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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

Note

What if prompt for the 141: In the Rain

"It's pouring rain, why are you here?" Or something to this nature. I love a confession in the rain, stuck in the rain, kissing in the rain, all of it! Lol

I too love a good confession in the rain. That final scene in Pride & Prejudice is still peak confession in the rain trope for me. I think about it all the time. I think about it on repeat. I want it tattooed on my eyelids. When I think "in the rain," I think of that scene.

So, these aren't smutty by any means but one (maybe two) have some spice to them. They are full of love and longing. There are emotions, angst, and lots of kissing. It's our soaked to the bone 141 boys confessing their hearts in the pouring rain.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief mention of alcohol, suggestive themes, grief/mourning, love confessions, kissing, emotional hurt/comfort, feelings, intimacy, non-descriptive sex

Word Count: 3k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

There are few things that John Price indulges in.

Cigars. Whiskey. The thought of you as his woman.

That last one plagues him. It burrows in. Makes a home every night to flood his dreams with images of you. John awakens each morning with you on his mind—and then you linger the rest of the day, crawling forward to say hello when he least expects it.

John sits on a barstool in a dive bar, contemplating life in the bottom of his whiskey glass. It’s the middle of fucking nowhere, but that’s the point. This isn’t a celebration or a job well done. This is a “thank fuck it’s over” drink.

The dive bar is dark and smoky. A jukebox in the corner endlessly rotates between eighties rock and country music. Next to the jukebox is a pool table where a group of three play. Otherwise, the place is entirely empty.

John knocks back the rest of his whiskey, signaling the bartender for a refill. He’s only half-listening to the conversations around him.

Laswell, MacTavish, Garrick, and Riley are all here. Simon is silent, staring off into space as the other three have an animated conversation. You’re here too, sandwiched between MacTavish and Riley. You’re not speaking, but you are listening, nodding your head at all the right moments.

But you look tired. Like you’re about ready to pack it up and call it a night. It’s deserved. This mission sucked. It was brutal. Tough. A complete shit-eating stink of a job. You aren’t part of the team. Not really. Laswell dragged you in last second, and John is happy that she did. Otherwise, he’d never have met you.

And that would be a tragedy.

John only has eyes for you. It is a sweet tooth that cannot be satiated. He’s been a bit reserved in how he’s approached you, but you always have a soft smile for him or a cheeky remark. It’s devolved into flirting at times, and at points so blatant that everyone else chimes in.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” you yawn, pushing your empty glass to the edge of the bar. The bartender walks by and snags it, whisking it away to be deposited into the sink.

This is it. You’re about to walk away. John will likely never see you again unless Laswell decides to call on you. This might very well be his only chance.

You slip off your barstool, and John abruptly stands, his leg smacking into Laswell’s stool. Everyone—including Simon—turns in John’s direction.

He coughs. Clears his throat. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says quickly.

MacTavish smirks and elbows Gas in the arm. The two men exchange a knowing glance before they both raise their eyebrows at John. MacTavish even shakes his shoulders a bit. John shoots them a cold look over your shoulder. They stifle their laughter behind their glasses.

You don’t notice at all. Your focus is on John, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

The entrance of the dive consists of one interior door, a small entryway, and an exterior door. As the two of you enter the small entryway, a crack of thunder erupts overhead. You pause, staring out the small window on the exterior door. It’s not pouring, but the rain is steady. Getting caught it in for any period of time will likely result in soaked clothes.

You turn slightly in his direction, and John is suddenly aware of how cramped the space is.

“You don’t need to walk me to my car,” you say softly, gesturing toward the downpour. “Not with the rain.”

John shrugs. “I want to.”

It’s true. He does. But there is an ulterior motive here. This is his one chance to have a final goodbye or a new start.

You smile softly, gaze flicking down to the floor before returning to his face. John’s cheeks heat—and it’s ridiculous. He’s a grown fucking man. He doesn’t get flustered. But this space is small. It is far too cramped. John is nearly on top of you.

Beneath those long eyelashes are your gentle eyes. It’s a look you only give him. Your lips part slightly. They’re gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. He wants nothing more than to lean down and close the distance.

“Okay,” you reply with a teasing laugh, opening the door.

The earthy scent of rain hits him first and then the pattering of the falling rain comes next. You slip out the door and stand close to the building under the small awning, attempting to stay out of the rain. John follows behind, coming up next to you.

Your smile is sweet as you gaze up into the dark sky. But then you turn to him, and that smile morphs into something devious.

“Should we race to the car?” you ask, as if conspiring.

John grins. “Think you can beat me?”

You laugh. “An old man like you? Absolutely.”

John can’t help but smile back, nudging you with his elbow. “Not that old.”

“What do I get if I win?” you ask, turning to look at him.

“A kiss,” says John automatically. It rolls right off his tongue. There is no way for him to take it back. And he doesn’t want to. “What do I get if I win?”

You wait a beat. And then answer.

“A kiss,” you reply slowly.

A kiss.

John blinks, his mind momentarily stuttering out. Your grin widens, and then you’re off, sprinting into the rain and to the car.

John nearly trips as he jogs after you. The gravel is slick and the rain splatters against his jacket. He isn’t all that interested in racing. John is only watching you, and the way your ass bounces as you make for the car. Your curves are lovely. He imagines opening the rear door and pushing you into the back seat, only to drag you into his lap to take whatever he wants.

You make it before he does, but John is right behind, nearly sliding to a stop in the wet gravel. You turn toward him, grinning. Pieces of hair stick to the sides of your face. John cannot help himself. He grabs the back of your neck and draws you in.

You don’t resist. You surrender.

John’s mouth crashes against yours and you open beautifully for him. There is no one kiss. There are many. Multitudes. It is endless. It is rain-laced. Whiskey-drenched. John might have the buzz of alcohol in his veins but you are quickly replacing it.

Your lips part and John slides his tongue inside. Your hands grab at him, fingers digging in. The two of you are pressed together, rain falling to drench clothing and skin.

With a low groan, John pushes you up against the car, intensifying his kisses. You eagerly greet him, accepting them all, returning them in equal measure. You are just as desperate. Just as hungry. Time is an illusion—and it isn’t until you shiver beneath him that John pulls away, aware that the two of you are now soaked through.

“Why are you still here?” you ask.

“You don’t know?” he replies, his hand cupping your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip.

“It’s pouring, John.”

“I know.” You smile, and John goes in for one more kiss. “Do you not feel this? Am I the only one?”

You shake your head. “I feel it. Everywhere, John. I feel you everywhere.”

“Let’s go. Get out of here.”

“Right now?”

John’s grip tightens and you gasp, hips pressing against his.

“Right now.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

The rain is light but steady. It falls from the cloudy sky to patter against your umbrella.

The graveyard is empty, and yet you knew Simon would be here. He always is on the anniversary of Johnny’s death. Like clockwork. It’s routine for him. A ritual.

Simon’s back is to you, his head bent as he stands in front of Johnny’s grave. There is no body there. It’s ornamental. Something for family and friends. There are fresh flowers next to the headstone.

You have no idea how long Simon has been out here. Simon has no umbrella with him, and the hood of his jacket is off. He’ll catch a chill like this, which is why you came. Seeing him like this is always difficult, and since Johnny’s passing, Simon has grown more attached.

He is always checking in on you—always near. You’d call it protectiveness but it feels more like obligation. A duty. Most days, Simon appears to be on the cusp of telling you something, revealing a secret that he’s itching to confess. You don’t know what it might be. Couldn’t take a guess. But you have thought about it. You have imagined all sorts of possibilities.

The two of you are always finding the other. Always reconnecting. Always reaching out. If it’s not him, it’s you. Perhaps it’s Johnny’s death that has brought this on. Whatever it might be, Simon is closer to you than he’s ever been, and sometimes it frightens you.

It feels like more.

“I brought you an umbrella,” you say to Simon’s back.

He turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. Simon’s gaze sweeps from the ground and then lands on you. His hair is wet and droplets of water speckle his face like freckles.

Simon fully turns toward you.

The rain picks up a bit, soaking Simon further. You rush to him, holding your umbrella over his head, cutting off the rain. The two of you stand under it in silence, simply staring at each other. Time stretches, and then Simon’s hand rises, wrapping around your own where you hold to the handle.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

You swallow, and gather your courage. “You shouldn’t grieve alone.”

Simon’s brow softens. “I’m supposed to be the one looking after you.”

“I never asked you to,” you reply.

“But Johnny did.”

You start, eyes widening slightly. “What do you mean?”

Simon licks his lips. A droplet of water drips from the tip of his nose. “I made a promise. To Johnny. I made a promise to him.”

“What promise?” you whisper as the rain picks up more. The rain strikes the top of the umbrella in loud patters that nearly drown out your voice.

Another droplet falls from Simon’s nose. He leans in slightly, and the movement is confusing. It’s too intimate, like he wants to close the distance.

“I promised that I would—” he abruptly cuts off, swallowing. Simon’s gaze darts from your eyes to your lips and then back again.

“What is it, Simon?”

He sighs. “Fuck it,” he growls, shredding any distance there might have been between your bodies.

Simon claims your lips, kissing you so completely that you’re momentarily stunned. You taste the rain. Mint. A slight hint of smoke. You return the kiss, not pushing him away or pulling back. You open for him, accepting it all, and Simon continues to take, his free arm wrapping around your waist to draw you closer.

Even though he’s drenched, Simon is incredibly warm. It’s unfair how he can be an inferno in this downpour.

The graveyard is forgotten. The rain is a distant. There is only Simon’s lips, and the groan he makes when you return each kiss in equal enthusiasm.

Simon goes in for a quick nip before drawing away. It leaves you breathless and wanton.

“Was that part of the promise?” you ask, only half-joking.

Simon shrugs. “In a way.” You arch an eyebrow and Simon smiles softly. “I told Johnny I’d make a move. And now I have.”

“Yes,” you agree, heat blooming in your cheeks and your core. “You have.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

There is no turning back.

You made a choice. Kyle made a choice.

This is how it is.

You don’t want to be at the airport. You don’t want to leave. This entire situation is shit. But Kyle seemed willing to let you go. He’s not here. He didn’t beg you to stay. He didn’t try to convince you that all he wants in life is you.

That’s all you need. To be wanted. To be loved.

After all of this—after everything, and Kyle isn’t here.

You’re not mad. Not really. You are both adults. You both have made a choice. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean you don’t understand. Because at the end of the day, you do. Truly.

Sighing, you haul your suitcase over the curb and on the sidewalk. The Uber that brought you here is already pulling away to go pick up someone else. The airport is packed on the inside, and the rain that falls from the sky in sheets. You have a coat, and the hood is up, but what you really need is an umbrella.

Already, you feel the water seeping into the unprotected places. Rain does that sometimes. Trickles in where it isn’t wanted.

You start to pull your suitcase behind you. A wheel catches in a small crack, and it nearly takes you down with it. Stumbling forward, you put a hand out to catch your fall. You expect your bare palm to land on concrete. To burn with pain.

But you don’t make it to the ground. You don’t touch it at all.

There are arms around you. They are strong. And somehow so damn familiar it’s frightening.

Then, you’re being lifted, guided back to your feet. Those strong arms ease you onto solid ground, and then you’re turning to thank the stranger that’s saved you from falling face first into the concrete.

But it is no stranger.

“Kyle,” you breathe, staring into the face of the man you’ve loved for years now.

Something breaks. Shatters.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Kyle hasn’t let you go. His arms are still around you. Your hands grasp his biceps, and his jacket is slick with rain. His hood is not up. And yours has fallen at some point. Already, the rain is soaking your hair. Strands of it stick to your face.

“Coming to right a wrong,” he says. Your lips part but Kyle shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t fight hard enough. I let you slip through the cracks.”

Kyle draws you in a bit closer. The people passing by and the cars are distant.

“I should have told you ‘I love you’ every day. I should have been present.”

“Kyle—”

Your next words are stolen. Kyle closes the distance, and then you’re wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, sinking into the kiss.

You can’t leave now.

You can’t.

John "Soap" MacTavish

The rain falls gently from the sky.

Johnny grins, staring up into it, opening his mouth. His tongue is out to capture the droplets. You laugh, and wrap your arms around his shoulders, going in for a quick kiss on his cheek.

As you draw back, one of Johnny’s hands shoots out, snagging your arm. You playfully yelp, and swat at him, thinking that Johnny will let you go. He’s flirty, and sweet, but there is nothing more to it.

At least, you didn’t think so.

But Johnny’s gaze is heated, and the way he holds you against him is far too intimate to be anything other than what it is.

“Johnny,” you laugh, trying to play it off, but he remains firm.

His smile faulters slightly but it’s not a frown. It’s a heated stare. His gaze is on your lips, and you can see the desire there. What would happen if you went for it? If you kissed him?

“What are we doing?” he asks. “Can’t I have you?”

Startled, everything leaves your head. “What?”

Johnny’s gaze flicks up, and those gorgeous eyes drown you—submerging you in his depths. “Why are we stepping around this? We want each other.”

You do want him, but you thought it was mostly one-sided.

“Is that what you want?” you ask, softly.

Johnny smirks, and then he’s lifting you up into the air, placing you on top of the low stone wall. “Should I use my words?” he asks, fingers sliding underneath your rain-drenched shirt. He is warm, and his touch heats your skin. “Or should I show you with my body?”

Johnny nips at your bottom lip as his hands ascend. One slides between your breasts just as his lips meet yours. Your core clenches, and then you’re grabbing for him, touching him as much as he’s touching you.

The two of you are in the Scottish countryside. There are no people around. Just the two of you, and rolling green hills.

Johnny slots himself between your legs, and you reach beneath his kilt, finding him hard and wanting. He hisses, and then groans when you stroke him.

Everything is warm. Everything is rough.

It doesn’t matter that it’s raining, or that it’s a bit cold. You allow Johnny to shove articles of clothing aside, to find the places where you’re needing him to be. His touch is a brand, and you love how it feels, pulsing through your loins like an overheated engine.

“Johnny,” you gasp into the rain, fingers threading through his hair as he goes to his knees to taste between your thighs.

There is only heavy breath. A twisting of pleasure.

When he finally brings your bodies together, there is nothing but him. Nothing but you. Just two people finding each other.

The rain is nothing.

It isn’t even cold anymore.

Johnny is all heat. And you are burning for him.

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 1 month ago

Text

1967 Chevrolet Nova

The 1967 Chevrolet Nova is a classic American compact car known for its straightforward design and robust performance. As part of Chevy's Nova series, the 1967 model features a clean, no-frills exterior with a distinctive front grille and a solid, durable build.

Under the hood, the Nova offers a range of engine options, including a powerful V8, providing a blend of performance and reliability. Its simple yet functional interior design prioritizes driver comfort and practicality.

The 1967 Chevrolet Nova is appreciated for its classic American muscle car attributes and reliability, making it a favorite among vintage car enthusiasts and collectors.

#chevrolet nova #Chevrolet #nova #car #cars

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tojipie · 1 year ago

Text

as long as trade professions exists i WILL write this man working as each and every one of them.

mechanic toji x fem reader | 2.2k words !

content: smut ! semi public (??) not sure if garage sex counts

the feeling of your shoes losing their grip nearly sends you flying as you step into the car shop lobby.

whoever was working tonight clearly had no grasp on what a wet floor sign was, opting to cover the floor in what felt like 2 feet of suds.

“oh! sorry!” suguru exclaims, extending an arm for you to hold onto. “you okay?”

“i’m ok sugu,” you tell him, feeling your anger dissipate at the sight of the shop’s newest bright-eyed apprentice.

you can practically hear him asking you not to tell his boss, eyes big like a kicked puppy.

the smile you shoot him is soft and reassuring.

suguru apologizes again, grabbing a caution sign from the supply closet.

