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blog-name-idk · 2 years

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The Package Thief (KNJ)

Beautiful banner by @btsstan12

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Fem Reader

Genre: Neighbors/Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Humor

Summary: You have a new neighbor who is incredibly attractive. Unfortunately, he seems to hate you for no discernable reason at all. Does he think that just because he's hot, he can get away with being an asshole?

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Fem Reader

Genre: Neighbors/Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Humor

Word Count: 3,473

Warnings: Language, dimples, Namtiddies

~~~~~

The first time you saw your tall, handsome, dimple-cheeked neighbor, you were thrilled to have some eye candy in your apartment building. You had just moved in, and when he smiled at you in the lobby, you could have sworn you heard birds chirp and angels sing.

When you spotted him again while gathering up the packages for your floor, you perked up, hoping it would be your chance to get his name.

"Oh hey! Could you hold that for me?" you called as he stepped past the sliding doors. You juggled the boxes awkwardly in your hand as you hurried forward with a smile, only for the handsome stranger to glare at you as if you were doing something wrong. He then pressed a button that was clearly not to keep the door open, because it slid shut in your face.

"What the fuck?" you asked the air, staring at the metal frame incredulously. Who the hell did something like that? Did this asshole think he was too good to share the elevator with you?

Ugh, it figured. Of course someone that hot would never have learned to be a good person.

With a sigh, you jammed the "up" button with your elbow to wait for the next one. Your ire cooled as you waited, and you decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just had to take a shit really badly or something, and what you thought was a glare was actually his constipated face. He would probably apologize the next time you ran into each other.

~~~~~

Your neighbor did not apologize the next time you ran into each other.

If anything, he seemed to glare harder. And then the prick closed the door in your face, again. Unbelievable.

You weren't going to take this abuse laying down, so whenever you were in the position to do so, you returned the favor. It felt good to see the same irritation on his face each time the metal door slid shut, and you relished in your petty victories. He deserved a taste of his own medicine. Did he really think that just because he was hot, he could get away with being a dick?

On this particular day, you had worked late to clean up after a coworker's mistakes, and you were exhausted. All you wanted to do was take off your shoes and bra and listen to some music while you fought off the urge to angry cry.

Of course, because the universe hated you, you got to the lobby to see the smug, obnoxious smirk on your neighbor's face as he jammed the door close button. You clenched your teeth, feeling heat and frustration build behind your eyes, and gave him your most venomous glare as you flipped him off. You were not going to give this horrible piece of shit the satisfaction of seeing you upset.

Once he was gone, you pressed the elevator button, only to notice the sign indicating the other was broken. So you had to wait for piece-of-shit to get to whatever the fuck floor he lived on before it came back. It was a small thing, but enough to break through the cracks of your composure, and you felt hot tears begin to leak down your face.

You wiped your eyes angrily and took several deep breaths while you pulled yourself back together. Well, if you were going to have to wait, you might as well bring the packages up to your floor again. No point in leaving them down here for anyone to take.

As you waited for the elevator, you wondered how in the world anyone could be such a raging asshole.

~~~~~

"God, someone stole a package again yesterday," groaned Namjoon over a glass of scotch. It was Friday, the first night he had free in weeks, and it felt good to unwind after being frustrated by his bitchy neighbor for so long. Seriously, what was up with her? Did she think that just because she was hot she could get away with stealing peoples' mail?

"Again?" Jimin said in surprise, taking a sip of his own drink. "What about building management?"

"What do you mean?" Namjoon asked with a baffled furrow of his brow. Jimin lived in the same building, but on a different floor. Now that Namjoon thought about it, he'd also never heard his friend complain about a single package stolen.

"Do they just not bring up your stuff soon enough?" Jimin questioned, cocking his head. "The girl who brings the packages for my floor even organizes them by unit order."

What the hell was Jimin on about? That wasn't a thing. Oblivious to his friend's confusion, Jimin rambled on, and Namjoon pondered on this new mystery. The only person he'd ever seen picking up several packages was –

"She's really cute too, and she's always smiling."

Okay nevermind, it wasn't her. He doubted he'd seen an expression on her face other than irritation and spite. She was definitely attractive, but hot bitch wasn't really the type that turned him on.

"Oh, there she is, actually!" Jimin chirped in excitement, eyes sparkling as he waved at someone over Namjoon's shoulder. "Hey, [y/n]!"

The mystery girl in question greeted his friend with a vaguely familiar voice, and when Namjoon turned to see who it was, he felt his stomach drop.

You stared back, clearly just as shocked, and Namjoon did his best not to ogle. You weren't wearing anything outrageous, just tight-fitting jeans, a slinky top that hugged your curves, and heels that highlighted how your ass filled out said tight-fitting jeans. Even without the clothes, the smile on your face was enough to make his stomach do something funny, though it quickly faded when you recognized him.

"This is my friend Namjoon!" Jimin continued cheerfully, oblivious to the tense atmosphere suddenly hanging over the table. "He lives in our building! Namjoon, this is [y/n], she's the building person that brings up our packages."

You gave a forced smile, and Namjoon felt the beginning prickles of nausea and anxiety as he realized he might have made a tiny misjudgment.

"I just do it for our floor because it's on the way," you explained quietly, avoiding his gaze. The edges of your smile grew warmer when you looked at Jimin, transforming your face from glacial beauty to soft sincerity.

"Then I definitely owe you a drink," Jimin responded with a laugh, motioning for Namjoon to scoot over to give you room to sit. He obeyed woodenly, mind racing as guilt weighed down his heart.

"Don't worry about it," you assured him with a chuckle that made something in Namjoon's chest ache. "I'm about to walk home, anyway."

"Alone?"

You looked at Namjoon in surprise, and he realized he spoke aloud. He cleared his throat, feeling like a stupid lump as he looked down at his drink with warm cheeks. Despite the relative proximity of the apartment, he didn't like the idea of you alone this late at night.

"Yeah? It's not that far," you said suspiciously, as if waiting for a snide comment. It made his chest sink, though it wasn't as if you didn't have a good reason for your misgivings. He spoke up again, hoping maybe he could talk to you and have the chance to explain his earlier behavior.

"Why don't you have a drink with us, and we can all walk back together?"

To his surprise, you stiffened and the corners of your mouth tightened into a thin line.

"Why? So you can make me take another elevator?" you asked angrily, making Namjoon flush and Jimin look between the two of you in confusion. "No thanks, my week has been exhausting enough already. I'll see you around, Jimin."

With that, you stomped away in unfortunately righteous indignation, and Namjoon barely had time to admire the sway of your hips before Jimin piped up.

"What was that all about?" his friend asked with a frown, his usually twinkling eyes now boring into Namjoon's. He felt heat creep up his face as he sighed and began to tell Jimin the entire saga, from how he had assumed you were stealing packages and proceeded to close the elevator door in your face, to the current state of antagonism. By the time he was finished, his friend's mouth was hanging open, and he felt more embarrassment at just how childishly he had acted.

"Joonie, I'm just really surprised," said Jimin wonderingly as he rubbed his forehead. "It's not like you to be like that."

Namjoon winced, knowing he was right. He liked to think that he was the more mature, level-headed one of their friend group, above silly squabbles and petty revenge. Obviously he had overestimated himself.

"I hope you haven't done anything recently, I think she's been having a hard time at work," Jimin mused, and Namjoon felt the lead weight of guilt in his stomach grow heavier. At this rate it was going to fall out of his butt. "She was crying in the lobby yesterday."

Well fuck. He really was an asshole.

~~~~~

You had just arrived home and flopped facedown on your couch when your recharging was rudely interrupted by a knock at the door. With a groan, you forced yourself up and peered through your peephole. What the fuck?

You made sure your chain lock was fastened before you unlocked the latch and cracked the door open, peering at your visitor dubiously.

"What do you want?" you asked, eyeing a beaming Namjoon in suspicion. You had never seen him look so cheerful, and you had to remind yourself he was not a golden retriever, no matter how cute he looked with flour dusting his nose or how deep his dimples were.

"I made cookies," he said happily, and you realized he was holding a paper plate covered in crumpled tin foil. "To apologize for the way I've been acting towards you."

You felt your brows raise at his statement, and you cast your eyes behind him in mistrust. Where had this one-eighty come from? Was it just because his friend lived on your floor?

Namjoon's shoulders drooped slightly at your lack of response, and he began to shift in place awkwardly.

"Um, I just – so I know I've been a dick to you," he began, chewing his lip and looking adorably embarrassed. "This is gonna sound stupid but I thought you were stealing packages when I saw you holding all of them."

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

"You thought that I would steal a bunch of packages, in the building I live in, while other residents were around?" you asked incredulously, making Namjoon turn bright red and clear his throat.

"Well, when you put it that way…" he mumbled awkwardly. "I just… I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I hope we can start over."

He peered at you with such hopeful eyes that you felt your resolve crumble, and when you unhooked the chain from your door you could have sworn you saw a tail wagging.

"Okay," you replied, unable to keep yourself from smiling at the way he had perked up. Those dimples were serious weapons against your ability to hold a grudge. You held out your hand. "I'm [y/n], and I do not steal packages."

Namjoon laughed, a low, rich sound that you felt vibrate in your stomach, and took your hand in a firm, warm grip.

"I'm Namjoon, and I'm an idiot who jumps to crazy conclusions," he said with a grin that deepened the stupidly cute divots in his cheeks. Then he had to let go to save the wobbling plate of cookies from an untimely demise before holding it toward you with a look of chagrin.

You accepted his offering with a laugh, feeling like a warm bubble was floating in your chest. Then you bade your hot, not-asshole neighbor goodbye and set the plate on your kitchen table. You peeked under the foil, and decided maybe one cookie before dinner was acceptable. Or maybe two, if –

You took a bite of the soft, delicious looking pastry and immediately spat it out in disgust. What the fuck.

~~~~~

Namjoon Hyung! It worked!

Jin Wait, you actually made the cookies?

Namjoon Yes! They came out perfectly No fires and only a few cracked eggs on my floor!

Jin I'm impressed How'd they taste?

Namjoon Oh fuck

~~~~~

For the second time tonight, your evening was interrupted by unwelcome pounding at your door. You didn't even bother to check who it was this time.

"What do you have this time?" you snarled through the door, wondering if it was worth it to open it so you could strangle Namjoon's handsome neck. "Oreos with toothpaste filling?"

The knocking ceased, and a small, timid voice spoke up on the other side of the wood.

"Oh… you had one…"

"Unfortunately," you said shortly, crossing your arms in an attempt to keep his woebegone tone from softening your ire.

"I was hoping you hadn't yet," he wheezed through the door. "I forgot to taste them before I gave them to you."

He sounded sincere, and suddenly you realized he was speaking through pants, as if he was out of breath.

"Did you run all the way up here to warn me?" you asked in surprise, mollified enough to unlock your door and open it to reveal a rumpled looking Namjoon, bent over with his hands on his knees.

"Yeah – I didn't want to wait for the elevator," he replied, red-cheeked from exertion. "I'm sorry, I'm actually a disaster cook but I really thought I did a good job this time."

You felt your lips twitch into a smile at the imagine of tall, handsome Namjoon tasting a cookie and then immediately bolting up however many flights of stairs to stop you from eating them. What a clumsy idiot. A clumsy, adorable idiot.

"Do you want some water?" you asked, stepping aside to invite him in.

"That would be amazing," he gasped, giving you a grateful look as he walked inside. As he passed you, you noticed a few beads of sweat rolling down his temple. He really was even more attractive up close.

You directed him to sit on your couch as you grabbed a glass of water, and he picked up the book you had left on your coffee table.

"Oh, you read Murakami?" he asked as he looked at the cover. "I haven't read this one yet, is it any good?"

"It's my first, actually," you replied as you set the glass in front of him, sitting on the couch a respectable distance away. "I think he presents ideas of loneliness and intimacy in interesting ways. Does he always write the women as accessories to the male protagonists, though?"

"Haha… unfortunately, yes," Namjoon agreed, his dangerous dimples making another appearance as he smiled apologetically at you. "Do you read a lot?"

"I try, but not as much as I used to," you said with a sigh, letting your head fall back to rest on the back of your couch. "After work sometimes I'm too mentally exhausted to do anything but exist."

"But you still bring your floor's packages up?" Namjoon said in surprise, turning his wide chest towards you and giving you his full attention. You tried not to stare at the way his pecs strained against his plain white shirt, but between his body and his face there was nowhere safe for your gaze to land.

"It's not like it's that much extra effort," you said with a shrug. "Why wouldn't I when it's easy?"

"It wouldn't even cross most peoples' minds to do it," Namjoon replied, eyes locked on yours and making your cheeks feel warm. "You're a nice person, [y/n]."

"I-it's really not a big deal," you said feebly, your chest fluttering at the sincerity in his voice. You cast about your mind for a change in subject, because the way he was smiling at you was dangerous for your heart. "How did you fuck up those cookies so spectacularly, anyway?"

Your question worked to take that piercing gaze off of you, and Namjoon turned a pretty shade of pink as he looked down at his knees.

"I uh – I'm really not sure," he muttered in embarrassment, making you want to coo at how cute he was.

"Did you… follow a recipe?" you asked in consternation, watching his cheeks grow even redder.

"I… yeah, but…" he mumbled, eyes glancing around before settling on the glass of water. He grabbed it and took a large swig, and you did your best to ignore the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.

"But?" you urged, amusement lacing your voice as this once-asshole stammered and squirmed uncomfortably on your sofa.

"Why wouldn't more vanilla extract make it taste better?" Namjoon whined, making you put your hand over your mouth to hide a snort.

"Oh my god, you didn't," you giggled, his chagrined pout doing as much to endear him to you as the previous half our combined. "It also tasted like you switched salt for sugar."

"Dammit," he groaned, flopping backwards so he was oddly contorted on the couch, feet still on the ground but his hips twisted so his back was laying on your cushions. His knees knocked against yours and he shot back up with an apologetic look, but all you could do was laugh harder.

"My friend who gave me the recipe was just impressed I didn't burn anything down," he sighed, though he seemed relieved that you looked more amused than irritated.

"You… you really don't cook, do you?" you chortled, scooting a little closer so you could nudge his shoulder with yours.

"I'm your stereotypical bachelor," he replied with a sigh, draping an arm behind you, across the back of the couch. You felt your heart flutter again at the smooth combination of the physical action with the way he confirmed he was single.

"So no pretty ladies – or men – to teach you?" you teased, leaning further into his body. He met your eyes with his warm gaze, making butterflies erupt in your stomach.

"Nope," he murmured, arm slipping off the sofa to rest lightly atop your shoulders, so precarious that it was clear he was half-expecting you to shrug him off.

"I guess that means I should invite you to stay for dinner," you said with a smile, enjoying the ego boost when his eyes brightened.

"No pretty men – or ladies – who would be upset by that?" he hedged, those dastardly dimples making their reappearance as he leaned closer, gaze flickering to your lips. His arm slipped lower to hug your waist, and you let him pull you closer.

"Only one who would be upset if you refused," you murmured with a smirk, tangling your fingers in his shirt as you tugged him toward you.

His lips were warm against yours, even softer than they looked, and you let out a pleased sigh as you melted into his firm chest. A low groan rumbled from his throat, sending warm tingles shooting from your chest through your limbs, and you sucked his plump lower lip between your teeth.

"I really just thought you were a hot asshole," you said with a laugh, pulling away despite the heat beginning to settle in your core.

"I mean, I was definitely an asshole," he mumbled, cheeks pink as his gaze stayed glued to your lips. Then his eyes widened. "Uh, h-hot?"

You snorted at his surprise, giving him a very obvious once over. Namjoon's face flamed even redder, which was absolutely adorable.

"Have you seen yourself?" you teased, letting your hands rest on his shoulders.

"Nah, too busy looking at you," he replied quietly, and it was your turn to be flustered. How had he turned the tables like that so quickly?

"Ha ha," you said awkwardly, cursing yourself for your inability to formulate a coherent response. He was supposed to be the idiot, not you. At your response, those dimples made their reappearance, and you stood up to prevent yourself from melting into a gooey puddle.

"Anyway, I'm gonna start dinner."

You said it in a rush, in the hopes that Namjoon didn't realize how giddy he was making you.

"Oh! Let me help!"

He began to get up from the couch, and you promptly shoved him back down.

"For the love of god, please don't," you teased with a laugh, pressing a kiss on his nose to ease the sting of your words. "Just sit there and look pretty. Moral support."

Namjoon smiled back at you, eyes warm and affectionate, and you wondered if you would even be able to focus properly while this mancake was lounging on your couch.

