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glossdebut · 2 months ago

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Take a Bite Ch. 2

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: Your fledgling career as a music journalist is finally going in some kind of direction that must be on the path to success. Your coworkers like you enough to invite you out on Fridays, your boss is starting to think you’re competent enough to let you score a few bylines, and you're finally getting the hang of InDesign. All of your hard work, late nights, and complete lack of a social life are starting to pay off... Even if it all came at the expense of the longest relationship of your life. Fine. You've accepted the fact that romance isn't for you, under any circumstances. You won't risk your career for anybody. Not even Min Yoongi.

✧ TAGS: slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, producer yoongi, music journalist reader, neighbors to friends to lovers? you'll see, reader is bad at feelings, reader is post-break up

✧ WARNINGS: more social drinking in this chapter, horny thoughts from y/n, seokjin is a warning of his own tbh

✧ WORDCOUNT: 3.2k

✧ STATUS: complete

✧ AUTHOR'S NOTE: yoongi being sweet, y/n being terrified, and jin cameo to celebrate his return <3 btw if you're noticing a theme with the chapter titles, let me know teehee. taglist is up, so feel free to join if you want to be tagged in future chapters! clover beat you all to it

Chapter 2: Tell Me What You Want From Me

Unsurprisingly, it’s less than twenty-four hours later when you run into him again. It tracks, now that it’s clear that the universe is dead set on throwing Yoongi in your path, that you’d see him in person before he’s even gotten the opportunity to text you. If he actually was planning to text you, that is.

It’s a little past four in the afternoon, and you’re both making it home from work. It seems that way, anyway, based on the bag slung over his shoulder and his business casual clothes. No one looks good in business casual, but he does. You hate him, you decide.

He’s also holding a huge bag of tangerines, which is… Well, you guess it’s a talking point. If you’re going to be forced to interact again (although you’re very much considering doing the rude thing and just running inside without saying a word) you might as well make up for the last time you saw each other. Last night. Or, this morning, really. You, drunk and drooling over him. Him, stupidly charming and a very good sport.

You’ve been hungover all day, but it started to wane on your way home from work so you decide to do the neighborly thing and talk to him.

“That’s a lot of tangerines,” you say, and you feel a little smug when Yoongi visibly startles at the sound of your voice. Serves him right after making you practically jump out of your skin last night.

He pulls out one of his headphones and grins, raising the bag triumphantly.

"I have a thing about tangerines,” he explains. If that can even count as an explanation. "You want one?"

You can hear your mother in your ear chastising you for taking food from a virtual stranger, but you reason that just because you take one doesn’t mean you have to eat it, and you walk over to his door with your hand out.

“Sure,” you say, eyeing the bag warily. “Only because I’m not convinced you could eat all of those by yourself.”

He hums, staring at your hand as he pushes his door open, tilting his head toward the inside of the apartment in invitation.

Your eyes widen. You open your mouth to protest, to tell him he could just hand you one, but Yoongi already has his back to you as he walks inside, kicking his shoes off at the door. You linger lamely in the doorway of his apartment.

“Oh—Uh, are you sure?”

"Would I have invited you in if I wasn't sure?" You continue to linger as Yoongi sets the bag down on the kitchen island. He opens a cabinet, procuring a plate. "I don't bite,” he calls, turning on the tap of his sink to wash his hands.

You tentatively step inside, shutting his door behind you and setting your bag by his shoe rack. You follow his lead, toeing your shoes off before joining him in the kitchen. You watch as he starts peeling the fruit across the island, shifting awkwardly.

Yoongi's eyes dart toward you for a moment as he continues to peel.

“You're acting like you're scared of me or something. You know I'm not gonna murder you, right?" he asks with a laugh, now starting to separate the sections of the tangerine.

“I know you’re not going to murder me,” you assure him, visibly relaxing a little so as not to look like such a hopeless, awkward freak.

"Good. Just checking." He holds out a section of the tangerine, offering it to you.

You take it, smiling gratefully, but you let him eat his own piece first. It’s the least you can do, for your poor mother’s sake.

You do a shit job of being subtle as you glance around Yoongi’s apartment while you chew, but it’s not like you’re trying very hard to hide it. It’s a natural curiosity, to be in an apartment with a structural layout identical to your own, but so differently decorated. You feel like it’s not weird to look.

"What?" he asks as he eats his own section of the tangerine, and when you look back at him his eyebrow is raised in question.

“Your apartment is cleaner than I would’ve thought,” you say, laughing a little.

“Did you think it would be gross?” Yoongi asks, amused. “Do I give off a gross vibe?”

You snort, because he absolutely does not. If anyone gives off a gross vibe between the two of you, it’s probably you, the sloppy drunk that almost threw up on him last night because he was so hot and so close and you were so wasted. But you keep that bit to yourself. “Not gross. Just… messy?” you offer, snatching another section of the tangerine from his hand. “Not gross, though.”

“Oh, well that’s good,” he teases, starting to peel another tangerine and dividing it in half, sliding one half to you on the plate. “That you don’t think I’m gross, I mean.”

“No, it’s very neat in here,” you hum appreciatively, taking the plate. “The constant bedhead thing you’ve got going on is very misleading.” You point at his mussed hair. If you were a different person, maybe you’d touch it.

He does it for you, though. You watch as he ruffles his hair, smirking at you. “You don’t like my hair?”

“I didn’t say that,” you say. Something about Yoongi makes this back-and-forth come easily for you, and it feels dangerous. You should leave it alone, but you can’t. “Putting words in my mouth.”

He hums, and you watch his gaze flick down to your lips as you say the word ‘mouth.’ “You… have a little…” You watch as he brings his hand up to his own lips, rubbing his thumb at the corner of his mouth to indicate where you have something, apparently.

You hurriedly bring your own hand up to rub at your mouth. He shakes his head, laughing in a way that’s more of a sharp exhale through his nose, and then he’s rounding the counter.

When he gets to you, he holds your chin, and you hold your breath in return, looking at him with wide eyes as he wipes it away himself.

Something shifts. You can feel the charge in the air as his thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and your heart does that stupid flippy thing again. This is a bad idea, you think. Since when did your life become a cheesy romcom? You don’t have time for this. Based on the sympathy in his eyes last night when you told him that, he doesn’t either. You both just got home from working on a Saturday when you were both drinking last night, for fuck’s sake. But you can’t bring yourself to pull away even as every cell in your body screams at you to run out of his apartment right now, future awkward hallway run-ins be damned.

And then Yoongi’s apartment door is swinging open, and you’re flying away from him like shrapnel as a broad-shouldered man in a fuzzy pink sweater walks in like he owns the damn place, brown paper bags bundled in his arms.

“Yoongichiiiii,” the man sing-songs. “Your Seokjinie-hyung is here to make you dinner, you cretin!”

Yoongi, who hasn’t moved, who didn’t fly away from you like shrapnel at the interruption, finally breaks eye contact with you to look at the man. Seokjinie-hyung, apparently.

“Do you have to barge in here, hyung?” he says, with the type of tiredness that can only come from a person who endures this kind of thing five days out of the week, minimum. Can’t relate , you think. There’s nobody breaking down your door to make you dinner. “Can’t you knock, like a normal person?”

“I didn’t anticipate you’d have company, Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin says, waggling his eyebrows and looking at you. “I’m Seokjin. But you can call me oppa.” He smirks. “Unless, of course, you already call him that.”

Ew, for one. You stare at him, your lips parting in shock, because what the fuck do you say to that? You’re completely dumbfounded by this beautiful, broad, gross man.

“Hyung,” Yoongi says sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, and you finally find your voice.

“I’m Yoongi’s neighbor,” you say quickly, because this complete stranger does not need to think that you are sleeping with this other complete stranger and calling him oppa, of all things? What planet did you just beam to?

“Okay, Yoongi’s neighbor,” Seokjin says, walking further into the kitchen and setting the grocery bags down on the counter. “That’s a beautiful name. Is it French?”

“Hyung, ” Yoongi repeats, louder this time, smacking the back of Seokjin’s head. “Don’t be an asshole to my guest.”

“Yah, when did you become so disrespectful!” Seokjin says, surpassing Yoongi’s volume, smacking him right back, waving his hands around as he speaks. “Am I not a guest, too? Here I am, selflessly providing you with dinner, because god knows you’re incapable of feeding yourself properly. Don’t think I don’t see the tangerines, Yoongi-yah. Was that dinner?”

Okay, yeah. You are officially a spectator to whatever the fuck this is. You’re convinced that if you try to intervene in any way, you’ll lose an arm, and you can’t seem to get your legs to work to walk out the door, as much as you may like to. You’re frozen to the spot, entranced.

“You’re an unwanted guest,” Yoongi hisses, smacking Seokjin once again. “And I am a grown man, fully capable of feeding myself.”

“Yes, a grown man whose height topped out at five-foot-seven because of his horrific eating habits,” Seokjin retorts, narrowing his eyes at Yoongi as he starts unpacking the grocery bags. “Do you think these broad shoulders were bestowed upon me by god? They weren’t. It was kimchi-jjigae.”

“Yah, you’re only three inches taller than me, hyung. Don’t get cocky just because of a few inches,” Yoongi complains, and you swear you see him lift onto his toes for just a moment.

“Oh, but a few inches can make a world of difference, Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin practically purrs, and at that you find your voice, because really, enough is enough.

“I should go!” you blurt out, and both of their heads snap in your direction comically fast. Seokjin looks amused, but also like he forgot you were there entirely, which you think is fair. Yoongi, however, looks incredibly guilty. You’d think it’s cute, if you could think anything besides ‘get out while you still can’ right now.

Yoongi steps a little closer to you, lowering his voice so it’s only for you. You can feel your change of heart before you even process anything he says.

“I’m sorry…” he says, glancing back at Seokjin for a moment. “…For that.” He sighs. “Look, I get it if you want to bolt right now. Seokjin-hyung has that effect on people.”

You hear Seokjin’s cry of protest behind Yoongi, which Yoongi ignores.

“I just don’t want to intrude,” you say. Polite. To the point. Your last line of defense, which Yoongi is quick to crumble with his soft voice and earnest words.

“You wouldn’t be. Despite being a pain in my ass, hyung is a good cook. And he makes enough food to feed an army even when it’s just the two of us,” he continues. “I… You can stay and eat. I’d like it if you did.”

What the fuck is happening to you right now? You can’t even begin to understand why you can’t seem to say no where Yoongi is involved, despite only meeting him less than twenty-four hours ago.

The only thing that you can tell is that it’s not just because of your attraction to him, as undeniable as it may be. You may be an introverted homebody, but you’re still a woman who gets hit on semi-frequently. If that’s what this was, no matter how pretty Yoongi is, you’re sure you’d still be able to say no. But you’re not saying no.

“…This is all very, very weird,” you say, and Yoongi breathes out a strained ‘ I know, ’ which makes you relax a little. “I’ll stay, if you insist.”

“He insists,” Seokjin says, not even bothering to look up at you as he chops vegetables.

To your surprise, Yoongi doesn’t make any kind of cutting remark in Seokjin’s direction. He just keeps his eyes on you, nods in agreement.

“I insist.”

So you stay.

★ ★ ★

Seokjin is very insistent about not letting you help in the kitchen.

“Unless he’s chopped off a limb to get out of it in the past ten seconds I haven’t been looking at him, Yoongi-yah has two fully-functioning hands and knows his way around a kitchen. So you just sit and look pretty, and let your oppas take care of everything,” he tells you.

You hate the delivery of that, really. But you do as he says, and it’s actually pretty nice.

Plus, you get to see just how fully-functioning those hands of Yoongi’s are. You have a fucking front row seat to the capability of those hands.

It does not help that Seokjin insists on refilling a wine glass for you every time you take a sip, but what does help is focusing on Seokjin’s weird, kind of cute pinky fingers instead of Yoongi’s fucking sinful everything that you want in your mouth more and more as the alcohol warms you.

The bickering between the two even seems to die down as they cook. It’s clear that the two of them have done this together before, and it even makes you wonder if they lived together for a point in time.

You learn a lot about Yoongi, too. That he works too hard, which he himself had alluded to last night, but Seokjin confirmed with a gusto that makes you think it’s probably worse than you assumed. That he’s completely powerless to his dongsaengs, which Yoongi didn’t even try to deny. That there are seven of them altogether, a close-knit friend group that will always be the seven of them barring death, and maybe even then. It’s all very sweet.

You’re in the middle of fantasizing about what it would be like to have six friends who love you so much when Seokjin turns the conversation to you suddenly.

“What do you do, Y/N?”

“I’m a music journalist for Look Here Magazine,” you reply, starting to straighten up with pride just as you did last night when you told Yoongi, but something in Seokjin’s expression makes you freeze.

He looks pleased as fucking punch, and you’re beginning to realize that is probably never a good thing.

“Oh, are you?” he purrs.

“Hyung,” Yoongi says warily, but he looks just as confused as you feel.

“You know, our Yoongi makes music.”

“Yes, he told me,” you say slowly, your eyebrows furrowing.

“He’s very good,” Seokjin continues. “Back in college, he used to write all of these raps about eating pus—“

“YAH! Stop!” Yoongi interjects, and when you look at him he is completely pink. You were already pink from the wine, so you would guess you’re fire engine red right now, if the heat in your cheeks is any indicator.

“You weren’t ashamed of it then, Mr. Tongue Technology,” Seokjin sniffs, doling out rice into three bowls like he didn’t just drop a bomb that you’ll be thinking about for the rest of your life, maybe. Tongue technology.

“I was twenty,” Yoongi complains. “I was young and cocky, and I had an awful group of friends who never told me how fucking stupid I sounded.” He turns to you, although he is barely able to hold eye contact. You’re in the same boat. “Please forget you ever heard that.”

You nod, stiffly. What else can you do? Say you’d like to take that tongue for a spin, right now preferably? No, no, no, no.

“How about we talk about something else?” you offer, quickly. “What do you do, Seokjin?”

That seems like the right thing to say, because even when the three of you finally sit down to eat, Seokjin is still happily going on about his aspirations as an actor.

★ ★ ★

Seokjin rubs his belly happily, slumped against his chair.

“God, I’m good,” he sighs. “Tell me how good I am, Yoongichi.”

“You’re so good, hyung,” Yoongi says flatly.

“Thank you again, for having me,” you say, smiling a little. Despite your apprehension towards Seokjin at first, dinner was surprisingly pleasant and, to his credit, really fucking good. “Both of you.”

“Ah, you should come next time all the kids are around,” Seokjin says, grinning. “It’ll be a hoot.”

Yoongi stays quiet across from you, but he meets your eyes and nods. Flip.

“Well… I’m only two doors down,” you say softly, looking down at your empty bowl.

“Just wait until Jiminie and Jeongguk get ahold of her,” Seokjin says to Yoongi. You don’t know what that could possibly mean, could mean a lot of things coming from Seokjin, but Yoongi rolls his eyes.

“It’s getting late. We should probably clean up,” Yoongi says, starting to stack the bowls. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I’m not an invalid, Yoongi-yah,” Seokjin scoffs. “I can take the bus.” He stands up, snatching the bowls away from Yoongi. “Let hyung clean up and I’ll be on my way.”

Yoongi doesn’t put up a fight, handing off the bowls, and then Seokjin is in the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone for the first time since tangerines and Yoongi’s thumb on your lip.

“Thank you,” you say again, this time just for Yoongi. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night like this.”