“he’s in the garage if that’s who you’re looking for.” the apprentice adds, sending you in your husband's direction with a smile.

“toji?” you yell, scanning the 8-door garage for his telltale mop of black hair.

“on your right!” he shouts, waving an oil-stained hand in the air to flag you down. cars in varying conditions line your path as you make a beeline for your husband, following his black footprints like breadcrumbs

a 59’ impala comes into view as you weave in between the tall legs of the suspension machines. toji is crouched on the driver’s side with his back to you, fiddling with the front end of the vehicle.

“woah,” you whisper, trailing your hand over interior seats wrapped in glossy leather.

the cherry red exterior of the classic car is blinding, waxed to perfection by none other than the man in front of you

“aht, aht—hey.” toji chides, motioning for you to get your hands off the car.

“no fingerprints,” he says firmly, tossing you a rag from his equipment cart.

you quickly wipe down the headrest of the driver's seat, restoring it to its original sheen. the residue left on your hand smells like lemons, the sterile scent of carwash soap.

“you fix this up by yourself?” you ask, watching him fasten a new headlight into place. the amount of detailing was beyond impressive.

“course i did.” your husband chuckles. “can’t even trust these other guys with an oil change.”

you laugh, recalling the shop’s newest employee and your little wet floor debacle. toji reaches for the back of your calf, rubbing your leg affectionately from his spot on the floor.

“you’re the one that hires them.” you remind him.

“yeah, gotta stop doing that,” he mumbles, snorting at the way you smack his shoulder in protest.

the impala looks fresh off the conveyor belt with the amount of restoration that had been done to it. you can’t quite recall the last time you’d seen toji put this much work into a vehicle.

“what’s the story with this one?” you ask, stepping back to let your husband stand up.

navy blue coveralls come into view as toji rises from the floor, chest peeking out from where the one-piece garment is unzipped. he’s filthy, covered in motor oil and sweat. god, he looked good.

the raven-haired mechanic steps back with a cocky smile, zipping the garment down to just above his waist.

“what, like what you see?” he asks, slipping toned arms out of his uniform and tying the excess around his waist.

your mouth goes dry, eagerly taking in the way his body ripples under his black tank top.

“nah, nothing i haven’t seen before.” you tease, taking the spray bottle and cloth he holds out for you.

“right, okay.” your husband laughs, ego clearly knocked down a peg.

you’re wiping down the front windshield when he speaks again, answering your question from earlier.

“one of our regulars dropped her off a week ago, needed some help with parts,” he explains. the “her” in question being the obscenely glossy car in between the two of you.

“how’d the inside look?” you ask, strolling over to the sink. the smell of leather polish and windex gradually fades with a bit of scrubbing.

your husband scoffs, recalling the abhorrent state of the under-hood.

“fuck.. awful.” he explains, handing you a roll of paper towels. “some people don’t deserve cars like these.” he laughs, rubbing your back as you join him at the hood.

your husband fiddles with the tool cart, wheeling it closer to begin working on the tires.

“you look good tonight.” toji mumbles, leaning down to accept a kiss from you. you tug on the neck of his wifebeater just as he begins to pull away, roping him into a deeper kiss this time.

“careful.” scarred lips mumble. you feel his hand trail down your back, slipping under the waistband of your jeans and leaving just as fast.

“stop being a tease,” you tell him.

“s’ one hour till quitting time.” he says, grabbing a wrench from the cart. “can you make it, pretty girl? or do you need it right now?”

“i can wait.” you lie, not wanting to distract him from the job.

he nods, clearly not believing you.

“you remember how to get these bolts off?” he asks, handing you the wrench with a sly grin. his hulking form settles behind you as you crouch down in front of the tire he’d picked.

vintage cars like these needed a lot more manual work, not being able to withstand the force of any automated tools.

you unscrew the bolt with ease, fidgeting at the feeling of two warm hands rubbing up and down your waist.

“mhm, just like i taught you.” toji says, nosing at the curve of your neck.

you twist another one free, groaning at the feeling of scarred lips suctioning onto your neck.

“can’t focus.” you whimper, trying to wiggle free of your husband’s embrace.

“s’ not your job to focus.” he chuckles, biting the meat of your shoulder for good measure. toji takes the equipment from you and replaces the bolts with new ones, motioning for you to stand up.

you wait as he washes up in the sink, scrubbing the grime from his hands and forearms. thick hands dry themselves on his uniform, stalking over to you with a look that can only be described as lust.

“think that’s all for today,” he says, voice hinting at something much deeper.

“you’re still on the clock,” you tell him half seriously, taking note of the 45 minutes left in his shift. still, warm hands settle on your hips, backing you up against the washing station

“yeah?” he says, entertaining your jest. deft fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, lifting the garment off your body.

“funny how that works out.” he starts, “guess I'll have to live with getting paid to fuck you.”

your skin is on fire, prickling with every calculated brush of his hand. you lean up to kiss him again, feeling his tongue flit over your bottom lip.

“someone will hear,” you whine in between kisses.

“they know not to bring it up around me,” he says, lifting you onto the counter with ease.

toji’s zipper is next to go, stopping just under his crotch to reveal his boxers.

convenient you think, palming him through the opening in his coveralls. now that you think about it, why hadn’t you two fucked in the shop before?

scared lips peck over the tops of your covered breasts, biting down momentarily to leave a red mark.

the whine that escapes your mouth echoes throughout the spacious garage. blood rushing to your ears as embarrassment takes over.

“shhhh,” he tells you, crowding impossibly closer to muffle your sounds.

“can you stay quiet for me?” he asks, genuinely curious. a small nod is all he needs to seal your mouths in another kiss, shucking your bottoms down along with your panties to position himself in between your thighs.

you scoot to the edge of the counter, kicking off your shoes and wrapping your legs around your husband's waist. he doesn’t free himself from his boxers just yet, choosing to grind himself on your heat while you leave dark hickeys at the bottom of his neck.

“fuck.” he groans, flinching at how loud the sound echoes in the garage.

“quiet,” you whisper.

“i know, i know baby.” you watch as toji hooks a thumb into his boxers, his manhood already dripping with pre.

you pull away from your husband's neck right as he pushes in, a thin string of saliva connecting you to the dark bloom of purple your lips had left.

it’s a tight fit, but not impossible. the angle you’re at has you clenching down on the cock that’s splitting you open, squeezing him like a vice.

“fuck.” you whimper, lifting your husband’s tank top to expose his abs. toji bites the hem for you, letting you caress the dips of his toned muscles.

the distant echo of his rhythmic thrusts reverberates throughout the shop, drowning out your shared pants and groans.

“no fucking point in being quiet, huh?.” he mumbles with a smirk, taking you by surprise as thick fingers slide under your thighs and hoist you into the air.

“wait—wh-” you’re cut off as toji turns around, holding himself inside of you as he walks you over to the car.

“oh shit.” you gasp, mouth agape as you’re set down on the long hood of the impala.

your husband props his knee up on the vehicle, pummeling into you at an angle even deeper than before.

“thought you—ah- said no fingerprints.” you whimper, feeling yourself slide up the hood of the car with every thrust.

thick arms wrap around you, holding you in place while your husband ruts into you from above.

“you’re helping me wipe this thing down after.--fuck” toji says with finality, pulling you into a deep kiss with a hand cradling the back of your head.

the car continues to rock as the two of you go at it, filling the shop with noises that are beyond sinful.

“wanna ride you,” you mumble, taking in the way his eyes darken.

you’re flipped and carried up the hood of the car, the two of you now fully seated on a bed of cherry red aluminum.

toji settles into his back, satisfied with his work. he does it all without leaving your walls, cock still buried to the hilt.

“come on.” he encourages, moving you up and down his shaft with two hands around your waist. you’re practically being tossed around on his cock like you weigh nothing, panting and groaning while your walls struggle to accommodate his length.

“just how i like it, give it to me,” he tells you, leaning back on his forearms to watch where you two connect.

“gonna make me fucking cum, shit.”

you rock yourself onto your husband's dick, feeling him twitch each time you sink to the base.

“wait, wait.” you pant, smiling at the idea that just dawned on you.

you let toji slip out of you for the first time in half an hour, readjusting so your back is to him. cautiously, you reach both arms back, feeling him wrap both hands around your wrists.

“reverse cowgirl? on a fucking chevy? shit.” he chuckles, clearly impressed at your bold move. the raven-haired mechanic gathers both your wrists in one hand, using the other to guide his cock back into your heat.

the first thrust is agonizingly deep, pushing you closer to your edge. strong legs anchor themselves onto the hood of the car, steel-toed work boots leaving murky footprints.

“ah shit—like this?” toji groans, each hand holding your arms behind you at the wrist.

“want it like this? want me to ruin you?

"please." you groan, feeling your climax hit you like a tsunami.

the sound that rips out of toji is purely carnal, a long groan reverberating throughout the garage.

"fuck--oh fuck-hah" he pants, still reeling from the sensation of your walls pulsating around him.

you slowly lift off of his cock, holding onto his leg to balance. warm, viscous fluid drips down your thighs and onto the red surface beneath you. you hadn't even realized he came inside with how intense your climax was.

"fuck, look at this." the raven-haired mechanic chuckles.

the state of the car is absolutely abhorrent. obsidian footprints bleed into sweaty handprints. you'd think a game of twister went down if you didn't know any better.

"oh shit." you frown, stepping onto solid ground for the first time in half an hour.

guilt gnaws away at you at the thought of toji's hard work going to waste. this was his only form of income after all.

"hey, not a problem." he coos, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"s' nothing some scrubbing can't fix, right?" you nod, lifting your arms to let him redress you.

navy coveralls zip back into place, covering the mess of hickeys you left on his chest.

you finally button up your jeans, frowning at a murky streak of oil across one of the legs.

"must've tossed those on the ground when I took em' off of you." he chuckles, dodging a swat from you.

You pad into the lobby first, blissfully unaware of a very disturbed sugaru sitting at the front desk.

your husband follows soon after, watching you walk into the parking lot.

“see ya, man.” the mechanic says plainly, shooting his apprentice a smug wave with a laugh.

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mistydeyes · 1 year ago

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This is my first time doing this!!!!! can you please do 141 with a rich reader! Like she buys them cars,supplies,homes,etc but not in a sugar momma way like “ I’m make money……..and my love language is gift giving” like imagine them walking into her house mansion and is like “this is 10 times bigger than my flat building” and she’s like “oh shush….besides this is your home now” or when she picks them up to go to the pub she pulls up in their dream car and their like “love your car” she like “it’s yours” and throws the key. And when they give her gifts she ADORES them (it’s some purfum she likes) she’s just loves spoiling her baby and they don’t know how handle Being so special! CAN YOU PLEASE MAKE A REACT ON THIS ITS BEEN ROTTING MY MIND

hehe thank you so much for requesting! we love expensive taste and a woman who's love language is gift gifting!!

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summary: When the 141 met you, they had no idea what kind of life you came from. However from extravagant vacations to luxury vehicles, you make sure to treat your man right.

pairing: Taskforce 141 x fem!reader

warnings: swearing

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price

Looking at John, you can tell he enjoys the more expensive taste in things. Holidays are always a joy for you both as you spend your hard-earned salary on practical yet extravagant gifts. For your anniversary, you wanted to impress. Earlier in the year for your birthday, he had gotten you a bottle of Baccarat Rouge 540 and you were over the moon. It had it's own shelf in your home and he always made sure to compliment the rich, sultry scent when you wore it. This inspired you as you dragged John to the bright red building in Grasse. You had spent the last week in the south of France, seeing the sights and enjoying the extravagance of wine and pastries. He had been wondering where you were going as you maneuvered through the streets and eventually walked up the path. "This is the final part of a French tour," you smiled as you entered, "a perfume-making class!" As he chuckled at the idea, you checked yourselves in with the minimal amount of French you knew. "What made you pick this?" he asked as you waited for your perfume instructor. You looked around at the various creations and bottles that glistened in the afternoon sun. "You always talk about wanting to find the perfect scent," you commented, "especially when you have one of your fancy military balls or ceremonies." He nodded as he cozied himself onto the leather couch. "Well looks like this is the perfect place to do so," he smiled, kissing you on the forehead. "Don't worry, I'll make sure to pick an expensive-smelling one for my luxurious husband."

soap

"This can't be right," Johnny mumbled as he arrived at your address. You told him you lived in the English countryside and he expected a cottage fit for a granny. He was not expecting a castle that looked like it stretched various football fields. The exterior was extravagant and he was calculating the price of your marbled columns before you opened the door. "Johnny, a pleasure to have you," you smiled as you let him into the foyer. He took a minute to look at the not one but two staircases you had leading to the upper floor. Furthermore, the interior looked like a smaller version of Versailles. He thought he knew luxury when he saw Price's flat but that was a shoe closet compared to this. "Are you alright?" you questioned, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You live here?" he asked and gasped at the way his voice echoed amongst the mansion. You laughed for a moment before looking back up at him. "Yes, I do," you replied as if it was a silly question, "it's quite nice." He turned back to you with a shocked face. "This is more than nice," he said, gesturing to your extravagant home, "I was not picturing this during the drive." You blushed a little at the realization that this wasn't the typical home he had been accustomed to. "Well do you want a house tour?" you offered and he immediately took the offer, "let's start with the first library." "There's multiple?"

gaz

Kyle looked at his watch as he wondered where you were. "The missus running late?" Price asked as he searched for his car keys. "Probably had a meeting or something," Kyle said, looking back down at his phone, "perks of dating a CEO I guess." Just as Price offered him a ride, a silver Rolls-Royce Spectre came revving in front of the two awe-struck men. "Sorry I'm late boys," you said as you got out, "hope Kyle stayed out of trouble long enough, John." "He's a good one, Y/N," Price replied as he gave you a quick hug. He smiled back at you before waving off and walking over to his own vehicle. "This a new company car?" Kyle asked as he examined the pristine exterior and the practically silent hum of the EV engine. You had a small smile on your face as he tapped the front of the car and looked into the windows. "It's new but definitely not company-issued," you smiled, wrapping your arms around his torso. "Didn't think you needed a new car," he continued and the suspense was killing you. As you opened the car door and sat in the red leather passenger seat, Kyle looked at you dumbfounded. "You want me to drive?" he questioned as he moved the seat back into a comfortable position. "Of course, babes," you said, practically bursting with happiness, "you should drive your own car home." There was a brief moment of mixed screaming and excitement as he realized this was his. Once he was finished (and you stopped laughing), you turned on the seat warmers. "Go ahead," you smiled, "take us home in your new toy."

ghost

Simon was never one to gorge himself on the finer things in life. He would save 80% of his paycheck and spend the rest at the grocer's or off-license. He often would have to hold you back from ordering items for him or buying something at Armani on a whim. "Return it." you could hear Simon say behind you and you sheepishly closed your laptop as you knew you had been caught. "You need new jeans though," you tried to convince him but he shook his head. "I could get a pair of Wranglers for less than £47.50 on sale," he responded and that's how most conversations ended. However, you had spent your time finding him an expensive gift that you knew he would value. "What's this?" Simon asked as you pushed over a small parcel. "I know you don't celebrate your birthday but I got you something," you smiled before sitting down with him on the couch. He shook his head as he ripped open the packaging. Inside was a small box that depicted a pair of sturdy-looking earplugs. "For when you exercise or go on runs," you commented, "they're Beats Fit Pro." He opened up the box and you watched as he adjusted them into his ear. "You know I can just use those wired ones," he said before trying them out. You shook his head as he admired the noise-canceling quality. He was enjoying the gift no matter how much he said it was unnecessary. "Well if you don't like them I can always return them," you joked, reaching your hand across the couch to get them before he pulled it away, "yeah, that's what I thought."

