, you’re still a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and so you slide into a chair next to your coworkers.

A couple of minutes later, a man walks into the room and takes a stance at the front of the room. His hair is slightly too greasy, eyes slightly too cold. You and Steve share a mutual hatred of this man, Edward Cox, and you’re not looking forward to hearing him boss you around for the next hour or so. You suppose that he is technically a good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and it’s impossible to rise to his level without shedding all of your morals, but that doesn’t make listening to him speak any easier.

This is especially true today. The mission itself should be fascinating- some twisted soul named Isaiah Crane has taken control of some massive warehouse complex, and he’s filling it with an army of soldiers and weapons. It’s your typical Avengers threat, made more interesting by the fact that Crane is an utter madman. His every move is calculated yet wild, and it’s practically impossible to guess what he’ll do next. His forces have already begun expanding out, displacing and injuring hundreds of civilians, and so the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. have been called in.

Cox, however, makes it sound like the dullest training excursion on the planet. “Remember, you’ll get in and get out. Try not to fight amongst yourselves, we’ll have to order you out. We don’t want another Sokovia Accords, do we, folks? Anyways, just take out Crane and his men. Don’t bother with the civilians, they’ll only get in the way.” Across the room, you see Steve straighten up. “What do you mean, don’t bother with the civilians? According to these reports, they’re being rounded up and killed or forced out of their homes. We should be helping them, it’s our job.”

Cox frowns over at Steve, evidently displeased over the interruption. “No, Rogers, you’re here to take down Crane. There’s a difference. Save the petty rescues for the fire department.” You wince slightly at that. It’s like Cox is actively trying to set Steve off. “You’re talking about hundreds of people who are in danger, who we could save in a fraction of the time it would take the local reinforcements. Why shouldn’t we be helping them?” Cox fiddles with the papers in front of him. “Because those are your orders, Rogers. You don’t need the people, just the man. Crane.”

You can see that Steve is seconds away from exploding on the guy, so you raise a hand. Cox turns to you, evidently assuming that you’ll be defending him. You’ve seen how Cox works, he tends to appreciate some sticking to the rules. You can use this against him; if you don’t, he’ll never let you speak in the first place. “Actually, I think Steve is right. I wouldn’t be surprised if Crane tries to use the chaos of the fleeing civilians to protect himself. By getting all of them out of harm’s way, we clear the path to him.”

Cox’s smile fades. “I would have expected a senior officer to understand the basic truths. We can’t save everybody, that’s a dream for the children.” You ignore the jibe. “You cited the Sokovia Accords as an example of things we should be avoiding. The only reason we were able to survive to make those accords in the first place was because of the success of Sokovia itself. The Sokovia incident would have been considered a disaster were it not for the fact that the Avengers were able to save all of the civilians. Yes, they had to battle Ultron, but their main victory was the countless lives saved.”

Cox opens his mouth as if to contradict you, but now Steve sees what you’re saying. “Exactly. Crane is our Ultron right now, but we have to save the people. End of story.” Cox glares at you both, but the rest of the room is nodding in agreement, so he’s forced to drop the matter. For the rest of the debriefing, though, his words come out as spiked weapons that he shoots at you and Steve, vindictive in his rage at being publicly humiliated.

Steve, on the other hand, does not consider this a victory. You can tell that he’s still furious at Cox for so casually throwing away the lives of the civilians, and he strides briskly away from the room the second the debriefing is over. You collect your things and follow him into an empty room. Steve looks up when you close the door behind him, evidently unsurprised to see you. Anger seems to course from his every vein. You forget how he gets sometimes, when he’s let down time and time again by the fools of S.H.I.E.L.D. who think they can toss aside hundreds of lives for a cleaner mission.

Steve’s voice is laced with vitriol. “I can’t believe him. I honestly can’t believe him. How could he go up there and tell us all to let those innocents die? I don’t think he even saw a problem with it.” He begins to pace back and forth, energy seemingly bounding from his every motion. “This entire organization is paved with blood, and they’re the ones holding all the strings. How do you live with yourself, knowing this is happening every day?” The second the words leave his mouth, Steve looks up, regret already beginning to color his eyes. “I didn’t mean that.”

You hold up a hand to stem his apologies. “Yes, you did, and it’s fine. S.H.I.E.L.D. has never had time for the lives it plays with, and you’re right to say it. To be honest, I’m not sure that there is a way to live with the knowledge. You just have to push it aside, because there’s no better way to do what has to be done.” You glance over at him, smiling slightly. “The problem is that you’re Captain America, and everyone expects you to always make the perfect choice no matter what. Perfect choices where everyone ends up alive and well don’t exist, yet if you don’t make that decision, you’re hunted for it. We don’t get happy endings in this line of work, we just have to make do with what we have. Maybe we have to accept the worse choices right now, but we can take steps to make them better.”

Steve nods, and you can tell that he’s beginning to calm down. “That’s the worst part of it. There are so many expectations, and it’s impossible to live up to all of them.” You incline your head in acknowledgement. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a pretty good job of it.” You lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek before slipping from the room. Even as you walk away, you can still feel your lips burning. For a spy who’s not supposed to get hung up over her emotions, you’re doing a pretty bad job of it.

It’s difficult to describe the relationship you have with Steve Rogers. You’ve been enemies, you’ve been friends. You’ve had each other’s backs. There have been nights when alcohol burns like kerosene down your throat, when you spend the night between his sheets and wake up again the next morning to steal away before he wakes. The best way to describe what you have with Steve is that it’s whatever the two of you need at the moment. Maybe it’s a friend, maybe it’s more. By uttering a word about it, you’re afraid you’ll shatter those quiet moments and cut the fragile string tying you to him for good.

