#And money in those baby boots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

happyyyandcrazyyy · 7 months ago

Text

matching bracelets (kaz brekker x reader)

summary: when (y/n) buys kaz a bracelet she does so as a joke, she knows he’ll never actually wear it. imagine her surprise when she sees it dangling around his wrist.

based on the prompt: person A gets person B a friendship bracelet, expecting person B to never wear it, but when it’s given to them person B puts it on and is rarely seen with it off.

warnings: mentions of blood and torture (not explicit, briefly mentioned)

kaz taglist: @the-tpd-bau @ellievickstar @thestudiouswanderer | soc taglist: @ancientbeing10 (if you want to be added or removed from the taglist just dm me!)

a/n: guess who's back after a year of being mia!! i've been working on a lot of fics, but inspiration just hasn't been there, so i'm going slow, i don't like to force myself to write if i don't feel like it. anywaysss, i hope you enjoy this one! it was such a fun ride to write :)

Jesper opens the door with a loud bang, strutting into the Slat with his head held high and a slight jump in his step. He’s whistling good-naturedly, his left hand twirling a pistol and his right hand holding a rumpled piece of paper.

(Y/N)’s right hand— which had immediately reached for the pocket knife in her boot at the tumultuous noise— retreats back to her side. She relaxes, letting her shoulders sag and briefly looking down to make the final correction on a contract Kaz had her look over, left hand holding the pen and swiftly moving over the paper.

Jesper makes his way towards her, still whistling. She follows him from the corner of her eye, a slight smirk taking over her features. He’s in a good mood, the kind of mood he’s only ever in when the Gods are in his favor and he manages to miraculously not gamble away all his money. It’s not something that happens often.

“Did you win some?” she asks, already knowing the answer but enjoying the way the Sharpshooter preens under the attention. Jesper, very much in character and to (Y/N)’s delight, twirls around and does a ridiculous dance before taking a small bow.

“Baby, I won a whole lot.”

She huffs out a laugh, leaning back as she watches him place the pistol in its respective holster before plopping down on the chair by her right side and tossing her a small bag.

(Y/N) catches it smoothly, reflexes as sharp as always.

She doesn’t need to open the sack to know there’s kruge in there; the sound of coins jiggling against each other is a dead giveaway.

Jesper winks, a teasing smile on his lips. He tips his chair back, feet on top of the table, “Because you’re my favorite.”

It’s really because he owes her more kruge than he’ll ever be able to repay, but (Y/N) plays along. She’s never cared much about money, anyways.

“You sure do know how to charm a lady,” she smirks.

“I’m good at charming gents, too.”

“Versatile.”

“You know me.”

(Y/N) smiles, softer around the edges this time, something reserved only for her closest friends. She’s about to being correcting another contact— she has twelve to go through, all because she’d been bored and had decided annoying Kaz would be a great way to spend her time, he obviously hadn’t agreed —when Jesper slides over the piece of paper he’d been holding in his right hand. In the time he’d made his way towards her he’d somehow managed to crumple it completely.

She takes it, half curious, half willing to do anything to procrastinate revising and correcting those stupid documents.

“Brought this for you, too. I’ve got the feeling you’re going to enjoy this much more than the money.”

Her eyebrows furrow with curiosity as she slowly opens up the paper.

Ink contrasts the yellowish hue of the paper. Her own face greets her, drawn by hand, but fairly accurate.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N)

Wanted dead or alive.

1,000 kruge.

She can’t help the snicker that falls from her lips

Jesper is right. This is better, much better.

“Can’t believe it’s only a thousand this time,” she huffs, a small pout on her lips. “I must be losing my touch.”

Jesper snorts at that.

(Because she hasn’t lost her touch, not even a little, and they both know it. Just yesterday she’d managed to get vital information out of a Black Tip member with a single touch and a minimal amount of bloodshed. Three days before that she’d disposed of a rival gang member who’d been speaking too freely and she’d made sure his body would never be found. Two weeks prior to that Kaz had sent her to steal a miniature stature and she’d done it without a hitch, forging an identical copy in less than five days. No, she still very much has it.)

“I might have to go overboard next time,” she muses quietly to herself, “do something that will raise the bounty to at least two thousand five hundred.”

She traces the outline of her name, biting down a smile when Jesper snorts.

“You’re insane,” the Sharpshooter deadpans, the fondness in his tone almost tangible.

(Y/N) smiles wickedly at him, “So they say.”

Marbles is what they’ve nicknamed her around the Barrel. They say she’s lost them all. And it must be true, she must be out of her mind, because having a bounty on your head in Ketterdam is nothing less than a death sentence. It means having the most ruthless assassins coming after you, all looking for a way to make fast money. It’s living with the constant fear of someone sneaking up on you and slicing your throat, of having your food poisoned, of being choked to death in your sleep, of having your closest friends betray you as a means to survive. But to (Y/N), who has been part of the city’s underworld since before being able to formulate words, who has had any sort of ability to feel fear beaten out of her, this is nothing but one of the most amazing sources of entertainment. It keeps her on her toes, brings an adrenaline rush that does not compare to anything else. She must be crazy because any sane person would be paralyzed in fear, running for their lives, and yet all she can feel is the comforting thrill of being in mortal danger. (And, yes, it is comforting. She was raised to be a weapon, trained to withstand any form of torture; having Death peering over her shoulder is something she’s comfortable with, something she’s used to, something that soothes her). Besides, even if she wasn’t deadly confident in her own abilities (which she very much is), and even if she was able to feel terror overtaking her limbs (which she doesn’t think she’ll ever feel again), the title she holds would be enough to keep her relatively safe; she is Kaz’s right hand, and no one dares touch something that belongs to Dirtyhands.

(Y/N) stares at the poster for a little while longer— they got her nose wrong, made it too pointy —before smirking to herself. She knows how this will all go down, has seen it played out a few dozen times before (this is a regular occurrence, after all, a bounty is placed on her head every couple of months, whenever she loses her temper and murders someone who was deemed untouchable, or steals something much too valuable for her blood-stained hands). So, yes, she knows how this will go; the bounty will stay up for a couple of weeks, long enough for a few to dare try to kill her, and then it’ll be removed by whoever placed it once they realize it’s futile, once they see how everyone who even dares breathe too close to her winds up dead. She hopes the assassination attempts are entertaining, she hopes whoever dares come after her head gives her a good fight, if only to keep things interesting. It’s been a while since she’s had some unrestrained fun.

(Kaz keeps her on a tight rein, knows better than to let her run around freely. To say things can get out of hand when she’s left to her own devices would be an understatement.)

“Again?”

The voice comes from behind her, and (Y/N) doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, she heard his steps since before he even walked into the room. (It’s easy to know when it’s Kaz, he subconsciously places more weight on his left leg to keep the right one from aching, it makes his footsteps distinctive.) Still, she angles her head to meet his eyes. He’s leaning over her chair, cold eyes watching the bounty poster with disdain.

He’s never said it but (Y/N) knows that he doesn’t appreciate her life being imperiled. She is, in a way, an extension of him, and therefore any threats to her he sees as direct threats to him. Dirtyhands doesn’t take it well to being threatened.

“It’s okay, boss,” Jesper calls out. He’s still tipping his chair back, now playing with his guns. (Y/N) is kind of tempted to lean forward and kick one of the chair’s wooden legs, just to watch him struggle, possibly even fall. But Jesper’s known her long enough to realize when she’s on the verge of becoming a nuisance because his eyes narrow playfully and he lets the chair’s weight drop forward, “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

From the corner of her eye, (Y/N) can see the way Kaz’s face morphs. It’s almost indistinguishable, but she notices it. She thinks she would be able to spot the most minimal change in Kaz, she’s known him long enough for that. (Y/N) watches in amusement as he opens his mouth, no doubt to argue that he isn’t worrying at all, because Gods forbid he ever outwardly cared about anyone, but Jesper beats him to the punch and keeps going, “Heard some of Pekka’s Lions talking ‘bout how they’re not even going to try to come after her this time.”

“How boring,” she mutters to herself in disappointment, reaching for her glass of whisky. She’d meant for the comment to go unheard but Jesper’s snicker tells her that she wasn’t successful.

She takes a chug as Jesper points an accusatory finger at her and smirks, “That’s all on you, Marbles.”

At her bewildered look, he elaborates, “Two of them said something about not wanting to meet the same fate as the Razorgull guy from a couple of months ago—” (Y/N) smirks at that. The guy had deserved it. He hadn’t just tried to kill her, but also grope her. Murder she could understand, respect even, but touching someone else without their consent? No, she drew the line there. She’d had him swallow his own testicles; it’d seemed fitting enough. “—and the other one said that even if you hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t come close, not with you being Kaz’s right hand,” Jesper pauses for a second, a smug smile appearing on his lips, “and his best friend.”

Their reaction is instantaneous; Kaz goes rigid at the words and a smirk takes over (Y/N)’s features.

Oh, if the night didn’t just suddenly get better.

She glances up at her best friend, only to find him already glaring daggers at Jesper, who shrugs helplessly and innocently says, “Just telling it like I heard it, boss.” The flicker of amusement in his eyes reveals that he’s very much aware of just how much ammunition he’s provided (Y/N) with.

(Y/N)’s smirk becomes wider and gains a teasing edge when Kaz looks down to meet her eyes. His eyes harden, explicitly telling her to not utter a single word. Sadly for him, she has never been one to follow the rules, and Kaz must notice she’s not about to obey because his face morphs slightly, just enough to show the most minimum amount of discomfort. He cringes just the tiniest bit, bracing himself.

He knows her too well.

“You hear that?” she asks him, tone light and filled with amusement, “We’re best friends!”

“We are not,” Kaz tenses his jaw as he replies. He backs away from her, as if creating physical space between them will somehow stop the words from leaving her mouth and making their way towards him. As if distance could make her less of an bother.

(Y/N) fake gasps, clutching the skin over her heart in the most dramatic manner, “You wound me deeply, Kazzy.”

Jesper snorts, coughing to try to drown the laughter. She might be the only one who doesn’t get a knife to the jugular when calling him that.

Kaz’s eyes snap toward the Sharpshooter and the look must be deadly because Jesper quiets down immediately and tries his best to evade the boss’s glare. Kaz’s gaze then shifts towards (Y/N) and she perks up at the way his eyes harden even further in annoyance. He’s told her a million times to drop that ‘ridiculously stupid’ nickname and she’s decided she never will, not when it drives him to this point of exasperation.

(She’s a thrill chaser, you see. That’s what happens when you’ve seen just about everything and lived twice as much; few things get your heart pumping. And getting on Kaz’s nerves? That’s always exciting. (Y/N) never knows what to expect of him. The Bastard of the Barrel is unpredictable in a way that’s just delightful.)

“If you call me that one more time—”

“What are you gonna do? You can’t possibly try to hurt me. Best friends don’t do that to each other,” she mocks.

His eyebrow twitches, her grin stretches.

Oh, she’s going to have a field day with this one.

It’s obvious that Kaz knows he’s not winning this discussion because he walks forward, snatches the revised contracts and makes his way back to where he came from.

“Get those done before tomorrow afternoon.”

Boring. She was expecting more banter.

(Y/N) turns around to watch him leave, unable to stop herself from throwing a sarcastic, “Sure thing, bestie.” She does her best to sweeten the last word in a way that she knows will infuriate Kaz.

He freezes.

Bingo.

Even from afar, (Y/N) can see the way he tightens the grip on his cane. She’s thoroughly disappointed when he doesn’t throw a dagger her way. That would’ve been exciting. He takes another route, one she should’ve seen coming.

“I’ve got seven more files that need to be corrected. Collect them when you’re done with those.”

The corner of her lips tugs upwards slightly. There’s something thrilling about playing this game with Kaz, of seeing how much one of them can push before the other yields. He’s skilled and she enjoys the competition.

She ignores his order, “Goodnight, Kazzy.”

He slams the door on his way out, the only visible sign that she managed to get on his nerves. That’s mildly entertaining. Causing even the slightest slip of Kaz’s control over his temper is a success in her books.

“You’re out of your mind,” Jesper informs her.

She raises her glass of whisky at him and winks.

And that’s how it begins, as a joke. (Y/N) refers to Kaz as her best friend on every given chance. His reactions never disappoint.

There’s a lot of death threats;

(“Don’t mind him, bestie here is always grumpy.”

Clenched jaw, an exasperated sigh. “I will murder you.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Kazzy.”

There’s a knife thrown her way. (Y/N) catches it with ease, whistling good-naturedly. She smirks when she catches the look of annoyance in Kaz’s face.)

and a lot of not so kind words thrown her way.

(“I get special best friend privileges, right?”

“You get tolerated,” Kaz mutters, “barely.”

“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. Now tell me you love me.”

There’s that Brekker glare, one that would send anyone to an early grave. (Y/N) just smiles sweetly.

“Get out.”

“Whatever makes you happy, best friend.”

She cackles as she closes the door behind her, the curses Kaz is sending her way loud enough for her to hear.)

All in all, (Y/N) is as happy as can be. Having the time of her life, really. It’s not often that she finds something that makes Kaz fume. He plays the game too, of course. He has her going over financial documents and legal contracts on her free time, knowing just how much she hates the bureaucracy, and he gives her the household chores she despises the most. Still, (Y/N) doesn’t complain. She does everything with a smug smile on her face. The annoyance that flashes through Kaz’s face makes it all worth it.

The bracelet isn’t something she plans for, it really isn’t, but the Saints place the opportunity right in front of her and who is she but a mere mortal that must obey the signs evidently laid by otherworldly deities (or whatever bullshit those religious fanatics preach).

(Y/N) inspects the wristlets in her hand. They’re black and rough, made of broken-down nets that fishermen dispose of near the pier when the material has worn down beyond repair and is no longer useful. The little girl who had sold it to her couldn’t have been older than seven, and yet the design was more than decent. (Y/N) had offered three kruge for it, much more than it was worth. The child had looked delighted, had thanked her profusely as she’d placed the coins inside her worn-down shoes.

Oh, (Y/N) cannot wait to see Kaz’s face.

“What’s that?” Jesper asks as she meets up with him, eying the bracelets with a gleam of interest. He twirls his guns absentmindedly, missing the way some of the fishermen glance at him with distrust.

“Oh, you know, just some matching bracelets for me and my best friend.”

Jesper snickers, shaking his head and proceeding to let out a low whistle.

“This might be his breaking point.”

“Wouldn’t that be delightful.”

“You’re insane, Marbles.”