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soulofapatrick · 1 year ago

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Rebuilding - Derek Hale x female reader

Summary: You show Derek the rebuilt Hale House you did for him

Words: 1.8k

warnings: none really; heavy making out

Notes: I can make a smutty part two

Y/N’s POV

The old Hale House had stood as a haunting reminder of the past, a testament to the tragedy and loss the family had endured. But now, it has been transformed into something new, something hopeful. With the combined effort of the pack and my Dad, it had become a symbol of rebirth and unity, a mansion that has welcomed every member with open arms and spare rooms for new pack members.

As I stand in front of the restored mansion, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Derek, who had once lived here in its glory days, deserves to see what I’ve done to the place. He’s been through so much, and I wanted this surprise to be a new beginning for him… for us hopefully.

The anticipation in the air is palpable, and I can’t help but fidget with the key in my hand as I wait for Derek. The old Hale House, bathed in the soft light of the setting sun, seems to hold its breath in eager anticipation of his arrival. And then, I hear it - the familiar purr of Derek’s car engine. It’s a sound that I’ve come to associate with his arrival, and my heart quickens in response. The car pulls down the long, winding driveway, and I keep staring at the house, my hands shaking a little as I fiddle with the keys.

Suddenly, there he is. Derek appears beside me, his tall, brooding frame casting a shadow on the gravel driveway. He looks rugged and handsome as ever, with that alluring air of mystery that has always drawn me to him. His dark brows are furrowed in curiosity and confusion, his eyes scanning the mansion before us as if he’s trying to work out where we are. It makes my heart drop as he doesn’t recognise it despite me trying to keep it as near as I can to the original Hale house.

But then, something remarkable happens. As his eyes roam over the mansion’s exterior, his brows furrow even deeper, and then there’s a hint of disbelief in his expression. It’s as if the familiarity of the place has begun to dawn on him, piece by piece. The realisation hits him like a tidal wave. His kaleidoscope eyes widen, and a gasps escapes his pretty and plump lips, “Is… is this….?” His voice trembles with emotion, and for a moment, he can’t seem to find the words.

I hold out the keys for him and he looks between the house and the keys and then back at the house, “I can’t… I… can you…” His voice falters, and it’s clear that he’s fighting back tears, the enormity of the moment almost too much to bear. Without a word, I’m nodding and reaching for his trembling hands. Our fingers interlace, and with a gentle squeeze, I lead him towards the grand entrance.

Derek’s eyes remain locked onto the mansion, his disbelief and wonder still etched across his features. But he doesn’t need to say anything more for me to understand the whirlwind of emotions storming within him.

I turn the key in the lock, my own fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. The door swings open, revealing the lovingly restored interior. The warm, golden light spills into the entryway, painting a new chapter on the old canvas of the Hale House. The grand entrance is now invitingly open, Derek taking a step forwards. His presence is so close to me that his chest is practically pressed against my back. The feel of him so near is electrifying, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

“Welcome home Derek.” I say, my voice a soft, heartfelt whisper, as we cross the threshold together.

The atmosphere inside is a mixture of nostalgia and fresh beginnings. The original features of the Hale House have been preserved, the hardwood floors polished, the walls adorned with artworks from the pack. The spaciousness of the rooms has been maintained, yet there’s a sense of cozy warmth that wasn’t there before.

Derek’s gaze dances the space, a mixture of awe and sentimentality reflected in his expressive eyes. He appreciates the care and attention that went into preserving the essence of the house he called home.

Then, he grabs my hands again with a gentle yet firm grip, leading me through the echoing halls as the pack gave us the house for Derek to see alone. It’s a touch that sends a rush of warmth through me, the electricity of his touch palatable. We move through the house, our footsteps echoing, and Derek’s strides confident, as if he’s revisiting his own memories.

As we ender the kitchen, Derek stops in his tracks. A soft, almost reverent sound escapes him, and his eyes widen again as he takes in the layout. It’s practically identical to the original Hale House kitchen, meticulously restored to match his recollections with the help of creepy uncle Peter.

His grip on my hand tightens, and he turns to me, his expression filled with amazement, “This… it’s just like I remember it.” He says, his vice soft and filed with wonder, “You’ve brought it all back to life.”

I can’t help but smile at his reaction. The kitchen holds countless memories for him, both happy and bittersweet, and seeing it so faithfully restored means the world to him. "We wanted it to feel like home," I reply, my voice equally hushed, knowing how much this place means to him. Derek’s thumb brushes over the back of my hand, his touch conveying the depth of his gratitude. It’s a silent exchange of emotions, the unspoken understanding between us.

And then, something changes in the air. Derek turns to me, his kaleidoscope eyes now shining with warmth and something else, something that sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. His gaze flits down my lips, and in response, I can’t help but wet them with my tongue, suddenly feeling acutely aware of their dryness. It draws a small sound from Derek’s throat, low and almost involuntary, a testament to the magnetic pull between us. He leans in, closing the distance between our lips with a purposeful intent. Our mouths meet in a soft, longing kiss, a silent declaration of the emotions that have simmered between us for so long.

His lips are soft yet insistent, moving against mine with a deliberate tenderness. I can feel the gentle, rhythmic movement of his mouth, each touch setting my heart racing. There’s a hint of urgency in his kiss, a desire that has been simmering just beneath the surface. Derek’s hands finding their way to my waist, holding e close as if he never wants to let me go. The touch of his fingertips against my skin sends shivers down my spine, and I press my body closer to his, wanting to feel every inch of him.

My own hands move to rest on his chest, feeling the solid warmth of his body beneath my touch. They gradually work their way up, entwining in his shirt, wanting to pull him closer still. The connection between us deepens with every passing second, a silent confirmation of the emotions we’ve held back fr so long.

Derek’s hands, which had been gently holding my waist, suddenly tighten their grip and before I can react, he’s lifting me up with a powerful yet careful motion. My legs instinctively wrap around this waist as he sets me on the edge of the kitchen island, never once breaking the kiss.

Our lips remain locked in a heated embrace, a heated embrace, a testament to the fiery passion that's been ignited between us. Derek's tongue brushes over my lips, seeking entrance, and without hesitation, I part them, with a small, embracing sound escaping my lips which he swallows, tongue slipping past my lips. It's a dance of desire, a clash of longing, and a melding of two souls that have been drawn together by an irresistible force. Our mouths move with a shared urgency, each kiss deeper and more consuming than the last.

As our tongues explore and intertwine, Derek’s grip on my hips tightens, pulling me closer until I’m arched on the edge of the kitchen island. The sensation of his body pressed against mine is electrifying, sending heat down south where I’m pressed against his growing problem. It has my thighs tightening around him, hips jerking a little and drawing sounds from both of us.

Finally our lips part, but only slightly, our foreheads resting against each other as we catch our breath. Derek’s voice is a husky whisper, filled with raw desire, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He confesses, his words heavy with yearning, “ I couldn’t keep it in any longer.”

My heart flutters at his admission, and I look into his kaleidoscope eyes, my own filled with the same longing, “Der…” I breathe, “I’ve felt the same way. I’ve wanted this as much as you have.”

His lips find mine again, and the kiss that follows is fierce and fervent, a passionate culmination of our unspoken desires. It's a promise, a declaration, and a celebration of the love that has finally been acknowledged.

But then, Derek's lips trail down from mine to my neck, and his kisses ignite a trail of fire across my skin. I gasp as his mouth leaves a mark, a fervent, possessive hickey, and another one right beside it. Each one is a silent proclamation of his desire, a mark of his longing for me. As Derek's kisses continue to trail down my neck, I gasp and my fingers clutch at his shoulders. The sensation is almost too much to bear, the heat of his mouth leaving a trail of fire across my skin, marked by possessive hickeys.

“Y/N,” He murmurs breathlessly voice heavy with desire, “If we don’t stop, I won’t be able to stop myself.” He pulls away slightly, his eyes dark and smouldering now and he lets out a low and sensual chuckle when an embarrassing moan escapes me.

“Maybe…” I have to clear my throat, “Maybe we should check out your room.” My heart is racing as I say it, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and desire, eager to hear his response but also somewhat ready for the rejection.

Instead, he groans, head falling to my shoulder before he growls out, “Don’t… don’t say things like that baby girl.” I stay silent, knowing there’s more and he kissing my collarbone sweetly before murmuring, “But, I think it’s a very, very good idea.”

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

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moondirti · 7 months ago

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Hello! So not a request but a Dahlia thought: when getting to the boys place she's a little anxious but then she sees the perfectly set up spare room they just happen to coincidently have set up perfectly. And it's so comfortable and peaceful after a shit day and a equally shittier couple of months that reader just kind of releases the damn of tears. Which you know just inforcess that they are doing the right thing by taking her. It's for her own good.

PART 1 • PART 2 • PART 3 tags: simon x f!reader x johnny. alluded abuse (not by ghoap). kidnapping (but is it really kidnapping anymore?) pregnancy.

Their home is nice.

You don't know what you expected. Nothing bad, certainly – one look at their car and you guessed they were comfortable – but whatever approximation you rendered in your head didn’t come close to hitting the mark. Perhaps it was the remnants of your misgivings, then, that convinced you they lived in some squalid house off the side of the freeway. No one is kind enough to offer free room and board without there being some sort of catch.

But it's nice. Spacious. Secluded, though not to a concerning degree. You pass through a quaint town in order to get to it, and it's only another two miles out, tucked on the outskirts of a neighbouring forest. A two-story chalet, understated and painted dark to deliberately sink into its surroundings. If you had to guess, it was the pick of the one in the mask; the style suits him more than the other one, you think. Elevated inches off the ground. Weathered cedar exterior, softened by time, and a modest front porch with three Adirondack chairs positioned around a bonfire pit.

“Did someone else live here with you?” You ask, tucking your thumb into your bag strap as you follow them to the front door. The shorter of them throws a look over his shoulder, brows furrowed in an endearing way. “I just ask because– well, you mentioned a spare bedroom, and there are three seats out here. So…”

“Johnny’s mum stayed with us for a while after his father passed.” The masked one says, unlocking the entrance before pulling it open for you. Your heart twinges uncomfortably in your chest, and you give a sad smile to ‘Johnny’ on your way in.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He appears astounded for a second, gaze flickering back and forth between you and his partner, before settling in place. “Ah, dinnae be. Wis a long time ago.”

You’re pleased to find that the interior is a lot brighter. Where the outside boasted a dark green paint job, the inside glows in a smattering of honeyed wood and sage tones. All open-plan; you can see the dining table and kitchen from where you step into the living room, brown leather couches serving as the only divisors of the space. You allow your eyes to rove over the walls, the plush carpets underfoot, up and over to where the lofted second-story overlooks the bottom floor. Large picture windows allow ample light to flood in, yet it seems to have the particularly concerning effect of illuminating how… empty it all is. Because apart from a strew of personal belongings – boots by the foyer, a half-filled water bottle on the breakfast bar, a coat thrown over the back of an armchair – there’s nothing to indicate that they actually live here.

For all you know, they could’ve rented the car and the house to lure you in.

A pit opens up in your stomach. You pat your pocket for your phone, then turn to where they await your reaction.

“I didn’t catch your names.” You ask, cringing internally at how straightforward you seem. You have to remind yourself that it’s better to be blunt, to scope this situation out before you’re in too deep. If it takes playing oblivious, then so be it. “I’m embarrassed I don’t know. You’re being so kind, after all.”

“Johnny. John Mactavish, if ye wanna be proper.” The Scotsman beams, stepping forward to take your bag off your hands, that which you tentatively. The other one merely stays still, peering out on you from above his fabric mask. You shift from foot to foot, waiting.

Eventually, he blinks. “Ghost.”

The pit deepens. You breathe through the nausea climbing up your chest. That’s not a name, you’re tempted to say. Tempted to take your bag back over your shoulder and call a cab. But it’s so early in the morning that you know you’ll have a hard time reaching one. And even if you manage, where would you go? Certainly not home.

The callous echo of your ex’s voice still bounces around in your skull. It’s just a matter of probability. Risk it here with these perfect strangers, who may or may not be ill-intentioned. Or risk it back home, with a man you know only means to do you harm.

So, you give them your name.

(Just the first. Though that isn’t without its precautions, either; later, when you finally tuck in, you’ll be sure to send your location and the name Mactavish off to a trusted friend.)

Johnny’s grin widens, something warm and molasses-thick radiating from the lines it carves into his cheeks. It’s so genuine, so welcoming and hospitable, that you have a hard time imagining him as a bad guy. And however Ghost unnerves you, he’s obviously decent enough to have bagged such a positive force of nature. Decent enough to have offered you a ride, and a place to stay when you were so desperately in need of one too.

It all tallies up in your head, sand on a scale that dips in favour of one side. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, or the pregnancy hormones schooling your common sense into accepting the two, strong men who have demonstrated their willingness to provide – but you’re quickly softening up to the possibility that this is something good without exception. A reward for putting up with so much over the past few months. Some reality where life isn’t looking to beat you down.

If only for the night.

You blindly follow as Johnny gives you a brief tour. Their bedroom is just to the left of the living space, and he tells you to knock if you need anything at all.

“Ye'll be staying upstairs, hen. Unless th' stairs ur awfy much fur ye?”

“No.” You shake your head, stricken by the utter graciousness. “Please. I’m so thankful you’re helping at all. Upstairs is just fine.”

“Promise?” He demands, eyes wide like a quizzical pup. Ghost sidles up behind him, large hand clasping onto his shoulder, right where his shirt's collar ends to reveal the base of his neck. You stare at that touch, that point of skin-on-skin contact, for what must be too long before you can bring yourself to respond.

“I- Yeah. I promise.”

Your room isn't really a room at all, but a loft as large as half the first floor. Three walls and a missing fourth, polished wood railing and opaque curtains offering a degree of separation from the rest of the home. It's all you can do not to flop down on the bed immediately, stripping down to your panties and undershirt before relieving yourself in the attached bathroom.

Despite the modicum of hesitation still planted in your gut – which you doubt will go away until you’re absolutely sure you haven’t made yourself victim to a pair of crazy sexy serial killers – you unwind at record speed. Surprising how easy it is when you aren’t confronted with the burden of your real life. When everything is warm and provided for. When your bed is made with crisp clean sheets, a homemade quilt folded neatly on the edge, and the outside ambience isn’t singing drunks but quiet.

And of course, once your guard comes down, so too does your strength. A ball of devastation snowballs in your chest. Your sternum burns and your nose grows hot. You hardly remember to clasp a hand around your mouth before you burst into an ugly sob, fat tears slipping off your lash line. Only when a stressed hiccup seizes your frame do you become thankful for your sense; you’d really hate for them to hear you cry after having been so kind. You’re not ungrateful in the slightest, but already you prep yourself for the disappointment of returning home come night. A preemptive grief for the life you can never give yourself.

A chorus of morning birdsong and your own, miserable sniffles lull you to sleep.

if anyone's curious, here's the floorplan i used to imagine ghoap's chalet! (source)

#༄dee answers #ghost x reader x soap #ghostsoap #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader x johnny 'soap' mactavish #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader #johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x reader #ghoap x reader #simon riley #john mactavish #ghost #soap #x female reader #ghoap

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rileyslibrary · 1 year ago

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The Log Cabin: Wish and Hope

Synopsis: You go on a vacation with the Lieutenant at his log cabin.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2,617

A/N:

Wholesome fluff.

This is the final part of the story, but you can also read it as a one-shot. (Part 1 & Part 2 if you’re interested)

The inspiration behind the exterior/interior of the cabin.

Also, writing this chapter was quite the journey.

