#I do not have the nerves to send these things out without tracking

[zhalfirin]

Bionic Battle Granny - ozhawk

These books were part of the Renegady Publishing Tiny Books Bang 2023 event

The typeset was provided by @claudeng80 The story was written by @ozhawkauthor, check out their work!

Full leather binding with leather onlays in clamshell box. case materials binders board 1,5 (case) different leathers, goatskin, (covering material) heat reactive foil, blue (hot stamped title) blind tooled author name

inner book Munken polar 100gsm (book body) @renato-crepaldi marbled paper (endpapers) wibalin (second fly leaf, tipped on the first) button hole silk (endbands)

clamshell box binders board 1 and 1,5 (boxes and case) uncoated blue book cloth (covering material case) @renato-crepaldi marbled paper (covering material boxes) heat reactive foil, cream (hot stamped title)

[steddieas-shegoes]

Eddie loved flying. When the sun was out and he could watch the cars and houses get smaller while they reached altitude. When everything felt a bit lighter and his stress was under the clouds.

He did not love flying when the weather was bad.

In fact, he’d joked with the flight attendant that maybe they should delay the flight until the wind and dark clouds passed, but she just laughed and said the pilots were used to it.

Good for them. Eddie wasn’t.

He always sat in the window seat in first class, usually had some old businessman on his way to close a very important deal next to him. That wasn’t an option for this last minute flight though, so he was in the last row of the plane, leg bouncing nervously as people continued to board.

“As a courtesy to those around you, please stow your personal items under the seat in front of you as soon as you are in your seat. This allows a faster boarding process for all of us. Thank you!”

The announcement was a reminder that Eddie was flying without his usual carry-on items. His tour manager had packed him a checked bag and sent him on his way.

So he had his phone and his wallet, and eyes looking out the window next to him watching rain start to hit the tarmac below.

“Excuse me, I think that’s my seat,” a man’s voice said from the aisle.

Eddie looked over and saw a long line of men roughly his age in matching track suits, backpacks over their shoulders, and the Notre Dame logo on their jackets.

They were all tall. Well, all except the guy talking to him now. He was pretty average size.

“Uh. I don’t think so man. I’m 36F,” Eddie answered as kindly as his nerves would allow.

The guy checked his phone, brows creasing together.

“I’m 36F.”

No fucking way was Eddie giving up his window seat.

“Is there a problem?” A flight attendant asked from behind them.

“We’re both supposed to be in 36F?” The guy held his phone towards the attendant.

“May I see your boarding pass, sir?” The attendant asked Eddie.

Eddie pulled his own phone out, holding out the mobile boarding pass for her to see it.

“Sorry sir, it looks like you should be in 36E.”

Oh no.

Oh god no.

A middle seat?

There was no fucking way.

“I’m sorry, would it be at all possible for me to be in a window seat?” Eddie didn’t want to cause problems, but his chest was starting to clench and his breaths were coming in short pants.

“Unfortunately, this is a sold out flight. We wouldn’t have any available for you.”

He could feel eyes on him, quite a few of them, but none as obvious as the guy who actually belonged in 36F.

“We can just switch, man. No big deal.”

Eddie sighed with relief.

“Thank you, yeah. That’d be great.”

The attendant nodded and gestured for the guy to sit down.

Someone behind him sat on his other side and they immediately started talking as if nothing had happened.

See? Eddie had actually done them a favor! Now he could talk to his teammate for whatever sport he played and Eddie could watch their impending demise through the window.

The plane was rocking back and forth from the force of the wind blowing outside and the sky continued to grow darker despite the early afternoon hour. Eddie was considering sending a goodbye text to his band when he felt a hand on his arm.

“Hey, you okay?”

Eddie’s eyes widened as he turned to look at the guy next to him.

“Do you normally get nervous when you fly? Or is this your first time?” He continued. “Sometimes it helps to just close your eyes during takeoff.”

It was kind of him to try this, truly, but Eddie knew kindness wouldn’t save them if lightning hit them.

“I’m just not a fan of storms.”

The guy was watching him while his teammate on the other side of him talked to the guys across the aisle. Eddie was surrounded by this entire team. The irony was not lost on him that he spent so much of his youth expressing disdain for sports ball and might die among a group of sports ball players.

“Steve.” The guy nudged his shoulder against Eddie’s instead of offering his hand, an odd thing to do but the contact was grounding.

“Eddie.”

“You wanna hold my hand?”

Did they already die during takeoff? Did Eddie somehow end up in heaven?

This very attractive man, who definitely didn’t even know who Eddie was, was offering comfort in these trying times. Offering to hold his hand!

“Uh.”

Steve smiled. “It’s okay if not, but I figured it might help you focus on something else.”

“Sure.”

Steve held his hand out, palm up, and Eddie laced their fingers together.

“So, Eddie. Tell me where you’re off to.”

Eddie breathed in, breathed out. “My Uncle. He’s getting his appendix out so I’m trying to get there before he wakes up.”

“Oh. I had mine out when I was 10! Is he okay?” Steve seemed genuinely concerned and Eddie felt his stomach swoop.

“Yeah! Yeah, they caught it before it ruptured. But because of his age, they said his recovery might be a little rough so I’m gonna stay with him for a week to make sure he doesn’t overdo it. He’s a stubborn old man who’d probably be pulling weeds from his garden within hours if I wasn’t going so.” Eddie looked back out the window. Fingers reached under his chin, turning him away from the window.

“Eyes on me.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Eddie nodded and squeezed Steve’s hand.

“Good.”

Fuck.

“So, you’re close with your uncle?” Steve asked, as if he hadn’t just turned Eddie’s entire world upside down.

“Mhm. He basically raised me. More like a dad,” Eddie whispered out.

The pilot was making an announcement, but you couldn’t pay Eddie to tell you what it was for. He barely even noticed that they were backing away from the boarding zone.

“Do you visit him often?”

“As often as I can. My job keeps me busy,” Eddie shrugged, not really wanting to give it away, didn’t wanna give Steve a reason to look at him differently.

Eddie was gonna soak up this attention as long as he could.

It was actually helping distract him.

“I get that. I mean, I play basketball for Notre Dame and it basically is a full time job. We travel so much, most of my classes are online. I hardly ever get back home to visit my family,” Steve admitted with a sad smile. “Luckily, they come see me at my home games when they can. Does your uncle get to visit you sometimes?”

Just as Eddie went to answer, he caught lightning out of the corner of his eye and his entire body tensed.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice was firm, drawing his attention away from the window quickly. “Keep your eyes on me. We’re fine. Just you and me talking right now.”

They were nearly at the runway for takeoff and it was getting harder to focus on Steve’s words, the warmth of his hand in his, the fact that if it were truly dangerous, they wouldn’t even be cleared for takeoff.

As the plane sped up, Eddie whimpered.

He’d be embarrassed later if he survived.

Steve’s hand pulled from his and wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him against his side while his other hand cupped the back of his head and kept his face against his chest.

“Just breathe. I’ve got ya.”

And really, if the plane went down in flames, no one could save them. But hearing it did help, especially with arms holding him so tightly, he almost didn’t even remember he was on a plane.

But not quite.

The wind was strong enough to make the takeoff rough, shaking the plane more than usual as it left the ground.

Eddie’s hand gripped Steve’s shirt so tight, he would probably cause a tear if his nails weren’t so dull.

He stayed like that while they continued to climb above the clouds, the air pockets making the flight a bit more turbulent than Eddie was okay with.

He felt the vibrations of Steve talking, but didn’t hear him, didn’t even know if he was talking to him or the guy next to him who probably thought Eddie was an idiot.

The pilot made an announcement he didn’t hear, but he figured if he was gonna die, he could die against the chest of a nice, hot guy.

“Worst of it’s almost done, babe,” Steve said, lips against the top of Eddie’s head.

Gareth would never stop teasing him about this if he ever found out.

Being consoled by a sports ball guy during a flight he’s taken at least 30 times in the last two years.

New low? Maybe new high if he managed to get his number.

Steve’s fingers played with his hair, and he slowly felt his body relax.

His last thought before drifting asleep was how nice it was to be held like this.

***

“I think he’s probably a cookie guy.”

Eddie’s eyes blinked open to Steve’s voice quietly rumbling in his ear.

He’d been adjusted at some point so his head rested on Steve’s shoulder, one hand against his chest.

He couldn’t remember the last time he fell asleep on a flight. Maybe the last time they flew to London from LA right after a show?

And those had been perfect flying conditions.

He lifted his head as he rubbed at his eyes and tried not to let the butterflies take over when Steve’s hand squeezed his hip.

“Hey sleepyhead. You want cookies or pretzels?”

“Cookies always. Please.” Eddie yawned.

As he took the package of Biscoff cookies, he noticed how smooth the flight was and the sun shining through the window.

Steve’s arm stayed around him.

The entire flight.

Even after he’d gotten up to use the restroom.

Even when there was no real reason to offer him comfort anymore.

Even when they landed on the runway in Indianapolis and the seatbelt light turned off.

Even while they talked to each other the entire flight, sharing the smallest details about themselves as if it was a first date.

“Would it be okay if I get your number? I’d like to check on your uncle later if that’s okay,” Steve asked, suddenly seeming more nervous than he had the entire flight.

I’m “Yes! Yeah, please,” he quickly typed it into Steve’s phone, putting his name as Eddie M 🛫. “Uh, thanks for, ya know, helping. Kind of embarrassing.”

“No reason to be embarrassed. It was scary.”

“Yeah. I just figured I fly so much, I should be used to it.”

“You never told me what your job was,” Steve nudged him as he pocketed his phone.

“I didn’t.” Eddie almost didn’t wanna ruin this. But he’d figure it out or find out and then it’d be worse. “I’m the lead singer for Corroded Coffin.”

“Is that…a famous band?”

The guy on the other side of Steve smacked his shoulder. “Dude, one of their songs is on our locker room hype playlist. Dustin’s obsessed.”

“Shut up, Lucas. You know I have my own playlist!” Steve turned back to Eddie and rolled his eyes. “Sorry. So you’re like famous.”

“You could say that,” Eddie hated saying it though, at least in these situations. “You really didn’t know?”

“Nah. I’m more of a pop and 80s kinda guy.”

“Maybe you could send me a playlist? Ya know, when you check on my uncle later,” Eddie suggested.

“Sure. I’ve got a two and a half hour bus ride back to campus to work on one.” Steve smirked. “You gonna be alright now?”

“Yeah. Thanks again. For taking care of me.”

“Anytime. Anything you need.”

And Eddie was pretty sure he meant it.

[freelancearsonist]

hunger

➔ Lucy MacLean (Fallout) x AFAB!Reader

➔ 0.8k words

➔ You teach your best friend something new.

➔ Rated MA // oral (reader receiving), a little bit of internalized homophobia, reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used), two (2) okie dokies

➔ This happened bc @ozarkthedog challenged me to write some lucy porn with no plot (thank you my love <3) i have this condition where i can't write anything less than 1k so i was shook this came to me so easily hopefully it doesn't suck fjsfjslfjs

“I’ve never…”

“We don’t have to,” you quickly counter. The last thing you want to do is pressure Lucy into new territory.

She looks up at you from her position against the pillows with the biggest, prettiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. “I want to,” she says with an earnest nod that sends her long hair out around her head like a dark halo. “I really want to.”

“Okay.”

This goes against everything you’ve been taught since the two of you were kids. Sex is for reproduction, not pleasure. It’s nothing more than goal-based. It’s all bullshit, of course, and you’ve never been quiet about your thoughts on that–much to the quiet chagrin of the leadership. You hadn’t realized until recently, though, that your childhood best friend feels the same way.

In a flash she’s got you trapped in her arms so she can roll on top of you, drawing a surprised gasp from your lips at the quick flip. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.

“I’ve never been on this side,” she murmurs, breath warm against your neck. “You’re gonna have to show me what to do.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and at first no words come. How long have you wanted to be in this exact position with this exact girl? How could words even hope to convey all the thoughts rushing through your brain right now? “I can do that.”

“Okie dokie.”

Her lips are so soft. There’s a heady contrast between her firm grip on your hips and the feather-light way she makes her way down the expanse of your stomach. There’s confidence in everything Lucy Maclean does, but she looks up at you now as she kisses your hip and there’s nerves swirling in those chocolate brown irises. Underneath her self-assuredness, there’s always been a fear of failure. It’s something you’ve comforted her through a lot over the years.

“Do I just… go for it?”

You can’t help smiling at that wide-eyed eagerness to learn and to please. “You know what feels good to you?”

She nods, fingers unconsciously massaging your spread thighs. She’s already so good at this without even realizing it.

“Start with that, and we’ll go from there.”

She nods again, and that look crosses her face. It’s one you’ve been familiar with since you were both in velcro shoes–sheer determination, resolution to rise to a challenge. You’ve always admired that look. Lucy “never backs down” MacLean is a badass, and you’re lucky to call her your best friend.

She starts with light little kitten licks to your clit, whining as her hips shift to grind against the mattress from your taste alone. She’s a little light on the pressure but you moan anyway to show her she’s on the right track. “That’s it baby, a little harder…”

“I won’t hurt you?”

Your hand comes down to cup her cheek, silently reassuring. “No, honey, you can be rough with it. Feels so good.”

She’s always taken constructive criticism in stride–she pulls away for just a moment to readjust her grip on your spread thighs, and then she returns with vigor. This time, when she seals her lips around your clit and sucks, your moan isn’t even remotely fabricated.

“Like that?” She asks, a proud smile flickering at the corners of her lips as she lets her tongue trail down to taste you properly.

“Yeah, Lucy, fuck.”

“You taste good,” she murmurs into your cunt, matter-of-fact. You can’t help smiling, even through the whine that escapes you as she returns to your clit.

“You’re doing great,” you praise as your fingers tangle into her hair. So soft, so well cared for. Always prim and proper–you love that you get to be the one to unwind her like this.

She’s a remarkably fast learner–in just a few quick minutes, and she has you whining and bucking your hips on the edge of a precipice.

“Oh god Lucy, I’m gonna–”

But you don’t get to finish your sentence, because she doesn’t relent. Her lips seal around your clit and she doesn’t let up until you’re gushing, simultaneously trying to push her away and pull her closer.

“Wow,” she breathes reverently. “Was that good?”

“Incredible,” you sigh. Your bones feel like liquid–it’s all you can do to pull her up into a messy kiss. The taste of your own arousal on your beautiful best friend’s tongue is nothing short of euphoric.

She keeps her mouth locked to yours for a long moment, then you can feel her lips twist into a broad grin. “I want to do it again.”

“Easy killer,” you say with a breathy little chuckle. “It’s your turn first.”

Her eyes widen for a moment, and then she’s nodding her head rapidly. “Okie dokie.”

➔ beta: @ozarkthedog ; dividers: @saradika-graphics

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

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[manchesterau]

helloooo for the fic prompts thing… cat and bear halloween 2009? pls (no pressure) 🐱🐻

thank you anon! i love this prompt!

send fic prompts to keep phan high on the fandometrics pls

quick little halloween gathering fic under the cut 🐱🐻 ! hope you enjoy!

“Do you think I look silly?”

Phil stops in his tracks, turning to give Dan a once over.

If Phil were a little braver he’d say he thought Dan looked hot. The ears, haphazardly done eyeliner, and poorly drawn bear features would have anyone cooing over Dan. It made Phil want to kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, and even though their relationship was way passed the point of just being friendly he still finds himself hesitating when it comes to Dan.

So Phil settles on, “Uh, I think you look adorable.” And tries to stop his heart from beating out of his chest.

Dan rolls his eyes and continues walking. “I’m not trying to look adorable,” he says. “I’m a bear not a bunny.”

Phil runs to catch up with him, it’s night and they’re walking around London without a care in the world. They’re supposed to be meeting up with some friends for the Halloween gathering but Dan wanted to make a quick detour and get some coffee to warm them up.

“Well I think bears are adorable.” Phil mutters, his face is heating up and he hopes with the chill in the air he can blame it on being cold.

Dan bumps their shoulders together, his fuzzy covered hand briefly makes its way into Phil’s, squeezing lightly, and it’s so sudden he can barely react before it’s gone again.

If Phil were as brave as he thought he was he’d reach out and hold Dan’s hand again. Maybe if he were back home in Manchester he’d have kissed him already, but they’re not in Manchester they’re in London. Phil’s only been a hand full of times and while the city is so big and he knows no one is paying them any mind be can’t bring himself to do it. To bridge the gap and make a move, to qualm his beating heart.

He can tell he’s been quiet for too long because Dan taps him on the shoulder.

“You alright?” he asks. He’s giving Phil a look as if he’s scared he’s just done the wrong thing.

Phil quickly shakes his head and smiles. He is happy tonight, his best friend is with him and he’s out in London without his parents or his brother watching over him. Most importantly it’s Halloween, his favorite holiday. Tonight will be a good night, he just knows it will.

“I’m alright,” he says, just as they round the corner and see two zombies and a witch run up to a person dressed as Scooby Doo. Just down the road a bit, near a small fountain are growing groups of people and judging by the volume of the crowd that starts to steadily grow by the second, he can tell they’ve made it to the gathering.

His nerves start to dissipate when he spots a couple of mates. He grabs Dan’s arm and pulls him along.

“I see Aaron and Yaz.” Phil says, he hopes Dan can hear him over the loudness of everyone. They reach them and quickly say their hellos, a couple of people stop to chat with them. Video cameras have been pulled out, and Phil briefly wonders if he should have brought his to capture the night but he’s glad he gets to live in the moment instead.

Dan is chatting with someone dressed as a lady bug and Phil has somehow gotten someone to give him a plastic sword to wave around. The night has just started but he can tell it’s going to be a good one.

Somewhere in between chatting with a pirate about collabing on a Youtube video and trying not to lose Dan in the thick crowd, someone proposes they catch the tube to go get some good and walk around the shops.

Phil spins around to try and talk to Dan about the change in plans and finds that he’s already beside Phil, smiling at him.

“Are you hungry?” He yells, crowding in closer so that they can hear each other. Phil is well aware of the cameras lurking around but he can’t seem to care because Dan is looking at him with a twinkle in his eyes from the lights hung around and he’s so beautiful. Phil wishes they could have a moment alone so he can kiss this boy breathless.

Dan shrugs, “Yeah.”

They say goodbye to his mates and walk with a slightly smaller group of people to the nearest station.

Their shoulders bump as they walk, as close as they can be around a group of people they barely know.

“Are you having a good time?” Phil asks, just as someone walks by videoing the group as they walk.

Dan makes a small noise, “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect it to be so many people.”

Phil nods, “It is a lot. Hopefully we can make it on the tube.”

They begin the decent down, going down the stairs in a crowd of people trying to go down and others just trying to leave is a bit of a hassle but soon they’re swiping their cards and making their way into the station.

It’s congested and a bit confusing, Phil almost trips over someone and their spider costume when he feels a hand on his back. He looks over at Dan who’s looking ahead and guiding them onto the proper tube with the group. Soon the hand on his back turns into an arm around his waist and Phil can’t help but lean back into it.

They’re standing together, holding onto the railing and Dan still has his hand around Phil’s waist. No one is paying them any attention and it’s too crowded for anyone to really see or care.

“Is this alright?” Dan asks quietly in his ear.

Phil can feel himself blushing, and judging by how red Dan is he can tell he feels the same. The butterflies he’s held in his stomach all night start to flutter and even though he’s nervous he’s also incredibly happy.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, slightly breathless and giddy with excitement. They don’t really do pda all that often if at all. They haven’t defined anything outside of promises to be in each other’s lives for as long as possible. There is something growing between them that both fills him with thrilling anticipation for what will happen next but also scares him to his core.

Growing up Phil always thought that when he was older he would be brave enough to go after the things he really wants.

He realizes he doesn’t have to be brave all the time, because sometimes Dan is brave enough for the both of them.