By the next morning, you’ve forced thoughts of him from your head once more. You’re heading down the landing of the quinjet, gun held at the ready. The steady rattle of gunfire echoes around you, and just like that, the fight to reach Isaiah Crane has begun. You and the rest of the Avengers rush to the civilians, getting them to safety before the inevitable call crackles through your earpiece, announcing that Crane is in the building. This is your one shot at him, you have to make it count.

The group of fighters enters the building, one person for each entrance. You make your way through the twisting halls of the complex, but you never catch sight of him. You come out of a narrow passageway to find yourself suddenly swallowed up by a main room. Across the space, you can see the rest of the Avengers emerging from doors. It looks like you’ve all been led here, trapped in this one space by the elusive Crane. Just as you realize this, the bombs go off and you’re thrown to the ground.

There must have been explosives lining the floor. Dust hangs thick and heavy in the air, and the bombs keep on going off, one after another. A chain reaction, which ends with the ceiling beginning to shake and tumble down. Your eyes are drawn to the thick concrete of the building’s structure, which is just now falling down on top of you. Your legs itch to run, to do something, but there’s nowhere to go. The only thing you can do is hope for the best, which is that this column falling on you won’t entirely shatter you.

Just as you’re preparing yourself for the impact, a figure darts over to you, pulling you to them protectively. You realize it’s Steve, and he flings his shield over your huddled bodies just before the roof caves in. There’s an overwhelming blow, but after a few tense minutes, you realize you’re still alive and relatively unharmed. Slowly, carefully, Steve stands up, and you do too. You stare in shock at the room around you. Columns of concrete have come tumbling down, and the room is in shambles. Rubble and large chunks of the roof have caved in around you, and it’s impossible to see anything farther than a few feet ahead of you.

You reach to your earpiece, turning it on. “This is Agent L/N. Can anyone read me? Over.” You wait a couple of seconds, then repeat your message. There is no response, just the crackling of static. Steve shakes his head. “I’m not getting anything either. I think we’re on our own.” You bite your cheek, thinking. “This was Crane’s plan. He wanted to get us alone.” Steve nods. “I don’t think we have much of a choice about it, though. There’s a way out under the rubble, and I think it goes deeper into the complex. It looks like it’s our only option.”

The two of you duck underneath the piles of debris, skirting around the edges of the room to find the chink in the armor that Steve was talking about. It seems to lead to a broader expanse of hallway, one that wasn’t connected to any doors leading outside. You look down the dimly lit hall, uneasy. “I have a bad feeling about this. This has got to be a trap.” Steve sighs. “I don’t think there’s any way it isn’t a trap. Crane must have set it up- whoever survives the explosives makes it over to him. I hate to say it, but it’s the only thing we can do. At least we can finish this.”

You nod, and the two of you begin walking down the hallway. You keep your eyes open and alert for any threats, any new explosives or ambushes, but there’s nothing there. At last, the hallway opens up into a seemingly empty room. You and Steve look at each other, and you see your same apprehension reflected on his face. Steve holds out an arm to stop you from walking any further. He speaks quietly, mouth an inch or two away from your ear. “Stay back here. I’ll go in alone, you’ll watch my back. If Crane thinks he’s going to be holding all the cards, I want at least one ace up my sleeve.”

You nod slowly. “Be careful.” Steve smirks. “Always am.” With that, he slings his shield off of his shoulder, holding it out in front of him like the knights of old. You watch as he disappears around the corner, footsteps echoing off of the high ceiling. There’s a noise from across the room, barely noticeable. Steve, of course, is used to doing the impossible and his head turns towards the sound. He strides further into the room, investigating the sudden sound. He is slowly swallowed up by the shadows of the room, and you squint as your eyes adjust to the darkness.

At first, you think you’re just making things up. Then, the slight movement comes again, strengthening as it passes close by the lights of the hall. You take a slow, silent step forward and your eyes widen as you see the figure drawing close to Steve. The silhouette has its back to you, and you creep out of the hall and into the room, curious. With a chill, you realize that this is Crane, and he’s about to attack Steve, who has no idea that the enemy he’s been tracking is right behind him. Steve is still walking through the room, completely unaware of the man about to kill him. Crane raises his arm, a gun in his hand. You can see a demented grin on Crane’s face as he aims at Steve’s skull. His finger pauses on the trigger.

You don’t think, not at all. Before you know it, your arm is raised, a swarm of fire billowing out of your hand and engulfing Crane whole. It knocks him over, a shriek of pain issuing from his mouth as the gun misfires. Steve whirls around and sees Crane at last, but it doesn’t matter. The man is out cold, burns blossoming in a sickening shine all over his body. He won’t wake up for a while, and when he does, he’ll be in so much pain that he’ll barely be able to stand, let alone try to kill Steve once more.

This means that Steve’s eyes are moving up, from Crane to you. You watch as the understanding dawns in his eyes, as he looks between the flames still dying out on the ground around Crane to your outstretched hand. Once again, your mind goes silent and you don’t think, just act. You’ve felt fear before, the terrifying, bone-chilling fear that you are about to die. You’ve known the terror of facing down impossible odds in a mission that was doomed from the start. All of those are manageable, but this right here? This suffocating knowledge that you’re about to experience the worst agony of your life, that Steve is going to tell S.H.I.E.L.D. about your powers and you’re going to be sent to those accursed labs, this is the most petrifying fear you have ever known.