She gives him a wicked smile accompanied by a wink. She’s about to retort when she catches sight of a shadow on the corner of her eye. She recognizes it immediately as her target. Shopping, as fun as it had been, wasn’t the reason she and Jesper were waiting by the pier. They’ve got orders. She has people to torture and interrogate and dispose of— preferably in a quiet manner —and Jesper is Kaz’s way of making sure she’s got her back covered. (Not that she needs backup, but whatever, she has tried arguing with Kaz about it and it’s the one thing he won’t relent on, the one matter she’s accepted she won't ever win. Kaz doesn't play when it comes to her safety.).

“If you’re kind enough to hold these for me,” she places the bracelets on Jesper’s unoccupied hand, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

They make it back to the Slat before sunrise. (Y/N) had been quick and efficient, as she always was, and Jesper had been a quiet and solid shadow, as he always was.

“I assume it all went according to plan,” the Bastard asks when he hears their steps coming into his office. It’s late, or rather extremely early in the morning, and yet (Y/N) isn’t surprised by Kaz’s presence. He rarely sleeps.

“It went without a hitch, boss,” Jesper responds, resting against the doorframe.

(Y/N) hesitates for a split second, her memory providing a brief flashback to the interrogation she’d done, to three little words the man had let slip out: they’re coming for you.

A warning or maybe a promise.

Thrilling, either way. It wasn’t often that she was verbally threatened.

At the time, she’d dismissed the words, too filled with bloodlust to pay them any mind, but now, with a clear mind and a steady heartbeat, she suddenly remembers her face plastered on paper all over Ketterdam and wonders if the words might be related to the bounty on her head.

Oh, she hopes so. That would prove to be fun.

They’re coming for you. Good. Let them try.

She nods her head in agreement with Jesper’s words. Kaz nods in approval and then jerks his chin Jesper’s way, a clear sign of dismissal. The Sharpshooter never walks into Kaz’s office after missions like this. He’s an escort, a babysitter of sorts, merely Kaz’s way of making sure she heads his way instead of making a beeline for her bed.

(Y/N) sticks her tongue out at him and Jesper blows her a kiss in response.

Lucky bastard. It’s always her that has to stay up to report. And she hates to admit it, but she’s tired, she can feel the exhaustion begin to creep on her bones and settle in. She has been up for more than thirty-seven hours at this point, and she can feel it catching up to her. Still, she knows that Kaz prefers to hear details when the information is fresh on her mind, when she can provide as much detail as possible, so she pushes through for him. She just has to wait a little while longer before crawling into her bed and passing out for the next twelve hours.

“Marbles comes bearing gifts by the way,” is the last thing the Sharpshooters says before exiting.

A smirk takes over her features, sleep, exhaustion and the new information briefly forgotten.

Kaz is going to hate it.

Lovely.

Kaz seems to sense, probably by the wicked amusement on her face, that whatever it is it’s not something he’s going to enjoy. His face twists into a scowl.

“Out with it, then.”

She pulls out the dark bracelet from her pocket as she walks towards Kaz, dangling it in front of his face when she’s close enough.

Jesper had handed them back on the way home, tossing them over as soon as she’d wiped the blood off her hands. He hadn’t said a word, but (Y/N) knew that the action had meant to snap her out of the weird haze that clouded her mind after every mission, where adrenaline still coursed through her body and all she could think about was bloodshed, fingers itching to kill and maim and fight.

(It was a thing, the haze. When taking lives there was nothing but calmness and bloodthirst, the restlessness that always lingered beneath her skin subsiding as soon as a weapon was placed in her hand and orders were given. And as soon as the mission was done, as soon as the target was neutralized and she’d efficiently fulfilled her orders, fogginess followed. Her mind became clouded, as if somewhat trapped in a loop of violence, every nerve on edge and ready for any threat to emerge.

She was brought up as a killing machine, a child soldier, the best out of all the assassins produced by the Silent Blades, her father’s pride. She was ruthless, wretched, or at least those had been the words used to describe her when she’d been a child. She supposed the dissociative state she slipped into was normal when considering her upbringing, some sort of psychological shield that kept her from going insane.

She never spoke about it, but the Crows somehow knew. They often eased her out of it, knowing full well that when trapped in that state she had not an ounce of thought and only muscle memory to rely on, which made her infinitely more lethal.)

Jesper’s actions had worked like a charm. With something else to do with her hands, the fogginess had ruptured. She’d absentmindedly tied one of the bracelets on her own wrist, fingers playing with the edges of the other.

It’s that bracelet, the one on her arm, that Kaz glances at now. It’s brief, but for a split second the scowl etched on his face softens and something that she can’t quite catch passes through his eyes. It’s gone before (Y/N) can even begin to process it.

“Best friends have to have matching bracelets, don’t they?” And if she wonders about it later, she’ll blame it on the exhaustion, but the words come out softer than she intends them to. A jest, but not any less truthful.

Kaz’s face morphs and she gets a fleeting glimpse at that flicker in his eyes again. His scowl melts into something a tad bit gentler, the look contrasted by the aggressiveness with which he snatches the bracelet from her hand, “You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” He means that and his tone has enough bite to make her cackle.

Amusing.

Placing her hands on her back pockets and shrugging, she responds, “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Kaz snorts, “Go take a bath.” He dismisses her, turning around and making his way to his desk, “Reports can wait until you don’t look half dead.”

That’s unexpected.

(Y/N) raises her eyebrows, “You’re being nice.” It isn��t often that Kaz forgoes a report after a mission. He might’ve been more touched by the gift than he’s letting on.

“It’s for my own sake,” he retorts, not turning around, “you just stink and it’s making me nauseous.”

She does have a lingering smell of blood and sea water.

“Everything in this damned place stinks,” she responds. I know you’re lying, she’s saying, I know you’re being kind.

“Get out.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” (Y/N) mocks, walking out of his office.

She sleeps a full day after that, everyone knowing better than to bother her unless they want to lose to their head, and when she reports to Kaz the next morning the three words she’d heard from the man slip her mind. (Y/N) doesn’t remember them until a few weeks later when she’s tied to the ceiling by her wrists, face bleeding.

Now, she must admit, she’s impressed. No one had ever tried kidnapping before. There’d been more attempts on her life than she could even count; stabs resulting in blood being shed, never one drop of hers, poison that she had either swallowed down like a champ or identified before a single lick of it touched her tongue, because being raised an assassin meant she’d been trained in the art of toxins and she’d built up tolerance to pretty much every substance in existence, and that one time they’d tried to shot at her, which only resulted in (Y/N) stealing Jesper’s gun and placing a bullet right between the perpetrator’s eyebrows. All in good fun. Kidnapping was new, but only because those who had attempted on her life had never tried joining forces, all of them wishing to keep the financial reward for themselves.

Torturing, that was new, too.

She could endure, of course she could, she’d been trained for this. That did not mean she’d missed it.

The poster had stated she was wanted dead or alive and it was clear that the man in front of her wanted to take his time. It was personal, she could tell by the brunt of his hits and the delicate precision of his cuts. Had she been anyone else, she would’ve been begging for it to stop, but (Y/N) was a Silent Blade, even if she’d left the organization and that life behind, and she would never break.

The only reason she was in this situation was because the assailants had gotten the upper hand. They’d used one of (Y/N)’s street urchins— a little girl with piggy tails and two missing teeth, one of the ones who gathered information for (Y/N) and traded it for food and shelter —as leverage. And time had apparently made her soft because she’d hesitated. The brief second of doubt had been everything they’d needed.

Them subduing her didn’t mean she’d gone down without a fight. There’d been five of them in the beginning. Only three remained. She’d plucked one guy’s eye out, going deep enough to sever the optic nerve and cause brain damage, and she’d ripped the other’s ear with her teeth before slitting his throat. She’d managed to stab one of the three men remaining with a dagger before being injected with some unknown serum. It hadn’t knocked her out, not the way it was supposed to if the incredulous look on her kidnapper’s face was any indication, but it had drugged her enough to allow them to overpower her.

And now here she was, slowly bleeding out.

“I intent on handing your corpse to them and claiming the reward.” He’s been quiet for so long that (Y/N) had almost forgotten his presence. She doesn’t raise her head, only looks up. It’s hard to do so when her right eye is swollen shut. “But they never specified the conditions it had to be in.”

The man has his back towards her, fingers running through a box of tools. He’s used almost all of them on her by this point. Amateur. A skilled torturer knows to go slow, to drag it out, to choose a weapon and stick to it until the person is weeping and screaming.

“It was my brother that you killed.”

That sparks her interest, a smirk taking over her bloodied lips. She looks at him, dead in the eye.

“Which one?” she taunts.

The sound of her voice, still strong despite the blood loss, startles him. He freezes for a split second, hand over a wooden baseball bat.

“What?”

She snickers, blood dripping into the floor. “I’ve killed a lot of men, darling.” The way he seethes, fury filling his features, amuses her. “So which one was your brother?”

“You had him swallow his own testicles.”

“Oh, him,” she nods her head in appreciation. “Can’t say I regret it.”

Now he’s fuming, hand shaking so badly he almost loses the grip on the bat. If (Y/N) looks close enough she can see the resemblance. Same brown hair, same nose, same crazy look in their eyes.

“I’ll make you regret it.”

“You can certainly try,” she concedes mockingly. Because, honestly, there’s nothing he can do to her that she hasn’t already withstood.

There’s a raging roar and then a burst of pain. A hit to her abdomen, which no doubt bruised a rib, and then two to her back. But it’s okay, she thinks to herself as she wheezes and coughs, trying to regain air in her lungs, she knows how to play this game and how to win it. Keep him talking, keep him angry, let him think he has the upper hand, keep him from noticing how she’s preparing to break free.

“I wonder…” he murmurs, bat dragging behind him. “You’re not particularly remarkable.” She scoffs as he begins circling her, a tactic supposed to drive the prisoner into panic at the lack of vision of their assailant. Her heart doesn’t stutter. She’s trained to identify people and objects by sound not sight. She knows precisely where he is, even if she can’t see him. “So, what makes you interesting enough for the Bastard to keep so close?”

She grins, feral and with bloodstained teeth.

“Why don’t you come closer and I’ll show you?”

His face does not change but his step falters. “You cannot believe me stupid enough to fall for that.”

“You were stupid enough to tie my wrists with handcuffs,” is all she replies before dislocating her own thumbs and releasing herself from the shackles.

She hits the floor hard, body swaying for a second. Her hands are numb, nerve endings frayed. It hits her, now that she has to keep herself outfight, just how much blood she’s lost. The edges of her vision blur.

There’s a cut on her thigh, it bleeds heavily. Her back is all flayed skin. Breathing is hard.

It doesn’t matter. She only needs four fingers and half a mind to hold and use a dagger. She shakes the dizziness off.

He comes at her, but she’s expecting that. Sidestepping him is easy, kicking him in the back as he passes by even more so.

“You’re not much without your friends and a syringe full of drugs, are you?” she stumbles a little as she taunts him. Time is not on her side, she knows this. He’s cut deep in her arms and legs, no major artery touched, but with precision to give her a slow and prolonged death. She’s been steadily bleeding for hours.

(Y/N) has to end this. Soon.

He comes for her again, and she dodges, punching him right in the gut. He feigns left and she moves away, noticing too late the fist that impacts with the right side of her face. Despite the pain, she manages to stomp his toes and slam her knee against his balls.

That does it.

A high whimper leaves his mouth and as he struggles for air, she backs up. Keeping her eyes on him, her right arm reaches back to the toolbox. She knows what she’s grasped as soon as her fingers graze it.

“Say hi to your brother for me.”

The scalpel lodges itself right on his carotid artery.

“Nice,” she mumbles in delirium as she hears him choke to death. It’d been a majestic throw.

The adrenaline is gone in a second. (Y/N) stumbles backwards, barely aware of all the tools scattering around in the floor. She lets herself rest against the wall, slowly sitting down on the floor.

She’s going to die.

It doesn’t matter that she’s managed to get rid of that poor excuse of a man. She’s too injured. She knows.

(Y/N) isn’t scared. She’s tangled with Death for a long time, and as cold begins to creep in and the edges of her vision blacken, it feels like welcoming an old friend. It feels like getting what she has always had coming for her.

The tips of her fingers begin to tingle, her body’s desperate effort at keeping her heart pumping. Her ears are ringing, hard enough that when shouts begin all that she can hear are muffled sounds.

Then someone’s touching her face. She greets the warmth.

“Fuck,” she hears as she tumbles forward, her forehead landing on a collarbone. Jesper grasps the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. At least, she thinks it’s him. Her brain feels mushy, but her nose has never failed her, and it smells like gunpowder and mint.

She’s laid down on the ground gently, probably to inspect her injuries before moving her.

“You’re going to be okay,” the Sharpshooter reassures her, but his voice is trembling. He’s scared. She must look worse than she feels, and she feels like she’s been attacked by a group of Heartrenders.

She wants to speak, to tell him it’s okay, but opening her mouth feels like an impossible task.

“Save your energy.” That’s Kaz. His voice is steady, but she can feel the underlying tension, the worry in his words. “You are not dying tonight.” And he says it with so much conviction, like he would hold her soul with his own hands to keep it anchored to her body, like he would keep her heart beating with pure willpower.

Her eyes look for him, but she catches sight of something else entirely.

“You’re wearing it.”

She must make no sense, words slurred, but Kaz understands. His whispered words are the last thing she hears before slipping out of consciousness.

“How couldn’t I?”

Then there’s nothing. She loses track of time. She comes back to her body from time to time, able to hear words but incapable of pinpointing the speaker. She’s floating, but there’s pain and aching.

“…too much blood, I don’t know…”

“…keep her alive.”

“I am trying!”

“Don’t try, do it.”

“…punctured lung, broken ribs…”

“…don’t know how she’s still alive.”

When she comes to the first thing that she feels is blinding pain. Everything hurts. Her muscles complain as she sits up. She clenches her jaw to keep the tears at bay. The worst is already over, she will not cry.

“Don’t move,” (Y/N) freezes at the command, her head snapping towards the voice. “Nina stitched you back together, I doubt she would be very happy to see all her hard work ruined.”

She gently eases herself back on the bed, fingertips running over her bandaged stomach. She can feel the edges of the stitches poking through it. It must’ve been bad, then, if she required stitches to keep the wound together. Usually, she’s a fast healer, a result of all the training she’d gone through.

“How long?” Her voice is raspy after not being used. Her throat hurts, which might be related to the way she was choked to the verge of unconsciousness several times while held hostage.

“Four nights.”

Bad then.

(Y/N) can feel Kaz’s eyes on her, assessing. She meets his stare, and it’s when she’s looking at him that a vague memory comes back.

Her eyes drift down to his wrist.

The twin bracelet to her own, the one she keeps tightly wrapped around her wrist, as if part of her own skin, greets her.

“You are wearing it.”