“I wouldn’t have any nights like this if it weren’t for Seokjin-hyung and the rest of my friends,” Yoongi says, brutally honest in the way you’re figuring out he always is. “When you love what you do, it’s hard to remember that there’s anything else.”

You nod, because you know exactly what he means by that.

“I really know what it’s like. I know we just met last night, but if you ever need…” He shakes his head, putting his words together. He looks unbelievably shy, not for the first time tonight. “Ah, I’m not used to being the one to give this speech. Look, we can hang out, is all I’m saying.”

You realize then and there what Yoongi is offering, and something clicks into place. Friendship. Despite the charged moments, the clear attraction, he’s offering to be someone you can go to. Someone who gets it and won’t judge. It doesn’t feel like pity, either, strangely. This is why you can’t bring yourself to say no to him, you realize. He’s offering you something you desperately need.

You smile, despite the fact that you kind of feel like crying.

“Only if you show me those raps Seokjin was talking about.”

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

@dollfaceksj

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#take a bite #yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader #bts fanfiction #bts fic #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fic #min yoongi fic #minors dni #Spotify

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theredqueenandthebloodwyrm · 9 months ago

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I see we’re just reposting things without sources for some reason?? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it’s because the tweet used the magic word “Zionist” which is taken to be “irredeemably evil and vile person”. For context, the context which that tweet purposely left out (and yeah I’m going to say it’s fucking purposeful) is this article by the NPR. Inside this article the allegedly pro-Palestine posts on social media were fucking videos of the Hamas on October 7th. So, yeah if you’re reposting antisemitic stuff (blatantly antisemitic too), fuck you.

The images that came out of Israel on October 7 were brutal and graphic, and the images coming out of Gaza for months now are constant, also brutal and horrific. All this violence is being shared on social media, and as KQED's Lesley McClurg reports, that's affecting the mental health of Americans with loved ones in Gaza and in Israel. A warning - this story contains descriptions of violence. LESLEY MCCLURG, BYLINE: Some of the footage Shoshana Howard (ph) saw on social media months ago still haunts her. A video appears to show a Hamas fighter pulling an Israeli hostage from the trunk of a jeep. CNN aired a clip of the video. (SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING) UNIDENTIFIED PERSON: Her face is bleeding, and her wrists appear to be cable-tied behind her back. MCCLURG: It looks like blood is seeping through the back of the woman's sweatpants. SHOSHANA HOWARD: And that broke me - and then seeing friends calling it liberation. MCCLURG: Howard, who is Jewish, couldn't believe people she knew were writing comments online that, to her, felt inhumane and anti-Jewish. HOWARD: That's when I started to have night terrors, and I was ending my days going into my closet and just would cry. MCCLURG: She couldn't stop thinking about her cousins living in Israel. As the days passed, it became harder to focus on her life and work in Oakland. HOWARD: Like, I just was so fragile. MCCLURG: And then recently, she felt shamed by a friend who told her her grief doesn't matter when so many Palestinians are suffering.

Is it “making the argument” to point out the hypocrisy of saying the Houthis (a terror organization) are protecting international laws and human rights when there’s documented evidence of Houthis perpetrating slavery, diverting humanitarian aid, and so on? Or you know, is it providing necessary context that readers might want to know?

And the comments below that tweet are awful (with a few exceptions rightfully pointing out accuracy of said community note and how slavery is in fact bad).

Antisemitic Tweet #1: This is what all community notes have become now. Total Zionist propaganda machine.

Antisemitic Tweet #2: There's been an influx of "community notes" that are clearly just people trying to protect the narrative.

Antisemitic Tweet #3: It's like the Israeli Bot accounts that change the community notes to favor Israel.

Already reblogged multiple posts explaining what's wrong with the Houthis with sources attached, so linking those now to save space (rather than adding ten different links).

This? This is what you say on October 7th, 2023?

Shaun: Lot of reaping being condemned by the sowers today. Shaun (cont.): I'm talking about politicians who stridently oppose all options except those which lead to violence and then act shocked violence occurs. Their condemnations of violence are worthless while they ignore their hand in the apartheid causing it.

October 7th was an attack against civilians where hostages were taken, people were murdered, people who advocated for peace were harmed, killed, and so on.

I also noticed a tweet not too far down from that one which said the following:

Lots of people in these comments very mad that Palestinians aren't being victims of occupation in the right and proper way.

No, people are mad about civilians being massacred and taken as hostages by a terrorist organization. The lack of empathy is something.

#antisemitism #leftist antisemitism #shaunvids #I feel stupid that I didn't know this until now

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chronically-ghosted · 8 months ago

Note

Hey I love you and I’m having thots about vampire!Dieter and his hedonistic lifestyle and his lavish parties at his estate and how he invites you up to show you his private rooms and he-

Oh, you mean like when he asks you about your--

Pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

Warnings: flirting, a bit of blood, maybe dubcon due to The Thrall but i think it's safe to say we all want It from vampire!dieter, unbeta-ed because i needed to write something or someone was going to die

A/N: look at what you've done @sp00kymulderr you've gone and given a perfectly good fic LORE

“Theories.”

“What?”

Dieter’s smirk pulls his mouth and his head towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. He rubs his fingers together, his wrist dangling over the edge of the deep-backed leather chair. The clean lines of his Armani pants and wing-tipped shoes give him the impression of leaning forward, as if he intended to tumble right through those windows and out into the party below. The music is muted, smothered, but the lights illuminate the sky like the sun beneath the waves.

“Your theories. About all of this. About my dad, granddad. Everyone who’s ever walked in here – press or not –,” he lazily drags his gaze up from your ass to your tits for the third time that night, “– has had some wild theories that I just love to listen to. Little bedtime stories to put me to sleep. So let’s hear ‘em.”

You had doubts about this dress when you left your apartment but you have to dig your nails into your palms to keep from tugging it back down over your thighs because you know you have something every time Dieter looks at you. Maybe not for long, but you might be the first person in fifty years to walk out of here with something to say.

Your heart suddenly fluttering higher in your throat, you turn away towards the movie memorabilia lining the walls in glass shelves to give him the angle he’s been inching towards all night. Over your shoulder, you see his eyes drop – predictably. You let the line out a bit more and bend at the waist to examine the original glove from The Natural.

“I’m sure you’ve heard them all, Mr. Bravo. The mystery around your family is nearly as old as Hollywood itself so I’m sure there’s nothing I can say that you haven’t heard before. Which reminds me . . .” You straighten up and, by some miracle, he meets your eyes, gaze no longer wandering. “Why me?”

His mouth curls, but it’s the glint in his eyes that shows razor-sharp teeth.

“I’ve always admired the brevity of wit, but you’re going to have to be more specific.”

Your jacket creaks when you cross your arms, eyebrow arched. “I’ve been with The Mezzanine for five years with half-a-dozen bylines under my belt. There’s a list of more experienced reporters a mile long. Why, after ignoring every press inquiry for the past twenty years, did you ask me to interview you? Oh, and consider this my first official question.”

With an expansive inhale, Dieter draws himself to his feet. He takes a few steps towards the windows, just before the light catches the shine of his shoes.

“Give me a theory and I’ll answer your question.”

You frown at his broad shoulders. Streaks of fuschia and green and gold tangle in his curls, setting the ends on fire. You think of those electric lamps under your grandfather’s porch that drew in moths with dust brown wings. Moths that ended up dead on the wooden floor.

You find yourself inches from his left shoulder.

“That’s not how these things usually go, Mr. Bravo.”

“Humor the old hermit.” He grins and the smell of spice and smoke and lineage blooms in your nose. You school your face, swallowing down your beating heart.

“The mob. So why me?”

Dieter chuckles. “The mob?”

“Happened to Frank Sinatra, didn’t it?”

“I don’t appreciate the comparison,” Dieter sneers. “Blue Eyes was an asshole and an idiot.”

You turn towards him, your turn to grin. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Unbelievable.” You roll your eyes and wander back towards the cabinet. It’s now you notice the odd placement of the couch and chairs in front of the memorabilia. As if hours were spent staring at them. “Do you have anything to drink?”

Dieter blinks at you. “Uh. No. Do you want me to call up for one?”

“No, Mr. Bravo, I want you to answer my question: why me?”

“Because you care.”

Dieter turns away from the lights, the music, the night and stares at you. The teasing sparkle, the sardonic grin – they’re gone. A different man stands before you – one with the same beautiful set of curls, with the same soft eyes. But you see something on his face you didn’t think was possible: yearning.

“Everyone who ever came here only wanted a piece of me. Of this. Of my legacy. In fifty years, no one has ever wanted to know the magic in the movies. The magic of . . .” Dieter laughs quietly, joylessly. He looks around and runs his tongue against his upper teeth. “The mob? C’mon, you can do better than the mob.”

You take a step forward. Electric lamps be damned.

“I’m doing a terrible job of interviewing you.”

“Hardly.” His lips pout before pulling back into a grin. “We’re getting to know each other.”

Another step.

“One for one?”

“Of course.”

“Then in debt to the US government for World War II propaganda. Why did your grandfather step out of the spotlight at the peak of his career?”

“Ford was as much a nazi as any of them and no Bravo would ever stoop so low, so no. And Grandpappy Bravo had health issues.”

“He was forty-five.”

“Forty-two, actually. The same age I am now.” He grins down at you and you find yourself staring up at him. Had his eyes always had that golden circle in the center?

“Give me another theory.”

“Drugs – boring but reliable. Why was your father so secretive about his role as a financial backer during the 60s movie revival?”

“He hated the attention, as much as a Bravo can. You’re getting closer.”

“It was drugs?” You tear your gaze that had somehow slipped to his lips back up to his eyes, but Dieter shakes his head.

“A drug of some kind, but not the kind you’re thinking of. A powerful drug. The most powerful.”

“Yeah? And what would that be?”

“Life itself.” Again, you see his teeth and without your control, your heart leaps into your throat. You narrow your eyes against the brilliant light of his mouth.

“Why do you care so much about my theories?”

“Because you’re not asking the right questions. You’re close, but not quite.”

His hand floats against your jaw, fingertips crackling in the millimeter above your skin, and that spicy scent floods your brain in a sudden avalanche that makes your knees wobble. You huff, dizzy, a fog settling across your mind, and you put a hand against his chest to keep you from stumbling. His thumb drags against your bottom lip and that bright sensation becomes a focus point by which the entire universe revolves around.

His eyes are entirely golden now.

“Ask the question you’ve been begging to, darling.”

You swallow through the haze, through the pounding of your heart, through the heaviness of your knees, and the wetness in your underwear.

“No,” you mumble, “I . . . Dieter, you’ll laugh.”

“Try me, sweetheart.” His other hand joins his first, cradling your jaw, dragging you closer. “I want to hear it.”

“I think you’re a vampire.” The words dribble off your numb lips but even through the lag, you know you’ve screwed up. Something has gummed up the crevices of your brain, but that’s not the thing to say to the highly-eccentric social recluse you’ve put your career at risk to interview.

“Dieter, I’m sorry – I-I-I didn’t mean–,”

But he laughs. Laughs and your moth wings get caught in the light of the white gleam of his fangs. His hand slips to your waist as his thumb brushes your cheek, golden eyes anything but angry.

“I knew you were clever.”

Your nails dig into his jacket where you don’t feel a heartbeat. Your knees want you to fall forward into him, but your elbows struggle as the last shreds of a survival instinct.

“Dieter–,”

“Shh, darling, you are smart. Too smart for your own good. You knew the truth the second you walked in here and you did it anyway. But that big brain won’t let you believe it until you see it, so breathe, darling. Breath and it will be over in a minute.”

He lowers his face, his cold breath against your neck cracking through the haze, icing your heart. You whimper, afraid –

Afraid he’s going to kill you.

Afraid that you’ll let him.

A warm tongue saturates the skin of your neck and you realize there are devil faces in the wood carving of the ceiling, your head tipped back and arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“No crying. I will make this very good for you.”

You blink and the ice in your heart melts out the corner of your eyes, tears running off your cheeks.

“Will I die?”

Dieter lets out a noise that’s a whine and a groan all at once. “No. We’re not nearly done having fun.”

And he bites you.

Euphoria erupts across your skin, an electric pulse waking up every sense still left in your control. You shudder, then draw him closer. He groans, not a single drop of blood escaping to the carpet or your shirt or his jacket. He eats well and clean and there’s a part of you that entertains the idea of him losing control.

But as quickly as it comes on, everything fades. Blackness comes on, thick and fast, and you hear him pull off your neck more than you feel it and his tongue is the last sensation you feel.

“No, darling, by the end of this, you’ll be begging me for more.”

His promise is the last thing you hear before the darkness closes in on you completely.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #the bubble fanfiction #dieter x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #the bubble fanfic #the bubble 2016 #the bubble fic #pedro pascal #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #the bubble

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pennyserenade · 2 years ago

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YOU CAN(T) ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT

pairing: dieter bravo x you, dieter bravo x ex-actress!reader rating: explicit (oral sex (female receiving), fingering, pinv, unprotected sex, light dirty talk (not degrading), references to previous sexual encounters, mentions of rough sex) tags: angst, hurt/comfort, talk of drugs (weed), drug usage (weed), dieter & reader are a little toxic - i cannot lie, talk of parents word count: 4.8k+ summary: your relationship with dieter (albeit the very loose definition of the term) has finally landed you in the tabloids. he attempts to make it up to you a/n: unbeta’d. i don’t know what possess me when i write dieter but its very real and active right now lol. if you want to get updates on whenever i write, follow @belovedinfidels

The weight of knowledge wears you thin.

Dieter is a tabloid on page six, the embodiment of Hollywood idiocy sided up against a woman far too young for him. Half his age? the byline reads and the bitter laugh you let out earns you a concerned glance from the old lady in front of you. In his madness, he takes you with him, right there in the middle of the grocery store. You pay eight dollars to read the shit all week, like the spurred lover you can’t claim to be.

Your devotion is too incredible, but that’s the way you are. A strange concoction of bitter and sweet. You’ve never forgotten a wrong-doing and you choke what you love with sheer force of your eagerness. Dieter doesn’t know what he wants and yet he commits himself anyway. Which is why, usually, he is good for you. His touches are seldom chaste and his presence is hardly long-term. If you think you love him, he will disappear and you will remember that you don’t–or rather, that you can’t. It’s a convenience until he makes you remember you aren’t the only thing he occupies himself with in his spare time. Then it is a dull ache in your soul and a reminder of everything you don’t have.

In anger, you fuck a stranger on Tuesday. It’s a reckless moment that is the exception, not the rule, but it feels good. Your body isn’t past expiration, you learn, not an ugly thing. It is older than the girl Dieter was with in that paper, sure, but this stranger is so attentive to it. It responds in all the right ways. You are healthy, you are wanted. There is hope for you yet.

On Thursday, half guilty for no good reason, you tell Dieter congratulations on his new television show. You watched it. You liked it. You can’t help but confess it. He calls you after and you don’t answer, still full of some random man’s want. He doesn’t text you back but he hearts the message to show you he’s really seen it.

By Friday night, he’s got you bent over his kitchen table, his body strong, masculine and warm above your own. Whoever that girl was, she isn’t anymore. He doesn’t tell you this, but you know it to be true, for he is Dieter, and Dieter is consistent in his inconsistency.

He fucks into you with ferocity and you know he is trying to amend for some of his sins. The slick, obscene sound of his cock filling you, the way he presses into your shoulder, pinning you forward into the cold, hard table, the soft, guttural moans that he empties into the air—it is a form of devotion, albeit a slightly demented version of it.

