#Tire Puncture Kit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

0bticeo · 5 months ago

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j. sims, e. bouchard| love is an open wound still raw.

part one out of four. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip.

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

wc. 2.6

tw. worms, jon patching up reader's wounds, heavily implied that elias is having the time of his life watching them go at it, fluff (in this economy?? written by obticeo??? shocking), handjob, blowjob, overstimulation (so um. non sex averse jon.)

work at the magnus institute, they said. it’s a good idea, they said. you thrive on knowing things and burying yourself in niche research topics for days on end for hyper specific information. why not give the esoteric and supernatural a try?

you blame the decent paycheck for signing the contract so quickly.

(there is, really, nothing to blame but your own, insatiable curiosity. an institute studying supernatural happenings. how is the damn thing even funded?)

oh, it wasn’t that bad. not at first, despite your instinct screaming not to trust the devilishly handsome head of the institute and to run away. the archives were a mess, courtesy of gertrude robinson’s piss poor organization. you did not want to know what layed in the artifact storage department. you dutifully ignored the sharp, pinprick pain at your nape, the weight settling over your skin like an accusatory finger. you’re being watched.

again, it wasn’t that bad.

then there were worms.

your fingers clench, dig in your palms. even now, weeks after the flesh-hive broke into the institute, you can feel it. smell it.

the scent of decay, flesh rotting away, peeling bit by bit from brittle bone, and maggots. so many of them, worms everywhere, stark white fleshy mass wriggling, crawling towards you, biting you until they burrow in your flesh.

you should’ve seen it coming, really, what’s with martin being forced to reside in the archives until further notice and the occasional worm managing to crawl its way in.

you hadn’t.

(drip, drip.

blink, and you’re bleeding in a safe room, jon’s palm pressing down your thigh as he wrenches away the worms digging in your flesh with a corkscrew. your leg aches. your wrist is a bloody mess. all you can do is try to bite back a scream and fail, miserably.

blink, and you’re safe, three months later. on bad days you can still feel them crawl, burrowing deeper and deeper in you, hungry, so terribly hungry.)

today, the archives are silent. the others are still quarantined, so the only noise filling the room is that of your breathing and the click, click, click of your pen.

no martin to bring you a cup of coffee with a sheepish smile, debating over the merits of tea over coffee. no tim to prank you with the false statement of joe spooky and his encounters with the horrorsTM, holding back his laughter as you squint at him suspiciously. no sasha to gossip with, to laugh, delighted, voice lowering in a conspiratorial whisper as she tells you the latest tidbit of info she found out about jon - your prickly boss! in a band!

normally, the usual hustle and bustle of the archives (and its rowdy archival assistants), is almost enough for you to forget the permanent, oppressing feeling that you’re being watched. it’s always there, at the back of your mind, pinprick pressure at the edge of your neck. eyes, thousands and thousands of them watching you, knowing you, how you wake up screaming, nails digging bloody trails on your skin to get them out-

breathe.

you’re in the archives. you’re at your desk, tightly clenched hands resting on a manila folder. before you is the portrait of the founder of the institute. jonah magnus, green-grey eyes boring down upon you. you look back, tired eyes dead and unblinking.

the watch on your wrist tells you it’s five and a half in the afternoon, give or take. the sun is declining. you’ve kept the lights off. penumbra settles over you like a blanket and you lean back in your chair. you’ve been there for three hours and haven’t moved an inch.

you should probably go home. you should probably quit, actually. go up to elias’ office and politely tell him that you did not sign up to have your life threatened by worms, supernatural or not.

you don’t.

the manila file in front of you contains a statement regarding robert montourke, given by one of his jailers. you should probably find a tape recorder. maybe there’s a spare in jon’s office.

so you get up and set about getting that tape recorder. a beat. you think you catch the contours of one of these wretched worms, fat larvae half crushed by a bow full of statements. blink and it’s gone.

you all but slam open the door, only to reveal the head archivist in the flesh. he startles, almost dropping the pile of statements he’s been neatly stocking away in a cardboard box.

“what- how long have you been there?”

you stare at him, blankly, hand still resting against the doorknob.

“i- three hours- sorry, i should’ve knocked-”

“yes, yes you should have!”

your shoulders tense. he’s glaring at you with barely concealed suspicion, and all you can do is fight back the creeping panic that settles over you, because you can remember being in this very office, half leaning over jon’s desk, laughing with him, before the wall broke and the worms-

“what are you doing here?”

you take in a sharp inhale.

“i was looking for a tape recorder.”

jon lets out an aggravated sigh.

“here, in the archives.”

“i-”

“you should still be at the hospital, resting-”

“i’ve been discharged three days ago.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his tousled hair. it’s grown, you realize. a few inches, now long enough to brush the sharp edge of his jaw. there and there, creeping up his neck, his fingers, his wrists, you can see the scarring tissue of his flesh, puncture wounds like many cigarette burns. worms.

you swallow.

you don’t realize he’s in front of you until he calls your name, tone sharper than his wit.

“i’m going to talk to elias. this is ridiculous, having you work while you’re barely healed-”

“like you’re one to talk.”

he glares down at you, a scowl twisting his features. you meet his stare, lone sailor in the eye of the storm. his gaze trails over your features, takes in the scars crawling up your forearms, the skin left bare by the rolled up sleeves of your shirt. his frown deepens.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

drip, drip.

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

with that, he moves behind his desk and opens a drawer with an aggravated sigh. he rummages through it, discarding stationary and a paperback of poe’s selected tales. he’s got taste, you muse, drawing closer, footsteps silent on the carpet. at last, jon pulls out a red box and motions for you to sit down on the edge of his desk.

“give me your hand,” he mutters.

you extend your hand, slowly, holding it up by his desk lamp. his fingers come to cradle your wrist, brushing your pulse, pressing against the faint outline of the bone. your breath hitches. slowly, he gets to work, critical gaze assessing the wound. it doesn’t need stitches. small blessings.

he pulls out a sterile compress and pours disinfectant on it.

“it’ll sting.”

he’s gentle, jon, the compress held firmly against your palm, but not harshly, no. you let out a low hiss, pain like an inferno setting your nerve ablaze. you think you see his frown deepening at the pained sound that manages to fly past your gritted teeth.

the compress comes out stained. finally, he discards it and grabs the gauze, carefully wrapping it around your palm.

in the dim lighting of the room, you make out the sunken cheeks, the five o’clock shadow adorning his jaw, the exhaustion creeping in the deep green of his eyes. they meet yours. your heart skips a beat, then another. silence stretches, stretches.

he’s been watching you, you realize.

“you didn’t have to do this, you know.”

he scoffs, throwing away the stained compress.

“somebody has to take care of you, if you don’t do it yourself.”

you let out a dry chuckle.

“hypocrite.”

“i am not-”

“no? when was the last time you ate? have you slept in the past three days?”

with each question, you get closer and closer to him, until you’re a breath away from him, tired gaze boring into his. there’s defensiveness in his eyes, protests piling up in scathing retort on the tip of his tongue.

“why don’t you take care of yourself, jon?”

you see his shoulders tense under the white cotton of his shirt, fingers flexing, gaze flickering, looking anywhere but you. something like resignation settles over his features, clouding the blazing green of his gaze.

“it’s rotten work.”

“not to me.”

your hand finds the sharp edge of his jaw, palm like a balm against his cheeks. you feel him relax, leaning into your touch, lips brushing against your pulse. you drink in the sight of him, worn to the bone, scars etched in his skin, reaching for his soul. he’s soft, in the sunset, all ragged edges tiredly melting away as you take one step closer to him.

“please, jon. let me take care of you.”

a beat. he chuckles, the sound low and rich, vibration reverberating in your bones.

“i can’t stop you, can i?”

“no, you can’t.”

you fall into his orbit, in the magnetic pull of him. your lips brush against his, brushing hesitantly against the chapped skin. you hear a startled little sound of a gasp, surprise dying on his tongue, melting as you press yourself against him, bandaged hand splayed over his chest. do not still, beating heart. it stutters under your touch, hummingbird yearning for escape. you’d cradle it in your hands and swallow it whole, his heart, keeping it safe.

as it is, you cannot turn bones and spread the open wings of his ribcage apart, so you settle for Knowing him, mapping out each prickly edge of him.

your lips grow firmer in their relentless pursuit of his own. he nips at you, wounded animal desperate for respite, so you cradle him against you, kissing him over and over, until his mouth parts for you, until, finally, you share the same breath.

you melt a little against him, fingers digging in his shoulders for support. the world narrows down, optical adjustment until it’s only you and the warmth of his fingers on your waist, comet tail blazing a path of desire over your clothed skin. your knees go weak.

you pull apart for air, and it feels like losing a part of yourself.

jon looks at you, green eyes dark and heavy, lips kiss-swollen and red and so very inviting.

more…

you don’t know which of you broke the silence. doesn’t matter when jon grabs the front of your shirt and yanks you forward until you stumble in his chest. doesn’t matter when he sits back on his chair, when he lets you straddle him, slender fingers coaxing you out of your clothes.

he kisses you against, and he’s hungry for it, like he’s longed for this, longed for you, you with your mouth like an offering, so warm and safe against him. his hand finds the back of your nape, thumb pressing down, and you dissolve in a sweet puddle of need. he tastes like nicotine and tea, bittersweet in all the right ways, and it feels like a revelation.

your hands set about knowing him, wandering the paths made up by the dips of his ribs, the valley of his chest, going further and further south until your hands press against the buckle of his belt.

“yes- ah!”

you’re gentle about it, really. palming him, tracing the outline of him through his slacks, relishing at the deep, shuddering exhale of your name. his hand wraps around yours, dwarfing yours. your mind goes deliciously blank, his long, slender fingers pulling down his slacks just enough to free his length.

need burns in your mind.

jon chuckles, low and teasing, something like mirthful amusement in his eyes.