🐻🐱

[disasterofastory]

Run (Brahms Heelshire x Reader)

Run // Brahms Heelshire Masterlist Brahms Heelshire x Reader Kinktober 2023 - 12/14 Warnings: chasing, outdoor sex

Summary: Brahms chases you through the garden.

"Are you ready?" Brahms asks one last time. One of his hands is still on your hips, squeezing your flesh softly before letting you go and taking a step back. He can already feel the tension and adrenaline building up in him, pumping in his veins and speeding up his heartbeat. "Yeah," you breathe out, barely finding your voice. You already feel cold without his closeness. "I will count to twenty," Brahms smirks. "You will need it." "Don't be so sure about it," you reply. The confidence in your tone is light and trembling. "Maybe you will never see me again." A few months ago, Brahms would have been angry and desperate hearing your words, but not anymore. He will catch you, and even if not, you will come back to him. He is sure about it. Instead, he laughs, pressing his back against the wall of your room. He has to force his muscles to relax and not crawl their way back around your body. The curve of his lips is confident and a bit mocking. "Run." His words are muffled by the porcelain mask hiding his face.

He doesn't have to say more.

You run as fast as you can. You fall against the wall with a quiet thud as you try to take a sharp turn without slowing down. You can hear Brahms laugh from the distance. The deep rumbles send chills through your body, and your heart quickens its beating. Your socks are slippery on the wooden floor, but you still reach the stairs. Your legs almost slip, and the only thing that keeps you from falling on your bottom is the handrail you are still holding. You can still hear the man from your room as he counts louder and louder so you can hear him.

By the time you reach the entrance door of the manor, you are already panting and gasping for air. Your limbs tingle with the adrenaline rushing through your veins, and you have to force them to do as you want as you circle around the small space in front of the door. "Brahms!" You shout. "Where are my shoes?" "Five," he continues to count. "Four." Fuck! Not caring about your shoes or the nasty trick Brahms pulled on you, you bolt out of the door. The cold night air slaps you across the face, filling your lungs with the earthy scent of damp soil before you jump down the stairs and start to run into the darkness. The moon hangs low in the ink-black sky, casting a silvery glow over the green field behind the manor. Your eyes scan your surroundings, trying to find a place where you can hide from the man, but the sound of the door closing behind you makes you forget everything.

Brahms is here.

Adrenaline courses through your veins, and your heart races in your ribcage, urging you forward with every wild beat. Your breath comes in rapid, shallow gasps, and your lungs burn for more air. With each hurried step, the soft, cool grass tickles the soles of your bare feet. Excitement and determination bubble within your chest, pushing you to run faster and faster while Brahms behind you gets closer with each passing second. You can feel the thud of his heavy steps under your feet. He will get you. You want him to get you.

With a sudden thought, you stop in your tracks, turning back to face him. When the man notices the change, he stops, too. Even though you can't see his face, you know he is surprised. Your chest heaves as you stare at each other. His mask looks even paler with the moon's silvery glow on it. Your thighs clench as your eyes rake over his broad form. He looks primal and beautiful. With a smirk on your lips, you grab the hem of your shirt to pull it off with a swift motion. The thin fabric falls to the ground, leaving your upper body bare in front of his darkened eyes. Your nipples harden within a few seconds because of the cold air brushing over your heated skin. You feel like a raw nerve, throbbing and needing friction. "Do you want me?" You ask him teasingly. "If you are not fast enough, I will run away," you continue. You can see as he tenses at your words.

Brahms's whole focus is solely on you. His eyes follow your every movement as you make a few steps back, grinning when he follows you. His every instinct tells him to bounce on you before you slip further away from him. His fingers twitch, and his muscles cramp as he forces himself to stay put.

For a while, you circle around in the empty field, staring at each other with heavy breaths and rapid heart beating. You really feel like a prey under his gaze, and the excitement goes straight to your pussy. Your panties are already damp between your legs.

"I start to feel like you don't even want me," you taunt him some more. "Not really. Maybe I should go and-" Your words end up in a loud scream as he jumps. You barely have enough time to turn around and run when his arms cage you against his chest, keeping you secure and tight in his firm hold. "Brahms!" You squeal again, falling onto the ground under his strength. Your knees land on the grass with a painful thud. "Fuck!" You try to roll over and out of his hands when his hold on you tightens, and he turns you onto your stomach. You grunt at the sudden tug. He pulls your hips up so you are on your knees with your ass in the air in front of him. "You are mine," he growls next to your ear. His mask is cold at the crook of your neck as he hovers above you. His chest is pressed to your back, and you can feel his erection through the thick fabric of your jeans. He already grinds against your bottom for some friction. You want to tell him to tear off your clothes, but you decide to stay silent and let him have this moment.

Even though Brahms knew of your little play the whole time, there was a moment when he was really afraid of losing you. He still feels the sick turn of his stomach when he saw you running away from him in the distance. His muscles burn from the effort he chased after you with his full speed.

When both of you are naked, finally, he presses his cock against your pussy. You are already wet and ready for him, but he doesn’t push in yet. He relishes in the heat of your folds on his shaft as he grinds against you, keeping your hips tight and secure in his large hands. "Brahms!" You gasp, your words muffled by the ground under your face. Your fingers dig into the mud as you push your bottom backward. "I know, love," he grunts. "Just give me a moment." His eyes are closed as he soaks his erection in your juices. The tip of his cock glides through your folds and nudges your clit. "Br-Brahm-" you whine again, shaking. Need blinds you for long seconds as you wiggle in his hold. "Tell me you will never leave me," he demands. "Tell me you are mine, Y/N." "I'm yours," you tell him without thinking. At this point, you would say everything he wants to hear just to get what you want.

A hiss escapes both of your lips when he adjusts himself to your entrance. You sound like a wounded animal as you feel his cock pressing into your wet channel. Your toes curl at the stretch of your pussy around his grith. Brahms doesn't push into you entirely even though you know you could take him. He teases you, driving you mad with need. He rocks in and out, once, twice, three times. "Please," you gasp. "Brahms." It seems like the only thing you remember is his name falling out of your open lips every few minutes. And while you are busy begging him, Brahms is at the edge of losing his mind. His muscles are taut above you, trying to control himself and his urges. Every fiber in his body tells him to ruin you for every other man, to fuck you so deep and fast, you won't ever think of leaving him.

You look back over your shoulder at him with a small frown when you notice his stalling. His cock splits you open but stays still. "Brahms," you groan, wiggling. The man needs a few seconds to register his name falling from your lips. His eyes find yours, and for a little while, none of you says or moves. "It's okay," you tell him, opening your legs even more. "Please, Brahms. I need you." You arch under his warm palm on the middle of your back, so you practically present yourself to him. You rest your head on the ground, keeping yourself from falling forward with your arms while your ass is high in the air with his cock in your pussy. Your grip around him is warm and wet.

With a deep, ragged breath, Brahms starts to work himself in and out of you. Your walls clench around him as if you are trying to keep him inside, stretching and filling your tight hole. At the feeling of your muscles working on his cock, he gives a harsh thrust into you, grinding inside you entirely. Saliva slips out of your lips as your jaw goes slack by the power of his push. Your body rocks back and forth as he fucks you from behind.

Brahms's head drops for a second when a low groan bursts out of his chest. He can feel every small movement and squeeze of your pussy. You suck him in deeper and deeper, wanting him just as much as he wants you. And this little fact still amazes him.

You want him. You love him.

You want him to fuck you under the dark sky, not caring about the dirt sticking to your skin or the cold caressing both of you.

He adjusts himself behind you so he can watch as you take his cock with every thrust of his hips. Another low growl escapes his clenched teeth as he focuses on your tight hole stretching around his grith. Your pussy and his cock glint with your juices, seeping down your thighs.

Brahms is ruthless as he fucks you and fills you to the brim while you cry and whine underneath him. Pure ecstasy washes over you in waves, rocking your body against his thrusts. "You are mine, Y/N," he growls, pounding into you. "You will never leave me, do you understand?" Beneath him, you wail and sob, gripping onto the ground. Your nails are dirty from the soil. Your eyes are teary and unfocused as your lips open and close every now and again without forming any coherent word. You are so beautiful like this, helpless and cock-drunk.

"Fuck!" He snarls, holding onto your hips tightly when he feels the familiar pull in his balls. "Y/N!" At the same time, his cock starts to jerk inside you, your walls clamp and squeeze around his shaft too. He fills you to the brim as he empties his balls until your tight hole starts to leak with his semen. He grinds into you, wanting everything and anything you can give him as you reach your climax. Drool slips out of your mouth, and tears run down your cheeks as you cry and cry and cry. The world spins around you, and the only thing that keeps you grounded is the man above you, forcing you to stay on his cock until your whole body goes limp and he falls to the ground next to you.

"Do you still want to leave?" He pants, pulling you to his chest. Your leg drops over his, and he can feel you smearing over his skin. Your pussy is sensitive, swollen, and leaking with his cum. "If I can run, can you fuck me again like this?" You wheeze, still fighting for your life as your body trembles after your orgasm. Brahms just laughs. There is no way you can run after this, but if you can, he sure can fuck you even if his dick will fall off.

[onlyawhim]

Treat you Better - Auston Matthews x Reader

Auston sees how Kasp treats you & thinks (and eventually proves ;)) that he can treat you better.

Totally made Kasperi a douche in this - sorry Kasp fans. Also, obvi set when they were both on the Leafs!

Two months, you've been keeping track - but of course would never tell Kasperi (you can imagine it now: "Why do I care how long we've been talking? It's not like we're dating, Y/N"). Two months of being a second choice. No chance of commitment anywhere in sight. But you stay, because Kas is charming and good-looking. You convince yourself maybe he'll change, maybe he just isn't ready for commitment right now. Of course he's not just messing with you - he wouldn't do that.

He invited you to his game. You thought maybe this was a sign that he truly cared for you. Would he invite you to watch him if he didn't actually like you? Or did he just want one more Kapanen fan in the building? You push that second thought out of your head as quick as it comes.

Well, obviously he would just invite people to invite people, because here you sit watching him chat up two blonde girls who are very giddy to be graced by Kasperi Kapanen's presence.

The game was nerve-racking, ending with a 5-4 Leaf's win. You were excited to wait outside of the Leaf's locker room. You felt like a true NHL girlfriend. Well, you did, until Kas passed you with a nod (what am I, some fan waiting for a high-five?!) and headed straight for the two pretty girls also standing outside the lockeroom, clearly waiting for any NHL player to pay attention to them - hell, maybe even a gear manager if they were wearing a Leaf's shirt.

So, here you sit, waiting for Kasperi to decide that the girl he invited to watch him play - the one who dutifully cheered for every good play of his and only secretly cheered for one of the other good-looking men in blue - was worth his attention after all. You had even denied a ride home from your friends because "I'll just ride home with Kas". How stupid you felt now...

Kasperi is always a good time when you hang out. He's funny and charming. But this is your first time being in public with him - or, rather, in public watching him act like you're not with him.

You're growing angrier and angrier as Kas makes these girls giggle. Luckily, a good-looking distraction with wet hair steps out of the lockeroom. He looks set on leaving the building ASAP, until he locks eyes with you.

"Hey," he says with a smile, approaching you. You scan his face and sense that he's wondering who you are - why you're waiting. Which player you belong to, you think sourly.

"Hi" you smile politely. There's a pause, so you introduce yourself. "I'm Y/N".

"Y/N," he repeats, "I'm Auston." He sticks his hand out for a shake.

"I know" you giggle, shaking his hand. A dagger of a thought (so Kasperi hasn't mentioned you... ouch) flashes in your mind, but you try to ignore it for now.

"What ya doin out here?" he asks, nodding to the emptying hallway.

"Oh.. Kasperi invited me" you say, moving your gaze over to him. A third girl has joined his audience.

Auston looks over and sees the same thing you do. He nods slowly and moves his attention back to you.

"Gotcha... he doesn't know how to treat a guest does he?" he laughs awkwardly.

"No, it looks like he's pretty good at it" you say, smiling pityingly, nodding towards his group of female fans.

After watching for a second, Auston yells, "Kasp!" he pauses as Kasperi snaps his head in your guys' direction. "You done?"

You're a bit embarrassed, but grateful that you didn't have to be the one to break him from his conversation. Kasperi's eyes switch between you and Auston. Without saying anything, he walks towards the two of you, like a kid in trouble.

"Now I am" he says to Auston, before putting an arm around your shoulders and heading towards the door.

You look back and send Auston a smile. He smiles back with a small wave.

"You played good", you say to Kas, hoping to pretend whatever just happened for the last 20 minutes didn't actually happen.

"Yeah, thanks. Thanks for coming", he says as you both walk towards his car.

The car ride is awkward. Or, maybe, you imagine it as awkward. Kas seems just fine.

He takes you back to his place, as he always does. You sit on his couch, as you always do. The two of you haven't gotten any more intimate than a few kisses - you were adamant that you wanted to wait. He was similarly adamant that he didn't want to. Either way, you both sit on the couch, watching some movie that he picked. He didn't try anything more than an arm around your shoulders for the whole night. Instead, actually, you felt like he was just waiting for you to leave. Does he have other plans for the night?

"Do you want me to come to your next game?" you ask.

"Yeah, sure, if you want to come." he says, not taking his eyes from the TV.

God, this night was painful. But, you told yourself, maybe it would get better.

--

This game-day will definitely end better. The last game fiasco is behind you. You even asked to wear his jersey - and he let you! That has to mean something.

Here you wait, again, outside of the lockeroom. They lost this time - 2-5. Despite the score, you are proud to be sporting "Kapanen" on your back.

Auston steps out of the lockeroom before Kasperi. He locks eyes with you, once again, and smiles.

"Hey, Y/N" he says, approaching you.

"Hi. You played good tonight", you say, returning his smile.

"Not good enough, though", he laughs lightly, pitifully.

Before you can respond, Kas walks out of the lockeroom. This time, he walks straight to you - not past you. Progress!

Auston moves aside so Kasp can join the conversation - and though you would never say it, you preferred the one-on-one with Auston.

"See ya got her to wear your jersey", Auston says to Kasperi with a smile.

"She asked," he says, putting an arm around you. "Dirtied it up just for us to lose". Your smile drops (did he not want me to wear it??). This doesn't go over Auston's head, though it definitely misses Kasperi.

"You can dirty up my jerseys anytime, Y/N", Auston says lightly, giving you a smile. Kasperi laughs and leads you out the door. Again, you shoot a smile to Auston as you leave. How is it that Auston's on your side more often than Kasperi is?

--

Third home game. You've decided this is his last chance. His games are the only times you go out in public together - otherwise, you're just hanging out at his house. He is always so fun to be around in private. But once he gets in public, it feels like his facade drops. So, third try. Third home game.

They win this time, 4-1. You had washed and returned Kasp's jersey after his comment last time. Standing outside the locker room, you wait. Kasperi comes out before Auston this time (am I waiting for Auston? Why was I disappointed when it was Kasp and not Auston?).

"The guys are going for drinks, I'm gonna go with 'em" he says casually.

You don't know what to say, so you just look at him for a second to see if he's serious. Where were you supposed to go? He should have said something earlier so you wouldn't have waited out here for him. Before you can put any of these thoughts into words, Auston steps out of the lockeroom. He catches Kasp's next words.

"I can call you an uber if you don't have a ride or something." Was this his attempt at kindness?

"Kasp.." you say, exasperatingly.

Auston interjects. "I can drive you home." he says looking between you and Kasperi.

"You don't have to do that, man", Kasperi speaks for you. This leaves you even more shocked.

Auston ignores him, eyes still on you.

"I'd really appreciate that", you say, looking back at him.

"See, Kasp, it's taken care of. Have fun, man", Auston says, slightly stepping between you and Kasperi.

"Alright", Kasperi says, clearly not interested enough to say anything more. "See you guys", he says before turning around and heading for the door.

"Thank you, Auston. I really appreciate it", you say, nervously, embarrassed that you even came here with Kasperi.

"I don't mind. I'm not putting you in an uber", he laughs.

You laugh with him at the absurdity.

You both head for the door. Walking next to him, you can really appreciate how large he is. You blush at the whole situation.

He points at a Porche sitting in the parking garage, shining in all of its' luxury, "That's me", he says, unlocking it.

"Fancy", you giggle as he opens the passenger door for you.

He laughs and shuts your door, tossing his gear in the backseat before getting in on his own side.

The car ride is filled with comfortable silence, the radio playing quietly, only interrupted by your directions.

"Really, thank you for taking me home, Auston", you say, glancing at him.

He looks at you for a second before returning his eyes to the road. "I really don't mind. It's nice to see you somewhere outside of a dark hallway, anyways", he says.

"Yeah, you won't see me there again", you say, still embarrassed by Kasperi. So much for a third chance.

"Or, y'know, next time you'll be wearing a 34", he says. You laugh.

"Wouldn't wanna dirty up one of your jerseys" you giggle, referring to Kasperi's odd comment.

"God, he's a douche, isn't he. I'm sorry", Auston says.

"Just glad I had my knight in shining armor there to save me," you joke.

"That's what I'm here for", he laughs.

He pulls up to your building. "Want me to walk you up?" he asks.

"It's okay," you answer, "I have mace" you joke.

At this, he scoffs jokingly and turns the car off before getting out. You do the same, walking to your building with Auston behind you. You climb the stairs and stop in front of your door.

"Thank you, Auston". You say, locking eyes with him.

"Of course, Y/N." he smiles.

"Can I get your number, just to make sure you make it home safe?" you say.

He pulls out his phone and adds your number, giving you his.

"Have a good night, Y/N".

"You too," you smile, unlocking the door. He heads back down to his car.

A much better ending to game night.

--

The next morning you wake to the doorbell ringing. In your shock at the unannounced guest, you climb out of bed and check out the peephole. Through it, you see a delivery driver setting down a large bag.

You wait for him to walk away before you open the door to check out this mysterious delivery. Setting it on the counter, you open it carefully.

In it is a container holding a huge breakfast - pancakes, bacon, and fruit. Under the container, a Maple Leafs jersey - number 34. Matthews written on the back. You smile big at this.

You grab your phone to send him a text.

"Auston!!" you say, sending a picture of the gift.

"For the next game ;)", he writes.

[tennessoui]

Number 8, please, for hold my heart more gently than you hold my throat

thank you for sending this one in!!! (throat fic verse is a/b/o)

[from this prompt list]

8. What happens if one of them gets sick?

you KNOW throat fic obi-wan would rather die than admit to being sick because his master already thinks he's weak and not to be trusted in a fight. he'd be incredibly stubborn about the whole thing and block their bond and try to carry on even if he's got a burning fever and is probably actually a liability in a fight. master anakin is incensed that his padawan has the nerve to block their bond. if he hadn't already fallen years ago due to padawan related strife, he'd definitely fall rn

but then there's also this other side of throat fic obi-wan:

Obi-Wan's head is killing him. Like, physically, actually, really killing him this time. He rolls his head to the side to peer blearily at the chronometer by his bedside. 16:06. On one hand, that can't be right. On the other, it must be. He'd fallen into this bed, fresh from Quinlan's, at roughly 9 in the morning after being a state of perpetual wakefulness the entire night. A combination of death sticks, alcohol, and teenage rebellion does that to a person.

His eyes fall to half-mast as he rolls--carefully--onto his back and stares up at the ceiling of his room. He wonders if Anakin is back yet. He'd left shortly before Obi-Wan the previous night, something about a dinner with Padmé's family. He hadn't sounded excited, but then, how could he have not been? Usually when he leaves the Temple to visit with Padmé, he is gone until the morning.

Obi-Wan wonders bitterly how many nights his master spent with his wife while Obi-Wan was on Melida/Daan. It took him five weeks to track him down. Perhaps he didn't even notice for four.

The thought is more self-pitying than he usually allows, but his body is sore and his head is killing him and his master's probably out there cozying up to senators. Or, even worse, just the one senator.