It might be a little twisted, what the two of you share. It’s not love and it’s not necessarily friendship, but it is something akin to the ritual of opening one’s palm and sharing blood with another in a fit of childlike devotion. Forever, it yells with violence, but at the end of the day it merely remains a mess only on the surface. You wonder when you will grow out of it and start doing reasonable things.

When he easies out of you, he rewards you for your loyalty and asks if you’d like to watch an old movie – maybe even get high with him. The movie is an old western and the gunslinger dies in the end. The weed makes you tired.

When you wake the next morning, LA sunlight peeking through the blinds, you’re in his bed. His body is turned in the other direction and a lone pillow separates the space between you. You smile at the way this thoughtless man thinks. All your anger dissipates and he is right for you, all over again. —

On Sunday, you’re the tabloid story.

Finally, you’ve been caught in the act. A sneaky camera in the bushes, that lone photographer with a hungry belly and nothing better to do than explode your life. Half of twitter regals you with hate messages and the other half spouts encouragement. People discover you, search the depths of your online existence and find out more than you would like about everything you used to be.

By Monday morning he’s calling you.

“I’m sorry,” comes his hushed, apologetic tone, “I tried to do something about it but you know how those things are.”

You can’t believe this is the first time you’ve ever been caught. Dieter has been your… your whatever since you stretched your acting muscles briefly in 2012. It was that shitty little pilot that didn’t even make it to cable, but you got him, that up and coming actor with an extensive background in theater. You’ve become several different people since then, changing occupations like clothes, and now you sit halfway between writer and unemployed. It’s okay, though. You have money. Once upon a time you were famous too; a child actor who worked too much and didn’t understand what was real and what wasn’t for far too long. Your mother was kind enough not to exhaust your funds. You think instinctively she knew someday you would be this way.

You shrug, coming to. “It’s okay,” you mutter, trying not to think of all the mean things you’ve read. “Hell,” you joke, “Maybe they’ll finally do that revival now. I’m famous again, so why not?”

He laughs too, so easy. “I’m glad you’re taking this okay. I thought you’d never talk to me again.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know but still. It’s shitty and you don’t deserve shitty. One day you’ll wise up to it.”

Betrayal curls up inside of you, makes a newfound home. All the unspoken things between you, and he must bring up this today: the way you do this to yourself. “Not all of us can readily admit to the things we know, can we?” you say evenly. “Listen, Bravo, I’ve got to go respond to some of your fans on twitter now, if you don’t mind. They’re asking for your dick pics.”

You hear his laugh. “Oh, knock yourself out. What’s mine is yours or whatever.”

“I don’t feel similarly, just in case you get the same kind of messages this week.” He doesn’t respond, and you furrow your eyebrows, letting your smile drop. “Dieter?”

“I know what they’re saying—“ he pauses, weighing out his words. “I know they’re not all being kind to you. I’ve seen it, and I’m sorry. Really. If I could do something about it, I would. I’ve been trying,” he repeats, sounding far too exasperated for your liking.

You pick the phone off the counter and turn it off the speaker. No one lives here but you, but some things don’t feel like they should be put out in the open air. “It’s just a photo,” you tell him evenly. “I’ve been in this business longer than you. I know how to handle this.”

“I just don’t want you to think you shouldn’t see me anymore. We can be more careful.”

“Where are you?”

“Wherever you’d like me to be.”

You snort. “God, nowhere near me with a line like that.”

“Oh sorry. I forgot you’re not into that sentimentality bullshit.”

You smile, liking the way his voice has turned from sober to playful in a matter of seconds. “Here I’ve been, thinking you’ve got my number. If you don’t know by now what gets me going—”

“—a good fuck, a single cigarette on a bad day or a drunken night, and most photos of Fiona Apple.”

“Well done, Bravo.”

“Can I come over?”

“Sure, but you better make a couple of wrong left turns on the way here for safe measures. Hate for you to get caught with the same woman twice in one week.”

“Oh ha, ha,” he says deadpan. “Unlock your door. I’m outside already.”

—

The public expects you to break. They always have. As you hand Dieter the badly rolled joint, you think about how pleased they’d be to know this is how you spend your time. The little girl wonder grew up just as fucked as they expected, from pigtails to ill suited relationships and drugs during the week. That’s how they’d see it, anyway. You think it’s a little more nuanced than that, but the public hasn’t ever been particularly good at leaving room for it in their judgments.

Dieter sits on the ground between your thighs, his back to your stomach. Your fingers weave their way through his thick, slightly curly hair, catching every now and then on a stray knot. “Fuck,” he mutters when you land on a clump near his ear. You grin, coltish. “Let me cut it,” you tell him.

“I have a girl,” he says as an answer.

You wrap yourself around him, your face on his back. “Always do,” you tease, humming softly.

He covers your arms, allowing you to envelope him. “I’m getting the vibe that you’ve grown a tad bit possessive of me.” You scoff, loosening your grip. He clinches down, trapping you. “I’m like that with you, too,” he adds.

You hear the confession racket through his body, your ear pressing to some part of his rib, and yet you are the one who feels transparent. “That’s fucked up,” you answer simply, unable to find the right words in this state. He’s always too coherent for you when you smoke weed together. It’s better when you just fuck; it’s a language you communicate best in, even when perfectly sober.

“It is fucked up,” he says, setting the joint down on the ashtray. He blows out a cloud of smoke and runs his thumb affectionately over one of your forearms. “And I think in a fucked up way, you enjoy it. I do. I don’t know why — probably something therapy could sort out.” He laughs, though it sounds a bit hollow. “I mean, it makes me miserable. I know when you’re with someone else. I can just feel it. It’s in the way you text me—or the way you don’t text me, actually. You grow so distant and I think ‘This is it. She’s a smart girl, and you’ve done it this time.’ And then, like with Friday, you come back and you let me have my way with you and it’s awful and it’s nasty and yet…” He clicks his tongue, hesitating. “It’s great. I want you so bad I’m…I don’t know. Overcome with it. All the misery leaves my body and it’s just me and you, and it doesn’t feel nasty or degrading, does it? I don’t mean for it to. I just…It feels like I’m on the edge of the rest of my life when I’m with you like that. I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done. And it’s always done, isn’t it? I leave you feeling whole again, like I’ve just righted this terrible wrong.”

“Dieter,” you manage, voice heavy. “You’re a secret romantic.”

“That’s the most fucked up part about it,” he says poignantly. “I think a lot of screwed up people do a lot of the screwed up shit they do in pursuit of love, and yet they can never quite allow themselves to have it. I’d love to stay put but it makes me itch. I don’t know why.”

“Were you parents fucked up?” You lean back. He lets you this time, but he moves back with you, laying his head on your chest.

“Sure,” he responds. “They fought all the time, but most people did back then. I knew they loved each other, though. They liked to dance and they always used to have these lively conversations about everything. They were serious people, to the point that it was almost unserious.

“My mother, she was educated and my father loved to read and watch movies and talk, and I think she fell in love with him because of it, despite the fact he came from a more…less wealthy background than she did. They begged her, her family, to get a prenup but she never even married him, you know? They didn’t care. They just lived together and they were perfectly content with it.”

You stare up at the ceiling, listening. “Why do you say it like it’s over? What happened?”

“I am?” he asks. “I guess I’m talking in past tense, ‘cause that’s where I existed with them, in the past. I don’t speak to them much anymore, not because I don’t want to, but just because life got busy. They’re still together. Probably fighting or having a conversation about something trivial and unimportant right now.” He smiles, filled with fondness and nostalgia. “What were your parents like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve tried to remember, and I’ve tried to piece it together from what I have, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever could.” You close your eyes. “They love me immensely and they love each other immensely, but things happen. Good and bad things. I’m just their kid.” You shrug. “I feel like a terrible person a lot of the time because of it. Like, what did my mother want from life? Surely it wasn’t me. This. She must’ve wanted something and I’ll never know it.”

“Did she want to be an actress?” he asks curiously.

“No,” you say softly. “She wasn’t the projecting type. I wanted to be an actress. I loved it. She just put me in the theater to keep me busy during the summer and I took off. She encouraged me. She was and is the encouraging type.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s…well he’s there when he’s there and isn’t when he isn’t. I love him and I wonder about him and I feel like I know him more than myself. But I also feel like he’s a perfect stranger.”

“Hm,” Dieter surmises.

“I don’t have daddy issues,” you add. This makes him laugh and you feel it vibrate through you too. It’s so comforting, warm.

“I wouldn’t tell you that,” he says.

“I didn’t even want you to think about it. It's a cheap analysis that men have been pining on women for years. I’d sooner admit to fucking up myself. I mean, I’m sure he didn’t help me any but he didn’t do all the work. I’ve had directors more involved.” You crunch up your nose, remembering. “One of them hated me because of my mom. He had a crush on her and she wouldn’t go with him. I think he’s the reason I have a problem with authority.”

He breathes out through his nose and slaps his hand softly against your thigh, laughing. “For what it’s worth, I do not think you’re terribly fucked up. Just a normal amount, no worse than the best of the most successful. Hell,” he continues, “Maybe even a little better than them.”

You sink back into the sofa, feeling the room move beneath your eyelids. “Dieter, I’m so high,” you whine.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“I can’t talk anymore,” you say. “My brain wants me to say things I shouldn’t.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Like what?”

You groan. “Sentences I’ve already said, just worded differently.” The sincerity of your words makes him laugh — so heartily you squeeze his forearm in appreciation. It touches you everywhere, with your chest against his back like this.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, “Just close your eyes and I’ll keep talking.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge him.

But he doesn’t keep talking. The two of you fall asleep right there in your quiet contentment. You enjoy the peace that comes from soul purging confessions.

—

Tuesday afternoon and he’s still with you. It’s a record, almost. If there hadn’t been that five night stint you had pulled together during one particularly lonely holiday weekend two years ago, this would be the longest you’ve ever seen him. It’s certainly the longest you’ve been together and not had sex.

The pungent, sour-sweet smell of marijuana invades your home, clings to your clothes, and makes you feel like the love-sick, abandoned teenager you were at 17. It’s been a long, long time since then, but there’s a quality about Dieter that puts you back there. Tempting as it is to blame on his perpetual immaturity, you know it’s more to do with your own lack of control. The world spins and you spin with it—a fact that you’ve still yet to gulp down bravely and accept—and Dieter merely reminds you of it.

He thumbs through your record collection while you sip gingerly at a Coke on the couch. Under his breath, he whispers the title of albums that have made up your life, ignorant to just how intimate the act really is. Dieter sees a plethora of intricately organized vinyls and you see half your life; it is a collection made up of poor decisions, lovers’ gifts, and tokens of another life. He plucks out a Rolling Stones album and puts it on the spin table.

Domesticity threatens to choke you for a second before Dieter looks in your direction, sloppy grin on his face. “Let It Bleed,” he says, heading in your direction. “It has You Can’t Always Get What You Want at the end. I think it’s better this way, too, because you have to work for it.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes the Coke out of your hands and steals a sip, voice plugged with passion as he says, “Nowadays you can just listen to a song whenever you want but used to, you had to sit through the whole album. We’re losing the art of the music album because people don’t do that anymore.”

You take your Coke back and shake your head. “That’s not true. After David Bowie died, vinyls became popular again. Albums are very much still in.”

“So maybe they are.” He shrugs. “Regardless, I think they’re better this way. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I just want to listen to one song.”

He lays his head on the back of the couch, pouting out his bottom lip in consideration. “You’re angry with me,” he surmises after a moment.

You frown. “No.”

“You’re something with me, and it’s certainly not pleased.”

“I was just saying my opinion.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No.”

“I can’t quite reach you in there—“ he points to your head “—so if you want me to do something, or say something, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you tell him evenly. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t,” you repeat, trying to soften out your features. “I’m feeling…I don’t know. Awkward. You don’t stick around this long and I guess it’s making me feel odd. Especially because you haven’t touched me.”

“Ah,” he says, straightening himself. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“Have I ever denied you?”

“No, but I figured you might like to know I don’t mind seeing you with your clothes on too.” He offers you a kind smile and his fingers reach out and intertwine loosely with a few of yours. This is completely uncharted territory that makes your heart beat ferociously against your chest.

You tug him closer and he comes, his body leaning into yours as your lips meet. The shirt he wears is slightly too big on him, and the fabric brushes against your stomach as you open your legs to make room for him. His fingers press into your hips, positioning you beneath him, and you open your lips slightly, permitting him access.

For lack of a better word, you think: Homecoming. But it isn’t. This isn’t home. This is Dieter Bravo, page six, Mr. Half His Age. You smile against his lips and he pulls back. “What?” he says, smiling too. You feel his breath on your face, warm, and you lean up to press your lips to his again. “Nothing,” you tell him, knowing the joke won’t be funny.

He doesn’t seem to mind, allowing himself to be swayed away by the suggestive rock of your hips. He leverages himself with a hand on the back of the couch, and you pull him down, further and further, latching your legs around his waist. He is warm, burning, and as you deepen the kiss, you can feel the way he grows hard above you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, nodding his head up, disconnecting the two of you. Your lips feel rubbed raw, bruised, but you want more. He grunts softly when you press yourself into his cock and you look at each other for one dizzying second. Then he is kissing the underside of your jaw, his large hand palming your covered breast.

You try desperately to figure out how to shed the layers of clothing that separate you but he is quicker on his feet, pushing the college shirt you wear up above your stomach. He puts it behind your head, pinning your arms up. You watch as he licks down your chest, warm tongue flattening between the valley of your breasts. Then his breath ghosts over the nipples he exposes, his long, thick fingers pulling down the fabric of your bra quickly, desperate, hungry. He takes one in his mouth and you squeal.

Dieter isn’t usually patient. He fucks for leisure but never really revels in it for too long, so it surprises you when he licks down the rest of your body, swirling his tongue above the place where the band of your sleep shorts begins. You raise your hips for him and he sheds another layer, but again, just barely. Leaving you in your underwear, he worships you on the way back up, kissing your ankle, your calf, the inside of your thigh, even the place where your thigh meets your cunt. His fingers dig, eager to find skin full enough to grip; breasts and thighs, your hips, your ass when you respond to the hot breath that cascades over your cotton covered cunt.

He presses his hot mouth to you, underwear still in the way, and that’s it, you're ablaze and you are starved, crammed full of lust with an appetite that knows no bounds. You want to bare yourself to him—to spread yourself wide right there, and let him into the wetness of your cunt while you whisper dirty things into his ear. His words from yesterday echo in your mind — I want to tear you apart and I want you to tear me apart and then I want to put us together again, just to show you it can be done — and you think God, that’s it. The pulse point, the center, the raw and unbridled truth. You tear one another apart and it is tender, trusting. You’ve been getting him wrong. Over a decade and yet you’ve miscalculated it all.

He slips aside the fabric of your underwear, licks you, finds you wet and wanting. You are dripping. You feel it, know that his eager tongue is only adding to what his mere presence has caused.

That other man, he was lovely, young, flexible, all calloused hands and the taste of reckless mystery you thought you needed, but Dieter is ritual to you, like waves slapping against the rocks or the slow, inevitable spin of the planet around the sun. It happens and yet the sheer ferocity of the change it brings leaves you shocked. He is the taste of half smoked tobacco, the sweetness of a stolen sip of Coke, the warmth of an almost-orgasm rushing to your head.

His lips are coated with your slick, glossy beneath the warm living room light, but he doesn’t seem to care. He bites down on his bottom lip, pressing the pad of his finger to your entrance. Watching with heavy lidded eyes, he finds it in himself to smirk.