———————————————————————

The sun has almost set by the time you reach your destination.

Simon parks the car at the bottom of the hill, where the road ends, marking the boundary between civilisation and the wilderness. He retrieves his balaclava from the back seat’s pocket and scans the surroundings before getting out of the car.

“Get the axe and Bourbon from the backseat,” he instructs as he steps out.

You follow his directive, picking up the well-worn axe and a bottle of amber liquid from the backseat.

Simon slings his rucksack over his shoulder and tucks his mask into one of the front pockets. He takes your bag with one hand and a red toolbox from the car’s floor with the other.

You show him the axe and Bourbon from across the car, shaking both in your hands. With your supplies gathered, you exchange a nod—a habit you picked up from the field—and begin your way up the hill, leaving the car behind.

———————————————————————

You walk beside him, but he’s gaining ground quickly. He looks unfazed by the long journey—as if he hadn’t spent the entire day driving.

You, on the other hand, are exhausted. Each stride feels heavier on your legs, and the uneven path doesn’t help. The moss cushions your steps, making it difficult to gauge the depth of the ground beneath you.

Sometimes, you stumble, and he glances back to check on you. He looks you up and down, assessing you, before returning his attention to the trail ahead.

“Tired?” he asks, which feels more like a rhetorical question—an observation, a statement—than as a genuine concern.

You shake your head. Fatigue clouds your thoughts, and you fail to register that he can’t perceive your nonverbal response. He turns around once more, waiting for an answer.

“Nope,” you reply, forcing yourself to stand a bit taller. “Not tired at all.”

His gaze shifts forward, and you slump.

You try to focus on your senses, hoping to distract your mind until you reach the cabin. You look up at the tree branches, outlined by the fading light, casting a dark shadow above you. You listen to the birds calling, the insects responding, and a stream nearby. You take a deep breath, smelling the pine and wet ground. It seems like it rained not long ago. It’s a bit chilly. You wonder why you didn’t bring your jacket, only to recall that it’s August. Then you realise it’s August but in the Scottish woodlands.

———————————————————————

You must have walked for another fifteen minutes before the cabin finally reveals itself. It’s almost dark now, but you can see the worn wood that graces it. The hut is tiny, way smaller than you imagined, with a triangular roof and a chimney. How does one fit a fireplace in there? How does he fit in there? How are you both going to fit in there?

A small front porch extends from the cabin’s entrance, complete with a lone chair and a lantern hung next to the door. A serene pond reflects the darkening sky nearby, its surface motionless, still, mimicking the night.

As you approach the cabin, you notice a smaller room that you assume to be the toilet—a logical consideration given the cabin’s size. An open shower is nearby, next to a tree, shielded by strategically placed vertical logs for privacy.

Simon places your bags on the porch and retrieves the lantern. He fills it with fuel, lights it up, and hands it to you. He unlocks the cabin door, pushes it open, and motions with his head for you to take the first step inside.

It’s cosy. Intimate. How will he handle such closeness?

A two-seater brown leather sofa invites you to relax while a small fireplace stands against the wall. A compact table with a lone chair marks the boundary between the living room and the kitchen, which consists of a fire stove, a single counter, and exposed cabinets stocked with plates, cups, and utensils.

You concentrate on a nook at the far end of the kitchen, where a double bed is placed. It’s so snug it looks like the room was built around it. A small window in the bed’s headboard frames a view of the outside shower.

“Did you build this by yourself?” You ask, placing the axe and the Bourbon on the table.

Simon’s head pops in from the doorway at the sound of your voice.

“What?” he asks.

“This,” you gesture to the cabin. “Did you build it on your own?”

He seems surprised by your question. “Me?” he points to himself. “Nah, I found it like this.”

“You found it like this,” you echo, raising your eyebrows.

“I bought it that way and made a few tweaks,” he explains as he places your bags on the sofa and proceeds to get into the details of his modifications.

You focus again on the interior, capturing the nuances he points out. The stove, the sofa, the solitary chair beside the table – they all reflect his choices. That’s him; you’ve never seen him like this. Or, at least, this side of him.

“Also installed a couple of solar panels; I’ll go check on ’em,” he concludes, grabbing a flashlight from the toolbox. “We eat when I come back, yeah?”

You nod, but he’s already heading out, leaving you alone in the cabin. You set the lantern on the kitchen table.

You want to rest, but the sofa is covered with bags and equipment, and you’re too weary to clear them away. The lone chair by the table doesn’t look like it would do any favours for your achy back. Instead, you opt for the bed. You sit on its edge and pat the mattress.

Thoughts bubble to the surface, and your mind focuses on a particular issue—the sleeping arrangements. Yes, you’re comrades who shared a bed out of necessity before, but that was a different scenario—now, sleeping together in a bed while on vacation? A shared vacation? That’s an entirely different matter.

As you reflect, your fingers graze the sheets. They’re soft—inviting. Leaning back, you sink into the mattress, its comfort drawing you in. The hiss of the lantern, paired with your breath, becomes a lullaby in the cabin’s silence. As the emotional strain and the tension in your body eases, the bed cradles you, its comfort pulling you deeper into its embrace. The day’s worries fade away with each breath. You close your eyes one last time for the day.

———————————————————————

The morning sun filters in through the bedroom window, gently nudging you awake. You blink, focusing on the wooden wall that stands inches away from your nose. You sit up slowly. Strange—your body isn’t positioned the way it was when you drifted off to sleep.

You turn at the empty space beside you; he is not there, yet the slightly flattened pillow and the tousled sheets hint that he has occupied that spot. There’s also a subtle change in your clothing; while you’re still dressed the same as yesterday, your shoes are missing. You wiggle your toes.

The sounds of the outdoors seep into the cabin, and you look out the window. Yesterday must have drained you completely. Sliding to the edge of the bed, you plant your bare feet onto the cool wooden floor, spying your shoes near the cabin entrance. As you approach them, you instinctively reach for Simon’s jacket, hanging over the chair. Wrapping yourself in it, you inhale deeply at its collar.

You slip into your shoes and open the cabin door. The brisk morning air greets you first, biting at your skin, and you hug Simon’s jacket tighter around you. A weird sound is coming from somewhere nearby that feels out of place from its surroundings.

Your eyes narrow toward the source—something by the pond. You shield your eyes from the sun’s glare, and the source becomes clearer. Simon stands at the pond’s edge, wearing a grey shirt that clings to his sweat-dampened chest. Gripping the axe with both hands, he raises it overhead, the blade briefly shining before descending with a solid thud. It bites into the wood and splits it in half with an audible crack. Then again. And again. And again.

Occasionally, he lets out a soft grunt as he swings the axe, releasing the tension from his body until he repeats the same movement. The sweat glistens on his skin, and his biceps flex with every lift, then relaxing with each hatch.

“Morning,” you finally say.

He pauses mid-swing and looks up. He sets the axe down against a log and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Dark patches are spreading from his underarms. He’s breathless, so he nods at you instead.

“What happened in there?” you ask, motioning towards the bed.

Simon’s lips curl up. A single droplet drips from the tip of his nose as he bends and picks up the axe again.

“You confused sleeping with dying; that’s what happened.”

You chuckle. “You couldn’t wake me up, huh?”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “For someone who claims to be ‘not tired at all,’ you sure fell asleep like a rock,” he says, swinging the axe once more to split another log.

“Tea?” you offer.

“Please.”

You grin. “Beg a little, will you?”

He lets out a chuckle. “Careful now,” he warns you jokingly, giving the axe a casual twirl in his hand and keeping on working.

You roll your eyes and make your way to the kitchen. You grab a kettle, fill it with water, and place it on the stove. Opening the tea box, you browse the selection with your finger, then turn to search for Simon outside, thinking of asking him about his tea preference. However, he’s nowhere to be found. Redirecting your focus to the options, you speculate he’d be content with whatever you choose; he wouldn’t bring them here if he didn’t like them. You settle on Earl Grey.

As the water heats up, you ready the teapot with the tea blend and look out the window above the bed. There’s movement. You take a closer look.

Simon stands right by the shower. He slowly peels off his shirt, revealing his upper body inch by inch, and drapes it over the partition as he steps into the shower. His jeans and boxers follow suit, finding their place next to his shirt. He lifts his hand and turns on the shower head, finally releasing the water he yearns for after his hard work. His eyes shut as he lets the water flow down his body, starting from his head, tracing the line of his neck, and continuing down to his shoulders.

Did you lose your ability to breathe, or did time slow down? Does it matter? And, close your gaping mouth; you’ve seen nothing extraordinary. I, on the other hand, have seen every inch of him. Pathetic.

At least, that’s what the kettle appears to be screaming at you as it whistles for your attention. You remove it from the heat, pour it into the teapot and set it aside. You return to the window above the bed; Simon is no longer there.

You curse at the kettle.

———————————————————————

With the soothing warmth of tea inside you, you set out on a hiking adventure into the forest. It’s a familiar trail to Simon, yet the landscape seems untouched—whispering leaves, twittering birds, the distant murmur of a nearby stream. Sunlight filters through the foliage, draping the ground with a delicate pattern of golden lace. Moss and decomposing leaves mingle with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers to create a unique scent.

As you continue on the trail, you get captivated by an ancient tree standing alone, gnarled and weathered by time. Its roots grip the earth like they were there before your kind began to call this place home, and its branches reach for the sky as if praying to the gods. You touch its trunk and feel unworthy.

“Naychuh.” Simon’s voice breaks the silence. It takes a few seconds for you to register what he just said.

“Indeed,” you add. “Nature.”

“It’s amazing how they can withstand everything and remain so strong,” he observes, tracing the tree’s bark with his fingers. “Resilient.”

“I wish I were like that.” You murmur.

He averts his gaze, releasing his grip on the trunk. “The environment definitely helps,” he comments, shrugging. “Plant this tree in the Caribbean, and it’ll be dead in a week, but here?” He taps the trunk. “It flourishes.”

“Our environment isn’t very… flourishing, Lieutenant.”

“Simon,” he corrects you with a smile and motions towards the path ahead. “This way.”

The walk continues, each step leading you deeper into the woods. Neither of you utters another word. The nearby stream does all of the talking for you.

———————————————————————

The journey back to the cabin is easy; you both seem relaxed, no matter the distance you have walked. The forest’s inhabitants appear to switch shifts, preparing for the night; birds cease to chirp, and owls take their positions. Shadows lengthen, and the air carries a gentle chill, hinting at the approaching evening.

You’re filthy but content. Happy. You light the lantern and pull out fresh clothes from your bag.

Simon squats in front of the fire pit outside, preparing it for grilling. He piles the logs he cut earlier into the pit, tosses in some dried pine needles, and lights them up.

Two very different ways of getting burned stand before you. You step closer to him.

“Mind if I hit the showers?” you ask.

“Go ahead,” he says, nodding towards the enclosure.

“Promise you won’t look?”

“Not a fucking pervert like you are,” he jokes with a playful smile on his lips as he pokes the fire. “Spying from the windows.”

“I beg your pardon,” you snap, your face slowly turning red. “I wasn’t spying!”

“Sure, you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t!” You retort and smile. “I was simply enjoying what nature had to offer.”

He stifles a chuckle and shakes his head. “We eat in 20,” he announces. “Go.”

———————————————————————

With the sun now entirely gone, the fire glows brighter against the darkness.

You sit side by side, close to the fire, content from the shared meal. Each of you holds a glass of Bourbon and looks up at the sky, admiring the shooting stars.

A chuckle escapes you, catching Simon’s attention.

“What?” he asks, his brows knitted together.

You look down at the glass in your hand, then back up at the sky.

“Nothing,” you mutter. “I just find it funny how trees stay resilient while stars fall.”

He follows your line of sight to the night sky.

“Trees fall, just like stars,” he says, swaying his glass. “And just like us.”

“Interesting perspective, Lieut—”

“Simon,”

“Interesting perspective, Simon.”

He nods. “We all fall when the time comes.” He whispers.

You tilt your head, studying his profile. He’s aware of your gaze, yet he doesn’t shy away.

“But every fall serves a purpose,” he continues. “Trees offer us warmth, for example.”

“And what about us?” You ask.

“We put ourselves on the line to protect others.”

“Is that what you think we do? Protect?”

“I try to find some reasoning behind it,” he admits, shrugging.

Your focus shifts back to the night sky.

“And what about stars?” you wonder. “What purpose do shooting stars hold? Creating a spectacle for us, the protectors?”

He takes a sip from his glass, a soft smile on his lips.

“They make us wish,” he murmurs. “They make us wish and hope.”

———————————————————————

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f1byjessie · 10 months ago

Text

HE LIKES MY AMERICAN SMILE ━━ OP81.

love is a wild ride, and logan sargeant's sister is about to find this out the hard way.

( oscar piastri x sargeant!reader )

━━ part five.

You’ve never actually been to Monaco. It was one of the few Grand Prix you’d had to miss. Logan’s retelling of how it was had been slightly skewed by disappointment and frustration at his less-than-stellar results that weekend, but his descriptions of everything had still painted a picture of lavishness and excitement in your mind, and you’d been dreaming ever since for the chance to experience it yourself.

You’re here now, and even just the view from the plane had lived up to the hype. On the ground, it’s enough to leave you breathless. The deep blue water of the Riviera glitters with the golden glow of the afternoon sun, the mountains stand tall off in the distance, and the grand opulence of the city makes you feel like you’ve stepped foot into a whole new world.

You’re not unfamiliar with the lifestyle of riches and luxury, but Monaco is on another level entirely.

Lando, the reason you’re here in the first place, appears beside you. On the ride back to his place from the airport, he’d caught you marveling at the marina and had pulled off onto the side of the road to let you get out and take a longer look. The boats look like miniature cruise ships, sleek and elegant where they rest in the water, swaying gently with waves. It reminds you, vaguely, of back home.

“Ready to go?” He asks, fiddling with his keys.

You spare the marina one last glance, then nod and turn on your foot with the knowledge that you’ll be here for a week longer still and will have plenty of time later to take in the view as much as you want.

Lando’s house, when you arrive, is just as expensive looking as the rest of Monte Carlo.

The exterior is expertly landscaped and maintained, with hedges perfectly trimmed and flowers flawlessly pruned. It’s slightly lacking in regards to the personality you imagined Lando having. His car is personalized and his wardrobe is a look into who he is, but the outside of his house looks… normal, for lack of a better term. It’s beautiful, nonetheless, but it’s simple all the same.

When he opens the door, you take it all back. The interior screams Lando Norris. It’s extravagant in a way that mirrors what you know of his personality, but it’s comfortable. You’ve been to homes that look more like show houses, where the furniture seemingly exists to be viewed but not used, and all the decorations are vague and impersonal enough to fill blank space and do little else. This is the opposite.

There’s a blanket folded haphazardly over the arm of the couch, and mismatched pillows. On the coffee table is a half-empty bottle of water, a book with a scrap piece of paper hanging out from the middle, and an opened pack of batteries. There are pictures on the walls in mismatched frames— friends and family and achievements from throughout Lando’s career that tell a story of his successes and proudest moments.

It looks like a real home. When you tell him, he laughs.

“With how little time I actually get to spend here, you’d think it’d be the opposite,” he comments.

He helps you bring your bags up to a guest room and then gives you a tour of the rest of the house. Letting you ask questions and answering them sincerely.

When you’re back in your room, unpacking your clothes, it occurs to you just how crazy all of this is. You know Lando, but you haven’t known him for very long. Your friendship has only developed over comments on social media, texts, and the occasional phone call over a few weeks. But you’re here, across the ocean in a country you’ve never been to before, spending a week in his house just because he asked you here and offered to help you with your love life dilemma.

Your life is beginning to feel more and more like a movie, and all you can do is hope it has a happy ending.