Kaz frowns in confusion, until he follows her line of sight. He looks away, hand clenching and unclenching over the head of his cane.

“Even after almost dying you’re still insufferable,” he responds.

But when he looks back at her, (Y/N) can see everything in his eyes.

How could I not, he’d said, and he’d meant it. If friendship was something that could bloom in a wretched place like Ketterdam, Kaz was her best friend and she was his, even if they’d never discussed it, even if they would never admit it. You’re the steady order to my unrelenting chaos, she thought to herself, someone I would follow to the end of the world.

He nods, as if reading her mind and agreeing with her.

“Rest.” That’s an order, one she has no intention of disobeying.

“Sure thing,” she responds as Kaz makes his way towards the door, “bestie.”

(Y/N) can feel the amusement in his words, “Absolutely insufferable.”

She smirks, toying with the ends of the bracelet’s strings.

(Y/N) never takes it off. Neither does Kaz.

947 notes · View notes

hhughes · 3 months ago

Text

៹࣪ ៸៸ ALL OF THE SMALL THINGS THAT YOU DO . . . ꒱꒱

ᥫ 𝘩𝑒𝘢𝑑𝘤𝑎𝘯𝑜𝘯𝑠 small things they do that make you feel loved . . .

𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕. quinn hughes ; jack hughes ; luke hughes ; nico hischier. 𝒄��𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕. fluff. domesticity. 𝒙𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒊. as always reblogs and feedback is appreciated and I hope you liked it <3

യ QUINN HUGHES

boyfriend quinn who stays over at your place more often than not. it’s easier for you to get ready for work since all your stuff is there, so whenever quinn gets a few days off he’ll always spend them at your place.

he started getting up earlier , sneaking out of bed before your alarm even goes off and for a while you were just wondering where he went before you caught him one day.

looking outside your kitchen window you saw quinn brushing the last bit of snow off your windshield and shovel it away from your car.

“ hey angel , you’re awake earlier than usual, ” quinn greets, shrugging off his jacket and taking off his boots as you start the coffee pot

“ yeah I was investigating where my boyfriend has been sneaking off to these last few weeks, “ you say, as shuffles his way over to you and wraps his arms around your waist; burrowing his cold nose into your neck

“ just getting last night’s snow out of your way, “ he mumbles against your skin, pressing kisses against your neck

“ you didn’t have to do that baby, but thank you. you’re spoiling me, i’m gonna get used to it and then miss it when you’re not here, “ you tease, and he uses his hands on your hips to spin you around, pushing you back against the counter

“ I was actually hoping you’d let me hire someone to do it for you, “ quinn suggests with a hopeful tone, knowing exactly how you were gonna respond to this.

“ quinn, don’t start, ” you absolutely hated when he spent unnecessary money on you.

“ I know I know, but it’s more for my peace of mind than it is for yours really. I hate the idea of you having to go out there the morning after a storm and move all that snow by yourself. not even just the snow, what about all the freezing rain we get? what if you slip and fall? hit your head? break your wrist, again? “ he emphasizes the last part and your send him a little glare in return. you slipped and broke your wrist one time and now the guy couldn’t let it go.

" everyone can slip and fall quinn, " you argue and he brings his hands up to cup your jaw on either side, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks gently

" yeah , honey , but I don't care and worry about everyone, I care and worry about you. “ he retorts and you almost cave seeing the pure adoration he has for you reflected in those green eyes

“ I’ve lived in Vancouver my entire life. the weather is nothing new to me, I can handle it. but i’m guessing if I don’t agree to this you’re gonna keep sneaking out and doing it for me anyway?” you ask and release a little sigh when he nods in confirmation

the last thing you wanted to do was make your boyfriend get up at the crack of dawn, especially on days like today, his off days, just to clean the snow off your driveway and you knew he would if you didn’t agree to this.

“fine, but not all the time. only when we get really heavy snow okay? and no more sneaking out of bed. I miss my personal little furnace when you’re not there,” you pout and he smiles before pecking your lips softly, his hands moving to your lower back

“ that’s all i’m good for huh? shovelling your snow and warming you up? ” quinn teases, hands moving down even further and squeezing your butt as your hands make their way to his hair

“ you’re pretty good at washing my hair too. wanna join me in the shower? “ you mumble against quinn’s lips and he keeps the kiss going for a few seconds before pulling away and responding

“ you know I can never say no to that, “

യ NICO HISCHIER

bf!nico who shows you love by packing you lunch in the morning cause you’re always running late and you never grab something before you go.

he noticed it one night when the two of you were doing your nightly routine that consisted of him laying with his head on your stomach, your hands going through his hair as whatever movie you decided on was playing on the screen.

“sorry” you say sheepishly, your hand freezing in his hair when your stomach suddenly growled loudly and he glances up at you with an amused little grin

“you hungry baby?” he asks, pressing a few soft kisses to your stomach

“yeah , I haven’t eaten all day.” you accidentally let the words slip, and immediately wince after, knowing how your mother-hen boyfriend was going to react.

“you haven’t eaten all day?” nico asks exasperated , sitting up as he looks at you with a frown between his eyes, one of his hands finding its way to your stomach and rubbing soft circles as if he could sooth the hunger away

" that's not healthy schatz, " your boyfriend chastised softly, when you answer his question with a nod.

" I know, I was just running late this morning so I didn't have time to pack lunch. and I had a busy day so I couldn't run out and get something, but I'm gonna eat the entire day's worth of pasta when our dinner gets here. promise, " you respond, moving closer and kissing that frown away

" you gotta take better care of my girl, ya hear me? " nico says, pulling you onto his lap and pressing a kiss to your temple

" aye aye captain, " you answer teasingly and a giggle escapes as gently nips at your shoulder in retaliation.

but ever since then nico wakes up a little earlier and packs you lunch. of course he writes you little notes and tucks them into the bag.

and whenever he's on roadies he'll always make sure to doordash it to you along with some flowers and a note that tells you how much he misses you <3

യ JACK HUGHES

bf!jack who really does all the little things that many people may overlook but since you know from experience what it’s like to be in relationships with people who don’t even do the little things, you appreciate it so much.

he always goes out of his way to clean up the apartment your share, so that it doesn’t feel like you have to take care of him 24/7. in fact it’s the other way around. he’s the one who will load and unload the dishwasher. do your laundry when he’s doing his. clean up your car when he’s cleaning up his.

and yes the occasional mix up of white clothing and coloured clothing does happen, which results in a few your white tops, being a variety of different colours. mix ups that jack repeatedly apologized for and promised to replace when luke pointed it out to him one day.

“ you should’ve said something earlier, “ jack pouts when he examines the seven tops laying on the bed that you got out when he asked you to show him all the shirts he’s ruined

“ you were doing something nice, I didn’t wanna make you feel bad by pointing it out, besides you didn’t ruin them, just gave them a little make over, ” you tease and laugh when jack glares at you as his cheeks turn red

“ m’sorry baby. we can go shopping this weekend I’ll buy you new ones yeah? ” he says, pressing a sloppy kiss to jaw as he collects your tops off the bed and puts them on the chair in the corner. a place he’ll see them and remember to check the brands later.

speaking of shopping, jack loves getting you things. it was something you had to get used to at the start of your relationship as he’d often come home from roadies with a little gift for you.

it’s just sweet knowing that he’s thinking of you even when he’s far away and he’s focused on something else.

is 100% the type of boyfriend to send you money and with a text that reads “go get yourself something nice, you deserve it x ”

he makes sure to leave you a pair of his sweats and a hoodie whenever he goes on the road because he knows how much it helps you when he’s gone.

even buys you the same cologne he uses so you can spray it on the hoodie and it’ll smell like him even if he’s not here.

can’t convince me he doesn’t do a ton of these cute little things for his girl

യ LUKE HUGHES

boyfriend luke hughes who is a bit of a nerd and collects a bunch of random trinkets and collectables.

and once he starts dating you, he just starts collecting a bunch of random things that you might need at any given moment.

need a hair tie? luke has one around his wrist, waiting with anticipation for your hair to start annoying you so he can offer it to you.

getting a random tension headache? luke has some painkillers in the glove compartment. heat pack for your cramps are also in there. along with an eyelash curler.

he even buys mini versions of your essentials (lip gloss, hand sanitizer, etc) and keeps them with him in case you forget yours.

luke’s ass jean pocket? your miniature handbag. he literally has anything and everything you’d need in one of those back pockets. a bobby pin cause a strand of hair has been annoying you? just stick your hand in one of those back pockets and grab one.

and he loves sitting with you at your vanity while you do your makeup. and over time he learns your routine and starts handing you your products🥺

“ going a bit fancier today bub, can you hand me my bronzer? “ you mumble while applying your concealer as luke holds out your mascara

“ um — “ he mutters, retracting his hand and spins your little product cabinet around, looking for a little bottle with the word “bronzer” on it

“ it’s this one, “ you say, reaching and grabbing it yourself and luke’s cheeks redden a bit in response

“ sorry, ” he says sheepishly and you giggle as you lean over to press a kiss against his cheek

“ don’t worry about it baby, “

#quinn hughes x reader #jack hughes x reader #nico hischier x reader #luke hughes x reader #nico hischier fic #jack hughes fic #quinn hughes fic #luke hughes fic #꒰ 🗄️ ꒱ — 𝓗hughes #꒰ 📂 ꒱ — 𝓗hughes > headcanons

945 notes · View notes

just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 2 years ago

Text

Having the most hilarious little thoughts about Richard Harrington making a deal with demon!Eddie, trading wealth and success in exchange for his firstborn.

The Harringtons climb the social ladder, Richard’s business thrives. Little Steven is born, grows up … and nothing ever happens, so they sort of put it out of their minds and never tell him about how they sold him off to a creature from the underworld before he was even conceived.

The day after Steve’s 18th birthday, they return from a business trip to find their son frantically cleaning up the remains of a party. They’re three minutes into a lecture on how there’s soda and chips all over the expensive carpet when Eddie materializes in the middle of the living room, ready to collect his prize.

Chaos ensues.

Steve is freaking out. Why is that red-eyed, black-clad weirdo lounging on their couch, chunky boots up on the table as if he owns the place? Why is he looking at him like he’s a particularly tasty piece of meat? Why does the guy only need to snap his fingers and Steve finds himself straddling his lap, one ring-clad hand groping his ass? What the actual fuck is going on?

The Harringtons are not amused. They have invested so much money into Steve over the years, thinking that Eddie had forgotten all about them, and NOW he shows up? Eddie just shrugs, idly playing with a lock of Steve’s hair. He never specified WHEN he’d come back, did he? What would he have wanted with a baby, anyhow? What is he, a daycare?

“We thought you wanted to eat him!” blurts Mrs. Harrington, and Eddie just absolutely loses his shit.

What the fuck is WRONG with those people? They thought he ATE babies? And they were still fine with giving him theirs? Holy fucking shit, humans are disgusting! This is it, deal’s off, he’s taking their wealth and success away again. No, the boy is still coming with him, do they honestly expect him to just up and leave him in this shithole? No fucking way! Oh, and they better never try and summon him again or those incriminating documents will find their way to the tax authorities!

And that is how Steve finds himself living with a sassy, strangely kind-hearted demon who may or may not own his soul - they’re still trying to figure out the specifics of that.

# hype's demon!Eddie fic

#steddie #steddie brainrot #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #fanfiction #fanfiction writer #fic idea?#hype's demon!eddie fic

4K notes · View notes

itsabouttimex2 · 5 months ago

Text

Y/N’s not the Beloved?

(At least, not at first)

Thinking so hard about Y/N just… not being the “beloved” in the yandere dynamics, and instead being the “neglected” party.

Just, like-

It’s not that Sun Wukong and Macaque don’t love you for being their precious adopted kiddo, but… you’re “just” a person, and you don’t have a tail or fur to groom like them. You can’t climb as well as they can, and you don’t have fangs. And you just aren’t strong enough to keep up.

So there’s this inherent disparity, and you feel sometimes more like a guest than a member of the family.

But then MK’s rock comes along! And then it hatches and there’s a new little monkey in the family for them dote on! They have a new baby, one that’s just like them!

In a way that you just… aren’t.

You just can’t compare. Sure, they still love you- you’re never hungry or cold, your clothes are plentiful, and they still support your interests, but…

They just don’t love you like they love him.

Because MK gets the nicest things, in all the ways you didn’t. He gets brand new clothes just right for a growing boy with a true form that fractures in and out of existence. But many of your “new” clothes have to be hastily sewn up because they’re hand-me-downs from Papa, and they had ear and tail slits- they were made for Mystic Monkeys, after all!

(And you aren’t one of them, no matter how hard you try to be.)

And MK gets his favorite foods and snacks whenever he asks, no matter how far Baba has to travel or how many stores his clones have to trawl to find those illusive treats. And when he digs in, you think of the times Papa taught you to “appreciate” his hard work in the kitchen by making you eat every bite of a meal he made, even if you gagged and coughed through it… but MK gets full impunity to have sides replaced whenever he decides a food is “yucky” without even trying it.

You got gifts for being well-behaved or accomplishing goals, but MK gets them for simply asking. You got money by doing extra chores or babysitting the mountain monkeys. MK is given it because your dads are in a good mood.

Not to mention how many of your hobbies and free days are undermined because you “need” to babysit the favorite child.

So on, and so forth.

And then one day it all grinds to a peak and you can’t take the favoritism anymore, so you eventually have the quietest messy breakdown known to man in the ungodly hours of the morning. When you finally manage to pull yourself together, the decision is promptly made- with a tightly-packed bag in tow, you sneak out through a window, clamber down the house walls, and disappear beyond the horizon.

And Macaque and Wukong are devastated, obviously. Sure, you aren’t the “beloved”, which is clearly MK, but you’re still their baby!

BUT! It gets even worse, because for all the worry in their hearts, MK is even worse!

He throws tantrums and rejects food and has uncontrollable fits where he bites bloody marks into his arms through hysteric tears. And even when the kiddo isn’t screaming his bloodied little mouth off, it’s only to scream for you to come back.

So, while they would’ve always made an honest effort to bring you back home (this is your home, even if it doesn’t always feel like it), having their “beloved” child start to genuinely harm himself over your absence only ramps up the efforts to get their first kid back.

“Open the door,” comes your papa’s tempered voice, barely second after you’ve registered the knock. “C’mon, kiddo. We need to talk.”

His foot meets the wooden door, tapping and testing the strength- not that there was really any question he could clear the flimsy barrier.

Tap. Tap.

At the pause, you drop everything and scramble into the closet, right as Macaque kicks through the door with a huff. The leather of his boot catches the light with a dark gleam, but he retracts it and readies for another blow.

“You in, Mac?”