He gives his bedding a careful sniff before he wrinkles his nose and forces himself to sit up. A change in location is what he needs. He should rot on the couch instead of his bed. It will surely help him feel better. And then, when his master returns from flaunting his lovely relationship with the senator, he can see his padawan's deceased and lifeless corpse on their sectional and feel terribly guilty that he was away as his poor padawan succumbed to his affliction.

Obi-Wan swaddles himself in a comfortable outer robe that he thinks may have once been Anakin's and makes the treacherous journey from his room to the couch. He collapses onto it and curls up around one of their throw pillows, cushioning his aching, poor, hungover head with the other one.

An undeterminable amount of time later, a rough, dry hand falls against his shoulder and then moves up to cup his neck. Without even opening his eyes, Obi-Wan recognizes the touch of his master.

"There you are," Master Skywalker says. He smells like sweat and the training salles. Like mechanical oil and something floral and soft and sweet. Obi-Wan fights against the urge to wrinkle his nose in distaste. "Have you been here all day, padawan?"

"No," Obi-Wan croaks, opening his eyes only enough to see the underside of his master's chin before he closes them again.

"Hm," Master Skywalker says.

"What did you do today, master?" Obi-Wan asks, tilting his head just enough that Anakin's fingers slip from his neck to slide through his hair. He sighs at the feeling. It is so nice. Master Skywalker is so nice when he is here, when he is Obi-Wan's.

Master Skywalker's voice carries a hint of amusement as he obliges and begins to stroke his head. "Hm, I had breakfast with Master Secura, led a class on meditation to the newest batch of younglings, and sparred with Master Fisto until supper." He punctuates his words with a tug of his hair. "Which you missed, by the way."

Obi-Wan turns his face away. He doesn't want Anakin's touch if Anakin is going to be mean about it.

"And now I'm needed at the opera for a performance," his master adds. "Padmé's idea, not mine."

Obi-Wan's frown increases tenfold. It isn't fair. She already had him for a night. He's Obi-Wan's master. How dare she think her claim extends further than the Temple's doorstep.

"Master," he says impulsively, turning back to look up at Anakin with pleading eyes, "I'm not feeling well, Master."

"I suspect that may be because of the amount you drank last night, padawan," Master Skywalker replies, tone strangely light as his fingers run down the length of Obi-Wan's face.

Obi-Wan frowns. "I think I really am very sick, master," he says. "I shouldn't be alone, I don't think."

Master Skywalker's eyes flash. His hand stills.

"But if you're going to be at the opera tonight, I suppose--I can manage," he adds. It's a delicate line to walk. If Anakin weren't planning to go see his--his--wife, then Obi-Wan would never admit to feeling unwell. But he is. So, Obi-Wan must. It is the natural order of things. Anakin is Obi-Wan's master. No matter the root cause of his sickness--his hangover--his master should stay with him when he feels so wretched.

"I can call Quin again," he mutters, even as he tilts his face into Anakin's featherlight touch. His master's face darkens like an approaching thunderstorm. "If I start to feel really poorly. He can take care of me."

Master Skywalker's lips turn down into a fierce scowl, and Obi-Wan holds his breath. "No," he snaps, and Obi-Wan has to bite his lip to hold back his automatic purr. "No, I'll stay in tonight. If my padawan is feeling unwell...I should stay."

Obi-Wan bites his lip. It's only been six weeks since they'd arrived back on Coruscant from Melida/Daan. He shouldn't push his luck. He's lucky to still have Anakin's attention at all. To still have a master. "But what about the opera?" he asks carefully, sitting up on his elbows to peer at his master. "The senator will want you."

Once more, Master Skywalker's eyes flash, and he slips onto the couch next to Obi-Wan, resting his thigh in the space where his head had been. His hand falls back to rest on his neck, using the grip to push him back down. Obi-Wan goes easily. This is perhaps everything he's ever wanted in the galaxy.

"Unfortunately, I will have to let her know that priorities have shifted," Master Skywalker murmurs as his hand falls back to that scent-gland beneath his ear. He thumbs at it. If Obi-Wan didn't feel quite so close to nausea due to his hangover, he thinks he'd be getting wet from the sensation. "Mine have at least."

They're strange words, yet Obi-Wan welcomes them because they mean that Anakin will stay. It is everything he wants; it is far more than he deserves.

[ovaryacted]

Well let me send some soft!Leon.

Leon is the type of guy to be like “I may have gotten bitten by zombies and thrown against walls but like. That’s still better than period cramps.”

If he’s not away on a mission, I imagine he’d want to just lay in bed with you all day. He gives good snuggles. Gets tea and the heating pad.

But also, I had the hilarious imagine of Leon being real fucking clueless with the emotions of it. You know the meme of the girl over the toilet being pat on the back by a broom? That’s Leon. He’s like “there there” while keeping 10ft away from you.

Unironically if you run out of pads/tampons he probably texts you “what size coochie you wear?” Or whatever. But! If you tell him, that’s the only time you need to because he remembers.

Also, not embarrassed about getting period products. I mean, this guy is built like a house, and attractive as fuck everyone knows he’s picking stuff up for his lady. Probably getting head too let’s be honest.

He also picks up your face snack.

-angsty anon (I guess not angsty this time lol)

EEEEEEK thank you for sending this angsty (not so angsty) anon cause I actually feel like shit at work but this was so cute. Also I know the memes you’re talking about they’re deep in my gallery I can’t find them right now lmao. But yeah let me cook and self indulge cause I can. (And cause the cramps are starting to ramp up).

Disclaimer: I know everyone’s period cycle is different, this is not a one size fits all. I’m speaking generally, mostly about myself but yeah if it doesn’t apply let it fly and that’s okay! Leon would still be a good partner and meet your needs either way. 🫶

Leon to me is the type of guy that would provide comfort and humor whenever you need it and without you having to ask for it. He just cares, that’s all he does really. But of course, he’s aware that when your cycle hits, he has to be more aware of your emotions and what you need. He’s very in tune when it comes to tending to you, but he isn’t afraid to ask so he can give you exactly what you want.

If he isn’t at home, he’d probably have your cycle tracked on his phone so he knows when to send you a gift package or flowers just so you know he’s around. If he’s going on mission, he’d send those things in advance, and when he comes back home he’d bring your favorite food and snacks as a welcome present.

But when he is home and he knows your period is about to kickstart, he instantly goes into house husband mode. He knows the first few days are the toughest and it gets easier over time, but sometimes all you want to do is just stay curled up in bed and sleep the pain off. He’d be right there beside you, giving you tea and pain medication if you ask for it, making sure you have water nearby and a heating pad to help with your comfort. Clothing wise, he gives you his clothes, ones you already stole from him anyway, finding his boxers much more comfortable than the panties you have, and a baggy t-shirt that smells like him to ease your nerves.

He handles the chores in your living space, cleans the place up and does the laundry, plus he gets groceries and cooks if that’s what you request. When he does go out to do the shopping, he asks you what snacks you want, already having some in mind but double checks if you want something specific. It doesn’t matter how ridiculous your cravings are, he’ll give them to you without judgement. You can eat all the junk and sugar you want, so long as it helps with your mood he’ll get it. Or if you want fruits and things that are a bit easier to eat considering your nausea, he’ll get that too.

He buys your feminine products without shame, gets irritated about how expensive they are “because they should be free” according to him, and gets you an extra box for you to have in advance. There may be other people in the section watching him as he finds the exact brand and size you use, not that he cares if he’s being watched, and he can hear your voice in his head talking about it.

Get the all cotton ones with wings, medium-sized. The thicker ones are for overnight, so get me a pack too. Do not get the ones that say light flow or small, those don’t do shit!

Your emotions are all over the place, more sensitive and easily irritable by anything and everything. At times it scares him how fast your mood can change, but he doesn’t judge you for it, you can’t help the way your body behaves. He doesn’t hover over you, comes by to check in, see if you feel any better. If you ask him to cuddle with you, he’ll do that no questions asked, but if you don’t want to be touched, he’ll leave you alone and let you rest. It’s not personal to him, he gets it, somewhat at least. He’ll send you cute text messages with those silly emoticons from the living room, or send you a funny video he saw on social media (it didn’t make you laugh but it’s the thought that counts).

The mental aspects of your cycle can be debilitating at times, and it’ll make you second guess things that shouldn’t be in your head. Leon knows what that’s like, and he’s there for you to talk to if you need it. He’s ready with affirmations, soft words, and constantly tells you that he adores you and loves you. Shit that makes your heart warm and your mind shut up, he just supports you in whatever you need.

Now as for the secret period horniness that sometimes likes to sneak up on you, he’s also willing to provide. It doesn’t happen often, but he knows when it does. When you’re snuggled up into him and start shifting your hips against him, or when your breathing gets a bit shaky the moment his hands come up towards your thighs. He��s on your time, whatever you say goes, and he only does things if you ask for them. So if you say you want to be touched he’ll do it, he’ll caress you and massage your chest to ease the soreness you feel there. If you want to suck him off to appease to your oral fixation, he’ll let you, and happily keep your hair up and praise you along the way. And if you tell him you want to have sex with him, he’ll bring out the towels or propose a shower, whatever you decide he’s fine with. It doesn’t bother him, he’s seen so much blood and gore that this is the last of his concerns. Plus, orgasms help with period cramps so whatever helps you, he’ll do it.

Whatever you need, he’s willing to provide. Thats just the type of man and partner he is.

I need him. Im fucking sad.

[missredherring]

Lap of Luxury

(Moodboard made by @psychedelic-ink )

Liam (Nikita) x Fat F!Reader

Rating: M

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: He’d told himself that you were a distraction, a liability, a weakness he’d be foolish to give in to, but he hadn’t been able to stay away. He hadn’t been able to stop wondering what it would look like to press his fingers into your skin.

Contents: established relationship. pwp. grooming of body hair. mentions of canon-typical violence. insecurity. oral sex (f! receiving).

A/N: I started writing this in Sept... and then I got distracted, but finally finished it today.

There is no one else I've thought "what a weirdo"(affectionate) more than Liam, so I'm glad to finally share this thot with everyone.

@psychedelic-ink I've finally finished it! Sil made this amazing moodboard. Please look on it with awe, cos I sure am.

Thank you to @fhatbhabie for looking over this.

“Did you start without me?” You ask after finding him on the couch, naked except for a towel wrapped around his slim waist. You toss your keys into the catch-all bowl on the cluttered entrance table and send him a pout before going into the bedroom.

Tracking your route through the apartment, he admires the way you weave around obstacles you’d placed there yourself like the ottoman that’s used as a side table, currently stacked with a wobbly tower of books you checked out from the library. Photos and prints on the walls that you stop to straighten, not remembering how you’d bumped them askew when he’d pushed you up against the wall so his hands could do other things while he kissed you.

When he’d moved into this particular space it had been intended for a short stay. A place to fulfill his basic needs and then he’d move on. To the next city, to the next apartment; wherever the job took him. Then he’d met you. And kept meeting you, finding excuses and then planning run-ins with you during your routines. His path had always been straight and to the point, but now with you, it’s a meandering wander through the days. Liam finds he doesn’t mind the slow and indirect path with you by his side.

“No. I’m just setting up.” He says, raising his voice to reach you in the bedroom. 

He glances back to the pad of his thumb where he’d been testing the sharpness of his straight razor and notices that he didn’t startle and cut himself when you’d come in. His smirk is a prideful little thing. Even so, he makes sure to move the blade when you come out to join him. 

You’ve changed into some of the clothes he’d gotten for you to keep here before you’d officially moved in: a plain t-shirt made from soft cotton in the biggest size he could find. You swim in it and often tell him you couldn’t be comfier when you wear it. He takes in the slope of your shoulders, the way you roll your head on your neck, and the lines that crease between your brows; all signs of the day’s stress. 

Liam motions for you to join him on the couch and hands you the bottle of shave cream in exchange for a kiss. When you settle in with your body turned towards him, you reach for the towel he’d put on the coffee table and drape it over your plump thigh before popping the bottle cap open. 

It would have been unthinkable to have someone else handle the razor before. He’d had acquaintances in Division, and after he’d gone rogue there was no one he’d let close to him. Until you. You, with your civilian background, civilian job, and civilian life. You’d had no idea who he was or what he’d done when you’d smiled at him and offered your help in finding what he’d been looking for. 

He’d told himself that you were a distraction, a liability, a weakness he’d be foolish to give in to, but he hadn’t been able to stay away. He hadn’t been able to stop wondering what it would look like to press his fingers into your skin.

Now here you are, about to take part in a ritual that calms his nerves and soothes the paranoid voice in his mind when it speaks louder of men around every corner that are coming for him.

Removing all the hair on his body had been a necessity so he didn’t leave any genetic evidence on a job. He isn’t as anxious about it these days, able to leave the hair on his knuckles and toes, but it’s still comforting and he knows you take some comfort in it as well.

You warm the cream between your hands before you smooth it up his forearm, pressing down to massage the muscles underneath his skin. The back and forth of your hands lulls you both into a sense of calm and not for the first time, he marvels at how he doesn’t react when the blade is put to his skin. No offense or defense, Liam sits still in your care of him. It’s a luxury he’d never been able to afford. The first pass of the razor is done in silence and you both let out a breath when you lift the blade from his skin and wipe it on the towel.

From there on it’s an easy rhythm: the back and forth pass of the blade against skin, the reapplication of cream, and his thoughts are calmed and settled.

There’s a look of intense concentration on your face that he soaks in. It means that you’re taking every care with this task and with him.

The blade is warming up now. The scrape of metal louder over their quiet breathing in the apartment. 

Liam���s very aware of the places you have access to, the places he’s opening up to you. Even before Division he wouldn't have let anyone have this much access to the soft points of his body.

He idly catalogs all the points where you only need to press harder, deeper, into his skin to kill him. His wrist, the crook of his elbow, the thinner skin of his armpit, his neck. The next observation supplies the moves in sequential order he would need to perform to take the blade from you and kill you. It would be easy. He’s done it before and you have no defensive training to protect yourself against him.

You turn your head, exposing your neck to him, and he can see the faint throb of your jugular vein. Another vital spot that would be so easy to strike. 

Instead he puts his hand there, his palm protecting the thin vulnerable skin, and brings you to him for a kiss. For all of his self control Liam has never been able to limit himself to just one of your kisses. 

Mouths brushing together, his lips are dry and catch at yours until he licks them to ease the way. You sigh and lean into him. One of your hands brushes down his chest and touches the scratch marks you left behind the other night. It’s tender and the flash of nerves offers up a reminder of the way your eyes looked up at him with eyelashes spiked with tears. He’d only pressed his cock harder into your mouth and thought you beautiful when you’d gagged and accepted him as much as you could. 

The straight razor is held steady in your other hand until he takes it from you and sets it on the coffee table. The towel is tossed down next to it.

“Don’t you want to finish shaving?”

“Later. Right now I want to eat your pussy.” Liam says, chuckling at the way your eyes dilate and how your breathing picks up.

All you have to do is nod and he’s pushing you down on the couch, a hand on your leg extending it and giving him access to even more of your softness.

He strokes up and down your thighs, moving the hem of your shirt higher and higher with each pass. He takes his time watching, he’s always watching you, and tracks how your body reacts to his attention. You’re leaning back more and more, relaxing until he reaches where your shirt is bunched at the top of your thighs. Muscles tense when his fingers delve underneath the fabric to follow the line of your underwear around and under your ass cheeks. 

His biceps flex and it’s the only warning you have before he grips you and yanks your body towards him so you end up on your back.

Your shout of his name breaks down into sounds of delight. He tsks at you; by now you should know his slim build is deceptive, and if he’s strong enough to take on men bigger than him, he has the strength to move your body. 

Liam understands hang ups and those little voices that lie even when you see the truth with your own eyes, so he watches as the momentum of his action meets the momentum of your laughter and keeps your body in motion. He just wants to sink into you and keep you in motion for as long as you’ll let him. 

He begins to lift your shirt to remove it, but you stop him. 

“You don’t want me to take it off?” He asks. 

“Not today.” You say in a quiet voice. 

Another weakness so easily revealed. God it’d be easy to manipulate you into whatever situation he wanted. He knows the exact things to say and the right tone to use that would break you, but he’s surprised every time at how much he doesn’t want to. Not when you trust him to stay by your side when you’re feeling vulnerable and to be there when you’re ready to hold your head high again. 

The sheer amount of trust you have in him, whether he’s earned it or not, drives him insane with the need to reciprocate in some way. To shorten the distance between the sheer goodness of you and all the bad things he’s done.

So he pushes your shirt up enough to bare your hips and legs and strokes his thumbs along the sensitive skin there.

“Ok, baby.” He assures you, nuzzling the soft skin of your inner thigh and enjoying how it feels against his freshly shaven cheek and jaw, the way your pubic hair tickles his lips and nose, and how your scent offers a reminder of how you’ll taste when he finally opens his mouth to swipe his tongue through your folds. “Can I still eat this pretty pussy?” A kiss to one thigh. “Just a few licks?” A kiss on the other with just the barest scrape of teeth to make you shiver. “Just a taste?”

“Yes, please.” Your voice is still quiet, but firm, and he takes one more look at your eyes, studying them over the hem of your shirt and the hills of your stomach and breasts, before turning his attention back between your thighs. Holding your legs open, he picks up where he left off: nuzzling and kissing his way around the familiar territory of your vulva. 

He knows how to make you relax, how to have you blossom for him, your lips parting on their own as your legs open wider for him to reveal your clit and all the beautiful soft tissue that’s swelling under his careful ministrations. 

Satisfied with that start, he moves down from the couch to the floor to get a better angle. He takes the towel from around his waist and folds it a few times before kneeling on it, adjusting his growing erection into a more comfortable position between his legs. He can’t resist thumbing the bead of precum that’s gathered on the head and spreading it around while you too get into a better position on the couch, rocking back and forth to get your shirt out from under your ass and a throw pillow behind your back. When you spread your legs for him again with enthusiasm he dives back in.

Just like with his work, his perfectionist tendencies serve him well in the pursuit of pleasure. Where to touch, how much pressure to use, whether to go faster, slower, or to maintain his current pace; everything is lined up like a to-do list waiting to be ticked off. Or at least that’s how it’d been with his past partners. A transaction with agreed upon parameters before the encounter. 

It’s different with you. It changes from moment to moment, directed by your desires instead of the end goal. There’s an element of the unknown that he can’t anticipate, that he can’t pin down and define, but he can feel it creeping up his spine even now as he swirls his tongue over your clit. 

Your pleasure surrounds him, feeding his own desire and bringing it to new depths when your hips wiggle in an attempt to get the stimulation you want in the right area. He follows your lead and can just hear the moan you let out as your thighs start to shake against his ears. 

You're gasping now, one hand clutching a breast and making your shirt rise and reveal more of your body, but you don’t seem to care anymore, not with the way you’re trying to grab any part of him that you can reach. He takes that searching hand and entwines your fingers together. You squeeze them and sigh when he rests the two hands on your pelvis just above his head.

The twitch of your muscles, the sounds you make, the taste that coats his tongue and makes him salivate for more. It's all-encompassing and he's dizzy with it. He wants more, he wants to devour every drop from your body and then some.

He paints his name onto your cunt, his spit mixing with your slick. Centering the peaks and dips of the letters over your clit. Another way to leave his mark on you without a trace. Just like the bruises and marks that fade with time. He likes to see them, likes to watch you touch them with fondness when you find them, but more and more he wants them to last. He wants to stay in you, on you, with you. 

Another undulation of your hips presses his face deeper into you and he can't breath. The pressure builds in his lungs until you move back just enough and it releases, moving up from his chest and out of his mouth, pushing sounds with it.

He moans into your pussy, the sound strange to his ears.

"Liam." You answer his moan with one of your own and he's lost. “Do that again. Oh, fuck–”

"That's it, baby,” His voice is wrecked. No longer able to maintain it’s usual steady cadence. The tone of command is gone and he's begging you now, another moan punctuating the request. “Make my face messy with your pussy."