"As you wish."

~~~~~

#bts fanfiction #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts xyou #kim namjoon x reader #namjoon x reader #bts fluff #kim namjoon fluff

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steddieasitgoes · 2 years

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Eddie is a rockstar at the Grammys and Steve is a clueless seat filler who sits next to him.

Walking around campus, Robin stumbles across a flyer encouraging people to apply to be seat fillers for the award season set to begin in Los Angeles. Robin brings it home to Steve and the two jokingly apply. They think nothing of it until three weeks before the Grammy Awards when they are sent a long email full of rules and NDAs for them to sign. At this point Steve tries to back out but Robin won’t let him -- promising that it’ll be fun and if it’s not he can take her to a basketball game of his choosing and she won’t complain once.

Fast-forward to the event and it’s not as glamorous as Robin was expecting. They’re not allowed to talk to any of the celebrities they sit next to and most of the time they’re standing out in the hall waiting for someone to leave their seat.

It’s a whole lot of waiting until 1/3 of the way into the broadcast when the artists start getting antsy and begin to mingle at the lobby bar. Robin gets sent out on seat filler business first and get shuffled around a few times before she winds up in the back of the line of fillers in the hallway. When another seat is vacated, she pushes Steve to the front since he hasn’t seen any of the show yet -- too busy letting others go in front of him because they are all more excited than him.

The coordinator escorts him to a row near the back of the celebrity section and instructs him to sit in the seat next to a gorgeous long-haired men with the most beautiful brown eyes Steve’s ever seen. The man in question smiles and nods his head in acknowledgment before turning back to the conversation he was having with his seat mate.

Several minutes pass and Steve waits for the coordinator to come get him but no one does. During the next commercial break, the gorgeous man turns and starts chatting with him. Steve knows he’s not allowed to talk to the talent, but he doesn’t recognize the guy so he figures he must be another seat filler. The guy’s not dressed in a suit like the rest of the celebrities and he’s all the way in the back of the section so he figures he must not be someone important. They spend the next three commercial breaks mindlessly chatting about the acts and Steve learns this guy is really passionate about music.

If he’s honest, he’s sort of smitten with this dude and he doesn’t even know his name. He tells himself at the next commercial break he’s going to ask what his name is and spends the next several minutes brainstorming how to casually bring it up.

All of it is for not, though, because suddenly the Grammy Award for Best Metal Performance is being announced and there’s a camera next to Steve pointed directly on the beautiful man beside him. The nominees are read and the beautiful man smiles bashfully at the camera when “Chrissy Song” Lyrics by Eddie Munson, performed by Corroded Coffin is announced. And then he’s leaping to his feet when the song wins and Steve watches in stunned silence as the beautiful man (aka Eddie Munson) graciously pats him on the shoulder before scooting past him to accept his Grammy Award.

Steve feels embarrassed and tries to run for the hills -- surely he should have known who this Eddie guy was and yet all of that disappears when Eddie makes some comment about this being the best night of his life -- not just because he won a fucking Grammy but also because his manager is MIA leaving him sitting next to the cutest seat filler of all time.

(Robin shouts at Steve for three whole days when they get back to their apartment and they watch the recorded broadcast. The shouting stops on day four, but starts back up on day five when she receives an email from the coordinator asking for Steve’s contact information.

Eddie calls him half an hour later.)

#steddie #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #platonic stobin #stobin ficlet #steve harrington ficlet #eddie munson ficlet #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #dani writes

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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I Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, medical procedures including dialysis and chronic illness, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Pete Brenner, short!reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

It's not the treatments themselves but the constancy. This isn't just one day, this is the rest of your life. Several days a week walking through those doors, spending hours with a needle in your arm, only to walk away feeling nauseous and dizzy.

The effects only last a few hours, just until your blood pressure evens out, but it's enough to put you out for the rest of the day. With a bandage on your arm, you fold up your laptop and slide it into your bag. What better way to multitask but work while you have the life drained from you. Well, the alternative is hardly preferable, a grizzly, toxic death of drowning in your own waste. You've always been an optimist.

You take a moment before you leave, trying to steady the hazy lines in your vision. You take a breath and leave the office, bidding a quick farewell to Louise, your attending nurse. Outside of the clinic and work, you don't get out much, and much of the latter you can do from home.

You go down the clanging metal stairs to the lobby. As you cross the floor, a man stands by the index of offices, scratching his flopping hair as he glances over. You give a sheepish arch of your brows and tuck your chin down.

"Hey," he stops you before you reach the door, "er, I'm looking for the Wellness Studio? Er..." He turns to you as you stop with your hand on the front door, "Colson's?"

You furrow your brow. That sounds familiar but you really don't know about anything else in the building. You just come here to get your dialysis.

"Erm, I..." you peek out the window and see the sign across the street, red font on a white background, "is that it?"

You point to the moniker that reds 'Colson's' and the man nears to look over your shoulder. He blows out a huff and tuts, "oh god, I must seem like a moron."

"Uh, no..." you push through the door and he catches it behind you, extending his arm over your head.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he nudges your arm as he follows you outside.

"Mhmm," you turn down the sidewalk, set on your path to the station.

"Hey, wait, can I get a name?" He sprints up next to you, "you've been so helpful--"

You look at him, unused to that level of familiarity. You're not exactly that discernable from the brickwall beside you. Your expression must betray your confusion and surprise.

"Just a name," he says as he puts out his hand, "Pete. So, trade?"

You hide your discomfort and reach to shake his hand, eking out your name. You clear your throat and glance around him, not wanting to be rude. You're not quite sure how to gently mention that your train is due.

"So, you come here often?" He stretches his arm out to lean on the brick facade, hand pushing his jacket back as he grips his hip.

You nod and peer around. He's a stranger even if you know his name. You're not very fond of those.

"Am I keeping you?" He asks coolly.

"I just... gotta catch the train," you utter, "sorry, I--"

You go to step around him and he pushes away from the wall, blocking your way, "alright, alright, can I get a number?"

"Er, oh, no," you blurt out in shock, "no, I mean... I don't know you."

He rolls his eyes and smirks, "yeah you do, I'm Pete."

You shake your head and step sideway again. He moves with you. Your chest boils with frustration and a tint of fear. This is why you shouldn't talk to strange men. Especially men twice your size.

"Woah, woah, don't look so scared, honey, I'm not gonna hurt you," he puts his hands down, "I just think you're a cutie. Forgive me for being so forward." He backs away, "don't let me keep you, you go on and get your train."

You frown, uneasy at his sudden appeasment. You swallow and step past him cautiously. You keep your head straight and march down the sidewalk between the passing pedestrians. Their indifference makes you feel even more uneasy.

As you go to turn the corner towards the station, you look back. The man stands amidst the city rush, unbothered by those around him as he watches you, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his dark red blazer. You shudder and scurry behind the shield of the buildings. You might just ask to go out the back door next time.

#pete brenner #dark pete brenner #dark!pete brenner #pete brenner x reader #pain hustlers #series #drabble #i knew you were trouble when you walked in

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firemeyr · 2 months

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WOO this one ran away from me, not going to lie. Loved writing it though :D Prompts used, courtesy of @stealthetrees: 'Commander Fox becomes super popular among the Jedi younglings cause he takes them on field trips around Coruscant since it’s too dangerous to go elsewhere' and 'in an effort to make Coruscant better, the Guard attempts to root out crime syndicates. This sparks a 3 way turf war that rages in the lower levels. ' ____

His comm was beeping rapidly. Quick busts of three high-toned notes, one after another. Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep. Beep beep be—

Fox groaned into the crook of his arm, his right hand haphazardly slapping his left vambrace, managing to shut up the alarm. And thank the stars for that. He just needed five minutes of peace. Five minutes! He hadn’t even been asleep, just, contemplating the risks and rewards of taking that much needed nap. His allotted despair time however, was up. It wasn’t worth it.

He slid into a proper sitting position, plastiod armor dragging against the metal desk. Propping his face up in his hands, Fox just groaned. It was better than slamming his face into his desk. As alluring as that route was–he might even get mandated rest if he managed to knock himself out–his CMO would kill him if he caught wind that Fox did it on purpose. With one last prayer to the stars to be struck down by a freak malfunction in Coruscant’s weather, he was ready to brave the world once more. Well, he could say he was.

His vambraces clattered against his desk as he dropped his arms, pushing himself to his feet in the same movement. Bent over his desk, he pushed things to the side, halfheartedly trying to tidy it. He could at least stack similar pieces of flimsy and data work together, enough so that he had a clear spot in the middle of his desk. Always had him feeling a bit better, not quite so overwhelmed when he sat down for a long night of signing document after document when he could at least put his caf somewhere.

As he always did, Fox had someplace to be, unable to linger at his desk for long. Once a space was carved out for him to return too, Fox swiped his bucket from the floor and shoved it on his head. Helmet adjusted and back ramrod straight, he did not hesitate as he stepped out into the hallway, office door sliding shut behind him.

Messages hovered unread at the corner of his HUD, red numbers blinking and begging to be read. Flicking his eyes over to them, the messages expanded, allowing him to at least glance over their contents. Several were standard update messages, monotonous and unimportant in nature. One was from Wolffe, still lingering from Centaxday at the bottom of the list. The most recent one was from the Jedi temple, simply an automated reminder of his scheduled event for today.

Oh yes, how could he forget. Fox was the lucky commander chosen to take some probably snot covered jedi younglings on a field trip. Because why wouldn’t he. He just had so much time to spare for these kinds of things that were definitely written into his job description.

Fox closed the messages, his shoulders sinking slightly with a deep exhale. Best to just arrive on time and get this over with. It wasn’t his first rodeo with younglings, nor would it be his last.

The sterile hallway around him opened up, brightening near instantly as he stepped into the main lobby. Several large windows let in what natural light there was on Coruscant, while lamps made up for any dark shadows. Chairs lined the walls, well in view of the half circle desk in the middle of the room. It wasn’t uninviting persay, far from it apparently, but Fox knew it was carefully crafted that way. Their lobby wasn’t one of the most well maintained rooms in the base for no reason.

He nodded to the trooper sitting at the desk, they glancing up at him and nodding in return before ducking back down into their own work. Fox paused at the desk, his hip leaning up against the false-wood. The lobby was clearly still empty and there wasn’t anyone lingering past the glass doors. He had at least a few minutes to kill if the Jedi dropping off the younglings could be trusted.

Reopening the messages, Fox simply scrolled through the updates, only ending up replying to one, and even that hadn’t been urgent. Inbox clear, he stared at Wolffe’s message, most of it cut off in the preview. He had been meaning to reply to it since it was first sent but—life just didn’t stop on Coruscant.

The force was out to prove him correct, as the moment the thought of opening Wolffe’s message entered his head, the lobby’s doors slid open. Closing the messages and standing up straight once more, Fox saluted the Jedi in front of him.

The Mon Calamari Jedi waved his salute away, “Wonderful to see you again, Commander.” “Sir.” He nodded, sight dropping to the two younglings in front of the Jedi.

Twi’lek girl–Ayyn if he remembered correctly–waved at him, rocking back and forth on her heels. She had definitely been excitable the last time he took her on a tour, but listened well enough. The other, a Bothan, was holding tight to the Jedi’s hands, half hidden by their robes as they eyed Fox suspiciously.

Master Dreti, the Jedi’s name finally came to Fox, slipped his hand out of the youngling’s pushing him gently forward. “This is Tav, Commander. He’s a bit nervous about his first field trip.”

Tav clutched his hands tightly in front of himself, body swiveling to look back at Master Dreti. The jedi simply made a shooing motion with his own hands, his face tugged up in an approximate smile.

Fox bit back a sigh and dropped down into a crouch, his elbows resting on his knees and hands brushing up against one another as they hung. Eye to eye with Tav, pardoning the helmet, Fox tried to soften his voice, “It’s good to meet you, Tav. I’m Commander Fox. Just going to be taking you on a little field trip around Coruscant. I swear every other youngling has enjoyed it–right Ayyn?” Ayyn nodded her head viscously, “Yeah! I knowww I told you all about my last one, c’mon!”

Tav looked between Fox and Ayyn. His ears twitched once as he looked back at Fox. “One field trip, kid. If you don’t like it, you never have to go on one with me again, alright?” He shifted his weight, letting one heel fall flat as he offered a hand to Tav. Palm up right and inviting, simply waiting.

Tav hesitated, shifting on his hooves. He glanced at Ayyn and Master Dreti once more. Finally, he reached out and took Fox’s hand. A smile tugged at Fox’s face under his bucket, one he didn’t bother to stamp down. Not like they could see it anyways.

“Good to have you joining us, Tav.” Pushing himself back up with his one planted foot, he stood face to face with Master Dreti again. Tav had tightened his grip on Fox’s fingers as Fox adjusted himself. A moment later and Fox was glancing down at his opposite side, Ayyn having bounded over and practically wrapped herself around his right arm. He felt the smile draining off of his face.

Master Dreti chuckled at the sight, tucking his arms into his overly flowy robes. “I will see you in two hours, younglings. Do behave for the Commander.” He finished his words off with a shallow bow, turning away and exiting the building, everything seemingly having been said.

Fox didn’t feel like it had been. Sure he knew the plan, who these kids were and where to take them, but he always just felt a step behind when it came to handling younglings. Maybe it was the whole force crap.

“Right, off we go then.” He shook Ayyn off of his arm, she doing most of the work as she gladly bounded ahead and out of the building. Tav didn’t seem to be keen on letting him go, walking so close to Fox that he may as well be trying to fuse himself to the armor. Not that Fox was set on forcing the youngling off of him though, it was easier if they could get through this trip without any fussing.

The walk to the bus station, thankfully, wasn’t long. Being quite frankly anywhere in the Senate district, sentients had places after places to visit. There was never a station too far away in this district, simply out of convenience for those poor sentients. Ayyn stayed within Fox’s sight, never wondering too far ahead. She constantly looked back and reeled herself in. Perhaps him snapping at her for wondering too far off ahead last time had stuck with her.

Sentients glanced at Fox, avoided him as he walked past. Even once they had come to pause at the station, despite how many were all waiting on the same shuttlebus, they let him have his own personal bubble. Their chatter quieted down and the stares weren’t exactly hard to feel. Fox kept staring straight ahead.

Ayyn slowly slunk back to his side as they waited. Shuffling step by step closer until she too, was pressed up against his side. Lekku occasionally hitting his side, Fox could feel her glancing around them, at the space they were given.

“Couldn’t we have just taken a speeder?” She whispered, tugging on Fox’s arm.

He did not look down, still staring out at the lanes of traffic, waiting for their vehicle to finally come in sight. “No, your Master said it was good to get accustomed to Coruscant public transit.”

Ayyn groaned, head bonking against Fox’s armor before she shifted away, seemingly unable to stay still for more than a couple seconds.

The shuttlebus hissed to a stop in front of the station, rocking to stop in the air, level with the platform beneath their feet. Sentients flew out of the vehicle as soon as the doors opened, their stream of movement quickly replaced with the many sentients boarding after them. Fox let himself and the younglings fall to the back of the line. He’d rather avoid the accusations of stealing a good seat from a natborn.

Ayyn took the brave step in front of Fox, boarding first. She shivered as she met the constantly cycling air inside of the bus, it surely being colder than the air outside. Only taking a moment to pause and look over the bus, Ayyn slid into the first row of seats, they left empty. Good, they could all sit together. Fox, as much as he might want to avoid conflict right now, wasn’t above kicking someone out of their seat so he could stay with the younglings.

Ayyn pressed up against the window seat, Tav hesitantly sitting next to her once Fox had wriggled his hand out of Tav’s. Sitting down, the aisle to his exposed right side, the bus finally jerked to a start, joining the ever constant flow of traffic.

“Ayyn.” Fox spoke curtly, the girl already turned to look out the window. “Did Master Dreti give the two of you the rundown?”

“Mmhm! ‘Said we’re visiting the Fobosi District today!” “Yeah, Master said I should really like it, being forestry and all, I think?” Tav piped up, catching Fox only slightly off guard. He hadn’t expected that many words out of the seemingly shy kid.

“Correct. The Fobosi District was founded by many sentients collectively missing the nature of their homeworlds. It is now known to hold the most parks out of any of Coruscant's districts, as well as being home to several plant nurseries, plant shops, and traditional medicinal clinics.” “Oh..” Was Tav’s quiet reply, face tilted downward and furred face scrunched together. “What about the temple? We have all those things and more.”

“I’m sure that you do, but this is simply our destination for today. I’m certain you will find something new there.” He tried to sound confident, masking the fact that he honestly had no clue what Tav expected. Fox had never visited those areas of the Jedi Temple, he didn’t know what the jedi took a liking to and what they didn’t.

Fox leaned back in his seat, leaving the kids to their own. Ayyn resumed looking out the window, often tugging on Tav to point out things, their quiet chatter all too easy for Fox to tune out. He kept his sight roaming over the sentients on the bus, both those sitting and those leaving and those entering at every stop. He couldn’t help but be hypervigilant while away from base, younglings at his side or not. The war was only worsening tensions between clones and civilians, not to mention the ruckus that lower level gangs had been stirring up recently.

“Station 684, Fobosi District, now arriving at Station 684.” The voice crackled over the intercom, muffled with static as it was pushed out of old and half-broken speakers.

Ayyn and Tav were close on his heels as Fox stood stiffly at the announcement, being the first one to exit the bus. This sector of Coruscant was immediately and clearly far, far different from the scenery Fox was usually surrounded by. They had sunk quite a few levels, shadows towering and cutting off most of the sun. It didn’t feel dark, the streets and buildings practically bathed in lamp lights mimicking the sun. Green grew from just about every crack and cove in the district, so much so that they might as well have been drowning in it. “Woah..” Tav whispered at his side, hand fumbling against Fox’s before he found a hold.

Ayyn spun in a tight circle next to Fox, head tilted up and eyes sparkling as she took in the sights. Fox let the chuckle slip out of his mouth. They were just two shinies, stepping foot into what was possibly one of Fox’s favorite districts. It was popular among the Guard for a reason.

“C’mon, airheads. More to see than this.” He waved Ayyn along, Tav, predictably, still right at his side.

Leading the two jedi younglings through the streets, Fox settled into his role as not only a guard, but as a tour guide. He pointed out buildings and plaques, spilling the history of this district he had learned. He pointed out streets and their names and tried not to go into too much detail, like how during his 3rd visit to this district, he had met the great, great grandson of whom Valax St. had been named after.

He let them pause at a sunlamp, great vines covered in yellow flowers snaking up the pole, and let Ayyn wave to another child on the street who was, apparently, kind in the force, despite their parent who ushered their child away. He sighed when Tav complained for the third time about hurting hooves, picking up the youngling and letting him sit on one arm, his other still more than free to point out landmarks. He kept Ayyn in sight, she always a few bounding steps ahead, focusing on her rather than the blinking notifications in the corner of his HUD.

Their path through the district led them to a small park, metal walkways covered with dirt and fenced off. Grass sprung brightly from the dirt and trees waved in the wind caused by Coruscant's constantly recycled and refreshed air.

“This park was established thanks to the Lisar family from Naboo roughly half a century ago. Nearly all the plants here are taken directly from Naboo, including several endangered species, where they are allowed to grow uninterrupted here.” Fox repeated, summarizing approximately, the research he had done on the Lisar Park. It was a nice place really, but it was unlikely the younglings were going to remember half the words he spoke, as enraptured as they were.

“Oh! Oh! A pond!” Ayyn tugged at Fox, pulling him forward only slightly before bounding off towards the water glistening under sunlamps. “Yes a–” Ayyn was already at the water’s edge, leaning over to look at the fish swimming through the water. “--Koi pond.” Fox gently lowered Tav to his own hooves once they joined Ayyn’s side. Tav dropped to his knees, staring intensely at the water as he dipped his finger into the pond. Fox stood behind them, half heartedly observing them. Mostly, he stared lazily out at the walking paths that bent around the Koi pond. The park wasn’t exactly busy today, but Fox had yet to be disappointed by his never-too-careful philosophy.

Several sentients wandered by before any caught his attention. The simple presence of a Falleen had him tensing, scanning their body for any mark of the Black Sun. Said mark laid half-exposed as a tattoo on their neck. Fox loosened his stance, standing between the two younglings as he quickly sent out his own update.

This wasn’t Black Sun territory. Not only was it far too high for them, but it had remained in Guard control almost since they had begun purging the planet of her many crime syndicates. His message, bare and quick, was sent out to his fellow guard the same moment the Black Sun member noticed him. They paused, eyes locked with Fox’s helmet, hand twitching towards a hidden gun.

“Get out of here, Falleen.” Fox hissed out, voice cold and commanding.

The gang member glanced between the two younglings and Fox, a laugh slipping from their mouth, “Or what, Clone? I’m not the only one here.”