“Not yet- I missed.”

His next strike lands true, shredding the cheap doorknob out of place so forcefully that it tears through the glass window behind it and disappears into the bushes behind the hotel, entirely flattened into a copper disk.

“Not bad,” cheers Wukong, peering into the wrecked room. “Not bad at all, bud!”

With a hand clasped over your mouth to muffle the sound of shallow breathing, you hunker down and wait- with a bitter thought at how casual they are about all this.

Didn’t they realize how badly hurt you were by the unabashed favoritism, the constant coming in second, the unending isolation?

How could they treat this like a casual outing?

“Alright, bud- pack your bags and put on something warm! We’re heading home!

Just barely you manage to bite back a cry of frustration over this miserable circumstance, expected to return to a home that had essentially shunted you aside.

“C’mon, brat. Did you really think we’d let you spend any more time in this hellhole? The mountain is a lot safer, anyways.”

You don’t even realize that Macaque is reaching into the closet until he has your upper arm in his hold, pulling until you’ve cleared the wooden threshold molding between your sanctuary and the living space.

Barely even on your feet, Wukong is upon you with a scarf, wrapping it tight and finishing with a neat bow.

“You know, MK really missed you,” he sighs, thinking of tantrums that spanned hours and the smell of mold in the kitchen when food the child flung had spilled under the counter and gone unnoticed for far too long.

Why should you care that their baby was suffering?

But whether you care or not (and they’re certainly not waiting for your opinion), they’re going to take you “home”.

With Wukong’s hand to wrap around your shoulders and Macaque’s to grip your wrist, they slowly march the way back to the precious little Mystic Monkey that you’ve come to hate.

And though your heart turns over at the sight of MK wailing on the floor, there’s this strange discomfort that arises when they call it that:

“Y/N is back!”

and it prompts an immediate end of his formerly hysterical waterworks?

Because he runs to you and throws both of his chubby little arms around your legs, demanding that you “never ever leave again!” and both of your dads are right behind him, because their son gets whatever he wants, when he wants it-

And what MK wants is you.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere MK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #Monkiefam #Shadowpeach #Yandere Father #Yandere Brother #TW: Self Harm #Not The Beloved

390 notes · View notes

evieelyzabethh · 1 year ago

Text

Sugar and Spike

pairing(s): Spike x fem!reader

summary: after a night of patrol goes wrong, Spike starts noticing some changes in himself, mainly that Buffy's sweetest friend won't leave his mind and that she would never look at him the same if she knew what he wanted to do to her.

warnings: smut!!! a smidge of yandereness, kinda a sex or die fic, possessive spike, handjob, unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (fem receiving), praise kink, biting/marking (mentions of blood), a little bit of spanking, overstimulation, riding, fingering, veryyy little plot, and I think thats about it.

In hindsight, they should've kept a better eye on him. It was an odd night of patrolling, the usual gaggle of vampires being a demon or two this time around. Big tall thing that appeared out of nowhere and left as soon as it came. Spike, always with little regard for the consequences of his actions, ran right in. Ran so hard he went right through the demon as it went into smoke. He breathed it in before going into a coughing fit, as if he could feel it in his nose and lungs, spreading in his chest like a vine that pulled everything impossible tight before releasing him like he was never in its grasp . Red flag one.

It fell on him like rain, some clumping into what looked like pink sparkles in his hair, on his jacket, his worn boots. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling away expecting to see it gunked together, but there was nothing there. It felt like his hair had been hit by my mist, slightly damp and cool. It seeped into his exposed skin, adhering itself into a pink sheen which also disappeared after only a few minutes. He remembered trying to brush it off, expecting it to feel wet but it was just slick. It was admittedly infuriating, especially since the feeling wouldn't go away. Red flag two.

“Buffy!” He shouted, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if it was going to wipe away the phantom feeling, but his complaints were met with apathy.

“There’s nothing there, Spike.” A groan bubbled in his chest.

“Astute observation, Slayer, but it feels like something’s there.” You were there beside him, something that would’ve gone unnoticed had he not been hit with your scent as your fingers brushed against his hand. He pulled away quickly out of instinct, not as subtle as he would’ve liked to because you noticed and scampered off in between Buffy and Giles. The distance between you and him got larger and the two of you talked about a mall trip you had planned and Willow was the only one to stick with him. She humored him, allowing him to shower at her place and taking a sample of skin only to find nothing. No residue, nothing abnormal, nothing had changed at all. Red flag three.

But he was sure it was fine. Nothing had really changed. You had been a bit cautious though.

You were prone to worrying, and he couldn't blame you. There was a lot to worry about when your best friends hunted demons and one of them was a literal creature of the night. You worried about Buffy so much he genuinely feared you would collapse from all the stress you put yourself under. Pursuing a nursing degree so they could avoid hospital visits unless absolutely necessary because none of you had the money. Having him train you in basic self-defense because you hated feeling like dead weight. You took up Latin and all of the other dead languages in those old dusty books just so you could be useful. You tied yourself in knots just to be sweet. God, you were so sweet. Even to your own detriment, like pure sugar that was going to rot his teeth eventually.

The more time you spent together, the more the rot seemed to take his brain than his teeth. His mouth never got anywhere near you; Buffy made sure of that. He wished he could say it was because she was babying you too much, that you were also tired of Buffy making Spike seem like the biggest mistake you could ever make. To be fair, he hardly knew you. He knew of you; he knew of the pink wardrobe and the fluffy socks and the pretty shoes. He knew of you as Buffy's cute neighbor who stopped by so often that you might as well live with them. You weren't being a baby, you were being cautious, even more now. He almost wished you didn't believe him as much as you did, maybe you'd keep visiting him. He hadn't seen you in days and it was really starting to take a toll on him. His leg bounced and he got in the bad habit of biting his nails, which was starting to get annoying with how often he had to repaint them.

If you were here, you would repaint them. You would sit your pretty self on his busted couch, and you'd have a little bag with you with all your pins and charms that jingled like the earrings that dangle from your ears. In your bag would be at least three shades of pink, a range of blacks and greys, and a wild card or two, maybe a blue or a green. You'd let him pick his color, despite knowing he always went for black. You asked anyway, just in case he decided to go with pink just to humor you. Had you walked through right now, he would've obliged. He would've done anything you asked him too. It wasn't even that he was lonely, but it was getting to suffocate in here. It was getting hot, like a fire was spreading. Each breath felt smoke filled, his skin was on fire, his skin was getting damp, like the dust had fallen again. His hand was shaky as he put a cigarette between his lips and lit it, surely the smell would break him out of what had to be a daze.

If you were here, you'd make a joke about him needing to air the place out. He'd probably open the door and call that enough air, but he liked his privacy, and he didn't like the idea of anyone just being able to waltz right in. You would want to make a joke about no one wanting to visit him, but you’d bite your tongue at the fear of being too harsh. You always got that look in your eye when you thought something that could be misconstrued as mean. You took your lip into your teeth and your pretty eyelashes flitted and you looked away. He thought about what it would be like to bite your lips, wanting to see what they looked like, all red and even prettier than they were before. Just a taste, that's all he wanted, a taste.

He got up to open up the door only for that phantom feeling to return. All over his body, it felt like he had stepped out into the sun, like every molecule that made up his body was vibrating and mere seconds from combusting. His breathing got ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly and his brain going into overdrive. He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would make it go away, but even from behind his eyelids, you were there. The idea of you, your smile, your laughter, fuck the very way you said his name. It sounded so nice coming from you.

The way you said it when he got injured in a fight when you would patch up his wounds and have a bag of blood for him to replace what he lost. “Spike.” you would say. Like he should’ve known better than to just throw himself into danger. Not even bothering to consider the possibility that he did it to look heroic, or maybe in your care with your hands over his chest. There’s no reason for him to be this beaten and bruised from some baby vamp; William the Bloody. Spike? He had pride, but not as much as Angelus. It was easily quenched by the fact that he was in no way losing with your delicate hands tracing over faded scars on his chest and feeding him blood while they were just dust.

“Spike.” Buffy would say, her tone laced with less concern and more disapproval. She knew something was up. After all they had gone through together, vampires should’ve been nothing for him. He had to space out his “fuck ups” just to get her off his back, just to get her voice out of his head. She didn’t say his name like you did.

There wasn’t much better than how you said his name when it was just the two of you. Being together in his crypt, sometimes in your own bedroom which you had invited him into much to Buffy’s chagrin. “It’s Spike,” you had said, “how many times have we saved the world with him? I think he’s earned it.” It sent shivers down his spine. He would’ve saved the world so much sooner if it meant being able to be in your space. If it meant getting to hear you say his name through fits of laughter, trying to regain your breath while still finding enough to utter his name. “Spike.” you said, your hand over his while you giggled. He felt that heat now, felt the heat of all your touches culminating right now. All over his skin, tensing his muscles, holding his chest as he fought for breath himself.

While he had the chance, he should’ve raided your underwear drawer. Now he was left to fist his dick with just the memory of you. You wouldn’t notice a pair or two gone, surely you wouldn’t. It was the type of small thing you would overlook because really what is a pair or two. You wouldn’t want him to be in pain, hearing his situation now, you’d feel like it was all your fault. The least you could spare was a pair of your prettiest panties for him to wrap around his cock while he fisted himself to the thought of you and how you would say his name now.

The closest he’d gotten would be after a big battle. You had taken a beating, by the time you had gotten to a safe space you had lost a dangerous amount of blood, but the sounds that came out of your mouth were so delicious. And you trusted him to carry you to safety, your bloody hand wrapping itself around his bicep to maintain some tether to consciousness. “Spike.” your voice dripping with pain, but even that wasn’t enough to mask how pretty you sounded. He felt bad then for how hard it got him, but there is such a thin line between pain and pleasure. The only difference now would be circumstance, and he would never hurt you. This would be good for you, the both of you, you just had to let him. You just had to say his name.

“Spike?” In that moment, he knew there had to be some high power looking out for him when he heard your voice. Dream-like, and soft, like the wind could have blown it out and away from your lips. “Spike?!” you said again. He couldn’t tell if it was his shred of restraint or his body’s unwillingness to listen to his brain that kept him glued to his couch.

“Now really isn’t a good time, love.” He tried to keep his voice level, he really did, but it was too much. And you weren’t stupid, he heard the heels of your shoes against the hard floor and smelt you before he even saw you. And fuck you smelt heavenly.

“Are you okay? What happened-” You looked like you had a halo above your head, or maybe he was much further gone than he had thought. You cut yourself off in shock. When you had walked in, you hadn’t expected to catch Spike with his hands down his pants.

“You know what, I’m just gonna go a-and come back later.” You tried to smile in an attempt to make the situation less awkward than it needed to be, but he grabbed you by your wrist.

“Wait-I just need-fuck. I just need you to stay for a bit. I don’t feel good.” Your eyes met and you saw the sheen of what you assumed to be sweat covering his chest and face. His pupils blown out, his hair out of place, his labored breathing, like he couldn’t catch his breath. Oddly enough, the sheen had a pink tinge, and despite the fact that his fangs were protruding, his vampire face hadn’t appeared. You reached out to touch his forehead to surprisingly find a temperature. He groaned at the contact, both wanting to melt into your skin and like it physically pained him.

“What happened?” He declined the answer, instead pushing his head more into the palm of your hand, tipping his head to sniff the inside of your wrist. “What are you doing?” You tried to pull away and put some distance in between the two of you, but he pulled you back, even closer than before.

“You smell so good.” He nosed his way past your wrist and up your arm till he made it to your collarbone, trying to find where he could hear your blood pump the loudest. “Stop it!” you pushed against him as soon as you felt the tip of his fangs attempting to break skin. To both of your surprise, he let you. It looked like it pained him to do so, his eyes screwed shut and his hand gripping the arm of his couch until the wood snapped.

“If this is about the demon thing, I’m gonna go get Willow, okay? You just need to stay right here.” The authority you had laced in your voice was cute.

“Just stay here with me, yeah? There’s no need to get Willow. We don’t need Willow.” His voice had dropped an octave, his pupils blown and his brain damn near empty. Anything went in one ear then out the other as he held your hands in his, staring through you as if daring you to defy him.

“Spike, you aren’t well.” You had tried to reason, but all he heard was that you weren’t saying no because you didn’t want this. You were concerned for his well being, even when he had you pinned down and his teeth at your neck, each breath moving you closer to him drawing blood, you were saying no because you were concerned he didn’t want this. You somehow thought he didn’t want you.

“I’ve never felt better, baby.”, he said-practically fucking growled. Hell if he wanted you, he needed you. He pressed himself into you, his hands grabbing at anything he could to ground himself, his left at the base of your scalp and his right bunching the fabric of your skirt in his hands. He breathed into your neck, nipping and nicking at bare skin then soothing it with his tongue and kisses. He worked himself up over you, taking and taking until he was drunk, his tongue lolled out as he put his head on your chest.“Can I fuck you.”

You had been caught in a daze yourself, his words had barely registered. You had more sense than he did at this point, finding enough resolve to shake your head. “Please.” he begged, groaning it out through clenched teeth. “I need you to make it feel better, please God just make it feel better.” He had pushed his hips into your hand, his weeping cock leaking onto you, pleading with you to touch it. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear, just be my sweet girl, yeah? Just make it better.”

You experimentally rubbed the tip, and he whimpered. His hand grabbing your wrist so fast a look of shock flashed across his face. You took that as a sign to pull away but he put your hand back around him, pushing your hand up and down his base. “Too much too quick, love.”

Any hesitancy you had was swallowed as he smashed his lips into yours. It was urgent and quick, almost bruising how hard he kissed and held you as if you were going to disappear at any point. He tugged at a handful of hair, catching you in a moan that he used to force tongue into your mouth, sucking it as you pumped his dick at a painfully slow pace.

His kisses made you breathless, and it was then you realized that he likely forgot in his haze that you actually needed air. He moaned into your lips, the sound spreading throughout your body and shaking you to your core. It wasn’t lost on him how damp your underwear had gotten, had he had the strength to pull away to touch you he would, but the mere seconds his skin would be off yours was enough of a deterrent to keep him in place.

You tried to move away, but his hand kept you in place. “Don’t move.”, he rushed it out, a tone that otherwise would’ve been more commanding had he not been weak himself. “Keep going.” His hips bucked and stuttered, his movements becoming erratic the more faint your touches became. Like it was a warning; let me up for air and I’ll keep touching you. He whined at the thought of you pulling away. That wasn’t fair.