“Dieter,” you pant out, not taking your eyes away.

“You want it?” he growls, voice low and lust-filled. “Beg.”

You don’t hesitate. “Please. Fuck Dieter. Please.”

He sinks it in and the sound of your cunt welcoming him makes you both groan. It’s so deliciously obscene, the entirety of it. Your brain sputters, confused and overwrought, and you think: oh, I would never deny you anything. Never. Never.

His finger curls inside of you and his thumb presses down on your clit, focused and determined, the evidence found in the way his forehead crinkles. You note, even in this state, the way the front of his sweatpants tent and a dark spot where he’s leaked forms. He’s not wearing underwear and his finger is in you, above you, on you. You are warm, a beautiful burning thing around his thick finger. He enters another, says, “Fuck, you are so wet. Look at you.”

You shudder beneath him, a wordless moan escaping as you grip his tattooed wrist. The orgasm wracks through you, leaving you panting, pulling at his hand. So fitting - so ironic - that this is where he would mark himself with the symbol for femininity. Mother nature. That hollow triangle, pointed in the direction of you, sister to the darkened one pointing at him on the other forearm. That one means sun, masculine. They are earthly and complex, harmonic and just right.

Dieter puts his fingers flat on your tongue and you suck your own juices off of him, acidic - sour-sweet. He watches for a moment before he replaces them with his own tongue. There’s more of you there. As you work his sweats below his hips, dragging the fabric across his sensitive cock, he groans deep and you drink it up, hungry for more.

When he pushes into you, he does so with such ease, your body allowing him to sink into you like you’re his home, the missing half. It’s too romantic of a notion for you to carry in real life but somehow, like this, it fits. You crave the truth of it. As he rolls his hips into yours, deep as he can, you pull his shirt over his head and cover his lazy, soft lips with your own. You breathe each other in more than you kiss, bottom lips connected, top lips flirting, and tongues meeting each other as he seats himself fully inside of you.

Dieter is thick, makes you feel full in a decidedly feminine way as grinds himself against you. You clench around him, fingers thrusting into the skin of his back. He nuzzles into your neck, presses wet kisses to the sensitive skin.

You bury your hands in his sexed-up hair, let your body wrap entirely around his frame as he finds a rhythm inside of you. A soft flow of up and down, in and out, lacking ferocity but conveying a desperate need. He drags his cock through you, pierces you with it, and you take it gratefully, eyes shut and senses flooded. When nibble on his ear, you taste the metallic of his lone earring and his breath grows more ragged. “You feel so fucking good,” you whimper, voice high, “I feel you—I feel you everywhere. God your cock—you make me so fucking wet.”

You kiss him fully on the mouth again. Everything feels taut, moments away from being over, and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist. You are one, a complete thing. Then he is pulling you apart before you know it, the twitch of his cock happening precariously inside of you. But he knows himself, well enough to pull out just in time, spilling his warm seed across the canvas of your exposed belly. A wordless sob escapes him and you reach out to hold the forearm he’s moved to the back of the couch again.

This is when it ends, the place where the two of you separate, go your own ways. He will hand you a tissue, wrestle out a pathetic ‘thank you’ or ‘see you later’ and the illusion will be broken–

“Do you mind if I spend another night with you?” he says, chest rising and falling. He sits back on his knees, looking at the milky white substance on you with a mixture of curiosity and fascination. He fingers it and you take it, bringing it to your lips. Dieter offers a lopsided grin, that dimple of his showing again.

“What’s mine is yours or whatever,” you echo his previous words, smiling too.

“That means a lot,” he says.

“More than you know,” you agree, “So don’t fuck it up.”

He presses his lips to your knee, the silence deafening, but you trust him despite it. This is different. He is different. He has to be. Please, you plead silently, running your hands through his hair again, Don’t ruin this for me.

He catches your eyes, smiles softly. “I won’t.”

#dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble #the bubble fanfic #pedro pascal fanfic

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loveroftoomanyfandoms · 1 year ago

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Cooking Up Love, Chapter 13

Pairing: Chef!Matt Murdock x F!Journalist!Reader

Rating: T

Story Summary: Here

Warnings/Tags: Hallmark levels of fluffy, cheesy goodness (and speed that their relationship develops, lol), no use of Y/N, Matt is not a vigilante, idiots in love, misunderstandings, minor Foggy/OFC

Word Count: ~3200

A/N: We're almost to the end! Thank you to everyone who has read, liked, and commented on my little self-indulgent Chef AU -- y'all keep me writing!

As always, thanks to @theradioactivespidergwen for the line break -- it's being put to good use!

Tag List: @yarrystyleeza @hailey-murdock @mattkinsella @bellaxgiornata @danzer8705 @chezagnes @shouldbestudying41 @thepunisherfrankcastle @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @roseslovedreams

"Wait, Matt actually accused you of screwing him over and using him just to make a name for yourself?" Skyler asked as you sat in your kitchen together after work later that evening. "I don't remember anything in your article worth him getting upset over when I read it yesterday."

You shook your head. "That's because there wasn't anything! I absolutely raved about both his culinary skills and his food, I talked about how much care and consideration he puts into perfecting his recipes, and I even mentioned his volunteer activities at Clinton Church."

Skyler shook her head. "Walk me through the conversation again."

"I emailed him my article then decided to call him a little later to let him know that I had sent it over. He seemed a bit put off but I wasn't sure if he was still upset with me over running out on him the other night or if something else was bothering him, so I asked him if he had read it. Suddenly he just went off on me, saying how all journalists were exactly alike and how we're always looking for the next big scoop no matter who we screw over in the process, then he said that he thought I actually cared about him and that I was no longer welcome at Daredevil."

Your voice broke, the hurt and anger in Matt's voice upsetting you all over again. "The worst part of it is that I do care about him, Sky, I -- I think I might have been falling for him."

Skyler reached out and gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."

You shook your head with a sniffle. "I hate to admit it, but maybe Kelsie was right and Matt was just stringing me along but got tired of waiting until my article was actually published to stop speaking to me, so he just made an excuse."

Skyler made a face. "Ugh. First off, don't ever use the phrase 'Kelsie was right' in my presence ever again. Secondly, didn't you say that he opened up to you about some personal stuff but asked you to keep it off the record?"

You nodded. "Yeah, and I did. I didn't mention anything to do with that in the article."

You pulled up your work email on your phone, opening the attachment you had sent Matt so you could read over it once again. "I didn't even -- wait, what is this?"

You scrolled through the document, your blood turning to ice in your veins. "Oh shit. Oh no, no , no, no, no, no. "

A look of alarm crossed Skyler's face. "What's wrong?"

"This isn't my article."

"What? What do you mean, that isn't your article?"

I mean , the article I sent Matt is not the article I wrote, Sky." You handed your phone to Skyler. "It's got my name on the byline, but I didn't write this. It's no wonder Matt was so pissed at me though -- this article is a smear campaign."

Skyler's eyebrows raised as she read through it. "Someone had to have switched the documents. Did you leave your computer unlocked and unattended at any point today?"

You shook your head. "No, of course not, I--"

You sighed. "Wait, yes. I was getting ready to send my article to Matt when Kelsie told me I had a package downstairs that I had to go personally sign for."

Skyler raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, there was no package."

You nodded. "Exactly."

Skyler tapped at your phone screen. "Um, did you also send it to Max and Carrie and tell them Ellison approved your article and said to go ahead and send it to them?"

You shook your head. "No, why?"

"Because it looks like you did."

"What?" You grabbed your phone, scowling as you saw that the same attachment had been sent to the people who handled the layout for the physical paper as well as the digital edition. "Oh, but hell no. It's a good thing you caught that."

Skyler shook her head in disbelief. "That absolute bitch. I'm going to destroy her."

You sighed. "I don't know how I'm going to prove Kelsie is the one who wrote it and planted it on my PC though."

Skyler grinned. "Oh, I do. You didn't know that you can see who the original author of a document is and look at a document's editing history, did you?"

You shook your head.

"I bet Kelsie didn't either. I need your laptop."

You retrieved your laptop and pulled the document up on it before letting Skyler take over.

After a few clicks, Skyler nodded. "Sure enough. Not only is she listed as the original author of the document, but her digital signature is all over it."

You shook your head. "We need to go talk to Ellison."

You sent him a text message. Are you still at the office? I need to talk to you about something important.

A few seconds later, he replied. Yeah, still here trying to get this editorial column done. What's up?

I'll be there in 10 minutes. Don't go anywhere.

You saved the file to a flash drive, grabbed your keys, then you and Skyler practically ran to the Bulletin.

As soon as you got there, you booted up your computer and printed a copy of Kelsie's fake article. "Okay, let's go talk to Ellison."

You picked up the printout of Kelsie's fake article from the printer before you and Skyler headed to Ellison's office.

He looked up at the two of you tiredly. "Whatcha got for me?"

"Sabotage," Skyler replied. "As well as sneaky, underhanded, unethical so-called journalism."

Ellison's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"I have reason to believe that Kelsie swapped my Restaurant Week article out with a fake one in an attempt to discredit me," you explained.

You set the copy of the fake article down on Ellison's desk. "I wound up sending this to Chef Murdock, who was understandably upset by it and is how I caught it. And not only that, but Kelsie sent it to Max and Carrie while I was away from my computer."

Ellison's eyebrows raised as he read the fake article. "What makes you so sure it was Kelsie?"

Skyler scoffed. "Isn't it obvious? She's an evil, backstabbing bitch."

You shook your head. "Kelsie's had a personal vendetta against me ever since I got promoted to Features and has been going around all week accusing me of 'stealing' the Restaurant Week feature out from underneath her."

"And she's been saying all sorts of horrible things about Chef Murdock," Skyler added before pointedly looking at you. "Things that probably aren't even true."

Ellison sighed. "I knew she wasn't very happy with me for passing the Restaurant Week feature to you, but I wouldn't have suspected that she'd actually resort to sabotage."

He set the article down. "However, you both know that simply providing me with a copy of an allegedly-written article isn't enough. I need solid proof."

Skyler set the flash drive down on Ellison's desk. "Here's your proof. You'll notice that Kelsie is the original owner of the document and has edited it multiple times, and I bet if you look on her computer you'd find it there as well."

"Plus if you review the security footage from around 1:30 today you'll probably see her poking around at my desk." You set copies of the time-stamped emails sent to Max and Carrie. "She sent me on a wild goose chase trying to find some package I needed to personally sign for while she sent the fake article to Max and Carrie for publication."

"I wouldn't be surprised if she was behind the email server conveniently going down on Wednesday afternoon so you couldn't email your article to Mitch then," Skyler added. "It's a good thing you decided to print it and turn it in anyway."

Ellison sighed. "Do you still have your original file?"

You nodded. "She deleted it off of my computer here at work but I keep a copy of all of my articles on an external hard drive at home."

"Good. As soon as you get home, resend it to Max and Carrie marked urgent and CC me so I'll also have it digitally. In the meantime, I'll get Phil to pull the security footage from today."

"Okay." You bit your lip. "Um, is it okay if I take Monday off? After the week I've had I need a mental health day."

Ellison looked at you sympathetically and nodded. "Yeah, sure. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for all this."

You shrugged. "Not your fault. What I don't get though is why Kelsie also chose to go after Chef Murdock so hard."

"I think I can answer that," Skyler said, handing you her phone. "Take a look at Kelsie's Facebook."

You looked at her latest post, which was a picture of her cozying up to a handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed man. Romantic weekend away with my love, the photo was captioned. "So?"

Skyler shook her head and pulled up Kelsie's boyfriend's profile. "See who she's dating?"

Your eyebrows raised as you read his bio. "Huh, yeah, I guess that makes sense now."

Skyler showed it to Ellison. "Did you know this?"

Ellison shook his head. "No, I had no idea. It does explain why she was pushing so hard about getting the feature switched back though."

You nodded. "That way she could control the narrative."

Ellison sighed. "Let me go ahead and call Phil. Don't forget to CC me on that correction to Max and Carrie so it's documented."

You nodded. "Okay."

"I'll send out a staff-wide memo on Monday after everything is said and done, but in the meantime, don't say anything to anyone else on staff about this. I don't want it getting back to Kelsie so she can try to cover her tracks."

You and Skyler both nodded. "Yes, sir."

As you left the office and were headed back down the elevator, Skyler asked, "So what are you going to do about Matt? Still want me to kick his ass for you?"

You let out a light laugh. "No, that's okay. I'll just… move on, I guess? I mean, I'm going to send my actual article to him but he made it pretty clear that he didn't want anything else to do with me so I doubt he'll even open my email."

"Then it's his loss."

You stepped out of the elevator as the doors opened. "Thanks, Sky."

Skyler bit her lip. "What about Foggy? You think I should cancel my date with him tomorrow?"

You shook your head. "No way. Just because it didn't work out with me and Matt doesn't mean you shouldn't at least give Foggy a chance."

You gave her a wink. "Besides, just because I'm not welcome at Daredevil doesn't mean that you can't bring me some takeout from there, especially if you're dating the other owner."

Skyler laughed and gave you a hug. "Thanks, bestie."

"Let me know how it goes, ok?"

Skyler nodded. "I will."

You headed home and grabbed your laptop so you could send the correct article to Max and Carrie, CCing Ellison on the email with the explanation "Sorry, wrong attachment sent. Please use this attached copy in the print and online editions on Monday." .

You opened a new email and attached the correct file.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Explanation About Bulletin Article

Attachment: Restaurant Week Feature V1.doc

You took a deep breath.

Dear Matt,

You probably won't even open this email, but I wanted to let you know that the article I sent you earlier today was not the article I had written about you, nor is it the article that will be appearing in Monday's edition of the Bulletin. Long story short, someone else on staff replaced the file for my article (which I had given a hardcopy of to my editor for approval on Wednesday) with the one I erroneously sent you earlier today.

I promise I never meant to hurt you and I swear I would never use you (or anyone else, for that matter) just to get a lead on a story or try to pad my portfolio. This past week was one of the best of my life and it was genuinely a pleasure spending time with you and getting to know you… both inside the kitchen and out.

You bit your lip, trying to decide if you should tell Matt exactly how much he had begun to mean to you. Ultimately you decided against it, instead closing with ' Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors'.

You added your work signature, then sent the email.

You sat back and sighed. While it hurt knowing that you would never get to find out if the spark you had felt with Matt could've ignited into something real, you also knew that you would treasure the time you had spent with him forever.

"Matt, there's a gentleman on the phone asking for you," Karen said as Matt and Foggy prepped for brunch service on Sunday. "Says he's from the Bulletin."

Matt nodded and wiped his hands. He had called the editor on Friday evening and had left a voicemail disputing the information contained in your article and asking for a resolution. "I'll take it in the office. Thanks, Karen."

He could feel both her and Foggy watching him as he exited the kitchen and headed to the office.

He picked up the phone and transferred the call. "Matthew Murdock speaking."

"Chef Murdock," the man replied. "This is Mitchell Ellison. I'm the editor over at the New York Bulletin. "

Matt was hit with a pang. You had emailed him again on Friday afternoon but with his hurt over your article being so fresh and so raw Matt had been letting your email sit unopened in his inbox until he was ready to hear what kind of (undoubtedly poor) excuse you'd had for using him.

He cleared his throat. "Mmhmm."

"I just wanted to call and personally apologize for the feature article you received in your email on Friday. That was not the article I had approved for publication and I wanted to let you know that after a brief internal investigation, the person responsible for it is being terminated first thing tomorrow morning. I assure you, we do not stand for such unethical behavior at the Bulletin ."