That was more than enough information for Fox to act on. He lunged at the Falleen, knocking them to the ground. Pinning their throat to the ground gave him the delay he needed to pull his pistol out and stun the man beneath him. Would hurt waking up from that, but Fox couldn’t exactly get himself to care a whole lot for them.

Standing, he took a picture of the knocked out Falleen, if for nothing but identification purposes. Gave them a reason to push even further into Black Sun territory, if he escaped, if nothing else. Turning on his heel, Fox slipped his pistol back into its holster, once more facing the two younglings. They both stood upright now, wide eyed and speechless.

“Field trip’s over. Let's go.” He beckoned the children towards him, setting off on a brisk pace, following the path they had taken into the garden.

Commander Thorn’s holoprojection appeared above his wrist not a moment after he dialed the man, “Saw your message–” “Yeah,” Fox cut him off, looking to his side as he spoke. Good, the kids were keeping up. “Apparently he isn’t the only one. Guessing they’re going to try to encircle our lands. I needed a squad here about five minutes ago. Get on it.”

“Yes sir. Con and his men should be with you in eight minutes,” “Tell them to make it kriffing six.”

“Will do. K'oyacyi.” “K'oyacyi.”

Fox was forced to slow his steps as he hung up on Thorn, Tav grasping for his hand. The little Bothan taking three steps for every one of Fox’s. Ayyn, too, was just barely staying in stride with Fox.

“What was–What was that?” Ayyn’s voice trembled, glancing over her shoulder at where the pond was once visible. “Coruscant, Kid. Keep moving.” His voice had lost any of the warmth he might’ve once had as he spoke to the children, far too worried about keeping his eye out for threats.

He might’ve enjoyed this, might’ve made it a little game of cat and mouse between him and the unsuspecting Black Sun delinquents, were it not for Ayyn and Tav. He needed them to be back at base, at the temple. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if Black Sun even tried to use the jedi younglings against them.

Metal rang out beneath their feet as they stepped out of the quiet garden, the sudden increase in sentients around them painfully obvious to Fox. The pushed through the crowds, Fox no longer caring about going with the flow, like they had on their first time walking these streets together.

Fox retraced their steps faithfully, leading them closer and closer to the bus stop. An arbitrary and uncommunicated meeting spot, sure, but it was familiar for the kids and well out in the open. Easy for his guards to spot him, and easy for him to keep an eye on their surroundings.

A blaster bolt whizzed past his neck, scorching the plastiod armor. It bent unnaturally, running straight into a wall, harmless, besides for some vines. Startled yells filled the air, sentients clearing out of their way. “Sorry–Stars!” Tav squeaked out, “I just–there was–” “Shut it.” Fox took the clear sign and sped up their pace, scooping Tav into his arms before breaking into a sprint, Ayyn only barely able to keep up with the pace, her face twisted with the effort.

Fox counted the seconds in his head as they ran. They were a minute ahead of the meeting time as the bus stop came into view. He skidded to a stop, nearly dropping Tav to the ground as he unholstered his pistols, pointing them towards the ground as he stared at every sentient who had even dared to show their face today. Ayyn was several moments behind Fox, coming to a gradual stop. She doubled over herself, hands on her knees, barely propping herself up as she caught her breath.

A blue blaster bolt skimmed past Fox’s helmet, unflinching as a guard speeder made itself clear in the flow of traffic, redirecting its course to land near the trio. Fox grinned at the sound of a body thunking to the ground.

“Half a minute early, Con!”

“Figured I should try to stay on your good side, Commander.” The trooper yelled out as his partner pulled the speeder to the ledge, Con hopping onto solid ground.

“More effective if I could have someone haul these two back to base.” Fox tilted his head down to the two jedi younglings, already nudging them closer to the guard speeders, where three more had parked alongside Con’s.

“Yes sir.” Con gestured towards two of his men to stay on their speeders, the rest already joining him on solid ground.

Fox guided Ayyn and Tav over to the speeders, pausing before he helped them on. “Hope you two had fun, try not to tell Master Dreti too much about this part of the trip.” Warmth finally bleeding back into his voice as he spoke.

Moments later and they were off, heading back to the Guard’s base. Fox did not spare the time to watch them disappear. He joined Con’s side, pistols comfortably in his hands. The Black Sun was sorely mistaken if they thought that Fox was just going to let the Fobosi District slip away from him. ____

@tazmbc1 and @whiskygoldwings , I believe you both wanted to be tagged? Severely sorry if I misread it and you didn't.

#commander fox #commander thorn #cc 1010 #jedi #minor oc roles #star wars #tcw #writing #I think Fox is the kinda guy who really wants to hate children #but he just cant #my writing

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aplaceforyourhearttorest · 4 months

Text

Baseline ༯ Lars Ulrich (18+)

Your sports bag clings to your upper hip like a second skin as you make your way inside of the town you're visiting's local tennis club, an easygoing and excited smile lifting your reddened features despite your distain towards the engulfing heat, and its accompanied dry air making everything seem much more dense and heavier. The sound of children's animated laughter and the scuffs of their court shoes easily take over the now fading dual cacophony of blaring horns and annoyed shouts from the stoplight now a few yards away, and you nearly close your eyes in bliss as a cool breeze filters through, while the door slowly closes to latch itself behind your half clothed and cloying back.

They widen instead and quickly flicker to the right as a cold hand encircles itself around your forearm to fully tug you in, and you force yourself to take in a shaky breath as a girl around your age sends you an apologetic grimace and hastily takes a step back, her hand falling in tow. "Sorry about that, you probably couldn't hear me over all of the kids," she falters out, the slight stutter in her cadence and her obvious nervousness helps the rest of your hesitance and wariness dissipate. "You just look like a volunteer, and we're ten more kids away from a disaster and a shit show. I'm pulling at straws here."

"Well, luckily for you," You start, before playfully trailing off. Grinning amusedly at her words, you blindly reach back in search for the zipper on your bag, your eyes squinting with the enormity of your mirth as she lets out a cheer as soon as she sees the forest green polo in your raised fist. "What's going on, anyway? The last time I was here to sign up, this place was deserted, and now I can barely even see the exit to the courts from here." You raise an eyebrow as a group of excited parents and young teenagers eagerly make their way through the crowd, the matching shirts they have on and the lettering printed on them blurred with how fast they were clumsily attempting to travel through the packed lobby and front room. You halfheartedly toss your assigned shirt over your head, tugging your ponytail out of the back of the collar as you look around and shift your bag to each shoulder to slide your arms through the sleeve holes.

"Some metal band surprised us with a donation and agreed to come and watch the kids play for the day. They thought it would help us raise some more funds for the tennis club we've been saving up for to build on the other side of town." Your grin softens at her answer, and you allow her to grab ahold of your arm again to help guide you through the ever growing crowd, it beginning to look more like a concert than a place for people to play and practice at with each second that passes. By the time you two make it to the exit and open double doors, shoulders and elbows are leaning into your own and almost forcibly pushing you forward. Relief floods through you as the familiar hot and bright rays of sunbeams beat down on you as you two finally make it past the doors, and you have to rush to duck as a man yells and thrusts his hands in your direction. Falling down into a squat, you murmur a rushed curse and hold back an incredulous laugh as the man behind you nearly jumps over your crouched form in haste to make it further into the traveling crowd.

The hand still clutching onto you tugs you toward the left, near a half empty and older looking tennis court, and you wince as you feel droplets of sweat collect on the precipice of your eyebrows and temple. "We're only going to be teaching the kids how to ground stroke and approach, so we have the easy beginner's class today." You lift a hand to brush away the perspiration before straightening your fingers out and using them as a makeshift visor, your expression easing up and softening as the eager handfuls of kids look at you two with anticipation, the rackets in their hands almost looking too heavy for them to carry on their own. They let out a synchronized cheer once you two ask if they're ready to learn and have some fun, and your prior excitement for volunteering comes back full swing as you watch them attempt to balance their softened balls on their specialized rackets.

After you two eventually ease into your roles and you manage to almost perfect the moves with a shy boy who was struggling earlier on, you glance over after feeling eyes on you for a while and freeze as yours effortlessly meet with a familiar pair of green. What once were long bangs are now layered and cut short and pushed back, and the soft face you used to always hold onto and look forward to seeing, is now half covered in neat and maintained facial hair. Yet, his eyes still looked the same. You think they always will. The sound of your racket and tennis ball audibly connecting with the hard surface of the court's ground shocks you out of your stupor, and you hurriedly bend down to grab ahold of them once again. Brushing off your new friend's worry, you throw yourself back into coaching and demonstrating, pressuring yourself not to look back over at the man you haven't seen in almost six years. The man who left you behind.

༯

Despite knowing Lars could be as little and less than twenty feet away, you still had an amazing time. Acting out the plays and beginner moves ended up helping you let out some of your own personal frustration, and the kids' sounds of awe every time you and your co-volunteer reenacted an actual game made it even better. By the time you two set up and scored three games of doubles so each child would be able to play an all set, and they were tired out and ready to head home, the sun was setting, and the earlier crowd of parents and add on relatives was drastically dwindling down. You graciously accept the towel being handed to you and chug down the nearest cold drink, before flipping the plastic cup over with a flick of your thumb and index finger onto the folding table in front of you, grinning victoriously as you get a single round of applause after it lands on its head.

You reach back to fan yourself off with the back of your shirt, before taking it off once again, the sports bra you have on underneath nearly being completely soaked through. "Don't think any rockstars are going to want to get near or between any of this." Your new friend comments with her hand gesturing in between the two of you. You glance down before shrugging, using one of your hands to flatten out the wrinkles embedded in your dirtied skirt. "Least of my worries." You rebut, refusing to allow the tone in your voice to waver or sound emotional.

If she notices anything off about your response, she doesn't bring it up or acknowledge it. "You should stick back for a while. There are public showers, and management is supposed to be throwing a private thank you party for the band that came and stayed here all day," before you can decline, she continues. "The drummer was the one that ended up planning for them to stay. My friend told me that the guys were looking over the list of volunteers and the schedule, and once they were done, he came up with the idea on the spot. Either way, it helped out a lot of people." You nod along, swallowing thickly, the urge to flee turning into a feeling of defeat once you realize that he had the band come and stay back to have the opportunity to see you again. If he went through all of that trouble, then he should at least have the chance and the opportunity to get to say a proper goodbye.

"Yeah, I'll stay back," you accede, reaching down to grasp onto the thick strap of your bag once you hear footsteps approaching from behind. You look over your shoulder to find him stopping mid step, his expression full of uncertainty and something else, maybe hope. "How about I meet up with you in the bathroom, so we can both take a shower? I'll just be a minute or two." She agrees and goes to walk toward the double doors, only stopping in her tracks once to peer back at you with a knowing glint in her eye.

You shakily run your thumb over the uneven and worn out velcro of the strap, before nodding your head to the side and making your way over to an empty court. Bright light emanating from one of the office's sensors luminates the area, and the dangling earring in his ear shines and reflects onto the metal pole beside you, causing mini orbits of artificial trails of short illumination. "You did all of this so you could say goodbye?" You watch as the expression on Lars' face turns bleak, hopeless.

"Five and half years ago, I left to go to California," He states, and you nod, sending him a look of confusion. "Five years and two months ago, I wrote you my first letter, and I didn't get one sent back saying your apartment was vacant until three months later. Which means that for the past five and a half years, I haven't had the chance to tell you how sorry I am for not saying goodbye to you before I left." You sharply inhale, narrowing your eyes to try and collect the tears threatening to fall. You place your bag onto the floor so you can wrap your arms around yourself for comfort.

"I couldn't stay there anymore. We practically lived there together for the entire two years of the lease, and it didn't feel the same once you were gone. I had to get out," you confess, finally finding enough courage to consistently look him in the eye. "I understand why you're here, and if closure is what you need, I can give that to you. I don't know why you'd need it, you've been doing really well these past few years," you loosen an arm to wipe a stray tear off of your cheek, each inhale and exhale you manually take feeling like it'll be the last the longer you look back at him. "No matter what happened to have you leave without saying goodbye to me, I am still, so, completely fucking proud of you. I know how much work you put in to get to where you are today. All of you guys, really. I keep up."

Lars laughs wetly, temporarily shocking you still as his eyes well up. "You've been keeping up with us?" He breathes out in question, awe weighing down his tone, the way he shakes his head showing his genuine disbelief and surprise. "Yeah," you smile. "You, James, Cliff, Kirk and Jason." You recollect with ease, biting your bottom lip to hide a small smile. Lars reaches an arm out to touch you, but then stops himself, causing your hidden smile to falter.

"I didn't not say goodbye because you did something wrong," he reveals, gazing at you intently, as if he were to look away then you'd disappear. "I had a fear that if I were to say goodbye to you, then that would be the end of us, or of where we were at. I know that's fucking stupid, and it doesn't make any sense, but that's where my head was at. We were in a really good place, and I knew that if I were to tell you that I had a plan set in stone and that I had a feeling things were going to work out this time, you would have packed all of your things and moved with me. I couldn't do that to you. You finally had your own life, and you were stable, and if you were to have left with me, it would have fucked everything up for you."

You furrow your eyebrows in exasperation and take a step forward, watching as his pupils dilate the closer you get to him. "I would have gone with you regardless, because I love you." You blurt, closing your eyes in mortification as soon as you realize what you just admitted. Silence rings in your ears momentarily, and your heart pounds, before you begin to hear movement coming towards you. You jump as a warm and slightly calloused hand lightly grips onto your chin and tilts your head upward. "Look at me," Lars asks of you, pleads. "Please, just look at me."

Hope stares back at you, and you meet it with your own as you reach up to encapsulate your hand around his. "I haven't stopped loving you. Regardless of what you may have seen or read, within every second I've been awake, my first and last thought of every single day have been and are always about you. As soon as I saw your name on the list, I knew I had to try. No matter the risk of whether or not you hated me, I just needed to see you again. Needed to make sure you were alright, to see if you were real." His accent slurs and thickens as he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, and he shudders around a flattened exhale as you wrap your free hand and arm around his shoulders to bring him in closer. You feel his heartbeat against your own chest, and subconsciously, they begin to synchronize. You grin as his nose brushes atop yours, and you let out a loud guffaw at the look on his face as he leans in to kiss you, and you back away.

"You can't kiss me here," You banter, your grin widening as he looks at you in confusion. You nod down toward the court's ground, where you two stand in between the service line and the baseline. "We're in no man's land. We've got to follow the rules. I thought you were the original tennis master. Unless you forgot?" Lars glances down at your lips and you shudder, the look in his eyes still familiar after all these years. A strong arm wraps itself around your middle and lifts you up, and you watch him smile to himself as your arm resting on top of his shoulders tightens with caution. You hesitantly wrap your legs around his waist and begin to relax once you felt sure he wasn't going to let go, your laughter returning after he stops right before the baseline. He loosens his grip around your waist, and you connect your ankles behind his back to assure him you were okay with being held, before repositioning your forehead against his.

"Are we good now, still following the rules?" Lars inquires in a low tone, intimate and warm, just like before, all those years ago. "We're good now, there's just one thing I need you to do for me." His eyes become lidded, heavy from just the drop of tone in your voice alone.

"Anything." He immediately agrees, with conviction. You brush your lips against his and kiss him softly, before leaning back to look at him directly in the eye.

"Take a shower with me."

༯

Your lips sting as you're carefully carried into the bathroom minutes later, once you're both sure everyone else would be out by then, a mixture of your guys' spit on your lips and the heady taste of him all over your tongue leaving you lightheaded. You force yourself to stand on your own momentarily, before Lars is backing you up into a stall, his mouth already back on yours within only a few seconds of being off.

You flinch as your back makes contact with the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, your chest now exposed after Lars easily unclasped the front with just a simple flick of his wrist and two fingers. Warm and wet lips cascade themselves down your jawline and the side of your neck, a mewl escaping from you every time he nestles his teeth enough into your sensitive skin to leave a mark. By the time that he was on his knees on the wet floor and was slowly hiking your skirt higher up on your hips, your thighs were pressed tightly together, and you couldn't stop your legs from tremoring.

"Think you can be quiet for me?" He offers you as he slides your underwear to the side and dips his head underneath the white and rumpled fabric. You reach down to entangle your fingers in his hair enough to tug his head back, ignoring the pulsation in your clit at the quiet grunt he lets out. You freeze as footsteps echo and make their way into a stall only a few away from yours, but Lars just grins up at you, his irises blown wide and his facial expression enamored. His fingers slide up your thigh, and he flicks at your essence soaked sex, quietly laughing at the way you toss your head back, your stomach muscles contracting and your swollen lips parting in a muted moan just by the single touch alone.

"There's someone else in here," you chastise in a rough whisper, fighting back the urge to smile back at him, his own being contagious and hard to ignore. "And I haven't showered yet." You curse quietly as he ducks back under the fabric and licks a fat stripe, all the way from your fluttering hole, up to the ending of your groin. You spread your legs and attempt to steady yourself, knowing that once he starts, he isn't going to finish until he feels like he's done with you. You arch your back and hitch your hips forward as he slowly takes you apart, his tongue elongating and straightening out enough to make its way inside of you to caress at your walls, while the hand not pressing into your thigh relentlessly rubs at your clit in figure 8's.

You flinch as a water faucet whines to life and you subconsciously stop his movements once again by yanking on his mane, buckling forward and lips stretching into an O as his hand on your thigh slides around the smooth expanse and up to smack your ass. Your eyes water from the sting, yet you push back into his hand to ask for more. Lars slides his tongue out from inside of you and follows your fist in his hair to come up from under your skirt. The sight of him is enough to nearly make you cum. His hair is distressed, standing on the ends, with your slick and pre release sticking and dripping down the length of his chin, and to his neck in thick, translucent lines.

"Like I wouldn't want to taste you exactly how you are," he grins out, looking drunk as you guides two fingers into your velvet heat, adamantly following every single movement of yours with his eyes as he thrusts them upwards in search for your spongelike spot. He finds it easily, and he allows you to kneel next to him once your legs begin to give out, your chest beginning to heave as he takes your right breast into his mouth and uses his free hand to guide you to ride his fingers. You release your grip from his hair, the sound of your pussy harshly slapping against his fingers and wrist now audible, and the force behind your riding enough to coerce his palm to curl upward and make rough contact with your pearling clit.

"Oh god," you whimper, feeling overstimulated even though you haven't cum yet. You lean forward and rest your head on top of his for stability, the slight tug on your nipple from his teeth and hot tongue in the cold air causing shivers to wrack your spine and for you to tremble. "I'm going to cum, please don't stop." You sob around a cry of his name, uncaring if your voice and choked out moans overpower the showerhead running only a few feet away, your only thoughts surrounded on who's finally here with you and who's making you feel this way.

"Good girl," Lars praises in a husked voice, looking fucked out himself as he tilts your head up to lick your own taste into your mouth. You slide your appendage against his as best as you can, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he begins to scissor his fingers and rub his calloused palm against your oversensitive and beading clit, your folds acting as a suction to keep him from straying too far. You immediately freeze in place as the faucet is hastily yanked to the opposite side to stop the flow of water after a particularly loud moan, and you can't help the cry you let out when you cum against his soaking wet hand. "Keep being loud, let them know exactly who you're with. Just like that."

You clench around his digits as you seize against him, nearly yelling out his name in relief once you hear feet quickly slapping on top of tile to exit the bathroom in haste. Lars continues to fuck his fingers in and out of you with an upward twist until you have tears streaming down your face, and you're fully sat on his lap. "You did so well for me, look at you," he murmurs in a soft tone, uncaring of how disheveled you looked. With the tears streaming down your face, your still shaking body, your own slick glistening on your chin. "What else do you need from me, baby?"

"Need you to do whatever you want to me," you pant once you're able to slightly catch your breath, letting out a sigh of relief as soon as your overheated and blushed skin brushes against the cool tile on the wall. "Just want to make you feel good." A warm pair of lips press themselves to the crown of your head, and you're barely told to hold on tight before you're being lifted up again, your ruined and wet underwear sliding from around your left court shoe, and down straight onto the damp floor in the middle of the walkway as you're carried over to the sink.