His lips parted from yours, settling for the corner of your mouth before moving to your jawline to your neck, then just under your ear. You gasped for breath, you numb with the ecstasy of air and the feeling of his rushed kisses. He was getting close. Your hand was covered in his sticky pre-cum, his cock even more so as your hand moved alone over him, his own hand now grabbing at your shirt at the feeling. You squeezed at the bass, a motion he clearly enjoyed with how his body tensed up. A series of obscenities flowed from his pretty lips as he came, spurts of his cum getting over your pretty pink skirt, an image Spike would get himself off to later.

You didn’t get long to sit in what just happened when he was on you again, laying you on your back and ripping your skirt clean off. You moaned something that sounded like “My skirt!”, but neither one of you were really worried about it.

His lithe fingers were quick, rubbing you through the fabric of your panties, while he kissed up to where you wanted him excruciatingly slow. His hands rubbed and teased at the soft skin of your thighs, marking bruises everywhere he went.

He moaned into you, sniffing you once again, before finding a place he wanted to dig his fangs into. Maybe it was how delicately he stuck in his teeth, maybe it was the lust blown fervor, but it didn’t hurt as much as you anticipated. In fact, you moaned at the intrusion, unable to know what to do with yourself as he sucked and lapped up the blood he had drawn. Your fingers wove into his hair, as if he could be pulled any closer to you than he already was. “You taste so good. So good.” And he let you know as such. The obscene noises that flew from the both of you, the slurping and whines, the pop of his lips as he traveled from one spot to another. But that’s not how he intended to eat you whole.

You were unbelievably wet, soaking through your panties and even Spikes fingers before he took pity on you and decided to pull them aside and plant his fingers into you. Now, you weren’t a virgin, but you had never had sex that felt as good as this. Never had someone in you that had hundreds of years of practice beforehand.

“You’re doing so good, Sweet Girl. So good, can’t get enough of you.” What was an attempt to calm your nerves, had you keening and over the moon, the praise bringing tears to your eyes as you ground yourself in his hand. That didn’t move him along any quicker, his tongue still collecting anything you would give him like he hadn’t been fed in years.

“Spike!” You called out, which finally seemed to get his attention. He saw the glass-like look your eyes had taken and the pout on your face. You looked like you were about to cry. Poor thing, so desperate. He said he’d take care of you, make you feel good. No point in denying the inevitable.

You whined when he pulled out of you just to choke when he began to devour you. His nose at your clit and his tongue plunging into. “Thank you.” he muttered into you, like this was some divine gift to him. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” The combination of his praise and how good he was giving it to you made that coil in your belly tighten and tighten until it threatened to snap. And he just kept going. Completely in his own world, the only thoughts in his mind being about you, how you smelled, how you tasted, god you were so good to him. Letting him eat you out like this, helping him like this. He shouldn’t have expected any less from his girl. His sweet girl. No one else's, you couldn’t be anyone else's after this. His grip tightened around your thighs at the very thought. “Mine.” he said, the vibrations hitting your core deliciously. “Mine.”

“Yours Spike, all yours.” He hummed in approval, inserting two fingers back into you while he kept up his electric pace. He held your hand as it began to be too much, your back arching off the couch and your thighs closing around his head as he just kept going. You called his name as you came, high and higher until it became too heavy on your mouth and you couldn’t say anything at all. The grip you had on his hand had loosened, but he hadn’t let up. He still rambled into you, “Again. Again. Again. Please.”

You didn’t know if your hips were bucking into him or try to wiggle away from him. Either way, both attempts were unsuccessful. With how hard he pulled on your panties they had snapped and had been thrown to the side for the simple crime of being in his way. His forearm lay on your hip keeping you in place. Your hand still laid in his, him squeezing it as if it was any comfort from the inescapable feeling of his tongue licking your thoroughly soaked pussy.

Your toes curled in your frilly socks as you came again on his tongue, and you foolishly expected that to be enough. You would’ve asked him to stop if you could pant out anything more than whines. You would’ve pushed him away if you could manage anything more than weak taps on his forearm. “No more.” you whispered out. “Can’t.” His fingers rubbed your hand as some form of encouragement.

“Yes you can, love.” You shook your head weakly, scooting your hips back only for him to swiftly smack your pussy. You preened on the contact, and he drank in the arousal that gushed out just from that. “My sweet girl isn’t gonna disappoint me, is she? She’s gonna make me all better, isn’t that right?” Your brain was so fogged out you couldn’t even produce a response. You just groaned and squirmed, unable to brace for impact when he smacked you again.

“Spike!” You cried out, but he didn’t care. Heknew you were feeling good from how much you gushed while he tongue fucked your cunt. It was just a bit too much for you right now. You would feel better, you just needed to let go some more. He tried to relax you, tried rubbing mindless shapes on your skin to calm you down as he worked you through your third orgasm, but you just heaved. Your tits bounced with how heavily you breathed, and yet after all of that, he still didn’t feel better. Why didn’t he feel better?

Despite the relief that came from him pausing his abuse, you still whined as he sat up from behind your legs. With your taste still on his tongue, he kissed you. You sighed into him, the feeling of his large hands moving from your hip to under your shirt to touch your tummy and rip your bra in half. You didn’t even notice him moving you into his lap and setting your thighs on either side of him so you straddled him. He thumbed your nipples, pinching and rubbing over them while he relished in the feeling of you cunt so close to his dick.

You didn’t seem to catch on either as he slid in between your folds, too lost of him finally kissing you again. You moaned into this kiss as his fingers dipped to toy with your clit before he whispered in your ear. “Just one more.”

In one fluid motion, he slipped his dick into his cunt, catching you as your limbs went weak. He was so big you felt your eyes water with the pressure of him being in you. You could tell he was struggling to stay still, but the haze had worn off enough for him to regain some sense. He still waited eagerly for you to adjust, brushing the fallen tears from your eyes and kissing your checks to make it all better.

“Too big. It’s too big.” You stuttered. It was all you could manage to mutter out. He cooed at you, his dick growing harder than he thought possible at the feeling of it all and the praise.

“I was made for you, Pretty Girl, you can take it.” You yelped as he jerked his hips into yours, but he just couldn’t help it. You were so pretty like this, all fucked out and dumb. Not a thought behind those eyes of yours and the only thoughts he was capable of was you. How warm you were, how wet you were, how tight you were. You were squeezing him and milking him dry and as much as he tried he just couldn’t stop him self from fucking into you.

“I’m sorry.” and he meant it. You weren’t ready and he couldn’t even tell if he was ready, his body had a mind of his own and he felt himself just slipping into the feeling of being enveloped by you. “Just too good. You’re too good. My good girl. You’re gonna take all I give you, aren’t you, love? You gonna be my sweet girl and take it?” His voice was breathy and low and impossibly hot.

All you could manage was a soft ‘mhm’ as you took him in. It wasn’t like you had any other choice as you bounced on his cock, gripping at his chest and taking in each moan you earned as you drew blood from your scratches.

You felt every inch of him, felt the tip of his dick hit your cervix and kept pounding at it like it was his job; like he would die if he didn’t. You can’t do anything but take it as you screw your eyes shut and just try to breathe as everything in your body fights to hold on to some feeling. It was impossible to think, not when Spike’s hands were all over you and his touch was so incredibly hot. Even stranger, a pink glow began to emanate from him, that or you were closer to passing out than you originally thought. .

He kept you close to his chest as you both chased your impending highs together, your lips meeting in the middle as you moaned and sighed into each other's mouths and he was a goner, rambling like a mad man in your ear, thanking you endlessly for something he couldn’t put his hands on. Maybe it was your release, that you felt coming like a truck. He squeezed at the fat of your hips, pulling you even closer until neither one of you could tell where the other started and ended and you came like that, so close that you were almost suffocating, but a different kind from before.

He came not long after you, his dick still inside spurting his cum inside you and keeping it in there with little intention of coming out any time soon. That pink glow had faded from before, fading away until there was nothing there and the slight pink tinge from before was gone too. His eyes drooped a bit, his blue irises that you hadn’t realized you had missed finally reappeared, his pupils returning to normal and his fangs retracting.

He hung his head in your neck and you felt his temperature drop a bit, no longer boiling hot. He refused to move his head from his spot though. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was ashamed of what just happened.

After the both of you had a moment to catch your breaths, he removed himself from inside you, stalking off to find something to wear now that your outfit was completely ruined. He even had the decency to turn around while you changed, granted he had a hard time looking at you anyway.

“You’re gonna wanna deep clean that couch.” You said to break the silence. You were surprised you got a chuckle out of him.

“Yeah. I don’t normally do this sort of thing on there.” Another moment of silence passed between the two of you.

“You know, we can go back to my place and I can fix your nails. I can tell you’ve been biting at them.” He didn’t need to be told twice either. The place still stunk of sex and his head was feeling clearer than it had in days, he couldn’t stand to be there right now.

“About all of this…you won’t tell Buffy, right?” You giggled.

“Not if you don’t.” And that was more than enough for him.

#btvs #btvs imagine #btvs x reader #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy the vampire slayer fanfiction #buffy the vampire slayer imagine #buffy the vampire slayer x reader #spike btvs x reader #spike btvs imagine #spike btvs fanfiction #spike x reader #spike btvs #spike smut #spike btvs smut #btvs smut #buffy the vampire slayer smut

2K notes · View notes

sansaorgana · 4 months ago

Note

I love soft Benny sm, but can we have some smut? 🥺 maybe he and the reader in the car after a picnic

hi, baby! 😘 thank you for your request and I am terribly sorry that you had to wait so long but I had lots of things on my head 😭 I missed writing and I missed writing for Benny so it's quite long and it's basically porn WITH plot 🤣😊 The Reader here doesn't have a good relationship with her family and her biggest wish is to run away somewhere with Benny – meanwhile his biggest wish is for her to marry him (Benny being Benny 🙄 lol)

🔞 THIS FIC IS 18+ 🔞

my requests are currently closed 🙅🏻‍♀️

Benny wasn’t visiting you at work every day but when he was – it was your favourite moment of the day. He would always order the same thing and sit in the same place on the barstool by the counter. He was not a man of many words so sometimes he would just sit there and watch you work for half an hour before leaving and hopping back onto his bike. But it was enough for you – to just have him around. It made you feel safe, loved and appreciated.

You enjoyed the way the whole diner would go silent the moment he entered the place with those lazy, heavy steps. You liked the way you immediately knew it was him by the sound of his boots and by the smell of gasoline and cigarettes. His hands, dirty with grease, handing you a few crumpled dollar bills from the depths of his worn out jeans’ pockets. He was a dream come true for a girl like you. A girl who had never found anything exciting about all those ordinary guys your friends had been trying to trap ever since high school. Those proper guys, those football team captain guys, those college high achiever guys… No, they all lacked something for you. Benny had it, though, even though you couldn’t quite name it but it didn’t matter. He was not a man of many words anyway.

“Wanna go out with me later tonight? Join the picnic?” He mumbled on that day when you were taking an empty plate from him with a few toast crumbles left on it.

“Y-yeah,” you nodded. You had a day off on the next day so you didn’t mind staying up late. “You gonna pick me up?” You asked.

“Yeah. I’m gonna get a car, okay? You can wear a dress if you wanna,” Benny said and cleared his throat before standing up and throwing a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter as usual. Without any other word, he walked out of the diner slowly, making heavy and slow steps.

You grabbed the money and watched him through the window for a while. You smiled to yourself when you saw him hopping onto his bike and driving away while the engine roared.

You wondered why he decided to take the car and whose car was it but it didn’t matter, honestly. You liked riding a bike with him but cars were more comfortable and he was right – you could wear a dress. And Benny loved you in dresses even though he never actually ordered you what to wear. However, when you had met him, you were wearing a cute pink dress but as your relationship had been progressing, you had bought more and more jeans and black leather pants for bike riding.

Tonight, you decided to surprise him and wear the very same cute pink dress that you had been wearing on the day you met.

You were a little bit nervous waiting for Benny on your driveway. You knew that your mother was staring angrily through the half-opened window with a cigarette in her hand, squinting her eyes at the car your boyfriend had driven here in. You recognised it immediately as Johnny’s.

The sun was slowly going down and you were hugging your own self even though you didn’t feel cold at all but you were anxious about your mother watching you and about the dress you had worn. What if Benny would find it silly? He was not exactly a very romantic type even though he had proposed to you on the second date.

You had declined, of course. But you had been very tempted and sometimes you had regretted your decision. If you had been his wife, you wouldn’t have to live with your mother anymore and life with her was not easy. Especially now when she was angry at you for dating a man like Benny.

Benny didn’t leave the car, though. He parked the vehicle and his arm lazily hung out from the window. There was a cigarette in his hand and he nodded at you to come over.

“Won’t you walk out and open the door for me like a gentleman?” You giggled as you leaned by the car’s window.

“Not when your mother’s killing me with her hawk eyes,” Benny snorted. “Get your ass inside, dollie.”

You nodded with a chuckle and sat in the passenger seat. The moment you closed the door behind you, Benny started the engine and drove away as fast as possible. He placed his hand on your thigh and you grabbed it with both of yours to play with his long fingers and the rings he was wearing.

“Why did you take Johnny’s car?” You asked, looking up at him.

“He wanted me to do him a favour and I needed a car with a big trunk for that. Nothing to worry your pretty head about, yeah, sweetheart?” Benny answered without even looking at your face but you noticed his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel and you immediately knew it was one of the mysterious jobs he was being assigned to do around the club.

It was the source of his money and you never asked because you didn’t have to be a genius to know it was nothing legal and nothing safe. You didn’t want to know but you were awfully worried.

“I would go crazy if something happened to you, you know that, right?” You only asked and swallowed thickly.

“I know,” he nodded but still didn’t look at you.

“Do you like my dress?” You changed the subject quickly and Benny finally laid his baby blue eyes on you. He looked you up and down with a slight smirk before looking back on the road.

“I do,” he answered. “You look fucking beautiful, (Y/N).”

“Thank you, Benny,” you felt your cheeks heating up and you had to look away, too. You kept holding his hand but your eyes were focused on the road now.

You loved those picnics. They made you feel like you were a part of something and that was a feeling you had missed your whole life. Your family was far from perfect and you had never felt like you truly had it – a family. They were just a bunch of people you shared some genetic code with. At school and at work you never truly had friends either. Not that you had been a complete loser, no. And those girls you had been hanging around with probably thought you were close. But you knew it was not true. You had never felt any deep connection to them and you had never been interested in what they were talking about because they mostly talked about boys. All those boys you didn’t find interesting at all.

But women here – the women dating The Vandals – they understood you. They all were here for different reasons but you all shared this one quality that made you attracted to men like those bikers. They were outcasts and it took lots of bravery and lots of rebelliousness to love a man like that.