Matt winced. While he was extremely hurt and angry with you, he hadn't actually set out to get you fired. "Thank you for letting me know."

"I'm sending over the feature that I actually had approved for tomorrow's edition of the paper and I must say, it's some of the best, most honest writing I've ever read. I think you'll be much more pleased with it."

Matt heard his inbox chime with a new email. "I think it just came in."

"Great. Apologies again for the mistake."

"Mmhmm. Thanks for returning my call."

"Of course. Have a good day, Chef."

"You too. Goodbye."

Matt hung up and sighed, then popped in his earbuds and pulled up Ellison's email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: NYC RESTAURANT WEEK FEATURE

Attachments: Restaurant Week Feature V1.doc

Chef Murdock,

Attached is the article that has been approved for this year's New York Restaurant Week feature. If you have any other questions, please don't hesitate to reach out.

Mitchell Ellison

Editor-in-Chief, New York Bulletin

Matt opened the attachment and tapped the keyboard command to begin his text-to-speech program, surprised to hear your name on the byline. He would have thought that whoever had been reassigned the article would get credited, especially since the editor-in-chief had said that your employment at the Bulletin was to be terminated.

Either way, Mr. Ellison had been right -- the rewritten article was immensely more positive than the previous one had been and actually included information that Matt had revealed to you during your recorded interviews… as well as information that hadn't been recorded and therefore only you would be able to include.

Matt's brow furrowed. Something's not adding up.

He closed out of the article, then navigated to your email.

He took a deep breath and opened it.

"Dear Matt," his text-to-speech program dictated,

"You probably won't even open this email, but I wanted to let you know that the article I sent you earlier today was not the article I had written about you, nor is it the article that will be appearing in Monday's edition of the Bulletin. Long story short, someone else on staff replaced the file for my article (which I had given a hardcopy of to my editor for approval on Wednesday) with the one I erroneously sent you earlier today. "

Matt tapped the spacebar on his keyboard to pause his program, filled with an odd mix of confusion and relief. So if you hadn't actually written the first article you had sent him… who had and why?

He tapped the spacebar again to continue.

"I promise I never meant to hurt you," your email continued, "and I swear I would never use you (or anyone else, for that matter) just to get a lead on a story or try to pad my portfolio. This past week was one of the best of my life and it was genuinely a pleasure spending time with you and getting to know you… both inside the kitchen and out.

Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors, sincerely yours…"

Matt navigated to the attachment, sucking in a breath as he realized that the article that the Bulletin 's editor-in-chief had sent him a few minutes before had been your article -- your real article, apparently.

Matt groaned and covered his face with his hands. He had been so caught up in his worry about getting hurt again that he had never even considered the possibility that you hadn't written the other article.

"Everything okay?"

Matt shook his head as Foggy entered the office. "I messed up."

"What do you mean?"

Matt sighed and said your name. "I was wrong about her, Fog, I was completely wrong. She didn't write that article."

"She didn't? How did she wind up sending it to you then?"

"Apparently one of her coworkers had replaced the file for her real article with the one she sent me -- I'm assuming as some form of sabotage or something. The editor at the Bulletin told me that the person responsible is being terminated first thing tomorrow morning."

"So did you get to read the real article?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah, it's right here."

Foggy moved to his side and leaned over his shoulder so he could read it.

After a few minutes, he straightened. "Damn, Matt, that was beautiful."

Matt nodded. "I know."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Apologize profusely and hope like hell that she'll forgive me."

Matt sighed. If you didn't forgive him, at least he had the memories he had made with you over the past week.

But if you did … Well, he wouldn't screw up a third time.

#lotmf writes #Cooking Up Love Masterlist #Chef!Matt Murdock x Reader #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x you

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shoshiwrites · 9 months ago

Note

7 from the February Nosebleed Club prompts for Jo/Egan🖤 - @lostloveletters

7. "pinky," Bucky Egan/war correspondent OC. @mercurygray or @basilone didn't know they were collaborating with me on this but they did:)

If she’s keeping count, this is the second time Bucky Egan has acquainted his fist with someone’s face on her behalf.

That she knows of. If she’s keeping count.

Someone. William. Her William. Was. If he’s anyone’s William he’s not hers anymore, as he stumbles back, his fingers grasping at the worn, smooth wood of the bar. Rubbing his jaw as it makes a noise that curdles her stomach. He tries to hit back but he’s too stunned, too fuzzy from the beer, and Bucky just leans back and lets him miss.

His shoulders slope towards her like an aside, as he demonstrates with his hand. Behind them, the publican starts making noises, about the lack of respect, the threat of throwing them all out. It’s all true. She’s seized by a sudden flight in her feet, but he’s standing here next to her, and she doesn’t move. “See, just like I told you, gotta keep the thumb in like this-”

William runs his tongue over his teeth, his voice ragged and angry and different. “Jo.”

She opens her mouth to speak — to say, she doesn’t know what — but all John does is stand between them, the threat of more should someone dare try, the blood rushing in her ears.

The woman William had been chatting up — the one in the blue dress — the one whose name she does or doesn’t know — is gone.

And he leaves. Turns and leaves like a coward before she’s had the chance to throw the ring in his face. Not that she's one for that kind of display, but considering that her companion, tall enough that he has to watch his head for the beams, had just been moved to fisticuffs completely sober, well-

It all sounds different now, in her voice. Breaking, light. “John.”

“You alright, Captain?” he says, before he catches himself, realizes what she’s just called him. She’s not a captain tonight anyway, and maybe that’s one in her army of mistakes. Her trousers, her blouse, the medallion beneath the neckline. She wears it now instead of keeping it safe.

Is it raining outside? It smells like it will, or did, when she pushes through the door, the air thick and almost warm. He follows her out, the bike or two parked outside and a jeep. Around the side of the pub, a quiet path.

“Jo.”

What is she supposed to say? William doesn’t think she deserves to be here. William doesn’t think anything she writes is any better than anything any man with a byline could spit up. And she’d agreed to marry him. She’d thought that was ok.

And John-

The day they’d come back from the scrapped mission, the one she’d been allowed to observe. Observe. A miracle she can hardly still believe, in more ways than one. Dumb luck, more like. It still sets her heart racing, if she thinks too hard about it.

The ground beneath their feet again, and her knees knocking together and her ankles, the relief. The scarf damp against her collarbone. I knew you’d get up there, he’d said. You don’t let us tell you no. Mention how good I looked flying past you n’ Buck, alright?

Like it wasn’t a question.

“Jo, tell me you don’t think he’s got the right to do that to you.” She’s frozen, like something could wind back what just happened. Her eyes fill with tears. He sees them, she knows he does. She’s still wearing the goddamn ring. She shakes her head, the smallest noise.

"What do you want, Jo, huh?” The question moves through his whole body, his arms, his hands. He means it, every word. You want me to find him and hurt him? I’ll do it. You want me to go kill a guy, I’ll go kill a guy. I do it all the time, it’s easy. “What do you want?"

You.

It’s a shock in her chest, for the times she’s thought it before. Like a match lighting in a dark room.

Quieter now, his eyes trained on her. “What do you want?”

“You to kiss me.”

He stops. Only a second, trying to see her in the dark-dusk, against the trees and the tangled hedges, the last slivers of fading light.

She’s looking up at him, watching him, before he stoops, so close that she can feel the curls against his forehead. A breath, that shaking pause, before he presses his lips against hers. Seeking her. He doesn’t taste like the beer he hasn’t drank, only toothpaste and the smell of aftershave, and warmth, and a little sweat.

Her top lip in both of his, her hands at his jacket, her fists balled like she’ll drown.

“Easy there,” he says, the words dancing with a laugh, the complete absence of meaning it. She can’t help it, the stupid grin on her face, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb on her cheek. The way he doesn’t stop kissing her.

The smallest stuttered noise in the back of his throat, the kind she feels in her hips. God-

“John-”

“Say that again.”

She whacks her palm lightly against his shoulder, pulls it back slow as his tongue catches at her front teeth. “Won’t push my luck on a Bucky, then-”

“Since when-” she says, and he wants to laugh again, how breathless she sounds. He’s here, he’s here, for how long, for how long- “Since when don’t you push your luck-”

He smiles against her mouth. The noise of people leaving the pub, or coming in. She straightens up, but he doesn’t pull all the way back. “If that’s all it took to get you to smile-" The back of his neck is warm under her hands, the short hair. He’s a little breathless too, the kind that stops her heart. “Am I better?”

Her lips press the soft spot against the side of his mouth, so firm she feels the gums beneath. “What do you think, Major?”

He’s beaming, here in the dark. “I think I like it when you call me Major.”

“Do you, now?”

“Or John.” He presses his thumb against her chin, her bottom lip.

“Or Bucky.”

Soft against her ear, his voice. “Or Bucky.”

#masters of the air oc #mota oc #bucky egan x oc #lostloveletters #battie i'm so sorry we did not get any pinkys actually #but uh. we got some other things #shoshi writes #jo's tag #motaverse #1k ?????#i know there are typos and i'll find them once it's posted #blame this show for giving me not one but two bucky kiss scenes to rewatch #officer i've never seen this woman before in my life. etc.#thank you battie for letting me go a little ....this #posting before i can start tearing it apart

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innamorament0 · 9 months ago

Text

"Whoah, someone knocked Lex Luthor's sister up! Didn't know they had an ability of human procreation." Alex chuckled, turning the page of the newest CatCo magazine. "I wish your name would be on a byline, Kara. It's your first interview, after all. I get that your involvement is unofficial, but the text is so well written."

"Alex… It was me." Kara unclutched her head and looked at her sister with an expression so miserable that Alex put down the magazine and squinted, watching the Kryptonian squirm under her scrutinising gaze.

"What do you mean it was you?" Now, all Alex's attention was on Kara.

"I made Lena Luthor pregnant!" Kara blurted out.

Rated E!

#supercorp #supergirl #supercorp fanfiction #supercorp fic #fanfiction #my writing #lena luthor #kara danvers #red kryptonite #red K Kara

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threewaywithdelusion · 2 years ago

Text

spinning (for you)

There’s something magical about the open road at night.

They’re in the middle of nowhere, driving down a deserted highway in Steve’s Bimmer. It’s just them and the darkness and the endless Indiana summer air. Sometimes they drive under a street lamp and in the sudden puddle of light, Steve will be able to see Eddie's features. His big dark eyes and soft smile and the dimples in his cheeks. Steve is glad the road is empty and there are fields on either side because he can barely pay attention to the road when Eddie looks like this.

He can’t look away. Especially not when it feels like every glimpse could be his last.

He’s mourning a relationship that isn’t yet over, but Steve’s been here before. He knows what it looks like when someone is falling out of love. He knows the feeling of kisses that only he initiates. The taste of bitter blood in the back of his mouth.

He doesn’t think Eddie has realized it yet, that they’re racing towards the end. And Steve is nothing if not stubborn. He will hang onto this relationship by his fingertips until he’s bloody and bruised and he won’t let go until Eddie asks him to.

It took Nancy almost a year to give up on Steve. Steve wonders if Eddie will be able to last longer.

Probably not. They’re both too big for him, these beautiful, passionate people. Nancy with her sweet smile and her steady hands and her dreams of seeing her name in bylines in newspapers far, far away from Hawkins. Eddie, with his boundless energy and his quick fingers and his dreams of playing on stage for masses of adoring fans.

Steve was never going to be enough for either of them. He should just be happy to have gotten a bit of their time.

But he’s an inherently greedy thing. He wants forever and never more so than when he knows it’s out of reach.

There’s nothing certain in this life but death and taxes and Robin, and Steve loves her more than anything else but she’s part of him. She’s his Self, like his blood and his guts and his brain.

Steve can be lonely even with Robin there. Not lonely like a big, empty house. Lonely like the static of a record spinning after the music has already ended.

She didn’t choose him. They’re trauma-bonded soulmates and she can’t separate Steve from herself any more than he can separate her from himself.

Steve wants someone to want him, not just need him.

He’d thought, for a moment, that Eddie could be that person. He’d fallen hard and fast, the way he always does, and miraculously Eddie had felt the same. They’ve had months of lazy kisses and rough sex. Of Eddie reading books aloud with Steve’s head resting in his lap. Of Steve cooking breakfast and the two of them sharing it, bite by bite. Of slow-dancing in Steve’s living room and head-banging in Eddie’s trailer. Of holding each other close after nightmares and mouthing over sun-warmed skin in grassy fields.

Now, the late season heat feels heavier every day, one last gasp of summer before autumn sweeps it away, and Steve knows that when the cold comes it will find them already dead.

Steve’s memory hasn’t been the same since the series of concussions, but he’s trying so hard to pay attention to all these little moments, like if he presses them hard enough into his synapses he might be able to keep them.

Like right now, Eddie rolling the window down as they speed down the darkened roads. The wind lifts up Eddie’s curls, swirling them around so that Eddie is all flyaway hair and flashes of pale skin. He’s grinning, sticking a hand out the window to feel the air fly by, singing along to a new metal song that came out last week.

He already knows all the words.

“Ain’t it funny how it is? You never miss it ‘til it’s gone away,” Eddie sings.

That’s not true, Steve thinks. I miss you and you aren’t even gone yet.

Eddie launches into the chorus, which even Steve has heard enough times to know the words to. The hazards of dating a metalhead.

“Come on, Stevie!” Eddie says. “I know you know it!”

He grabs one of Steve’s hands off the wheel and starts moving it back and forth in a silly little dance. Steve knows better than to attempt headbanging while driving (and Eddie laughs at his headbanging anyway, says Steve is too careful not to mess up his hair) so he shimmies side to side in a way that doesn’t fit the metal music at all.

Eddie whoops like he doesn’t care.

As the second verse comes on, Eddie sings at the top of his lungs and Steve rolls all the windows down. The wind whips through the car and it feels like they’re sitting in the middle of a storm. It’s electric.

“Too much time on my hands! I got you on my mind!” Eddie sings. He’s lit up, completely in his element. Eddie feels larger than life sometimes and here, grinning as he sings into the abyss of the night sky, Steve could almost mistake him for a figment of his imagination. A pipe dream; too good to be true.

The chorus explodes from the speakers and Steve joins in on the singing.

“So-o-o, understand, don’t waste your time always searching for those wasted years!”

Eddie’s fingers are tight around Steve’s, rings digging into his skin, and Steve hopes they’ll leave a mark, something he can look at later. A little piece of proof that this was real, that Eddie Munson chose to hold his hand.

“Face up! Make your stand! And realize you’re living in the golden years!”

They’re dancing so hard the car is bouncing, Eddie’s hair flying everywhere, the wind whistling through the windows and the music roaring through the speakers. Steve’s blood is thrumming and in this moment, he feels so, so alive.

He isn’t sure sometimes, that all of this is real. Isn’t convinced that he wasn’t eaten by a demodog in a junkyard. That he didn’t die deep in a Russian base.

And even when he thinks he’s alive, he isn’t sure he’s real. Who the hell is Steve Harrington? A boy with a silver spoon in his mouth and parents he occasionally forgets exist? A guy who will practice keg stands in secret until he makes himself sick, all so he can volunteer to drink at a party and have everyone’s eyes on him? A devoted boyfriend who leaves notes in his girlfriend’s locker and kisses her in hallways, like he’s performing love for the masses, and doesn’t ever notice that she doesn’t love him back? An infallible hero, who can take hit after hit and always get back up?

Who is Steve when nobody is watching? Does he even exist?