“it’s not going to bite, you know.”

“i might.”

with that, you wrap your hand around his cock. jon hisses, hips bucking in your grip. pink dusts his cheeks like dawn rising as he watches you, like he’s committing you to memory.

(he is. he wishes you could see yourself, stark silhouette burned in his retina, clothes unkempt, shirt half-opened to reveal the tantalizing edge of your bra, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dark, hands slowly pumping his length.)

he groans, head lolling back, his hand tightening on your hip.

“you’re a tease.”

“and you’re pretty.”

he gasps at that. you laugh, and press your lips to his, speeding up your rhythm until you feel him tense and writhe, hips jerking against you. beds of wetness drip down on your fingers. you bring them to your mouth and hum, tongue darting out, licking them clean. jon’s breath catches at the sight.

you want to taste him, you realize. know each and every part of him, so you slide off his lap and get on your knees, skirt riding up your thighs. your hands run up his shin, fingers dancing over his knee as they tread the path to his core.

your tongue flicks out against the flushed head, lapping at his pre. he shudders at that, a low groan leaving his lips. you feel him twitch in your grip and speed up, pressing fleeting, fluttering kisses against the soft, heated skin. when your mouth closes on his length and you taste and know him, static buzzes in your mind.

a hand, broad and big and warm, settles on your head and pushes you closer, fingers threading through your hair. you whine. he’s big and heavy, filling up your mouth until all you know is him. your nails rake his thighs and he moans at that. you can’t help but look up through your lashes.

he’s the picture of sin, jonathan sims. his pristine shirt is crumpled, haphazardly unbuttoned to reveal the knife-edge of his collarbone. his fingers tighten on the armrest, deliciously firm in their desperate attempt to find purchase as you bring him closer and closer to his release. and gods, the slow, sublime arch of his neck, the way his head lolls back in rapture as he comes again with a startled gasp-

you hum, delighted, swallowing every last drop.

ah, but you’re not done yet. you’re not done learning about all the sweet moans you can coax out of him, about what makes him tick and come in blissful rapture. so, you make him come.

again, and again, and again, worshiping every precious inch of him as you go, sucking bruises in the tender skin of his neck. mine. his moans fill the room, startled little gasp and desperate pleas for more, for you to stop because it’s too much, to please, please-

when you pull back, your breath catches in your throat. he’s a masterpiece of debauchery, glasses askew, tears of overstimulation trailing down his flushed cheeks, lips parted in harsh, ragged pants.

you nuzzle against him with a coo, one hand slipping under his shirt, settling over his chest, over the thundering beat of his heart.

his hand settles on your thigh, his forehead pressing against yours as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

“w-wait… you didn’t get to… let me…”

“shh…” you peck his lips, the kiss sweet and chaste. “this is about you. for once in your life, let yourself be cared for.”

he nods, reluctantly, fingers tightening over your thigh in a promise.

“fine. but i’m treating you to dinner. that is non-negotiable.”

you laugh a little, smiling fondly up at him.

“boss’ orders.”

#obticeo writes #tma x reader #tma x you #tma x y/n #jonathan sims x reader #jonathan sims x you #jonathan sims x y/n #tma smut #the magnus archives x reader #the magnus archives x y/n #the magnus archives x you

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astrayas · 7 months ago

Text

Moody

Pairing: Choso x fem reader

Summary: Your tense relationship with Choso comes to a head.

Warnings: MDNI, smut, vaginal sex, bickering acquaintances to lovers

18+!

Ao3 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“This sucks.”

You sit up and scowl at the source of that complaint: Kamo Choso, a mysterious man straddling the line between curse and human.

Today’s mission saw you hauling yourselves out to a shrine in the wilderness, where local rumors of a ghost haunting the surrounding forest spawned a particularly disturbing curse. And it didn’t go down without a long, tough fight, as the burning scratches on your arm attest. They pulse with every furious thump of your heart when you begrudgingly regard your partner.

With thick, black hair, deep eyes, and a finely tuned physique, Choso’s an undeniably handsome man, but a moody bastard nonetheless. A complainer. He’s done nothing but complain since you met him, which was when he first started taking Yuji’s place on missions with you for a reason only he considers good:

He doesn’t trust you.

You shoot him an irritated look. A muscle feathers in his sharp jaw as he stares right back. Dark, sleepy eyes lock onto you, assessing you, judging you. Again.

“Oh, you’re not having fun?” you toss back with mock surprise, narrowing your eyes. “Here I was thinking you liked these missions, considering how often you volunteer for them. How many times have you ‘saved’ Yuji from me now? Four? Five?”

“Doesn’t matter how many. It’s not enough,” he snarls. “And it won’t be enough until you prove you can keep him safe in a fight.”

Your chest tightens, and you glance at the zipper on your tent. You’re going to need some fresh air soon. At this point, his caution with you is just insulting. And considering what he’s seen you’re capable of already, considering the fact that you’ve kept him safe plenty of times, it even…hurts.

“You know, it’s the strangest thing. You don’t take precautions like this with other sorcerers. Sorcerers you know half as well as me,” you spit. You wiggle out of your sleeping bag with a wince and sit up straight.

And because you know it’ll hurt, because he hurt you first, you twist the knife permanently buried in his side.

“So are you sure you’re doing such a good job protecting Yuji?”

And like that knife just wedged itself a little deeper, he jerks back and grimaces.

“Watch yourself,” he seethes. He scrambles to his feet and follows right behind you as you burst out of the tent. “Don’t you ever question my devotion to my little brother. You have no fucking clue—”

“What your bond is like,” you finish for him. You’ve already heard this a million times. “Spare me the speech tonight, Choso. I’m…I’m tired.”

Your shoulders rise and fall against the weight of a heavy sigh. The higher-ups had warned you this mission would probably take all day, and they were right. It was well past sundown by the time you exorcised that curse. With your injury fresh and your energy depleted, you simply didn’t have the strength to walk back to the car parked miles away tonight. So once you found a decent clearing in the woods about halfway back, you pulled out the flimsy tent you’d packed—just in case—and started setting it up.

Until Choso snatched the kit from you and just did the whole thing himself, at least.

You cross your arms, taking care to mind your bandages, and scan the area around you. Under better circumstances, with better company, this might not have been so bad. The weather is mild, the setting serene. Amidst the towering trees and twinkling, cloudless sky, only the crickets and the wind puncture the silence. It’s a nice night for stargazing.

But the circumstances are less than ideal, your stinging arm reminds you. And the company…

You’re already frowning by the time you turn to Choso, who’s glaring at you with his lips pushed out in a pout, hovering around you like a fly. You’re about ready to swat him like one, at least. You won’t be able to sleep with him just…watching you like this. Sizing you up. Hating you.

“Aren’t you tired?” you groan.

“No,” he sniffs.

“Liar. You just can’t fall asleep until I do, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, fuck you.”

“Fuck you back.”

You throw your arms into the air in frustration, rage, desperation, anything that might communicate how you’re feeling with him. But you throw them up with so much force that they fall right back down, leaving you hissing and wincing at your furious scratches.

Choso starts, one hand shooting out to grab your wrist while the other checks your bandage.

“Hey. Be careful, would you?” he grumbles. “That curse got you good tonight.”

You watch him with wide eyes as he inspects you. Was that…concern?

“It’s not that bad,” you mutter.

Really, it’s not. You only needed bandages, not stitches. And Choso certainly doesn’t need to be fussing with that tiny edge of cloth falling loose. You try to pull your arm back, but you only manage to drag him along with it. He huffs and mumbles a string of grievances you can’t make out while he tucks that loose piece under another.

“I mean it,” you insist, shaking your arm. He doesn’t relent.

“Hold still,” he demands. “God, you never take your injuries seriously. If you can’t even take care of yourself tonight, then I’ll clearly have to do it for you.”

You sigh and tap your foot while he finishes up.

“Come on,” you mutter. “Just because I’m not losing my mind over a few scratches, you think I’d let Yuji get hurt?”

He stands up straight again and regards you with one brow raised and his head cocked to the side.

“Huh? What does Yuji have to do with—”

Choso chokes on the second half of his sentence, and his eyes shoot open. He clears his throat and takes a step back, staring up at the sky, before he restarts.

“...Yes. Yeah. Exactly. Learn to tend to your own wounds, then maybe I could trust you to have Yuji’s back.”

You watch him as he very pointedly avoids watching you, his neck craned back, his wide eyes glued to the stars. You swear you can see his throat bob before he crosses his arms tight over his chest. He doesn’t say anything else.

And neither do you. You’re too busy trying to identify the feeling bubbling in your stomach as you study the way his features catch the moonlight. There’s no way you’re seeing him correctly. Because if you are…then he’s blushing right now.

And if the warmth rising in your cheeks is any indication, so are you.

You force yourself to turn away and stare at the stars, too, desperate to push down that confusing feeling, as both of you stand there in an eternity’s worth of silence.

But eternity passes. And then it gets worse.

“...I hate camping,” Choso gripes.

Your eye twitches.

That’s it.

“Well damn, Choso, I wish you’d told me that before I packed up the tent!” you holler, throwing your head back, ready to scream at the starry sky. “Because out here, next to this reclusive shrine 20 miles from the city, I was actually planning to book us a 5-star hotel!”

Choso smacks a palm against his forehead and sighs. “Wait. No. I didn’t mean that like—”

“But I thought you loved camping!” You wave your bandaged arm in front of him. “I thought you loved exorcising curses and sleeping in the dirt!”

“I misspoke! I was trying to—”

“I. Thought. You. LOVED. Sharing a cramped tent with the sorcerer you hate most!”