INSTAGRAM.

liked by logansargeant, landonorris, and 31,871 others

yourusername a pretty girl with a pretty car in a pretty city

view all 3,832 comments

logansargeant think you might need to get your eyes checked bc all i see is a pretty car sooo

↳ yourusername you have six days. run. hide. i don’t care. but enjoy your time while it lasts

↳ logansargeant i’m telling mom

↳ yourusername she can’t save you now.

user STUNNING STUNNING AND STUNNING 😍😍😍

user all three things i don’t have

user WE NEVER GOT Y/N IN MONACO DURING THE SEASON BUT I AM LIVING FOR IT NOW

landonorris *prettiest

↳ yourusername you’re only saying that cuz it’s your car

↳ user yea we definitely missed smth cuz wTF IS THIS 👀

user lando up in here stealing oscar’s girl

user OSCAR COME GET YOUR GIRL

user is she in monaco??? with lando??? 👀👀

user mclaren boys fighting over the same chick was not on my bingo card

user i need these men to make up their damn minds like bffr first oscar and now lando??? bros get it together pls 😮‍💨😮‍💨

user i think we should stop speculating about the relationships between real ppl bc they’re adults and can do what they want, plus they could just be friends and ppl saying they’re together could make things awkward for them

↳ user nah they’re totally together

“The comments are going crazy,” you tell Lando, staring down at your phone and scrolling the long chain of comments beneath your most recent post.

Some are supportive— people who knew you before your brother got involved with Formula 1 and don’t care about the drama, or they’re other models you’ve become tentative acquaintances with after years of working in the industry. Some are speculative, wanting to know if you’re with Lando, what happened between you and Oscar, theorizing about fights, messy breakups, and revenge rebounds. Some, however, are just mean, calling you a slut for leading on two guys at the same time, or a bitch for ruining their imaginary chances with their favorite driver.

You wouldn’t claim that you’re used to this type of negative attention, but you’re not unused to it either. So much of your job requires a social media presence and with your life in the limelight as a byproduct of both Logan and Dalton’s own very successful careers, you’re no stranger to internet trolls and people who are vicious just because they can be.

That doesn’t make some of the comments hurt any less.

“None of them matter,” Lando answers from beside you, his eyes focused on the road. “It’s just people who don’t know what they’re talking about.” He recites it like it’s something he’s had to say hundreds of times before, and it occurs to you that he probably has, to himself if not anyone else in his line of work.

You’re sat once again in the passenger seat of his car as he drives you back to his place. The streets of Monte Carlo at night are dazzling and even more beautiful than in the day with twinkling lights and a raging nightlife scene, but you’re distracted still by your phone, checking and rechecking to see if there’s any hint of Oscar in your notifications.

There isn’t.

It feels like a dismal ending to what had truly been such a lovely night.

You’re in a gorgeous dress, in a gorgeous car, in a gorgeous city, with a man who’s fun and relaxing to be around, who doesn’t make you feel like a side piece or arm candy, and who is genuinely a friend to you. You went to an amazing restaurant and ate some of the best food in your life with some of the best company, got slightly tipsy off of wine you didn’t have to pretend to enjoy for once, and it’s only the beginning of your time here in Monaco.

But rather than enjoy what you have here in the present, all you can think about is the one thing that would make it that much better— Oscar.

“Maybe I should just give up,” you mutter, finally turning your eyes away from the screen. “He probably kissed me, realized he wasn’t interested, and the reason he hasn’t brought it up is because it was all just a big mistake that he wants to forget.”

Lando makes a sound that you’re not quite sober enough to place. “I think the only way you could know that is if you talked to him.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “that’s not likely to happen any time soon.”

He makes another sound, but you’re too disappointed to really pay it much mind, and by the time he’s pulling into the garage you’ve forgotten all about it.

He helps you out, ever the gentleman as you’ve learned tonight, and then you’re following him to the door, trying not to let your bad mood ruin things too much. You’re still incredibly grateful and appreciative to him for helping you so much despite not having known you very well when it all began.

“Seriously, though, Lando.” You speak up suddenly, just as he’s about to open the door. “Thank you for doing all this for me. Even if nothing comes of it, I’ve already had a lot of fun and you’re a good friend.”

All he does is offer you a smile over his shoulder, before pushing the door open.

When you step in through the doorway after him, you’re momentarily confused by the luggage waiting in the entryway. For a split second, you think you must have left some of yours down here, but then you look a bit closer and realize that it definitely isn’t yours.

There's movement from your peripherals as someone in the living room stands from the couch and crosses the distance to the entryway's threshold.

“You’re back earlier than I thought, Lando—” you snap your head up in surprise just as the voice cuts off.

You stare at him in shock. “Oscar…”

━━ tags: @f1-is-lovely-33 @chasing-liberosis @405rry @aquangxl @bellezaycafe @peqch-pie @formulaal

━━ a/n: tada! i have the rest of this fic entirely planned out from here and i am so excited to get to the juicy parts finally! hope you all enjoy!

#formula 1 #formula one #f1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #social media au #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #logan sargeant #alex albon #lando norris

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superhaught · 4 months ago

Text

Sweetest Girl (Chapter Two)

Pairing: Regina George x Reader

Warning(s): discussion of disability

Word Count: 2200, Part 2/?

Author's Note: I was able to finish chapter 2! I'm sorry for the massive delay since positing any writing, it's been a time recently. I'll keep doing my best but pls don't hold it against me if I don't post for a while again. I still care about Regina so so much. Thank you to bestie @sapphicantics for helping me go back to this and reading it first :P

Summary: Reader goes over to Regina's house to work on some more chemistry lessons.

Part 1

Friday’s chemistry lecture was cut off by the dismissal bell and the teacher frustratingly called out as students were already busting through the door, “quiz on Monday! Don’t forget and study hard this weekend!”

You were packing up your notes when five perfectly manicured fingernails rapped on the corner of your desk.

You looked up and met the blonde's eyes.

“So quiz on Monday, can I get some extra tutoring this weekend?”

You nodded slowly, “do you want me to come to your place?”

“I do.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want -“

“I already told you, yes. Stop being so weird about it. Tomorrow. Come over around lunchtime. My mom will feed us then we can work.”

You bit your lip and then nodded again, “okay.”

Regina gave you her version of a smile and then flicked her hair behind her shoulder as she left the classroom.

You saw that the teacher had been watching your exchange.

“It’s working,” they said, “whatever you’re doing. Her homework was better.”

“You definitely can’t tell me that.”

“Just keep it up. She’ll be okay.”

You smiled and nodded, hugging your books to your chest and leaving the classroom.

After a twenty-five minute walk, you were standing at the end of the driveway to the George residence.

You looked up at the massive house in awe. It was clearly a new build. Likely custom-designed by the Georges. Two stories. Huge yard. You imagined an underground pool and a deck with a built-in, year round jacuzzi in the back. A movie theater and second kitchen in the basement. A yoga room with a Peleton for Ms. George. Master bath with a soaking tub.

You were afraid to go in.

You stood outside and stared for a minute longer before finally walking up the driveway (not made of asphalt or cement, but pristine white rocks). You walked past Regina’s Jeep, a Mercedes, and an Audi all parked (as well as a children’s Barbie Jeep abandoned in the lawn, belonging to Regina’s younger sister you assumed).

You giggled at that. You imagined Regina either beaming with pride or fuming with rage at the idea of her little sister wanting a matching car to Regina.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the front door and waited for a moment, hearing a faint “get the door!” from inside.

Regina opened the door, “hey, did you find parking on the street?”

“Oh, I didn’t drive.”

“Someone dropped you off then? Do you have a ride home after?”

You shook your head, “I walked.”

“What the fuck?”

A woman called out from inside the house, “Regina! Language!”

Regina clenched her jaw and inhaled slowly through her nose, flaring her nostrils.

“It’s not a big deal,” you responded quietly.

Regina rolled her eyes, “I’ll drive you home when we’re done, Jesus Christ.”

“You really don’t have to drive me home, it’s okay.”

“Shut up, it’s literally nothing. Now come inside you weirdo.”

You followed Regina in, and the interior of the house was even more grand than the exterior.

You didn’t have much time to take it all in before Regina’s mom was pouncing on you and pulling you into a hug then holding your shoulders and examining you head to toe, “well aren’t you a cute little thing!? I love meeting Regina’s new friends.”

“She’s my tutor mom.”

“Cute and smart, then! Well I hope the two of you become friends, Regina needs good influences in her life.”

“Mom.”

Ms. George raised her hands in mock-surrender, “Sorry! I’m just trying to be helpful, my goodness.”

You tried to force a smile and fidgeted with the zipper of your jacket awkwardly.

“Did you make us snacks?”

“Oh yes!” Ms. George trotted back into the kitchen and came back with a tray stacked with a variety of finger foods and fruity little drinks complete with excessive garnishes. She passed the tray to you, “here you ladies go. Study hard!”

“Thanks,” Regina didn’t wait around any longer before starting up the staircase to the second floor and expecting you to follow behind.

“Um, it was nice meeting you!” You directed to Ms. George, “you have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you sweetie-“

“Hurry up.” Regina cut her mom off while standing at the top of the steps with a hand on her hip.

You rushed up the rest of the steps and followed Regina into her room. She immediately went to her floor-length mirror and adjusted her hair while you set the tray of snacks down on her vanity.

“Not there,” Regina snapped, as if it was obvious.

“Where then?”

Regina pointed lazily toward the ottoman at the foot of her bed and you obeyed, setting the tray down and then helping yourself to a handful of homemade trail mix.

Regina came over and sat down on her bed and grabbed a single celery stick to eat.

You must have made a face that Regina noticed because she raised an eyebrow at you, “what?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you making that face?”

“Oh, nothing, I just don’t like celery.”

“You don’t have to eat it.”

“I know, Regina.” You could feel yourself shrinking as your shoulders slumped.

“It’s like negative calories so.”

“Well, actually…”

Regina narrowed her eyes at you.

“Nevermind. So, do you want to work on material for the quiz?”

Regina threw herself backwards and collapsed into her duvet in exasperation, “ugggghhhh!”

“That’s why you wanted me to come over, right?”

“Well duh… I’m just tired.”

“I’m sorry.”

Regina propped herself up on her elbows and looked at you, “for what?”

“That you’re tired?”

She scoffed, “you don’t need to be sorry about that. See? You’re too nice.”

You shrugged, “I guess it’s just something people say.”

“Oh? So you agree, then? That niceness is a facade that people use to disguise their true feelings?”

You shook your head, incredulous, “I didn’t say that.”

“Are you really, actually sorry that I’m tired or are you just saying it, then?“

You took a beat to think and then answered emphatically, “I am actually sorry. It’s called empathy. I feel bad that you feel rundown, and if you aren’t up for studying today, I would understand.”

She raised an eyebrow again in her classic fashion, “I guess I just really don’t understand that. Why would you feel bad that I’m tired? And why wouldn’t you be upset if I wasn’t in the mood to study after you put in the effort to walk all the way here?”

“I don’t know why, that’s just how I feel. What should I say instead? I don’t care that you’re tired, suck it up I’m here to make you better at chemistry?”

“Maybe you should,” Regina shrugged.

You shook your head, “I don’t want to say that. That’s not helpful to anyone. Are you going to retain any of the content we go over if I push you to do it when you don’t feel good?”

“How do you know I’m not lying or just complaining for the sake of it? Maybe I need to be pushed.”

“Fine, give me a reason then. Why are you tired?”

Regina thought about it for a minute, then her voice came out surprisingly quiet, “you know the accident from last year? The bus thing?”

You nodded.

She sighed, “It’s been a long recovery. I don’t usually talk about it with anyone.”

“You don’t have to talk about it with me if you don’t feel comfortable, but… I am here if you did want to. Talk about it, I mean.”

Regina didn’t say anything. She started to pick at the skin around her fingernails.

You recognized the behavior right away because you do it too. Without thinking, you moved to sit across from her on the bed and reached out, clasping your hand around hers.

The blonde stared at you shocked.

“Shit, I… I’m sor-“ you began, starting to pull away.

She didn’t let you go, “It’s okay. Don’t apologize.”

The gesture must have cracked her armor, if only a little. She shrugged her shoulders and explained, “the accident injured my neck and back so I’m doing physical therapy twice a week for that and I’ve been diagnosed with something called POTS. So my heart is all fucked up or something. I'm exhausted and in pain most of the time even though I'm taking like six different meds every day.”

“That sounds really hard.”

“But I feel like…” her voice failed her. She frowned, cleared her throat, and started again, “I feel like I shouldn’t complain about it… wouldn’t be cute to bitch about it when everyone…” she lowered her head and stared at her comforter, “when everyone thinks I probably deserved it.”

You frowned and squeezed her hand, “do you think you deserved to get hit by a bus?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It feels that way sometimes. Like I was supposed to learn some kind of lesson from it. Like I was supposed to suddenly be a better person and be grateful and be an inspiration or whatever. But that’s like some biblical bullshit. And I’m not a better person. I'm still just me but now my body doesn’t work and people don’t even bother pretending to like me anymore.” The dam had burst. The corners of her eyes started to sting with painful tears. “I’m not grateful. I don’t think what happened to me was an inspiration or whatever. I just wish I wasn’t sick and I wish that people didn’t expect anything from me.” With that, she retracted her hands from you, quickly wiped her face with her sleeves and she continued to look anywhere but right at you.

“Regina, thank you for sharing that with me. I want to help you as much as I can.”

“Why, though?”

“Because I want to.”

Regina met your eyes again, scrutinizing you. Trying to find deception that wasn’t there.

When she finally gave up she just said, “I don’t understand you.”

You laughed, “I’ve gathered that.”

She smiled and then rolled her eyes.

“Hey, do me a favor, okay? Go change into something comfy and then lets just watch something for a bit. Whatever you want. We can recharge a little and then see about studying, and if it doesn’t happen, it’s okay.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Yes.”

Regina breathed a sigh of relief and then visibly relaxed before getting up and walking to her large closet. She came back out a few minutes later, having changed into baggy sweats. She wordlessly sat down at her vanity, tied her hair up in a loose bun, cleaned her makeup off and then replaced her contact lenses with glasses.

You smiled to yourself while watching her. She caught you looking over in the mirror and you quickly looked away before seeing her reaction if any.

When she came back to the bed, laptop in hand, she said, “I’d usually never let anyone see me like this.”

“Well, then I consider myself lucky. Unless you don’t plan on letting me leave here alive now that I’ve seen you ‘like this,’” putting air quotes around your words.

“Cheeky…” Regina smirked and sat back down on the bed next to you, constructing a pile of pillows against the headboard to lean on, “you wouldn’t know until it was too late, though.”

You smiled as she continued.

“I guess I just don’t really care right now.”

“Well, I’m glad that you feel at ease with me. Not that you’re any less pretty than before.”

“You liar!”

“What? I’m not lying!”

“I’m not pretty right now. I’m all puffy and my hair is gross and I have my stupid glasses on and I’m wearing my mom’s old college sweatshirt.”

You shrugged, “you are pretty, Regina. You have freckles, I didn’t know that. And your hair looks cute like this, the little strands framing your face… I don’t know, you look pretty to me.”

Regina narrowed her eyes at you and then shook her head, “okay, whatever. Let’s just… watch something now.” She redirected her attention to opening up streaming on her laptop, “have you ever seen Real Housewives?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh my god. Okay I’m catching up on New Jersey right now, I’ll try to fill you in.”

You smiled and nodded.

She started the show and slid a little closer to you so that she could rest the laptop on both of your laps.

You ended up watching the show all evening, only interrupted by Ms. George bringing some dinner upstairs for you both along with Regina’s meds.