In this moment, he feels like he does. He can feel Eddie’s skin and his own heartbeat and he thinks he likes whatever creature is sitting in the driver's seat, even if he’s not sure it’s Steve Harrington.

So understand

Don’t waste your time always searching for those wasted years

Face up, make your stand

And realize you’re living in the golden years

As the song ends, Eddie whoops, loud and long. Steve laughs, enamored, and Eddie presses a kiss to the back of Steve’s hand.

The next song to come on the station is Mötley Crüe and Eddie groans at the glam metal.

Steve takes advantage of Eddie’s disdain to flip the station. This is how they pass control back and forth, each getting to stay on their preferred station until a song they don’t like comes on. Then the other person gets to take control of the music.

Steve doesn’t particularly care what genre of music he listens to, so he usually gets more songs in a row. But metal songs last way longer than any other genre, so Steve and Eddie get about even time on each of their stations.

A few months ago, Steve had thought that was a sign from the universe that they fit together. That they were in balance.

A few months ago, Eddie tried to pretend to like glam metal so he could stay on his station and Steve didn’t know him well enough to call him on it. It was only once they’d been on Eddie’s station for two hours that Steve even thought to question it. In his defense, he was too busy watching Eddie headbang and sing and smile to pay attention to anything else.

Last week, Steve lied about liking a song because he wanted to stay on his station for longer and Eddie rolled his eyes, not like he thought Steve was being cute, but like he was genuinely annoyed.

Steve is always endearing until he isn’t, but he can never figure out why. He doesn’t think he changes his behavior — people just get bored or annoyed after a while.

There’s something in him that’s unlovable. He’s not sure if it’s so deep within him that it takes people a while to find it or if it’s something obvious and superficial that grows tiring after a while, grating from overexposure.

But Steve can feel the sands of time running low.

“Alright!” says the DJ on the radio. “Next up, we have a request. This is for Jimmy, from Angela. This is Thank You For The Music by ABBA.”

Eddie lets out a loud groan and dramatically curls up in the passenger seat, hiding his face in his hands.

Steve grins. For all that Eddie disdains pop radio, he has a fondness for ABBA. Steve has caught him many times bobbing his head along to the beat. Once, he even caught him singing Gimme Gimme Gimme, though Eddie maintains that when he does it, it’s out of gay rebellion and not appreciation for ABBA.

“Nope!” Steve says cheerily. “I’m not letting you get away with this!”

He pulls the car onto the shoulder of the road and gets out, leaving his door open as he rounds the car to Eddie’s side. Eddie feigns reluctance but he lets Steve drag him out of the passenger seat and to the front of the car. They’re standing in the beam of the headlights, the only spot of light in the empty road, and Steve pulls Eddie into his arms. Properly. Like they’re slow-dancing, the way they do in Steve’s living room the nights they’re soft with each other.

Those nights have been getting fewer and farther between and Steve wants one last dance. Here, outside the Hawkins town limits, in a place that’s both nowhere and anywhere. No expectations or history or promises to way them down. Nothing but the cicadas and the music filling the air.

Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing

Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing

The song is a bit too upbeat for a slow dance, but Steve doesn’t let that deter him. He marches them back and forth, Eddie laughing as his feet get stepped on, and Steve feels a thrill at making him laugh.

He keeps them going through the verse, but he can see Eddie beginning to look around. Maybe it’s the woods or the darkness or the bad memories creeping in. It’s normal. It’s fine.

Except that Eddie is always getting distracted of late. Always looking away.

Steve feels like a performer, desperately trying to be the star of the show. Like a child, asking his parents to be proud.

Who can live without it? I ask in all honesty

What would life be

Steve spins out dramatically, throwing his arms wide, then twirls back into Eddie’s arms. Eddie fumbles to catch him, their feet getting tangled up, and when Eddie tips over, off-balance, Steve turns the motion into a dip.

They’re clumsy and unpracticed and he’s sure the dip looks terrible. But Eddie’s yelp of fear cuts off into a surprised bark and when he meets Steve’s eyes, he’s impressed.

Steve pulls Eddie upright again and they’re close together, breathing the same air, Eddie’s eyes huge, pupils tiny in the glow of the headlights.

“You’ve got moves, Harrington,” he says.

Steve smiles. Doesn’t say that a month ago Eddie would have called him Stevie.

“Only when I have someone worth using them on,” he says instead, and it’s the kind of flirty, glib comment that belongs at the beginning of a relationship. Not at the end of one.

It makes Eddie’s face fall a bit and Steve doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. He was only trying to get Eddie to smile.

He’s a disco ball; he’s a record. Spinning endlessly. Anything, anything as long as it will keep you looking.

He wishes he knew what Eddie wants so he could become it. But he thinks it’s already too late.

The bridge slows down and Eddie starts to take a step back, like the song is over. But Steve wants his perfect last dance.

He pulls Eddie in close. His arms wrapped all the way around Eddie’s torso, Eddie’s folded over his shoulder. He tucks his face against Eddie’s neck, against all that soft, dark hair. Eddie smells like cigarettes and motor oil and the 2-in-1 shampoo Steve scoffs at but secretly loves the smell of.

Eddie pulls him closer and they sway, side to side, way too slowly to match the music.

Without a song or a dance, what are we?

So I say thank you for the music

For giving it to me

As the last notes of the song ring out, Steve pulls Eddie into a kiss. It’s achingly slow, sweet but hungry. A desperate, tragic goodbye.

Eddie steps away first, giving Steve a strange look. He starts for the passenger side door and Steve can’t bear to see this end, so he blurts out “Let’s lie on the hood. We can stargaze.”

Eddie stops and turns and for a moment Steve hopes. But then he says, “Maybe another night, baby. I’m tired and it’s late. We should get going.”

You’re always going. I’m always watching you leave.

“Yeah,” Steve says. Swallows down the thickness is his voice. “Okay. Let’s go.”

He gets back into the car. Lets Eddie turns the radio down as he down a wide U-turn and points them back towards Hawkins.

He glances over at Eddie, who is staring out the window. Watching the scenery go by, maybe. Or lost in thought. Somewhere Steve can’t reach him.

Steve blinks furiously as he refocuses on the road, his throat tight. He wishes they were more than this. He wishes he were enough.

He would be a firework show if it would make Eddie smile. He would be Eddie’s favorite lover; his stalwart best friend; the world’s best actor. He would be Eddie’s favorite song.