“Would you stop?” he barks, turning to face you, his nose scrunched and his eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, okay?! I worded that badly! I was trying to…to relate to you. Sympathize with you. I know you’re not having fun, either.”

“...Huh?”

You stop and face him in turn. That storm inside you still rages, but the winds have hushed some. You’re quiet as you try to make sense of whatever storm of his own seems to be brewing in his eyes, especially as it contradicts his follow-up, spoken in a low, hushed voice.

“And I don’t…hate you. I’ve never hated you.”

You roll your eyes and huff out a laugh. “Ha! I didn’t know you could tell jokes.”

“I mean it,” he grumbles. He pushes some dirt around with his shoe. “If I really couldn’t stand you, you know, I never would’ve even bothered going on these missions in Yuji’s place. I’d have just found a way to keep you from getting paired up.”

“So, what?” you push, ignoring the uptick in your heart rate. “What does that change, really, if you still feel strongly enough to invite yourself here and judge and assess and berate me?”

Another pause sticks to the air. Choso’s brows furrow when he finally answers.

“Is that really how I come off?” he murmurs, his words soft, hesitant. “Like I’m berating you?”

“Well, yeah…” you say. You cross your arms tighter around yourself against a chilly breeze. “Especially tonight. Thought you were gonna bite my ear off when you were wrapping up my arm.” You look down at it and pull it behind yourself. “Which I didn’t ask you to do, by the way.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna let you just try to walk it off without at least disinfecting it.”

“Like I was gonna do that, either?!”

“Hell, you might have! You were more interested in setting up the tent. I mean, come on. What ridiculous priorities when your arm was—”

“There!” you bark, pointing a shaming finger directly at him. “There’s the berating! Right there!”

Again, Choso pauses. His lips knit themselves into a straight line, and he takes a deep breath as his eyes travel back to your arm. But this time, his gaze isn’t quite so sharp. It’s softened considerably, in fact, as it scans the edges of your bandages, his expression full of a tenderness you’re not sure you’ve ever seen from him before.

“Oh…” he mutters. “I hear it now.”

“Finally,” you grunt.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmph.”

He raises his arms above his head in a big stretch before he starts inching back to the tent.

“I’ll…I’ll be more mindful of my wording in the future,” he continues. You regard him with a side eye. Going back to the tent doesn’t require shuffling so close to you. “I just…I worry.”

Another grunt and an eye roll from you.

“As probably the only sorcerer whose company I don’t mind…”

You cock your head to the side and regard him fully. He’s never mentioned that before. And there’s that damn fluttering in your chest…

“…It’s important to me that you’re safe.”

Choso could be forgiven for thinking your lack of a response is simply more of the silent treatment you’ve started meting out tonight. Truly, though, as he casts one last, careful look at you before retiring to the tent, you realize that you simply…don’t know what to say.

You huff and hum and haw and stare straight up at the sky again, which has started to cloud. You tap your foot furiously against the soft dirt and let your thoughts run.

He wants you safe.

He bandaged your arm for you. He did it well.

He set up the tent without a word, insisting you shouldn’t do it with your injury. He did that well, too.

He takes Yuji’s place on these missions because…he worries for you.

…He wants you safe.

Your eye twitches again.

And you spin around, stomping back to the tent with unrighteous fury, your lack of grace as you yank the zipper open alerting an already sleeping Choso to a new disturbance. He jerks upright, eyes bleary and half-closed, shooting open when they register you standing before him. You speak before he even opens his mouth.

“You like me,” you declare. You pull the zipper closed again.

He blinks a few times and clears his throat.

“...Yes,” he confirms. He rubs one eye and sits up a little straighter. You take a step closer to him.

“You like like me.”

He regards you with a smirk, a quick eye roll that communicates his indifference, despite the confession.

“That’s right.”

“You like me so much you go on missions with me not for Yuji’s sake, but for mine.”

Choso’s shoulders slump as he visibly accepts his fate. Not that he seems too bothered about it. Ugh. How annoying.

“Right again,” he mumbles, fighting a yawn, scratching his head.

Your limbs move without any input from your brain. They guide you of their own accord until you’re standing over him. He looks up at you, a little more of his attention focused.

And certainly, certainly, your brain had nothing to do with your decision to not only stare him down, but to crouch until your legs meet the flimsy tent floor, straddled on either side of him. Choso, now fully and undeniably focused on you, fixes his eyes to yours and sits up straight again. Your breaths fight for space as you face each other, silent…

…And he dares to rest a hand on your thigh.

You jolt as some of your thinking brain comes back online, and you glance down at his hand. But you don’t move it. You only lean forward, letting your hips sink more fully against his. A breath hitches in his chest.

“You’ve been putting yourself in a lot of unnecessary danger for a crush,” you scold.

“I know,” he simply answers. His other hand rises to your face.

“Not to mention the stress you’ve been putting me through.”

“I know.” He pushes your hair behind your ear.

“You’ve been a real pain in the ass, honestly.”

“I know.” He hooks a finger under your chin.

“Fuck you.”

“Please.”

And finally…his facade shatters. Beneath that moody mask lie glazed eyes and parted lips, flushing cheeks, shaking, hungry hands. Ready and waiting for your touch. Begging for it.

And you, tired and irritated and irate with the aching desire you feel for that pain in your ass, find that you have no choice but to oblige.

When you lean in to kiss him, you don’t travel far. He’s already pulled you halfway there. He’s eager to meet you all the same, wrapping his arms around you and dragging you back onto the floor with him, pulling your chest into his as his lips capture yours and coax them open. His tongue is like silk as it travels the shallows and deeper corners of your mouth with precision, eventually meeting your own tongue with a greeting far friendlier than your mingling breaths shared earlier.

And as your lips lock and mesh and acquaint themselves, the rest of your body follows suit. Heat builds in your throat and shoots down to your stomach, where it simmers and boils over into your core, which smolders ever hotter and forces you to grind against his hips in search of relief.

And whether due to your rage or this roiling heat or some combination of both, you feel no need for formalities before you paw at each other’s clothing. After you manage to remove most of them in a messy tangle, Choso stares up at you with reverence, desire, longing in his dark, sleepy eyes.

And you realize you quite like seeing him like this.

You lean down and closer to him, silently asking him to tell you how he feels. A sigh of adoration falls from him, which is the only pause he takes before he makes quick and easy work of your bra and tosses it somewhere to the side.

And that marks the start of a conversation you could never share with simple words.

You close your eyes with a pleased groan when his calloused palms travel a careful path across your chest. They circle your breasts and massage them gently, thanking them profusely for the invitation. Your back arcs and your hands run through that disheveled black hair, giving it the slightest tug, asking his mouth to join.

One of his hands lingers to keep mingling with your left breast as his lips brush past your collarbone and introduce themselves to the right, kissing around your nipple before drawing it into his mouth. His tongue circles it, flicks across it, lavishes it with attention.

The sensation drives the clouds inside you to gather and rumble, forming forceful winds that push your hips down and pull a needy mewl from your lungs. Choso’s fingers tense around your skin, as if to answer you, before he properly responds with a desperate, jagged whimper accompanying the jerk of his hips beneath you.

A plea that makes you smile.

You push yourself up only far enough to pull his underwear down and let his cock, already twitching and dripping, spring up. Nervous flutters overtake your stomach as you stroke it, appreciating its considerable length and girth, its warmth, every ridge and vein adorning it, nearly losing yourself in your study before Choso pulls you back with a barely audible whisper:

“Please.”

Your smile twists into something sinful.

“Please?” you purr, stroking him faster, gripping him tighter, relishing his ardent moans. “Please, what?”

“Let me…feel you,” he chokes out. “All of you.”

“All of me, huh?”

You let him go to rub yourself against him, your slick core gliding across him with such ease as your hips buck back and forth. His eyes widen, his lips fall open, praying for manna, for satiety.

And as if he only just noticed he’d forgotten an offering, he finishes his request.

“And you’ll get all of me, too,” he entreats you, his flushed cheeks nearly glowing in the dim light. “No more bullshit, no more acts. I want to see you because I want to see you. Not because you need your hand held, not because I think you can’t watch someone else’s back. Because you’re always on my mind, and I’m tired of pretending you’re not.”

And as his prayer falls from his lips, as you hear the words you didn’t know you’d wanted from him for so long, your heart swells with new heat. With fresh feelings you’d denied yourself until now.

“Alright, it’s a deal,” you answer, lining him up with your entrance. “No more acts.”

But just before you lower yourself onto him, he holds you steady by the waist, glancing at your bandages again.

“Your arm—”

“Is fine,” you reassure him. You hook a finger under his chin and guide his gaze back to your face. It makes it there, eventually, after a couple stops at your hips and chest.

“All of me,” you remind him, holding his cock in place while you hover over it. He obeys, his eyes traveling over your body with zealous fervor, his hands grasping your hips tightly enough to keep you tethered to him.

You lower yourself onto him slowly, and your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head as he fills you up and stretches you out. He lets out a deep groan, his hands tensing around your hips before they make their pilgrimage past your waist and to your breasts.

The moment you adjust to his size, you swivel your hips and grind into him, trying a few different angles to hit that perfect spot. When you lean forward and rest a palm on his chest for balance, you feel that divine pleasure start to rise within you.

You release a wanton sigh. There it is. Paradise waiting.

You tuck your feet under his legs as well as you can to anchor yourself at that angle, bouncing at a sudden speed that has him hissing and grunting and clenching his teeth. He closes his eyes and lets you push your palms into his chest as you grind, swivel, clench around him.

And what a perfect angle it truly is. But your arm, which you’d kept anchored to the floor as you bounced up and down, begins to burn. It’s enough to put a gap in your rhythm and yank you back from those pearly gates. You scowl at it, cursing it for betraying you, right when you were getting so close.