You turn and run, heels flashing down the hall. You don’t know why you’re sprinting down the corridor, why this will make a difference. All you know is that you have to get away, you have to leave before the truth comes to light. Yet you forget that Steve is a super soldier, someone who can outpace anyone in a heartbeat. Within seconds, he’s catching up to you, and then his arm is reaching out and grabbing yours, stopping you in your tracks. He pulls you over to the side of the hall, your back up against the wall. He stares at you, and you stare at him.

Steve is the first to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me you had powers? Why did you run?” The words bubble out of you, a torrent of terror. “They’re going to kill me. S.H.I.E.L.D. They’re going to bring me to those labs and take me apart over and over again. Just kill me now, it’ll be faster.” Steve shakes his head. “I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to let them do that.” A laugh, bitter and jaded and cold, flies from your throat. “You don’t have a choice. None of us do.”

Steve’s face is set, eyes determined. “There are no functioning security cameras in this building, not after that explosion. We’re going to say that Crane got caught by his own bombs, and that’s why he was burned. We’re not going to say anything about you, because you were with me and no one else knows.” You stare at Steve mutely as he continues speaking. “There’s no way S.H.I.E.L.D. could know unless we tell them, and we’re not. You’ll be safe, and no one is going to hurt you.” You feel like the ground has been ripped away from underneath you. “Why would you do that? If they find out, they could take everything away from you. There’s no good reason to risk your job, your life, for what, someone you kiss a couple times a month? They’ll come after you.”

Steve’s arms are still wrapped around your waist, and you’re finding it difficult to think straight. “I left the Avengers and broke them apart because I wanted to protect my best friend. If S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to hurt you, someone I care about more than anyone? I would burn them all to the ground.” He flashes a sudden smile. “Although I’d appreciate it if you were there with me. You make a pretty good firestarter.” You laugh quietly in spite of yourself. “I’ll be there. Even without this whole mess. I don’t think I could leave you if I tried.”

Steve nods, his eyes filling with a sudden warmth. “I’ve been wanting to hear you say that for a long time.” He leans forward and kisses you. It’s strange- you’ve kissed Steve many times, and probably a few other than those that you’ve forgotten. Yet you don’t think he’s ever kissed you like this, with the smile and the trust that you two will stay together, no matter what. He is kissing you like he loves you, and you feel the exact same way.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers oneshot #captain america #captain america imagines #captain america x reader #captain america oneshot #avengers #avengers imagines #avengers x reader #avengers oneshot

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cerastes · 3 years

Note

May I request a review of general coolness and awesome of the horses we saw during the event?

Right, Maria Nearl event!

I liked the event quite a lot, though I do feel like it dropped the ball at the end. That aside, I had a lot of fun the entire time!

First of all, the cast was wonderful. Maria is explicitly not a powerful or skilled fighter to any degree that matters in the frame of strength the story takes place in, being definitely more skilled than the average person and even the average nameless knight, but being woefully outclassed by practically anyone that has a name in the Major. A humble mechanic with a heart drenched in justice, Maria doesn’t even like to fight, and adheres to a knightly ideal and a duty she must fulfill instead to justify her participation in these commercialized bloodsports, which carries the narrative. She is joined by a lovable cast of rambunctious family and family friends, who serve as her mentors and support: Her aunt, who is more akin to an older sister-slash-maternal figure, Zofia, who we are immediately shown is so close to Maria that the moment Maria made a big decision (the participation in the Major) without confirming with Zofia first, she immediately chastised her, wondering why she did not consult with her beforehand. Aunt Zofia is her aunt only due to technicality, as she’s a lady-in-waiting (or, in other words, belongs to a branch family of the Nearl clan, and is actually only 5 years older than Maria) and, more importantly, a decorated, retired competition knight who earned enough in her career that she can live comfortably for the rest of her life, ironically far outstripping the main Nearl house in terms of wealth. There’s also Kowal, an old Ursus mechanic, engineer and smith who mentors Maria in the ways of the wrench, willing to pass his workshop to Maria with her as his successor any day of the week, who himself also used to be a squire to V, an old, retired knight of old who served as Grandpa Nearl’s peerless sharpshooter and who trained Zofia back in the day. Finally, we have Old Marcin, owner of the cast’s favorite hangout, a little bar where he and Maria mediate the infinite squabbles, fights, and arguments that Kowal, V, and occasionally Zofia spark between one another. The event does a great work of introducing the dynamic between these five characters as something extremely domestic and comfortable: You can tell these five are tight and that they have spent a long time together. It’s just another day in their low profile lives when, suddenly, Maria dons Margaret’s old armor and decides to take arms for the main Nearl house, which is currently on the brink of ruin and about to lose its knighthood and nobility titles.

And this decision, and everything this decision means, informs everything that happens afterwards: Zofia tells Maria that if she’s worried about being left homeless, then that’s just foolishness, since Zofia is absolutely 100% ok with Maria moving in with her. She’s loaded. They can live comfortably for the rest of their lives without a concern. Kowal, likewise, insists that Maria is a good enough mechanic that she can earn a living by doing that. But, see, it’s not about a livelihood for Maria, it’s about preserving that for which Margaret and Grandpa Nearl fought and stood for, it’s never about the wealth, it’s about the name, the principle, not the glory, the weight of ideals that blood was shed to nourish and maintain. Maria is not even sure if she’s doing the right thing, but she’s got to do something. Why? Look no further than Uncle Mlynar. A bitter man, a corporate slave, spitting bile at her niece and apologies at his bosses. And the fact that it is very clear that this guy can kick some serious ass -- we never see him without his trusty blade hanging on his hip and, at the end, tells Margaret to square the hell up -- makes it all the sadder: In any other context, Mlynar might be a knight’s knight, hell, Margaret herself says she respects him still, but the Mlynar we see now is an unimportant cog in the capitalist system, just another grunt apologizing to his phone every time his lips part, who gets in hot water just by making small talk because, whoops, your workload accumulated again, better get chop chopping. Mlynar is a very telling character, because he represents everything Maria resents about the current state of the Nearl family: Disgraced, meaningless, existing as an extension of other bigger conglomerates. He is what she wishes to never become, and what the Nearl house cannot be any longer, if she has any saying on the matter.