Your orgasm ripples through you, cum spilling out onto his waiting tongue to mix with the sounds his vocal chords are making. He can’t stop them so he gives them to you; tucking them away in your folds until the sensations are too much for you and you push him away. 

His cock lays pulsing in his lap with drips of precum rolling down the sides of his legs, but he makes no move to tend to it.

He feels exposed and suddenly there’s too much room around him. His bare back is too wide, too easy of a target to hit. His kidneys, his neck, the spinal cord between C1 and C7. 

Instead he rests his head on your lap, feeling the give of your thighs and the warmth of your stomach as he presses into it, allowing the softness of you to surround him, to hide him. Your free hand starts stroking over his short hair, moving lower and lower over his skull until your hand pauses on the back of his neck, gripping him there for just a moment, protecting that open target, and then you start again. The rhythm calms his racing heart as he breathes through his nose and tries to regain control of himself. 

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ [1, 3, 4, 5] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 13k for parts 1+2 a/n: two weeks of brainrot later

L.A ended up as sun-kissed and vibrant as rumored, teeming with that felt like three times the people as New York. The plane ride went over smoothly, despite your nerves, although you can’t help criticizing Tony for his carbon footprint. You’re fortunate that the planning aspect is entirely in his hands, from the flight to the hotel. You knew what time to get ready and your destination, and that kept miles of stress away. 

Upon reaching the hotel, a grand stone structure adorned with decorative pillars, the potential arrangements for sleeping arrangements loomed over you. The forgotten vulnerability returned, and you walked beside Tony with uneasy legs, hoping your worry was unnecessary. 

To your relief, your accommodations are separate. You’re given peace of mind, chastising yourself for thinking the worst as you make the ascent in the elevator. Tony passes you cursory looks, reassuring you and assuming your nerves were travel-related.

In the hallway, Tony excuses himself to attend to some last-minute problems, apologizing and disappearing into his room. You followed suit, groaning against your wooden door as it creaked shut.

No matter how happy you were with Tony, the same thoughts resurfaced time and time again. The whispers in your head that told you the facade would melt away- warning of impending implosion. The memories of the look on his face weeks ago that brought you nearly to tears. To spare yourself the rabbit hole thinking about it would send you in, you decided to sleep it away. The event wasn’t until tomorrow anyway, and your body ached for rest.

You don’t wake till the sun’s long gone, hearing Tony’s knock at your door. A sleepy greeting slips from lips, clad in pajama shorts and tank top. Time and exhaustion fast-tracked your comfort around him, to the point that you don’t think to change when you answer. 

Even though you know he’s spent the night running computations and phone calls or whatever it is he does, he looks as refreshed as ever. His three piece suit diminished to just one in that time, leaving him in just a dark button-up and pants—the most unpolished version of Tony you've witnessed you’ve seen, an amusing sight that you commit to memory.

“Hey, sleeping beauty. What do you say to dinner?” His gaze seems to fall anywhere on your petite form but your face for a moment, leaning against the door frame.

“I think everything’s closed by now.” You yawn, already thinking about crawling back into bed. The rumble in your stomach could wait, right? 

Behind Tony’s back emerges a shiny bottle of whiskey accompanied by a plastic take-out bag.

“Good thing Cafe Stark is open 24 hours.” 

Eventually, you’ll have to build your resolve against his infectious smile, but when combined with the mouth-watering aroma wafting from the bag, the game feels rigged from the start.

You and Tony share a relatively silent meal for once, the small rosewood table in the corner of your room serving as a makeshift dining spot. Mostly because a thousand-year nap still sounded beneficial, speaking through heavy-lidded eyes. Tony, abnormally preoccupied, seldom sets his phone down for more than five minutes at a time. As usual, you don’t truly mind it. Without fail, though, that incessant voice comes back, telling you all sorts of theories. 

At some point as you're gathering the empty boxes to toss in the trash, Tony hums in approval before abandoning his phone on the dresser. Before you can ask, the whiskey is brandished by Tony. 

You can see past the sunny smile for a moment, catching a glint of worry on his face. 

“Everything okay?” The short glasses you bring over make a sharp clink on the aged wood.

Dark amber liquid fills his glass, sliding down his throat in one go. He chuckles at your question, finding it your concern sweet. 

“Don’t start worrying about me.” He halts the protest forming on your lips with a kiss, leaning across the table and taking your hands in his. 

It’s a potent amnestic, and you forget about all the alarm bells ringing in your ears. 

Drunken stories and laughter fill the room for the rest of the night. You both remark here and there that sleep would be wise, yet the hours tick on. 

A lull of silence falls between you after Tony finishes roaring at a joke you make about your roommate’s parents. In the hotel’s dim glow, Tony’s eyes look golden. You get lost in them for a time, lying beside him on the cotton sheets. 

A few strands of perfectly coiffed hair have fallen out of place, matching his recently wrinkled button-up. There’s never a time you aren’t totally smitten with him, but the whiskey twists into want easily. 

“Mind if I ask you something?” Tony looks down at you, leaning back against the headboard with warm and amused eyes. 

“Sure, shoot.” 

Anything to keep him looking at you like that. 

“Your parents, you never talk about them, why?” 

Anything but that. 

Truthfully, Tony already knew the answer. The first night after he ended up in the bar, he might have done a bit of a background check on you, mostly for his own safety. But also to see what leads a girl like you to a job like that. He wanted to hear it from you, though, and knew by now that nudging you in the right direction worked well enough.

“Not much to talk about really.” The bedsheet drags against your skin when you shift awkwardly. You’re used to this question, and the hate for it only grows with each recurrence.

“Is that so?” He mutters absently, reaching down to twist a strand of your hair between his fingers.

“They died when I was young. Car accident, not much of a story.” You break away from his heated gaze, choosing instead to lay your head against the pillows. At this point, you expect the usual pitiful platitudes people say, something along the lines of I’m so sorry or that’s awful . 

“I get it. Mine too. Not that young, though.” Tony adds sympathetically, sliding down onto his side next to you. He’s close enough that you smell the whiskey on his breath, tickling your nose.

“How old were you?” You can’t stop yourself from asking, as Tony seldom shared details about his family. You knew the business he ran was his father’s, and his mother’s name, and that was pretty much it. Most things he seemed to keep private, but you hoped the whiskey would help get you somewhere.

“Twenty-one, while I was in college.” There doesn’t seem to be any hesitancy in his answer, so you feel confident enough to push your luck.

“What were they like?”

“Eh, my father was kind-of an ass, wasn’t much of a loss to the world.” He says it too nonchalantly, throwing you off. You attribute it to the empty bottle.

“I don’t know if I should say sorry or congrats.” 

”Either works for me.” Tony laughs, resting an arm on your side. His thumb finds the small patch of exposed skin from your shirt riding up, grazing absentmindedly. It’s distracting as ever, pulling you away from the conversation to focus on his touch. 

“At least I had other people, sounds like you’ve just been alone.” He breaks you out of the daydreams you're lost in.

“Wasn’t terrible.” you respond gently, fiddling with a button on his shirt. 

“Still, you deserve better.” He watches your eyes drift to the small button, searching for his own resolve. It drove him nearly mad to see you in the exorbitant dresses he buys, but lately something about you dressed down, relaxed, nearly killed him. You look angelic next to him, staring through heavy eyes, clearly in your own little world.

“‘Think I’m doing just fine.” you laugh. 

“Hm, maybe.” 

He doesn’t disagree completely, but knew you were built for bigger things. A good chunk of his attraction came from knowing how hard you’d worked, a quality he recognized and respected.

Contrary to what news articles say, his intellect and success didn’t come naturally. It was deliberate, hard work to do what he did. Countless hours of studying, research, testing— all to try to mimic a fraction of what his father could do. Since he was a child, Tony was dead set on proving to his father that he could run Stark Industries. 

Yet, Howard was never persuaded, and planned on leaving the corporation to one of his lead engineers.

In the end, it didn’t matter anyways. He died before he could sign the paperwork.

Tony saw that same drive and ambition in you, you just needed a little help. And he would make sure it was his.

“Maybe?” you feign offense. The warm hand gracing your side loops to the small of your back.

“Think you just need someone to take care of you.”��

“I might be a little too old for that.”

“Not what I meant.” 

That pulls you away from his shirt for a moment, meeting his eyes with raised eyebrows. 

“What do you mean then?”

The meaning takes too long to dawn on you, and Tony’s resolve feels weaker than ever. Instead of answering you, he goes to kiss you, pulling you close with the hand on your back.

There’s no doubt in his mind that he shouldn’t do this, fearing an inability to be satisfied with just that. That voice is too quiet to pay any attention to, turning the kiss long and passionate. His teeth scrape against your lip, sighing into you when he feels your body relax. 

For the first time, he doesn’t wait for your reaction, pushing you onto your back. You feel his hand tighten around your thigh, wrapping your leg to his waist. You’re a worked up mess beneath him soon enough, grabbing at his side to pull him closer. His large biceps rests on either side of your head, fingers entangled in your hair. 

Shaky hands reach for the belt on his waist, only to cause Tony to pull away from you completely. He holds both your hands in his, equally dazed and panting. He appears lost in thought for a moment, and you start to worry you made the wrong move. 

You don’t have to worry for long, as Tony moves to the end of the bed, pulling you with him and kneeling before you quickly. Hungry lips on your bare thighs leave your head light, fingers already hooked around your shorts. 

“Tony, what are you-”

“Taking care of you.” he murmurs as they slip past your ankles. 

The hungry gaze washes over your center, catching your breath in your throat. You don’t get the chance to respond—a heavy tongue gracing your folds. Tony moans at the taste of you, reverberating up your spine. He hates that he made himself wait for this—every sound from your mouth worsening the strain in his pants. 

Your tensing legs are tossed haphazardly over his shoulders. You expected the same tenderness he always granted to you, but this is entirely different. He grips your hips rigidly, wrapping his lips around your clit and pulling you as close as he could. 

His ears focus on each moan, how the pitch in your whines heightened when he sucks hard on the aching bundle of nerves. A large, flat hand across your stomach gets you to lie back,  hands flying to the dark locks tickling your thighs. 

He’s obviously making up for a perceived loss of time, increasing intensity with every swipe of his tongue, your arousal coating his mouth. It sends your body into overdrive, hands reaching for him, searching for any kind of reprieve. 

Tony knows he’ll never get enough when your breath turns low and stuttery, fingers digging into the back of his nape and the hand bruising your hip. You lose sense of what sounds are coming from Tony and which are coming from the mess between your thighs, mixing into a symphony of ecstasy in your ears.

He unlocks a new melody, the addictive sound of your broken, pleading cries calling out his name. He wants to tell you how fucking incredible you sound, but that would require stopping and there’s no chance he was doing that. 

You try to tell him to slow down, the arousal in your stomach building faster than you have time to process. It’s a wasted effort, having any attempts at forming full sentences ruined by the tongue lapping at your entrance.

You feel an approving moan shake through your core, thighs growing stickier. He could feel how close you were, hips shuddering in his grasp. He only grips harder in response, holding you still as you jerk against his tongue. Without warning, the tight bundle in your gut reaches its crest, and Tony gets lost in the river of filth that leaves your mouth. 

You’re foolish for thinking he’d stop there, but instead his lips return to suck gently on your clit, moaning into you. Just when you think you might pass out from the overstimulation, he pulls away to grace your inner thigh with light kisses. 

Tony reclines, captivated by the dazed look on your face and the soft panting of your lips. 

You sit up to face him on unsteady arms, your hazy eyes revealing that there's only one thought on your mind— him , just how he needed it.

The earlier worries become ironically useless, as you sleep beside Tony that night. 

The next evening’s celebration unfolds on a quiet street, a hidden gem thankfully only hosting around twenty or thirty people. The ambient lights of the quaint club aren’t dim enough for you to ignore how underdressed you are. Envisioning a more formal dinner, you dressed simply in flowy olive dress, while other attendees exuded glamor in fancy suits. Tony of course being no exception, donning a dark gray suit and black shirt. Tony seemed unphased by the music and dancing, walking in and greeting people without pause. 

On this particular night, Tony has a singular mission — to keep you in his sight at all times. More accurately, to prevent you from engaging conversation with a select few individuals without his presence. It's not just about showcasing you; it's mostly protective, an attempt to mitigate the risks involved in intertwining you with this side of his life. 

Nearly anything seemed worth having you by his side. It’s a good weakness to have, he thinks. He swears it’s because you make him a better person, and though you always laugh it off and tell him he was already great, it’s another thing that gnaws at the back of your mind.

You're introduced to several of the guests, some names vaguely familiar, others entirely new. Natasha Romanoff stands out, her presence seeming to be the most grounded in reality. It becomes apparent that she is another member in this new endeavor of Tony’s. When you ask what she does for a living, she responds with business, and nothing more. Worse, when you ask about the other members, Natasha shoots a cautionary glance at Tony and smoothly redirects the conversation, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. 

For the most part afterwards, Tony’s mission is a success. He does his best to stay tethered to you, dodging boring conversation after boring conversation. Despite his vigilance, the forces of nature are ineffable, leading you to the bathroom after a few champagne shoots. 

He’d only looked away for one second , he swears, but all it took was a moment to lose track of you.

Upon your exit from the restroom, you decide to get ahead of your hangover. You catch the bartender’s attention at the bar instead of finding Tony. As you wait for the glass of water, your eyes scan the room to find him. Instead, a tall rugged blonde man takes over your view, sliding into the seat next to you. You pay him little mind, still scanning for Tony. Piercing blue eyes won’t leave you though, even as you thank the bartender and continue to search for the billionaire. 

“What’s a pretty young thing like you doing with an old bastard like Stark?” 

His words stop you in place, turning on your heel. 

“I’m sorry?”

The smirk on his face is cold, unnerving. You don’t recall meeting him earlier in the night, and you're certain you wouldn’t have forgotten. He shifts in the barstool, facing you as he sips from his glass before laughing dryly.

“Forgive me, you just don’t like the kind of girl Tony normally parades around. Unless merchants of death are your kind of thing. And you’re definitely not the escort type.” 

“Excuse me?” 

This only humors the man more, and worsens your thoughts.

“What,” he continues once he’s done laughing at the look on your face. “It’s a compliment, really. Tony’s girls normally overdo it with the makeup, it’s a dead giveaway—”

“No, what do you mean ‘merchant of death’?”

“Oh, come on, you—” he responds patronizingly, “Shoot, is this your first night? He might not have told you yet—”

“Told me what ?” You don’t have the energy to explain to this guy that you aren’t getting an hourly pay for this. 

There’s too much fun in it for him to drag this out, even though he knows his time alone with you is both costly and limited. He makes the decision to laugh again and down the rest of his glass before answering you. 

“Don’t tell me he picked a dumb one. At least Pepper had a brain between her ears?”

“Who’s Pepper?” 

The stars are aligning perfectly for him.

“His wife?” he fakes a puzzled expression, making you feel oblivious for not knowing. 

As you stand there shocked and confused, your eyes catch Tony walking steadfast towards the bar. 

“See, they do this thing, ‘fight, cheat, threaten divorce, make up, repeat’ cycle. It’s amusing most of the time, just shocked to see someone like you in it.” 

Across the room, Tony’s blood starts to boil. 

He’d caught the look you gave him, a confusion-ridden disgust that he couldn’t place until he saw who you were with. He left whatever suit was yapping his ear off, pushing through the small, crowded space. He can’t do anything but curse himself for being so careless—unfortunately, he’s not fast enough, watching Steve’s mouth open like a floodgate. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Rogers.” He speaks through gritted teeth, fists balled at his sides. He takes over the small space between you two, and over his shoulder you see the blonde man lean back in apparent satisfaction. There’s no point in asking what was said, Tony can guess well enough. 

“ What ?” Steve responds, a dramatic shrug of the shoulders follows.

Steve's cold smirk adds insult to injury, leaving Tony torn between the desire to break Steve's jaw and the fear of you never seeing him the same. 

The carefully, thoughtful plan he had for you is in disarray, thanks to Steve. You weren’t supposed to know about Pepper for another month, maximum. He planned on taking you to the gallery and telling you, but that chance was robbed from him.

It felt entirely unfair to him, having his dirty laundry thrown at you without any context. To prevent creating a bigger hole, though, he turns back to you. You’d spent the last minute wrapping your head around everything said. You felt almost physically sick, but mostly stupid for ignoring everything sooner. All that security you felt last night? Gone in a flash.

“You have to let me explain this—”

“I want to leave.”

Tony sighs, figuring it wasn’t the worst you could have said, but hates hearing the tone in your voice nonetheless. So, stubbornly and more than pissed, he leads you away from Rogers to the exit, and tries not to think about how you recoil away when his hand graces your back. 

He tries speaking to you in the car, to no avail. You're too busy beating yourself up for being so stupid. You had fallen for it, the charm, the gifts, the mystery— it worked brilliantly and earned you nothing but hurt in the end. Just like you feared it would. 

A second attempt in the elevator wins him no prizes either. 

There’s a third attempt brewing when you reach your floor. You had barely looked at him, and each time it felt like being stabbed. You didn’t see a point in talking about anything, making a beeline for your door. You imagined yourself packing, leaving in the morning and never seeing him again. Go back to the life you were supposed to be living, not this fantasy with him.

It’s not a plan of action you accept happily, and either way you don’t get the chance. The expectant sound of your hotel room door shutting behind you never comes, stopped by Tony’s leather shoe in the wooden frame. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was letting you shut him out. He could read your face the entire way back, seeing your full intent to leave without another word. 

“Just go away.” You want to sound angrier, but defeat is the only emotion you muster.

“You’re overreacting.” He declares, voice bouncing in the empty hall. 

“Really? Am I?” 

You’re shocked when the door is pushed open fully. The space you try to take back by stepping away is overtaken. Tony shuts the door behind him, harsh enough to make you jump a bit. 

“You are.” Tony’s hands disappear into his gray suit pockets, looking down at your alarmed frame.

“And you’re married.” Another step back, only for Tony to step forward again.

“Do you see a ring on my finger, hm?”

“That’s not the fucking point.” One more step back, in vain. The feeling of being trapped screams at you, but doesn’t move your body. “What else have you lied about?”

“I have never lied to you.” 

That seemed more believable than anything else. The small breadth of space you gain is taken once more. You don’t move again, knowing the wall wasn’t far behind you. It pissed you off even more to see his jaw clenched, staring at you as if you were having some tantrum and not rightfully upset. 

“Then who’s Pepper? How many other women are you toying with like little playthings? You’re an arrogant, asshole, liar -” you spat, letting your anger surpass his own. 

Tony moves closer, and you end up against the wall regardless of your efforts. You start to tell him off again, a rant cut short by a hand grasping your face, and another pining your wrist to the wall. Your heart quickens, squirming against him. 

“You’re starting to offend me, honey.” he says lowly, the warmth of his breath spreading across your face. His dark eyes don’t leave you, and you have a sense this is worse than throwing a drink in someone’s face. He was growing tired of this recurrent debate from you. Many adjectives could be used to describe him—arrogant, hot-headed, selfish, but disloyal wasn’t one— and he considered it a disrespectful thing to insinuate. 

“You,” he trails off, thumb shifting down to your throat. “—are the only one. Pepper and I have been done for a long time. Steve knows that.”

“Did she leave after she got tired of you sleeping around?”

‘ Did Steve care to mention how Pepper cheated first? How she threatened to sell me out if I left her? Of course not ’, Tony thinks.

More panicked, harsh words of doubt and inquiry leave you, but they’re quickly shushed by Tony. You know you shouldn’t but you feel a familiar guilt for the disapproval clouding his face. You don’t have the foresight to see that you were right for making them.

“You wanna call me a liar? What exactly have I been dishonest about, huh?” The question is clearly extremely rhetorical. 

“If you were just some ‘ plaything ’  to me,” he mocks, the hands on the side of your face tightening, electrifying your skin—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep your eyes on him.  “We wouldn’t be here, you should know that.”

“Then why keep it from me?” 