“Sweetheart, you look… comfortable.” Ms. George remarked, her tone unmistakably judgemental.

The corners of Regina’s mouth downturned just slightly.

“Yeah you know we just decided to have a relaxing night. No need to be all done up.” You smiled, “thank you so much for bringing us food, Ms. George.”

The woman was thrown off and you felt victorious.

“Oh, of course. I’ll… go get you girls some popcorn.” Ms. Geroge left and shut the door behind her.

Regina released a breath she was holding and whispered, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For… for what you just did.”

You shrugged and took a bite of food, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Regina’s eyebrows raised and then she just laughed in disbelief before turning the show back on and saying, “you continue to surprise me…”

Next Chapter

#regina george x reader #regina george fanfiction #regina george renee rapp #mean girls 2024 #regina george fluff #mean regina george #my fanfiction #my writing #original writing #fem reader #soft regina george #reneé rapp

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coff33andb00ks · 4 months ago

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where i come from - LS

pairing: logan sargeant x fem!reader (lilli. it's lilli) summary: hitch a ride to the end of the highway where the neons turn to wood word count: 1.2k a.n.: the first of three small fics for my beloved Lilli @maxlarens Happy birthday my darling!! I hope you enjoy this little love letter to you (and to american road trips). inspo: all the road trip songs my family blasted during my childhood, compiled here warnings: it's not a waffle house it's a waffle home, author is in love with american south almost as much as Lilli's in love with Logan

"Logan, you can't be serious."

He laughs, parking the car next to a slightly bent light pole. "What? You want to see America, right?"

You press your lips together, staring at the small, flat building that looks as though it's been in that spot since the 1960s and hasn't been refurbished once. "This is America?"

"One of the best parts," he promises, climbing out. The balmy air of Florida immediately makes the car's cold air disappear and you sigh, unbuckling your seatbelt as he walks around to open the door for you.

"A Waffle House is America?"

"Trust me," he says. "You'll understand."

You do trust him, so you let him take your hand, sweat beading before you've taken two steps across the parking lot. There's a crowd of people near the door and you feel their eyes on you and Logan as you approach, the air thick with humidity and weed and tobacco smoke.

The interior is worse than the exterior. Your sandals slide with each step on the ancient tile floor and you can feel the grease in the restaurant. A bored server is leaning against a booth and hands you and Logan menus as you walk by, telling you to sit wherever. You want to turn around and go sit in the car, but…

Logan looks so fucking happy.

So you sit in a booth with him, ignoring the sticky spot on the bench that catches the material of your shorts. You ignore the faint aroma of tobacco smoke that lingers in the dining area. You ignore the yelling from the kitchen staff and the argument starting up between a couple at the counter.

The food is pure American stereotype. Sweet, greasy, and the portions enormous. But your first bite of the burger has you smiling. Because—

"Oh my god," you practically moan.

Across from you, Logan's grinning.

The server is pure southern charm as soon as she hears your accent, and you relax as you enjoy a meal big enough to last you an entire day. It's not great but it's good, and the atmosphere seems to shift.

He buys you a mug, telling you under his breath about a time his brother stole one because apparently everyone does that. Once outside in the sweltering heat, he pulls you in and kisses the top of your head. "Welcome to America."

The road trip was his idea. It's the best way to see this land he loves so much and because you love him so much you agreed, and after a week with his family you're driving out of the Florida panhandle, the windows down and the music blasting, both of you singing Sweet Home Alabama at the top of your lungs.

He takes an exit off the interstate and you're already lost but he's content, speeding along unmarked country roads, past lush forests and rolling fields. He has to slow to a crawl for tractors, and every time a car passes he waves like the other person is an old friend.

Left or right? at every stop sign. No map, no GPS, just a whim.

A tiny shop – gas station, babe, not a shop – in the middle of nowhere is selling fresh peaches and the woman is so sweet and talkative you want to stay and talk all day. Her great aunt makes those crochet blankets you're admiring and before you know it you've got three draped over your arms.

"Where y'all headed?" she's asking as Logan pays.

He shrugs, smiling that bashful smile that made you fall in love with him. "Nowhere, really."

She gives the vaguest yet most detailed directions to a motel – you're gonna wanna drive thataway til you see the old rusted school bus? Then take a left and keep driving til you pass the turnoff for the highway. It's down on the right. If you get to the stoplight you done went too far – and Logan gives you a look as you bite into a fresh Georgia peach.

You smile.

More rolling fields and woods. Farms and family homes and kids on swings. He gets to the stoplight and you both laugh all the way back to the motel.

It's tiny and has almost zero amenities but it's clean and the window overlooks a small field of wildflowers. You take a shower and when you come out there's a jar with a bunch of wildflowers in it and you smile at him. You've been smiling so much the past couple days that your cheeks ache.

He finds a place to get dinner and you feast on what he says is pretty okay bbq but you think is the best you've ever tasted.

The next day you're better prepared, and you fully enjoy the rambling tour of the countryside, relaxing with each passing mile. Feet on the dash, singing along to Fleetwood Mac and Tom Petty and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Songs that are familiar and songs that he knows every word to and you are still learning.

Lunch is a picnic, thrown together with gas station sandwiches and bags of chips, sitting on one of the blankets you bought yesterday by a river. You want to enjoy the scenery, because it is as beautiful as he always told you it was, but all you can focus on is him.

He looks so happy. You've seen him happy, of course, but lately he's been downtrodden. Anxious. And you sit there, watching him as he talks about maybe making it up into North Carolina by sundown, seeing how relaxed he is.

And you fall a little in love with this spot of the world that heals him.

"You love it here," you say softly after a bit of silence.

Logan nods, looking out to the river where it disappears into the trees. "I do."

"I'm—"

"I love sharing it with you more."

Oh. Oh. Your eyes are burning and it's not fair that he can drop the sweetest lines when you least expect them even though by now you should expect them because he always does and—

"Lilli?"

You blink and he's moved to sit right in front of you. "Logan?"

Why does he look worried? Your mind scrambles, thinking something must be wrong. He feels ill, or he just spotted some venomous snake slithering nearby or—

He shifts and you glance down, seeing the ring sparkling in his hand.

Later you'll remember every word he says. How his hand shakes and his voice wavers while he tells you how much he loves you and how happy you make him. But for now all you hear is the river splashing over rocks and birds twittering and the breeze ruffling the leaves of the oak tree. And all you can see his eyes, shining and bright and beautiful.

There's hot sauce on his fingers and yours are gritty with salt. His lips taste of salt and vinegar and there's an ant crawling on your leg, and he's apologizing for not giving you some grand proposal, but you don't care. You're glad he asked you here.

"I love you," he whispers, forehead resting against yours and you feel the sigh that exhales his worries.

He worried that you'd say no. As if yes wasn't on your lips before he said the words.

"I love you, Logie."

#f1 #logan sargeant #f1 imagine #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 imagine #logan sargeant x reader #my writings > ls

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homeofthelonelywriter · 3 months ago

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Of Cupcakes and Skulls | Part 6

(A/N) This is a bit on the shorter side, but I honestly struggled with the description of the bakery. I hope that it's good enough that ya'll can paint a picture in your mind.

Pairing: single dad! Mafia! Simon x baker! Reader

Warning: kissies, fluff, angst, comfort, Simon is fucking smitten

Synopsis: Based on this post by @lunamoonbby

Simon chuckled quietly as he watched you stare at your shop. Your eyes were wide and your jaw hung open as he gently maneuvered you so he could get out of the car and pull you along with him. And once you were outside, you could see the entire storefront.

You didn’t know what detail to focus on first as you took in the changes that happened overnight. Until now, it had been a generic and rather boring exterior, something you always wanted, but never had the money to change. But now…it was beautiful.

The storefront was freshly painted in a dark green color, with metal accents decorating the usual plaster wall and a canopy overhead. The windows were sparkling in the sun, offering an easy view into the warm interior of the bakery, brimming with new furniture and counters. There were flowers everywhere, outside and inside, decorating and offering a sweet scent as you stepped closer. Additionally to the tables and chairs inside, there were a few scattered outside, in an area that was fenced off by wooden planters, and filled with tiny trees. Heaters hanging on the wall overhead, for the colder months.

You glanced back at Simon, who just smiled and gestured for you to walk inside. So you did.

As soon as you opened the door, a pleasant jingle rang through the air and the smell of the wood furniture filled your nose. You took a few more steps, hearing Simon following you inside, as you looked around. It felt warm and cozy, everything you ever hoped your bakery would feel like.

There were multiple showcases for your bread and pastries, as well as a whole nook for coffee and tea making, with brand-new machinery and cups. Just looking at everything, you knew it must’ve cost thousands of pounds. When you turned to look at Simon again, he was leaning against the wall next to the doorway that led to the kitchen. With a nod of his head, you walked through the revolving doors and entered…heaven.

You had already been happy with the equipment you had before, but now the room was filled with state-of-the-art machinery. Whether the giant mixer or the dishwasher, everything was brand new and extremely expensive. You knew that because you regularly gazed at them on the website, dreaming of the day you could afford them. And now you had them.

Suddenly, two strong, warm arms wrapped around you, pulling you against a hard chest. You relaxed against it, your eyes still flickering from one corner to the other, taking everything in.

“The windows are bulletproof, with multiple layers so they should be able to resist almost anything. And the door is a security door, it will lock automatically at a time you set and can only be opened by a combination of a key and code you have to enter into a keypad that’s beside the doorframe. I also went ahead and had the best alarm system installed, as well as cameras in the shop that are wired to the security firm, as well as to my people. If we see anything suspicious, we’ll be here within minutes.”

You turned around in his arms, wrapping yours around his waist, resting your chin on his chest as you peered up at him. He smiled down at you, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of the nose, before he straightened back up and spun you around, slowly walking you to the walk-in fridge. His grip on you tightened as he felt you tense up at the sight.

“We installed a new one.”

He was whispering in your ear, hot breath faning over your cheek.

“It almost functions more like a panic room than like a fridge. It can only be locked from the inside. The controls are also inside, so if something like last night ever happens again, they can’t play around with those. Also…”

He stopped in front of the door and opened it, gently leading you inside, where he pointed to a corner that was void of any shelves.

“This is a latch that leads into an actual panic room. Once inside, it locks down, and nothing except for maybe a nuclear bomb will be able to get in there. It’s outfitted with screens that show what’s going on up here, a landline, and a burner phone, as well as a bed and enough food and water to last three people two weeks. It has everything you could need in case anything happens. And as soon as it locks down, there will be an alert sent to my phone, as well to the phones of all of my employees.”

He spun you around again, gently cradling your face in his hands.

“Like I said, I won’t let anything happen to you. No matter where you are.”

You nodded, a soft smile on your face as he carefully wiped away the few tears that were running down your face. It had been so long since you felt so loved. Still, smiling, you watched as Simon slowly leaned down, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips ghosted over yours.

“Boss?”

Thanks to your proximity, you heard and felt him sigh, clearly annoyed, as he slowly pulled back, before he glanced toward the entrance to the kitchen. There was a tall, blonde man, clad in a dark suit. He glanced at you, before focusing on Simon.

“What is it, Graves?”

Simon’s arms remained around you as he glares at the man who just interrupted you two. The blonde man obviously felt uncomfortable as he kept glancing between the two of you before he finally spoke up.

“A call for you. It’s urgent.”

Simon nodded, pecking your lips before he pulled away and walked to the man, whispering a quick ‘I’m sorry’ as he was leaving. You just smiled as you watched him go, taking the opportunity to look around by yourself. You peeked into all the cabinets and every corner, finding new, amazing, and really expensive utensils. Even the cutlery was new, replaced by a set that had been designed by one of your favorite chefs.

The more you looked around, the more your fingers started to itch, wanting to try everything out. You walked to the wall, where you had installed a hook to hold your apron, and were pleasantly surprised when you saw that it was more or less the only thing that remained of your old bakery. As you were about to pull it on, Simon interrupted, clearing his throat as he leaned against the wall next to the swinging door that led into the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

He looked at you, amusement swimming in his eyes. But you just shrugged.

“Bake something. I really want to try everything out.”

With a chuckle, he crossed the distance between you two, wrapping you up in his arms again.

“May I ask…with what ingredients?”

That’s when you finally realized that he was right. There was nothing here you could use to make something. Not even flour.

As you stood there, surprised and still, Simon squeezed you tightly, before taking your apron and hanging it on the hook.

“Come, that’s our next stop.”

Please consider reblogging and following me! It helps a lot!

Call of Duty - Masterlist

Master-Masterlist

Tags: @lunamoonbby @distinguishedprincesstrash @xanvasy @reader-1290 (thought you might like to be tagged, if not just let me know!)

Like what you're reading? Buy me a coffee!

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 19 days ago

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𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟗 𝐏𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫

𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟗 𝐏𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝟑𝟖𝟑 𝐕𝟖 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ��𝐞𝐬𝐭 "𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬" 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫

This 1969 Plymouth Road Runner hardtop model failed to sell at auction recently with its owner refusing to part with it for just $37,440. The car has undergone two major refurbishments, one in the 1990s and another one more recently in July of this year.

The first-generation Plymouth Road Runner was cool right out of the gate. This was a performance vehicle, which is why all of its original engine options were extremely potent. You had the “entry-level” 383 ci V8 with its 335 horsepower and 425 lb-ft of torque, which as far as base engines go, was no pushover.

Then came the 426 Hemi V8 (chronologically), followed by the so-called 440 Six-Pack (or Six-Barrel) – bigger displacement, less power, same torque; compared to the Hemi. What stood out to most people was that the 440 Six-Pack was more affordable than the Hemi and it excelled in terms of mid-range and torque.

It produced its 490 lb-ft of torque at 3,200 rpm, whereas the Hemi wanted you to push all the way to 4,000 rpm for the same grunt. Now, the 440 unit was officially rated at 390 hp, but a lot of people believe that number to be underrated. It’s worth mentioning.

This particular Road Runner started off with a 383 ci V8 under the hood but would later receive the 440 ci V8 with a trio of two-barrel carburetors. Originally, it had a Limelight Metallic exterior with white longitudinal stripes but was repainted yellow during refurbishment.

Other current visual highlights include the black fiberglass lift-off hood, Road Runner graphics, chrome bumpers, dual side mirrors, chrome exhaust outlets, plus a set of black H-series-style 15” wheels with 235/60 front and 295/50 rear Diamond Back red-line tires.

Moving on to the interior, that’s where you’ll find the black vinyl front bucket seats and rear bench, a color-coordinated dashboard, the Hurst shift

#𝐏𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle #mopar #moparperformance #moparnation #moparworld #𝐏𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 #𝐑𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫

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gloomwitchwrites · 9 months ago

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Captain John Price x Female Reader Dark Romance

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical swearing, chasing through the woods, strong suggestive themes, dirty talk, showering together

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Part Nine of Dangerous Pursuit (for @glitterypirateduck)

Making one last effort to run, you utterly fail, only for Price to drag you back and seek punishment.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dangerous pursuit masterlist

Open land. Distant tree line.

Out here, where the lights of the city are so far they’re invisible, you stew in sticky silence. Nature is loud but it’s also soft, and the thoughts in your head are the only distraction.

It is a maddening sort of tune. A rushing waterfall of information you cannot seem to switch off. It eats away at you, making you question everything again as if you haven’t done this countless times. Like you didn’t think about escaping the entire time you were in the car.

The new safehouse feels just like the one from three years ago. It too is isolated. A decrepit barn in the middle of nowhere with an interior that is at odds with its exterior appearance. But unlike the safehouse from three years ago, there is no underground bunker. There is no room for Price to lock you up in.