Some of those girls were just like their men – dirty with grease, downing one beer after another, loud and vulgar. Some were party girls who wanted to have fun. Some were ordinary wives and mothers. You felt like you were all of them at once and none of them at the same time. But just like them – you were there and you were enjoying it. Sitting by the fire and sipping on the beverage Benny had brought you, gossipping with the women and laughing as the guys watched and talked by their bikes and cars. Sometimes they were showing tricks on their motorbikes or playing games.

The night was warm and you watched the sky as the sparks from the fire danced in the air. Nights like this should never end, you thought. And just when you were smiling to yourself about it, Benny approached you and put his hand on your shoulder to squeeze it gently.

“It’s time for us, baby,” he announced.

“So early?” You batted your eyelashes.

“Most people are goin’ back home now,” he pointed out and you looked around. He was right, you just hadn’t noticed, too distracted by your staring at the sky and daydreaming.

“Okay then,” you nodded and put down the coke bottle. “Bye!” You waved at the few girls who were still sitting there and they waved back at you.

Benny walked you to Johnny’s car and this time he opened the door for you like a gentleman. You chuckled and got inside but when the door behind you closed, you suddenly felt an odd and sad feeling deep in your gut. You realised that this night was truly about to be over now and you didn’t like it.

With a heavy heart, you watched Benny getting behind the steering wheel and starting the engine. He noticed your weird behaviour, though.

“What is it, doll?” He asked when you were on the road leading back to the city already.

“I don’t wanna go back home, Benny. Not yet,” you looked down and began to play nervously with the hem of your dress.

“We don’t gotta go home, baby,” Benny said after a short while of silence but you didn’t say anything to that. It was an empty promise if he hadn’t actually proposed anything. “I ain’t got a lotta money on me, sweetheart,” Benny sighed as he glanced at you nervously. The whole idea of him not being able to actually provide for you was a touchy subject for him.

“We don’t have to go to the motel, Benny,” you quickly said although you couldn’t understand how he could be broke after doing a job for Johnny. It was between them two, though. “We can simply ride around. It’s Johnny’s gas, right?” You bit on your lower lip and Benny chuckled at that as he nodded.

“Yeah, baby, it’s Johnny’s gas, so we can use it all and ride around,” he agreed and you smiled widely at that. “You wanna ride ‘round town or what?”

“Maybe we could go somewhere private,” you nodded. “To the forest?” You proposed. There was a secluded spot Benny sometimes was taking you to on his motorbike.

One thing about Benny that had been surprising to you at first but then it totally made sense later was that he loved nature.

“Sure, we can do that,” Benny nodded and you leaned back in the seat with a sigh of relief. With each passing moment you were more and more further away from Chicago and from your home with your mother waiting for you inside.

“I wish we could just ride and ride until we reach California,” you whispered. It was not the first time you mentioned it to Benny and you already knew what the answer would be like.

“I can’t. I got the club,” he answered and cleared his throat, a little annoyed by the fact you were constantly bringing this up. “Why are you so crazy about California, huh? Wanna be a movie star, baby?” He tried to turn it into a joke.

“It’s not about California, Benny,” you rolled your eyes. It was not about the California Dreamin’ at all. It was about running away to a sunny place with the love of your life to start over. “What about your cousin in Florida? Maybe we could go there?”

“Why would you even go with me anywhere, doll? I ain’t no good to you,” Benny pointed out but you froze at his words.

“What do you mean you ain’t no good to me?”

“If I was, you’d marry me,” Benny pointed out and now it was your turn to get a little irritated. He was bringing up the marriage subject as often as you were talking about running away.

“I would marry you if we got away from this place,” you crossed your arms and looked out of the window because you didn’t want to see his face at that moment. You were scared of his reaction – you had never made such a promise before.

“You know I can’t. I have my responsibilities here, I have the club,” Benny’s voice broke a little.

“Fuck the club,” you snapped and it made him speechless. You angrily looked back at his confused face. “You always talk about being so free and having no roots, whatever, but it’s all bullshit, Benny,” you huffed.

“You scare me, baby,” he only shook his head but he kept on driving. “You’re crazy-crazy.”

To that, you didn’t say anything and the rest of the drive was quiet. You knew he was right about many things – you really acted crazy sometimes. It was because you were a coward – too scared to change your life on your own. Too scared to go to the bank, take all your savings out and buy a greyhound bus ticket on your own to start a new life somewhere. You wanted to somehow use Benny to get away from this place. But it didn’t change the fact you loved him. You were crazy about him, in fact. And if your fate in life was to end up as his wife in some shitty rented flat in Chicago, you would end up as such.

“Come on, baby, I don’t wanna fight,” Benny sighed as he parked the car near your favourite spot in the forest.

“I don’t wanna fight either,” you sniffed your tears back but refused to look at him. Benny shook his head and put his arm around you to pull you closer and force you to lay your eyes on him.

He was staring at your face for a while with a mix of worry and curiosity in his blue eyes. You were sure that sometimes he would pay real money to find out what was going inside your head but you felt the same towards him so it was only fair.

Benny raised his hand to caress your cheek and wipe off all the tears before leaning in to kiss you sweetly. You kissed him back hungrily and nearly desperately, clinging to him with your fists tangled in the fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.

“You’re fucked up but sweet,” Benny murmured after breaking the kiss and you chuckled.

“Would you want it any other way?” You asked, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“No way,” he shook his head before joining your lips together again. Benny deepened the kiss and you moved from your seat clumsily to sit on his lap, tangling your fingers in his golden locks to pull on them slightly as you moaned into his mouth.

You knew that Benny knew that you hadn’t wanted him to take you here to admire nature. Of course, you enjoyed it but when you wanted to go to such a place in the middle of the night it only meant one thing. You had usually been fucking on a blanket by the lake but now you had a car so you wanted to make a use of it.

Benny’s hands grabbed you by your waist and began to squeeze the soft flesh there, pulling the pink dress in the process and revealing more and more of your legs as you were spreading them open until you felt the hardening cock inside his jeans rubbing onto your clothed pussy, making it grow wet.

You reached out to the back of the dress and unbuttoned it there to make it loose around your arms. The stripes fell down immediately, revealing your bra. Benny’s long and skilled fingers unclasped it and threw it in the backseat as he groaned at the sight of your exposed breasts.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed out and you chuckled.

“So are you, baby,” you leaned in to rub your nose with his and peck his lips.

Benny watched your breasts in awe as if it was the first time he had seen them. In the meantime, your hands worked on the zipper of his jeans. When you could finally grab and squeeze his hardening cock through the fabric of his boxer shorts, Benny kept you balanced with his hands placed flat on your back before leaning in to suck on your breasts. He began with soft kisses around your nipples, scratching you gently with his facial hair, which was making you giggle playfully. Your hands kept working on teasing his cock as he sucked and bit on your breasts to turn you on even further and you could feel your pussy leaking already.

When you felt a small wet spot from Benny’s precum forming on his underwear, you pulled the boxer shorts down and freed his cock. He groaned at the feeling and you moaned at the sight before grabbing it in your hand. You pushed him back for a moment and his eyes widened at the sight of you leaning in and spitting slowly on the tip of his red and swollen tip.

“Fuck,” his eyes rolled back and you giggled before starting to pump his cock with your hand firmly, setting up a fast and steady pace. Benny started to dig his fingernails in the soft skin of your back but he was trying to stop himself from scratching you too much. Your free hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to open his eyes and focus them on you again. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathed out, his gasps barely audible.

“And all yours, Benny, baby,” you assured him and at those words, he groaned and moved his hands back to your hips. One of his hands went lower to pull your panties aside and reveal how wet and sticky you were already for him.

You guided his cock to your entrance and sank on it slowly, savouring every moment as your walls clenched around his length, which was filling you up sweetly and stretching you out. You hissed and threw your head back as your eyes rolled and Benny kept squeezing your hips to keep you steady and control the pace.

When you finally had him whole deep inside of you, Benny gave you a moment to adjust. A moment filled with your deep and loud breaths and his face pressed to your chest as he went back to sucking on your nipples.

Eventually, you looked down and put your hands on his shoulders for balance as you began to roll your hips and ride him slowly. Benny was an impatient man, though, and he started to help you immediately by pushing his hips up and rutting into you, which made you gasp and moan as your fingernails dug deep into his shoulders.

Benny moved his lips up from your breasts to your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there and leaving his hot and wet open-mouth kisses all over. You wondered what Johnny would say if he had known what you were doing inside his car but you shrugged this thought off quickly.

The driver seat was squeaking from all your fucking and you were sure that the car was bouncing itself in the rhythm of your hips but you knew very well that no one would catch you there in the middle of the forest. Parking lots were much more risky. But not this forest, not this place. In fact, it was your place. And perhaps you would be missing it if you managed to get away from Chicago.

You whined and trembled when Benny’s cock found your sweet spot after you moved slightly and he was able to fuck you in a different angle. You cupped his face to move it away from your neck and he looked up to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were hazy but yours were finding it difficult to focus as well since they were filled with tears of pleasure. You pressed your forehead to his and helped him to fuck you by rocking your hips back and forth.

“I love you, Benny,” you let out a quiet whisper from your lips to his, for nobody else to hear. “I’m gonna marry you, baby,” you promised, picking up the pace.

Your words made him groan and start rutting into you faster as well but his moves were growing chaotic. You didn’t mind, though, because you could feel a knot in your lower abdomen forming already and you were close yourself.

“I’m gonna be your wife. I’m gonna be Mrs. Cross, baby,” you were whispering promises mindlessly, knowing it would bring him closer and it seemed to be working for you, too.

You moved one of your hands down to between your legs to rub on your clit but Benny realised what you were doing so he took one of his hands away from your hip and pushed your hand away to take the lead instead. His fingers found your swollen and achy clit quickly before rubbing circles on it and making you let out choked out sobs as tears of pleasure streamed down your cheeks.

You came with a loud cry of his name, arching your back and throwing your head back while your eyes shut close and your walls clenched around his cock. He came right after you, filling you up with a few grunts and chaotic thrusts.

You gave yourselves a short moment to come off of your highs. You waited for your heartbeat and breath to go back to normal before you relaxed your muscles and fluttered your eyes open to look down at Benny’s fucked out face.

“You look like a mess,” you chuckled in a raspy voice and caressed his face before fixing his ruffled hair.

“So do you, doll,” Benny winked and helped you to get off of his lap, letting his softening cock to slip out of you with a hiss. You felt his cum mixed with your juices leaking down your thigh but you didn’t mind and you just pulled your panties back into their place.

While moving back to the passenger seat, you reached to the backseat for your bra. You put it back on and buttoned your dress back up before fixing your hair nonchalantly with your hand in the mirror of Johnny’s car.

Benny wiped the sweat off of his face with the palm of his hand before pulling his boxer shorts back up and zipping his jeans. He got out of the car and lit himself a cigarette as he leaned on the hood of the car. You gave him a short moment of silence and peace before getting out of the car as well and sitting on the hood next to him. You didn’t say anything, you only put your head on Benny’s shoulder and you stared at the stars above with a loud sigh.

“Did you mean that?” He asked, eventually. There was lots of insecurity in his voice and it was unusual for Benny to feel this way.

“That I’m gonna marry you?” You asked and he nodded after a while of hesitation. “Yeah, why not? I only said no back then because it was our second date. Not because you ain’t no good enough for me, you know?” You looked up and caressed his hair gently.

Benny turned his head around slowly to meet your loving gaze.

“You know, I don’t like all those things Johnny’s askin’ me to do for him these days,” Benny confessed and you furrowed your brows. “I might not ride with the club anymore after all, I dunno yet,” he shrugged his arms. “I been thinkin’ maybe we could go to California after all. Or Florida. Or wherever you want, baby, really, I don’t care. I just wanna be with you, yeah?” Benny joined your foreheads together and you grinned at him.

“Yeah, Benny, I want the same,” you assured him. “Let’s get out of this place, we’re starting to waste here and we deserve so much more.”

“You surely do,” Benny chuckled and pecked your lips before moving his head away to take a drag of his cigarette.

You squeezed his arm tighter and chuckled sadly at his words before leaning to kiss his cheek lovingly.

“So do you, Benny. I’m gonna make you see that one day, baby,” you promised. “But until then, you just gotta believe me when I say that. You’re one of a kind.”

MASTERLIST || BENNY MASTERLIST

#sansaorgana: Answered #lovely anons #benny cross x reader #austin butler x reader #*benny #lilysfiction

152 notes · View notes

temis-de-leon · 1 year ago

Text

Tw: dark themes (mentioned prostitution, sex trafficking and eating disorders), my general opinion on sins and demons (related to what I've learned in school and my family's beliefs) and very ooc OM! cast.

Obey me should be 18+. Obey me should be bloody and vicious. Mc's presence would be so much impactful if only the demons behaved like demons and the angels behaved like angels. If Solomon was an almost forgotten king living amongst dark creatures with no crown on his head.

When i think of Solomon i think of that story where two mothers were arguing about a living child. He offered giving each of them one half of the baby.

Where's that Solomon?

Why does Mammon keep spending money? True Greed lives within those parents that choose witnessing their child in pain over paying expensive medicine. Those people that bought one pair of leather boots ten years ago and refuse to buy something new because everything is "too expensive" nowadays. Mammon should be selfish and bitter, criticizing everyone's spending habits, not encouraging them.

But Mammon's greed represents having everything and more, you may say.

Well then, if he wants to have everything and more, why does he gamble? Does he expect to win every single time? I'm not convinced.

And Beel shouldn't be hungry all the time. On the contrary, he should be full. He should be eating without really having the need to do so. Food is not a coping mechanism for Gluttony, it takes the whole meaning of sin away. Beel should eat because he can do it and because he wants to do it. He should be eating until he feels sick and then keep eating because, why not? The food is delicious and it's right there.

And on top of that they're demons. Mystical beings dedicated entirely to temptation and punishment.

In obey me they're all bark and no bite (except lesson 16 and maybe Lucifer sometimes).

Give me some violence. Give me the gore that comes with living in hell. Give me a mentally unstable MC that truly shouldn't survive the exchange program. Demons all around are obsessed falling in love with them. Give me a true reason and not plot armor.

Envy and Pride are so close. Levi should be as ruthless as Lucifer. Greed and Lust? Prostitution and sex trafficking would put Mammon and Asmo on top of the food chain.

Tell me why Diavolo is more powerful than Barbatos.

Tell me how Luke is still alive.

Masterlist

#obey me #obey me! shall we date?#obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #dark themes #dark thoughts #obey me solomon #seven sins #obey me mc

468 notes · View notes

vampiretendencies · 2 years ago

Text

throw another stone at a glass house

request/summary; your writing literally gives me life. love it sm <3 would you be able to do something where jj and the reader get into an argument at dinner but they have a rule to never go to sleep mad at each other?

pairing; jj maybank x fem!reader

warnings; fluff & angst, maybe a bit suggestive

authors note; love loved writing this anon :,) pls continue to send in requests ! gif creds to owner

His cured blood was boiling— searing even.