"I've been feeling good since I saw you for the first time in over five years, five hours ago. But alright, angel," he says in a calm and placating way, gently placing you down on your unreliable feet, only letting go of his embrace around you to turn you to face the mirror. "I need you to hold onto the sink for me, nice and tight. Spread those beautiful legs for me," he brushes the frizzed strands of hair away from your face that fell out of your ponytail earlier and grins against your ear. "Arch your back for me." Anticipation and adrenaline run through you as you feel and hear him shift behind you and unzip his jeans.

You follow his instructions and moan loudly when he gives you a rewarding smack on the ass, before sheathing himself inside of you with one smooth movement of his hips. You melt back into his front yet still hold onto the sink for leverage, and you keep your eyes open to watch his reaction to the feeling of you for the first time in years through the reflection. Lars' mouth gapes open at the first thrust, the heat emanating off your constricting walls enough to take all of his words away. But before you can begin to feel triumphant, he settles you down with a solid drive straight against your cervix. The rough and audible slap of his hips making their way to connect with yours ricochets off the bathroom's walls and makes its way back over to you, and you can only hold on as soon as he twists his fingers in your hair to hold you in place.

Your neck tilts back with every small tug on your hair, each inch you're driven forward by his dick and backward by his fist makes the hickies and bruises interwoven and bitten into your skin even more apparent underneath the artificial light. You wail and tighten impossibly tight around him as he uses his free hand to yank you back and bear you down even further onto him, and him even deeper inside you. Your second orgasm is even stronger than your first, untouched, with your vision blurring and your legs completely giving out underneath you. Lars has to release your hair to half lift you in the air while he continues to use you, every pivoting movement of his hips and his length into you making you feel like you were still cumming even minutes later.

"So fucking perfect for me." He grunts into your ear, his words nearly slurring and becoming incoherent as he lifts and lowers you onto his cock in small increments, before impaling himself fully into you and stilling, filling you with his seed. You lean forward once you're placed back near the sink and greedily suck in air, your head feeling heavy and your stomach in a pleasurable knot as he carefully pulls out of you. Lars encircles his arms around you and sends you a small and satiated smile in the mirror, only moving to stop you from reaching for the paper towel to wipe yourself clean of his seed slowly making its way down your shaking leg.

He bends down to place a kiss on your red and bruising ass, before sweeping down to collect his seed on his fingertips. By the time he's back to his full height and gently maneuvering you around to face him, you already know what you need to do. Tilting your head backwards and opening your mouth, you greedily accept every drop and every finger slowly deposited into your mouth. Licking them clean and nearly dry, you pull yourself away and slowly hitch your skirt back down into place as footsteps make their way back towards the bathroom. Lars takes off his shirt and lifts it up, before carefully placing it over your head. A girl walks in by the time he has his jeans back on and zipped up, and your hair is back in a manageable ponytail.

"You ready to go home?" He asks you in a gentle tone as the girl makes her way past, who greets you two with an innocent and unknowing smile as she does so. You grin up at him and tearfully nod, before shakily bending down to retrieve your bra and underwear from the ground.

"Yeah, I'm ready to go home."

#metallica #lars ulrich #lars ulrich smut #lars ulrich x reader #metallica smut #metallica imagines #metallica x reader #metallica fanfiction

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bright-and-burning · 4 months

Note

🐑 send me a fake set of fic tags, and I’ll try to come up with a summary for it! !!!! OOOh okay. if you're up for it(!), then: #Canon Divergent #There Was Only Ten Beds #Magical Realism #Bondage #Light Decapitation

a lobby with nine hundred windows | lando/oscar, M

#canon divergence, #there was only ten beds, #magical realism, #bondage, #light decapitation

The first sign of something going really, terribly, desperately wrong is subtle, honestly. So subtle, Oscar hadn’t thought anything of it. Brakes catch fire all the time, Max was due for some bad luck; nothing more, nothing less. The explosion bit was a little weird, a little larger than usual, but that was easily explained away. The second sign, the air going wavy and thick around him as he exited the car, is almost equally subtle. Waking up to Lando holding a knife to his throat, however, is not. Australia has a lot to answer for.

not only did i come up with a summary for it. i also uh. wrote it. it's wild what breaks through writers block 😭 so thank u for this strange and lovely tag combo. here's 1700 words of. idek what. something completely and utterly different from anything else i've ever written, that's for sure!

tw for mild description of violence

Oscar wakes, slow and groggy, to a warm weight on his chest, limiting his breaths. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and goes from half-asleep to wide-awake in milliseconds, Lando looming over him, perched on his chest. Knife at his throat.

“Lando, what the fuck?”

Oscar struggles, feeling returning to his limbs, the restraints around his wrists and ankles making themselves known.

Lando presses him further into the bed, eyes wide. He shifts his gaze around the room, frenetic, never keeping Oscar out of sight for long. Oscar’s hyperaware of the cool edge of metal against his skin. The thump of blood through his carotid is loud in his ears.

“Tell me something only you would know.”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Oscar, I need you to trust me.” Lando leans in further, so close Oscar has to fight against the urge to cross his eyes. “Tell me something no one else knows.”

Oscar thinks, hard. Lando’s face is more serious than he’s ever seen it before.

“The backs of your thighs are weirdly ticklish?”

Lando releases a little of the pressure, but stays leaned over Oscar, considering.

“At least three other people know that. Something else. Please.” His voice cracks, and with it, his expression, desperation on display.

Oscar reaches to touch him, to soothe the visible ache. The material wrapped tight around his wrist snaps taut before he can even get close. Lando notices the aborted motion, and shifts forward again.

“Oscar, think.”

Oscar wracks his brain, turning over all the stones labeled Lando in his head, looking for something novel, something truly secret. Carefully considers the little cut-off wheezy sounds Lando makes when he’s just come, the half-filled sketchbooks shoved in a drawer, his secret sleeping spot at the MTC. Discards each one, heart rate slowing now that Oscar has a task to focus on, before remembering—

“You’ve been stealing my shampoo!” Oscar says, too loud for the odd room they’re in.

“No I ha- How did you know that?”

Oscar shrugs as best as he can in the restraints.

“I realized I was running out too fast. And you smell like me sometimes. Noticed after Vegas, I think.”

Lando’s face does something complicated, flashing from shifty to smug to sheer relief. He tosses the knife to the ground with a clatter, and collapses onto Oscar.

“Thank fuck, Osc, holy shit,” he says, shoulders shaking.

“Can I get some answers now? Like why you had a knife at my throat?”

Lando sits back up, nearly knocking his head into Oscar’s chin. His face is wet. Oscar remembers his restraints, and does not go to wipe his tears. He climbs off the bed, disappearing out of Oscar’s limited line of sight, and pops back up with said knife.

“Let me get you out of here first. Before things get wobbly again.”

“Wobbly?”

Lando ignores his question, focused on getting Oscar out of the straps. His hands are shaking nearly too bad to unknot anything; the knife lays unused, for fear of accidentally cutting something else. It takes minutes for Oscar’s right hand to be freed.

“Give me that,” Oscar gestures for the knife.

Lando hands it over without protest, and Oscar cuts through the remaining straps in quick order.

When Oscar is fully freed, Lando immediately pulls him into a hug tight enough to bruise.

“God, Osc. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Oscar pats him on the back, gentle. Lets him cling on, face tucked into his neck, quiet, shuddering exhales tickling his skin. Just when Oscar opens his mouth to ask any of the million questions, Lando pulls away and tugs him towards the door.

“I think it’ll be easier now that I’ve found the real you,” Lando says, opening the door. The light beyond is nearly blinding in comparison to the dim lit room they’re leaving behind. Lando steps out, hand still tight on Oscar’s. Oscar follows.

“The real me?”

They’re standing in a long hallway now, lined with doors of different shapes and sizes. Oscar turns slightly, to look at the one they’ve just left. It’s a simple metal door in a metal frame, a neon yellow handle the only distinguishing feature.

Every fifth door or so is the same. Simple metal, neon yellow handle. The rest have no pattern, as far as Oscar can tell. Here’s a frosted glass door stretching the full height of the corridor, and then a mini-van door with flame decals on the bottom. Here’s a mahogany double door several inches shorter than Lando, followed by a door Oscar could swear is Mark’s front door.

Lando speaks up, drawing his attention away from the oak door with the familiar mail slot. He nods to the door they just left.

“That’s the tenth one I’ve tried. Every other Oscar hasn’t passed the test.”

Oscar’s blood goes cold.

“How did you know,” He stops, unsure how to phrase his question.

“To check?”

Oscar nods.

“The first one was…” Lando pauses. Shivers at something only in his mind. “He was just wrong. I dunno. Didn’t smile right, or something. Like that valley thing.”

Lando’s clearly leaving something unsaid, some bigger reason to put a knife under Oscar’s chin, but he looks like he’s about to start shaking again. Oscar leaves it be, for now. Until they get out of this mess.

“And that’s when you…” Oscar holds up the knife.

Lando nods jerkily.

“I mean, one minute I was on the podium, the next the world went wobbly and I was here. I started opening doors, just trying to get out. Saw a lot of freaking weird shit, okay,” his voice is creeping higher, more defensive with each word, “and then I saw you, and then you weren’t you, and I-“ Lando deflates. “I freaked out, a little.”

“And then you, what, stabbed him?” Oscar tries to keep his voice even. Fails a little, maybe. Lando isn’t meeting his eyes.

“I sort of. Slithistthroat.”

“Sorry?”

Lando clears his throat. He’s tense, shoulders high around his ears, body twisted like he’s ready to bolt.

“Slit his throat.” Lando’s voice tilts up like it’s a question. It’s not.

Oscar stares.

“I freaked out a lot.”

And then he did it eight more times, from the sounds of it. Oscar can’t even imagine. Going from room to room, bed to bed. Waking Lando up, over and over, just to find something terrible in his place. Having to kill something shaped like him, time and time again, with no idea where the real him is. No idea if he’s making a mistake.

Oscar eyes the knife, looking closer. Looking for a distraction in the minutiae.

“It’s, uhm. Clean?”

“They disappear, after. That’s how I knew that I- That’s how I knew.”

That’s how he knew he hadn’t made a mistake, he means. That he hadn’t killed the real Oscar.

“Oh. That’s good, then. That they disappear.”

“Not- not right away.”

Lando looks haunted, briefly. He shakes his head, and starts moving, pulling Oscar along again.

Oscar changes the subject.

“Any idea what we’re looking for?”

“Not exactly,” Lando draws out the vowels. They’re still holding hands. Oscar is thankful for Lando’s tight grip on him, a tether to reality. A reminder that they’re both real. For both of them. “Was mostly hoping if I found the right you things would clear up.”

“Oh, brilliant.”

Lando squeezes his hand and keeps moving, walking much faster than normal.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Getting out of the car.” Oscar squints, picking over his memories. “Going to get weighed, maybe?”

They pass a sliding glass door. The interior is distorted, but it looks like his back door. From home, in Melbourne. Oscar’s chest goes a little tight looking at it, but it doesn’t feel quite right. Nothing like the growing pull towards the end of the hall, and maybe Lando was right about things clearing up. They keep moving. The pull keeps growing.

“D’you feel that?”

Oscar nods. “It’s gotta be coming up.”

Whatever it is, at least.

A quick glance at Lando’s tense face and Oscar knows he’s not alone in that thought.

Lando stops, so abrupt Oscar’s hand nearly slips from his hold.

“Somewhere around here, you think?”

Oscar steps closer, threading his fingers back through Lando’s. He closes his eyes and focuses on the magnetic pull, tugging at some place behind his sinuses. He turns, slow, careful to keep Lando in his grasp, until something clicks into place.

The pressure releases, like ears popping on a flight. Lando makes a weird noise, some kind of suppressed squeak. Oscar opens his eyes.

The other doors have disappeared, leaving only one: three feet away, right in front of them.

It’s plain. Wood, this time, painted white, set in a plain frame. Empty but for a sign with their names on it.

Oscar turns to Lando.

His eyes are wide and searching.

“This has gotta be it, right?”

“Don’t think we have much of a choice now.”

They step forward in unison. Oscar puts his hand on the doorknob, and pauses.

“Just for luck,” he says, and turns, quick as lightning, to kiss Lando.

Just a press of lips, over as soon as it began, Oscar turning back to the door.

Lando makes a noise, deep in the back of his throat, and spins Oscar bodily by the shoulders.

“Just for luck?” He asks, twitchy all over, and pulls Oscar down against him for another, quick until it’s not, both unable to stay apart for long.

They kiss, slow and steady, reassuring, until the pressure in the back of Oscar’s skull starts building again, an incessant reminder that they need to leave.

They break apart.

Oscar twists the knob, watching Lando instead of the door, and opens it, stepping through without looking. Making sure Lando follows.

The door slams behind them.

They’re in another corridor, long and full of doorways, to Oscar’s despair.

Lando starts laughing, tinged with an edge of hysteria.

Oscar opens his mouth to reassure him, and fails. What if there are more Oscars? God, what if there are Landos?

“It’s Hilton, Oscar, it’s freaking Hilton.” He spins around, arms outstretched, before slamming back into Oscar.

“D’you feel that?“ He whispers into Oscar’s shoulder.

“No?” Oscar’s still in shock, a little.

“Exactly, Osc. No pull, no pressure, no caddy valley. We’re fucking free, baby.”

#fully unedited no second pass no nothing just me locking in for a few hours completely unintentionally. so if u notice anything. shrug #is it in character? girl idk. does it make sense? well. maybe!#mine.fic #i GUESS #mine #8104 #ln #op #ask #writing game #a lobby with nine hundred windows dot ao3

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hippolotamus · 5 months

Text

Inspiration Saturday 🪩

Tagged by the delightful @thekristen999 @daffi-990 @lemonzestywrites @bidisasterevankinard @wikiangela

@theotherbuckley for Fuck it Friday. Thank you darlin’s (tagging you back for today) mwah! 💖

Made a lil moodboard for today's snippet. I'm not in love with all the words but that's what editing is for. So, here's Buck visiting Eddie's workplace for the first time. Surprise (because I don't think I've mentioned this before???) Eddie's not a firefighter in this either. He's a mechanic who works with a bunch of homophobic jerks. But also with Hen! Buck knows Eddie isn't out to most people so this is an... enlightening moment for him. Some of it's under the cut to save your dash. masterlist of posts here and no I'm not writing this remotely in order

“Oh, thank fuck,” he mumbles to himself when he pulls the door open and is greeted with a cool blast of air conditioning.

Looking around the interior, he thinks it could pass for a museum. A snapshot in time, forever preserved exactly as it was. Gold framed articles about the 1973 grand re-opening hang on the wood-paneled walls alongside prints of hot rods and muscle cars. There are vintage metal signs mixed in for Shell, Texaco, Gulf, and some other brands he’s never heard of.

“Do you have an appointment?” A gravelly voice asks from behind him.

Buck jerks around to the desk where a middle aged woman with auburn hair and green gray eyes glares at him with a mix of boredom and curiosity. Or maybe suspicion? He can't quite tell.

Her bronzed skin is littered with freckles and screams that she’s spent too much time outside with no sunscreen or other protection. A name plate, half hidden under papers and key rings, identifies her as Estelle. He’s heard a few stories about her from Eddie, but he’s not sure any of them did her intimidating demeanor justice.

“Uh, no?” He answers, not sure why it comes out as a question other than he’s not entirely convinced the five foot something couldn’t somehow manage to hurt him.

It must take every ounce of strength to conceal the whole body sigh she wants to make as she looks down, licks her fingertip and begins flipping through a giant paper scheduling book. “If you don’t have an appointment I can maybe get you in next Thursday. Depending on what you need.”

“Actually, uh, I don’t need anything.” Estelle glances up, mouth slightly parted and eyes narrowed as if she’s about to ask what he’s doing standing in her lobby. He quickly adds, “Well, what I mean is, my car doesn’t need anything. I’m here to see Eddie? Uh, Eddie Diaz.”

She nods with something like understanding. At least he hopes that’s what it is as she picks up the phone receiver and punches in a few numbers.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Hey, is Diaz around? Someone here asking about him.”

“No, it’s not the cops! What’s the matter with you? I don’t know. Just some guy here looking for Eddie.”

Estelle huffs an exasperated sigh and looks toward the ceiling like it’ll give her strength. “Jay, I don’t have time for twenty questions and, quite frankly, I don’t care.”

“About time you quit screwin’ around. Send him out.” She hangs up the receiver and mutters something about not caring that he’s a relative.

“He’ll be a few minutes. Take a seat.” She gestures to a line of metal chairs with sticky looking vinyl cushions without so much as glancing in Buck’s direction.

He momentarily gets excited when he spots a gumball machine in the corner until he realizes it would require actual coins that he definitely doesn’t have. And he’s not about to ask Estelle if she’s got change for a twenty just so he can satisfy his sweet tooth.

“Buck?” Eddie appears from a side door, wiping his hands on a rag. His hair is sweaty and mussed, likely from pushing it out of his face. His gorgeous, kissable face that Buck very much wants to kiss even more right now despite the streaks and smudges of god knows what decorating it. The corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches like he knows what Buck is thinking, but he clears his throat and schools it just as quickly when Estelle grunts, reminding them they’re at his workplace.

“Uh, Buck. Hi. What can I do for you?” Eddie tilts his chin in the direction of the parking lot. “Everything okay with the jeep?”

“Hi,” Buck answers, a little too breathy for their current situation. He can’t seem to help himself. Eddie’s always cleaned up when they meet, whether it’s at the club, a date out somewhere or an evening in. He’s never seen him marked up from his job, in his grimy army green coveralls.

“Uh, yeah. Jeep’s fine. Just, you know, was nearby and thought I’d stop in.” Buck tracks the movement as Eddie’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, before sneaking him a flirty, amused smirk.

“Glad you did.” Eddie chances a look at Estelle who still has her head down, shuffling some papers that probably don’t need it. He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. “I haven’t taken my lunch yet. Give me five and we can get out of here?”

Buck nods, not knowing how to respond without giving anything away.

Eddie puts more distance between them again, sticking his hand out. Buck takes it, thrown by the familiarity of his boyfriend mixed with the very conventional, socially acceptable handshake. “Great to see you again, Buck. Check that place on Viscount Boulevard. I think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” Buck answers, reluctantly letting their palms slide apart. But he gets it. Eddie’s coworkers are all a bunch of ignorant, homophobic assholes. Well, except for Hen apparently. Regardless, Eddie can’t be risking his job and livelihood when he has Chris to think about. “I’ll go check it out. You said it’s about... ten minutes from here?”

“About that, yeah. Maybe fifteen.”

A warm, fluttering feeling washes over him as Eddie winks and smiles, seeming pleased that Buck caught on to his little game. He has to force himself to turn around and leave instead of watching his boyfriend walk away.

“Have a nice day,” Estelle says as he opens the door, setting off a chime. It’s enough to snap him out of his haze, offering a weak ‘you too’ as he hurries back to his jeep.

np tagging @actuallyitsellie @epicbuddieficrecs @loveyouanyway @a-noble-dragon @tizniz

@mountedeverest @fortheloveofbuddie @weewootruck @saybiwithme @shipperqueen6

@ramonaflow @taketheplanspinitsideways @spotsandsocks @dangerpronebuddie @stereopticons

@kitteneddiediaz @mrs-f-darcy @drowsy-quill @your-catfish-friend @filet-o-feelings

@underwaterninja13 @lizzie-bennetdarcy @rainbow-nerdss @steadfastsaturnsrings @queenmabcreates

@inell @jesuisici33 @rmd-writes @shortsighted-owl @queerbuckleys

@bi-buckrights @elvensorceress @bucksbiawakening @giddyupbuck @hoodie-buck

@indestructibleheart @ladydorian05 @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @slightlyobsessedwitheverything

@the-likesofus @thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @welcometololaland @wildlife4life and anyone else who wants to 😘

#more under the cut because… long #since i'm pissed at eddie rn #i wanted to write the angst #but then my brain wouldn't let me before i set a few things up #blargh #just for kicks i imagine Estelle sounds like Roz from monsters inc #hippo writes #buddie wip #inspiration saturday #fic: watch my shattered edges glisten #mechanic!eddie

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nostalgiclittlespace · 3 months

Note

Request Type: Fic

Cg: Angel Dust (and others if you want to)

Babysitters: Up to you!

Little: Reader

Maybe reader regresses suddenly after the hotel is attacked (aka that involved that dang wall being broken again) and Angel Dust helps them calm down and takes care of them afterwards.

Hi, hi! Thank you for the request! I hope this delivers! This is my first time posting an agere fic, so I would appreciate feedback :)

SFW AGE REGRESSION FIC; KINK, NSFW, PROSHIP, MAP DNI

DO NOT REPOST Word count: 1222

Pairing: CG! Angel Dust x Little! Reader

Summary: After the Hazbin Hotel is attacked, you’re left feeling panicked and regressed. Good thing Angel there! (Hurt/comfort)

The Safest Place in Hell

Ah, life at the Hazbin Hotel! What could be better? Though the place was kind of a joke in Hell fairly empty, you had still managed to find a home there. From the hotel’s owner, Charlie, to the elusive Radio Demon Alastor, you had friends everywhere!

But Angel Dust was definitely your best friend.

As you skipped downstairs for breakfast, you scanned the lobby for the spider in question. He had to work late last night (darn Valentino) but he should be home by now.

As usual, the other hotel tenants occupied the lobby. Nifty chased a couple bugs, Husk attended the bar. Sir Pentious was talking with Charlie while Vaggie glared at Alastor’s smug smile. But no sign of Angel.

It wasn’t uncommon for the arachnid to come home late though. A turbulent work schedule combined with a horrible boss could do that. So no need to worry!

You hopped down the last step and waved to the others as you approached the bar. Might as well bother Husker if Angel wasn’t around!

“Good morning, Husk!” you greeted, sliding onto a bar stool.

“Good for you maybe,” the bartender grumbled. “Want something to eat?”

“Sure. What do you have?”

A plate stacked high with pancakes appeared in front of you. Husk dropped a set of silverware and placed a glass of water beside it.

“Nif made these earlier. Made sure she saved enough for you.”

“Aw, thanks, Husk,” you grinned, already diving in.

Could life get any better? A calm household, surrounded by friends, amazing food?

B A N G ! ! !

You startled up, leaping a foot in the air. Your attention was immediately stolen by the literal explosions that had overtaken the front doors. The glass windows shattered, the doors blown off their hinges.