Choso, the devoted admirer he is, notices the problem immediately. And he doesn’t waste a moment fixing it.

“For fuck's sake,” he growls. “Your arm is hurt. Let me spare you some work.”

He doesn’t wait for you to protest before he lifts you off his lap and rolls you onto your back. He hovers over you, his arms forming a cage around you that you don’t want to escape. You let out a surprised gasp, but the rest of your body flows naturally with his: your hands run up and down his back. Your legs part. The moment he pushes back in, they wrap around his waist, demanding his full and unyielding adoration all over again. Now that you know the fullness, the satisfaction that comes from his ultimate show of devotion, you may very well need it now.

And he offers it freely. Fervent praise tumbles from his lips to your ears, every word exalting the softness of your skin, the melody in your moans, the divinity of your hips and waist and thighs. He’s worshiping you, truly worshiping you, as his hips slam into yours and his lips lavish your neck and his teeth graze your throat. And you have to wonder…

“How long…” you pant, “...have you wanted this? How long have you wanted me like this?”

“From day fucking one,” he forces out. His feverish rhythm never yields. His cock drags itself across your walls over and over, hitting every sacred spot, bringing heaven back within your reach. “From the moment I first met you…and found any excuse to go on that mission in Yuji’s place.”

You can’t help but snicker between labored breaths. You remember that first day. He did a masterful job pretending he just couldn’t trust you. Now, knowing the context, it’s almost a little—

“Funny, right?” he chuckles. He lifts his head, his deep eyes full of fealty as they lock with yours. “Or closer to pathetic, I guess.”

“Hey. I never said that,” you pout.

“It’s a little pathetic,” he insists. “In hindsight, I could’ve just…asked you on a date.”

“Ask me when we get home,” you hum, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your legs tighten around him, too, as do your walls around his cock, signaling just how close you are to elysium in his arms. “Then I’ll forgive you.”

“How merciful,” he teases, but the urgency in his eyes tells you he felt you fluttering around him. And that tells you, in turn, that he’s close to breaking, too.

So you both let your words fall to the wayside, letting your groans and moans and kisses and whimpers speak for you. He plunges into you without relent, granting you pleasure that just keeps building. What an irreplaceable type of pleasure, too: the way he feels inside you, the utter satisfaction, the completeness, the perfect, impeccable fit.

And finally, you fall into paradise, a vision so sweet it blinds you. Your eyes screw themselves shut as each euphoric wave overtakes you, your beatific cries washing over the silent night and your fingers digging into his skin. And it’s not long before he follows suit, his own climax undeniable among his hissing and cursing and jerking hips.

Both of you lie together in a silence that’s anything but; your heavy breaths and satisfied sighs and lingering moans fill the tent with plenty of noise, capped by his single groan as he rolls off of you. But he doesn’t leave you, not truly. His arms are still wrapped around you. He’s still got a leg tangled with yours. Like he’s not ready to let you go. Like he never will be.

Once you catch your breath, your exhaustion finally hits you in full force. Your eyes are already closing, the fingers you’d had caressing his cheek slowing to a stop when you decide to tease him one more time.

“It’s almost a shame,” you murmur. “Now you don’t have an excuse to wedge yourself into my missions.”

“Who said I would stop doing that?” he huffs. “Somebody has to look after those injuries.”

You stifle a laugh as he buries his face in your neck and pulls you in closer. Moody bastard.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #fanfic #choso x reader #choso x you #jjk choso #choso kamo #jujutsu kaisen fanfic

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taintandviolent · 9 months ago

Note

For the ask prompt game:

"Don't say that" w Kit Walker

tw: infertility, angst, brief smut.

Kit opened the door, setting his coat down on the chair nearest to it. You felt him searching for you, felt his eyes scanning over the small of your back and the curve of your ass. His heavy steps echoed in the small house as he made his way over to you. Wordlessly, your hand moved in circles, sudsing up a plate.

His warm chest pressed against your back and Kit began peppering little kisses along the nape of your neck. Knowing what was coming next, you immediately felt petulant and stiffened as you continued to meticulously scrub at the dishes. It wasn’t that you didn’t love Kit – you did, with everything you had. It was just that he wanted something you didn’t, and something that you’d never ever be able to give him. Still, he tried, thinking that his potent virility would puncture your insufferable, sterile womb.

“Miss me, baby?”

“Sure I did. I always miss you when you’re gone, Kit.”

“Mmmmfff –” His words disappeared into your skin.

His large, warm hands explored your plush hips, squeezing the flesh hard. Teeth clenched, you bit back your words. They continued to venture further, into the crease of your thigh, heading straight for your cunt. His middle and ring finger moved together, caressing the slit. His whisperings were hot on your ear, his breath rushing down over your neck. “I wanna’ fill you up, baby.”

“Oh, Kit - stop it!” You twisted your body away from him, furiously scrubbing at the pan.

Kit’s eyes softened, searching for a glimmer of sarcasm, of joviality. He found nothing but hardness. “Sugah’, don’t…”

“No! Kit!” You threw the pan down, the sound of it clattering in the sink startling him. “ I’m tired of ignoring the elephant in the room. It makes me sick!”

“Baby, listen,” he shushed, his hands clamping onto the sides of your arms. He rubbed the flesh there, trying to pacify you. He hadn’t meant anything by his casual remark, he was just trying to get you in the mood. After a long day, all he wanted was to have you to his own. As any man would.

Bracing yourself on the sink, you leaned over it, watching as the suds sloshed back and forth, tiny bubbles popping. Tears welled up in your eyes, stinging the corners. You hadn’t wanted to cry today, you were so tired of feeling this – every time he came onto you, the worry was in the back of your mind. Finally, you turned to him and spoke, struggling to keep your voice steady.

“Kit, you know damn well that filling me up isn’t going to do anything. And even if it did, you know how I feel about that. I’m broken. I’m broken and you know it.”

“You’re not broken, sugah’ - there ain’t a damn thing wrong with ya’.”

“Maybe I ought to go to Briarcliff. Maybe if they fry my brain long enough, it’ll fix me”

“Don’t say that.” He squared his shoulders. “Don’t say that.”

#Kit Walker #Kit Walker x reader #Kit Walker x you #mydrabbles #angst prompts #divider credit to saradika-graphics #questions answered #anonymous

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naomis-daydream · 2 years ago

Text

ex-factor // modern au!officer!izogie

summary: exes who can’t let each other go, based on ‘ex-factor’ by lauryn hill. izogie gets hurt and calls the one person she needs to feel better, but also the same person she should stay away from.

warnings: mentions of injuries (blood, cuts, changing bandages), past relationship, suggestive language.

a/n: i have been neglecting my girl, so i present a treat for u. this is my first angst so lower them expectations pls… those who were asking for izogie content here u go, show her love <3

✧

it could all be so simple, but you’d rather make it hard. loving you is like a battle, and we both end up with scars. tell me who i have to be to get some reciprocity. cause no one loves you more than me, and no one ever will.

she shouldn’t have called you, she knew that. she should’ve left you alone, let you move on. though, a part of her hoped you’d answer. that you’d sigh, complain about the hour or nature of the call before inevitably caving, but you didn’t. you didn’t do your usual game of answering on the last ring just to keep her on her toes. you didn’t let it go to voicemail before sending a text saying you were too busy or too tired, but not enough to ignore her. you didn’t do anything, and that surprised izogie, maybe even hurt her, but it didn’t stop her.

it didn’t stop her from ignoring the alarms in her head telling her to turn around. it didn’t stop her from pushing the lift button and knocking weakly on door. and it certainly didn’t stop the small smile that crept up her lips as the barrier opened to reveal you.

your tired expression dropped slightly, being replaced by one caused annoyance rather than interrupted slumber. your cardigan fell off one shoulder as you rubbed your eyes while sighing. “what are you doing here, izogie?”

she looked down at you, forearm pressed against the doorframe while the other clutched her abdomen. “when you say my name like that, it almost makes me think you don’t wanna see me,” she laughs gently, immediately groaning lowly after.

this draws you to look down to her midriff, seeing her applying pressure to the area that was an increasingly growing deep red stain on her gray Police Academy shirt. your eyes widen quickly as you open the door entirely to guide her her in, locking it behind you as she leans against the island. “what happened?” you ask hurriedly, walking briskly to grab your emergency kit.

she smacks her teeth, shaking her head. “you worry too much.”

“yeah? you show up battered and broken in the middle of the night too much, so i think i’m well within reason.”

you crouch down, avoiding her eyes watching you as you took out supplies. she stays silent for a moment, unsure if she should attempt to make conversation. it’s been longer than usual since the two of you have spoken, much less been in such close proximity.

“it’s just a graze.” she says finally.

you look up, soaking a wash cloth with water as she continues. “the bullet. it only grazed my skin, didn’t puncture enough to go through.”

“but enough to cause so much bleeding,” you say, reaching to clean the blood from her stomach as she instinctively held up a side of her shirt.

this wasn’t her first time coming here, maybe not her last. the two of you did the whole will they, won’t they dance for nearly two years during your friendship. the tension between you was palpable, and it didn’t help that you got along so well too.

she got all parts of you—the late nights, early mornings, and countless hangouts in between. stolen kisses on hands and foreheads, hugs that lasted a bit too long to be platonic, and roaming hands when one thinks no one else is looking. she would tease and flirt shamelessly, often leaving you with a racing heart and an ache between your thighs.

until one day she didn’t. one day she went all the way. it was heavenly, her giving you so many parts of her. only it was never all of her, and you were okay with that—with waiting. relationships take time, which you understood, but after a year of being together, she still wasn’t ready. she wasn’t ready to introduce you to family, tell you more about her life before moving from her home country, talk about moving in together. she also wasn’t ready to tell you why she was so hesitant, so stubborn with you, hellbent on locking you out.

so, you had to let her go.