Eatery being complacent, fairy bulbs roped neatly and whimsically throughout the establishment. Fake plastic plant leaves braided about the paneled open roof. The trimming on the tables simplistic and clothed white, any other vibrancy would clash with the modern elegance that was being established. Clammer from steel trays and the mouthy Kooks that JJ was rubbing elbows with.

His attire is classy to fit his false image— dapper wrinkle-free black button up: buttons done up until the narrowing of his chest, not too revealing, not too Pogue-like. Arms broad and fibrous, giving quite the show whilst they bulged and unbulged with every movement he made. Grey slacks, steamed specifically for this event, an absolute fool as to not recognizing himself cleaned up so pleasantly.

The amount of meals he missed simply for this one meal, to scrimp and scrape pennies together merely to see a joyous picture-perfect smile planted on your face.

And he hadn’t told you he was doing so, but for about around a month now he’s been saying ‘Got a special night for us in the works baby.’

You knew it was tonight and you knew the address.

It wasn’t a familiar one, no, the both of you, Pogues, and not having heard of such a lavish restaurant. Hell, JJ was even awestruck himself when he stepped foot in the door.

But to him it was showing you a glimpse into the future with him. The life he would scavenge to define, to escape the one he’s living in now.

Full Kook.

But, nevertheless a Pogue at heart.

With that being said, he cannot fathom as to why you wouldn’t be here.

As to why you wouldn’t be here basking in the night, with him.

As to what could possibly be any more revelation, right here.

“Sir, are you ready to order yet?”

The same lanky waiter, with a nasal like voice spoke— and the irritation of it made JJ’s skin crawl. His class bow tie, with upheld posture was something JJ cut his eyes at, interrupting his thoughts as he already done prior.

“I told you no the past three times, didn’t I?”

JJ bit back at the man, partially because he’d been to JJ’s table all those times within the span of twenty minutes, not to mention prior to when he’d arrived two hours ago. The waiters mouth turns up in disgust.

“M’waitin’ for my girl, alright?”

He proceeds to add, confirming again to not come back unless he proclaimed he was ready. A kind way of saying ‘fuck off’.

“We cannot continue to keep holding your table this long, there are other people waiting to eat.”

“I’ll call her.”

The waiter clicks his tongue, spinning on his heels to the rest of his section to serve. And JJ presses your contact in his phone, as he did thirty six calls ago— to be exact.

Pitiful, going straight to voice mail, beating organ falling straight to his half-cut boot clad feet.

Pissed, seeing to it that he should be. All this money, all this devotion, only for it to go to waste due to you not being on time?

JJ would give his soul away not feel this.

On the verge of flipping over this table and making a scene just for shits and giggles, or to cope.

The reason you were late was anonymous to him. A slumber took over you, sleeping in later than usual after work, exhausted in that shared apartment. Forgetting to charge your phone, all events that pushed you farther and farther behind. Remnants leaving you pressed to get ready for the event, all whilst having to catch a ride from Kie.

One would probably wonder why JJ simply didn’t wait for you to get ready and just drive you to the surprise himself. He was too adamant, prying on the idea that, even appearance would be a remembrance factor.

Small heels colliding with cement in a clack sound, digits on the iron knob studying the building once more, to assure yourself this location was right.

Pulled straight out of a dream.

And you prodded on the thought of JJ affording this, the effort that went into it. Wondering why he thought he had to spend so much just on you, yet impressed with your boyfriend— if only you knew the sheer devastation upon him.

The red lacey satin of your dress was enough to turn heads and you did just that, strutting whimsically to the front podium to be sat at the table with JJ. Every Kook eye studied you, but you spotted one head of hair in particular. Sat in a dainty wooden chair that caused his back to be turned to you.

Numerous round tables, purely yearning for just that one.

That one with the unearthly being; light locks dancing over his features, and a jawline fierce enough to cut paper.

The one that’s battling with himself as to wether or not to make a big deal out of this, the moment he saw you next.

Little did he know you were feet away, gawking at him and the entirely ethereal gesture he did for you.

Jesus, he looks so fucking hot.

Dapper.

Heat growing on his neck whilst he feels a shadow standing over him, he continues to play with the given metal utensils in front of him.

Perhaps the knife grazing past his fingertips, would pain much less than the ache of disappointment surging in him.

He almost, turns to face the shadow preparing to tell the waiter off. But as his sense receptors fill with that familiar warm vanilla scent ...

He doesn't.

He doesn't because he knows it's you.

And he's gathering himself for the argument that's about to ensue.

Did JJ want to fuss and fight with you?

Absolutely not, he avoids confrontation at any given moment.

However, he is also human and can only take so much.

Your graceful hand stretches over his flexed back, tensing up at a touch that would normally lull him away into no tomorrow. Blue orbs daggering into your figure overtop his eyelashes, clearing his throat at your presence. Your chair scratched along the patterned wooden floor, a notion JJ always does; pulling your chair out.

This time, you do it with no complaints; declaring to avoid the subject at hand. Acknowledging that you were in deep shit with your lover.

That exact lover teaching you so: deny, deny, deny.

And God, that dress is hugging you so tight his hairs stand up on his neck. Alluring and sensual.

If he wasn't so fucking livid, he'd rile himself up enough to temper delicate, mouth-biting, love marks to your neck.

Over

And over

Again.

Until he got his fill.

You're supposed to be mad at her, JJ thought to himself.

"Hi, J!"

His insides rumbled as if he ate sour food.

But, no food would be eaten tonight.

"Hey."

His tone laced with malice and defeat. The worse kind of greeting, not the usual 'baby' or 'pretty girl' attached to it.

Then you knew were in for it.

"Thank you for tonight, s'so pretty baby."

Reading you, he knew you were probably thinking how he managed to get a table here. But something this polite, it was uncalled for to ask such a question.

"Yeah, it was prettier earlier."

He muttered under his breath, with his face contorting into a frown. Across the table yet so far away, the bright light of the eatery highlighting his cheek bones so handsomely. And you longed for him to be, himself.

"What'd you say?"

His words unclear, he was someone that usually has a voice prominent enough to hear from miles away; so it couldn't have been anything loving.

"Nothin'."

Accent think and harsh, eye contact here and there, though it wasn't anything promising.

"Gonna' have to fix your face J, it might ruin the night."

You gasped out a laugh, but to JJ it wasn't fucking funny.

If he wanted to glower, then he'd do so and he meant it.

How dare you joke about something he busted his ass to do, money that could've been enough to pay the apartments rent that month.

He thought you were being ungrateful and that you didn't appreciate him.

First you were behind time, and now you're laughing in his damn face beating around the obvious bush that was weighing him down.

And he can't help himself.

"No ... you ruined the Goddamn night!" He spat, voice broad and demanding, through grit teeth. Knowing that if he spoke any louder the couple would be asked to leave.

He's disgusted with you for being so careless with his feelings.

A night that was supposed to be filled with desperate, needy touches, and bellies full of the finest food; JJ could find it coming to a halt.

You grew ansty in your seat at his remark, lungs missing air and guilt replaced it.

Remorse entering your features.

Falling apart at the cause of his disfunction being you.

"I didn't mean to, JJ."

You reach for his hand across the table, veins apparent and digits long; in effort to console him for your mishap of being extremely late. And he lets you interlock your finger with his upsettingly, though he waited for that same touch all night; unable to deny any touch from you.

To get his point across, he lets go.

"But, you did."

He corrected you with a tilt of his head, replacing your missing fingers with a comb through his hair.

"I-I overslept after work ... and-"

"That's such bullshit. Do you know how many long hours I worked for tonight? Just for you to not be here?"

The palm of his hand slams against the table, drawing the attention of the couple next to the two. You hurriedly shush him, bringing his anger back down to earth.

"M'trying to say sorry JJ."

Both sets of eyes glare at eachother as if in competition, and JJ's stomach whirls.

"I don't want a sorry, I wanted you to be here."

"Well ... well, I'm here now. We can still order, J."

You try again but ultimately fail.

"M'not sitting here with you and pretending like everything's 'dandy', when you fucked everything up."

His words were cold and emotionless. You search for everything to say, but all that JJ said clarified it for you. Your sullen heart thumped, salty tears brimming at corners of your eyes.

Making you feel small.

Fighting to prevent them, so you didn’t fall apart in the middle of this restaurant.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

He wasn’t cruel, not enough away, to leave you here with no way back to the shared home.

No matter how big the fight or the cause of it, it always left JJ wondering if you still besotted him the way he did you.

He wondered why, altogether going with the fact that nothing was ever permanent in his life,

Did you still crave him— on your lips, in your lungs, and beneath your skin?

One way to describe the ride home was— sickeningly tense.

Amid his rage, his hand clutches the wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white. Stealing glances at you, hoping you didn’t hate him. Neither of them able to etch a sentence, whilst the radio played and you sat turned with your knees to the door staring out of the window.

Oddly close enough to your position now.

On the edge of your side of the bed. Admiring JJ peel off his pants and unbutton his shirt, leaving them aimlessly on the carpeted floor— stripped down to his only boxers.

You’d thought you wouldn’t get much comfort tonight, being that he avoided even still after arriving home. Mustering a ‘gonna’ pick up the kitchen’, knowing full well it was only to an excuse to not be up under you while you both were overstimulated and on edge. Leaving you to get the bed ready and practice your night time routine. That’s why you are in the pajama attire of JJ’s t-shirt, his musk still attached to it.

His flesh on fire, conscious that you were boring at him.

‘When you fucked everything up,’ stung your chest and tainted your mind.

Reflecting, he’d wished he would’ve cut you some slack.

His baby, that he hoped for on nights when he had no one.

He baby, that he hoped for on every shooting star.

His baby, that he hoped for in a crowd of people.

His baby.

There was this rule book.

This rule book, was true and real, and contained all the expectations you and JJ had for eachother being together. It was for numerous reasons to begin with, but a year passed by and another and they fully became implicated.

The rule book was a thin black note book, adorned with two red pairs of lips. One was yours, and one was JJ’s— having put red lipstick on his puckered lips, afterwards staining your entire face with them.

Painting your face with his desire for you.

And still that notebook remains framed in the living room, just above the TV.

Rule #1: Never go to sleep mad at eachother.

It was in big, chunky black letters— JJ wrote it and with every letter he wrote he meant it more. One would think cheating would be at the top of the list— but that wasn’t a worry.

It wasn’t a concern because if JJ could inject you into his veins he would do just that.

And so would you.

Opening up his heart to you was not a thing he’d ever regret doing.

Letting himself become infatuated with you, and letting you treat him the way he deserved to be.

You’d silently prayed that JJ would enforce the rule tonight, seeing as even though you did fuck up, you had reason to be irate as well.

His feet pad against the khaki carpet to switch off the bedroom lights. Miscellaneous TV show, playing whilst it illuminated his appearance. He made a b-line for his side of the bed, queen size engulfing him. And you did the same, twisting to lie in bed next to him, but not right beside him.

Lying the exact same— backs flat against the black silk sheets, duvet pulled up past either arms. Pairs of eyes darting at the the other. Except JJ’s left arm is behind his head, the muscle fissuring with ease as it grooved forward from the small glance you got. His right arm is the one closest to you, flat in the open space between the two.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know how to lay.

He is so use to having skin on skin contact, but now he’s lying alone and deprived of your touch.

And you would initiate but you quiver at being denied again.

“Y’know you can’t go to sleep yet.”

His raspiness booms and echoes off the walls, causing you to jump in the slightest. Still continuing to look forward at the cinema before him, you bore into him with furrowed eyebrows— head turning on the firm pillow.

“How come?”

His insides fluttered at your melodic and rhythmically put together voice.

He’s still scolding to the touch, but realizing his tad of unreasonableness consumes him. Turning to his side, he faces you, an everlasting lump in his throat.

“Rule number one-“

“Never go to bed mad at eachother.”

You finish his sentence, and his mouth is partially open. Heartbeat becoming deathly, hands clammy at him bringing the rule book up. He remembered.

He remembered it all.

“So can we stop being mad?”

He pleads, voice cracking in the slightest.

Giving himself to you in every way possible.

Vulnerability only amendable when he’s near you.

Enchanted and explicitly, letting you suck his soul in.

And he didn’t care.

“I was never mad at you J, you were mad at me.”

Solely, truthful acknowledging that you couldn’t be viled at him chewing you out at dinner. Feeling like you deserved every bit of it.

“I s-shouldnt have said that, baby m’sorry.”

His lone hand encapsules your shoulder, the pet name leaving his mouth smoothly, a part of his everyday vocabulary. You crane your neck to place small pecks to each one of his knuckles, showing each one more attention than the last.

“S’okay, I get it J.”

“Just wanted us to have tonight, for us.”

“I ruined it, I know-“

“Nothing’s ruined … we still have us.”

His head lowers, lips puckering in the faintest way. Softly pressing with yours, all whilst enveloping you closer into his frame. An embrace his sore body hungered for. Tongue delving into your mouth, molding together like puzzle pieces. Angrily kissing to make up for the love lost today, he hummed at the comforting sensation.

“And m’not letting go of that, baby.”

3K notes · View notes

corazondebeskar-reads · 2 months ago

Text

something worse

din djarin x f!reader | my masterlist

for @burntheedges roll-a-trope challenge almost a month later 😅

note: my trope was "enemies to lovers," but I have to confess up front that there is no smut here. there's not even really a definitive conclusion. this turned into a character study because I was like, "okay let's do an imperial reader, but what about their motivation?" and then unforch I remembered this post and got struck with The Muse so here we are.

words: 3.2k

summary: you're an imperial officer loyal to moff gideon — until a run in with the mandalorian and his weird magic baby.

warnings: daddy issues, imperial reader, i don't know my mindset was v weird writing this, kind of enemies to lovers, really more enemies to allies with implied future lovin', people coming to a mutual understanding of one another, themes of parenthood and childhood and failing to live up to expectations, I'm sorry y'all I really do not know what this is but here it is anyway.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You are your father’s daughter.

How could you ever be anything else?

You are your father’s daughter, and, ergo, you are his legacy, his prophecy, his shadow.

You are your father’s daughter and nothing more.

What you do, what he does, what you stand for — it’s wrong. You know that. You do.

But what are you to do? You are your father’s daughter. Nothing more.

You were your mother’s daughter, once. Young and sweet and bright. Hair plaited by her hands, gowns cinched by her hands, heart cradled by her hands.