Maria is not a good fighter. This is important and delightful, because she wins not due to aptitude, strength, or experience, she instead uses her knowledge as a mechanic, her “pegasian sight” (what Grandpa uses to refer to Maria’s incredibly powerful investigative faculties, being able to analyze situations and catch even the smallest details quickly) and the sheer heft of her brass pair of metaphorical horse balls to pull through with clutch victory after clutch victory. Zofia trying to cram as much fundamentals as she can on Maria in as little time as possible so she can survive also helps a lot.

Maria’s victories earn her the possibility of sponsorships, which would, superficially, fix her problems: The main Nearl house would retain status, she’d get a Title, and she would not have to fight anymore. But, see, this is not the point of Maria’s fight. One might say “Maria should’ve just taken the sponsorships”, but that’s not the point of Maria’s fight. She is pushing back against this highly commercialized view on “knighthood”, just like Margaret before her did. Margaret had a clear intent and her passions made her act mostly in anger, as she makes no secret: She hates Kazimierz for what it has become. Maria’s intent is less clear, even to herself, but she’s very much aiming for the same thing, but instead of Margaret’s anger, Maria has her determination. To have taken any sponsorship would have superficially kept the Nearl house afloat, but Maria is not looking to keep the house alone afloat, she’s looking to keep the house and the ideals in which it was built afloat. It goes beyond mere status.

In a world as bleak as Arknights’ and specially Kazimierz, Maria is no doubt naive to the point of frustration... But it is that which we call naive that makes a knight’s knight: Chivalry forged from ideals, sacrifice’s blunt borne from beliefs. The easy way out would’ve ultimately doomed her story, hence why she did not just move in with Zofia, hence why she did not just succeed Kowal and accept his workshop, hence why did not accept a sponsorship: It never was about that.

The very first event of the game, Grani’s Treasure, takes place in Kazimierz as well, but in the isolated outskirts, and we see hard-working, honest people, inhabitants of a nice little scenic hamlet. Now, we see what Kazimierz really looks like: A sprawling megalopolis of neon and concrete where the system shamelessly feeds on whoever sticks out their neck. The contrast couldn’t be harsher, and any hell is upheld by its demons: Czarny was a fascinating character, in that he very clearly held a lot of influence and power... And was extremely replaceable. The moment he messed up badly enough, he was instantly replaced by just whoever the hell picked up the phone next. It’s chilling. One puppet performed poorly? Irrelevant, there’s an endless supply who’ll take his place, provided enough fear and funds. Fear and money. The two currencies of Kazimierz. When a shadow council can just appoint you as the next Spokesman just on basis of you having picked up a phone without any real background check beyond “the previous Spokesman likely intended for this next sack of meat to pick up his phone in case he messed up”, well, congratulations, you’ve crafted a terrifying capitalist hellscape. No wonder Margaret hates Kazimierz so much, given the rot brewing in its underbelly and upper echelons.

And to all this, I have to say: It’s lovely. I loved the world building, implicit and explicit, I loved the cast, I love the themes explored and how characters were used to juxtapose these.

I feel it kinda drops the ball at the end by just... Not having a conclusion? It just sort of ends, which is very weird because events tend to be good at concluding themselves. I assumed we’d get some post-Challenge stages cutscenes to tie everything up like in the past but... No, not really, it didn’t happen. Margaret swoops in, the sisters perform the Ultimate Kamehameha on the Sarkazian Knights, and then it sort of ends one brief talk later. It needed a bigger epilogue, for sure. But this doesn’t ruin the event or anything, just a bit of a weak ending, everything else is still delightful and I loved it very much.

So yeah! The horses sure were wonderful!

#whiskas does stuff #arknights #maria nearl #arknights lore post

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Into The Woods

Warnings: noncon sexual acts; vaginal, anal.

This is dark!Lumberjack!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re sent to make a delivery to the man in the woods.

Note: This is for @imanuglywombat and @nellblazer‘s Lumberjack Challenge. I couldn’t see if they were accepting dark fics so if they aren’t, I guess it’s just another fic lol. But anyways, the challenge inspired me.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

“You sure Dezy isn’t going to make it?” You asked as you helped Gerry load the crate onto the trailer.

“I’m sorry, I got all the other deliveries sent out with Milo but this one’s too far for him.” Gerry grunted as he closed the back of the open-top trailer. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Dezy. Second day in a row and yet I hear he’s down at the Horse every night.”

“Well, he’ll run out of beer money sooner than later,” You sighed as you pulled on your gloves. The air was starting to bite as the brief autumn was turning. “You sure you can manage without me?”

“Slow day in the shop,” He shrugged. “You just be careful.”

“Alright. I’ll do my best.” You climbed up onto the four-wheeler and fumbled with the thick key with the grizzly bear charm attached to it. “Maybe next time give me the easy ones.”

“I’ll tack an hour of overtime on your pay, how about that?” He chuckled. “You need to get out anyway. I know this place is small but you can’t spend all your time reading those harlequins in the dry good section.”

“They’re not harlequins,” You turned the engine and raised your voice as you gripped the handlebars. “They’re fantasy, Ger.”