You should be grateful, but it only makes you feel vulnerable. There is nowhere in this barn for you to hide. Price is breathing the same air as you, standing in the same large room, and so near that all you need to do is turn in his direction.

On the lefthand side of the barn is paved ground where the black SUV is parked. Price is currently shutting the barn doors while you stand next to the car. It is still warm as you lean against it, taking in your surroundings.

To the right of the paved section, the floor rises slightly, a step up into an open space. This room is sectioned off by partitions and half-walls. Directly in front of you is a small cooking area with a square folding table and two chairs. Next to that is a worn couch and coffee table that is covered in scratches. As you peer closer at it, you notice a hunting knife embedded in the top.

“Not as nice as the other one,” says Price, startling you out of your observation.

“Not as nice as what?” you ask, unsure of what he means.

“As the previous place.” He means the house you were in just a few hours ago.

You glance around at the interior of the barn. “It could be worse.”

When you turn toward Price, he is right there, shoulders nearly brushing as he gazes down at you. His brow is soft and full of concentration. His gaze keeps dropping to your lips to observe your mouth. The memory of him kissing you on the elevator flares hot in your mind. The brand of his touch renewing to invisibly sear your skin.

“You’ll be safe here. Obolensky won’t find you.” Price’s voice dips to a softness that threads through your chest like a long ribbon. It squeezes tight and you find yourself leaning into him even as a small voice in your head tells you to resist.

Half of you says to trust him, and the other half tells you to run. It’s such an odd sensation, this tug-of-war that won’t cease. Every memory you have of John is laced with uncertainty, and even after all this time, part of you remembers how he made you feel. This closeness is only a reminder of how much you still ache for him, and how desperately you desire to flee.

Three years. Three years and still you cannot rid yourself of him.

“Alex might consider my disappearance a blessing,” you murmur.

“Maybe,” shrugs Price.

“You said he likes to take care of things himself. But he sent others to do it.”

“I did,” affirms Price, his mouth turning downwards into a slight frown. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“He sent others. I disappeared. No one has to know he failed except him.” Your gaze falls away from Price’s face. You stare at your feet. “And I don’t ever want to see him again.”

It’s the truth. The man you were growing to love only wants you dead, to string you up for his client like a hanged man. And yet, Alex couldn’t execute the act himself, something he always goes out of his way to do.

Price lightly brushes your chin, pushing your head upward, returning your gaze to his face. “I’ll make sure you don’t.”

The promise is meant to reassure, but you question whether Price means he’ll keep you safe by preventing you from crossing paths with Alex again or that Alex will no longer be alive to seek you out.

Because he might try if he still draws breath. There is no reason to find sympathy in your heart for the man. Not after everything.

Price’s thumb brushes just below the curve of your bottom lip before his grip there draws you close. You know what he’s doing. It’s like the elevator all over again. Your body tingles with the way he guides you to his lips. Price’s head dips, and your head tips to the side, welcoming him.

This distance between you shortens. Shortens some more. Panic swells suddenly and you turn your face at the last second. Price’s lips brush against the corner of your mouth. But he doesn’t draw away in defeat. Price’s hand unfurls, grabbing the bottom of your face. It’s not a harsh hold, but it is dominating, and curls something hot and needy between your legs.

“We can’t,” you reply, already knowing the question forming on Price’s lips. “John. We can’t.”

“Who says?” he asks, some raspiness leaking into his tone, the hunger there thick and palpable.

You were completely wrong. This place is much more isolating. There is all this space—both inside and out—and yet it’s suffocating. The need to bolt—the desire to run—revives within you, creating a miasma of anxiety that won’t leave you alone.

Giving in to John will only make things worse.

“Let me go.”

Price drops his hand immediately, but the separation is only a brief respite. He stands so near that you can pick up the slightly woodsy scent of him. You haven’t seen him smoke a cigar but you can smell that too. It is faint. Distant. Clinging.

Price brushes past you, the contact much too close and yet not close enough. He steps up onto the raised floor, heading for the kitchen area, opening the minifridge and peering inside. It’s empty minus a few items. Price pulls them out one by one, examining each.

“Expired,” he mutters, putting them all back.

“No food?” you ask, following him.

He glances over his shoulder. “There’s food. It’s all in cans or boxes. Dried stuff. Things that will keep. Does that bother you?”

“No,” you reply, shaking your head.

From here, you have a better view of the space beyond. There is a half-wall that separates the kitchen and communal space from the back area. There are beds. One is large, likely a queen, shoved into the corner. Next to it is a wooden table with various equipment on it. One looks like a massive two-way radio. The rest of it you don’t recognize. Beside that are two more beds, bunks that are bolted into the wall. As you step around Price to peer beyond, it reveals an open shower and a sink. The toilet is in its own space but separated by a curtain.

Everything in here is out in the open. There is literally nowhere for you to hide.

Price leaves you alone after that, as if he’s sensing your unease, but he’s also working. The laptop he has out in front of him is sturdy like you could smash it repeatedly against the ground and it would still hold its integrity. When he isn’t on the computer he’s talking on the phone, speaking softly. You can’t hear him, and while that stokes your curiosity, it also doesn’t help your anxiety.

It festers, and while you try to distract yourself with a book, it hardly keeps your interest. You’re stuck here, completely at Price’s protection and mercy. It is a comfort, and yet it isn’t enough. The silence and the book only give your mind time to process and stew and think about all your options.

Which makes the next part easy.

Slipping away this time is easy.

When night comes knocking, Price offers you the large bed, which you happily take. He picks the lower bunk, kicking off his boots and sliding in without another word. Maybe he is too tired—too exhausted—and has sunk into a deep sleep because you crawl out of the bed, dress yourself, and make it to the barn doors without incident.

The locking mechanism is simple but old. There is rust and it’s large. Clearly, Price doesn’t expect anyone to come out this far in search of you, which is a blessing, but makes the whole thing far too easy.

A trap, your brain spits, flaring hot. It’s a test.

You shove the thoughts down until they’re completely in shadow. You’ve already made the decision. You’ll see this through, even if you fail. You have to try.

The barn door creaks when you open it, and you flinch at the noise. You immediately pause, listening in the dark, waiting for Price to emerge like a predator after prey.

Nothing.

No hand appears from the shadows to latch on to you. No voice calls out, commanding you to stop, to turn around and come inside.

There is only silence, and the soft droll of insects.

Price did say he’d chase you anywhere. Do you truly believe him? Would he run after you? If you make it to the road and then back to the city, would Price be right on your heels, hunting you down to bring you back?

As you push the door open a bit wider, you slip through the space you’ve created, wiggling as you make it out into open air. The ground is wet. It rained and you didn’t even realize it. You don’t have a coat, but that hardly matters at the moment. There may be a slight chill in the air, but there is no wind, and a coat might overheat you once you start walking.

Getting back to the main road is the priority.

You can follow it back to the city.

You can—

“What are you doing?”

You whirl around. “John,” you gasp, as if his appearance is a surprise.

“You’re running,” he states, because it’s the truth and you both know it.

You stand there in the dark, watching Price as he crosses his arms over his chest. He lingers just outside the open door wearing nothing but a white shirt, cargo pants, and boots. His dark hair is messy, clearly tussled from sleep.

The worst part about it is that Price doesn’t even appear to be annoyed or angry. His face is entirely neutral, as if he knew you’d try this and was only waiting for it to happen. Of course he would. You tried to run from him yesterday. Even then, you only made it to the door.

Denial is silly. So, you don’t try. You don’t say anything.

“Are you going to make me chase you?” When your reply doesn’t come, Price sighs loudly. “Am I that bad?”

“I want to make my own choices,” you finally snap, because it’s the only thing you want in all of this. Every choice is being decided for you. All you want is a voice.

Price unlaces his arms and extends them outward. “You’re making a choice now.”

“But you’ll just drag me back!” you shout, throwing your hands up to the sky in exasperation.

“Exactly,” shrugs Price. “You’re making a choice to run. And I’m making a choice to track you down when you do.”

He steps forward, and an old, primal instinct in you flares hot, burning in your muscles.

“If you care about me at all, John. You will let me go.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not how this works, love.”

“Then tell me how it works.” You move away from him. Just one step, but Price notices, his gaze dropping to your foot before returning to your face.

“You’ll run anyway.” Price’s response has the hint of a growl on the end. The neutral expression is gone. Price’s gaze is intense. Heated. He wants you to run. He wants to chase you down.

The idea of the chase, of Price stalking you through the woods only to drag you back to the barn is like the first bite of real food after a long sickness. The thoughts that swirl in your head, the images of what he’ll do once he captures you repeats and shifts in your mind. They are drenched in red, but not in the vibrancy of violence. They are dipped with wanton lust, of skin against skin, of mouths moving against each other and across bare flesh. You think of yourself trapped beneath him. Writhing. Moaning. Begging for him.

Yet Price is correct. You will run regardless of what he says. It has been building in your blood like bricks. It was always going to come to this. It is what you do after all. Run and run and run because running is easy. Running has always been easy.

The tension in your limbs snap. Releasing, you turn on your heel, taking off toward the tree line. The air is crisp and cold as it enters your lungs. It stings your bare skin, an icy bite against the heat of your flesh. The ground is wet. Slick. Your shoes slip in the mud, but you manage to stay upright, pumping your legs as best as you can, breaking the tree line and entering the wood.

Price is sprinting after you. You can hear his boots hitting the ground, the rapid inhale and exhalation of his breath. Twigs snap beneath your own shoes and his. Even with your labored breathing that is slowly becoming rapid, you do not lose Price’s pounding footfalls. You hear them clearly.

You do what you know you’re supposed to do. To weave and duck, to not run in a straight line. With the trees, that’s easy, but there are still obstacles for you, and they’re slowing you down. A wrong move might send you tumbling. A wrong move might throw you right into Price’s path.

Chancing a glance over your shoulder, you spy him just a few feet behind. He is gaining, tearing through the path you’ve made like it’s nothing to him. You are no match for a man who chases people down for a living.

Why did you even think you had the possibility of success?

And where would you have gone once you made it out of the trees and to the main road? That is deserted too, especially at this time. You would have slowed down anyway, and Price would be on you in seconds.

The moment you turn your gaze back to the path in front of you, you nearly hurtle into a tree. Stumbling, you go to move around it, but you are too slow, and you’ve lost precious time. Every second counts, and you were too distracted to keep yourself on the path ahead.

Price is on you, wrapping his arms around your waist. Natural weight carries you both down to the ground. The trees block the moonlight, and the little that floods in obscures the ground that is quickly heading toward your face.

But you don’t land like you think you will—with a blow to your skull. Price shifts his body, turning toward the ground, moving you out of the way completely.

It is Price that lands in the mud.

You inhale. He exhales. Back and forth in shuttering silence, chests heaving as the exhaustion from sprinting starts to set in.

Price is on his back and you are draped over him, cheek pressed against his hard chest, hands holding on to him like an anchor. His arms are still wrapped around your waist, pinning you against him. The two of stay like this for a few breaths as if the situation is unfathomable. That the very idea of the two of you splayed out in the mud is part of the plan.

But it is you that finally breaks. It is you that finally moves.

Your hands press against his chest, palms flat. Shoving yourself away, you intend on returning to your feet, to stumble off and make another pass at freedom. But Price is larger. Stronger. His arms tighten, and then he’s rolling over, pressing you down into the sludgy mud.

You are pinned. Trapped beneath him. But not in the way you imagined.

Trying to beat your fists against his chest is useless. Price is a fucking wall. Solid. When you buck your hips to try and throw him off, it only rubs your pelvis against him, and the hardness that replies back ceases all further movement.

“Filthy girl,” he purrs. “Said I’d chase you.” He smirks and you want to slap it right off his face.

“Get off me, John,” you growl. The mud is already seeping into and beneath your clothes, cooling your skin, making the chill worse.

“Where were you running to?” he asks, breathing still slightly labored. “Where?”

“Away from here,” you reply sharply, smacking his chest. It is in vain. Price doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he’s amused, and that only drives your frustration higher.

“Running from me or this place?”

You want to wound him, to tell Price that it’s both. That you’re running from him as much as you’re running from the safehouse. But it’s a lie. You don’t want to run from him. Even though you’re frustrated with him and at the situation, freedom is the one thing you crave. Choices are important, and Price is giving you none. Yet it is not freedom from him. Price is not your master, and you are not a bird in a gilded cage.

He's trying to protect you and keep you safe the only way he knows how.

“Get. Off. Me,” you mutter, the mud now fully covering your backside and rapidly seeping elsewhere.

He inclines his head. “As you wish.”

Price abruptly pulls away, bringing you with him. He effortlessly tosses you over his shoulder. He turns, heading back to the barn. When you try to knock your fists and feet against him, Price’s rebuttal is a sharp slap to your ass.

“What the fuck!” you yelp, momentarily stunned.

“Stop moving. I might drop you.”

“Maybe that’s what I want,” you grumble, only to be rewarded with another slap to your right cheek.

Every step sends his shoulder into your stomach. You cling, hanging, just trying to stay aloft. Breaking the tree line, Price eases you off his shoulder and to your feet. The moment your feet hit the ground, you try to bolt, but Price holds tight. Using your natural weight, you attempt to destabilize him. To send him stumbling.

But Price is strong, and easily retains his grip.

Price drags you along, but you complain the whole time, muttering obscenities under your breath as he pushes you through the open barn door, slamming it behind him.

The two of you stand there, staring at each other in the silence of the barn. Price is splattered with mud which means you cannot be much better. You feel it in your hair and between your skin and shirt. It’s on the both of you. It’s fucking everywhere.

You make one more pitiful attempt to run. Price just rolls his eyes, hauling you into his arms again. He starts walking, stepping up onto the raised flooring, walking right past the kitchen area and beds to plop you onto your feet in front of the open shower.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you splutter. “You can’t toss me around like that.”

Price briefly glances at you before reaching past your shoulder to turn the dial on the shower. There is a rattling sound of old pipes jumping, and then clear water bursts from the shower head. The system might be ancient, but the water falls from the shower head like rainfall. It looks lovely, like something you’d have in your own home.

“John,” you prompt, leaning into his line of sight, but he isn’t listening. He’s completely ignoring you.

You try again. “John—”

Price grabs your upper arm and drags you under the falling water. It’s still ice cold.

“Fuck!” you shriek like a stabbed banshee.

In moments, you’re soaked through, shivering. Beneath your shoes, brown water pools before slowly creeping toward the drain. Leaning down, Price unties the laces of his boots, kicking them off to the side, away from the shower. They’re covered in mud, leaving brown splotches behind.

Then, Price steps under the spray beside you—joining you. The water finally starts to warm, as if it knew the exact moment Price would enter in.

“Shoes off,” says Price as his hands slide under the white shirt, guiding it up and over his head. That is also tossed aside—just like his boots—and you’re momentarily stunned by Price’s broad, bare chest.

You want to touch him—to run your fingers through the soft hair there that slowly trails below his pants. Just yesterday you saw him without a shirt. That too startled you, but right now you’re blazing. He is nearly on top of you, and all you’d need to do is raise your hand a few inches. That’s it. That’s all.

“Shoes,” he repeats, eyebrows rising slightly.

You bend to comply, the warm water rolling off your body as you take off your shoes and hastily kick them to the side. The mud is gone, but they’ll take forever to dry. When you return to standing, Price’s hands are on you. With one sharp tug, he rips your top open from neckline to hem, exposing your breasts to him, the room, and the water.

Your nipples pebble instantly.

“Jesus Christ, John,” you gasp, covering yourself up.

Price’s gaze isn’t even on your chest. He ripped your top without looking there at all, keeping his attention on your face. From there, Price continues, removing his belt and pants with ease. Then it’s just the two of you standing under the cascading water, steam rising to the rafters.