She never liked the ISB. Before everyone knew the truth, before the Death Star, before the genocide. She bristled when your father signed up.

“There is to be a draft,” he said, cupping her cheeks in hands that would grow less and less careful with each kill. “It’ll be better for us if I go voluntarily. More money, more choices.”

She still struggled to stay cross in those days, when you barely came up to her waist and stayed buried in her skirts every time the harshly dressed men visited your apartment, which became your home, which became your palace, for lack of a better term.

You weren’t royalty, of course. But you felt like it, long before you knew the cost. Blood money, blood diamonds, blood-soaked hands.

Of course, by then, your father rarely spilled blood. He had men to do that for him, he had command centers and lasers and booted troops to carry out his will.

When your mother died, you learned what it was like to be a child of the Empire. What it was to be your father’s daughter.

His blood held the door open for you, lit a path paved with sycophants and servants, led you by the light of the darkness that had consumed him, of greed and power and pride.

Oh, and proud he was. Proud as you took rank after rank. Proud as you took life after life — from a distance, always. Calm, controlled, cold.

When he died on the Death Star, you didn’t waver. You were your father’s daughter, dead or alive. your boss said as much when they presented you a medal in his stead, a postmortem prize for dying for the cause.

“Your father’s daughter, through and through,” Gideon said, the hint of a smirk curling his lips. Three years in his service and you still couldn’t tell when his words were meant to be cruel. He was always that way, a step ahead, smooth with silk and sneers.

This time, you knew he meant it, one way or another. After all, he had seen you grow. Seen you change and solidify, right from his first visit to your home when your mother’s hands shook as she poured the bourbon, which likely cost more than your salary even now.

You are your father’s daughter in the daylight, keeping the cracks full of confidence. There was no room in this world for your mother’s daughter. There was no room in this world for doubt.

Din Djarin is not his father’s son. Nor is he his mother’s, his buir’s, or anyone’s.

Not anymore.

Din Djarin is, as all Mandalorians are, one of many. He is but one ad’ika of his tribe and all of them wrapped together. He is Din, but he is also Mando, who is all and none.

Together, as one. One part of a whole churning, swirling essence of what it is to be Mandalorian, to be a brother, to be a father, to be a soul.

He is not his father’s son but he has his eyes. They aren’t for anyone to see, and there’s none left alive that would recognize them, anyway.

He is not his mother’s son but he has her nose. It’s not for anyone to see, and there’s none left alive that would recognize it, anyway.

But Grogu is his father’s son. His buir’s ad’ika. He shares none of his features but all of his heart.

And Din isn’t about to let Gideon tear his heart from his chest.

Not when he’s going to have to give it away to the Jetii. Not when he’s going to have to learn to live with his heart outside his body, across the stars, lifetimes apart.

Not with Gideon. Never with Gideon.

You meet the Dark Troopers at the hangar to receive Gideon’s prize, though you neither know nor care about his little petty feud with some Mandalorian. In the wake of the Empire, he’s become obsessed. Obsessed with the Mandalorians, with their steel, with their nerve. He says this thing, whatever it is, will restore the glory of the Empire.

You find it hard to care these days. What good is the Empire? It’s dead and gone, and it took your father with it.

You are not your father’s daughter. Nor are you your mother’s. Their ghosts have left you vacant, a blank slate, and the only thing keeping you from disappearing into the vast and empty galaxy is Gideon.

He’s not a particularly pleasant man, but he gives you purpose, even if you’re not entirely sure it’s worth the effort. But every day, you rise from bed, bathe, dress, and follow the whim of this vainglorious monster-made-man, and you do not think about life. You do not think about the trees or the seas or a reason to breathe.

You think about duty, not desire.

And so it goes.

Which is all to say that when the “trooper,” a glorified droid, hands you a baby, you freeze.

On the outside, you’re impassive. Unmoving, unfeeling, unruffled. Inside, there’s a buzzing taking up residence in your brain. Something fuzzy and uncomfortable.

You hold the child by the waist at a healthy distance. It looks afraid. You don’t blame it. The hangar of Gideon’s cruiser is a cold, desolate place. You are a cold, unwelcoming face.

Gideon’s grin is no less unsettling than your blankness, but the child reacts viscerally, the tips of its tiny nails digging into your fingers it tries to escape your grasp. You hold him out with a grimace, nose wrinkled.

As Gideon reaches to take it from you, it turns its fuzzy little head and looks at you with big, brown eyes. You have the strangest feeling that it's upset with you.

What a silly thought. It’s a small creature, probably not even capable of such emotional complexity.

The buzzing doesn’t stop. If anything, it’s a slow crescendo. You find yourself drawn to the sound, drawn to the way your whole body feels the prick of a thousand invisible pins until you wind up in its cell.

It happens over and over and over. You lose focus. Your tasks neglected; your will stolen. Time and time again the numb, vacant feeling finds you in the cell holding the child.

You come to your senses and set it back on the bench, it’s tiny cuffs clinking.

You blink. It blinks. You blink. It blinks.

You leave.

Until you don’t.

“I was wrong,” Gideon drawls lazily when he enters the cell to find you standing, face blank, the child in your arms. “You’re not your father. You’re weak, like your mother. Feeble-brained.”

You’re not your father.

Of course you’re not.

You never were.

“It’s been clear, of course, since he died. What a waste of a man. You’ve never had half the potential, but at least you were useful. A shame.”

The hum of the darksaber igniting drowns the buzzing for the first time since the child arrived, and you snap out of the trance, suddenly aware of the little heartbeat racing under your fingertips. It makes a soft noise, with an inflection like a question, and stupidly, you answer.

“No,” you assure the critter, by the Maker, what were you doing? But it responds just as the klaxons ring and Gideon abandons you in the cell.

Your head spins, as does the room. What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you—

Nothing, the darkness answers as it takes you.

The Mandalorian’s visor is as unreadable as the big brown eyes that peer into your cell alongside him, though much lower.

You blink. It blinks. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t move or speak, a tower in the night. Not a warning but a turret. Deadly and still, waiting for you to move and give him a reason.

You look between them. The most unlikely duo. And when you look up at the Mandalorian, your mouth opens, but he beats you to it.

“Don’t ask. I don’t know,” he grunts, and stands to his full height. “He made me bring you.”

It comes rushing like the tide, taking you out at the knees. You’re on the Mandalorian’s ship. There are a million questions in your veins, but you won’t bleed for him. You stay silent, sprawled there on the cold durasteel where you had awakened.

He pushes a canteen of presumably water and a ration pack through the grate and closes it. Without another word, he lifts the baby and leaves you in the dark.

He mostly leaves you alone—but he does consistently feed you. The little one, however, is a frequent visitor to your cell, much to the frustration of his guardian.

It takes you longer than it should to piece it together.

The buzzing in your head.

Why Gideon wanted the child.

In the end, it’s your propensity for eavesdropping, the same skill that built your career, that solves multiple mysteries at once.

The Mandalorian’s voice is gentler, almost comforting, as it wafts through the open cockpit door.

“You can’t just keep refusing to go with them, kid. I can’t teach you how to be a Jedi.”

A Jedi.

Your gasp is loud and sharp, a slip-up you’ll later blame on exhaustion and the baby’s brain manipulation or whatever mumbo-jumbo “Force” magic it’s apparently doing to you.

The muzzle of the Mandalorian’s pistol is long enough to meet your temple through the bars.

You freeze. He sighs.

“Well, I was taking you to the New Republic,” he says. “But I’m afraid that’s no longer an option.”

Your stomach swoops, but your brain doesn’t falter. You snort, daring to lift your eyes to take him in your peripherals. “Wasn’t a very good option to begin with,” you say with carefully constructed casualness. “I’m not much good to you with the New Republic, or with my brain splattered on your ship’s wall.”

“You’re not much good to me at all,” he says, but he waits.

Your heart picks up its pace. You don’t give him a chance to lose patience. “I know Gideon. I know everything.”

“Most Imps would rather die than betray their masters,” he scoffs. “But you haven’t even tried.”

You know. The lullaby pill sits safely in your fake molar. If you were your father’s daughter, you’d be an empty husk by now. “Maybe I’m a coward,” you say.

He holsters the pistol. “Maybe,” he agrees. He turns, getting halfway across the hall, when he pauses, not even looking over his shoulder at you. “You’re still not getting out of there.”

It’s one of the days when nobody comes to see you, where the ship sits stationary on some skughole while the hunter hunts and the baby… well, you don’t really know what it does. Just that it’s not there, he’s not there, there’s nobody there but you.

By yourself.

Alone.

Have you ever been alone?

Of course you have. You are your mother’s daughter, after all. And she was always alone. Until the end. But, of course, she designed it that way.

Wait, though.

You haven’t ever been alone. You are your father’s daughter, raised in the barracks, living life on a ship that was never quiet.

But he doesn’t know that. Doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know you’re anyone’s daughter, let alone something worse.

It leaves you reeling. For weeks. Your days become a mockery. No longer do you rise before the suns and accomplish your goals, fulfilling your minute purpose. No longer do you tick off the boxes of each cycle, each shift, each breath.

Instead, you’re left to do the one thing you’ve spent your whole life trying not to do. You ruminate. Alone with your thoughts, you have to face them. The steady beat of duty is replaced with dread as you wake each morning — though, truthfully, you’re not even sure it’s morning — and grapple with that you don’t have a purpose. You never did.

Not your father’s daughter. Not your mother’s daughter. Not anything at all, really.

This he seems to know, since he can’t figure out a purpose for you either. Grogu throws him side eye when he so much as thinks about the most obvious solution. Your body in a gutter would clean up his problems without much effort.

But no. His son seems to think you’re worth keeping alive. Din is a little concerned that Grogu thinks you’re a pet of some kind, the way he slips between the bars to share a snack or pat you on the knee. It’s harmless, really, and you’ve proven too listless and lost to be a threat.

So in the cell and his mind, you stay.

You are no one’s daughter, and he is no one’s son.

What this means is that no one comes to look for any of you when the ship falls from the sky. No one, of course, but the TIE pilots who shot you down.

When you come to in the wreckage, you’re alone. There are no signs of the Mandalorian or his little green baby. The bars of your cage, which you braced yourself against during the fall, are mangled enough that you’re incredibly lucky twice over. Not only do you have room to escape, but you managed to somehow avoid being impaled by 2” thick durasteel rods. Not that you’re in mint condition, but you’re alive.

And free.

The two TIEs are sitting parked nearby. Just parked. No defenses, no lurking troopers. You could fly a TIE in your sleep.

Your fingers twitch toward the panel, but you can’t seem to focus enough to punch in the override code. You can’t even think over the damn buzzing—

The buzzing.

The baby.

You’re following the sound, the sensation, before you realize you’ve turned away from the ship. It guides you, some invisible… force, through the outskirts of town into the bowels of a thrumming city.

Until it doesn’t.

When the buzzing stops, you don’t notice right away, haunted by its reverberations. When the silence sets over your shoulders like a shroud, it scares you. You can’t make it make sense, but nothing does anymore, anyway.

You are nobody’s daughter, but he is someone’s son, and for some reason, this matters more than you could ever explain.

When you find them, they look dead. Technically, you find the pilots first, and they are dead. You liberate them of their credits and blasters and weave your way into the alleys, following a trail of blood.

The trail turns to a river, at the mouth of which you find the Mandalorian. The streaky neon bounces off the beskar, and you can’t tell what’s a reflection and what’s actually blood on the armor.

Worse is the baby’s little body, face down in the soil beside his father. His soft little coat is soaked in blood, and you can only hope it is the Mandalorian’s.

Not that you care, or anything.

Familiar cold detachment sets in, allowing you to quickly assess the situation. The baby is breathing steadily, unconscious but alive. He has no visible wounds, and the blood is only on the outside of his jacket. One down, one to go.

The Mandalorian is not so fortunate. His pulse is slow and stuttering. The wound on his abdomen seeps sluggishly, not because he’s healing, but because he’s running out of blood to bleed.

In the end, you dig through the pouches around his belt until you emerge victorious with a single bacta patch, slapped sloppily on the split skin.

It does occur to you, then. To walk away.

This time, you can’t blame the baby when you tuck his sleeping body into the blood-soaked bag and heft him over your shoulder. You can’t blame his magic mumbo-jumbo when you heave the Mandalorian’s heavy boots up and under your arms, dragging the beskar-burdened behemoth behind you.

The credits stolen from your former coworkers buy you a week in a hostel. It’s little more than a bunk, but at least it has a door. The small compartment’s ceiling is too low to sit up fully — meant only for sleeping, but here you are, performing a small surgery in the cramped space. There’s just enough room for your three bodies, and you have to rob the Mandalorian to get enough supplies to keep him alive.

When he wakes, though, he doesn’t return the favor. His blaster is at your temple before you even realize he’s conscious.

“What did you do?” he growls, the pistol knocking at your already-aching head.

“What did i do? I saved your scudbucket ass,” you snap.

But he’s not even paying attention. The blaster is still debossing a little circle into your temple and he’s not even looking at you. He’s checking on the baby.

“Explain,” he says, once he’s affirmed that the little green bogwing is just having a nap. You think. It seems a little more than a nap, but he had a pulse, so you had focused on the giant sack of bleeding beskar instead.

You recount your day from waking up among the wreckage until now. He pulls the blaster away and holsters it.

“And,” you say, glaring, “you’re heavy as all hells. I think I threw my back out.”

He snorts. “Probably. Kriffing stupid to try to carry someone three times your size.”

You’re not sure that’s accurate, but given the weight of the karking armor, it might be close.

Silence fills the little bunk. He tries to shift to give you more room, but lets out a grunt as it aggravates his wounds.

“I didn’t take it off,” you say quietly, unsure why you need to assure him. But he speaks in time with you.

“Why didn’t you leave?”

You both pause.

“I know,” he says after a moment. “There’s blood in here.”

You groan. “I better not have wasted all that time and money just for you to die from a head injury. I am not fit to be a parent to your baby sorcerer.”

“It’s superficial,” he says with a shrug. “Wait, what money?”

“Your money,” you say callously.

He watches you, helmet tilting just enough to make you uncomfortably aware of your ragged appearance and every movement.

“Why didn’t you leave?” he repeats.

You close your mouth, teeth grinding as you chew on your answer. Finally, you just say it. The wretched thought that’s been seeping into the vestiges of your resolve.

“A father is a hell of a thing to lose,” you mumble, gesturing vaguely at the kid.

The Mandalorian stays still and silent for too long, setting your nerves on edge. Finally, he looks away.

“That it is,” he says quietly.

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #mando x f!reader #mando x you #mando fic #the mandalorian fic #fic: something worse #fic: din drabbles

96 notes · View notes