You shouldn’t have panicked, you knew that. Random jerks attacking the hotel was a fairly common occurrence. People who were just bored, who wanted to heckle Charlie’s pet project…

But between the sudden noises and threats and fire emerging from the doorway, yes, you did panic.

Ducking under your chair, you clapped your hands over your ears for cover. Too noisy. Too much commotion.

Truth be told, the overstimulation hurt. It hurt every corner of your brain as you tried to comprehend everything that was happening.

A pair of paws grabbed your arms and pulled you behind the bar, away from the fighting. You curled into a ball, whining miserably and trying to swat them away.

“It’s okay, kid. It’s me. It’s Husk,” a low voice broke through your panic. “Stay here, we’ll take care of this.”

You peaked between your fingers to see Husk extending his wings and pulling several metal-plated cards to attack the intruders. He hopped over the countertop, rushing to meet the others in combat.

As more screams and clatters filled the air around you, you felt your headspace becoming equally panicked. Dust filled your lungs, generating wheezing coughs from your already shaking frame. Cold sweat and a thunder heart threatened to break through your ribcage.

Too much noise. Too much movement. Where’s Angel?

That thought alone made it worse. Where was Angel? Was he okay? Was he home yet? What if he was hurt in the crossfire?

Tears began slipping down your face, harsh hiccups following. Where’s Angie? Where’s Angie? I want Angie!

Thankfully, it seemed that God could hear your prayers, even in Hell. The commotion slowly died down. No more screams, no more destruction–

“And stay out, ya idiots!” a familiar, New-York-accented voice yelled.

Slowly, you perked up, your head emerging from where it had been cocooned. Angie?

“Husk? Husk, where’s the kid?”

“They’re behind the bar.”

A quick shuffling towards the bar, and suddenly you were looking into Angel’s wide eyes. He tossed his guns to the side and extended his arms towards you.

“Angie!” you cried.

“Sweetheart! Are you okay?”

Angel scooped you up, holding you close to his fluffy chest. He wrapped his four arms around you, and you melted. Goodness, he was so soft. Between the well-kept fur covering his body and his arms to keep you secure, this was definitely the safest place in Hell.

“Scary,” you mumbled, burying your face in his shoulder.

“Yeah, I know, baby. Just some old goons who don’t like the hotel is all. They’re all gone.”

You sniffled. “I like the hotel. ‘S nice. Missed you.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice. I missed you too.”

Finally, the storm had passed. The bad guys were gone, your hero was home safe. But now…the destruction still left its wake. The adrenaline crashed, leaving only a fragile, shaken mindset behind.

“Didn’t know where you were,” you whimpered, refusing to loosen your grip on Angel’s.

“I was just running late from work, toots. I’m home safe, see?”

Still, your breath hitched and the tears resumed. It was scary! Angie wasn’t there! He was home now, but what about before?

You mumbled something unintelligible, scared to remove yourself from the comforts of Angel’s hold as the tears poured down your cheeks. Angel said something too, but you could tell from his subdued tone and the addition of Husk’s voice that he was conversing with the bartender.

“Yeah, I’m going to take them upstairs. Just give them some cooldown time. Yeah, thanks for keeping ‘em safe.”

Next thing you knew, Angel was adjusting his grip on you and you were being carried towards the stairs. His stride gently bounced you as he hiked to his room. The calm hallways also eased your disgruntled mind. Sort of.

You didn’t truly find sanctuary until Angel arrived at his room. He opened the door, managing not to jostle you at all. As soon as the door closed behind you, you broke down completely. You hiccuped harshly, with only your Caregiver’s hold to keep you steady.

“Ah, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Angel soothed, petting your head gently. “It’s all over now, and you’re safe. I’m safe too, see? Deep breaths.”

You nodded quickly, recalling the routine you had developed for times like this. Deep breaths in, slow breaths out. Focus on Angel’s voice and the smell of his perfume. Watch Fat Nuggets because he’s cute and comforting. (The pig was actually at Angel’s feet, looking up at you with big eyes and occasionally snuffling around his owner’s heels)

“Bad guys all gone?” you asked shakily.

“Yeah,” Angel chuckled softly. “Me and Husky scared them away. Well, Vaggie helped a little.”

You giggled softly. Surely, Auntie Vaggie helped a lot more than a little. Angie was just being silly!

“Want your paci, sweetie?” he asked.

“Mhm. ‘N snuggles?” you requested.

“Of course snuggles!” Angel grinned, giving you a squeeze. “Maybe Fat Nuggets will join us?”

“Yeah!”

Angel carried you over to his bed, carefully lowering you onto the mattress. Amidst the fluffy blankets and throw pillows, you felt right at home–a cocoon of comfort. Fat Nuggets hopped onto the bed too; he trotted up to you, with your favorite plush in his mouth. Loyally, he dropped it in your lap, his tail wagging like a dog’s.

“T’ank you, Nugs,” you smiled, hugging your stuffie.

As you pet Fat Nugget’s ears, Angel reached over to the bedside table and grabbed your pacifier. Angel had gotten it for you as soon as he became your Caregiver–as such it held a special place in your heart.

“Here, baby,” Angel smiled, holding the paci to your mouth.

Parting your lips, he popped it into your mouth before settling down beside you. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. Even Nuggets cuddled closer, nudging you with his nose affectionately.

“Feeling better, toots?” Angie asked, rubbing your head.

“Yeahs.”

“I’m glad. Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

“‘S okay,” you yawned.

“No, it’s not. But we’re doing our best, right?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, fidgeting with the fur on Angel’s hands.

He was so soft. Like a giant stuffed animal! But his snuggles were so much better than what you could get from a toy. Soft, warm, and loving.

“You’re looking a little sleepy there,” Angel chuckled, no doubt watching your drooping eyes and longer blinks.

“No way,” you denied, shaking your head.

“Oh yeah? Well, how about a story?” Angel grinned.

“Very Hungry Hellhound?” you requested.

“Sure, baby,” Angel laughed, reaching over to the nightstand to grab the book.

As the two of you settled down and Angel’s voice drifted through the air, your eyes gradually grew heavier and heavier. Your paci bobbed in your mouth and your plush was tucked under your arm. Even Fat Nuggets was dozing off. Before Angel could even finish the story, you had fallen asleep. Safe and sound.

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stellarspecter · 6 months

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stwg daily prompt 4/10/24: guitar

1.8k, steddie, modern au, guitar teacher eddie/guitar student steve (+ dustin as steve's brother)

so this is literally just me giving eddie my exact job and letting the plot bunnies do as they may. will be up on ao3 in a day or two once i've had time to look it over and think of a title but here it is! divider graphic by @saradika-graphics

“Let’s try that verse again, okay? 5, 6, 7, 8…”

The little girl in front of Eddie plays with the utmost concentration, her little brow scrunched up as she tries to switch to a D chord.

“It’s our little triangle, remember? On the — good, exactly,” Eddie nods and keeps strumming. “And to C, slide down to the first fret… 1, 2, 3, to E minor, yep, 1, 2, 3, 4.” The last notes fade into the slightly stale air of the practice room. “Good job! You did a lot better with your chord transitions this time. We’re about out of time for today, but try and practice that verse and chorus at home, okay? And then we’ll see about that bridge next week,” he tells her.

She nods with a big gummy smile. “Okay!” Eddie helps her put her guitar back in its case and walks her back out to the little waiting area they have behind the lessons desk. It’s honestly a little cramped, but before they hired him, he hadn’t even known that Guitar Center offered lessons at all, so it makes sense. He sends the girl off with her parents and a promise to practice every day before he slides behind the desk to check his schedule for his next student.

Usually he has a half hour gap on Wednesdays that he uses to practice for his band or chat with his coworkers, but today there’s a new name on the schedule: Steve Harrington.

“Huh,” he mutters. His manager hadn’t mentioned any new sign-ups to him. Maybe it was from online? With a shrug, he settles in to wait for the guy to show up. It’s 5:57, so he’s still got a few minutes.

After a minute or two of dicking around on his phone, someone calls out, “Hey, Eddie!”

He looks up to find his 6:30 student standing in front of him, an excitable kid named Dustin Henderson. He’s fun to chat with, and Eddie looks forward to his lessons — especially since it’s an opportunity to get yet another young mind hooked on metal. Sure, he’ll play and teach whatever is required, but he’ll never forget his one true love.

“Henderson,” Eddie responds, standing up and leaning against the pillar bracketing the desk. “You know your lesson is in half an hour, right?”

“I know!” He replies, chipper as ever. “I’m after him!” He jerks a thumb back behind him, and Eddie finally notices the most beautiful man he’s ever seen standing behind Dustin.

Dear god. If this is his new student, he’s absolutely fucked.

“Hi,” the man says, extending a hand when it becomes clear Eddie is incapable of forming words. “I’m Steve.”

Eddie forces himself to act normal and grabs his hand, shooting him a smile that he hopes comes off as confident. “Eddie,” he replies. “Munson. I play guitar.”

“I’d sure hope so,” Steve jokes, eyes dancing, and Eddie is fuuuuucked. Completely and absolutely. How is he going to be able to be alone with him in a tiny practice room for a whole half hour?

“Well, you’re in luck,” Eddie says, kind of operating on autopilot while his brain reboots. “It’s. Guitar Center.” He mentally facepalms and claps his hands together, spinning and walking them back towards the practice rooms. “So, Steve, what brings you here on this fine day? Are you Dustin’s… dad?”

Usually, his mom is the one to drive him and wait in the lobby, but it’s not out of the question that Steve could be his stepdad or something, with their different surnames. He seems around Eddie’s age, but maybe he’s just into milfs or something?

He can’t be single. The universe is never that kind to Eddie.

Dustin bursts out laughing. “My dad? Dude, he’d had to have had me at like, twelve!”

Eddie flushes. “Well, I don’t know!”

“He’s my brother.” Steve swoops in and saves him from embarrassment. “The Hendersons took me in when I was sixteen, that’s why we have different last names.”

Eddie nods. “Oh, cool. So I assume Dustin got you to take lessons too?”

Steve laughs a little, just when Eddie thought he could finally cope with his unearthly beauty, the dick. “Yeah, he’s dead set on us starting a family band or something. I told him I could just dust off my piano skills, but he insisted. Little twerp.” He goes to ruffle his brother’s hair, and Dustin expertly ducks — clearly a common occurrence in their household.

“Cool,” Eddie says again. “Well, you ready to get started?”

Steve nods, and Dustin goes to look around the store and mess with the DJ equipment.

“So, you said you played piano? How long ago was that?” Eddie asks as he ushers him into the practice room.

“Oh, years and years. My parents made me take lessons when I was a kid, stopped in middle school, so it’d have to be… ten years or something now? Eleven? Jesus, I’m getting old,” Steve answers.

Eddie laughs. “Oh, trust me, I get it. Every time I say I’ve been playing guitar for over a decade a little part of me dies.” They share a laugh as they both get situated on their matching stools and guitars on their laps. “So that’s a little bit about me, that I’ve been playing for over a decade. I didn’t go to school for music or anything, but I’m in a metal band in my free time, and I like to think I have a pretty good understanding of music theory and techniques after all this time, so don’t worry, you’re in good hands.” It’s easier than he’d expected to slip into his practiced first lesson spiel, but he’s still hyper-focused on Steve’s reactions, taking in every hint of a smile. “I’m actually self-taught, so I learned basically by just watching YouTube tutorials and spending a lot of time on Ultimate Guitar,” Eddie explains with a wry smile.

“That’s really cool,” Steve says, impressed. “I could never do that.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, right?” It’s a familiar back and forth to Eddie. Maybe he can do this. “I like to run my lessons the same way — instead of learning some random two-measure exercises from a book, we learn songs that you want to learn, and through that we can learn some new chords and strumming patterns and techniques. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Steve says. “That was always the worst part of piano lessons. The music was so boring.” His nose wrinkles in distaste.

“Awesome,” Eddie says, and pulls out his phone, already open to his notes app. “So, what kind of music do you want to learn?”

“Uh.” Steve pauses. “I, uh, I listen to a lot of, um, pop? And, like, indie? Kind of just top forty radio type stuff.”

Eddie nods as he writes that down. “Cool, cool. Any artists or songs in particular? Or just pop as a whole?”

“I dunno,” Steve admits. “I like most of the popular stuff. Oh, there’s this one artist my friend has been getting me into — Chappell Roan?”

“Nice,” Eddie responds, somehow managing to keep from jumping with joy that he might actually have a chance with this guy if he listens to gay people music.

“You don’t… mind?” Steve asks hesitantly. Eddie looks up at him, confused. “I just mean, you don’t exactly look like you would love all that girly pop music.” He waves a hand at Eddie’s Metallica shirt, ripped jeans, and patch-covered vest.

Eddie shrugs. “Well, maybe, but it’s my job. You wouldn’t believe the amount of Swifties I’ve got, I couldn’t avoid it if I wanted to. And I mean, it is pretty catchy,” he concedes, if only to see Steve smile again. “And,” he continues, “even better, really easy to play.”

“Oh, good,” Steve laughs.

Eddie pockets his phone and reaches for his folder, taking out a sheet of empty chord diagrams. “So usually for a first lesson, we just learn a few basic chords, and then get started with our first full song next week, sound good?”

Steve nods. “Yep.”

“Great.” Eddie sets the sheet on the stand in front of them and pencils in two little dots on the first diagram. “Here’s our first chord. This is called an E minor. You wanna put your first finger on the second string…”

He goes on to teach Steve an E minor chord, then a C chord, then a G chord, and by the time they’re done learning D, Eddie thinks that Steve’s fingers are going to haunt his dreams. He’s not mad about it. Just sad that he won’t be able to see them in person again for a whole week.

They make their way through the lesson, stumbling from one chord to another, but by the end of the thirty minutes, Steve is already doing pretty well with his chord transitions. Eddie’s honestly impressed. He drops him off in the lobby and exchanges him for Dustin, who is bouncing up and down with excitement.

“How was he,” he bursts out as soon as the door is closed.

Eddie snorts. “He was good. Just learned a few chords.”

Dustin waits expectantly. “And?”

“And what?”

“And how was he! Like, was he excited? Did you have a good time? Are you guys gonna be friends now?”

Eddie rolls his eyes fondly and takes a seat. Technically, he’s not supposed to be actual friends with students, or even talk with them outside of work, but with Dustin and now Steve, they don’t feel like paying customers so much as friends he’s doing a favor for. “He was good. I’m sure he’ll tell you in the car on the way home.”

Dustin groans. “Come on.”

“You come on. You better have been practicing, show me what you’ve been doing.”

With that, Dustin drags himself to his seat, and the lesson goes great from there, both of them distracted from Steve by the intricacies of Stairway to Heaven.

When he brings Dustin out, he’s almost taken off guard by Steve waiting for them. In just half an hour, he’d already forgotten his stunning resemblance to a Greek god. It’s honestly unfair for his memory to do that to him.

“Hey,” Steve greets them. “Had a good lesson?”

“Obviously,” Dustin scoffs.

“He did great today,” Eddie tells him, “And so did you. Just remember to practice, alright? Gotta build that muscle memory.”

Dustin rolls his eyes, too used to hearing it, but Steve nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, of course. See you next week?”

It’s a simple phrase. He says it every day. It’s a contractual obligation that yes, he will see them next week. But when Steve says it, it feels like a promise. Eddie can’t wait to fulfill it.

“Yeah,” he breathes, mesmerized by the way the fluorescent lights bring out the green in Steve’s eyes. “See you next week.”

Steve smiles and turns to leave, picking his way through the aisles of musical miscellany. Eddie can already hear Dustin interrogating him about his lesson. He leans back against the wall with only one thought in his mind: only seven days until he gets to see Steve Harrington again.

He’ll be counting every single one.

#stwgdailyprompt #*writes #steddie #stranger things fic #will rb with ao3 link once it's up #i have so many little headcanons that i didn't find the space to include #read the ao3 authors notes once its posted to get the full over specific details of what i think eddie would do teaching at guitar center #he's just like me fr 🥰🥰🥰

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ilovemybishies87 · 7 months

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The Vacation from Hell - Chapter Two

Chapter two is now uploaded to AO3! It is also below the cut, in case anyone prefers to read on tumblr.

This chapter is VERY loosely based on the response sketch from @damntheyare's original 'human hotel' fanart. Because some tropes will never die (nor do we want them to).

Despite the numerous changes since Alastor was alive, he could more or less navigate thanks to a few familiar landmarks, like the old Hermann-Grima place. Back in his day, it had been a boarding house for single women. He slowed as they passed its faded blue shutters and gated front door.

“What is it?” asked Charlie. “You know this place?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. I know about it. This house has quite a history, spanning back to before I was even alive! The families who owned it are well known around here.”

“Speaking of, where is here? I didn’t ask since you seem to know the way.”

“New Orleans.” Alastor paused. “Home, I suppose.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “This is where you lived when you were human?”

“Born and raised!”

“And the hotel we’re staying?”

He didn’t answer. He could only hope it still existed.

Their suitcase wheels clacked on the brick sidewalk as they strode down Saint Louis Street and turned right. Many of the businesses were from after his time. He didn’t care for their newer architecture: some flashes of style here and there, but mostly it simply existed. Functional without any flavor.

They crossed over two more streets before reaching their destination.

Alastor allowed himself to drink in the sight. The name Hotel Monteleone was embellished in bold cursive on all three sides of the sign above the main portico. Festoons and cartouches, worn with age, adorned the hotel’s facade. Flower-filled planters lined a set of windows, and sky-blue flags waved on poles attached to metal guards.

Charlie’s jaw dropped, and her bag nearly so. “This is . . . wow.” She laughed. “Good choice, Al!”

“Thank you, my dear!” he said, and found his mood marginally improved.

A solitary footman stood before a pair of golden doors. His attire was more suited to the weather—a short sleeve button down—but the black hat couldn’t have been comfortable. As they approached, he swung the door closest to him open.

Cold air wafted out from the lobby.

“Maybe we should have someone greet our guests at the entrance, too!” she whispered, nodding her head in thanks as they entered. “Nothing says hospitable more than a friendly face greeting you when you arrive!”

“Oh? And who would you suggest for our doorman?”

“Angel Dust?”

“Not the worst suggestion.” He thought she might suggest Vaggie, but Charlie seemed to realize her dour expression would deter sinners seeking redemption. “Though I can’t say the types of guests he’d attract are what you’re hoping for!”

“That’s the point, Alastor! Everyone is welcome,” she insisted. “The problem is whether Angel would agree to it. He already works for Valentino. But maybe this will be a step in the right direction!”

The lobby was even more impressive than the hotel’s front. Their suitcases glided over parquet marble floors. Framed paintings of the founder, along with other men Alastor couldn’t place, decorated the walls. Above them, gold inlayed panels adorned the bases of crystal chandeliers. The lighting filled the entrance with a soft glow, making the place feel otherworldly.

To their left, a rose centerpiece stood in the middle, bench-like seating surrounding the arrangement. A set of stairs, most likely heading to the establishment's rooms, lay before it. Another smaller set of steps led to the entrance of a restaurant. Alastor filed that away for later. Once they were settled in, food would no doubt be a priority. They passed more seating in the form of sofas and upholstered armchairs, along with a grandfather clock ticking away the seconds.

Charlie lingered behind as he approached the counter.

The receptionist was a completely average woman. Not too tall or short, heavy or thin. Completely unremarkable. Her only standout feature was the short reddish locks framing her face. Her smile screamed ‘customer service,’ but she didn’t appear to be in a mood either.

“Can I help you?”

Alastor read the tag pinned to her blazer. “Why, yes, I believe you can, Marie!” he said with a flourish. “My companion and I are needing a room for the duration of our stay.”

“Of course, sir.” Marie began typing and glanced between him and a screen that suspiciously resembled Vox’s head. “Do you already have a reservation?”

Fuck.

Yes, he did. Decades ago, when they were supposed to arrive. Alastor was left with quite the conundrum. Did he take a chance on the hotel having an open room? Or did he use his magic to . . . turn the odds in their favor? The latter was the obvious choice, but he had expended more energy than planned to transport the group and their belongings.

Alastor lightly tapped the top of the machine and infused it with his magic. A green glow came forth from the monitor along with thread-like tendrils. They reached out toward the receptionist and infused her pupils with the same green glow.

“Yes, indeed!” he gritted out. “It should be for Alastor Malveaux and Charlotte Magne.”

Marie blinked; her eyes returned to normal. “Thank you, sir. One moment while I pull up that information.”

“Was that your last name?” whispered Charlie, joining him at his side.

Alastor shrugged. “Who knows?” he replied, his voice low. “Whatever it was, it’s lost to the wind. The Radio Demon is what I’m known as now, and I have no complaints.”

“Okay, but what about my name? Charlotte Magne. Really? What’s wrong with Charlie Morningstar?”

“Your last name might . . . raise a few eyebrows,” he said, smirking, “and Charlie Magne is too obvious.”

“How so?”

Marie interrupted before he could explain. “Okay, so I’ve found your reservation.” Her face twitched. “But I’m afraid the room you requested was double booked. Another couple has already checked in.”

“I see.” Charlie turned to him. “I guess we’ll have to cut our trip short?”

"No, no, Miss Magne!” said Marie. “This was entirely our fault! We do have another room available, though. Fortunately for you, it’s an upgrade!” She started furiously typing away. “How long did you and Mister Malveaux plan on staying again?”

Alastor struggled to keep his grin. “Six days.”

“And what time were you planning on returning home? Check out is before noon.”

So many questions. “We can be out before then.”

“Perfect! So, that will be five nights total—”

“What a relief!” Charlie scooped Husk off her shoulder and held him in her arms. He had somehow managed to remain affixed the entire trip to the hotel.

Alastor wholeheartedly agreed. “We’ll have to decide who gets which bed once we are in the room.”

“Oh, you wanted two beds?” asked Marie, the clacking on her keyboard slowing.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clearer.” She held up her index finger. “The room only has one. If it’s any consolation, it’s a King.”

He would not murder the woman for doing her job, even if she was getting on the very last of his nerves. Alastor forced the violent urge down and laughed. “It would be quite improper for an unmarried man and woman to share—”

“We’ll make do,” Charlie answered, much to his shock. She looked up at him. “Is that okay?”

“As you said,” he stated with a deep breath, “we’ll make do.”