You don’t even know how to ask what Steve meant by ‘merchant of death’, and honestly, you don’t think it’s worth making things worse.  You hate that it’s this easy for him, hate the conflicting feelings—his touch melting your anger. It’s no help that you didn’t want any of it to be true anyway. 

“If I decide you don’t need to know something, you don’t. Simple as that.” 

In Tony’s mind, this was for your benefit in the long run, and he doesn’t see a need to explain that. You should just trust him, or atleast you did before Rogers’ opened his big fucking mouth. His anger is mostly placed with the blonde man, but he still expects better from you. He couldn’t have you believing others over him. You’d already expressed doubts about his loyalty before, and he spent a lot of time repairing that. 

Leave it to Blondie to ruin it all. 

To his dismay, you remain silent. He pictures the inner-workings of your mind, doubting everything he’s done to win your trust. The hand against your throat and arm keeping you in place might not be helping his case, but still they remain. He can’t fathom letting go, not if there’s even a slightest chance you’ll leave. 

“That’s applied to almost everything in your life so far.” There’s fear in poking the proverbial bear, yet you do it anyway. There’s too many thoughts battling in your mind, causing the words to nearly catch in your throat. 

“What is it you need to believe me—to know that you’re mine?” His voice shifts, remaining stern but turning heavier. He releases your arm, moving to grasp the green fabric at your side. 

There was obvious disdain between Tony and the man at the bar, giving you deniability to add to his claims. You started to think it was more likely he knew which buttons to push, to put you at odds with each other. Maybe you were getting entangled in corporate politics you didn’t understand without Tony. This was your mistake, just like before.

The words overheat in your mind, warming your skin and wreaking havoc on your thoughts.  Some tell you nothing would change it, that you wanted to give up on this. Others, louder, tell you anything would win you over, that you were looking for any reason not to. The mental gymnastics start anew, but end with the same conclusion. 

You want to chastise yourself for how willfully you fell back into his eyes, angry and want-ridden. The confidence you had earlier about leaving becomes a difficult feat to manage, overtaken by every screaming aspect of you that urges you to stay. Tony didn’t know it then, but he got what he wanted regardless of the wrench thrown by Steve— you, right in the palm of his hand. 

He expects a genuine answer, one you don’t have. So, in typical fashion, he decides for you. 

Tony considers it your fault for what he’s about to do, staring back at him with doe-eyes and flushed skin. Plans are built to be changed anyways—and he clearly needed to send a stronger message.

Without warning, you’re pulled by shoulder the short distance from the wall to the nearby chaise, resting in front of a high mirror.  You question Tony, to no reprieve, pushed forward onto your knees. In the reflection, you watch his arm snake around your body, returning a rough hand to your throat, bringing your back flush with his chest- his other hand tight on your hip.

“ Relax ,” he whispers against your ear, and chills run up your spine. 

“Tony-” you start, trying to twist in your position to look back at him. It’s a useless effort, large arms easily keeping you place.

“Eyes up,” he instructs, and your attention is directed forwards, meeting his eyes in the reflection. 

The olive dress is bunched to your waist, witnessing his hand teasingly graze along your thigh before disappearing under the cascading fabric. It stops there a moment, fingers dancing at the hem of your panties. Desire stirs in you with little prompting, Tony’s lips trailing down your neck nipping gently. 

“Don’t you see what I see—how pretty you look, doll?” he stays locked onto you, holding you steady when you jerk against his hand folding behind your underwear. Soft fingers draw slow circles on your clit, pulling a gasp from your mouth. “—why would I need anyone else.”

It’s pure filth, watching your own body react to every movement in the shadowy room, every bite against your heated neck. Tony’s quiet declarations only dampen your mind.

“You’re perfect, ” His voice drops lower, increasing his pace as the hand on your neck grows firm. “—just for me.” 

There’s static in the air, surrounding your limbs. The obscene picture in front of him sets every nerve on fire, watching your hands reach for his arm, watching you try so hard to not fall into the obscenity in your ear. 

Gravity is indiscriminate, so you fall nonetheless. The heavy fingers tease your wet entrance, only to retract and circle your clit before returning for more. It’s all soft and light, barely as much as you need. You turn desperate before you know it, focused on the flex of his bicep in the mirror with every stroke.

Unfortunately for you, this wasn’t really about pleasure. This was about trust. He needed that, for you to know how consumed he was by you. He’s certain you can feel his hard member pressing into the back of your thighs, a heated, heavy reminder that you were all he wanted. You must know— based on the wetness pooling in his hand and your eyes centered on him. 

“All mine .”

You cry out when a finger surpasses your entrance. You watch it be cut off by the hand at your throat, gripping harder to keep your noises at a minimum. There’s no resistance, wet and desperate enough to suck him in completely. The hand bruising your hip rocks you back onto his fingers. 

All those questions you had, about Pepper, his work, Steve—they’re gone. Disintegrated in the same heat that coils your stomach. Moving away from Tony’s sickeningly slow ministrations isn’t an option, trapped between his body and his tight hold. 

“I should put that rude little mouth to better use.” Tony whispers, free of any reason to hold himself back. You felt undervalued, fine. He’d see to it that’d never happen again. He’d let you hear just how badly he wanted you. He needed that same look in your eye from last night. The one that shined for him and only him.

He doesn’t take the stutter of your frame as a reason to slow down, only a reason to push you over the edge. The finger inside you is joined by a second, curving into you. The lace of panties is soaked through, a dark patch spreading to your thighs. You can’t focus on the mirror any longer, shutting your eyes tightly as you reach your peak—softly rushing through you as Tony’s praises flood into your ear. 

He doesn’t let go—large arms wrapping around you until your breath returns to normal. You open your eyes to meet Tony’s lustful eyes reflected back to you.

“Still having doubts?”

Tony’s patience was completely run through, the short fuse sparked to unrepairable levels. Again, he thinks it’s mostly your fault. He had no issue treating you like gold, but he only thought it right that you at least trusted him. 

You give a quick shake of the head, panting and watching the hands around you leave. You turn and sit in the chaise facing him, his jaw still clenched.

“Good.” he responds slowly. Eyes rake over you beneath him, with Tony imagining a hundred more ways to have you moaning his name. He finds the willpower not to act on them, instead turning for the door.

“You should rest.” He says before you can find the right words to say, door shutting behind him. 

Sleeping proves difficult—thoughts overwhelmed with Tony being a room away. There’s also Pepper and Steve floating around your mind, though never for long. Before you can give way to thinking about it, you inevitably end up catching a glimpse of the mirror in the corner—and everything Tony said plays in vivid sound. Then, an unbearable warmth pools in between your thighs, causing your thoughts to be consumed by him again. 

The frustrating cycle repeats for hours.

Finally, you decide you’ve had enough, leaving your suite and winding up in front of Tony’s door. He answers on the third tap of your fingers, clad in tight black briefs. You have enough clarity to keep your eyes from focusing on that, or the exposed sculpted chest. 

“Can I come in?” You feel pathetic for the way you ask, but it’s worth it, because he steps aside for you to enter.

You walk across the large room, sitting on the end of the unmade bed. Tony stays in the middle of the room, arms crossed in front of his body, waiting.

“You said I don’t need to know everything but,” you start, only growing more anxious when Tony raises an impatient eyebrow. “Pepper, what happened there? Why have I never heard of her before? At least tell me that.”

Tony sighs, contemplating if the distrust in your eye is worth possibly pushing you away for good. You’d see through any bullshit he tried to sell, not that he would make something up anyway. But, it’s for that reason that he knows he won’t get away with telling a half truth. He decides to take it as a sign that you’re still here, in his room, and that you still didn’t leave. 

“We were married, she cheated.” He decides to omit his own revenge cheating. He considered their relationship done at that point anyway, just took him too long to realize. 

“So, you’re divorced?”

“Not exactly, it’s complicated.” He sighs again. “But we are not together—in any capacity.”

You want to ask what exactly is complicated about signing a piece of paper, but you leave well enough alone. 

“Then why not tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d stay if you knew. Couldn’t risk it.” It’s mostly true.

It comes out soft and heartfelt enough for you to believe it. Besides, so many parts of you didn’t want to be upset with him, for any reason. You didn’t have the will to end things, and you didn’t want to find it either. You stare at the floor, trying to process this new aspect of him. His shadow moves across the floor, coming before you to caress your face.

“You don’t need to worry, doll. “ Tony murmurs, trying to get that last little drop of doubt out of your mind. “You’ll always be mine, and I’ll always take care of you.”

part three

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Hiya! Have never made a fic request before, but here goesssss:

You and Andy met through mutual friends in Nashville during the summer of 2022 while he was recording some tracks for Unreal Unearth. You spent nearly three months in each other's beds before you abruptly "ghosted" him by moving to LA for your dream marketing job w/ Warner Music Group.

Now here you are, at an engagement party of your childhood best friend Stephanie to one of Andrew's childhood mates, sitting across the table from the man you never thought you'd have to see again - one who's staring at you like this:

🫣😬🫠

Wow, ehm, this was quite the specific request. I usually don't do these, as I find that my creativity works best with a bit of freedom. I somehow managed to come up with something, I don't know if it is any good though.

So please, for future requests, be a bit less specific. The idea was to just send a pic with a request for fluff or smut. It's absolutely fine to ask for a certain outfit, hairstyle, setting, trope, etc., but please don't get mad if I choose to ignore detailed requests like this in the future.

warnings: talk about past ghosting

 Gloomy eyes bore into you, staring you down from across the table with a resentment you had never seen in them before. Was he sulking? Or trying to read your mind? Or did he hope his gaze would turn into actual daggers and pierce right through you on the spot?

Whatever it was, it was working and even though you had given it your all to hold your ground these past hours, your walls firmly pulled up all evening, you could steadily feel the inner storm build that tugged on your nerves from both ends until they would eventually snap.

But beside all the grim looks he had shot your way, he had not said a single word. Not to you, anyway, and also not to many of the other guests. But as he leant in now, eyes narrowed, his elbows supporting his weight against the table, you knew that the dangerous clenching of his jaw could only mean that he was finally ready to fire his venom your way. 

You rose to your feet in an instant, the blatant noise as your chair scraped across the floor silencing every single conversation in the room. And even though all eyes were collectively resting on you now, it was that one familiar set of green orbs that forced the heat into your cheeks.

“I’ll just,” you stuttered, pointing across your shoulder to the nearest escape route into the garden. “I just need some fresh air. Be back in a sec.”

With one last apologetic look at your friend, you wasted no more time on half-hearted excuses and hurried your steps to get away from the table—from him—as far as possible. 

A cool breeze welcomed you as you stepped through the large glass doors, but you did not hold your steps until you had crossed the entirety of the terrace and your feet touched the pliable surface of the lawn. The silence was heavenly, allowing you to properly breathe for the first time tonight. 

Sadly it was disturbed by hurried steps all too soon. Probably Stephanie’s, who must have come to check on you after that suspicious stunt you had pulled mere moments ago. Good, you thought, you had a bone to pick with her anyway. How could she, after everything that had happened, invite that man without at least giving you a heads up?

“Is this your idea of a joke?” you blurted out, hoping she was already close enough to hear you. You did not care to turn, being far too angry to face her yet.

“Can’t really say it is, no.”

But the voice that answered you was not Stephanie’s at all. You spun around on instinct, wide eyes finding the outline of his familiar form against the lights that fell from the house behind him.

“Andrew.”

What a stupid thing to say. Of course it was him. However much you wished it was not. And his reply made it unmistakably clear that he did not care for your presence either.

“Why are you here?” “What do mean, why am I here?” you snapped. “I was invited, just like you, I presume.”

“You didn’t need to come,” he stated plainly, and the cold in his voice made you shiver.

“I might not have if I had known you’d be here.”

“That’s rich!” he spat. “Especially since you are the one who chose to leave.”

“I chose to, yes,” you defended yourself, taking a step towards him. Why, you did not know. Were you getting ready to throw hands with him? You would, if provoked. Or did you just succumb to the need to look into his eyes while you said what you had been needing to say for so long. “Because I wanted that job. You know how much it meant to me. But even more so,” you paused for a moment, reluctant to finally reveal the full truth. A truth you had never been able to tell before. The real reason why you had so cowardly deserted him almost two years ago. “I needed space.”

“Space?” his brows furrowed as he pondered the revelation. “So, you were running from me?”

“No, not from you.” How could he ever think you were running from him? And if that was not enough to make your heart heavy, the broken look in his eyes almost killed you. It tempted you to give in, to reach out and touch his cheek to ease the harsh creases in his forehead. But you could not. “I ran from whatever it was that you and me were. It…I couldn’t do it any longer.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He sighed, the frustration in his tone was apparent now. “No, I don’t.”

“Because I wanted you,” you blurted out. “I wanted you so much.” And then your voice broke underneath the weight of your confession. "But not like that.”

“Like what?”

It was your turn to sigh now. Why did he have to make this extra hard for you? Why couldn’t he just understand?

“Andy, I wanted a life with you. Not some casual sex whenever I fit into your busy schedule.”

“That’s not fair. You knew who is was, what I do.”

He was right of course. You had known all of that from the start. And still you had clung to that frail thread of hope that this, you and him, would somehow be different.

“I did. But I didn’t know…” You could not bare to look at him. Not when your vision was already starting to blur. He would notice, and you could not allow that on top of everything else that was already turning this night into your personal living hell. And so you spun around.

“What? What did you not know?”

The sudden softness in his voice finally made your eyes spill over. Hot streams of tears ran down your cheeks freely now, and when he touched you, so tender, just like you remembered, there was nothing left inside of you to resist. As if your soul had left your body, you watched the scene unfold, watched him turn you back around, your heart almost leaping out of your chest when his formerly furious eyes softened instantly. It was time.

“I did not know how much I would…” you sniffled, “how much you would come to mean to me.”

There, you had said it, and it had not nearly hurt as much as you had anticipated. Actually, you were feeling a little better, lighter, somehow. But at the same time it was almost unbearably clear to you that your fate now hung in the balance of the deafening silence that loomed in the darkness all around you.

Time trickled by torturously slowly, but still no words had left his lips. You were almost beginning to wonder if he would ever speak to you again, if you should just walk away and leave it all behind. But things were different now than they had been two years ago, you were different, and so you stayed put. 

And then he moved. Carefully, as if he was afraid to scare you away, he reached out for you. His hand felt heavenly against the cool skin of your cheek and the gentle brush of his thumb as he wiped away your tears made your heart flutter. Yet it was nothing compared to his words.

“And you think you did not mean just as much to me?”

You could not speak, your tongue heavy as lead. And so you simply shook your head instead. You were still trying hard to process his words, so afraid your foggy brain might have misheard that you did not notice at first. It was only when you felt his breath crawling along your lips that you realised he was pulling you in. 

With the point of no return long passed, there was no going back now. Fisting the cool leather of his jacket, you closed the small gap that still remained and with the long lost taste of him fresh on your lips, you lost all control.

Lips moved in a fevered frenzy, tongues dancing, exploring, tasting what they had dearly missed all this time, glad to find that nothing had changed, even though everything was different now. 

You both broke away with a gasp, panting heavily as he rested his forehead against yours, your face still framed by his large hands.

“I’m sorry I fucked this up,” he pushed out between two harsh breaths.

“We both did.”

But you did not think it mattered anymore, all the pain and frustration and anger washed away as you buried your face in the soft cotton of his shirt and let his familiar scent calm your racing heart. You had no idea how long the two of you had stayed like this, his arms wrapped around you, tender lips pressing a kiss to your hair every now and then. All you knew was that you never wanted this to end. And there was only one question left to ask.

“Where do we go from here?” your words came muffled against his chest.

“How about back inside?” He must have felt you stir upon his words and so he was quick to add, “Just for a start. We can figure out the rest along the way.”

[mixelation]

reborn au: end of the chunin exams (some notes + 3k writing)

tonight i've been trying to choreograph the end of the chunin exams. to review, tori and kushina attempt to sneak off to retrieve morino ibiki from captivity during the tournament, but kushina is captured by iwa. tori manages to run off, and they mostly let her because she's a dumb genin child.

things that happen that i didn't write:

tori also has chakra poisoning, and he manages to mitigate the effects by reactivating her anti-genjutus seal, bc it basically scrambles her chakra. this means she's limited in what jutsu she can do.

deidara and itachi are fighting each other in the tournament, so tori has a while to sit in the stands and Plan

tori realizes that even if they rescue kushina and get away, iwa will blame them for any violence and this could turn into war. her solution is to track down kisame and mangetsu and have a hysterical break down about iwa kidnapping her sensei. she doesn't ask for help but she DOES ask they tell the mizukage what happened

she also convinces mangetsu to give her a scroll, which she makes a seal in

when she gets a hold of itachi and deidara, they have an argument about priorities. tori only cares about saving kushina, but itachi wants to complete their mission, and deidara points out they're loose ends iwa will be hunting down as soon as they get an opening

they end up splitting up: tori goes to get morino, itachi goes to find kushina, and deidara goes to distract iwa by showing up to the tsuchikage's booth (where he's entertaining foreign guests) and screaming at him. tori tells him to make sure he lets the foreign guests hear about iwa kidnapped his sensei, and then also don't blow them up???

deidara briefly fights oonoki and them flees to find tori. tori can't transport morino via jutsu without kushina, so they load him on a bird and fly out of iwa in search of itachi and kushina

itachi uses the power of genjutsu and murder to basically walk out of iwa with kushina. but because deidara made a huge scene, iwa knows there's an escape attempt and they send the demolition corps after them

and then this is what i wrote:

Tori peered over the side of the bird. The wind battered her hair, strands partially obscuring her vision. Kushina seemed so, so far away, a little smear of violent red curled up at Itachi’s side. 

“Shit,” Deidara swore next to her. “Do you know if Itachi still has his mangekyou?”

Tori had no idea. She didn’t remember him mentioning it at all. She didn’t see him getting out of this alive without it. 

Tori had her seal in Mangetsu's scroll all ready to go too, just in case. Its weight on her belt suddenly felt like lead. She had the solution, but she was up here, when she needed to be down there. Her eyes stayed focused on Kushina, like if she stared hard enough, the solution for instantaneously getting her seal down to them would magically appear. 

Are you a kunoichi or not? she heard Kushina ask. 

Oh, right. 

“As soon as I've activated the seal,” Tori told Deidara, getting to her feet. “Go nuts. But don’t jostle Morino too much.”

“What seal?” Deidara asked, but Tori was already diving off the bird. 

Tori had always been a little bit nervous, right before jumping off a diving board. But once her feet were off the board, she’d always felt the nerves vanish as she gave herself up to free fall. 

This experience was not like that at all, possibly because the fall was long enough that Tori had enough time to realize she was about to seriously hurt herself. What was she supposed to do for extreme falls? Relax her limbs and push out a bunch of chakra and pray? Who on earth could relax in a situation like this? 

Also, she didn’t even have access to her chakra.

“ITACHI!” she shrieked as the ground rushed to meet her. She pulled the scroll off her belt.  “CATCH ME!”

Itachi turned, and Tori caught a split second of his horrified face before she slammed into him. The scroll went flying as they rolled together, catching itself in the surrounding thorny shrubs. There were shouts of alarm from the Iwa-nin around them, and then a flash of red as Kushina made a belated movement towards them. 

The seal activated, and the shrubs unfolded around them. Tori heard a yelp of surprise from Kushina as the shrubs curled away from them, spindly branches raising up and flooding the air with chakra. A pink doom formed around them, just in time to absorb the first explosion.  

Itachi rolled off of her, sending her a disparaging look. More explosions harmlessly bounced off the barrier. 

“You dislocated my shoulder,” Itachi accused. 

Tori sat up with a lot of effort. She had definitely fractured a few things herself. 

“I know how to fix that one,” she told him.

“Tori,” Kushina said, eyes wide as she stared up at the dome. “What the fuck.”

But the barrier was solid, enclosing them in relative calm as the explosions outside suddenly ramped up. Deidara had joined the fight. 