“why didn’t you go to the hospital?” you ask, breaking the deafening silence that filled the room. “they could help you a lot more than i can,” you say, gaze glued to your hands applying disinfectant to your wound.

“i’m sure they could, but you’ve always had better bedside service,” she replies, wincing shortly when you press into her stomach. you raise a brow in warning, continuing to clean her injuries.

there was a reason you hadn’t answered her calls, hadn’t replied to her texts. you broke up over four months ago, yet every time she called, you came, and if you didn’t, she’d come to you. the cycle was unhealthy, you knew that, but so is the insatiable drug they call love.

izogie knew that you’d come too, because that’s what you do for those you love. a part of her felt bad for preying upon a vulnerable piece of your heart, the piece that’d she carved herself into, but the other craved being around you, because only you could make her feel better. though lately, you’d been pulling away. the leftover love you held for her was fading, because in your heart you both knew that she wouldn’t change, and that this cycle would repeat until one of you let go.

you finished disinfecting the wound, applying anti-inflammatory healing ointment before wrapping gauze around her torso. once you finished, you looked up at her, finding her eyes already on you. her mouth parted to allow her tongue to wipe over he bottom lip.

“this position is awfully familiar, no?”

you blinked up at her before rubbing your hands over your thighs as you stood. looking around you wrapped your cardigan around yourself. “well, you’re all patched up, so…i don’t see any reason for you to stay.”

“not one?” she asks, head turning as you washed your hands beside her.

you kept your eyes on the suds forming on your hands. “not a good one.” you clarify.

she hums quietly as you dry your hands, turning to face the island as you put away the kit. “you don’t worry about me anymore.” she states instead the usual question. “what if i need assistance changing my bandages?”

“then you go to the hospital, izogie. not show up at my place well after midnight expecting me to fix you.” your reply comes out tired, and you are, so you’re finally letting her know.

“yet you always do, don’t you?” her words come out more bitter than she intends. you shut the closet door, turning to her.

“maybe that’s the problem.”

her face softens, brows that were previously knit relaxing in your presence. you exhale, trying to find the words that have been struggling to come to light for weeks.

“i can’t do this anymore,” you say, motioning between the two of you. “this back and forth, running ‘round in circles thing with you. i did when we were friends, i did it when we were together, but i can’t do it now.”

izogie’s head drops, palms tightening into fists atop the counter as she listens. “i’ve given you so much, and i’ve been fine with hardly anything in return, but i deserve better than that.”

your voice is soft and timid as you speak, fingers fiddling absentmindedly with the hem of your sleeve as your eyes begin to shine. you look down to prevent izogie from seeing her effect on you, but she already has. her heart falters seeing you cry, especially knowing she’s the cause. “so, i need you to go,” you say, sniffing as you look up, as a tear falls down your cheek, “i need you to let me go.”

the taller woman bites the inside of her cheek, an attempt to get that pain to mask the one she felt in her chest. she hated seeing you cry, and would often tell off anybody who did so much as look at you wrong, but this time, she needed to take a long look in the mirror. look at the woman who made the love of her life struggle to hold on to the pieces of herself in her own home.

so she walks around the counter, going to stand directly in front of you as she takes you in, trying to cement the moment to memory. you don’t want to look at her, because you risk breaking the fragile boundary you’ve been trying to create. it isn’t until she shakily whispers, “please, look at me,” that you slowly lift your eyes to hers. her irises are swimming with emotions you know all to well; regret, uncertainty, acceptance.

her lower lip trembles. you frown, wanting to ease her pain, but you know that’s impossible without hurting yourself in the long run. she wraps strong arms around your waist as she pulls you into her. hesitantly, you curl your arms up her shoulder blades, both of you relaxing into the other’s touch. izogie tucks her chin into your neck, closing her eyes as your hands press into her. you feel damp droplets prick onto your skin through the wool of your top as her arms get impossibly tighter around you, wanting you closer.

you stay there. every word left unsaid or actions left undone being released in the moment, being freed.

you’re the first to pull away, hands sliding down her back, trailing down her forearms and to her hands. you breathe deeply as you look up at her, tear-stained cheeks glistening under the warm light.

she keeps her eyes on you as she walks backwards, holding onto your hand until her arms can no longer reach. you fold your arms around your middle, watching her as she grabs the knob, giving you one last look. you close your eyes, looking down to your sock-clad feet, only looking up once you hear the door shut.

gone, you think, which is good. it should stay that way.

right?

i keep lettin’ you back in. how can i explain myself? as painful as this thing has been, i just can’t be with no one else. see i know what we’ve got to do. you let go, and i’ll let go too. cause no one’s hurt me more than you, and no one ever will.

✧

taglist: @princessmel-1995 @gonesgone

#naomis-daydreams #izogie #izogie x reader #the woman king #agojie #lashana lynch #izogie x black!reader #izogie x fem!reader #izogie woman king #izogie fanfiction #izogie fanfic

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justawriterofthings · 8 months ago

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Home Safe

Requested: Can I request a Frank Castle Fanfic? Maybe something where they're together (they also live together) and one night Frank comes home brutally beaten up and the reader treats his wounds as usual but then starts crying because she's worried?

Warnings: swearing, descriptions of injuries

Word Count: 800~

Author’s Note: Ya’ll I’m the worst and I know it. But here’s a requested fic. Don’t hate me too much

Frank had been gone for hours without checking in. You watched him leave the bed with groggy eyes before the sun was even up. Now the sun had set and there was still no word from him. The pit in your stomach had grown exponentially bigger as the day went on, but now that the day was over and Frank still wasn’t home you were beyond worried. “He normally says something by now.” You whispered to yourself, pacing in the living room. The cellphone in your hand was getting warm and sweaty from the iron grip you had on it. you hadn't noticed your fingers turning white from the straining.

There was nothing you could find to relax. Every possible scenario you came up in your head of why he hadn’t contacted you was worse than the last. Most of them ended with him being dead, and with the way Frank operated it was entirely possible. He never told you about his work, but you knew it wasn’t good or safe. All you knew for sure was that he would come home beat to shit sometimes and you would have to patch, disinfect, or stich him up. Most of the time his injuries weren’t too bad, but sometimes you thought it would be better if the hospital saw him. Frank was vehemently against hospitals, which made you worry more.

You decided to make a cup of tea to calm your nerves a little, since it was now four in the morning and there was still no word from Frank. When the kettle started to whistle was when you heard the front door open. Abandoning it completely, the pot still screaming, you rushed to the door. There was Frank, looking like hell, using the doorway to prop himself up.

“Jesus, Frank.” Your voice barely came through the rush of air escaping your lungs at the sight of him. Doing a quick once over, you saw he was dripping blood from somewhere and it was starting to slowly pool at his feet.

“Shut that fucking thing off, Y/N.” Frank’s voice was weak, but you could hear the agitation in his tone. So, you quickly shuffled back into the kitchen and shut the burner off and removed the kettle from the heat. Then just as quickly retreated back to Frank. You grabbed the first aid kit you kept by the front door for situations like this one as he slowly made his way to the couch. You could see he was in pain, and for Frank it must have been bad. You tried to hold back the emotions that came flooding forward at the sight of him this way. You had to be calm to stitch him up.

“You know the drill.” You couldn’t help but choke the words out and this got his attention. Frank stared up at you, aggravated and tired, but you could see some concern behind his hard eyes. He didn’t address it though. Instead, he lifted his shirt off, struggling with his left shoulder. You looked over at it and gasped. “You got stabbed.” It wasn’t a question.

“The other guy got it worse.” His words seemed cold and that’s what sent you over the edge. Tears flowing freely now, you tried to wipe them away but there was no use. “Y/N…” He stated but you just placed a finger on his lips. Nothing he said could make you feel better, not when he was sitting in front of you with god knows how many stab wounds.. or worse. What if something was punctured? How far did he have to walk? Why didn't he call?

You tried to push all the questions down and sit in silence while you patched him up. The tears slowed but your eyes stung and your vision was too blurry to be of any real help. Sighing out a huff in frustration, you got up from your seat and headed to the bathroom, wiping the sorrow from your eyes as you padded down the hall. Once there you turned the shower and called to Frank. Silence.

“You need to clean them.” You called, your voice annoyed he hadn’t answered you. Frank didn’t say a word, you only heard his shuffles to the bathroom to tell you he heard you. it was a little more silence until you finally couldn’t take it. “I want you to stop this.” Silent tears rolled down your hot cheeks. Frank looked up at you with only sadness. “i know.” Was all he had said the rest of the night. You threw different alternatives for work at him and he just shot them down with a disapproving nod.

But you knew, knew deep down this was his life and now it was yours. You had to play nurse on the bad nights. But after the very short conversation and all your tears, he made it up to you in the following days. He promised he would be more careful, he started checking in with you while he was on jobs, even brought you gifts all the nights he was away for longer than a few hours. Anything to ease your worried mind a little he tried to do; because to see you cry over him like that broke his heart and he would do anything in his power to never see you cry like that over him again. He vowed he would make it home safe to you after that night.

#frank/reader #frank castle #frank castle/reader #frank castle imagine #writing #fanfic #fanfiction blog #reader insert #fanfiction #reader insert fics #one shot #requested #reader #the punisher reader insert #the punisher #the punisher imagine

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cabezadeperro · 11 months ago

Text

sometimes you just need to write 800w of intricate rituals and post them to tumblr.

established relationship, rebel era, jango lives!au, whump. just don't think about the details.