“All right! That’s five nights total with two pets,” Marie said, eyeing Niffty and Husk in their arms. “They receive their own little welcome package for free. Trust me, everyone loves it! And did you want any add-ons or upgrades for your stay? We offer overnight valet parking, along with a wide selection of wines and hard liquors—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe some macrons for you and Miss Magne—”

Charlie watched their exchange with rapt attention. No doubt she was mentally taking notes on what could be added to their hotel. That was the purpose of this visit. And while he appreciated her passion in theory—the more invested, the more satisfying it would be to see her dreams torn to shreds—the only one suffering at the moment was him.

“Just the total,” Alastor ground out. “Please.”

“That’ll be $2,204.60.”

Alastor turned to Charlie and handed her Niffty, who let out a small ‘Yip!’ of dismay. Charlie gasped. She barely managed to catch the other demon—now dog—and juggle both her and Husk in her arms.

Alastor unzipped the bag sitting on top of Niffty’s luggage and made a show of rummaging around. As he suspected, Husk had packed nothing but alcohol. He was grateful for once. A bottle of whiskey was calling his name. Hopefully the staff didn’t check the contents before they settled in. With his last bit of magic—at least until he could get some food and rest and alcohol—he conjured a stack of bills and zipped the sack closed.

He pulled out the cash and began counting.

Marie’s almond eyes widened. “Wow, don’t see that too often!” She stared at him grimly. “You’ll want to be careful. You’ll be a target for sure.”

Alastor chuckled as he placed the last bill down. The remainder was shoved into his pocket. “I’m not worried.” He took Niffty from Charlie, much to her relief, and held the small dog under his other arm.

Marie picked up the bills and double checked the amount. “Suit yourself. We don’t keep change here, but—”

“Don’t worry about the extra. Consider it a tip for your hard work! Otherwise, we’d be looking for another hotel or returning home.”

“Thank you, Mister Malveaux!” This time her smile was genuine. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is home for you anyway?”

“I'm technically from around these parts, but it's been years since I’ve been back. Things have changed quite a bit.”

Marie nodded. “You’ll find yourself at home in no time. Change doesn’t happen that fast here.” She turned to Charlie. “What about you?”

“Well . . . ,” said Charlie nervously, “where I’m from is pretty big. And dry. And hot! Not to mention very . . . intense! It’s nothing like here.”

Marie raised a brow. “Huh?”

“California!” said Alastor, and he felt Charlie relax.

“It’s where we met,” Charlie added, smiling at him.

“Oh, so you must be an actor,” said Marie to Alastor. “You sure are dedicated to the craft, not breaking character! It explains the accent. The glasses and cash too. Those Hollywood eccentrics sure have rubbed off on you.”

Alastor quirked his head. “Pardon?”

“I’ve never seen you in anything before, but I'm not much for historical pieces.” She reached for the safety deposit box below the counter and locked the cash away. “But I’m trying to branch out. I’ll watch for you.”

He and Charlie shared a look. A smirk graced her lips.

“Not a word, Miss Magne,” he said under his breath.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Malveaux.”

“Your room will be ready in a few minutes. Our bellhop will take your luggage for you.” A stout man with curly black hair approached. He wore the same outfit as the doorman, though his dark pants still held the crisp line from when they were pressed earlier that day. “Olivier, could you take their things to room 606?”

He tipped his hat in her direction, then piled their bags onto the luggage cart. “I’m on it!”

Alastor eyed the sofas in the lounge, but before he could move, he heard the shuffling of papers from behind the counter.

“So,” said Marie, “what do you two plan on doing while you’re here?”

No.

Charlie bit her lip. “I’m not sure honestly. I was only interested in the hotel,” she admitted. “Alastor did all the planning.”

Absolutely not.

“I see.” Marie nodded. “Any sites you wanted to visit with Miss Magne?”

He was not having any small talk.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” he said, his tone clipped.

Marie’s expression brightened. “In that case, would you mind if I made some suggestions?”

“Not at all!” exclaimed Charlie.

“The Phantom of the Opera is in town,” Marie said, handing over several brochures. “Not sure if you’ve seen it yet. Broadway is probably better, but it hasn’t been to New Orleans in about a decade, so we’re all excited.”

Charlie turned to Alastor and placed Husk on his shoulder before he could say a word. She took the pamphlets from the receptionist and flipped through one.

“Is this any good?”

Marie leaned over to see what Charlie was showing her. “The Voodoo, Witchcraft and Vampires tour? If you’re into supernatural stuff, sure. There's no shortage of that around here, even at this very hotel.”

"How so?” Charlie asked.

“There’ve been countless unexplained happenings over the years. Doors that open on their own, elevators that go to the wrong floor, even shadows of kids playing in the halls! Eyewitness accounts from different times, guests, and staff. Hard to write it off as coincidence!”

What drivel. Charlie seemed to think so too, judging by her incredulous expression. If anyone knew what happened to a soul after they passed, it would be the Princess of Hell. They were either in her domain or they weren’t. It was as simple as that.

“What about this, Alastor? They have jazz bands and even a jazz museum!”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing a live session again,” he said. “It’s been ages! But I also wouldn’t mind some place . . . quieter.”

“Then you have to go to Oak Valley Plantation,” said Marie. “It’s about an hour away from here, but if you want to get away from it all, that’s your best bet! It’s like stepping back in time.”

Alastor considered her briefly. “Maybe before we leave, to wind down.”

“Excellent! I can help get you tickets for any or all of those excursions. Give me another ten or fifteen minutes to calculate—”

“We’ll do them all.” He glanced at Charlie, who couldn’t have looked more thrilled than if every sinner in Hell had been redeemed in one fell swoop. Alastor pulled all but a couple of bills from his pocket and placed them in her hand. “I trust you with the schedule, my dear.”

Charlie grasped the cash tightly. “Thank you, Al! I won’t let you down.”

“Yes, yes.” He sighed. “I’m taking a breather until our room is ready.”

“Olivier should be nearly finished if you would like to head up, Mister Malveaux. Here’s your key,” Marie said, handing him a piece of plastic. “I’ll give Miss Magne the other so she can join you when we’re done.”

Alastor held the rectangular thing awkwardly between his fingers. What odd material to use for a key.

The elevator was several paces behind them on the other side of the stairs. Leaving the two women to hash out their plans—a decision he hoped he would not come to regret—he stepped into an empty lift and pushed the backlit button with the number 6.

Husk pawed at his head, nearly knocking his glasses off.

Alastor turned, his glare ice cold. “You’re trying your luck, Husker! I’m not in the mood to be messed with. Unless you care to find out if cats really do have nine lives, I would suggest you mind yourself for the rest of the trip.”

Silence filled the compartment for the ride up to the sixth floor. The elevator’s ding! notified them of their arrival, and the doors slid open. A gold cart was parked in the hall several doors down. He could see the last of their luggage—pink, in all its shameless glory—being picked up and transported inside.

“Thank you for your hard work, my good sir!” said Alastor, steadfast in keeping the last of his remaining patience in check. He handed the man a crisp . . . twenty? Fifty? He didn’t look. “Much appreciated!”

Olivier’s eyes widened. Had he slipped him a hundred by mistake? “You’re too kind, sir! Thank you. Let me know if you need anything!” He pushed the cart back toward the lifts.

The room’s door remained open long enough to slip in. Alastor allowed it to close behind them as he placed Niffty on the ground beside him. Husk jumped from his shoulder and landed on the carpeted floor. They surveyed their accommodations.

White. It was very white. Alastor crossed over to the king-size bed and upholstered headboard, a wallpapered inset behind it. They were white. So was the bedding. As was the much smaller, more rustic chandelier hanging up above. The nightstands, the single-seated sofa, and the vanity and set of chairs at the foot of the bed.

The carpeting. The floors. The ceiling.

Everything was white. Even the bathroom gave him no reprieve.

Was this what Heaven was like?

Alastor felt like he was going mad. The only hints of color came from the trio and the baggage they had dragged along for the trip. Charlie’s and Niffty’s luggage were a sight for sore eyes against the colorless landscape that was their room.

Husk’s was too, but for very different reasons. Alastor picked up the leather bag, placed it on the vanity, and pulled out a seat. A small glass was set upside down beneath a mirror. He grabbed it and quickly zipped the bag open. The bottle of whiskey he eyed earlier clinked against a bottle of gin, and without hesitation, he twisted the cap off with his thumb and poured out a healthy amount.

Husk jumped up and hissed.

Alastor tipped his glass and downed the drink. “Even when you can’t pour, you make an excellent bartender, Husker old pal!”

An almost imperceptible beep alerted him to Charlie’s arrival. “That receptionist really knows her stuff!” She dropped a handful of brochures on the vanity, along with a much thinner stack of cash, and pulled out the seat next to him. “So, I know we’re here for research—”

“You are,” said Alastor, pouring himself another glass. “I am but the chauffer.” He picked up the money, returning it to his pocket. “And sponsor, clearly.”

Charlie hesitated. “Are you okay, Al? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before.”

“Well, we are on vacation, aren’t we?” This time he didn’t down the liquor in one gulp. He allowed it to linger on his tongue before swallowing, relishing the slight burn. “You were saying?”

“R-Right. I still plan on getting the full hotel experience while we’re here. Even checking in has given me so many ideas! I’ll need to take notes, so I don’t forget anything.” She took out a notepad and pen from her purse. “Everything is so luxurious, don’t you think?”

If someone enjoyed the ‘padded room’ aesthetic, then certainly.

“But I figured, we might as well take in the sights too! I can only imagine how much has changed since . . . .”

Alastor allowed the silence to hang between them.

Charlie looked around awkwardly. “I’m sorry about the bed. We can ask for more pillows to create a wall between us. If that helps.”

“You needn’t worry about me.” Alastor took another long sip before grabbing a different bottle from Husk’s bag. He read the label and realized he didn’t care what he was drinking, so long as it was strong. “I will make do.”

“I don’t want you sleeping on the floor, Al. Or in the chairs. You should be comfortable!”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get there,” he said, fumbling over the words. His accent slipped as well. “In the meantime, you should do what you set out to do! There’s a whole hotel waiting to be explored.”

Charlie stood and tipped her luggage onto the floor. “What about you? You’re not going to spend the whole day drinking, are you?”

Alastor made one last drink and toasted to her. “Well, you could say I have some research of my own. But until then”—he tipped the glass back and grimaced—“I’m starting this trip off with a bang!”

#hazbin hotel #radiobelle #charlastor #alastor #alastor the radio demon #charlie morningstar #charlie x alastor #alastor x charlie #alastor malveaux #charlotte magne

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brewsterispunkk · 1 year

Text

angel of small death

pairing: joel miller x reader, joel miller x f!reader

WC: 7k

prompts used: “I got shot and I’m fine! Relax, would you?” “The price of my affection is high.” tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity

summary: It's bloody and raw, but I swear it is sweet

a/n: this is my submission for @pedrostories 1,000 follower celebration! as @stompandhollar can attest, I freaked out when I was tagged in this. I’m so excited to share this with you!!

warnings: explicit! 18+! gore, smut, enemies to lovers, mean!joel, unspecified age gap, dirty talk, dear-death experience

angel of small death

- -

You’re sure there was a time that he cared about something—someone. But now, as you watch Joel mercilessly beating someone's head in with a baseball bat, you’re sure that none of that man is left.

It had been raiders. A band of less than ten of them that had picked up on your trail about twenty miles out of Milwaukee. And, of course, you hadn’t picked up on any of the signs before they attacked. And Joel is pissed.

You can already tell, and he hasn’t even stopped killing.

You stumble back a step, dropping the piece of metal that you used to fell one of the raiders that lay dead at your feet. You heave, catching your breath, and lean forward on your bent knees. Thick, crimson blood flows like ink on the linoleum tiles under your feet. You feel your stomach turn.

No matter how many times you have to do it, killing never gets easier for you.

It had been Joel’s idea to pick-over the hospital, not yours. In fact, you had been vehemently against it.

Joel had assured you though that there were no clickers. That five years earlier, when he’d lived in the Milwaukee QZ, they had gassed the place in fear of having a horde so close. Little did you know, it wasn’t clickers you needed to worry about.

But still, you need any medicine you can get.

You cough, the irony scent of blood thick in the air, as Joel finally takes a step back from the bludgeoned man dead on the floor. He drops the metal bat with a clang.

Joel breathes heavily and runs the back of his forearm over his glistening forehead. He’s wearing a T-Shirt despite the coolness of the mid-spring weather, his jacket packed away in the pack he’d dropped at the door of the small lobby when the raiders had attacked.

He looks down at the man in front of him, checking for any signs of life, before nodding in approval when he finds none.

Your sigh catches in your throat when his hard gaze turns to you.

“The hell was that?”

You gulp.

“I–”

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is like gravel, his volume low. Joel is pissed.

When he yells was one thing; but when he’s quiet, that’s when you know he’s really, truly upset.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“What did I tell you about checking all the passageways?” He puts his hands on his hips. “You almost got us killed.”

“I did my job!” You burst, white-hot anger flaring inside you. You’re tired of him speaking to you like you you’re a child.

“Yeah, alright,” Joel shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

God, he can be such a teenager.

“There was no one there when I did my checks!” You argue.

“Then you didn’t look hard enough.”

You scoff.

“Mistakes like this cost lives, sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping in condescension. “So–”

“Oh that is rich,” you kick the metal pole—what you’re sure used to be a part of an IV drip—across the room toward him.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Joel’s eyes narrow.

“If you have such a problem with how I do my drills, maybe you could, I don’t know, teach me how the hell these assholes operate.”

The silence that follows is electric.

“Excuse me?”

“You always criticize how I do things,” you spit. “So maybe instead of just criticizing, you could tell me how to do them right, so these things don’t happen.”

“I’m not having this conversation,” Joel shakes his head, leaning down to collect his pack.

“I never learned how to do this! I wasn’t a part of a raiding party! I didn’t have a veteran brother to show me the ropes of—”

“Don’t,” his voice is dangerous when you bring up the brother he’s only mentioned in passing before.

“Fine,” you shake your head and shoulder your own pack. “But if one of us dies, it’s on you.”

You storm past him, your shoulder slamming into his in the process. But instead of ignoring it, he grabs your wrist as you move to exit the hospital lobby.

He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek as he faces you. You could count every wrinkle, every scar, every freckle if you want to. Instead, you’re focused on his dark eyes.

“Don’t let it happen again,” His voice leaves no room for argument, and you see pure ire in his gaze.

You sneer and shove him backward before storming out.

- -

Your paths had crossed by accident. By pure serendipity. You often wonder what your life would look like if you hadn’t met Joel Miller—if you’d still be alive at all.

You don’t remember much of your life before the outbreak. It comes in flashes: the flutter of pigeon wings in a big city, school assemblies, your childhood bedroom, crunching leaves, a stray cat.

Your mother died when you were thirteen, leaving you with a band of survivors looking for a QZ. There had been seventeen of you then. When you found Joel ten years later, there were five.

Initially, when you’d run into the weathered, surly man and his companion, a younger, mousy man who was always looking over his shoulder, you didn’t trust him. Not in the slightest. It had taken him saving you from an infected for you to even begin to trust him.

His companion, a boy named Wesley was bitten a month after he had joined your group. One woman was taken out by a band of raiders. Three of the remaining four left you for the Tallahassee QZ. Six months later, the last man, Jose, had succumbed to a fever. Leaving what was once a group of seven, a group of two.

It’s just you and Joel now. It has been for a year. And in that time, you’re still sure that you slow him down more than you earn your keep.

You're a decent fighter, that’s true. You’d had to learn to be after your mother died. It’s dog eat dog in the wild, and you’d intended to survive.

Joel sees you as a liability, though. Still, you don’t complain; you know he’s your best bet at survival.

You aren’t looking for a QZ—at least not for one like Tallahassee—like you and your mother had been for years before she died.

You’d heard horror stories from passersby on your way out of Florida. Stories of militant soldiers, staunch curfews, and too-few rations. You know our way around plants and herbs: you’d sooner try your luck in the wild than be confined to a QZ.

Joel is of the same mind as you. At least you can agree on something.

It’d taken you months to get some kind of a handle on the older man’s personality. And now, after a year and a half of knowing him, you sometimes still think you have no idea who he really is.

Besides your crisis outside of Milwaukee, Joel is cautious.

He always plans for the worst to happen. Prepares for it like it’s second nature to him. He doesn’t talk much either, which is something new to you.

Maybe it was growing up in a caravan of people, or maybe it’s your own talkative nature, but either way, Joel’s silence was something to get used to.

You know he has ghosts—you can recognize the same signs in him that you see in yourself. The twitches of fingers, the mumbling in his sleep, the haunted look he sometimes gets in his eyes. Joel has been through hell, you’re sure of it. Then again, these days everyone has been through hell.

Some are just better at hiding it than others.

- -

You're certain Joel hates you. That you’re an annoyance to him, something to be saddled with.

You glare at the back of his head as he walks several paces ahead of you on the shoulder of the abandoned highway.

The two of you aren’t stupid; anything could be lurking in the trees on either side of the road. You make a point to stick to as close to the forest as you can get without actually stepping in the brush.

You’re on the road North—to Boston, Joel had said. Where he thinks his brother is.

You’d bitten your tongue at the mention of his brother—Tommy, you’d learned his name was.

It’d been a few weeks ago when Joel had found some old whisky in an abandoned house you’d stayed a few days in. It had loosened his tongue just enough for his brother’s name to slip out.

You didn't tell Joel that you suspect his brother was already dead. Few survive as long as you have in this world, even fewer when they’re alone.

You’ve been quiet most of the day; you can tell it annoys him when you talk too much, and you decide to give him a reprieve, if only for a while. Joel seems to prefer the silence.

But you are so bored.

This particular stretch of highway leaves nothing to the imagination; it’s all cornfields and trees. Nothing, as far as the eye can see.

“You ever gonna tell me anything about yourself, Texas?” You ask him, deciding to speak against your better judgment. You’ve been trying to bite your tongue more, not wanting Joel to tire of your presence enough to ditch you.

“What?” Joel barks over his shoulder gruffly.

“I mean, I don’t know anything about you. Other than you’re a pain in my ass and you’re from Texas.”

“And?”

“And, considering you’re all the company I’ve had for a year, that’s a little sad.”

“Sad?”

You roll your eyes at the incredulity in his voice.

“Forget it.”

You don’t know why you even try. Joel is an egg that is impossible to crack.

Joel casts a look at you from over his shoulder. His hair is windswept—gray mixed with brown spun in sunlight. His brows furrow together as he looks at you, like he’s trying to figure you out.

It’s five minutes later before he speaks up.

“I, uh, I used to play guitar,” he slows down so he falls in step beside you.

“What?”

Joel purses his lips and looks down, like he regrets the small piece of information he shared with you.

“Before,” he sighs. “This. I used to play a little.”

“Guitar?” You ask, and he rolled his eyes.

“That’s what I said isn’t it?”

You sigh. Just like always: one step forward, two steps back. Sometimes talking with Joel is like talking to a rock.

“What kind of music would you play?” You ask after a moment.

“Country, mostly,” Joel’s voice sounds far-off, like he’s recalling another life entirely. You suppose, in a way he is. “A little bit of rock. I would play for—“

He stops himself, a cough escaping from his lips. He shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter.” His voice is back to its usual no-nonsense tone. “I haven’t played in years. Since before.”

You hum, continuing to walk down the road.

It’s a ghost town of cars. Relics of a bygone time, frozen like metal skeletons of the old world. It almost makes your heart ache to see them.

You remember a time when you’d ridden in a car—before this. Before you were thrust into this cavity of death and decay.

“Where’d you learn to pick out plants the way you do?”

The question takes you aback, making you look at Joel in surprise. He just stares ahead as he walks.

It’s the first question about yourself he’s ever asked you.

“My mother,” you say. “She was a botanist, before. I was young when the outbreak happened so I don’t have any schooling I can remember well. She would teach me what plants were safe or dangerous or edible or had healing properties. She made me write it all down.”

A part of you thinks that she knew she was going to die, and that’s why she made you record all your knowledge in a tattered notebook. You don’t tell Joel that, though.

“Hm,” he hums. “Didn’t realize you were so…”

“Skilled?” You snark.

“Young.” He says it like it’s a pitiful thing. You bristle.

You turn to him, arms crossed.

“I’m not that young.” You state.

“Sure ya aren’t.”

“I’ve lived,” you begin. “I had to grow up running from clickers and scavenging for food. I had to grow up too quickly. That’s something you can’t even begin to understand.”

He turns around and faces you, face stony, before giving you a once over.

You shift uncomfortably as his eyes run over you, not used to being observed. You’re sure you look ghastly. It’s been weeks since either of you have been able to do more than quickly wash up in a stream or river.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” you seethe. “So don’t even try to condescend to me.”

Joel only narrows his eyes, before turning around and continuing to walk.

“You coming?”

- -

You’re as surprised as anyone when it happens.

Having a crush on Joel Miller is the last thing you expected of yourself.

One minute, you’d been climbing up a rocky hill, grabbing onto roots to pull yourself up, and the next you were tumbling downward.

Joel’s arms on either side of your waist keep you up as you fall into him, a grunt leaving him as your weight slams into his torso.

“Watch your step,” his voice is gruff beside your ear. It sends a thrill through your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble, heart beating through your chest.

“Just be careful,” he helps you get your footing, his hands coming to either side of your hips. The heat from his palms seeping through your jeans. “Don’t need you breaking your neck.”

You chuckle at that, chancing a look back at him.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him.

Before, you’d been able to acknowledge that Joel is an attractive man. That much is obvious.

He’s tall, and broad. And even though you’d never admit it, his constant brooding does something for you.