Itachi shot Tori several withering looks as she set his shoulder, but besides a single grunt of pain, he kept his mouth shut. Kushina got very uncertainly to her feet and wrapped her knuckles against the barrier. 

“Why’s it pink?” she asked. 

“Because…” Tori answered, “someone… told me I couldn’t make it pink…?”

Kushina let out a single, loud laugh. 

Deidara’s assistance did not last as long or as thoroughly as Tori had hoped. He was unable to approach as closely as she knew he would if he weren’t also babysitting an injured man, and he wasn’t bothering with his more intricate sculptures that could aim better. His bird hovered above them, out of range of explosions from the ground, but he eventually stopped dropping his own bombs. 

“He’s low on chakra,” Itachi said, squinting up at the sky with his sharingan. “He’s likely choosing to maintain the bird over offensive moves.”

Deidara was a monster, but he was only eleven. Also, he might have fought the Tsuchikage earlier? Tori wasn’t sure how that had gone down. 

Kushina finally got shakily to her feet. “Does he still have enough to fly us out of here if we make an opening?”

“Yes,” Itachi said after a moment. “But, I don’t have enough chakra unless we–”

“Don’t worry, you did enough,” Kushina said, flashing her teeth. “I can take it from here.”

“But your chakra–”

“I’m over it,” Kushina assured them, cracking her knuckles. “Tori, take down the barrier and both of you get ready to run.”

“You don’t just get over chakra poisoning,” Itachi objected, but he did nothing to stop Tori from reaching for her scroll. Instead, he drew his sword with his uninjured arm. 

He didn’t end up using his sword at all. The moment the barrier flickered away, the ground exploded into gold chains, reaching up and whipping around them like the bamboo forest she’d grown up in. Itachi’s eyes widened slightly in shock, and Tori had to grab for his shoulder to keep from falling over. 

The disappearance of the barrier caused the number of explosions being hurled at them to ramp up, but the chains easily deflected them, even managing to throw some wads of clay back at the demolition corps. 

Kushina stood in the middle of it, red hair billowing around her, hands clasped in front of her to focus her chakra, which was fine, apparently, against all medical knowledge Tori had. 

“Due east,” she yelled at them. “On my mark.”

More chains fanned out, zipping through the hard earth like it was Deidara’s most moldable clay. Tori heard the scream of an Iwa-nin being grabbed, followed by another and then another. The screams cut off as soon as they started, bodies crushed by Kushina’s chains. The shrubs around them rustled as chains snaked through them, searching for victims, and as Iwa-nin started to flee. 

“NOW!” Kushina yelled. 

Itachi grabbed Tori's arm and ran. 

“Why are you so slow?” he snarled in her ear as they went. 

Tori had shut off her chakra. She wouldn’t be modifying her run with chakra at all. 

They didn’t need to be particularly fast, though. Kushina followed behind them, covering their retreat effectively. The movement in the shrubs stopped eventually. If any of the demolition corps remained, they’d gone still and silent. 

Deidara flew his bird above them, then eventually took it down low enough for them to hop on. A few minutes later, they were high in the air again, panting and staring at each other. 

She could not believe they’d lived through that, and gotten Morino and Kushina back. 

Then again, if anyone was going to do it, it would be them. 

“Kushina-sensei,” Deidara said after a few minutes. “You’re kind of badass, yeah.”

Kushina laughed. 

Deidara pushed himself to get them across the Earth Country border before he landed the bird. The bird dropped Morino less than gently, and Tori yelled at Deidara and hopped over the side of the bird to tend to her “patient.”

With the adrenaline faded, Tori was becoming more and more aware she was hurt. Her landing jostled her injuries and she let out an embarrassing squawking now. 

Morino blinked up at her, eyes glassy as he lay prostrate in the grass. Tori kneeled next to him to make sure his pulse was still normal. That god it was, because if it hadn’t been, she didn’t really know what she could do about that, besides maybe slap a stasis seal on him and pray. 

“Is Konoha recruiting insane children now?” he asked roughly. So, at least he was still alive. Tori smiled weakly back at him. 

Deidara’s bird poofed out of existence, and Deidara himself laid down in the grass as well. 

“We need to keep moving,” Itachi said, although he was also clearly exhausted. “Iwa will not want any of this to get out. They’ll have no issue crossing a border to pursue us.”

“Shut up, Itachi,” Deidara said. “Kushina-sensei, tell him we need to rest, and he looks like he could collapse at any moment.”

“Kushina-sensei,” Itachi said, turning to her. “Tell him– Kushina-sensei?”

Kushina was still standing, although she was staring unfocused off into the distance. 

“What?” she said, noticing her genin looking at her. 

“Are you alright?” Tori asked cautiously. 

“I’m fine,” Kushina said, then swayed in place a bit. Her expression faltered. “I, um. I’m maybe more tired than I expected.”

“This is why we need to move,” Itachi insisted. 

“He’s right,” Kushina said. She buried one hand in her hair, pushing it away from her face as her brows furrowed in thought. “What if… we cheated?”

“Cheated?” Itachi repeated. 

“We’re out of Earth Country, so I think it’ll be okay,” Kushina said, more to herself than to any of them. “He’s probably noticed we moved suddenly already, anyway.”

“What–” Itachi started to demand, as Kushina closed her eyes and made a hand sign. “Sensei, this is highly unprofessional–”

Itachi choked on his words when the Hokage appeared. Itachi also drew his sword again, in an act of panic which Tori thought was just a little bit funny. 

(Deidara, meanwhile, had sat straight up again.)

Minato appeared very tense, one of his three-prong kunai drawn, but he relaxed when Kushina threw her arms around him. 

“Darling!” she cried. “Darling, we’re fine, but everything went to shit.”

Itachi twitched a few times as Kushina leaned back from her embrace and started explaining everything to Minato. 

Ah, his inner control freak upset, Tori recognized of Itachi, and then haggardly got to her own feet to limp over to him. 

Probably as a result of jumping off a bird, her side was killing her. Breathing was only a little painful, but walking hurt. 

“Hey,” she said, poking Itachi’s side. “Why don’t you go see if Morino is stable for transport?”

Itachi scowled at her. Tori was more qualified to make that assessment on every front, and he knew it. But also she was giving him a mission-relevant thing he could do. 

“You have a really scary face,” Tori informed Itachi when he didn’t immediately answer her. 

“Oi, don’t baby him,” Deidara groused, having gotten to his feet as well. 

“I’ll be back in a flash,” Minato said, kneeling over Morino and setting a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome back, Morino-san.”

“Wait, Kushina-sensei,” Deidara said when Minato and Morino were gone. “Are you telling me you could have summoned him this whole time?”

(“Does he… have a catchphrase?” Tori wondered and was ignored.)

“Well,” Kushina said, blinking at Deidara. “I mean, yes? But Minato entering Earth Country would be an act of war–”

“WHO CARES?” Deidara yelled back at her. “Kidnapping you was already an act of war, yeah! Why the fuck didn’t you just summon him earlier?”

Kushina’s expression hardened. “Deidara, the last thing I want is for a war to reignite on my behalf. I know it’s hard for a kid to understand, but--”

“I understand that you think your ideals are more important than your team,” Deidara hissed, and Kushina looked taken aback. 

Oh, ouch, Tori thought. What a way to get directly under the skin of a Konoha-nin. She needed to de-escalate this as quickly as possible.

“Deidara, we’re all stressed,” Tori defended. “Kushina-sensei made the best call she could, and she knew we could handle--”

“Uh, no,” Deidara disagreed immediately. Then he grabbed Tori’s wrist and pulled her closer to himself. Tori winced as it jostled her movement. Turning back to Kushina, he said, “Tori’s your subordinate and a genin, and you left her to organize your rescue and the rest of your mission, when you literally didn’t need to.”

Tori was so shocked at Deidara suddenly defending her that she was momentarily at a loss for words. She didn’t say, But I could handle it, and you know it. She didn’t say, But if the Hokage had gotten involved, the situation would have become so fucked he’d probably have to pick one person to save and leave the rest. 

She didn’t get why he was upset about this one thing in particular, when he’d seen her run screaming through equally tricky situations before and come out fine. But… oh, he’d seen her cry, hadn’t he? 

Did he really care that much?

“My intention was never to put that much responsibility on Tori,” Kushina responded, just as Minato reappeared. “Tori, I apologize we never discussed this more clearly, but Itachi is an ANBU captain. The chain of command falls to him next.”

Minato’s head swiveled to look at them, clearly trying to piece together why the air had gotten so tense in his absence. Deidara gripped Tori’s wrist tighter. She was… very tired. 

“I think Itachi did technically take command,” Tori said eventually. She pulled her wrist free of Deidara. “And I appreciate you defending me, but I can make my own decisions about what I do.”

“I didn’t take command so much as Tori put a plan into motion and then told me about it,” Itachi deadpanned. Kushina, who had not yet heard their side of the story, looked startled at this revelation. “Speaking of which, Hokage-sama, there’s a few key things you should know before you do anything else.”

And that was that Tori’s first move had been to make sure as much of the international community knew what Iwa had done as quickly as possible. 

Both Minato and Kushina looked mildly horrified, which was not the reaction Tori would have predicted. She thought this had been a pretty good move, given the next thing they’d done was “fuck up as many people as possible.” Now whatever happened next, Iwa couldn’t claim innocence. 

“I don't think she realized how outside of her purview it was to make such high-impact claims to foreign powers,” Itachi said in his perfect monotone. “I apologize for failing to intervene earlier.”

You agreed with me! Tori thought, and Deidara bristled. 

“I’ll willingly take any punishment meant for this inappropriate behavior,” Itachi finished. 

Oh! Tori thought. He was on her side. Okay. 

Minato pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“We will talk about Tori’s fast and loose decisions about Konoha foreign policy later,” Minato said. “For now, I think I have to have a chat with whoever is approaching.”

The Iwa-nin, when they came into view, numbered about ten of whom Tori assumed were Iwa’s best and brightest, minus their Demolitions Corps, which may or may not exist any more. They froze on the horizon when, presumably, one of them recognized Minato. 

“Hi there!” Minato called, waving at the group. “Does your leader want to come over and talk to me?” 

No one moved. 

“Or do you want me to come over there?” Minato offered, projecting his voice across the field, and Kushina had to hold up her hand to hide a grin. 

Someone eventually paced over to them. It was a kunoichi with a somber expression and dark hair tied back in a tight bun. 

“That’s Kurotsuchi’s cousin,” Deidara whispered in Tori’s ear. 

“What are you doing outside of Fire Country, Hokage-sama?” the kunoichi asked stiffly. 

“We have a free passage agreement with Grass,” Minato said, friendly smile not slipping an inch. “And I’m helping my wife and her exhausted genin pass through. What are you doing here? Did you finally negotiate your own free passage agreement, or are you perhaps on a mission sanctioned by Grass?”

The kunoichi didn’t say anything, her lips thinning. Tori was pretty sure the free passage agreement was more complicated than Minato was making it sound, but it was more of a leg to stand on than Iwa had if this conflict moved to a more international stage. 

“I have to say,” Minato continued, “my team didn’t think very highly of your village's hospitality.”

The kunoichi resolutely lifted her chin and looked Minato in the eyes. 

“No matter what you do to us here,” she said, “the world will know you attacked us first.”

Minato raised his eyebrows. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I think the world already knows you attempted to kidnap my wife. My shinobi assured me they were very loud about it.” He produced a kunai from his sleeve and casually twirled it around his finger. The tag on it shone extra white in the sunlight. “I think Mizukage-sama would side with me pretty quickly if I lost my mind in a love-fueled rage, don’t you think? She’s supposed to be a bit of a romantic.”

The kunoichi had tensed, her gaze focused on the kunai. Minato twirled it one more time and then it disappeared back up his sleeve. 

“But, fortunately for you, my wife is fine and standing here, with me. Tell Oonoki I’ll be awaiting his apology and explanation, and nothing else.” Minato’s grin widened, showing teeth. “Now, run along, won’t you?”

The kunoichi retreated as quickly as she could and still keep her pride. The five of them watched as she rejoined their group, which then retreated. 

Finally, Minato sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze slid over to Tori. 

“Is Terumi Mei going to agree with me?” he asked, sounding tired. 

“Oh, definitely,” Tori replied. “I was pretty hysterical. Hoshigaki Kisame and his student definitely bought it, and Hoshigaki is supposed to be super close with the Mizukage, right?”

Minato’s expression turned vaguely long-suffering. 

“Do not take this as permission to do this again,” Minato said. “But that might have been a good call.”

He held out his arms and instructed everyone to take hold. Two seconds later, they were back in Konoha, in the Hokage’s office. Minato collapsed into his chair. 

“I want to give you three a break,” Minato said to the genin. “But instead I’m going to get you into a room and have you write a report for… for whatever you did. Itachi can make calls on what we need to know immediately.” 

“And what about me?” Kushina asked, leaning a hip against his desk. 

“You… get a private debrief,” Minato said. 

Deidara rolled his eyes and grabbed Tori’s arm, dragging her out of the room. Behind them, Kushina moved behind the Hokage’s desk and collapsed right into Minato’s lap. 

Itachi kicked a pair of chunin out of one of the small break rooms that were scattered around Hokage Tower, sending one of them off to get them paper and writing utensils. 

“And dinner,” he finished. “You can write off the expense to the Hokage’s office.”

The chunin ran off, not even questioning Itachi’s orders. Deidara sat, resting his feet on his table, and frowned thoughtfully at Itachi. 

“Every day you turn out to be more of an asshole than I thought, yeah,” he said. 

He didn’t sound upset about it, this time. He also didn’t complain when the chunin returned with a hot meal. 

Tori went automatically for the notebook the chunin also brought them. 

“I can just write the report,” Itachi offered. 

“No,” Tori replied, clicking the pen. “You suck at writing.”

[falling-star-cygnus]

I need Billy comfort after the one where he got trapped under a building, can you please make him be saved?

well since you asked so nicely, how could i refuse?

continuation of this fic‼️ you don’t have to read it, of course, but it will make this whole thing make more sense :D @starguardianniom [your request is on the way, i just thought you might also like to be tagged in the part two :D]

without further ado~

"BILLY!"

She doesn't know which one of them screams it, maybe it was all three, but Anby lunges for the android's jacket- lunges really for any part of him she might be able to grab- until her hands close on red leather. The inevitable weight of his metal body doesn't cross her mind until she's being tugged down with him.

The feeble floor cracks further under Anby’s feet as she digs her heels in. That damned, annoying Ethereal shrieks- probably much louder than what she can hear through her headphones- and stomps like a spoiled child being told no for the first time. She'll put it out of it’s misery once she gets Billy- too still, too unresponsive- back onto safer ground.

Only ...Anby never gets the chance.

The ground jumps under her feet, and the tight grip she had on his jacket futzs.

Billy falls.

Hands and arms wrap around her waist before she can do something stupid like leap down after him. An action she knows is irrational but all she can hear is the way the android hits each level of the building and she needs to get him back-

"ANBY-! WE NEED TO GO."

Of course. Right. Clarity washes over her like cold water; Anby can't save Billy if she's dead too. And he would just feel bad if she got hurt trying to save him, because he had no regard for himself-

The remaining members of the Cunning Hares' fumble out of building just in time to see it topple like a house of cards- with their former client pinned in front of them by a slab of concrete.

It flails a little bit- kinda like a bug does when you grab it's leg- and they're privy to a front row seat as a metal support beam crashes into the weird orb of it's head. The thing splatters like a paintball.

None of them feel much remorse.

A few seconds of silence go by, passed by the girls simply.. staring.

"Well…. alright, Hares," Nicole starts, dusting her hands off, "Divide and conquer. Billy has to be around here somewhere."

'Hopefully.' goes unsaid, but painfully heard.

"R-Right!" Nekomata pipes up, her tails lashing with nervous energy, "I’m sure we’ll find him in no time! He can’t really keep quiet, anyway, y- you know?"

Anby doesn’t say anything at all.

They split up, taking turns calling the android's name and pouncing on any slight glimpse of white or red or yellow. Even greenish black would be better than nothing. Each empty nook, each second of silence, grated on their nerves until they were like frayed live wires.

Usually, Billy kept track of how long the Cunning Hares' stayed in a Hollow. It kept them all from lingering too long, unless they got stuck, and it kept them safe. Why couldn't they keep Billy safe- Now they had no idea how long they'd been searching.

Nicole had moved on to bargaining with empty air.

"Billy," she calls, heaving a heavy pillar to the side with a huff, "Come on, answer already! I won't yell at you anymore, or whack you or- or anything. Just answer us, please!"

"And I won't make fun of how you like to listen to classical music to fall asleep!" Nekomata joins in, from somewhere to Anby's left, "I'll even go to Random Play with you to find more, meow!"

"I'll watch Starlight Knights with you," It couldn't hurt to join in after all, Anby decides, "We could all go to the restaurant, and invite the Phaethon siblings, and-"

It was like something out of one of her movies. The second Anby pushes aside a new piece of rubble, she sees it. A tattered piece of the android's jacket- connected to tattered sleeves and sparking metal arms and a big fluffy head of white hair.

The relief almost sends the smaller Demara to her knees.

Time and place, she reminds herself fiercely, quickly signaling the other two closer to better excavate their friend. He's not in any form of good condition. It doesn't even look like he's conscious.

One of his video sensors is cracked, infected with a galactic black sludge that glows a mixture of pinkish blue red purple. The rest of his plating was pulsating green, and severe corruption was blooming anywhere it could take root.

It even looked like his audio processers were damaged. Anby couldn't even imagine how that must felt for her hyperactive friend- stuck in a silent, cramped space while Ether ate at his mind. Trapped without knowing that they were looking for him.

She hoped he would know anyway, that he wouldn't be wondering if he'd die alone under the weight of a building. Billy wasn't exactly insecure, but...

Anby shakes herself out of thinking about it. They'd found him, that was all that mattered at the moment. Now the Hares' just had to get him back home and back in working order.

"Both of you, stand back!" Nicole orders, aiming her briefcase above the wreckage pinning the android's lower torso.

The smaller girls are quick to comply, and out of the corner of her eye she can see the thiren swipe something golden off the ground. Nekomata shows it to her in silent explanation before shoving it deep into her sleeve for safekeeping.

Billy's little sheriff star.

A shot goes off before the smaller Demara can dwell on it, and suddenly the rubble atop their friend is being vacuumed up into the blackhole that Nicole manifests. They each grab a metal limb and tug him out of range.

One problem taken care of, another appears. The corruption blooming from his joints is excessive. If they take him out of the Hollow like this...

"We don't have time to think about it," Nicole reminds them all, voice tight with the weight of the android's life, "Anby, cut off as many of these... things as you can without hurting him. We'll see what we can do from there."

Anby nods once, and readies her sword.

One, two, four, eight turns to sixteen and sixteen turns to the very last one being cut down without mercy. With each bud removed, the sickly green light between his plates fades until it's barely there at all. There's not much to be done about the crack over his eye until they make it to a mechanic, but even that seems to lose it's glitchy appearance.

The Cunning Hares' don't bother with fighting the Ethereals they pass- there's no time- so it's mad dash to the exit that jostles the android's already crushed legs.

....Billy really was all limbs and pizazz.

It's only once the reunited Hares' make it a good deal from the Hollow that they stop running, doubled over and desperate for a full breath. Anby takes a quick survey of their surroundings as she gently lowers Billy to the ground, propped up on her lap to at least provide a little comfort.

It looks they ended up in Belobog territory, around where that eccentric mechanic liked to linger around. Gary-? Grail? Whatever...

Nekomata crouches down next to them and fishes the little star out of her sleeve. It's battered, and kind of dented around the points, but it still clips onto the leather like it never left.

Anby can vaguely hear Nicole tap away at her phone behind her, the curses muttered almost like a soothing balm of normalcy as the last of the corruption finally leaves Billy. His cracked eye returns to it's familiar shade of yellow- if painfully dull compared to his normal vibrancy.