But he can’t do any of that. All he can do is blink back the tears, put on a performance of a smile, and drive Eddie home.

~~~

I'm still editing this, so feel free to give feedback. It's meant to give mirrorball vibes, is that coming through?

#stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #steddie #steddie ficlet

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outercrasis · 2 years ago

Text

Don't Be A Stranger

Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x gn!Reader

Word Count/Rating: 4.7k // PG-13

Warnings: references to canon-typical violence/injury

Summary: There's no mistaking that silhouette. It's him in your living room. The Batman.

It was pure chance. Anyone in Ms. Atwood's fourth grade class could have ended up with him as their pen pal. You're not sure you believe that the stars aligned just right or that fate was on your side anymore than it being a true, one-in-a-million fluke. Still, you're the one who ended up with Bruce Wayne as their pen pal.

You didn't know it was him at first. You were only given his first name and a non-descript address. The PO box didn't exactly scream the prince of Gotham. Sometimes you wonder if you would have treated him differently if you had known. There's a good chance you would have.

As young as you were, no one could forget the bold, block letters of the Gotham Gazette from early that September. THOMAS AND MARTHA WAYNE DEAD. The editor didn't even attempt to give it any flair. It was shocking enough on its own.

Your father had been devastated, a large supporter of Thomas Wayne's mayoral campaign. Your mother had regarded Martha as a style icon, in shambles over losing her favorite inspiration. You remember reading the byline about young Bruce surviving the ordeal, trying to comprehend what it would mean to suddenly no longer have parents.

It was news that rocked the entire city and the very next day it's all your classmates could talk about. Robbie Carter said his grandpa thought it was all a conspiracy, Monica Gibbs told you her dad was one of the first officers on the scene and that blood had been everywhere, and Avery Parker told everyone to shut up. You were glad Avery did, as the discussion had been making you start to feel queasy.

A few months later though, when your pen pal was assigned, the name Bruce didn't really click. After all, why would Bruce Wayne of all children be writing to someone in the Gotham Public School system?

Blissfully unaware of your pen pal's true identity, you wrote to him like you would have any other kid your age. You introduced yourself, telling him the important details like your favorite ice cream flavor and what you wanted to be when you were older. He was kind enough to not point out that an astronaut chef was an unlikely job.

His responses were a bit muted in comparison, but you didn't mind. It was clear Bruce was intelligent early on with his large vocabulary and varied topics. More than once you had to look up words in the dictionary or pull a reference to understand what he was talking about. Having to look things up sometimes was far better than a boring pen pal – like Andrew Clark who had a pal that only wanted to talk about a specific species of shark.

At the end of the school year with a parent's permission you could send your home address to your pen pal to keep the correspondence going. It took three days to get your mom to grant her approval and worth every extra chore you agreed to. Even more thrilling was that Bruce wanted to keep writing to you too.

Somewhere early fifth grade you figured out Bruce's real identity, not that he'd ever truly been hiding it. The pieces had been clicking together for a while but the clear mention of his bedroom in the Tower cinched it. There's only one capital T Tower in Gotham and everyone knows it belongs to the Wayne family.

You chose to not acknowledge it. Looking back on it you don't know why – it just didn't seem to make a difference. Bruce was Bruce, Wayne name attached or not.

You both kept writing consistently all the way through middle school. Considering the attention span of kids, especially pre-teens, it was a remarkable feat. From what you knew, you were the only one to keep in touch with your pen pal for so long.

For whatever reason your parents never chose to look over your letters and without a teacher's watchful eye, you could say anything. No topic was off limits. There was no judgment between you two. The bond was sacred, sharing every last thought and feeling. You normally made up for where he lacked in the feelings discussion, where Bruce had plenty of thoughts for the both of you.

High school was where things started to slip. You were caught up in keeping your grades high, extra curriculars, and the drama of who’s dating who. You’re not really sure what Bruce got caught up in – as far as you knew he didn’t even attend the posh boarding school for Gotham's elites.

Needless to say, the established schedule fell apart a little. It certainly wasn’t once a week anymore but you did your best. Even when you didn’t get a reply for a while, you kept sending your letters. Someone had to be clearing out the PO box because none of them were ever returned.

Bruce’s letters came to a complete stop soon after graduation. It coincided with his widely-reported disappearance from Gotham, so you weren’t surprised, but it felt wrong to give up on your correspondence. A pen pal for this long shouldn’t end without a proper goodbye.

You kept at it – the frequency of your post varying with the ups and downs of life. College brought exciting times but also a fair amount of strife. You kept Bruce up to date about everything. New friends, new partners, new addresses when you moved, celebrations of passing exams, excitement over what was on the horizon, grief at the untimely loss of your father, the burden of bills and low wages.

While there weren’t any letters being sent in return, Bruce would find a way to pop up in your life from time to time. You’re not sure what he was up to in his world, but it was enough to know he was reading your letters. A surprise delivery of baked goods at your doorstep filled with your favorite confectionaries, a large anonymous bouquet at your father’s wake, a mystery deposit in your bank account when your bills became a bit too tight.

You'd offer a brief thank you in your next letter, nothing that would embarrass him, but enough that it was acknowledged. After all this time you had a good idea of how to properly toe that line.

Part of you wished for a real response. Even a short missive emblazoned on impersonal Wayne letterhead. You weren't ungrateful for his little gestures, but you missed his voice, his mind. Bruce had the most interesting way of looking at the world. You missed being privy to it – you hoped one day he would let you back in.

—

It's late when you get home. Clean-up at the volunteer shelter took longer than you expected, meaning your trip home was more nerve wracking than usual. Your apartment isn’t in the Narrows, but that isn’t saying much. Gotham isn’t the kind of city to have a truly “safe” neighborhood – the promise of violence just varies from borough to borough. You’d say yours provides an even 50/50 shot.

The mostly-empty subway cars are uninviting despite being the fastest and safest option. With less bodies crammed inside the tubes it means your chances of being targeted go up. Every squeak of the train track seems louder, every rattle a little more threatening. You keep a tight hold on your bag. The streets themselves aren’t much better. Moonlight barely reaches the street, blocked by the thick clouds, and streetlights are inconsistent at best.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you see your apartment door. Six stories up with two locked doors between you and Gotham's nighttime streets means you can finally relax. It's not really paranoia, more so staying vigilant in a dangerous city.

You flick on your small table lamp and fall into the couch. There's an attempt to fling your bag onto the coffee table, but it hits the side and it slumps onto the floor. Not a big deal. You'll grab it tomorrow. The comfort of home settles in, nearly tempting you to close your eyes right there on the couch when your stomach growls. Food, eating, important. Right.

Rolling off the cushions, you catch a small whiff of yourself. You don’t smell bad, but you’re not sure it can be said that you smell good. Your priorities quickly become apparent. Food, shower, then sleep. Anything else is tomorrow’s problem.

Deciding what to eat is easy when there isn’t much in your kitchen to start with. Grocery shopping was supposed to happen yesterday, but with how busy your week has been there’s been no time. Luckily, there’s still enough to scrape together a serviceable sandwich. You eat it over the sink, not wanting to deal with a dirty plate and trying to keep the crumbs contained.

By the time you finish your sandwich, your eyes are half-open. Skipping the shower until tomorrow morning is incredibly tempting, but the idea of slipping into your sheets squeaky clean just barely beats it out.

It takes a little time for your water to heat properly, the result of aging infrastructure and a half-caring landlord. In an effort to keep yourself awake, you pull out a pen and paper and begin to scrawl a new letter to Bruce.

It's been nearly two weeks since your last one. You've gotten through the simpler details when the water has finally heated, abandoning the letter on the kitchen counter.

The choice to shower was the correct one. There's immediate relief standing underneath the warm spray, the stress of your day-to-day melting away. The city's grime sloughs off of you, collecting in the tub. It eventually makes its way down the drain – a clogged pipe that you can do nothing about always leads to an inch of water for you to stand in.

You're nearing the end of your shower when a noise catches your ear outside the bathroom door. You quickly write it off. With an apartment six floors up it would take a worthless amount of dedication to find a way into your place. Any smart thief wouldn't enter the apartment with a light on either. It's nothing.

Rinsing your hair, there's another louder noise accompanied by a heavy grunt. There's no mistaking that. Someone has found their way into your apartment.

Panicked, you quickly grab a towel and wrap it around yourself. If someone is going to break into your place they aren't going to catch you completely naked. Looking around the bathroom, you quickly settle on the plunger for a weapon. It's not much but definitely better than nothing. The thought of the baseball bat perfectly nestled under the edge of your bed taunts you.

The shower is still running, but your water bill is the least of your concern at the moment. If you die in the next ten minutes you won't have to pay it anyway.

Inching towards the door, you mentally walk through your gameplan. Throw open the door, plunger raised, run at the intruder yelling, and rain fury down upon them. Hopefully they'll be so shocked by your deranged appearance that they'll immediately frighten and leave.

You only manage to execute the first two steps of the plan – the shock of what you find stopping you dead in your tracks.

There's a man standing there, but it's not some random drophead like you thought. There's no mistaking that silhouette. It's him in your living room. The Batman.

Before you can really process the insanity of the situation he stumbles, landing hard on one knee. You rush over, terrified that the masked vigilante of Gotham is going to die here on your secondhand rug.

He's heavy. With more than half his dead weight falling onto you, it's a shock you don't completely buckle underneath him.

"Come on, at least get to the couch before collapsing," you grunt, leading him over.

His eyes are partially closed, clearly struggling to keep them open. He's breathing heavily with his suit half blown to hell. You have no idea what to do.

The most intense medical experience you have is shooting someone full of narcan to help prevent an overdose at the volunteer shelter – an experience you're not exactly eager to repeat. You weren't built for stitching up wounds and preventing infection. Clutching your towel, the realization that there is nothing you can do for him is crushing.

Water is becoming a puddle on the floor beneath you, your breaths becoming more ragged to match his with every passing moment. Something about your fear seems to awaken something in him.

"Front– pocket. Auto– injector. Thigh." Every word is a labor. It takes you a few moments too long for his words to click.

"Now."

The force of his words snaps you into action. You launch forward, frantically flipping through all his pockets to find the right one. Front pocket, honestly. He couldn't have been more vague. Eventually, your fingers wrap around something that looks similar to an epipen.

"Twist. Then–" he breathes in sharply, struggling for the next word. "inject."

You can do that you think. His armor is thick, but the fabric on his inner thigh thins a bit. With his sprawled position, it's easy to access.

You twist the injector, watching the liquid turn royal blue before stabbing it into his thigh. He cries out slightly, his body tensing, before collapsing back into the cushions.

"Good job."

His eyes slide shut. His chest continues to rise and fall at a slow but steady pace. The mania of the last few moments washes over you, panic transforming into shock and confusion. How did Batman manage to choose your apartment out of millions? What the fuck.

You stand there looking down at him, suddenly realizing you're only in a towel and the shower is still running. A flush of embarrassment courses through you as realization crashes. There's only the barest hope you didn't flash him in all the commotion.

Drying off and changing as quickly as you can, you bring a clean rag and some warm water over to him. You're guessing whatever he asked you to inject him with is some kind of super-serum but you can't imagine being so filthy is doing any favors. The absurdity of this isn't lost on you. You're really about to clean up Batman's wounds.

It's a slow process. You take your time, periodically switching out the water. At some point you grab a different rag to clean up the torn edges of his armor as well, trying to keep everything as sterile as you can. You do your best – you're not exactly an expert at this.

Even as you clean him up it's difficult to come to terms with the fact that this is really happening. Following the aftermath of the Riddler a couple years ago, Batman went from freakish rumor to celebrated hero overnight. He still seemed more myth than real to you, but there's no question now. He is very real and seemingly very human. You hadn't been sure if the bat motif went deeper before.

You finish up and are left with the conundrum of what to do next. You're more exhausted than ever, but leaving him here just seems wrong. In the end you settle on dragging over your moon chair and grabbing a book. This isn't weird right? You're just making sure he doesn't die or convulse or something.

It was foolish of you to think you could stay awake. Between your preexisting fatigue and the adrenaline come-down, you don't make it through a paragraph before falling asleep.

—

The first few rays of sunlight streaming in your windows are what wakes you. There’s a moment of panic before registering that you’re just in your living room, safe and sound. You stretch and rub at the tight spot in your neck. Falling asleep curled up like that is never a good idea.

Your eyes drift over to the couch and you freeze. He isn’t there. Had you imagined it all? Was last night actually some incredibly vivid dream or hallucination brought on by exhaustion?

That’s the final straw. No more doubles that roll into volunteer shelter shifts. Your body can’t handle that toll anymore. You give another big stretch, your spine popping, and let out a small yelp when you turn to the kitchen and see Batman standing there.

If last night seemed ridiculous then you don’t even know what to call this. What is there to say or think when the city’s masked vigilante is standing in your kitchen like he belongs there? And how the hell is he even standing after the condition he was in?

He doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure what you expected. You don’t know what to say either. It doesn’t even feel like he’s trying to psych you out or anything, he’s simply… quiet. His eyes return to your letter that he’s holding.

“Hey! That’s private!”

You rush into the kitchen, pulling the letter out from his hands. Gotham’s protector or not, he doesn’t have the right to start reading your private correspondence.

He doesn’t seem all that bothered by your anger. "Sorry, I probably shouldn’t read ahead."

You stare at him in slight confusion and wonder as the pieces click together. Holy shit. How did you not put it together before? It seems so obvious now – like you’re in the fifth grade again realizing your pen pal Bruce is Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne is Batman.

His letters stopped years ago, but you would still venture to say you know Bruce Wayne better than anyone else and it all fits. More wealth than he knows what to do with, a desire to continue his father's legacy to improve Gotham, and a deep, dark scar left on his heart all too young.

You always imagined he would start doing some serious philanthropy work, but you suppose this is in line with that. It's not all that shocking that he wants to do it with his own bare hands. Bruce has always wanted to do things himself.

In the eighth grade he told you about a computer he was working on, going into great detail to explain its complexities. It was going to be one of the most advanced systems ever designed once he was through with it. He also mentioned offhand how he nearly blew himself up with it. Becoming Batman seems right on target with that.

What doesn't make sense is why now? Why tell you at all, this many years in? He's let Batman remain a mystery to you for nearly five years. You didn't do anything new to gain his trust.

“I um, I think I need to sit down.”

You stumble back against your countertop looking for stability. From him showing up unannounced in your apartment to this, it’s all a bit much to take in. You’re grateful Bru-Batm-Bruce doesn’t immediately intrude on your personal space, giving you room to breathe. There’s a good chance you would have fully freaked out on him if he did.

You take measured breaths, careful to not let yourself spiral. Although, if there was ever an appropriate time to do so, this would be it. This is a lot to put on anyone, especially so abruptly. The answer to why Bruce couldn’t use his incredible intellect to plan this better will evade you forever.

Once you can trust yourself to not start panicking again, you look back over at him. You have no idea what comes next. This is not how you ever imagined meeting Bruce. You thought maybe one day he would begin to write back again, leading to the decision to meet for a coffee or dinner. It seemed realistic – a bit more adult. This feels like something out of a dream.

You close your eyes again, trying to take it all in. He’s still there when you crack them back open. To be sure, you give yourself a little pinch on your arm. If Bruce finds that odd, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Needing to do something before addressing the elephant – or rather bat – in the room, you grab a glass down and pour yourself some water. It feels strange to ignore him, so you offer you uninvited guest water as well, to which he shakes his head no. It at least feels like a semi-normal moment in all of this.

From there, you wander back to your living room, taking up an end of the couch. Bruce follows, politely letting you lead the way. You wonder if he’s told many others or if he just knows this is best for you. You have absolutely no idea of where to begin.

“Um, hi I guess,” you venture.

You’re by no means an expert in the expressions of Bruce Wayne, but you’re willing to bet that’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Hello,” Bruce says.

“So you uh, you’re the Batman then? I feel like I should have been able to put that together sooner.”

“I would have been surprised if you did.” You’re not certain on how to respond to that. Your shock must come across clearly on your face, because Bruce is quick to clarify. “I’ve worked hard to keep people from putting the pieces together.”

Not many must know his true identity then. You can’t say it’s surprising, given Bruce’s usual habits about divulging personal information.

You’re not too proud to admit that sitting across from him in his full suit, even as beat up as it is, is incredibly intimidating. The reason for the bat motif evades you, but looking at him helps you to understand more. He looks large in the suit, an imposing figure by anyone’s standard. His eyes stand out against all the black in stark contrast, the icy blue pinning you in place. It makes it a bit hard to think straight.

“Would you mind um, taking off the–?” You hope you’re not overstepping. He’s trusted you with his identity, but you’re not sure if that also means trusting you with his face.

Your breath hitches as his hands move. The cowl comes off in one fluid motion.

You’ve seen photos of him of course, even recently, but being face to face is something else altogether. The tabloids have at least one thing right. He’s gorgeous.

His hair is long and in severe need of a brush after a night under the helmet, and yet it works. There’s black makeup hastily smudged all around his eyes, maintaining the contrast of his eyes. Stubble dusts his sharp jawline, drawing your attention to his plush lower lip. You’re not sure if this has calmed your nerves or made them worse. He looks like he was just dragged out of a gutter, which for all you know he might have been, and it’s as though he stepped off the cover of a magazine.

You suddenly realize you should say something more instead of continuing to stare. “I guess I can’t pretend it wasn’t really you after all this,” you half-heartedly joke. You’re not sure if it lands.

Bruce readjusts slightly on the couch, drawing your eyes back to his injuries. Whatever serum he had you pump him full of clearly did its job. The exposed skin still looks angry, but cuts are already stitching back together and there's no longer any active bleeding.

The state of his suit is something else. It looks like he was chewed up and spit back out only to be chewed up again. Massive holes are torn clean through, numerous singe marks across his chest. He's lucky to have not lost the pocket where he was keeping that emergency vial.

“Are you okay?” you ask, “I was a little worried you’d die on me in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” You think that was meant to be comforting.

Once again, you’re not really sure where to go from here. It feels like your life has now been turned upside down from when he first stumbled into your apartment last night. Simply patching up Batman would have been plenty to deal with and process, but now you know his identity too? Calling this whole thing strange is underselling it.

It peaks your curiosity though.

“Why now?” you ask.

Bruce's eyebrows twitch upward for just a moment. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why tell me now? You've been Batman for a while and I can hardly remember the last time you wrote to me," you explain. "There's essentially no point in telling me so why? How can you even trust me?"

You wish Bruce wasn't so hard to read. It's nerve-wracking, unable to tell what he's thinking or feeling. It's also entirely unfair, knowing that your heart is on your sleeve.

"How long have we been writing to each other?" Bruce asks. You're sure the non-sequitur has a point, so you let it slide.

"Since we were nine. Although I'm not sure the past few years count as actual correspondence."

"It counts," Bruce asserts, “Trusting you is the easy part. I’m sure my childhood secrets would have fetched a fair price to the right reporter."

Bruce’s mention of selling his letters off is the first time the thought has ever crossed your mind. It makes sense, you suppose. There were definitely times where that extra cash would have come in handy, yet it was never something you considered. You didn't ask for Bruce Wayne as your pen pal and he didn't ask for you – who are you to betray that sacred childhood bond?

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re choosing now to tell me,” you say.

“Your address was the only one I could remember last night.”

You've never been more touched and more concerned at the same time. You caution moving slightly closer to him on the couch.

"You still didn't have to tell me," you say. Bruce looks confused, so you press on. "You woke up first. You could have easily left and told me sometime later."

"Would you have preferred that?"

You think on it for a moment. "Well I guess not but-"

"You deserved to know," he interrupts. "I came here and you cared for me having no idea who I was. The explanation was warranted."

He's not really wrong. The explanation does and doesn't make sense, but what seems to matter most is that Bruce is so certain of it. There's not a single trace of doubt – you're not sure what to do with so much confidence in yourself.