He always looks so grumpy. You couldn’t help but want to be the one to wipe the frown off his face.

Now, though. This is a whole different animal. Looking at Joel now, pure want courses through your veins.

His brow is furrowed, his hair outgrown in a way that makes him look a bit wild. You need to cut his hair soon. A five-o-clock shadow dusts his sharp jaw, and you imagine what it would be like to run your teeth down it.

“Y’alright?” He asked.

You’re acutely aware of how close the two of you are. If you lean in even an inch, you could—

“Hey,” Joel’s voice snaps you out of it.

“Oh,” you cough, turning back to the rocks in front of you. “I’m fine. Just spooked me is all.”

“Hm,” Joel hums, before continuing to climb after you.

- -

You’d awoken to mumbling—the same mumbling you’d grown accustomed to during your time with Joel.

It was a nightmare. You could tell the signs: the twitching, the mumbling, the jerking in his sleep.

You’d never tell him, but you couldn’t sleep whenever you heard him like this. It made your heart clench with thoughts of your own nightmares. You so desperately wanted to wake him, to shake his shoulders until he awoke, but you never had.

You knew that would plunge your relationship into something different. Something bigger, more raw.

There was a reason Joel never shared anything personal with you. There was a reason he never asked for any of your personal stories. He wanted to keep whatever relationship you had professional. You’d respect that.

Until tonight.

Tonight, Joel had whimpered in his sleep. He’d cried, begged for someone to help. You couldn’t just leave him there.

So, you grab his shoulders and shake.

“Joel,” you whisper. His brows furrow in his sleep, his lips mumbling incoherently. You say his name a little louder. “Joel.”

You can feel the exact moment he gains consciousness—his shoulders tensing and his hands going to your neck and squeezing.

Your breath leaves you and your eyes widen at his scared expression beneath you.

“Joel,” you choke out. “Joel, it’s me. It’s me.”

He releases you with a puff of air and you gasp, falling half on-top of him. Air floods through your now sore wind-pipe. You know it will bruise by the morning.

“What,” his voice was ragged and breathless. The same tone you’d imagine he had when he—-

“Why did you do that?”

Oh, he’s mad.

Great, you think. This is what I get for trying to help.

You bristle.

“I was trying to help you.”

“Trying to get yourself killed, more like.” He snaps. “I don’t need your help.”

“Like hell you don’t!” You snapped back. “You were crying, Joel.”

He looks at you, then. Really looks at you, half on-top of him, your faces inches apart. His eyes drift down to your lips, resting there for a moment. Then, they snap back up to yours, void of any emotion that you’d seen a moment before.

You scoff, pulling back from him.

“Never do that again.”

“Excuse me for trying to help,” you push, too pissed, too tired to let it go. “You woke me up with your fuckin’ whining. Forgive me for trying to get you out of whatever the hell was going on in there.”

“In there,” he spits the words at you.

“In your head, asshole! I know a nightmare when I see one.”

“I don’t need your fucking help.”

“Noted,” you glare at him, before plopping down on your sleeping bag and turning your back to him. “Asshole.” You mumble.

A scoff answered you.

“You know,” you begin, never knowing when to give up. “It wouldn’t kill you to accept help from someone for once.”

“I don’t need—“

“My help, I know.” You finish for him, knowing how angry it makes him. “But everyone needs people, Joel. Even you.”

“I don’t.” He says. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

You don’t know why you even try sometimes.

You sigh, before closing your eyes and trying to get back to sleep.

- -

You share a sleeping bag one night in late August.

The autumn hasn’t begun yet, but it’s swelling on the horizon, bits of it bleeding through into the last bit of summer. And it’s so chilly that he doesn’t even bother arguing with you when you suggest doubling up in your layered sleeping bags to conserve body heat.

There’s a first time for everything i guess, you think to yourself as he settles in beside you, his back to yours.

The heat from his back bleeds into yours, even through the layers of clothing you have on.

He zips up the sleeping bags before turning over and going still. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was dead. You never understood that about Joel; the man can sleep anywhere.

You’re sleeping out in the open tonight: on the corner of a tiny clearing somewhere in Eastern Tennessee. You’re the only people for miles, and still, you can’t help but feel like you’re being watched. Despite your years on the road, it’s never been a fear you could shake.

You toss and turn for a few minutes before Joel sighs in frustration beside you.

“Can you quit your movin’?” He’s as cranky as always.

“Sorry,” you mumble, looking up at the sky full of stars above you. It’s a sight you’d never tire of, even if it meant having to sleep with no roof over your head. “Can’t sleep.”

“I gathered that.”

“I just feel like someone’s watching me. Or that they’re in the woods, waiting to jump out.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Joel’s voice is dry.

“I know,” you laugh breathily. “Still, though.”

You look up at the deep, black, inky sky, rife with twinkling lights, burning millions of miles away. For a moment you wonder what it would be like to be one of those stars—so removed from this shithole of a world you were living in now. Then, in the corner of your vision, you see it: the streaking of white across the sky.

You gasp.

“Joel!” you say. “Joel, look!”

“What now?” he asks gruffly.

“A shooting star!” Just then, another streaks across the black expanse. “And there's another one!”

“Hm,” Joel turns over just enough to look over his shoulder at the sky. “A meteor shower. Great. Now go to bed.”

You sigh as he turns back over, eyes remaining on the sky, now streaked with countless stars falling toward earth. And for once, you allow yourself to wonder what it might like away from all this. Free.

You don’t feel the bullet until after the raider is dead at your feet.

It starts as a numb feeling in your shoulder, then all at once: pain.

Searing, pulsing pain like you’ve never felt before. It takes everything in you not to cry out.

You feel something warm and wet on your hands and look down to see blood seeping through your long sleeve onto your palm.

Shit, you think. I’m going to die. I’m going to die and Joel is going to be alone.

Part of you thinks he would like it better this way: with no one to look after, no one butting their head into his business.

But you don’t have time to dwell on that thought, before Joel is barreling into the room.

“Where the hell did they even come from?” He pants, leaning into his knees. “Shit.”

You scan his body for injuries, glad when you don’t find any.

“Are you okay?” Your teeth begin to chatter, and all of a sudden you’re so, so cold.

“Fine,” he says, not looking at you. “One of them got a good swipe at my side though. Might need you to stitch it up.”

Somewhere, far off, you think you hum in response, but the fuzziness that started in your shoulder has made it to your head, obstructing your hearing.

“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice is far away, removed, almost like it’s under water.

“Yeah,” you mumble, stumbling to the side, hand coming to grip your wound. “Yeah, I can—“

“Shit! You’re hit. Why didn’t you say something?”

You’re in someone’s arms, on the ground, your vision going blurry.

“No, no, no. Stay awake. Stay awake for me,” it’s Joel speaking to you. His voice holds what sounds like… panic? No, that can’t be right.

Oh right, you’re dying.

You must have messed up your checks again and missed the raiders. Like last time. Like you’d promised him you wouldn’t.

“Sorry,” you cough. “Sorry, l let it happen again.”

“W-what?” You’ve never heard his voice waver before.

“S-sorry,” you’re shivering, and your hands are gripping the canvas of Joel’s jacket in a vice grip. “Sorry I d-didn’t do my checks right again.”

All of a sudden, you’re in the air, one of his hands behind your knees and the other around your back.

“Shh, shh, just stay with me.” Joel’s lips are to your forehead. “Stay with me. You’re gonna be okay.”

It’s all you hear before you black out.

- -

When you wake up, you’re on the floor, in what looks like a house.

You feel cold and clammy, and your mouth is dry. Your tongue feels like sandpaper in your mouth. You shiver under your blankets.

You glance around you, taking in your surroundings.

You’re definitely not in a house—a barn maybe? There are no windows, and the raw wood that makes up the walls and floors around you make you think it is a barn or shack of sorts.

Off to one side of you, there’s your pack, untouched from the scuffle that left you with a bullet in your shoulder.

Your shoulder is numb, if a little achy. You don’t try to move it; you know better than that.

You look down to your torso and see that you’re wrapped in two sleeping bags—both yours and Joel’s.

Joel.

Where is he?

As if on cue, the door to the barn opens, and with a gust of cool wind, Joel comes in, a rabbit in hand.

Your heart stutters.

He looks…tired. Like he hasn’t slept in days. How long has it been since you got shot? How long did he have to carry you to get here?

“You’re up,” his eyes are on you, glistening with something you can’t quite place. It’s the most emotion—besides anger—you’ve seen on his face.

“Guess so,” your voice is rocky as you say it. The words catch in your throat, causing you to cough.

“Here,” Joel scrambles, dropping his pack to the ground and pulling out his metal canteen. “Don’t try to talk. You need to drink something.”

He holds out the water toward you, and without thinking, you reach for it with your injured arm. Immediately, you regret it. You hiss, a sharp pain shooting down your arm.

“Shit, here,” Joel kneels down beside you and you’re struck again by just how large he is. His shoulders stretch broadly under the flannel he wears. The top few buttons have been left open, exposing the expanse of his neck.

He opens the canteen and brings it to your lips, one of his hands coming behind your head to cup your neck as you try to lean up. Heat flares your cheeks.

“Take it easy, let me come to you,” he says. “Don’t need you pulling a muscle.”

The water tastes like salvation and you drink so much that some dribbles down your chin. If it were anyone else with you, you would be embarrassed, but this is Joel. He most likely already had to remove your shirt to dress your wound. Besides, he is the closest thing you have to a friend in this world. You try not to think of how sad that is: your only friend doesn’t even really like you.

“Thank you,” you breathe after you’re done. You lay your head back down on the pillow, but Joel’s hand stays on your face, moving from your neck to your cheek.

You still.

His palm covers your jaw and cheek, warm to the touch. His thumb skirts over your cheekbone, and his eyes remain on you, brows furrowed. You can’t bring yourself to look away from his gaze.

“What you did was stupid,” he says after a minute, removing his hand. His eyes move from your face to the floor as he takes a swig of water from the canteen.

You close your eyes and sigh.

“I know,” you mumble. “I should’ve done my checks—”

“I don’t give a shit about your checks,” his voice is quietly urgent as his head whips to you. “You didn’t tell me you were hit. You’re lucky I was able to sew you up. You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t, though.”

“But you could’ve,” he shakes his head at you.

“I got shot! I’m fine. Relax.”

“Relax?” He spits the words at you. “You scared me to death. I haven’t been so scared since–”

“Since what?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He sniffs. “Just don’t ever, ever do that again. It was stupid and selfish.”

“Selfish?” You’re confused.

“Yes, selfish.” He pushes. “Did you ever think about what would happen to me if you died?”

Your breath catches in your throat as you grasp—or try to grasp—what he’s saying.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“That’s,” you stutter. “That’s the world we live in, Joel. That’s life. When Jose—”

“You aren’t Jose.” He says lowly, his eyes rising to meet yours.

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Joel’s on his feet. He grabs the rabbit from the floor at his feet and goes outside, leaving you to wonder what the hell just happened.

- -

It’s after dinner before you venture to speak to him again.

Your dinner of roasted rabbit and expired canned green beans had been stilted at best, neither of you bothering to say more than “pass me this” or “could you hand me” that.

Your mind has been absolutely racing with thoughts of your last conversation–the need in his voice, the spark in his eyes—but you didn’t want to push it. Not until now at least.

“How long was I out?” you ask after he disposes of what's left of your dinner.

Joel sits down beside you and looks at the makeshift fire in the middle of the room. The reflection of the fire on his eyes makes them look ablaze. You can’t look away.

He’d helped you sit up before dinner to eat, finally removing you from the cocoon of blankets and layers he’d constructed around you. You noticed that he’d dressed you in a shirt of his: a worn henley, deciding to forgo whatever clothes you had in your own pack.

The weather has begun to turn; September bleeding into October and bringing cool winds and red leaves with it. With the lack of insulation in this barn, there’s no way you’ll be warm tonight. You shiver.

“Three days,” he locks his jaw. “You were delirious for a few, before your fever broke.”

Your stomach plummets.

Oh, god, what did you say?

You don’t have the courage to ask, so you only nod.

“We should get to bed,” he says. “I wanna head out early tomorrow. We’ve already been here too long.”

You nod as he walks over to help you from your sitting position near the fire.

His arms move around you, practically lifting you up so you can stand. Sometimes you forget just how strong he is. He smells like the woodsmoke and the cheap soap he uses, and Joel. The scent is heady and swarms your senses. You can’t handle him this close.

“Here just grab onto me, like this,” his voice is right by your ear. “Good girl.”

Oh.

Those words alight something in you and you’re sure you’re blushing up to your ears. You wonder what they’d sound like rasped in your ear.

Seamlessly, Joel lays you down onto where the two sleeping bags are. Where you’ve been sleeping the past few days.

Your brows furrow.

“Where have you been sleeping, Joel?” you ask.

Joel looks down sheepishly.

“Right there,” he says. “My jacket’s warm. Besides, didn’t want you catching a cold.”

As if on cue, you feel a brisk wind breeze through the cracks in the wood and into the barn. You shiver.

“Are you kidding?” you ask. “You’ll freeze to death. Take your sleeping bag.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You need it. You’ve just been shot.”

“And I’m fine now. Albeit a little weak. I don’t need your sleeping bag too.”

“I’m not arguin’ with you,” he says staunchly. He is so stubborn, you want to throttle him. “You’re getting the sleeping bag, end of story.”

“Like hell!”

“Do you always have to be so stubborn?”

“You’re one to talk.”

Joel takes a breath.

“I’m trying to help you.” He says quietly after a moment. “It’s the only way I know how. Over–over there, when you,” he pauses. “When you got shot. There was nothing I could do. Nothing. Let me do this. Please.”

You sit there, stunned at his admission.

You had no idea that your getting injured would affect him this much–affect him at all. Maybe you aren’t just an annoyance to Joel. Maybe you’re a friend to him. Your mind won’t let you wander into thinking it’s something more.

You nod.

“Okay,” you say, voice small.

“Okay,” he nods, before grabbing the rifle. “I’ll take first watch.”

- -

You awaken to teeth chattering from a few feet away from you.

You yourself shiver as you’re pulled from a dream of clickers and your mother, just realizing how cold it is.

Despite being bundled in a long sleeve and two sleeping bags, the cold has managed to seep into your very bones. You can only imagine how cold Joel must be. It’s him whose teeth are chattering beside you.

You cough.

“Joel,” you whisper-shout at him. You reach over to shake him but think better of it, remembering what happened last time you shook him awake.

“Joel,” you say a little louder this time, and he finally stirs.

“What?” His voice is sinful; rough and gravely from sleep. “What happened?”

“I can hear you from over here,” you call. “I told you so.”

“That what you woke me up to say?” He asks unpleasantly, pulling his coat tighter around his body.

“No,” you chuckle. “C’mere.”

He looks over his shoulder at you skeptically.

“Why?”

“Just come here, old man.”

Joel grumbles under his breath—something about an ungrateful girl—but gets up nonetheless, moving a few feet over to you.

“What?” he exacerbates once he’s next to you. You can see how his hair is disheveled from sleep in the dim light.

“Get in here.” You pull back the covers and scoot over in invitation.

There’s a palpable silence as he sits there, frozen, looking at you cautiously.

“I don’t have all night, Joel.”

“You,” he coughs, voice catching. “You just got shot.”

“So sleep on the other side,” you offer. “I can’t sleep with you chattering away over there.”

Joel blows out a breath.

“Alright.”

And in he climbs, kicking off his shoes and maneuvering his lumbering body into the tight space next to you. Every atom of your body feels electric as his scent envelopes you. Your hip presses into his stomach as he sidles up to you.

Joel clears his throat, arms moving around you warily.

“This alright?”

“It’s fine,” you whisper back, scooting further back into him so your ass is pressed to his groin.

You feel Joel stiffen and you try to withhold the smirk from crossing your lips.

“You’re warm,” you mumble.

Joel’s hand tightens on your hip and you feel his breath in your ear as he lays his head on the pillow next to your head.

“Hm,” he hums, before sighing. “Go to bed.”

You close your eyes and try to sleep, comforted by the steady breaths of the man behind you.

– -

You wake with a gasp to Joel’s hands gripping your hips in a vice grip. You’d been having a dream where Joel’s head was between your thighs, his hands holding your hips down to the bed—a real bed.

You blink in the dim light of the barn.

“Wha—” you begin, before you realize the precarious position you’ve found yourself in.

Shit.

In your sleep, you’ve scooted further backward into Joel, your ass pressed up against his groin tighter than before. Your legs have somehow tangled in his, your thighs wrapped around one of Joel’s thighs, grinding.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you think to yourself, freezing.

“I—shit,” you mumble, squirming in Joel’s still tight grip on your hips. “I’m sorry Joel, I was dreaming I—”

“It’s fine, just—quit moving.”

It’s then that you realize that your ass hadn’t been grinding back onto just anything: it had been grinding backward onto Joel’s erection, pressing stiffly into your lower back.

“Oh,” you breathe, and Joel jumps back, scrambling to move away from you.

“Joel, wait,” you say breathlessly. You reach back and grab his wrist without thinking and he freezes.

Slowly, painfully, you bring his hand around your torso to the front of your hips, right to the zipper of your jeans.

What happens next is frantic. Joel’s fingers work with expert precision, undoing the button and zipper on your jeans, and the next thing you know, his hand is in your pants.

His fingers move fast, wasting no time sliding between your legs and into your slick. You’re already soaked.

“Darlin’,” Joel rasps and it's deep, breathy right in your ear. You hum back at him.

“How long you been like this, huh?” he breathes, running his teeth over your earlobe.

You open your mouth to reply, but all coherent thoughts leave your head when his finger rubs against your clit.

The sound that leaves you is something between a moan and a whimper. You grab onto Joel’s forearm, nails biting into the skin there. Joel’s other hand snakes up your torso and palms at your breast over your—his—shirt.

“Right there, baby?” He breathes into your ear, finger adding more pressure to your clit. You whimper and nod in response, mouth dropping open. Your hand reaches up to palm at his hair.

“How long you been this wet, hm?” Joel asks again, sucking a bruise into your neck. “Answer me.”

“A–a while,” you breathe, grinding back into his erection that's pressing into your ass, hard and warm through his jeans.

At your response, Joel inserts one of his fingers into you. He groans as they move in junction with the finger moving against your sensitive nub.

“That right?” his fingers move faster, picking up the pace as you grind and whimper against him.

“And what made you such a mess?”

Heat floods your face. Are you really going to tell him? One stroke to your clit makes any inhibitions you have fly out the window.

“You,” you say, grinding into his hands. His hand over your shirt moves under your clothes and skates up your torso, before grabbing your bare breast and squeezing.

You bite back your moan.

“Tell me more, sweetheart.”

“Y-you, Joel,” you babble, too far-gone to fully comprehend the magnitude of what you’re saying. “Your hands, your shoulders, when you call me ‘good girl’, when you wear those stupid, stupid, jeans–”

Joel sucks a bruise into the base of your neck and you gasp.

“Think you can take another one?”

You nod against him.

“Words, darlin’.”

“Yes, Joel.”

“Okay, baby,” he presses a close-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, before inserting another finger and pumping faster.

He groans against you.

“So tight,” he growls against your neck. “That’s a good girl, c’mon, you can take it.”

You clamp up on him, his words send heat running through you.

“Oh, you like that?” Joel asks. “Being called a good girl?”

You nod.

“You like being my good girl?”

You nod, and his fingers pick up their pace, and your heartbeat and pleasure crest, before you fall over the edge.

You pant, finally releasing Joel’s forearm. Joel’s breath is heavy in your ear as you catch your breath.

“Wow,” you mumble after a moment.

Joel just blows out a breath, leaning back.

“If i’d known getting you to come would make you so agreeable, I’d have done it a long time ago.”

You chuckle, rolling over to face him.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Mm,” he hums, taking a piece of your hair and running it down your nose.

You take this moment to observe him: his weathered face, lined with worry lines, a five o’clock shadow brushing his jawline. His salt and pepper hair is messy–a result of your hands running through it—and his flannel is disheveled from sleep and…other things.

Your eyes travel from his torso down to…oh.

You start at the sight of Joel’s erection.

“Joel,” you say, sitting up. “You didn’t—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Joel sits up with you. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No–” you grab his hand as he goes to stand. “Let me.”

“Darlin’,” Joel sighs as you undo his button and zipper. “You’re hurt—”

“I’m not too hurt for this,” you counter, pulling him out of his jeans.

You marvel at the size of him. In your experience (albeit as limited as it is), you’ve never seen someone as big as him.

He’s… pretty. You want it in your mouth.

You pump him, gripping him tightly. Joel hisses as you do it, head tipping backward.

You move to kneel in front of him, leveling your face with his crotch, but a hand on your shoulder stops you.

“No,” he says, running his fingers along your cheek. “Not tonight.”

You nod at him, moving back so your heads are level with each other. Joel brushes a stray hair away from your eyes, before nosing into your shoulder.

“Lay back,” you mumble. “Let me take care of you, Joel.”

He pulls back and looks at you with a stony gaze. Even now, you can’t read him.

“Let me take care of you.”

He stares at you for a moment, before nodding.

He lets you push him backward onto the sleeping bags. You lay down beside him and reach for his manhood again. Joel throws his head back as you squeeze, jerking him in rhythm.

You hum in response.

“Talk to me,” you whisper to him, running your teeth along the line of his jaw like you always imagined doing. “Have you imagined this?”

Joel moans–it’s a stilted, half-formed thing that comes from the back of his throat.

“Talk to me, Texas.”

He groans, hand moving to your hair as you suck a bruise into the junction of his neck.

“You know I have,” he pushes out. “Naughty girl.”

You hum against his neck, encouraging him to continue.

“You in those tiny tops, never wearing a bra.”

You jerk him faster as his hips jerk up to meet your fist.

“I-Imagined you, like this.” He rasps. “On your knees, my cock down your throat.”

“Then why didn’t you let me–?”

“You’re–hurt,” he half-moans, and you know he’s close.

“Aw,” you coo into his ear. “Big, bad Joel Miller a softy under all that sass?”

“Sh-shut u—” his words are cut off by his own climax, a moan ripping through his throat. He spurts over your hand, hips arching off the sleeping bags beneath him.

As he comes down from is high, you lick his salty-sweet spend off your fingers.

“Did you–”

Joel looks at you with a bewildered expression. You only stare him down with a triumphant gaze.