---

Obi-Wan pauses with his palm to the door and closes his eyes—the room’s empty. He shakes himself and forces open the lock, the mechanism sparking threateningly. He steps inside, Jango on his heels, and then closes and locks the door again.

“Sit down,” he tells Jango over his shoulder. He’s hovering in the middle of the room, hand held against his lower belly. The kute and his glove are already dark with blood, and he seems to hold himself steady and on his feet through sheer force of will.

There’s a single bed in the room, low and big enough for two people if they like each other enough. The blinds over the single window to the side are closed, and when Obi-Wan peeks into the small room to the left of the door he finds a fresher with a sonic and a vac-tube.

Back in the main room, Jango’s sat down on the floor, his back against the side of the bed. He’s trying and failing to take off his helmet, his blood-slick fingers slipping on the lip, and after a beat Obi-Wan makes his way to him, crouches in front of Jango’s bent legs.

“May I?”

Jango tilts his head back. Obi-Wan finds himself in the black visor—a tired, ageing man, with a messy beard and the galaxy’s worst sunburn.

Jango nods. His hand drops, and Obi-Wan doesn’t wait before reaching for him, his fingers clumsily gripping the lip of the helmet. Something clicks, and Obi-Wa hears the hiss of the seal giving in. Jango blinks half-blind in the room’s shade. He’s sweaty and pale under the blood that stains his chin and his mouth. Obi-Wan swallows down his panic and leaves the helmet on the floor at his side.

The rest of the armour follows. This, Obi-Wan knows how to do: he’s grown familiar with the way the beskar warms under his fingers. Minutes later Jango’s bare to the waist and Obi-Wan’s trying to convince him to move to the bed.

“No time,” Jango says through clenched teeth. “Just—fix what you can. We need to move.”

Obi-Wan presses his lips together and gives in. He reaches for his bag until he finds the small first aid kit he grew used to carrying with him back during the war.

“I can’t do much,” he warns Jango. “I’m not a fucking medic.”

Jango huffs. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the bed, greying curls matted with sweat and blood and dust.

Obi-Wan chews on his lip while he works, his hands steady and his heart beating so hard inside his chest he feels about to pass out. The puncture wound isn’t too deep, but by the way Jango holds himself it hurts like hell. Obi-Wan packs the wound with bacta, injects Jango with the strongest antibiotic they have and with a local anaesthetic.

Once he’s done he sits down next to Jango, shoulder to shoulder, and breathes for a few long minutes. They’ll need to leave soon, but—but he needs it.

“We are getting too old for this,” he tells the room. At his side, Jango snorts. His fingers wrap around Obi-Wan’s wrist and then stay, their grip loose: if Obi-Wan pulls away Jango won’t stop him.

Obi-Wan turns his head to look at him. Jango’s staring blindly at the room, a small furrow on his forehead. This close, this tired, Obi-Wan can feel the thrum of his thoughts: he’s tired and in pain and he’s already thinking, planning their next move.

He feels no fear. He trusts himself and he trusts Obi-Wan, somehow. Obi-Wan looks away, trying and failing to push through the awful wave of fondness rising within his chest.

He clears his throat and sits up, tugging his hand away. Jango allows it, as always, like Obi-Wan knew he would.

Obi-Wan helps him get dressed again, and then they’re leaving the room, once again empty if slightly dirtier, with blood and dust on the flagstones, on the bed. They make it out of the hotel and into the harsh white sunlight of noon. Obi-Wan pulls down his hood and starts making his way towards the spaceport, Jango shadowing his footsteps. He walks slower than he usually does, and once they have to stop for him to catch his breath, but they make it to Obi-Wan’s ship in one piece. Obi-Wan pays off the spaceport master and then they’re off, the old ship rattling its way through Tatooine’s clear skies and then through atmo.

Obi-Wan leans back in his seat and turns to look at Jango. He’s leaning back in his chair, his helmet still on. Obi-Wan exhales, and this time it is his turn to reach out, to slip his fingers between glove and flightsuit and hold on.

#kenfetti #jangobi #maría writes #jango fett #obi wan kenobi

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rhiannons-bird · 2 years ago

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TSC characters as things my friends/family have said

- Alec *to Jace*: Sure, sounds like a good idea.

- Alec: I’m kidding, obviously.

Emma: Look, you don’t have to resign right away just because your boss is an asshole. You could start out by puncturing his tires.

Mark: A bite of wine sounds great. Right along with a sip of cheese.

Dru: No, leave this pancake, it isn‘t well. It has… encephalitis.

- Will: I need this for my future.

- Gabriel: You don’t have a future.

James: I just gotta stare at the ceiling for a bit. See you later.

Kit: “Lmao”, “bruh”, both better than “lol”.

- Catarina *to Magnus and Ragnor*: It’s all well as long as the two of you are having fun together.

- Ragnor: I’m not.

Grace *playing with a molecular model kit*: Oh no, what did I do! A cyclic dimer.

Jem *about Church*: In reality he is so disgustingly adorable that you can’t properly capture it in a photograph.

- Henry: Guys! Can someone tell me where the skull went??

- Charlotte: I don’t know where the skull went! You were already wondering about that last year.

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whatstruthgottodowithit · 1 year ago

Text

His Bird With The Broken Wing

Fandom: Elvis Presley, American Musician

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Original Female Character

Characters: Elvis Presley, Original Female Character, Vernon Presley

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 5128

Summary: Elvis Presley has never been able to turn down those in need. A couple of bucks here, a new car there, your rent paid till the end of the month – he’s your guy. And yet those people have never made him feel needed, not really. But she does. His little bird with the broken wing, his ray of sunshine. She makes him feel needed more than he has in a while.

Tags/Warnings: Health Issues, On Both Sides, 1970s Elvis, Big Daddy Elvis, Light Flirting, Chronic Illness, Mentions of Pill Taking, Care, Affection, Age-Gap Romance

Notes: This is a sorta semi request. I had a few ideas thrown at me about Big Daddy Elvis but I did them more as one together than separate little fics.

ELVIS MASTERLIST

Monday

She can feel her bones aching, protesting as she puts each foot in front of the other determined to get in through the gate before the clock strikes seven. If she had her bike she would’ve no doubt made it on time but when she stepped out of her house this morning she found it where it should be though it looked distinctly lower in stature, the back tire appearing as if it almost melted into the floor where the weight of the bike was too much for its deflated self to stop. Of course she had known about the puncture, the loud popping noise and trudging home from her evening classes last night had been enough to alert her to that fact, but she had been too tired and aching to even contemplate mentioning it to her father or finding the repair kit herself. Instead she had headed inside, stripped out of her clothes and fell asleep on top of her blankets, where she had awoken to find herself cutting it fine to get to work. If only she had the bike.

Fortunately even without the bike the man on the gate recognises her and allows her to enter through them. As her feet move her forward she checks her watch to find that it’s just gone seven. It’s not ideal but at least she can say she was on the grounds of the property when she was due to be even if she has fallen short of the door. Her target though close feels miles away as her ankles begin to protest every movement. Still, she pushes through hoping that when she’s able to stand still, begging Helen to let her tardiness slide, they’ll ease.

Tuesday

Elvis can hear the argument; well he’d describe it as an argument given that there are two voices but one of them seems not to be fighting back much. He can recognise one of them. Helen, his house manager, a formidable woman who keeps Graceland running smoothly, something he likes as it means he doesn’t have much to do or think about. Yet hearing her speak now is enough to send a shiver down his spine, especially as he hears the other voice answer back, a voice that doesn’t seem any match for his head of house.

‘I really am sorry,’ the voice says, small and regretful, ‘it won’t happen again.’

‘It shouldn’t happen at all,’ Helen says curtly. She’s nearer to him now and he wonders if she might sense him standing on the stairs just around the corner but the way she continues makes him think again, ‘look I know you’re new here and from what I can tell over the last couple of weeks you’ve really done well but now is not the time to start slacking.’

‘I’m not slacking I promise,’ the voice replies.

‘This is your second day late in a row,’ Helen says.

‘I know but-‘

‘But nothing-‘ Helen starts but her words fall short as Elvis rounds the corner. He doesn’t know why he feels compelled to push himself forward, after all, this conversation is certainly not one he wants to deal with himself, but he cannot help himself. He feels the helplessness in her voice calling out to him and his feet shuffle down the last couple of steps into the kitchen.

‘Mr Presley,’ Helen says straightening up and smoothing out her dress as she faces him. He can see the awkwardness in her face as if she had been caught doing something wrong. And when he looks behind her he can see why. Standing behind the kitchen counter watching the older woman is a girl who looks to be on the verge of crying. She looks away as he enters, out of shyness or trying to blink the tears away he’s not sure, but he looks away too, suddenly feeling as though he’s invaded her privacy within his own home. His gaze moves to Helen, who’s smiling at him stiffly before she says, ‘is there something I can do for you?’

‘I just wanted a soda,’ Elvis replies though he quickly realises this is a lie given his bedroom refrigerator is fully stocked so he adds, ‘and a sandwich.’

Helen nods and moves to get him one. As she moves from his eyeline his gaze drifts back to the girl. He doesn’t recognise her, then again given there’s been so many upheavals in staffing these last few months and the fact he’s not felt like leaving upstairs much he’s not surprised. That and he’d sure he’d remember her. She’s young, no older than early twenties, yet as her doe-like eyes flicker towards his he finds them more aged than he anticipated. The tears are gone now, and her face looks more composed than it had been a minute ago. He smiles at her and she returns it though hers is more unsure than his own. Yet it’s warm, enough to radiate his whole body as if he had been sitting in the sun all day, instead of in the darkness of his bedroom.

‘Will that be all?’ Helen says as she stops in front of him, plate and soda in hand. It brings him back to reality, forcing him to look at the older woman as he clears his throat, ‘yeah, uh thanks.’