You think back to all the years of silence from him. So many years where you filled him in on nearly everything in your life while learning none about his. Any sane person probably would have stopped writing. Any sane person probably would have changed his PO box and yet, neither of you did.

Sitting across from him now on your well worn couch, you suppose you have an answer for all his unsent letters. You know what he was doing. Sure, the details are missing, but you know and for now that's plenty.

Something more significant than childhood letters are shared between you now. Neither of you are unaware of the shift.

"I need to get back," Bruce tells you. "Alfred is probably worried."

You remember the name of his childhood butler from his letters. It warms your heart to know he's still a large presence in Bruce's life. He always seemed to have the young heir's best interests at heart.

"Will I see you again?" you ask. You desperately hope this meeting isn't bound for more years of silence from his end.

Bruce slips his cowl back on. "I'll be in touch."

You nod, watching him walk across your small apartment back towards the window. The ever-present clouds in the Gotham sky should provide enough shadow for him to sneak away undetected. He's certainly had enough practice.

Bruce is half out the window when he turns back to you and asks, "Why did you keep writing?"

You don't have to think hard about your answer and give it almost immediately. "I didn't want you to be lonely."

His mask obscures most of his face. You hope that he's touched and not offended – the thought of growing up alone in that Tower just always struck you as empty.

Bruce gives you an almost imperceptible nod and then he's gone. You hope he won't be a stranger.

A week later, there's a letter in your mailbox.

Comments & reblogs are always appreciated 💕

Tagging a few people who seemed interested:) @skeletoncowboys @green-socks @nobodys-baby-now @moonlight-prose @autumnleaves1991-blog @1800-fight-me

#bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #the batman fanfiction #bruce wayne fanfiction #crasis writes

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taylor-swift-bracket · 7 months ago

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🎇Please reblog!🎇

Comment your favorite bridges!

Notable Bridges

(Under the cut)

evermore

champagne problems

Your Midas touch on the Chevy door

November flush and your flannel cure

"This dorm was once a madhouse"

I made a joke, "Well, it's made for me"

How evergreen, our group of friends

Don't think we'll say that word again

And soon they'll have the nerve to deck the halls

That we once walked through

One for the money, two for the show

I never was ready so I watch you go

Sometimes you just don't know the answer

'Til someone's on their knees and asks you

"She would've made such a lovely bride

What a shame she's f*cked in the head," they said

But you'll find the real thing instead

She'll patch up your tapestry that I shred

ivy

So yeah, it's a fire

It's a violent blaze in the dark

And you started it

You started it

So yeah, it's a war

It's the fiercest fight of my life

And you started it

You started it

tolerate it

While you were out buildin' other worlds, where was I?

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky

Now I'm beggin' for footnotes in the story of your life

Drawin' hearts in the byline

Always takin' up too much space or time

You assume I'm fine, but what would you do if I

marjorie

The autumn chill that wakes me up

You loved the amber skies so much

Long limbs and frozen swims

You'd always go past where our feet could touch

And I complained the whole way there

The car ride back and up the stairs

I should've asked you questions

I should've asked you how to be

Asked you to write it down for me

Should've kept every grocery store receipt

'Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me

Watched as you signed your name Marjorie

All your closets of backlogged dreams

And how you left them all to me

right where you left me

Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?

Time went on for everybody else, she won't know it

She's still twenty-three inside her fantasy

How it was supposed to be

Did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion?

Breakups happen every day, you don't have to lose it

She's still twenty-three inside her fantasy

And you're sitting in front of me

Midnights

Hits Different

I find the artifacts, cried over a hat

Cursed the space that I needed

I trace the evidence, make it make some sense

Why the wound is still bleedin'

You were the one that I loved

Don't need another metaphor, it's simple enough

A wrinkle in time like the crease by your eyes

This is why they shouldn't kill off the main guy

Dreams of your hair and your stare and sense of belief

In the good in the world, you once believed in me

And I felt you and I held you for a while

Bet I could still melt your world

Argumentative, antithetical dream girl

Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve

God rest my soul

I miss who I used to be

The tomb won't close

Stained glass windows in my mind

I regret you all the time

I can't let this go

I fight with you in my sleep

The wound won't close

I keep on waiting for a sign

I regret you all the time

You’re Losing Me

How long could we be a sad song

'Til we were too far gone to bring back to life?

I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy

And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier

Fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me

I'm the best thing at this party (You're losin' me)

And I wouldn't marry me either

A pathological people pleaser

Who only wanted you to see her

And I'm fadin', thinkin'

"Do something, babe, say something" (Say something)

"Lose something, babe, risk something" (You're losin' me)

"Choose something, babe, I got nothing" (I got nothing)

"To believe, unless you're choosin' me"

You’re On Your Own Kid

From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes

I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this

I hosted parties and starved my body

Like I'd be saved by a perfect kiss

The jokes weren't funny, I took the money

My friends from home don't know what to say

I looked around in a blood-soaked gown

And I saw something they can't take away

'Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned

Everything you lose is a step you take

So, make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it

You've got no reason to be afraid

Anti-Hero

I have this dream my daughter-in-law kills me for the money

She thinks I left them in the will

The family gathers 'round and reads it and then someone screams out

"She's laughing up at us from Hell"

youtube

#taylor swift #taylor swift poll #poll #my polls #swifties #midnights #evermore #Youtube

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gwen-tolios · 1 year ago

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Nine people I’d like to know better (Tag Game)

tagged by @rockinlibrarian

One-sentence byline: Short story writer specializing in speculative flash fiction, but who also has a sapphic romantic drama for the ace girlies who like the idea of falling in love with a friend.

Last song: Ceilings by Lizzy McAlphine. I can tell you nothing about it. I just had Spotify's 'Fresh Finds Class of 2023' playlist going while I worked.

Favourite colour: Blue! I don't have a specific shade, but a chunk of my condo I painted different hues of it, including a mural in my bedroom that's an ombre sea thing

Currently watching: Only Murders in the Building. I'm two nights into watching it and am already on S2E2. Pls send help.

Last movie/tv show: Barbie! Recently rewatched with my father, who then brought it up as a conversation topic around the Thanksgiving table. He and I have...different views of it and for the past two weeks I keep replying some of our conversations and wish I had asked if what really pissed him off was the fact that the 'dumb blonde' character wasn't a woman.

Spicy/savoury/sweet: It used to be sweet, but as I've gotten older I've leaned more into savory items.

Relationship status: Single. Maybe happily so. (Ace and probably some form of aro but haven't dug too deep)

Current obsession: Middlegame. I feel in love with McGuire's work when I first read Every Heart A Doorway for my ace bookclub, to the point where I then bought everything my local bookshop had by her. Or at least a representation of every series. Middlegame has been on my radar for awhile, but picked it up for a spooky October read that I'm....still reading.

Last thing you googled: Like, needed to google? Definitions for acronyms I use at work. OEM, MAU. Fun googles? Potential problems surrounding blood transfusions for my NaNo original work, A Shelter for Witch Familiars. There were....a lot more murders in that book that I expected.

Tagging: @redstorm23 @notquitebilateral @chris-in-eugene @nightingalesighs @aprilraine @averyconfusedhuman @xirkanos @diesel-park @wigglyparty

#being social #tag game

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saintmeghanmarkle · 8 months ago

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Dan Wootten: How Prince Harry was involved in my sick takedown by a convicted criminal at Byline Times and why the British MSM gave in to those dark forces by u/Von_und_zu_

Dan Wootten: How Prince Harry was involved in my sick takedown by a convicted criminal at Byline Times – and why the British MSM gave in to those dark forces My reporting as Executive Editor of The Sun over that tumultuous period in royal history exposed Harry and Meghan for what they really are: Nasty grifters doing all they could to cause difficulties for the late Queen, even when she was eventually dying of blood cancer, knowing full well that they were always going to quit the Royal Family to seek a fortune in the US as woke warriors. I KNOW that was ALWAYS the plan. https://ift.tt/Vb4phnQ link: https://twitter.com/PinocchPrincess/status/1768307224001105972Online article: https://ift.tt/6QiRxMA article archived: https://ift.tt/mW5XKdD to add a different twitter link with Dan's video of this: https://twitter.com/danwootton/status/1768301246190960779Edit to add: And he is on tik tok. But I'm not. here is a twitter link to his tick tock. https://twitter.com/MurkyMegPodcast/status/1768318478337851868Edit to add; isnt this interesting?The Daily Mail, which is secretly terrified of the unhinged campaign Harry is waging against them, immediately paused my column, which until that point had been the most read on their website internationally.They didn’t wait to see any evidence or allow me to put my case. They bowed to these criminal friends of Harry within hours.***I will never apologise for speaking to whoever I possibly can to break royal stories, when the rota “journalists” are happy to regurgitate briefings from communications secretaries. So, yes, I was speaking to people close to the late Queen, Charles, William and Andrew, too.But also Harry and Meghan. The idea that they were not playing the exact sort of games in terms of media briefings is farcical. Even my Megxit world exclusive contained information fed directly to me by their official staff.**Harry and Meghan have now played a critical role in cancelling me for reporting the truth in my last four MSM jobs – first on ITV’s Lorraine show, then The Sun (once Gallagher had moved to The Times), The Daily Mail and, yes, even GB News. That’s why I’m here. Proudly independent, with a daily online news show launching later this year. I will continue to break stories that both the Sussexes and the Royal Family would rather stay covered up. And there is much to expose.The MSM is no longer prepared to tackle the most difficult stories about Harry and Meghan because they know his legally trigger happy nature – backed up by the millions left to him by his late mother and great grandmother – could result in financial ruin. If they think they’ve silenced me, however, Harry and Meghan have got another thing coming: My reporting has always been completely honest, above board and legal – and it will not stop. post link: https://ift.tt/uygYHvC author: Von_und_zu_ submitted: March 14, 2024 at 05:45PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

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gingerbreadmonsters · 1 year ago

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wip title game <3

rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP list, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it. and then tag as many people as you have WIPs!

thank you to the wonderful @pinksparkl for the tag!! 💕💕 look i'll say it - you've probably seen a fair number of these before, because if i am terrible at one thing it is sticking to a plan lmao 🫠🫠 i did add the byline, though, so you can maybe make an educated guess...?? i am a chronic oversharer, so do feel free to ask about any of them - i put everything in a randomiser, so the order doesn't mean anything hehe

edit: i'm adding links to ones i've already answered, so you can see what's going on <3

too close to hide or: I'M ON THE HUNT, I'M AFTER YOU. hometown hero or: it's even better than the thing you're not. i know you or: that gleam in your eyes... HEART EYES CRY BLOOD!! or: ...we came in?

fun laughs good time or: now, let me get right to the point. happy birthday mister president or: take a deep breath and blow... the candles out. slip of the tongue or: he's been there all afternoon, malapropping up the bar.... thicker than water or: some apples fall a little further from the tree. sunkissed or: keep your friends close, and your anemones closer! SOCKPUPPET or: there are no strings on me! kiss the ring or: your wish is my command. better look out or: don't tease me, just squeeze me! solution euphoria or: reanimating the dead, maybe. something strange or: who you gonna call?

no-pressure tags: @zozo-01 @autisticempathydaemon @ejunkiet @lovelylonerliterature @starlitangels @romirola @frenchiefitzhere @dominimoonbeam @bicyclepainting @calicostorms 💕💕💕💕💕

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #ooh a game!#pinksparkl beloved <3 #head in hands. some of these have been trapped in google docs hell for more than a YEAR #of course these are all subject to change #but generally i tend to stick with them #i basically never use working titles for things - for some reason it just doesn't work for me idk #i guess because most of what i write doesn't really have like a snappy summary??#some does (like the mer au or the foursome fic) but mostly its pure vibes yk

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limerental · 1 year ago

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ficletvember 2023 - day 12

reynard/geralt, some background implied meve/reynard

Frustrated by the freshly-knighted Geralt's insubordination, Reynard challenges the witcher to a duel that ends much more pleasantly than expected.

content warning for an explicit handjob

Reynard didn't care at all for their latest recruits.

The biggest layabout was the poet, who had claimed exemption from military service by some obscure byline of Rivian law and regularly proceeded to imbibe as much wine and ale as possible.

Instinct said that the soldier and the barber-surgeon were unsavoury characters despite their apparent usefulness in the ranks and in the infirmary. Both frequently shirked their duties to visit their ailing cohort.

Reynard could not fault the girl for her troubles, though he was certain she could have been better served sent off to the nearest village healer rather than being carted about in wagons during the long march each day.

The worst of all was the witcher.

Reynard had protested the bestowment of knighthood on some vagabond wanderer at length at the nightly briefing afterward until his Queen had been forced to raise her voice to admonish him, red blots of fresh blood appearing on the cloth she pressed to her wounded mouth. The queasy shame of that sight had only fueled Reynard's dislike.

What sort of character was this Sir Geralt of Rivia, who could earn Meve's respect so readily, who had awed every soldier on the bridge with his speed and prowess? What had possessed Meve to offer him a knighthood?

Sir Eyck was the only one among them who had agreed heartily with his poor assessment, claiming to any that would listen that all witchers to be despicable mutants befouling the very ground upon which they walked.

That seemed a trifle too far for Reynard. He had never had any trouble with the witchers he had been acquainted with. No more than any other tradesmen.

Though Sir Geralt's appearance was slightly ghoulish, he behaved the same as any other new recruit fresh from the fields or the smith or the mill. Which was to say he lacked discipline, was unfamiliar with military protocol, and often acted like he'd rather be elsewhere. He was arrogant and sulky and prone to bitter snark, and on top of that, he had poor posture and refused to dress as befitted a knight, wearing no armour but a tatty leather jacket and unwilling to remove his headband and tie back his hair in a regulation style.

No matter that he had unmatched skill with a blade and with his body. That he moved soundless and quick and sure. That he could prove to be immeasurably useful in the war.

Reynard's list of complaints only grew. Meve's favour had clearly been displaced.

Discovering Sir Geralt locked in a card game with several rowdy dwarves while meant to be on night watch was the last straw.

“Sir Geralt,” Reynard called as he approached. “My instructions were clear, were they not? Stand watch at the north gate until you’re relieved. Did you find those orders too difficult? Think yourself too good for them?”

“General Odo,” the witcher acknowledged, though infuriatingly, he did not look up from his hand of cards. The dwarves had forgotten the game to titter amongst themselves, clearly hoping for the spectacle of a skirmish. “I promise you, it's not difficult at all for me to follow those orders. I would know the second anything out there tried to approach. You're better off with me on watch, even playing cards or blind-drunk, than any ordinary soldier in this army.”

“You arrogant fuckin’--”

Reynard's hand leapt to his sword. His temper flared hot. Heightened witcher senses be damned, he couldn't have a high-ranking soldier appearing to slack on duty and then mouth off to his superior.

“Think this through, General,” said the witcher, strange eyes dropping to Reynard's sword hand. He set down his cards very slowly.

“Draw your sword,” Reynard demanded.

“Too dark for a proper duel,” Geralt said, which he would have relented to, allowing the issue to lie until morning, had that statement not been followed up with, “and I'd have the clear advantage. Barely a contest.”

Reynard's sword hissed from its sheath.

The dwarves let out a chorus of excited jeers and slapped Geralt on the shoulders. Reynard had long given up on admonishing their lot for improper decorum, but he glared sternly at them anyhow. The witcher did not rise, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“Stand up,” he ordered. Geralt stood slowly, and Reynard squared his stiff shoulders in defiance of the witcher's relaxed slouch.

“Might be best to do this without an audience,” said the witcher to loud complaints from the dwarves. Fortunately, they hastened off without much fuss

Which left Reynard to realize how eerily alone they were.

It was well past midnight. Reynard had been driven by his usual sleeplessness to patrol the limits of camp. Sparse torchlight glowed at intervals along the palisade perimeter, but otherwise, the darkness of the wilderness loomed and the huddled tents lay as quiet as an army camp ever did.

There was not a soul in sight to bear witness to Reynard's challenge. A sworn knight would be duty-bound to answer his call to a duel, but Geralt shied from that duty as easily as he did the rest and would not draw his sword.

“If you're that insistent on a fight,” said the witcher, voice infuriatingly casual, “let's settle for hand to hand. No sense dulling our blades.”

Had Reynard been in full armour, he would have refused the foolish request, but the late hour found him stripped down to his gambeson and largely unencumbered. With a gruff nod, he set aside his sword and undid the clasp of his cape, anticipating its long trail hindering him in close combat with an opponent so swift and unpredictable.

“To first pin,” he announced with all the formal sternness he could muster, as if this were an officiated tournament duel and not a midnight scrap.

Reynard knew at once as they circled one another on the packed earth beyond the perimeter fence that he had erred in challenging such a man.

The witcher's eyes glinted with an animal shine as he circled, and each movement was fluid and precise. He resembled, in every sense, a predator waiting to strike.

A shiver went down Reynard's spine.

As expected, the fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. He had some inkling that for the sake of his pride Geralt allowed a single punch of his to land, and then, the witcher pivoted his hips, easily shifting his weight, and drove Reynard back with a series of swift blows that found him thoroughly pinned against the log palisade.

Up close, the witcher's eyes were no less animal, slitted pupils narrowing as he loomed into Reynard's space, the taut muscle of his pinning arms as unyielding as iron. He smelled of leather and the earthy must of the stables, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cool night.

Reynard's heartbeat thundered with lingering adrenaline, and Geralt tipped his head as though to listen, taking a slow, deep breath.

The slit pupils dilated.

With a startling, cocky boldness that, if he were armed, would have seen an ordinary man's hand severed from its wrist, Geralt dropped a hand to palm between Reynard's legs.

He had not recognized his own arousal until the deternined press of the touch brought it to dizzying awareness. His back arched against the rough wood, mouth falling open with the intensity of the feeling.

The involuntary groan as the palm shifted to encompass him more firmly inspired Geralt to shush him, one hand curving around the back of Reynard's skull and the other making quick work of his laces

“This too improper for you, General Odo?” The cheeky fucking bastard asked in a rumble of sound as his clever fingers encircled his erection and stroked, thumb teasing with expert pressure at the slit of his cockhead.

The witcher had far more talents than simple swordplay. Perhaps that was why his fellows showed him such unerring devotion.

Perhaps Meve had wanted– Had already–

“Get on with it,” Reynard grunted, wavering voice lending far less authority than usual to the demand.

“That an order?”

Reynard had little chance to respond to the insolent remark, the focused touches that resumed in earnest forcing him to clench his jaw tight to quiet his resulting groans.

It had been a very long time.

Not one for brothels or casual tumbles, he had been celibate for years now. For nearly two decades.

He had not even thought to seek such a distraction, ever having stuck too close to Meve's side– but no, he refused to besmirch his queen's virtue by even thinking her name in the midst of such a crass act.

Geralt's thumb stroked along the nape of his neck, strange gaze bright with intensity as they locked eyes, and for a moment, Reynard was certain he was about to be kissed.

Instead the witcher's mouth dropped to his throat, breathing deep as though scenting him, and Reynard was struck by the thought of how easily the sharp of those strange canines could tear his throat wide open.

He could not bring himself to regret his foolish challenge. Not as the witcher's hand sped its pace and his mouth sucked a bruise below his collar.

It was over near as quickly as their brawl had been.

Had he been a younger man, the sight of the witcher tasting the spend that coated his long fingers, expression smug, could have inspired a second round.

As it was, Geralt nodded to him and slunk back to his post, leaning with crossed arms against the palisade. Reynard could feel his eyes on him as he retrieved his discarded cape and sword and strode quickly away into the camp.

Even when Gascon wolf-whistled over the sight of the mark in the command tent the next morning, Reynard could feel little regret. Especially when Meve's eyes could not seem to stop lingering on the dark smear of the bruise.

The regret came several days later when news came of the desertion of the strange company.

It was some vindication that he had been right about the witcher's true nature, having begun to hope that he was wrong.

And having hoped of another chance encounter, unlikely to forget anytime soon the alluring weight of the witchers gaze nor the sure touch of his hands.

#my fic #ficletvember #i just think general odo and geralt had some tension in their single scene in the books you know #anyway how many thronebreaker ficlets is that now lmao #reynard odo x geralt

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