“Sure, sure,” He backed away. “You go or you won’t make it back by sundown.”

“Never far off these days,” You mused as you revved. “See ya, Gerry. Don’t forget to down stock the fishing wire.”

“Which one of us is the boss?” He called after you as you pulled out, the small trailer rumbling behind you.

You turned off at the end of the street, past the business fronts that looked like cabins. The town looked straight out of Western but with more snow. The first of the annual powder had yet to fall but you could feel it coming. You headed over the lumpy tundra past the sparse trees that grew thicker the further you got. The paths turned narrower and you steered slowly through the damp forest.

You only went so far out when your uncle took you ice fishing and rarely in this direction. You slowed as the path grew more uneven, carefully traversing the thick roots and deep valleys. The noise of the engine bounced off the trunks of trees around you. It was more than an hour before you reached your destination. At least, you thought you were in the right place. Weren’t too many cabins hidden in these trees; well not many still inhabited.

You pulled into the clearing and killed the engine. You hopped off the ATV and stretched your legs, your thighs tingled from the rumble. You went to the trailer and open the door and slid out the heavy trunk. You braced yourself before you lifted and gave a grunt. You’d packed the load yourself. You carried it past the old motorcycle and the neat stack of wood which marched the way to the broad front porch. You slowly ascended the three steps up and set down the heavy crate beside the door.

A bench made of logs, likely by hand, stood just a few feet from the front door, a woven blanket folded over the seat. The curtains were drawn within and you started to wonder if there was anyone there or if this was just another forgotten scene. It all seemed so eerily still.

You knocked and waited for an answer. Nothing. You tried again with the same result. Then, after a cold silence, you heard a door open and snap shut but it wasn’t the one before you. You turned as a man appeared beside the far corner of the porch. He appeared disturbed by your presence as he emerged from the old shed, his flannel jacket marked with patches of dirt and his dark hair poking out from beneath a woolen cap.

“He usually just leaves it there,” He clapped his gloved hands together as he brushed away the filth. “Thanks.”

“Uh, sorry,” You turned and ambled down the steps. “I didn’t realise.”

“Don’t be sorry,” He stayed near the corner, kicking his foot up onto the stump where an ax waited to be used. “Better get going before the sun beats you.”

“Sure,” You went back to the four wheeler. His eyes bore into you as you climbed up. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just--”

“Thanks,” He said again. “Driving out here all this way. Appreciate it.”

“No problem,” You turned the key. “Have a good day, sir.”

The engine roared to life and you carefully turned around, the empty trailer clattering behind you. You couldn’t help but feel him watching you still. You wanted to look back, but didn’t. You twisted the throttle and delved back through the treeline. You hoped Dezy would get his shit together, you weren’t keen on doing deliveries.

🪓

The next day, you were back to your usual fare. You stood at the long counter of Elk’s General, watching the locals as they wandered in and out, perusing the aisles of groceries, clothing, or novelty goods. You rung them through on the outdated till and smiled after them as they left with their paper bags.

The usual midday lull came and you pressed flat your latest read on the counter. You crossed your arms over the edge and bent over the pages, losing yourself in the fantastical medieval setting. Gerry didn’t mind so much as you kept an eye on customers.

The rusty bell above the entrance tinkled and you looked up suddenly. You turned your book over before you could lose your place. You stood up straight and smiled at your newest customer but froze as his eyes met yours. It was the man from the day before, to whom you had delivered the weeks worth of goods.

He ignored your usual greeting and marched over to you. He planted the bill for his delivery on the counter.

“I ordered six cans of maple beans. I have only four.” He said plainly.

“An oversight. I’m sorry, sir. Just a moment.” You gulped and flitted off to check the shelf. There were only the tomato beans in stock. You went to the back room and checked there. Nothing. You returned to the counter. “Looks like we’re all out but I’ll make a note to have them delivered when we get more. Or we can remove the charge from your bill.”

“Keep ‘em on,” He said as he reached into his pocket. “I can wait.” He unfolded the worn leather wallet. “I have to pay my account anyway.”

“Sure,” You reached to slid his bill closer and keyed the amount into the machine. “You could have called--”

“I don’t have a phone,” He growled as he counted out the bills. “I don’t like to be disturbed.”

You took the money and counted it. You avoided his gaze guiltily. You sorted the bills in the cash door and handed him his change. His gloves brushed your skin and he tucked the money away with his wallet.

“Good book?” He pointed to the novel.

“Alright, so far,” You answered quietly.

“I read his other one. The one set in Ancient Egypt. It was… interesting. Not my usual reading material though.” He tapped his fingers on the counter. “You have a good day, miss.”

He turned and left you as you returned his farewell. The door snapped shut behind him and you looked back down at the book. You opened the front page and read the list of works by the same author. You’d have to look into them.

🪓

Several days late, you were helping Gerry restock shelves with the newly acquired truck. The night before, you’d helped unload it and left it for the next day to sort through. Dezy sat behind the counter, half-keeled over on the stool, trying not to puke into his hands.

“Damn shit is hungover again,” Gerry muttered. “I got a whole list of deliveries today and he can’t even stand straight.”

“I can do it,” You offered. “Long as he can manage the till.”

“I don’t know if I even trust him to do that,” Gerry said. “You sure you wanna do the deliveries?”

“We got any of the maple beans on the truck?” You asked.

“A good amount.” He said.

“We owe two cans to-- well, I didn’t get his name. The man who lives way up in the trees.” You frowned, only then realising you new nothing about him. In that town, everyone knew everyone.