“I told you I wanted to take care of you.”

174 notes · View notes

rookthorne · 1 year

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐧

Reminiscing on the days of your first meeting with your wolves wasn’t how you planned to spend your evening — how intimidating or scary it had been, until you saw a glimpse of what lay beneath. It made a warmth bloom in your chest at how time had developed your connection to them, a connection you hoped would never be severed.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ➣ Bodyguard!CW!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader x Bodyguard!Winter Soldier

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ➣ 2.0k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ➣ Fluff, tension, a little of their past is revealed, they talk shit in Russian

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ➣ The banter in this is my most favourite thing, I swear.

჻჻჻჻��჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ➣ Deadwood by Really Slow Motion ➣ Burn by 2WEI, Edda Hayes

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ➣ @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer ჻჻჻ Week 5 — "When I first met you..." — Masterlist

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐚 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐤𝐨𝐯 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The slide and click of metal on metal was a soothing melody from your perch on the couch. Both James and Bucky were cleaning and maintaining their arsenal at the dining table – a pair of well oiled machines working swiftly through the steps with practised ease, and you supposed they could have done this routine blindfolded and with their hands behind their backs.

You closed your eyes, listening to them mumble and chatter while the TV played in the background, when a thought that had plagued your mind for days re-entered your mind.

“Hey, Jamie?”

A hum came from James’ side of the table, but the slide and click of metal didn’t cease. You took that as a sign to continue. “Do you remember when we first met?”

Bucky snorted a laugh and the smooth motions of their cleaning came to a grinding halt. You looked up and over the back of the couch to see James staring at you, his expression blank, if only a little bit exasperated.

“Yes, I remember,” James said, putting his Skorpion down on the table. “How could I forget? You two remind me at every turn.”

“It’s not our fault you scared the shit outta her, Jamie,” Bucky sighed, rolling his eyes. “You are literally the definition of ‘extra’, I swear to god.”

It was your turn to laugh at the look on James’ face – eyes narrowed and a deep frown.

“And then you couldn’t shut your fucking mouth,” James snarked.

“Don’t worry,” you called, snickering. Both of them looked at you, Bucky curious, James annoyed. “I still love you both.”

At that, they looked back down at their weapons and their routine began again. You sighed, cuddling into the couch cushions and letting the memory of when you first met them take you away from their quiet bickering.

It was a bright morning, and your father had texted you – a simple request to meet him at his office for lunch to meet your new security detail. The knowledge alone made you nervous – while you knew the work your father undertook, the fact that he had to search for a new security detail to follow your every move… Well, it didn’t take a genius to work out that whatever was going on behind the scenes, and what he was neglecting to tell you, was serious.

Downtown traffic was, as usual, hectic and gridlocked, but your driver got you there in a prompt fashion and walked you to the door of the towering office building. Familiar faces walked by and greeted you with quiet words or soft smiles. The elevator chimed and opened as you walked across the lobby, and you took it to the executives floor – where your father conducted his shady dealings, and where your new protection detail awaited.

The doors opened, and the lobby spread before you – dark carpeted floors and minimalistic furniture lined the space, assistant’s flocking to and fro, looking rushed and harassed with cups of coffee, or stacks of paper in their hands.

Your feet carried you towards the largest set of double doors on the opposite end of the floor – each step taking you closer, while the band of anxiety around your chest tightened and cinched.

A security detail wasn’t the issue, per se, it was the fact that you would have to place your life in the hands of a bunch of fools, no doubt – money hungry, and blood thirsty.

After all you had seen thanks to the many guards before – none of which you should have in the first place – it was a fate you didn’t want to have. There was no way in hell you were going to trust these new guards, and you would tell them so.

Bethany, your father’s assistant, smiled at you as you strode past her desk. “Hello, love,” she greeted, her smile making the aged lines of her kind face prominent. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Beth,” you replied.

You paused at the door, and took a deep breath. “You can do this,” you muttered, placing a hand on the gleaming chrome handle. The words helped steel your resolve. “You’ve got this.”

The door swung open silently, and your father’s office engulfed you in a sea of monochrome and mahogany wood. “Daughter,” he exclaimed, smiling brightly – you noted how it didn’t reach his eyes. “It is good to see you, come in–come sit.”

You glanced around the large room and found a dark-haired man seated before the giant desk, his back facing the door. A black leather jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and the plain black shirt covering the broad expanse of his back and shoulders was criss-crossed with leather straps – twin holsters, you wondered, hesitating in the doorway.

A beat of silence passed, the tense energy of the room becoming unbearable.

“Hey,” you greeted, voice small. Of all the times you needed to keep your voice strong, now was not the time to falter, you cursed. “You wanted to see me–?”

“I did.” Your father rose from his seat and rounded his desk to embrace you, but you didn’t relax into his hold. “I wanted you to meet your new bodyguards, they’re going to be with you from this point on. Can’t have my precious girl getting hurt with all these new…” He stiffened, brows furrowing in thought. “Contracts, I have developed with new partners.”

There was only one man present, you couldn’t help but notice. “Uh-huh. So, why do I need–” You tried, but your father shot you a look.

“You know why, precious,” he admonished. “Now, come sit, meet them.”

The instinct to follow orders from your father settled in your mind, and you moved towards the empty seat beside the dark-haired man. “You said there were two- Oh,” you gasped.

Grey eyes met yours, and you froze. His face was handsome as hell, dusted with stubble and lightly tanned, full pink lips and a dimpled chin, and god, when he smiled – the sight made you wish the floor would swallow you whole. The straps over his back were indeed twin holsters, both occupied with some kind of twin handguns and sitting snug against his side.

“Bucky,” he offered simply, his voice low and far too seductive for the setting. “You must be the infamous firecracker, huh?”

Your father laughed lightly, and you stammered, “Me?”

“Yeah, you, doll,” Bucky grinned. His gaze didn’t move from your face when he spoke again, this time at large, “Razve ona ne velikolepna, Yashka?”

“I ona nasha,” a muffled voice replied, and you jumped. Whirling around in your seat, you found a second man leaning against the wall behind the office door, his arms crossed, and a mask covering the lower half of his face. Piercing blue eyes stared at you from his vantage point, and you felt exposed under the intense scrutiny. “Po krayney mere, yeye ublyudok ottsa ne mozhet ponyat' russkiy.”

Bucky chuckled and licked his lips, turning to look at the second man. “You’re scaring the shit out of her, James–get the fuck over here and make yourself presentable.”

A loud sigh came from James and he moved off the wall. Unlike Bucky, he was slimmer, lithe but muscular, and clothed in tactical gear – the black leather of his vest and canvas of his pants were rigged with holsters and pockets, and heavy combat boots thudded over the carpeted floor.

“Doll, this is James,” Bucky said, smiling as James moved to lean against your father’s desk, his back facing your father. His hair fell to his jawline – the bottom of the mask, at least, and in the light, his gaze became all the more piercing, almost assessing.

You stared blankly between the two of them, eyes wide with shock and your heart racing in your chest. Words scrambled in your brain until you settled on, “Please don’t scare me like that again.”

James’ eyes crinkled and he huffed a laugh, the sound muted behind his mask. “I will not. Not intentionally.”

“I will leave you to get to know them, precious,” your father piped up, smiling. “I’ll see you later, yes?”

“Okay,” you agreed easily, far too entranced in the sea of black and blue before you. “See you later.”

You watched your father walk to the door and close it behind him with a click, and you breathed a heavy sigh, when Bucky spoke up again. “So, now that James has scared the shit outta you, and you haven’t run for the hills, I can say that this arrangement will certainly be interesting.”

“Interesting?” you repeated, incredulous.

“Pay no attention to this brute’s words,” James said, eyeing Bucky with a glint of long-suffering in his bright eyes. “I don’t.”

The back of Bucky’s hand connected with James’ thigh, and James laughed.

“Smug bastard,” Bucky muttered. “So, this deal entails both James and me being your new protection detail, and that means we need you to understand a lot of things, and fast.”

“Okay, but first,” you rushed, and both of them looked at you, gazes soft and open. “You speak Russian…?”

“Da,” James replied easily. “Amongst others; I know several languages. Bucky knows a few.”

“And why do you look like you're geared up for war, while Bucky looks like a civilian?” The words poured from your mouth before you could stop them, and their soft expressions morphed into ones of pure amusement.

“Because James, or Jamie- Ow, fucker,” Bucky sneered, the blow to his head ruffling his hair. “He’s what the youth call a drama queen.”

“Zatknis',” James hissed. “I dress this way because you can never be too prepared. Besides, it’s comfortable.”

Bucky snorted. “And you like the way I stare at your ass in those pants.”

“Yakob!” James growled. Your eyes widened as Bucky began to laugh loudly, cowering slightly under James’ glare. “Seriously?”

“Wait, wait,” you said loudly, raising your hands placatingly as Bucky gasped for air, and James scowled – at least, you guessed he did, behind the mask. “You–You’re together?”

A beat of silence passed as you stared between them, when Bucky shrugged. “He’s been my partner for years. Your father doesn’t know, neither do many others.”

Understanding dawned on you – they were sharing a little slice of their life to make you feel at ease, even if the information could compromise them, that’s what you assumed, if it was so secretive.

“I won’t say anything,” you assured them, smiling. “Why don’t we go to lunch? We can go back to my apartment, and we can discuss this–whatever it is.”

“Alright,” Bucky said, grinning. “That sounds good.” He rose from his seat and you baulked – his stature, while still big in the chair he had lazed in, was nothing compared to now. Roughly the same height as James, and almost twice as broad, while the straps of his holsters curved along the plains of muscle as he threw on his jacket. “Like what you see, doll?”

Shit. “Sorry- I didn’t–”

“It is fine,” James laughed. “I did call him a brute for a reason, kisa.”

You laughed nervously while Bucky made to punch James for the comment – though you didn’t understand what kisa meant, you brushed it off to find out later. “We can pick something up on the way–?”

“Yes,” James said immediately, moving to stand next to you and shoving Bucky back so he stumbled. “I do not trust his cooking–he might poison you.”

“You little fucker,” Bucky grumbled, and he pounced.

The sounds of a scuffle broke out behind you, and you sighed, shaking your head. If this is how they acted when they were on their own, you knew many laughs were to be had in the future – you just had to get them out of the door of this office, first.

“Hey, guys, come on,” you laughed, turning around to see Bucky in a headlock, James standing victoriously over him. “You can duke it out later, but for now, I’m hungry.”

James sighed and released his hold on Bucky, and the two of them straightened their clothes. “Come,” James said, gesturing at the door. A set of black goggles suddenly appeared in his left hand, and he clipped them onto his mask and under his hair. “We’ll drive you home,” he said, adjusting the mask and then he slipped a pair of gloves onto his hands. “So long as this ublyudok doesn’t try anything foolish.”

“Fuck you, punk,” Bucky spat, shoving James in the shoulder.

“Children,” you muttered affectionately – their bond already growing on you.

The door opened and the playful aura dropped faster than a hot coal. It was akin to whiplash, but you understood – out there, in the public eye, they had to maintain a level of professionalism unlike any other. And if the stoicity of Bucky’s expression and their intimidating stature was any guess, or the way people scrambled to get out of your way as you walked through the lobby, you knew that these two were more than good at their jobs.

Though, you couldn’t wait to see and learn more about the two wolves that flanked your sides, teeth bared in a silent, protective snarl.

This protection detail would open many doors, you felt, and with that thought, you smiled as you led them to the street.

razve ona ne velikolepna, Yashka = isn't she gorgeous, James i ona nasha = and she is ours po krayney mere, yeye ublyudok ottsa ne mozhet ponyat' russkiy = at least her bastard of a father can't understand Russian zatknis' = shut up ublyudok = bastard

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader x winter soldier #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky x reader x winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #hotbuckysummer2023 #rookthorne's works #WD

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blond-yallternative · 3 months

Text

TSC boys will be TSC boys (ft. Cody, my beloved nb)

Low-stakes fanfic in which 3 backliners (Cody, Lucas, and Jean [included against his will]) bet 3 strikers (Jeremy, Nabil, and Derrick) that if the backliners can keep the strikers from making any successful shots on goal during a team exercise, then Jeremy will get his ears pierced.

Of course Jean balls out and so do the other 2 so the strikers lose.

Jeremy is deathly afraid of needles (in my head), and Nabil can't join them because he's going home to eat dinner with his family, but Pat joins in last-minute.

Pls be kind this is my first ever fanfic (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

By the time practice was over and they had all showered, changed, and dispersed to their cars, it was past six in the evening. The drive to their destination took less than fifteen minutes, and soon they were pulling into the parking lot of a low, dingy strip mall that looked like it had needed a fresh coat of paint about two years ago. The studio that Nabil had Googled for them was nestled in the far right corner under a large sign emblazoned Black Eye Tattoo. Between the second and third words, a large eye gazed out over the parking lot with a swirling design where its iris and pupil should’ve been. After they parked, Jeremy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel out of time with the pop song on the radio as he stared up at the sign. A few moments later, they spotted the rest of the boys and Cody heading towards them, and Jeremy twisted the key to kill the engine with a long-suffering sigh. He shooed Derrick off his car when he tried to strike a provocative pose on the hood, and Pat held the door of the place open for all of them as a doorbell chimed over their heads.

Jean was more than a little intimidated by the woman standing behind the counter inside. Her jet black hair hung in choppy bangs over her forehead but the rest was tucked behind her ears, making it easy to see the neon rings that stretched her earlobes to twice the normal size. Her haughty gaze didn’t change as the six of them filed through the door and crowded the small lobby space. Pat and Derrick flopped down on the low, bloodred velvet couch set against the far wall, so Jean and Jeremy leaned against the front windows. Cody and Lucas eagerly approached the front counter. The air felt near-frigid after the California heat outside, and Jean savored the sunshine warming his back.

“Aren’t you gonna go check out the options?” Derrick asked Jeremy, who cringed. “I’d rather not look at any of this until absolutely necessary,” he said, and Derrick smirked. At the counter, Lucas and Cody were explaining the situation to the indifferent-seeming woman. Jean squinted to read the cursive scrawl on her metal name tag. Cherie, with a little hand-drawn border of black flowers and vines.

“All the stones here are available for lobe piercings, organized by size,” she said, dragging her finger in a line over one section of the glass counter that separated her from the lobby. Jean listened a little closer than he normally would, but her voice carried no hint of a French accent. “All our metals are surgical-grade steel, and they come in silver, gold, rose gold, or black finishes. No difference in price.”

“What’s the cheapest option?” Lucas asked. Cherie gave him an unimpressed look that said she was sick of servicing poor college students, but she tapped a black fingernail against the glass. “This one, three millimeter cubic zirconia. $65.”

“That’s quite the chunk of change for two little holes,” Pat muttered from the couch. Jean figured he hadn’t meant to be overheard, but Cherie said, “One.”

The group looked at her. She clarified. “The $65 is for one piercing. And that doesn’t include tip,” she added, giving them a pointed look. When half the group made a sound of disbelief, Jeremy shushed them with a “Hey, guys.”

Lucas rounded on Cody. “So you’re loaded or something?” he asked, gesturing to their heavily-studded face.

Cody grinned. “My friend’s aunt owns a tattoo shop. She does mine for free.”

Lucas slapped his palms on the counter and sighed in dramatic relief. “Well, call her up then!”

“Dude, she lives in Arizona.”

Lucas sank to rest his head on his flattened hands in defeat. In the end it was decided that Jeremy would only be getting one ear pierced, but even when Cody and Lucas pooled the cash in their wallets they could only come up with $59.37. With a sigh, Pat chipped in a $20 bill to cover the rest plus tip, and Cherie swiped up the money to store it in the cash register. She surveyed all six of them now standing closer to her counter, and sighed. “You all want to come back, don’t you?” They nodded, and Jeremy said meekly, “Yes ma’am, if that’s okay.” She sighed again but tossed an impatient “Come on, then,” over her shoulder as she strode towards the back. She led them to what appeared to be the largest of the individual rooms of the main part of the studio, and bade Jeremy to sit on the black-cushioned chair in the center. There was one smaller plastic chair to the left of it, and Pat pushed Jean towards it before he could make a beeline for the back of the room. Jean sat as Cherie told the rest of them, “I’m going to need some space. Go stand in the corner over there.” The four of them obediently shuffled over and leaned against the graffiti-covered wall.

Cherie asked the room, “What’s the finish?”

“Uhhhhh,” Lucas droned, and Jeremy looked to Jean, of all people. Cherie repeated the options to him. “Silver, gold, rose gold, or black.” Jean thought for a moment, studying Jeremy’s face.

Well, it was not going to be black. But which of the other three? He narrowed his eyes, considering. Spray-painted daffodils, the Trojan statue from their first walk through campus, and a yellow cardboard dog flashed through his mind. “Gold,” he said decidedly, and Cherie nodded in agreement. Jeremy smiled at Jean, but the expression was a bit tight.

“And which ear am I doing?”

“Which one’s the gay ear?” Derrick asked, and Lucas snickered. Jeremy twisted in his chair to give them a look, but Patrick doubled down on it. “If the shoe fits, my friend,” he said with a shrug. “Cody, make them stop,” Jeremy complained, but Cody was too busy laughing along with Lucas. Jeremy sighed and faced forward again. “I’ll just do the right ear. I normally sleep on my left side.” After a beat he added, “Please don’t tell them whether or not that’s the gay ear,” and Lucas and Cody’s laughter rang out again.

He held still when Cherie commanded, and then inspected the purple dot she marked on his right ear with the handheld mirror she passed him. He turned and tucked a stray curl back so Jean could see it, too. It looked perfectly centered, so Jean nodded.

Satisfied with her preparations, Cherie swiveled on her wheeled stool to rub hand sanitizer over her hands and pull on black latex gloves. At the snap they made against her wrists, Jeremy winced. “I like your nametag,” he said randomly, and Jean heard one of the boys snicker. Jeremy continued hurriedly, “You know, Jean here is French. You two might get along.”

“Ooooh, parlez vous français?” Cody said in a ridiculous high-pitched voice. Lucas laughed maniacally as Derrick replied, “Oui oui, monsieur dumbass.” Jean looked around to see which of the instruments in the room he could use to put himself out of his misery as quickly as possible, but Cherie laughed, too.

“I don’t speak French, actually. This is just what my grandpa used to call me. I don’t even pronounce it correctly, I know, but I still like it.” The entire room turned to look at Jean in anticipation.

He gave Cody and Derrick a flat look. “I’m not going to say it.” Various sounds of protest arose from their corner, but Cherie started fixing the gold stud onto a long, sharp instrument and Jean saw Jeremy’s face go positively ashen. When she looked up, Cherie saw it too.

“Are you afraid?” she asked bluntly, and Jeremy didn’t hesitate before nodding. The boys giggled from the corner. She kept her eyes on Jeremy, her expression unchanged. “That’s not a problem. It’s better if you look away, not close your eyes.” She dug her heels into the floor to wheel herself closer to Jeremy’s right side. “Would you prefer if I counted down, or just did it?”

Jeremy swallowed. “A countdown, please.”

Jean could practically feel the anxiety radiating off him with every breath. With a sigh, he shifted his chair to be parallel with Jeremy’s, and didn’t face him as he rested an elbow on Jeremy’s armrest. He cleared his throat. He could feel Cherie and Jeremy’s eyes on him but refused to look their way, and after another second he felt Jeremy’s hand curl under his arm to grip his bicep. His palm was warm and even sweatier than Jean expected, but Jean didn’t pull away. He ignored the whispered conversation happening in the back of the room.

“Ready?” Jeremy nodded with a tense set to his jaw. Jean grimaced at the crushing grip his captain had on his arm but didn’t let himself move an inch.

“Okay. Three, two, one,” Cherie said calmly, and Jean blinked in surprise. She had pushed the needle easily through Jeremy’s ear right after two. Jeremy blinked too, then loosed an exaggerated sigh of relief and said, “Dang, that actually wasn’t so bad! Do you do that trick with everyone?” His grip slackened, but he didn’t take his hand off Jean's arm.

“Only the wimps,” Cherie said matter-of-factly, and Jeremy laughed, a little giddy. The boys and Cody peeled off the wall to come admire the stud, and Jeremy only removed his hand from Jean when Cherie passed him the mirror again. Jean tried to be subtle about rubbing the now-sweaty inside of his arm against his shirt, but Jeremy was turning his head this way and that to see the piercing from different angles, completely oblivious. Cody gushed compliments, and Derrick said, “Yeah, gold was definitely the right choice.” Patrick clapped a hand on Jeremy's shoulder in approval.

Jeremy swung his legs over to hang them off the chair and face Jean with a beaming smile.

"What do you think?"

Jean considered the sparkle of the little earring in Jeremy’s lobe, bright against his flushed skin, and met Jeremy’s eyes. “It suits you,” he said simply. And it was true.

Somehow, Jeremy’s smile grew, and the stud twinkled like a miniature star as he kicked his feet.

As they all spilled back into the lobby a staggered chorus of “Thank you, Cherie!” arose from all five of the others. Pat already had his hand on the horizontal bar of the front door when Jean realized they had all turned to look expectantly at him again. He sighed and faced the counter.

“Merci, ma chérie.”

The sweet smile that curved Cherie’s lips seemed to soften her entire hardcore appearance, and she waved them all out amidst the chiming of the doorbell and the others’ whoops of triumph.

#tsc #aftg #exy #aftg fandom #all for the gay #jeremy knox #jean moreau #cody winter #nora sakavic #the sunshine court #this is such a weirdly specific idea but pls humor me i love these boys more than my life rn #it was in fact the gay ear

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