‘No problem, Mr Presley,’ Helen says placing the impromptu meal into his hands in a manner that makes him uncomfortable. It’s his home, his kitchen, and yet the message is clear. You’re not needed here. It’s a message Elvis feels more and more these days and so with a quick nod he takes the items out of her hands and turns, heading towards the stairs. He’s no more than three steps up before he hears her speak again. It’s curter this time, her irritation evidently increased by his disturbance. And though her voice is quieter this time Elvis can still hear every word, his eyesight may be worsening but there’s nothing wrong with his ears.

‘If you cannot arrive on time tomorrow do not bother coming in at all.’

Wednesday

She’s on time today. Elvis knows this because he’s staring out of his bathroom window, watching as she peddles her bike up the expanse of the driveway towards the side of the house. He doesn’t know why he’s watching her; he doesn’t even know why he’s up at the ass crack of dawn and yet he is. He tells himself that it’s the urge to pee that woke him when he knows full well that the pills he shovelled down his neck in the wee hours should’ve kept him asleep, like they have done before regardless of if his body needed to relieve itself. But he couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning as he glanced at the clock on his nightstand. As it nears seven am he clambers out of bed and pees, yet he peeks out of the window oh so casually wondering if she’s made it in.

And to his surprise he’s relieved that she has. Not that it matters to him, he reassures himself, he’s just over all the changing of staff. If she can keep her job it’d mean he’d have to learn one less name. She looks more put together today, her strawberry blonde locks flowing behind her as she peddles past, unaware he’s watching her. As she disappears around the side of the house he smiles to himself before shuffling back towards his bed. He clambers back under the sheets, his eyes fluttering closed as the effects of the pills finally seem to be doing their job.

Yet as settled as he is as he closes his eyes to sleep he realises something. He hasn’t learned her name yet.

Thursday

She’s on upstairs duty today, something that was forced upon her given that she was late again. For a moment she thought Helen was being lenient, given her arrival on time yesterday and today’s arrival only being delayed by a minute. But as she directs her up the kitchen stairs and she hears the sniggers of the other girls following through the air behind her she realises this is a punishment. It’s not that upstairs duty is bad it’s just that it’s well harder to do the job. There are more rules to cleaning up here.

Don’t make noise.

Don’t be seen.

And do not disturb the boss.

And since it’s something she hasn’t done before that makes her nervous. As she creeps from room to room she’s careful not to make too much noise, vacuuming will have to wait until he’s up, as will cleaning his room. That’s of course if he dares venture out of it today. In the couple of weeks she’s worked here she’s only seen him the once and that was when she was on the brink of tears. He didn’t mention it of course but for fear he might bring it up she hopes he does stay in his room today. The door is closed, signalling she is not to enter and so she pushes on to the door marked Lisa Marie.

The air up here is thick, almost balmy. It doesn’t help that everything in this room is made of thick fabric from the shag pile of the carpet beneath her feet to the white fur of the hand-crafted bed she’s resting against. Still, tropical as it is she can’t deny that it’s a cute little room. She hasn’t met little girl yet, from what she’s heard from others around her she spends most of her time on the West Coast, visiting her father whenever their schedules allow. It means that cleaning this room doesn’t take long, nothing is out of place just dusty, waiting for their owner to return and breathe life into it once more.

It's a thought that makes her sad but since her knees started aching it also makes her feel a little relieved. Relieved because since there’s no one around to notice she can give herself a minute to rest. She slept better last night, the aches wearing off with her medicine meaning she could drift off into a peaceful slumber, but the warmth of the air and the plushness of the bed she's sitting on make her feel as though she hadn’t slept for a year. And as her eyes dip closed she feels as though she could sleep for just as long.

That is of course until she’s awoken by a thunderous racket. As her eyes fly open she finds herself now on the floor, the broom she had been holding now beside her, having swept everything off the nightstand as she toppled off the bed head first. And then the racket isn’t being caused by her, it’s by the sound of the door bouncing off the wall as he appears, looking frantically around the room, a small pistol in his hand until he notices her lying there.

��Oh,’ he says looking down at her, his concern going to a smile.

‘Oh my god I’m so sorry,’ she says scrambling onto her knees that are still burning from the day of cleaning yet take her weight all the same. Elvis watches as she starts gathering the books and trinkets splayed across his daughter’s bedroom carpet, her voice nervous and frantic as she tries to explain, ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep. One minute I was sitting on the bed and the next I’m on the floor-‘

‘It’s alright,’ Elvis says hoping his voice conveys reassurance but when she looks up at him doe-eyed and panicked he can see that it’s not.

‘No it isn’t,’ she says shaking her head as if to convince him he’s wrong, ‘I don’t even know how long I was out, oh god don’t tell Helen-‘

‘It’s between you and me,’ he says and it’s only at that point in her ramblings she notices he’s moved closer, kneeling down in front of her as he takes the items she has stacked in her hands out and places them on the bed. If the room felt warm before it’s now practically an oven, his blue eyes making her face feel as though it’s on fire as he watches her, willing her to accept what he’s saying.

‘I woke you up,’ is all she can think to say. It’s true, he’s still in his pyjamas, yet he feels wide awake as he looks at her young face. She’s pretty, prettier than he realised though admittedly he’d only had glimpses of her. Yet the worry on her face makes her age prematurely, frown lines appearing on her forehead as she awaits for him to scold her. If it was anyone else he might have. Hell if it was one of the boys he isn’t convinced he wouldn’t have already popped a shot off from the pistol now pressing coolly into his sweat-slickened back from where it rests in his waistband.

‘You woke yourself first,’ he counters making those frown lines disappear as she smiles, the same warmth-riddled smile she had given him when they had first seen each other. But it’s only there for a second and then she’s gone, putting the items back as he watches her from behind. It’s not a bad view he has to admit and it definitely takes the sting of trying to get up from where he had been kneeling. By the time she turns around he’s fully upright, ignoring the way his bones creak in protest.

‘I really am sorry you know,’ she says chewing on her lip nervously.

‘It’s okay,’ he smiles, ‘honestly…uh…’

‘Robin,’ she replies.

‘Robin,’ he says, enjoying the way it flows off of his tongue. It’s been something that’s been playing on his mind for the past couple of days, wondering what name could suit her and somehow it fits, ‘that’s a pretty name. Makes sense for a pretty thing like you.’

It’s a compliment that takes her off guard and she’s pretty sure that the heat in the room is now no match for the heat in her cheeks, which worsens as his smile deepens, crinkles forming around his eyes at the way he’s got her a flutter. She doesn’t know why it makes her feel that way, after all he’s old enough to be her dad, not to mention it’s probably an insignificant remark, something he probably says to every woman in his life. And yet it makes her stomach squeeze in a nervous way.

‘No it’s not okay,’ she says hoping to breeze past the comment in the hopes it’ll make her face any less warm, ‘I’m an idiot. I bet you’re wanting to fire me right now-‘

‘Why would I want to do that?’ Elvis asks softly, making her look at him.

‘I mean it’s not the best look when I’ve only just started. Is it?’ she implores. Elvis shrugs.

‘We all have off days,’ Elvis says. He knows that more than most, ‘anyway what’s got ya so tired? Late night out on the town?’

‘Hardly,’ she snorts in a manner that takes Elvis off guard. It’s the first time she’s seemed relaxed but that calmness disappears as she notices the clock on the night stand, ‘oh god is it twelve already?’

‘Yeah,’ Elvis replies.

‘Uh, do you want a sandwich or something?’ she asks taking him off guard once more, ‘I can fix you one.’

‘No, I’m good,’ he says watching as she moves to gather her cleaning supplies. He stands up at that, worried she’s going to leave their conversation early, something he doesn’t want to happen. Not now his intrigue is piqued.

‘Or some soda?’ she says. It’s a different angle one she’s hoping he’ll yield to but he doesn’t, instead his smile becomes curious as he says, ‘you got some place to be honey?’

‘No, no,’ Robin protests, cursing herself for being so see-through. It’s not that she wants to leave his company, even if it has had her in a tizz from the moment he came in the room.

‘But?’ Elvis asks making her sigh.

‘But…I gotta eat…I’ve gotta take my pill,’ Robin says.

‘Oh right…o’course. Young thing like you,’ Elvis replies, somewhat bashfully. For a moment his meaning doesn’t register until the dots connect in her brain, her cheeks flushing once more.

‘Not that,’ she blushes dropping her gaze to the carpet. Of course she can see why he might think that, in fact she thinks it’s a little commendable he’s so understanding off the bat given he’s not that much younger than her father and if she mentioned anything to do with birth control around him she’s sure he’d be even redder than she is right now.

But Elvis isn’t embarrassed, in fact he’s damn right confused about why else a sprightly twenty-something might need any form of medicine. Even at forty people raise an eyebrow at the amount of pills he needs to take to keep him feeling in shape which is why he knows he’d be out of line to question her about it. But he’s curious and in his defence she brought it up.

‘What’s a young thing like you taking pills for?’ he asks hoping he doesn’t sound too demanding as the question leaves his lips. She hesitates for a moment. When she got the job her daddy had told her not to say a word about her health. Declaring anything might be wrong with you is just asking for them to turn you down, he warned. But there’s something about Elvis’ sympathetic, understanding expression that makes her want to. In fact in the time that she’s been here she’s wanted to scream about it countless times. To tell Helen she’s trying her best, even if her best one day might not be the same the next. It’s not as if she chooses to be this way. As if she begs for her bones to ache or for every action to make her energy zap from her body. It's not as if she wanted to have to drop out of college, to have to do it in twice the time it takes everyone else because she’s only got time for night school now. It’s not like she even wanted this job, but her folks can't make ends meet as it is, never mind footing whatever hospital bill lands on their doorstep.