“Mr. Barnes?” Gerry reached over into the box and moved around several items before pulling out a can. “Quiet man. Doesn’t like to be bothered. Must’ve scared Dezy good to get him to shut up.” He took out two more cans. “If you’re willing to head up that way, you give him and extra can on me. He’s the only customer in town who pays on time.”

“Sure,” You stood, thankful not to be forced to kneel all day at the shelves. “The list?”

“Pinned up behind the counter as usual,” He caught a box of Corn Pops he hit with his elbow and swore. “Take a radio. Snow’s comin’.”

“Will do,” You said. “I should be that long.”

“Chill blowin’ in from the lake, bundle up before you go too.” He said.

“You sound like my mother.” You laughed.

“I feel like you’re mother,” He shook his head. “Now go, before I get sentimental.”

🪓

Gerry was right, it was cold. The four-wheeler seemed slower as the wind swirled around you. You stopped by each house and knocked before leaving your haul. You smiled away tips and bid each resident a good day before you rushed away under the protests of another delivery ahead of you.

Your last would take the longest, though it was the smallest. The tree cans rattled around the trailer so you stopped at the shop before you continued on and detached it. You placed the cans in a small box and secured it to the seat behind you with bungee cords. You fixed your gloves and pulled your cap over your ears before you set out once more.

The sky grew paler the later it got. A harbinger of snow. You took the same route as before, getting off once to push the ATV over a fallen branch caught beneath it. You carried on, the frigid air lashing your cheeks.

You drew up to the clearing as you had before. The motorcycle was gone, likely pushed into the shed in preparation for the first snowfall. The piles of wood had grown taller and the front door was open, the screen door a poor barrier to the looming winter.

You unhooked the box and climbed up the steps. You bent to set it down and be off. You looked up as you sensed something on the other side of the screen door. The man, Mr. Barnes, stared at you through the mesh, a mug in hand. You stood and smiled nervously.

“Your beans. An extra can for the inconvenience.” You said. “Have a good day, sir.”

You turned but caught yourself before you made it down one step as he spoke.

“It’s pretty cold.” He remarked as he took the box in his free hand. “You like coffee? I just made a pot.”

“I appreciate it,” You turned to him. “But I don’t mean to impose on you.”

“I wouldn’t ask if you were,” He said stiffly. “I’d feel worse letting half a pot go to waste.”

“I don’t know, I should--” You glanced behind you at the trees.

“You came all this way to give me beans in this,” He held the door with his elbow and stepped through. “You don’t like coffee, I got tea.”

You took a breath as you looked back to him. “Sure. I’ll have some coffee.”

He nodded and stared at you. He blinked and moved to hold the door open. “Well, you wanna come inside? Or do you prefer your coffee frozen?”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” You kicked yourself and stopped right before the door. You smiled awkwardly and offered your name. “I just… figured you wouldn’t want a stranger in your home.”

“Bucky,” He returned and waved you inside. “Not many strangers in town. Not really.”

You entered and he followed you. The entryway was lit by an antique lamp and the front room was entirely dark. You knelt to unlace your boots as he stepped around you. You kept your coat on as the wind continued to seep in behind you.

“Kitchens just down the hall past the stairs,” He said as he continued across the wooden floor.

“Okay,” You slid your boots off and stood, following his shadow to the kitchen.

As you passed through the doorway, he placed his mug on the table and went to the cupboard. He took down another thick ceramic cup and sidled over to the stove. He filled it from the percolator and returned to the table to place it before you.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“I’m fine, black is good,” You accepted as he slid the cup over to you.

You sat, hesitantly, and removed your gloves. You tucked them in your pocket and wrapped your hands around the steaming cup. He pulled out another chair and sat. He looked into the mug and slowly drank from it.

“I didn’t know anyone still lived out here.” You said.

“Sometimes,” He answered carefully. “Spring and summer I spend working the lumberyards south of here.”

“And you live all the way up here?” You wondered. He gave you a sharp look. “Sorry, it’s just… curiosity.”

“I like it,” He shrugged. “It’s quiet.”

You nodded and resigned yourself to silence. You listened to the wind outside and looked around at the tidy kitchen. Most of the original structure remained, renovated but not replaced. Even the curtains seemed to be of another era; faded but without holes or tears. All the way up here, time always seemed to stand still.

“You finish your book?” His voice jolted you.

You looked back to him and sipped the hot coffee. You nodded again.

“I did.” You answered. “It was alright.”

“Just alright?” He asked.

“I’ve read better and worse,” You said. “It was… entertaining.”

“Mmm,” He mumbled and drank his coffee. You mimicked him, eager to leave.

Ten minutes of silence and stunted small talk left your mug empty and your stomach gurgling. You stood and nervously teetered on your feet.

“I should go. It’s snowing already.” You glanced out the window.

“Sure,” He rose and gathered up the mugs and took them to the sink.

“Thank you.” You said and turned rigidly to head through the door.

You trod down the hallway and stopped to pull on your boots. You adjusted your cap and shoved your gloves on. He neared and you pushed open the door and glanced back at him.

“Coffee was good.” You said.

He caught the door behind you and you marched across the porch. You rushed down the steps and shivered as you neared the four wheeler.

“Be careful,” He said in monotone.

“I will, thank you,” You called back as you climb onto the seat. “Enjoy your beans.”

He waved and you turned the engine. You backed up and turned around. The snow had already left a thin powder across the ground. You steered into the trees and carefully began to weave around the trunks and along the uneven forest floor.

The snow thickened the more it fell. You had to slow as the ride became more precarious. The downfall formed a thick carpet beneath the tires and soon, even beneath the shroud of branches, the snow formed a curtain all around you, making it nearly impossible to see. You stopped and left the motor rumbling.