But he's still unresponsive.

Still so hauntingly quiet and still. It's unnatural, and it isn't right. And none of them know if the android's going to last until tomorrow. Or even until the next hour.

Unbidden, Anby can feel her lower lip tremble- can feel stinging behind her eyes as she continues to run her hand through dusty white hair. It held none of the softness it did before this whole... job. Before her stupid grip had fumbled.

Anby hadn't cried in years, yet now she finds she can only helplessly watch as the salt splatters against the android's face plate. Like a mimicry of tears he wasn't built to shed.

"AhHh- Anby, don't cry," Nekomata frets, clearly freaked out by the uncharacteristic display, "He'll be okay! Bil- Billy's tough as nails, remember? I haven't known him for as long as you two.. but even I can tell that!"

Her puffy sleeves gently pat at the smaller Demara's face, trying to clear away the stupid liquid that was blurring her vision. Soft mantras of 'he'll be ok' are whispered, even as the thiren herself starts to cry.

Anby hunches over, would be curling into her knees if it wasn't for the weight of the unmoving android on her lap, and Nekomata clutches onto the lapels of his jacket and stifles a hiccup by biting down on her lip.

He wasn't coming back to them this time.

He wouldn't be there in the morning to braid her hair, or entertain her movie references, or lighten the mood with his silly Starlight Knight quips. He wouldn't be there to help them reach tall shelves, or distract their clients while Nicole emptied their bank accounts, or flail about with his lanky limbs.

Billy wouldn't be there.

...

..creak...

...Creak..

Creak.

Cool metal fingers brush past Anby's face, and then Nekomata's, and then fall limply back to the hard concrete.

"...don't... cry.."

...

...!

Billy!

Warm light finally flickers to life behind the android's video sensors, dimmer than normal but there.

Anby feels as though her heart's been restarted. Like the world had suddenly been bleached of color only for it to be a really badly timed greyscale shot.

Billy was alive, and whirring back into gear under their hands.

"You guys... really came for me..?"

"You big dummy!" Nekomata sniffs, ears and tails poofed like she'd been startled, "of course we did!"

"Have more faith in us," Anby echoes the thiren, resting her forehead against the android's with one final sniff. Nekomata rests her's against the diamond on his chest.

He can't hear them, his audio processers are still busted, but Anby hopes he can feel their care for him. Hopes he can feel how much they love him, and that they were here to stay no matter what happened. Just like he was for them.

Billy Kid was the heart of the Cunning Hares', after all.

[sentientcave]

It's WIP Wednesday once again! I've got some Impound for you because it's been a while and it's still not finished (I've been working on Sparrow instead and just hit 55k today which is pretty exciting).

Contains: Blue collar Simon, Price as a cop, petty nonsense from men who should know better, but they're unfortunately not very emotionally intelligent

That’s when he saw the cruiser, parked on the street out front, too close to the fire hydrant.

Not blocking it, exactly, but still too close. If it were anyone else, he’d’ve let it slide, since the fire crew would still be able to get to the hydrant. But it was Price, and he’d just warned him about this very thing.

He pulled out his phone. “Hey, Johnny?” he said as soon as the line picked up, not waiting for Johnny to speak. “Send Roach out to city hall. Got someone parked by a fire ‘ydrant.”

“Fer fuck’s sake, Si, isnae the feckin’ cop again?”

“It is. I’ll come round to handle the paperwork. Won’t make you do it.”

“Awlright, but dinnae let him catch Roach at it neither. Ye know he’ll say somethin’ stupid and get his arse arrested.”

“Oh I know. Lad dun’t know ‘ow to keep his trap shut.” Simon hung up and headed back inside, hardly paying attention to the meeting, his eyes flicking back to Price over and over again, and holding whenever he found Price looking back. It was clear that neither of them retained anything said, too busy glaring at each other over the heads of the people sitting between them.

Simon got out of the building first, and stood off to the side to smoke another cigarette, leaning against a tree where he could get a good view of Price’s reaction when he came out to find his cruiser missing yet again.

He didn’t disappoint. He came out of the building a few minutes after the initial crush of humanity, talking to Kate and Nikolai. Price stopped in his tracks a little ways out the door, focused in on where his cruiser was supposed to be, and immediately scanned the vicinity, his whole body going rigid, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared up for war, jaw set like concrete. His blazing blue eyes found Simon, and he marched over without saying a word, leaving Nikolai and Kate looking confused, and then amused when they realized what must have happened.

Price stopped in front of him, fury radiating off of him like heat off an engine, all that energy practically warping the space between them. “What’s your fuckin’ problem, mate?” he asked, jabbing a finger against Simon’s chest.

“No problem. I was ‘ere the whole time, wasn’t I?” Simon batted Price’s hand away, resisting the impulse to punch him for having the nerve to lay his bloody hands on him in the first place. Price was lucky that Simon was so rehabilitated now. That he had his temper on a good strong leash these days. “If you din’t want to get towed, you shunt’ve parked there. Not my problem if my people know ‘ow to do their jobs and you ‘aven’t got a clue ‘ow to do yours.”

“You don’t want to start a war with me, son,” Price growled.

Simon leaned forward, the barest curve of a smile on his lips, eyes narrowed and flinty. To his credit, Price didn’t flinch, didn’t move back, didn’t drop his eyes. He wasn’t intimidated by Simon’s size, like a lesser man would be. “You don’t want to start a war with me, old man.” He wasn’t sure there was much difference in their ages, if any, but if Price was going to try and talk down to him with the son shite than Simon was going to shovel it right back, like he was an unruly teenager in a rebellious phase. “I’m not goin’ to be pushed around by a fuckin’ badge. You don’t get special treatment because you wear a bloody uniform.”

Price’s jaw clenched even tighter. He had an impressive scowl, one that could probably level anyone else. “Watch yourself,” he grit out, like each word cost him something to force from his mouth.

Simon leaned a little closer. Their noses were almost touching. He could feel the currents of air stirred up by Price’s breath on his own face. “Or what?” he asked.

“Or else,” Price said, too angry to come up with anything resembling a real threat.

Simon pulled back with an amused grunt, and turned away, glancing over his shoulder dismissively. “See you as the impound lot, hm? I’ll be waitin���.”

In the end, it was Gaz who came around to pick up the cruiser.

[luckyroll3]

Chef's Kiss: Part 1

Masterlist and Summary

Story inspired by this TikTok.

The Job

Your phone buzzes, a jarring vibration against the calm of your sunlit office. You glance at the caller ID—Marcus Williams. One of your richest, but most demanding clients. You straighten in your chair, already tensing at his potential request.

"Good morning, Marcus," you answer with a practiced calm.

"Morning," he replies curtly. "I need you to organize a dinner event. It's crucial. Sixty high-profile guests. Can I count on you?"

His voice is all clipped edges and impatience. You open your notebook app on your ipad, scribbling details as he rattles them off—a date less than a month out, a list of VIPs, his expectations clear and, as usual, excessive.

"Is that all? I thought you’d want me to host your next event on the moon this time,” you say cheekily, hoping to soften him a bit.

“Ha! Maybe for the next one,” he says with a chuckle. “Your sense of humor is only one of the reasons I rehire you. But it’s mostly your ability to pull off miracles. Can you take care of this one for me?”

“Absolutely. I'm on it," you assure him. He hangs up without a goodbye; the typical Marcus efficiency that you have learned to accept. “Bye to you too,” you say to the dead line.

You exhale, then hit the speed dial for Natalie. She answers on the second ring, her voice bright and expectant.

"Nat, we've got a big one," you say, leaning back into the comforting embrace of your leather chair.

"Spill it," she urges, eagerness threading through her words.

"Marcus just tasked us with a high-stakes dinner event." You feel the weight of responsibility settle on your shoulders.

"Oof, when's the event?" Natalie's question is a soft tap on the drum of your anxiety.

"In about a month," you reply, eyeing the calendar. The days look too few, the timeframe mocking you.

"Yikes. But hey, we've got this," she says, confidence buoying her tone.

"Right." You smile despite yourself. "You know how Marcus is. We'll need to be meticulous. No room for error."

"Story of our lives," she chuckles. "I'll start prepping a timeline. We can tackle it first thing tomorrow."

"Thanks, Nat," you say, grateful for her unfailing support. "You're a lifesaver."

"Anytime," she replies, and you can almost hear her grin.

"Okay, let's circle back in an hour and set our game plan," you suggest.

"Will do, boss lady," Natalie sings out before hanging up.

You drop your phone on the desk and stare at the notes on the tablet. You take a deep breath, readying your nerves to turn chaos into a masterpiece once again.

You fire off an email to Daniella at Saffron & Thyme, fingers flying over the keys. Your mind thinks back to her restaurant's capabilities, the way they've never let you down. The cursor blinks back at you as you hit send.

"Done," you murmur, leaning back. "Dani should be getting back to us soon."

"Great! Their wild mushroom risotto is to die for," Natalie chimes in from across the desk, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Think it'll make the cut for the menu?"

"Let's hope." you grin, imagining the savory flavors, the impeccable plating.

The ping of your inbox pulls you back. A swift reply from Dani; she's always on the ball. You schedule a call with her for later in the day.

"Phone meeting's set," you announce, catching Natalie's gaze.

"Sweet," she replies, popping a bubblegum bubble. "We're on track."

Hours slip by, a blur of preparation and checklists, until the appointed time arrives. You press the speaker button, and Natalie leans in, pen poised.

"Hey, Dani," you greet as her voice fills the room, all business and warmth.

"Good to hear from you two," Daniella responds, her tone laced with a smile. "Let's talk about this dinner event of yours."

Natalie and you exchange a glance – it's go-time. You dive into the details, outlining Marcus' vision, the high-profile guest list, the atmosphere he’s aiming for.

"Got it," Dani interrupts, brisk yet excited. "I'm thinking something seasonal, maybe add a twist of elegance to each dish?"

"Exactly," you affirm, relief flooding through you. Dani gets it, like always.

"Count us in," she declares. "I'll clear the date. Chef Jax will be thrilled to brainstorm some ideas with you."

"Perfect," you say, and your pulse steadies. One major task checked off the list.

"Can't wait to work with you again, ladies," Dani adds, and you can almost see her managerial nod through the phone.

"Likewise," Natalie pipes up. "This one's going to be epic."

"Definitely." you echo, and after a few more confirmations and well-wishes, you end the call.

You flip open your laptop. Natalie perches on the edge of the glass desk, her fingers drumming a staccato rhythm.

"Timeline," you say, your voice slicing through the silence. "We need precision."

"Got it." She leans in, her curls bouncing with each nod. "Let's break it down, hour by hour."

You dive into the heart of logistics, crafting a timeline that reads like a symphony score—every note, every beat mapped out to the second. Your fingers dance over the keyboard as we assign tasks and set deadlines, our words weaving together until a coherent plan emerges from the chaos.

"Florist," you mutter, scanning the list. "Linens, A/V setup..."

"Who do you want for florals? The usual?" Natalie asks, chewing on her pen.

"Rosa's Garden. They've never let us down."

"True. Their orchids are art." Her eyes glint with approval.

You pick up the phone, dialing the familiar number. Rosa answers with her husky, laughter-lined voice, and you pitch our vision—a cascade of white blooms, elegance in every petal.

"Darling, for you, anything," Rosa purrs after a brief haggle over price. "I'll make sure it’s all there, fresh and fragrant."

Relief washes over you. "This is shaping up."

"Like we'd let it do anything else." Natalie grins.

You both sit back, your gazes meeting in quiet triumph. The foundation is laid, the groundwork solid. It's a waiting game now, the calm before the storm of execution.

You move on, the guest list sprawling before you like a challenge. Names, titles, companies – they blur together, a sea of significance.

"Adams needs to be near the bar," you say, remembering his penchant for networking with a drink in hand.

"Far from Johnson though." Natalie taps her lip. "Their last merger talk didn't go well."

"Right." you circle their names, drawing a line between them. It feels like defusing a bomb, a delicate operation where one wrong move could spell disaster.

"Helena will want a view of the stage." you envisage Helena's keen eyes, missing nothing.” Natalie nods, scribbling away. "And check dietary restrictions again," you remind her. "Last thing we need is an allergic reaction."

"Already on it." She grins, confidence a bright spark in her gaze.

"Good." Your shoulders ease a fraction. The details matter. They always do.

"Think he'll be happy?" she asks, a lilt of mischief in her voice.

"Marcus? He doesn't do happy," you smirk. "But satisfied? Maybe."

"Then we're golden." Natalie winks.

You see an email come through from Dani. She’s arranged a date and time for you and Chef Jax to meet and you add it to the calendar.

"We’re the best damn event planners in the city. We’re always golden." Your confidence surges as you send the confirmation reply. You shut down the computers, the screens' glow fading into darkness. “Let’s call it a night.” 

The Meeting

The crisp air of the early evening bites at your skin as you approach Saffron & Thyme, the five-star restaurant nestled in the heart of the city. Leaves rustle underfoot, a whispering prelude to the bustle inside. You're here to discuss Marcus’ event.

A sudden rush of wind signals an intrusion into your thoughts. A man on a bike, all athletic build and tousled hair under a baseball cap, clips your shoulder as he whizzes by. "Sorry, mate!" he calls out, his voice tinged with an Australian accent that curls around the words like smoke. He swings back around and heads towards you.

“You okay?” His warm brown eyes meet yours, before performing a silent appraisal of your body. “I underestimated the distance between us. But you’re good, yeah?”

“I’m good,” you respond. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay!” He grins broadly, two dimples appearing. It’s one of the most gorgeous smiles you’ve ever seen. “Sorry again.” He winks, then starts pedaling and disappears down the alley. Your heart skips a beat, but you brush it off. Time is ticking.

Inside, the familiar scent of herbs and freshly baked bread welcomes you. It's comforting. You smooth down your blouse and ask the hostess for Dani and Chef Jax.

Dani emerges a few seconds later, her face both apologetic and reassuring. “Hey!” She greets you with a quick kiss on both cheeks. “So good to see you.”

“Nice to see you again Dani. Thanks so much for taking on this event with such short notice.”

“Of course. So I have some bad news. Chef Jax left a week ago to become the private chef for a big celebrity.” Her tone suggests this is more gossip than disaster. She sees concern cross your face and quickly adds, "But don't worry, we've got someone even better."

That's when he steps into view. You blink quickly as Dani ushers forward the new chef. It’s the biker from the sidewalk. His entrance is nothing short of magnetic; the kitchen's heat seems to have followed him out, adding a shimmer to his tanned skin. Chris' smile, complete with its playful dimples, radiates confidence. He strides towards you, the embodiment of every culinary fantasy you didn't know you had. You wonder if you’re developing a chef kink. You feel warmth flooding your cheeks.

"Chris has taken over the kitchen," Dani says, proudly introducing the man whose hands, strong and skilled, once deftly navigated a bike handle, now destined to craft your event's menu.

Chris steps forwards, a grin tugging at his full pink lips. "Sorry again for bumping into you. Nice to properly meet you," he says, his grin spreading wider and his rich brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Seems I’ve made quite the first impression, huh?”

You swallow, forcing a smile. “It was quite the entrance. Would have been more impressive if you were doing some tricks,” you quip, aiming for light-heartedness. “But water under the bridge.”

Chris chuckles as he extends a hand, his large palm enveloping yours in a firm handshake. His skin is warm, the touch sending an unexpected jolt of electricity sparking up your arm. You stare at your joined hands, acutely aware of his lingering gaze.

“Christopher Bahng, but everyone calls me Chris.” You introduce yourself. “An absolute pleasure.” Chris lifts your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles.

A shiver dances down your spine at the sensation. You're drawn to him, undeniably so. But this is work. You nod, your mind stamping down the attraction, forcing professionalism to the forefront. You clear your throat, slipping free of his grasp, but the tingling remains. “Shall we discuss the event?” you ask, looking between Chris and Dani.

Chris chuckles again, the sound warm and throaty. "Straight to business. I like that."

The three of you sit at an empty table near the back, Dani taking her place at the head while you and Chris flank her sides, sitting across from each other. Every inch of air between the two of you is charged with unspoken tension.

"So, let's talk about the dinner," you start, opening your folder. Your voice is steady, all business now. "We're looking for something that makes a statement."

"Ah, I love a good challenge." Chris leans in, his forearms on the table, and you're acutely aware of the muscles beneath his rolled-up sleeves. The scent of spice and citrus wafts off him towards you, clean and intoxicating. "Tell me more. What do you have in mind?" His gaze on you is intense.

You glance away, heart pounding. Get a grip, you chastise yourself. You smooth a stray curl behind your ear, summoning your most confident tone.

"An upscale six-course tasting menu to impress our guests." You outline the specifics, including the ambiance you're aiming for. Chris nods along, his eyes never leaving yours, as if every word you say is vital. It's flattering and a little unnerving. You find yourself leaning in too, drawn into his orbit.

"Ambitious. I like it. Sounds like we've got some exciting work ahead of us," he says once you finish, his dimpled smile returning full force. You can't help but return it, despite the warning bells in your mind.

You clear your throat again. “Will the kitchen be able to handle this? Given the sudden changes in staff?”

“My team can handle anything.” Chris smiles, sending a thrill through you. "I'll make it an evening you won’t forget."

You swallow hard, tearing your gaze from his. This chemistry is dangerous. Off limits. You straighten, smoothing your expression into cool professionalism.

"Wonderful. Shall we finalize the details then?" You flip open your ipad, poising the stylus over the screen.

Chris leans back in his chair, regarding you through half-lidded eyes, studying your face. You raise a brow.

After a long moment, Chris chuckles again, content with whatever it is he’s discovered. "Details it is." He folds his hands on the table, giving you his full attention. "What do you need from me?"

You go back and forth discussing the details. Dani chimes in as necessary, but the conversation is mainly between you and Chris. Dani excuses herself to deal with something in the back.

"Imagine this," he starts, "a deconstructed bouillabaisse, each element a surprise on the palate."

You nod, intrigued. The idea is bold, inventive. It's exactly what Marcus loves.

"Seafood sourced locally?" you ask, thinking of freshness, sustainability—the buzzwords that please your clients.

"Of course." Chris' smile is confident. "Nothing but the best."

You move on to presentation, discussing plating styles. Rustic elegance versus modern chic. He sketches shapes on a napkin—curves, lines, a swoop here for sauce, a stack there for texture. You watch him work. The way his brow furrows in concentration, the occasional bite of his lip.

"Guests eat with their eyes first," he says, locking eyes with you. His enthusiasm is infectious.

"Absolutely," you agree, feeling the pull of his passion. You turn back to your notes. “Marcus also has a love for theatrics, so keep that in mind too.”

Chris nods, and makes a few additional suggestions.

You glance up from your notes, meeting Chris's gaze. His eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners as he smiles. Your heart stutters at the sight.

"I think we have everything covered." You pretend to scan your notes and hope your voice sounds normal. "Unless there's anything else you want to discuss?"

“Dietary restrictions?”

“I’ll have my assistant Nat send you notes on that once we finalize the guest list by the end of the week.”

“Perfect.”

“Just be prepared. The requests from these rich folks tend to border on ridiculous. We’ll need to figure out how to incorporate them without sacrificing the menu's integrity. It might be a bit much given our timeline. Given the potential complications, does the end of the week still work?”

“I’ll make it work,” he says confidently.

"Great. Thank you." You breathe easier. Your eyes connect with his and neither of you look away.

"All set?" Dani asks, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and breaking the spell.

"Yup! All set," you confirm, finally looking away and standing as you slip the tablet into your bag. You feel lighter, energized by the collaboration, by Chris' fervor. The event looms large, but so does the excitement. And maybe something more. “Thanks for meeting with me today.”

Your gaze drifts again to Chris, as he rises as well. You watch the way his hair curls just slightly under the edge of his baseball cap, how his eyes glint with life and laughter. Your heart thuds harder. You're not supposed to notice these things. He rounds the table to stand next to you.