‘Well it’s…it’s for my condition. I have to take what feels like a million of them,’ she says, feeling relief pour out of her as she says the words aloud. Even more so as his face doesn’t change. It doesn’t get awkward or squirrely like most people do, in fact it looks curious.

‘What's your condition…if you don’t mind me askin’,’ he replies.

‘Well I say condition but they don’t really know what it is. All the doctors at Baptist can't really agree on anything,’ she says bitterly making his heart flutter.

‘Well that’s no good,’ Elvis says.

‘You’re telling me,’ she says bitterly, her gaze on her shoes as she toes at the carpet. When she looks up he’s still watching her, yet this time his sympathy is bordering on the edge of pity and somehow that’s worse than if he was completely disinterested. It makes her want to run so she says, ‘sorry I shouldn’t be bothering you with all my problems.’

‘Better than thinkin’ of my own,’ he shrugs, offering encouragement as she fails to continue, ‘go on honey.’

‘Well there's not much to tell. About a year ago I got really sick…like drop out of college and move back in with my folks sick. I was in hospital for a while but they couldn’t figure out what it was.’

‘And now?’ Elvis asks feeling that tug on his heartstrings once more.

‘They still don’t really know…so they pumped me full of pills…’ she shrugs. Elvis almost has to choke back a sarcastic laugh. At least they always give him a reason before they add yet another little helper to his never-ending roster. This’ll help with fatigue, that’ll help you sleep, this one will yada yada yada. But for them to not know what the matter was and to do it anyway seems careless to him. After all she’s just a slip of a thing. He still shudders at the memory of Cilla taking more than her share of sleeping pills, knocking herself out flat for nearly two days. He doubts little Robin would be any different. But if she is having issues, if the pills do something maybe it’s not that bad.

‘Do they help?’ he asks, his worries not relieved as she shrugs once more.

‘Yeah, I guess. I mean I mean they probably would if I remembered to take them on time,’ she says.

‘That’s no good darlin’,’ he frowns and for the first time she feels as though she is in front of her actual father. And just as they would with him the excuses flow free.

‘I know. It’s just that they make me feel nauseous but I have to eat to take them…maybe if they made me feel fantastic or whatever but my bones still ache a lot and I’m always tired,’ she grumbles, hoping he’ll see her side of things. If they worked wonders she’d strap an alarm clock to her forehead to remind her to take them the very second they were due. Unfortunately, she’s not that lucky.

‘Part of your condition?’ he asks.

‘I guess…if we knew what that was,’ she jokes making him smile. It’s not been an easy conversation, in fact he’s done nothing but worry about her since she opened her mouth but her soft smile, that radiant one, makes him feel a touch better. And she in turn feels better for getting it all off her chest, it’s not going to make her working life any easier but at least having someone on the inside who knows the truth is something.

What she’s not prepared for is the way his smile makes that flutter return like a fire ripping through her. It’s odd how a man that’s nearly twenty years her senior can make her feel the way he is at this minute in time, or indeed how his smile can resemble that of a young boys, but still it does.

‘I really should get back to work,’ she says gathering her cleaning supplies as a clear signal she’s ending their little soiree. It disappoints Elvis but he can’t help but think that this won't be the last time they’ll speak. There’s something between them, a trust, both of them seem to feel.

‘Yeah you should get goin’,’ he agrees making her smile dim just a touch until he says, ‘you need to get downstairs. To get something to eat before your pills remember?’

‘Oh, yeah thanks Mr Presley,’ Robin replies feeling that flutter amp up inside her.

‘Elvis. Call me Elvis,’ he says watching as she looks at him for a moment before she offers him a nod and then scuttles out of the room, broom and cleaning supplies in hand.

As he heads back to bed his thoughts are plagued by everything she’s told him. It makes sense now. The lateness, the falling asleep, hell the reason her face is so youthful and yet her eyes feel aeons older. She’s bogged down by issues that she shouldn’t be. Unable to live her life because her own body is betraying her. It’s something he understands all too well.

And perhaps something he can fix. After all, who says she needs to rely on the doctors at Baptist, they’re good and all but if she needs better he can pay for whoever that may be. And maybe they can get her fixed up, get her back to school, get her out living her life like a pretty young thing like that should be doing.

His heart swells at the thought of that. She needs him, his little Robin, his bird with the broken wing. He could help her, if anything she needs him to, in a way that no one seems to need him anymore. And it sure would feel good to feel needed.

Friday

One would wonder how a house could be cleaned every day and you could still find dirt. Then again given the amount of people traipsing in and out and the sheer size of the house itself it’s not hard to imagine how the work could never end. That’s how Robin finds herself in the pool room once more, tidying up even though she had only done it a couple of days prior. She can't find it in her today to moan about it though. Whoever has spent the evening down here hasn’t left too much of a mess and given that she’s more than two levels away from Elvis her cleaning can be a little louder than normal. And today that’s what she craves because today her bones don’t feel like that of an eighty-year-old and she hasn’t slept terribly for once.

It's a fact that proves what Elvis had told her the day before, we all have good days and bad days. And today's a good day. So as she vacuums the plush carpet she finds that her hips are swaying to the radio playing in the corner. In fact, she’s so engrossed she doesn’t even hear the soft footfalls of someone in the room with her, or the placement of a plate as it rests on the lip of the pool table awaiting her notice. It’s only when she turns around she clocks it and she moves to it wondering if it'd been there the whole time.

If it had that would mean she isn’t much of a cleaner but as she looks at the sandwich she notices a small note folded in its crease.

So you don’t forget to eat

Saturday

When Elvis went looking for Robin yesterday he found her dancing around his pool room, oblivious to his presence due to the noise of the vacuum. He could’ve disturbed her and yet watching her having fun he couldn’t bring himself to. And he can’t bring himself to do it today either. Yesterday must’ve been a good day but it appears today isn’t. Well, he assumes it’s not given she’s fallen asleep in his bedroom. He’d invited her in, asking if she wouldn’t mind giving his windows a once over since he’s actually got the curtains open for a change and she’d obliged, thanking him kindly for the sandwich and skating over the fact he might have seen her shaking all that the lord had given her in his games room. Besides, that image was something just for him.

As she’d spritzed his windows with cleaner he’d disappeared into the bathroom, continuing their conversation until it had become decidedly one-sided. When he’d come back out he’d found her flopped down on the plush loveseat in the corner, cleaning bottle still in hand. He hadn't the heart to move her and instead he’d grabbed a blanket and draped it over her, leaving her to rest for as long as she needed to.

Sunday

‘Hello?’ Robin says with a frown as the cool plastic of the receiver hits her ear. It’s been a long week and an out-of-the-blue phone call on a Sunday night is the last thing she wants, especially when her family are waiting on her to start dinner.

‘Robin?’ an unfamiliar voice replies.

‘Who is this?’ she asks.

‘Oh, Vernon, Vernon Presley,’ the voice replies making worry take hold of her as she wonders what her boss’s father could possibly want on a Sunday evening, not only a Sunday evening, her day off.

‘I’m just calling to tell you not to come in tomorrow,’ he replies casually.

‘Oh, okay,’ Robin says trying to ignore the lump in her throat. She had thought this week was going too well, that Elvis had been too understanding about her. It made sense now, he was waiting for the right time to cut her loose. It makes sense she supposes, it means she doesn’t have to show up on Monday morning only to be told to go home but still it stings and the words of her father echo in her ears for being so foolish as to be honest.

‘There’s no point given your appointments at ten,’ he replies.

‘Huh?’ Robin asks.

‘Your doctor's appointment?’ he mutters confused, ‘I thought Elvis had explained?’

‘Afraid not,’ Robin answers her worry turning to confusion.

‘He’s arranged for you to see a doctor from California,’ he explains, ‘they’re going to see you at Baptist tomorrow. 10 am sharp.’

‘Mr Presley that’s too much I can't-'

‘With respect Miss once my son’s decided on something there’s not much point standing in his way,’ Vernon says honestly. It makes her heart flip-flop inside her chest. She should be grateful he wants to help but to fly a doctor in, from California no less who she’s sure would’ve cost a pretty penny, it seems too much. Why he'd want to doesn’t make sense either after all she’s only worked there a matter of weeks.

But it seems too good an opportunity to turn down. In fact thinking about the way he’s taken care of her these last couple of days she fears if she did turn it down he might take it to heart, that boyish smile that makes her heart flutter disappearing for a look of disappointment, one she doesn’t want to see on his handsome face ever. As if he needs her to. And after all she’s been through she can't deny it would be nice to have someone help. To feel as though her wings were no longer clipped.

It's an offer she can’t turn down and so she says, ’10 am?’

‘He’ll pick ya up tomorrow,’ Vernon agrees and before she can thank him he’s gone, the line clicking off and leaving a dial tone in its place. With a sigh she places the receiver back where it should be taking a moment to soak it in before she heads back to her parents to tell them the news. She reminds herself not to get her hopes up, this doctor might cost a pretty penny and come up with no more ideas than the ones here in Memphis. Yet she can't help but feel excited because even if they can't fix everything, even if she remains the same, she’s sure there’s something about Elvis Presley that might just make her feel as though she’s flying anyway.

And she can't help but smile at that.

ELVIS TAGS

@girlblogger2002 @sania562 @caitlin1996 @literally-just-elvis-fics@notstefaniepresley @artlesson8892 @18lkpeters @velvetelvis @jaqueline19997 @elvispresleyxoxo @amydarcimarie @presleyenterprise@everythingelvispresley @elvispresleywife@lillypink@richardslady121 @lettersfromvenus @louisejoy86 @ccab

#my writing #elvis #elvis presley #elvis presley x ofc #elvis presley x oc #his bird with the broken wing

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