You pulled the radio from its holster down beside the wheel well and turned the dial until you picked up the signal. It was static and crackled.

“Gerry? Gerry!” You held the speak to your lips. “Gerry?”

“Yeah, i--me, ---okay?” His voice went in and out.

“I’m okay but the snow is… I can’t see. It’s going to take me a while.”

“Wha-- breaking up--” The radio broke off with a high pitched scratch.

“Damn it!” You shouted and tried fixing the dial. It didn’t help.

You sat for a moment and put the radio back. You couldn’t stay and let yourself get snowed in. You’d have to keep going, slow but steady. You carefully pulled past the trees, blinking away the flakes as they gathered on your lashes. You stopped again to pulled your scarf higher over your cheeks and pressed on.

The third time you paused, you realised you were lost. A brief lull allowed your vision to clear and you had no idea where you were. You kicked the side of the ATV and cursed. You grabbed the radio again and turned it on.

“Gerry?” No answer. Several more tries with nothing but static.

You hung your head and clicked the radio off. You gripped the handlebars and looked around. You’d have to turn around and try to trace your way back but the snow was starting to get heavy again and--

“Hey,” You jumped as the voice sounded from behind you. “You okay?”

You turned to find Bucky standing by a tree. “How--”

“Looks like you just went in a big circle,” He said. “You’re about ten minutes from my place.”

“What are you doing out here?” You asked.

“Wanted to grab some kindling before the storm got too bad, then I heard you.”

“Kindling?”

“Dry it out, obviously, but might run out of what I have before this clears,” He looked up. “Look, it’s only gonna get worse. Why don’t you wait it out?”

“I don’t-- I can’t--”

“There’s more than enough room for both of us. Might be a bit dusty but… Wouldn’t feel right letting you get lost out here.”

You exhaled and looked at the radio.

“Alright,” You relented.

“I’ll lead the way.” He came up beside the ATV and passed to the front. “Just don’t get too close.”

“Okay,” You turned the throttle just a bit and kept a snail’s pace as he guided you.

He barely seemed bothered by the gusts or the deepening snow. Even as the air turned almost completely white, he didn’t waver though you squinted to keep an eye on him.

“You like beans?” He yelled back to you as he broke through to the clearing around his house.

“Maple beans?” You asked dryly.

“They go great with toast,” He said as he continued onto the shed and unlocked the wide doors. “Warm you right up.”

🪓

You sat at the table, alone. Bucky had excused himself after clearing his own plates. You still picked away at the beans and sausage, listening to the movement above. You scooped the last few bites up and swallowed, washing it down with a gulp of water. You stood and went to the sink to rinse your plate. As you set it in the rack, you were startled by a creak behind you.

“I cleared a bedroom for you. It’s a bit dusty around here.” Bucky said as he leaned against the door frame. “Bit cold, too. Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright,” The windows shuddered. “Better than out there.”

“I put some clothes out too. Might be a little big.” He explained. “Dinner okay?”

“Yeah, it was…” You tried to smile. “Alright. Um, just one second.”

You neared him and he moved aside. You went down the hallway to where your jacket was hung and pulled the radio out. He watched you as you fiddled with it and the speaker crackled on.

“Gerry?” You held it to your lips.

“Kiddo?” He said, clear but not entirely.

“I’m okay,” You said slowly as you held the button down. “Staying until storm clears. Call in morning.”

“Roger, kiddo,” He returned. “Be safe.”

You turned off the radio and placed it back in your coat pocket. You looked up at Bucky as he stared at you dully.

“Just wanted to make sure someone knew,” You said. “Wouldn’t want them to worry.”

“Of course not,” He said. “You want a beer?”

“What?” You were thrown off by the sudden offer.

“Beer. If you want you can grab a book from the study,” He pointed to the doorway opposite the front room. “Sit in front of the fire where it’s warm.”

“I’ll take the book,” You said. “I’m not much for beer though.”

“Hot chocolate? Tea?” He stepped a little closer.

“I’m fine,” You squirmed. “Thank you.”

‘Just let me know if you need anything,” He said softly. “Haven’t had a guest in a while but… I can be accommodating.”

🪓

You read three chapters before you found your way upstairs. Bucky showed you the room he’d prepared for you but didn’t say much more before he closed himself into his own. You changed into the long sleeve tee he left you and the jogging pants with the drawstring waist. You tucked your feet into the wool socks and rolled under the blankets. You were still cold. The top floor was entirely untouched by the fireplace below.

You drifted into a shallow sleep. Maybe an hour or two before you woke, shivering. You sat up and reluctantly climbed out from beneath the covers. You took one of the blankets and wrapped it around you as you shuffled to the door. You slipped through, carefully not to let the hinges whine and plodded through the dark down the stairs.

In the front room, the fire burned a low amber. You crept over to it and took a log from the wrought iron basket just beside it. You placed it over the coals and stoked it with the poker until flames began to lick. You held your hands to the glow until you were no longer shaking.

You took a cushion from the couch and dropped it on the carpet. You laid down before the fire, wrapping yourself in the blanket as you basked in the warmth. You listened to the violent winds outside, softened by the heaps of snow which had gathered all around the cabin. Your eyes closed as you began to sink into the darkness around you.

You dreamt of the four wheeler, of the snow swirling around you, of losing yourself in the pure white. The trees curled and clawed at your as you were thrown from the seat. The snap of twigs filled your ears and your eyes snapped open. The fire popped as it burned, the room lighter but not much.

There was a heaviness around you. More than just the quilt, the thick arm wrapped around your middle held you close to the warmth at your back. Startled, you wriggled against the body and a groan slithered along your ear.