“The pleasure was all mine.” His voice is low and husky, catching you mid-stare. A knowing smile plays on his lips—the dimples teasing you. "Got your phone?" he asks.

"Uh, yeah." You fumble in your bag, your cheeks warm. You trade phones, fingers brushing, lingering. Numbers are exchanged, a necessity cloaked in possibility.

"Call me if anything changes," he says, handing back your device. His eyes hold yours, a silent conversation you're both too aware of. Time stretches until you come to your senses.

"Will do," you manage, voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "Thank you, Chef," you say, turning to leave.

Chris grins. “Until next time.”

Out on the sidewalk, the city buzzes around you. You tuck into the stream of people, lost in thought. The quickening pulse at the base of your neck is hard to ignore. Chris. His talent, his charisma, his looks —dangerously magnetic.

You're drawn to him, undeniably so. But this is about work. You’re wondering how you will resist him. The questions loop in your mind, chasing each other like shadows as you navigate back to the office.

Still, his smile lingers. The plump lips. The twinkle in his eye. The fucking dimples. There's no denying the chemistry between you, a dangerous attraction that threatens to derail the event if you're not careful. Still, you can't ignore the thrill his heated looks ignite within you or how his passion for cooking sparks your own enthusiasm.

You take a deep breath.

Back at your computer, you find several emails from Marcus, each terser than the last, demanding updates. You don’t have time for fucking romance. With a sigh, you settle in to respond, pushing all thoughts of Chris from your mind.

The Recipe Tasting

The brass handle is cold under your touch as you push open the door to the restaurant, a sanctuary of calm in the early hours of Saturday morning. Chris’ message said to just come on in when you arrived. A thrill dances up your spine, mingling with the anticipation that's been simmering since you set this meeting with him. The moment you step inside, the rich tapestry of scents wraps around you—garlic, fresh herbs, a hint of citrus.

"Good morning," Chris greets. There’s a hint of fatigue in his eyes, but his dimpled smile radiates warmth against the cool backdrop of the quiet dining room. His chef's whites hug his athletic frame, a stark contrast to the dark, tousled curls peeking out from beneath the gray beanie he's donned today. You follow behind him, and can’t help it when your eyes drop to take in how well the pants highlight his perfectly round ass. You glance around the pristine kitchen, noticing the organized chaos of ingredients and tools laid out for the tasting.

“How long have you been here?” you ask.

"Since four this morning," he says over his shoulder, with a shrug. The motion accentuating the breadth of shoulders beneath the crisp white shirt. “There’s a lot to prepare, but I wanted everything to be perfect for you.” His tone is laced with pride.

"It’s just a tasting. No need for perfection. Yet," you respond, admiring the dedication.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he replies.

In the kitchen, stainless steel surfaces gleam under the fluorescent lights. A pan sizzles on one of the stoves, punctuating the symphony of aromas. Chris removes the pan from the heat before leading you to a prep table, ingredients arrayed like paint on an artist's palette. He pulls out the stool for you. As you sit, you feel his thumb graze lightly across your side. You’re unsure whether it was intentional or accidental. You don’t react outwardly, but inside, you start to feel fluttering in your belly.

"Let me show you what I've got planned," he says, gesturing towards the display with his broad, strong and veiny hand.

"Surprise me," you challenge, your voice steadier than your racing heart.

One by one, he lifts lids from pots, unveiling the dishes. Each carries a story, a piece of his soul: braised short ribs that hint at his Korean heritage, vibrant vegetables speaking to his Australian upbringing. He talks, hands painting the air with his passion, eyes alight with creativity.

"Each dish is a chapter," he explains. "A narrative in flavor."

You nod, captivated not just by the food but by him—by the fervor in his voice, the spark in his gaze. Today, Chris isn't just a chef; he's a storyteller, and you hang on every word.

Chris approaches with the first dish, his stride confident. The steam curls upward as he sets it down before you, the aroma a prelude to the flavors awaiting discovery.

"Try this," he urges, the dimples in his cheek deepening with his encouraging smile.

The fork feels cool against your fingertips. You spear a tender morsel, and it succumbs to the gentle pressure. Brought to your lips, the flavor blooms across your tongue—earthy, rich, with a whisper of spice that tickles your palate.

"Wow," escapes from you. It's more than taste; it's emotion, memory, a dance of textures and aromas that resonate with something primal within you.

Chris leans on the stainless steel table, eyes locked on yours, searching for more than approval. "What does it remind you of?" His voice is low, inviting.

"A bonfire during sunset on a secluded beach. That moment when the sky's ablaze and you're caught between day and night," you say, the image so clear you can almost hear the waves lapping at the shore.

"Perfect," he breathes out, satisfaction lighting up his face. "That balance is exactly what I was aiming for."

"Chris, this is... incredible." Your words are honest, stripped of pretense by the genuineness of the experience.

"Good, because there's more to come." He stands straight, the professional veil slipping back into place, but the lingering look he gives you is all warmth and shared secrets.

"Bring it on," you reply, the challenge in your tone softened by a playful smile, eager for the next act in this delicious play.

You watch as he plates the next dish and walks back to you. He slides the plate in front of you, the vibrant colors of the dish popping against the stark white. Your nostrils flare slightly, taking in the aromatic fusion wafting from the arrangement.

"Try this," he encourages. "A little adventure on a plate. Octopus carpaccio with chorizo crumble and saffron aioli."

You lift your fork to your lips. The first bite is a revelation as the medley of bold, yet harmonious flavors explodes on your tongue. A soft moan escapes you before you catch yourself.

Chris smirks at the sound, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at you’re reaction. “Glad you like it.” He slides a glass towards you. You take a sip, surprised to find that it is white wine, but it’s perfect as it accentuates the flavors. “The saffron provides an interesting contrast to the the brininess of the octopus.” He picks the glass up and brings it to his own lips.

"It's amazing." You gesture at the dish with your fork. "The blend of textures and flavors is incredible." You place another forkful into your mouth, closing your lips around the silverware before pulling it out slowly to get as much as the flavor off as possible. You notice his eyes focused on your lips. "Your skill... it's exceptional." You speak between bites, each word sincere.

"Cooking is an art form. The ability to blend flavors and culinary traditions from different cultures is fascinating to me." He leans forward, his gaze snapping back up to your eyes. "But the real joy is in sharing the experience with someone who appreciates it."

"I love cooking too, but it’s more of a hobby for me. There's so much joy in exploring new tastes, new techniques."

"Exactly! For me, it began with my grandmother's recipes. She brought Korea to our Australian kitchen." His hands animate his words, the story bringing a dance to his fingers as they mimic chopping and stirring.

"Family recipes are treasures." You pause, the memory of your dad's jerk chicken seasoning your words with nostalgia. "My dad's Caribbean roots spice up our meals. It's like every dinner tells a part of our story."

"Food is our connection to heritage, to family." Chris nods, a grin spreading across his face, softened by the dimples that carve into his cheeks. "It's amazing how it brings people together, isn't it?"

"Absolutely." You smile, lost momentarily in the shared understanding, the common ground blooming like the herbs in a well-tended garden. With each shared anecdote, the connection deepens, roots twisting around a budding possibility.

You reach for the next plate, not sure what it is, but eager to taste anyway. Chris reaches for the plate at the same time, his intention to guide you through the flavors of his latest creation. Your fingers graze his, light as whispers, as you simultaneously grab the plate and a shock of warmth surges up your arm. You freeze, caught in the unexpected intimacy of skin against skin.

His gaze locks with yours. It's a silent conversation, a question posed in the depths of his brown eyes that beg for an answer. Your heart beats a staccato rhythm, betraying the calm façade you struggle to maintain. The air crackles with the energy shared in that fleeting touch, the undercurrents of attraction swirling like steam from the hot dishes scattered across the counter.

The moment stretches, awareness growing between you both. You want nothing more than to close the distance between your bodies, to discover the taste of the full, sensual mouth that has been tempting you all morning. His gaze dips to your mouth then returns to your eyes, and you wonder if he's imagining the same thing. You wonder if he'll act on the desire simmering in the air. But after a long moment, he straightens and clears his throat, looking away.

"Sorry," he murmurs, but there's no real apology in his voice, only a low timbre that resonates somewhere deep within you. His smile is a half-formed thing, laden with meanings you're not sure you should decipher.

“It’s fine," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "What is this?" you ask, referring to the plate still held by both of you. You release it, allowing him to set it down in front of you. You sit back in the stool, trying to calm yourself.

“Taste it.” He picks up your fork and scoops up the perfect bite before guiding it to your mouth. You open wide, your eyes locked on his as the fork enters your mouth.

Rich flavors explode on your tongue—spicy chili, fresh lime, and tangy fish sauce with coconut milk, redolent of Chris's Korean-Australian heritage.

"My halmeoni—my grandmother—taught me this recipe." His eyes soften with affection. "It's one of my favorites. A fusion of Korean and Australian flavors."

"It's incredible." He fills up another forkful and offers it to you. You close your eyes as you accept it, savoring another bite. "The blend of spices is perfect."

"I'm glad you appreciate it." His smile is warm and genuine. He uses the same fork to take his own bite. You bring the glass of wine to your lips for another sip and watch as he chews, then swallows slowly. When his tongue darts out to lick his lips you feel your vagina clench. His eyes haven’t left you either.

The air seems to vibrate between the two of you. His eyes drop to your lips again, you start to lean forward, closing the gap between you as if drawn by an invisible force. Chris mirrors you, his breath beginning to mingle with yours as you both move closer to each other. In this charged space, time seems suspended, waiting for one of you to shatter the delicate balance with a single, reckless act.

As you start to close your eyes, the kitchen door bangs open, shattering the moment. You and Chris spring apart as Dani strides in, her confident steps resonating on the tiled floor. She pauses, taking in the scene with a knowing tilt of her head. "Morning, you two," she says, a hint of amusement coloring her words. "How’s the tasting going."

You sit back in the stool, the bubble of tension popping in the wake of her arrival. Chris clears his throat, a flush creeping up his neck and the tips of ears turning bright red as he busies himself with adjusting the placement of the dishes. "Good, good," he says, the casualness of his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “We’re almost done here.”

“Cool.” Dani raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment further. She moves past the two of you to the office in the back of the kitchen, her motion sweeping away the remnants of the moment you and Chris almost shared.

You swallow hard, your pulse racing as Dani delves into her pre-opening routine.

You catch Chris' eye once more. He smiles warmly and begins to explain the last few dishes he’s prepared, sharing them out on small plates. He lets you feed yourself this time. The two of you easily slip back into your roles as you discuss how the dishes fit together and what makes the most sense for the event. You both busy yourselves with taking notes as you work together to finalize the menu. Although tension still lingers in the air, thick and heady as the aromas wafting through the kitchen, neither of you acknowledge it.

[keigologies]

sick heart, sick body, s. spiegel

syn. you both got some healing to do.

gen. romance, sick fic.

warnings. canon typical spike banter.

word count. 2.1k.

note. this was posted on ao3 forever ago and i said it was cross-posted here, but i ... clearly never actually did that... until now... oops (?)

spike has known you for most of his bounty hunting career. you came on the team a year after he himself joined jet, proving yourself to be not some wayward hitchhiker they'd have to take care of on their own dime, but a genuine asset: budgeting skills like no other (which the bebop crew really needed help with, though they would object to if questioned), ways of drawing out bounty heads into false senses of security (without causing a fire fight, something spike could really learn from, according to jet), disciplined in all the ways that matter. you're a quick learner; given the time and patience, you'd been able to pick up on his fighting style and you'd learned enough about mechanical engineering to help him and jet in repairing things on the bebop and the other spaceships on board.

all that to say: you're strong and spike has never known you to be anything else. you're smart, quickwitted, a powerhouse bounty hunter with all the skills that matter. you may be a little quiet, a little meek at points, but you're strong, almost untouchable.

so it surprises him when you come down especially hard with a severe case of the flu. it sounds so... primitive, he thinks, just some stupid earth sickness that honestly can't compete with some of the (quite frankly) awesomely-titled sicknesses that have come to be since the colonization of other planets; really, he justifies to himself, venus sickness sucks, but it is a cool name.

he cringes when he hears you cough for what might seriously be the hundreth time tonight and then mentally punches himself for taking the piss out of what you're going through right now. jet had said you'd contracted it while you guys were hanging around in tijuana and spike had been off tracking bounties; it was just coughing and congestion at first, but apparently, it eventually morphed into something way more severe. you'd quarantined yourself immediately to keep them safe, which spike has respected since he got back earlier in the day, but he shares a bedroom wall with you and damn him if you think he's going to allow you to keep suffering like this without him interfering.

your next coughing fit sends him up and out of the comforting warmth of his bed. it's not like he's angry with you or anything - sure, the coughing is getting on his nerves, but he knows you can't help it and he's not that much of a heartless asshole to be mad at you for keeping him from sleeping specifically because you're ill. really, he finds himself wanting (needing, maybe) to check on you, to make sure you have everything you need so you can rest easy and recover faster.

he realized a long time ago that he'd become jaded about the world. with everything that happened in the before the bebop era, it was clear why he'd become so disillusioned and nonchalant about things. with his past, things just didn't matter as much; he still had life to live, but he'd decided to be a little more reckless about things. he didn't want to waste time worrying about things that didn't concern him, now or ever: whatever happens, happens.

your being sick isn't really any of his business because outside of him having to listen to you cough all night for as long as you're ill, it doesn't concern him in the slightest. he means, it shouldn't concern him because it really shouldn't, but there's a part of him that's... open to the idea of being concerned for you and your wellbeing, which is strange to him because he shut himself off from ideas like that decades ago, it seems like. it's not that he's incapable of it, of caring for another person, but rather that he feels it's more of a betrayal. he'd given his heart to another and he'd never truly gotten it back.

though, in the five long strides it takes him to cross from his door to your own, he thinks that maybe he had gotten it back, years ago even, and he was too afraid to admit it to himself. so many things he'd held himself back from for years, all in the name of a woman who had disappeared into the ether without so much as a trace. she was gone; dead or alive, julia was gone and she had been for a long time. it's been time for him to douse that torch for a while now.

and when he comes to this conclusion in those five strides, he thinks that you getting sick might be a blessing in disguise, at least for him, because he's realizing now that he's been taken with you for quite some time. he's not sure when it first started, this infatuation with you, but it certainly isn't recent. he supposes it doesn't matter, however, because he's realizing it now, on his way to rescue you from an earth virus that definitely had a way lamer name than other sicknesses, which is a comment he's sure you'll laugh at and agree with him about if he brings it up.

once he finally raps his knuckles on the sliding metal door leading to your bedroom, he hears the beginning syllable of "come" before it's interrupted by a ragged cough. your voice, rough and almost whispered, struggles to say "come in," but you finally manage it and he opens the door just enough to slide in, ducking under the door frame.

"you feeling alright?" he asks, closing the door behind him. "you've been hacking up a lung all night."

you do your best to laugh, but it's a sad attempt, barely there and hoarse. a piece of him wilts at the sound, sad to hear you in such a bad condition. "better than i was yesterday."

"sure doesn't sound like it," he answers, turning towards you. he withers a little more.

you look so small in your bed, under what he can only guess to be every single available blanket on the bebop. you have dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks sunken and your skin pallid in accordance. you look like you have one foot in the grave.

"jesus," spike says, crossing the small room to your bedside and sitting on the edge. "you look awful. have you been eating?"

somehow, he's able to recognize your shrug under fifteen different blankets. "we're almost out of food. didn't wanna bother jet about it or throw the budget out of sorts."

"are you being serious right now? fuck the budget. you have to eat when you're sick like this." he genuinely frowns and presses the back of his hand to your forehead and then cheeks. "and you're burning up. did you just decide to forgo medicine in the name of the budget too?"

you shrug again.

"you're the worst." 

but you can tell he's joking because if he really thought that, he wouldn't be here at all. he stands and when he turns to look at you, you've got a questioning expression on your face.

"oh, don't look at me like that. i'm not just going to come in here, berate you for being stupid about being sick, and then leave. i'm going to go see if i can track down some medicine."

"it's not gonna be any of that weird shit you keep in the first aid kit, is it?" you ask, a grimace clear on your face.

"okay, first off, that weird shit is home remedies and they work just fine. second, no, i'm not stupid. that stuff isn't going to cure what you have, so don't worry your pretty little head, alright? the newt stays in the kit another day."

the last comment makes you laugh and this time, it's not as hoarse as it was a few minutes ago, which makes him smile to himself. with you being in the state you are, it's nice to hear a few seconds of your cool, clear laugh. something about it anchors him to this moment in time, reminds him that he's not as cold and as standoffish as he's always presented himself to be in this new life of his; no, he's capable of caring for people like this, of loving someone like this. he's got something good here with you and he's always had it, he's just never let himself think that it was his to actually indulge in.

"i'll see what i can find. in the meantime, start deconstructing that 'money is more important than my pressing health needs' mindset you apparently have going on, okay? i mean, really, you were worried about the budget? you know jet would agree with me here, as much as he complains about not having money. plus, shit that you can't account for happens."

"okay, okay, i get it." you accompany your words with an eye roll, but the smile is clear on your lips, which are cracked from dehydration. "can we save the lecture for when you get back? or just save it for jet altogether since i know you'll end up snitching to him about this eventually anyway?"

spike scowls, but it's obviously playful. "don't go catching an attitude with me. i'm generously playing nurse for you right now when i could very well just let you suffer here alone."

"oh, this is you playing nurse? then you really oughta work on your bedside manner, spiegel. it's atrocious."

he shakes his head and begins backing away from you, arms crossed over his chest. "keep acting like that and maybe i'll feed you that newt after all."

"yeah, yeah, yeah. i think jet's been hiding chamomile tea somewhere in the living room. make some for me, please?"

"you're real lucky i'm in the mood to be compassionate," he jokes, finally turning to open the door. "you want honey with it?"

"if we have any."

"you got it. don't fall asleep before i get back or i'm ratting you out to jet about this tea too."

he hears your hum of affirmation as he steps into the hallway and when he closes the door behind him, he allows himself to assess the whole interaction. if this had occurred at any point before now, he would have felt entirely disgusted with himself, but at present, he realizes he doesn't really mind. you've taken care of him an innumerable amount of times since joining him and jet, serving as the defacto nurse on the bebop, and this could easily be just him returning the favor, but it feels like so much more than that. 

because it is. if it was anyone else, if was any other time, he wouldn't be feeling this way: soft and warm on the inside like heat without his trusty cigarette. when he'd left the syndicate and faked his death, he'd sworn off love and adoration and affection. they had been his downfall once, they would not ruin him a second time. sure, he'd come to trust jet more than he'd trusted anyone before, but he kept even him at arm's length, afraid of what might happen if he let him come too close to orbit. 

and while it worked for the most part, spike has been learning (for what he assumes is quite a long time) that cutting those kinds of human connections of out of one's life isn't the way to go about healing, especially when the person one wants to love has proven time and time again that they're worthy of being trusted. there is no life without love because life without love and companionship is a sickness of the heart and he's let it fester for far too long.

so when he comes back to your room with a hot mug of chamomile tea with honey, a few pieces of hard tack he scrounged up, and some generic medicine, and he finds you asleep? he doesn't find himself all too annoyed with you like he threatened he'd be. no, instead, he feels a little bad when he has to wake you up to drink and eat and take the medicine he had to go digging through too many drawers for. and when you apologize for keeping him up with your coughing, he tells you you're the worst next door neighbor for it (a joke), but he's glad he can help you (not a joke).

and when you ask him if he'll stay for a while (just to make sure i'm not going to die in my sleep, you reason), he agrees and lays under your fifteen blankets with you until your breathing evens out and you're fast asleep, and even then, he stays just a little bit longer than he needs to, relishing in the feeling of sharing a bed with another person again.

he figures you've both got some healing to do, so you won't mind if he falls asleep with you. 

© keigologies 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.