There is Price in his gray boxer briefs and you in a pair of sweatpants that are just a smidge too big. They are quickly starting to slip over your hips from the sheer weight of the water as it soaks into the fabric.

You reach for the waistband, only to miss, finding empty air and wet skin. It’s already gone. The sweatpants are at your feet. Price’s gaze briefly darts downward before returning to your face, that fierce hunger you saw there earlier returning in full force.

“Eyes up here,” you snap, pointing toward your face with two fingers while still covering your bare chest.

Price’s mouth twitches, the corner twisting into a hint of a knowing smile. There is a brief pause between that smirk and his next movement. Price’s thumbs slide beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, and then those too are gone, putting the two of you on equal footing.

Bare. Standing close. Wet. Warm.

You don’t dare look down. Even though you want to. Even though your body heats from the mere idea of just how intimate this is. Price’s gaze stays on your face, and that is somehow more intense than if his gaze roamed over your body.

Reaching over your shoulder again, Price grabs a bottle off one of the shelves. He pops open the lid, turns it over, squeezes clear liquid into his palm.

“Wash,” he says. “Or I’ll do it for you.” He offers you the bottle of body soap.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, staring him in the eye.

Price clicks the lid shut. Puts it right back on the shelf. “You offering?” he purrs, stepping closer into your space. You take a step back, only to bump into the shower wall. “Just turn around, love. Spread those gorgeous legs. I’ll do the rest.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you retort, grabbing the soap bottle and opening it up much too aggressively. The plastic lid is no match for your strength. It goes flying across the makeshift bathroom.

Price places his hand next to your head, anchoring himself there, trapping you against the wall. “I would,” he answers. “But so would you. Don’t deny it.”

Squirting some of the liquid into your hand, you return the bottle to the shelf and begin lathering the soap between your palms. Sighing, Price drops his hand from the wall and brings it to his other palm, lathering his soap up as well.

Price does not step back, and you do not push forward. The water falls between your bodies, the two of you staring each other down as both of you run the soap over your arms, chest, and stomach.

You won’t back down.

You won’t break first.

When you scrub your hair, lifting your arms up above your head, exposing your breasts, that is when Price’s gaze drops, focusing in on the way they lightly shake and bounce from your movements. You don’t hide. Instead, you give into the movement, taking extra care to exaggerate their gently sway. His lips part slightly like he wants to put his mouth against them. To taste and know them. The sudden thought brings a heat between your legs, and you find yourself squeezing your thighs together as a way to hide the fact you want him.

“Like what you see?” you tease, feeling bold in that moment.

Price’s gaze darts upward, and darkens. The hunger there is thick like rich butter. You could easily cut it with a knife, spread it around on fresh bread, savor the salty bite.

“Answer me honestly,” he rasps, and your hands immediately drop from your hair, the sudsy shampoo running down your back to greet the drain. “Do you miss him?”

Do you miss him.

Him.

Meaning, Alex.

“No. I don’t,” you whisper, because it’s true. After everything that transpired, your heart might ache, but you don’t miss him. If anything, you’re fucking angry.

Price licks his lips, and then his hand is coming up to wrap around your throat, creating a necklace of possession. He doesn’t squeeze, just lightly presses you harder into the shower wall, his own body leaning in until the two of you are nearly touching.

“Answer me. Honestly. Did Obolensky ever fuck you like I did?”

Your lips and mouth and tongue begin to form the shapes of words—the shapes of sounds—but you’re too stunned to speak, unable to comprehend why Price is bringing this up now.

Price leans in a bit closer. “Did he kiss you better? Taste you better?”

He is so close. With noses brushing, your head tilts upward, seeking his mouth—seeking him.

Price’s lips make the faintest contact with your own before drawing away again. “Answer me,” and these words are a growl.

“No,” you answer. “Never like you.”

Alex was always kind, always gentle, but never quite did it for you. He always made sure you finished, always made sure that you were satisfied, but you were never completely there. Something was missing, and that something is passion. Alex was comfortable and safe—which are all good things to have in a relationship. But he never wanted to explore anything further, and now you know why. It was all fake. A ruse. A fucking joke. At least, to some extent.

Price is all protective passion. He is safe but in a completely different way.

The sigh that leaves him is audible. It’s an exhalation of relief. Price’s eyelids flutter, then close as he inhales. On the second exhale, he opens his eyes, and you instantly melt, silently swearing that you’ll give this man anything.

“What should your punishment be for making me chase you? Hm?” Price’s hand tightens a bit, not enough to constrict your breathing but enough to show dominance. “Or should I decide for you.”

“John,” you whimper, one hand wrapping around his wrist while the other comes up to land on his broad chest.

Price rests his forehead against your temple, the line of his nose pressing softly against the side of your face, just to the edge of the cheekbone. “Could fuck your hand. Give you just the head. Bend you over so I can watch my cum drip out.”

His lips brush over your skin, and his other hand not holding your throat falls to your waist, squeezing, pulling you flush against him. Price is hard, and that is very clear by the way his need insistently pokes at your stomach.

“What do you think, love?” he asks, continuing. “Keep you spread wide. Do it again. Maybe even a third time.” With his hold on your throat, Price lightly turns you head in his direction. Your lips are just a second from meeting. “Then I’d fuck all of it into you. Make you mine.”

Price’s lips meet yours. Finally. Finally—and yet it’s fleeting. It’s a chaste kiss, and completely at odds with how he’s speaking to you.

“You remember the feel of me inside you, love? Because I remember you. You were bloody perfect around me.” Price closes the distance, and this time the kiss is deeper. Fiercer. “Made for me,” he growls into your mouth.

“John,” you moan, only wanting him to follow through. To fill you, then fuck you ceaselessly.

You know that’s how he’d do it. Draw it out. Make you hunger for him. Then take you in whatever position he desires. You’d take it all. You’d accept all of it. There is nothing that has ever compared to those moments in the safehouse and at Thirst. There is nothing that compares to those moments between, when he was gentle and soft and full of concern for you. Even the overbearing protectiveness is somehow sweet.

Price’s reply is to seal the two of you together, pinning you against the wall of the shower, claiming your mouth in repetitive desire that seeps into your muscles and bones, leaking into the marrow until the two of you are utterly fused.

The water isn’t nearly as hot as it was, but it’s still warm, and it only adds to the heat building between you. Price might have one hand at your throat, but the other explores, running up and down the sides of your body. Seeking. Searching. Touching.

Those thick, calloused fingers of his press between your legs and you readily open for him. Enough for Price to slide the rest of his hand between your thighs. He finds your clit, then your entrance, and there is no hiding just how needful you are.

“Fuck, love. Fuck.” Price adjusts his legs, spreading them slightly to anchor himself on the wet floor. One finger presses and slips inside easily. “I will fuck you,” he groans, emphasizing his words with a light thrust of his finger inside you.

He licks his lips. Exhales. “But there’s a punishment to be dealt.”

The chase. The mud. Time to pay up.

“Give me your hand.”

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nightlyrequiem · 18 days ago

Note

Would you consider writing something about detective reader and Valeria? I think it would be so cool that reader is looking for her and she’s fascinated (maybe in a twisted way/maybe she isn’t a really good person) and Valeria is interested in her bc of how she matches Valerias energy. Idk!!

One unhinged woman? I'm in love. Two unhinged women? I died and went to heaven.

I purposefully left the ending a little open ended because I want to come back to this and write a part two someday

I <3 evil women

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Violence, Stalking, Valeria and Reader Fight, Reader Has Questionable Morals

Alikeness

Observant. Persistent. Obsessive. All qualities that successful detectives should have. You've been doing this for ten years. Like a bloodhound with a scent, no case remains unfinished when assigned to you. A good detective revolves their life around their work. A good detective is her work. You know your preoccupation with your job isn't healthy. You've lost little pieces of yourself every case. Chipped away at yourself until something new and distorted crawled out from it's shell. the newest thing bouncing around inside your skull is El Sin Nombre. A notorious and influential Mexican drug cartel leader. No one has been able find his true identity. Allowing him to live up to his moniker. Your eyes burn as you stare at your computer screen. At three different headshots belonging to three different former special forces officers. He may not even be a he.

Truman Wenchow, Seth Veros, and Valeria Garza. All had gone awol after La Araña had been dethroned. You can feel it deep beneath your skin. An inkling that has never steered you wrong that one of these individuals is your person. Finding out that Seth has died sometime in twenty-twenty narrow things down. Corruption isn't uncommon. Not in Las Almas. the reigning Cartel has always had its claws sunk deep into the local authority systems. Everyone has a price after all. Local is usually where it ends though. El Sin Nombre is far too ambitious to stay in the confines of 'local'. El Sin Nombre has expanded their reach into the hearts of Puerto Rico, Ecuador, El Salvador, and the States. This bleeds deeper than you thought. The closer you get to the truth the more dangerous this becomes.

Only a few weeks ago, just a shy of a month, you began receiving threats. Warnings to stop. It had the opposite affect intended. Your mind glossed over the words spelled out for you and instead rearranged them into something else entirely. 'You're close. Come find me.' this could very well kill you, you're aware. late nights spent in the darkest corners of the internet have shown you just exactly what cartels are capable of. You find yourself unafraid. You've done similar things in pursuit of answers, and you will do worse to obtain more.

Out of the three suspects on your list, only one still lives in Mexico. as elusive as she is. All you're able to find are traces. Breadcrumbs left behind. Credit card history, grainy camera footage. Government documents. Getting information on Valeria Garza was like pulling teeth. Only a few former brothers in arms were able to offer up meager footnotes about the woman of the past. headstrong, ambitious, violent, efficient. You were able to track down her home, though. An unassuming property located on the quieter side of town. It's not the home one would expect a wealthy drug lord to keep but you've found that exteriors rarely match their interiors.

The sky is clear and inky. A high half-moon and it's thousand glittering eyes watch over you as wait outside of Valeria's home. It's neat and taken care of. There's a single car parked in the driveway. A dark colored SUV. Not a light on inside the house. Valeria is inside. El Sin Nombre is inside. Asleep in one of the rooms. Such a human action for such a monolithic figure. You pull on your gloves and check to make sure your firearm is working before getting out of your car. Seek and destroy. You walk up to Valeria's home with confidence. Sticking close to the rough, stony wall as you head towards the back. The backdoor is naturally locked, and you know already that she doesn't keep a spare key.

You always come prepared. You deftly pick the lock. Listening for that small click that has accompanied you for every final act. You slowly push open the door. Overly cautious of creaking and step inside. Her kitchen is tidy. Counters free of dishes and bags. A small bowl of fruit that's beginning to rot sits dead center on the kitchen island. You make it two steps inside when she speaks. Hidden away by shadows, glaring at you from the hallway.

"You don't have a warrant to be in here, detective."

Of course you don't have a warrant. there are leaks in the police department and trying to obtain one is not only a lengthy hassle but could also alert her that you're closing in. You prefer to keep your cards close to your chest. You turn your head to face her. Barely making out her outline.

"No, I don't." You reply calmly. You don't have a warrant. Legally you can't step foot into her home. Not that it matters to you, you have to be above the law to enforce it and there are workarounds to everything. Your heart pounds with excitement and fear. You're finally face to face with El Sin Nombre.

She steps into the kitchen. A sliver of pale moonlight cuts across her face. You can see her better. In a wife beater and sweatpants. A gold chain glinting from around her throat.

"You must have-"

You don't let her finish speaking. You have only one goal in mind and that is to exterminate. You raise your arm with the intent to kill. Her reflexes are faster, and she lunges at you. Knocking your arm down fast enough that the bullet you fire shoots into the ground by her foot. You've been in physical altercations before. Have had to fight off people. However, you were prepared for a fight those times. Valeria is much stronger than you thought. The wind is knocked out of you as you slam into the ground. The gun slides away from you and bumps into the wall but you don't freeze and panic at the loss of your weapon. You're exhilarated. Mustering up the strength to shove her off of you.

You have but a few short seconds to get your bearings before she's coming at you again. A stray punch catches you in the gut. It's nauseatingly painful and you double over, narrowly missing a blow to the head. you shove down the pain and lash out. Slamming your fist into her neck. Valeria splutters but to your dismay she barely reacts. She grabs ahold of your neck and throws you to the ground. Your back smacks down on the hard black and white tiled floor. Pain blooms purple flowers throughout your shoulders as you struggle beneath her. You hear the click of a gun and stare down its barrel. The both of you breathing heavily and regarding each other with caution. Valeria sets a foot down on your chest to keep you still.

"I have you under surveillance." She says quietly. "I was tipped off about you leaving your house. I knew you were coming here."

Valeria's strength impresses and aggravates you. "Good for you." You reply. There's not much hope that you'll regain the upper hand here, but you cling onto that small slice of it.

"Very good for me."

You silently understand that you haven't succeeded this time. The thought angers you. You're going to die in here on her floor. Your body thrown to the streets for the stray dogs to pick at.

"I suppose this is it for me then." You murmur. deceptively calm. You've done good, but you've also done bad. Maybe this is just your punishment for all the wrongs you've done.

Valeria lowers her arm, keeping her gaze tethered to yours. There's no anger in those dark pits of nothing.

"I couldn't stand you at first." She begins. "Coming into my town and snooping around. I was going to just kill you."

You furrow your brows. "So why didn't you?" You wheeze. You wish she'd take some pressure off of your chest.

"I did my own research." She hums. "You're just an evil little thing."

Your skin prickles at being referred to as evil. "I am not evil. I find it and rid this world of it. Of people like you."

Valeria cocks her head at you, dark brows raised. "You kill the people you uncover." She laughs. "Putting you on a case is like is like putting someone to death. And last I checked it's not up to you to decide of someone is worthy of death."

"I do what needs to be done. You can relate to that, I'm sure. You've had such an impressive career, from military ranks to commanding a cartel. I bet you're very proud." You hiss. Her success is envying.

"It sounds like you admire me." she remarks, adding more pressure to your chest. Pushing out the breath from your lungs.

"You have admirable traits." You admit begrudgingly. "Too bad you used them the wrong way." the pressure is suddenly lifted as she backs up from you. Giving you room to stand. there's a dull ache in your stomach as you do.

"I was going to kill you," She continues, waving the gun at you. "but you're deranged, really. So dedicated to your cause." She says. "And I respect that, I really do. I think you can really hone those skills of yours and become something great."

"I am great." You growl. Disgusted and elated at having her respect. she smiles and trails the gun down your jaw, the cool metal sending goosebumps over your skin. Valeria just scoffs and steps away from you.

"You're arrogant and delusional." She says. "You have potential, come back when you're ready to use it."

You pause, confused.

"You're not going to kill me?" You question. Leaving you alive is a fool's decision and Valeria didn't strike you as a fool.

"You won't be able to kill me," She says. "and I know you won't go to the police because you like to take credit for finding and 'punishing' people yourself."

Those words make you uncomfortable. It makes you sound like you're only doing it to soothe some deranged urge inside of you. You are doing it for the greater good. Your hands stay dirty to keep the world clean.

"You and I are alike." Valeria remarks quietly. Not looking away from you.

You won't be able to do anything now. Valeria has a gun, and you don't. She's right. About you not going to the police. It's not because you want to the credit. It's not. It's because you don't believe they'll do what needs to be done. Only you can. Police can be bribed, you can't. You raise your chin with defiance and take a step back towards her door.

"Be restless, Valeria." You warn. That's all you say before you turn and leave the way you came. Expecting a bullet to the back of your head that never comes. This isn't the last time you and El Sin Nombre meet. The next time it happens, one of you will die and it won't be you.

#valeria garza #cod mw2 #valeria garza x fem!reader #modern warefare ii #valeria garza x reader #valeria garza cod

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