“What the--” You hissed as you grasped his wrist, his hand tucked beneath you. “What are you doing?”

“It’s cold,” His breath was hot as it seeped into your scalp. “You were shivering.”

“Let me go,” You tugged on him.

“Shhh,” He hushed. “It’s early.”

“Dude, not cool,” You pulled harder on his arm.

“Stop,” He said more firmly.

“Get off of me.” You growled.

“You’re not a very gracious guest,” He snarled as he retracted his arm, only to grab your shoulder and push you flat on your back.

You latched onto his wrist, he was strong. He didn’t budge.

“You’re scaring me.”

“Scaring you?” He removed his hand. “How? What do you think I’m gonna do?”

He sat up, his broad shoulder stretched the waffled shirt he wore as he rubbed his eyes. He pushed his head back and took a deep breath. You pushed yourself up slowly beside him.

“What do you want me to do?” His hand settled on your thigh and he squeezed.

“Stop,” You tried to push his hand away and he flipped it to grasp yours.

His grip slipped to your wrist and he twisted. He wrenched it over your head until you were forced onto your back. You cried out as he leaned over you, the blanket slipping entirely from your bodies.

“Came all this way for a few cans of beans,” He whispered. “Really?”

“Stop!” You repeated. “Please.”

“But you’re cold,” He uttered as he leaned closer. “You need to warm up… you’re shivering…” His nose touched yours. “Or… shaking?”

“Get--” His lips smothered yours as he shifted his body atop you.

You struggled as he released your wrist and reached down to grab your knee as he forced his legs between yours. He bit your lip as he pulled and his hand clawed at the waist of the loose pants. He pulled until he snapped the string within and you kicked around him.

“What are you doing?” You beat on his shoulders. “Stop! Stop!”

“I don’t talk to people, they don’t talk to me,” He snarled. “I keep to myself. Even that dumb delivery boy of yours knows better.”

“No, no,” You slapped his chest as he sat up suddenly.

He tore the pants down your legs until they were around your knees and pushed them up. The fabric kept you trapped beneath him, legs bent to your chest as he leaned over your once more. He brushed his nose against your cheek and snarled.

“You asked for this, honey,” He sneered. “You just couldn’t leave me alone… The way you smile at me, I can see it.”

“I was just--” You pushed against him. “--doing my job. Please, get off of me.”

He moved against you, his thighs pressed to yours as he felt between you. He pushed his own pants down and you tried to shove him off of you with your legs. You only made yourself dizzy.

The fire flickered against you, setting shadows across his features, his blue eyes caught the flame and glowed sinisterly. His rough finger tickled your cunt as he guided his cock along your folds. You grunted as you fought harder beneath him. He pressed along your entrance and you gasped, a horrified scream as he impaled you in a single thrust.

“Go on and scream.” He said. “No one will hear you. No one but me.” He jerked his hips and you cried out again. “I kinda like it.”

He moved his hips in sharp, short thrusts. He grunted with each, lower and lower, almost like satisfied purrs.

He sat up and hugged your legs to his torso as he rutted faster. He clung to you as if he was desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough. You scratched at the carpet. You whimpered each time he slammed into you, each tilt of his hips harder than the last. The clapping of your flesh mingled with your voices. You closed your eyes, holding back the sobs that threatened.

And then he stopped. Suddenly. He stayed inside of you as his grasp on you loosened. His body quivered and a low growl rose from him. He pulled out of you and pushed your legs aside to that you fell onto your side. Shakily, you pushed yourself, on knees and elbow you tried to crawl away, your pants tangled around your feet.

He grabbed your ankles and dragged you back as you slipped onto your stomach. He climbed over you, pinning your legs between his. He kneaded and pinched your ass, dusky, thick breaths rose from him.

He pressed his thumb between your cheeks and you reached desperately for anything to get away. The edge of the carpet rolled in your grasp and you kicked your feet with a panicked whine. He pressed his thumb against your asshole and you shook your head as he buried your face in your arms. He pushed inside and you let out a shrill cry.

He poked in and out of you, your tight ring burned around his thumb. He withdrew it and forced his index finger in, then added his middle. Your pained groans only seemed to encourage him as he stretched you around a third finger.

He pulled his hand away and bent his arm over your shoulders as he lifted himself over you. He lined himself up with your ass as his hair hung around his head and brushed the back of yours. He took a breath and you held one in. He entered you slowly, letting out a choked grunt as you strained around him.

The tears pricked at your eyes and your arm shot up as you blind grabbed at air.

“Please, please, please. Stop.” You begged. “I can’t--”

He pushed deeper and your voice fizzled. He pulled back and thrust in again. Every time, he went a little further. Soon he was buried in you to his limit and you couldn’t breathe or move. He held himself inside of you and shuddered.

He began to rock and you moaned. Despite the pain, the fire that radiated from your core, it felt good. The more he did, the better it got. The pressure built, unlike any you’d felt before, and you gulped and groaned against the carpet. Shocked by him, by yourself.

He got faster and faster. Louder two as his snarls filled your head. You tensed and then in an instant, your strength drained from you. You came, harder than you had ever in your life. You murmured as your head lolled and he kept going.

He lifted his head and his fingers gripped the back of your neck as he lifted himself over you. He hammered into you from above as you lay prone and helpless beneath him. He exclaimed and you felt a warmth flow into you.

He stopped and fell atop you. His weight held you down, suffocated you. His arm stretched up and he grabbed your hand, twining his fingers with yours.

“Stay as long as you like,” He rasped. “Snow’s not letting up anytme soon.”

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