#and the ones i did meet were either jerks or creeps | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yazmarina · 4 months ago

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feed your misery

oscar piastri x afab!reader, side lando x reader

oscar already feels as if he's taken everything away from lando. what's one more?

warnings/notes: smut, slight (?) angst, unprotected sex, creampie, reader is fwb with lando, post-hungary 2024

a/n: everything i write for this goddamn race is partly sad. but this is also sexy. i hope it's sexy enough :')

"Hey, race winner."

Oscar whips his head around, momentarily confused. He immediately grins upon seeing you, though he tries to conceal it, his face settling into a polite smile instead.

But you spot it, despite his fireproofs covering the majority of his neck. The deep blush creeping up to his face is just barely visible over the collar.

You stopped him just outside of his driver's room, his helmet in his hand and his race suit hanging off around his hips. He smells strongly of champagne and his hair is slicked back from all the liquor drenching it.

"Hey yourself," Oscar responds coolly, opening the door to his room.

"Congratulations again," you reply, your neck craning upward as you try to meet Oscar's eyes.

"Thanks," Oscar says, eyes scanning over your face.

"New hair?" He goes on to ask, tilting his head to the side to study you closer.

You nod. "Yep. I thought today might be special so I did something different with it. And, it turns out, today was special, with you winning and all."

You end your sentence with an innocent bat of your eyes as you grin girlishly up at Oscar.

Oscar bites down on his lip, forehead creasing, as if deep in thought, After a few more moments, he jerks his chin inward, gesturing you inside.

"Why don't you come in?"

You pause, glancing around to see if anyone from the team is nearby. You've never been inside either Lando or Oscar's room in the motorhome, despite the...situations you've found yourself in with Lando before. He always preferred to have you in highly private places, and you understand why.

Not that you were expecting anything to happen with Oscar at this moment, that would just be in bad taste, as if it wasn't bad enough that a press officer was sleeping with–

"You okay?" Oscar asks, already inside, his eyebrows raised. Your hesitation dawns on him quickly enough and his lips meld into a smirk.

"Why? Scared that Lando might see you?" he adds, depositing his helmet on top of his massage table.

You scoff, stepping into the small space of his driver's room. The door clicks shut behind you and Oscar just stares, waiting for you to say something.

"Why would I be scared of Lando?" You ask, a hand on your hip as if to challenge the driver.

"Well, you should be," Oscar warns with a laugh. "He's not in the best mood right now."

"And whose fault is that?" You question.

"Not mine," Oscar deadpans, expression turning serious. You pause, realizing that you've hit a sensitive subject matter.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it that way," you quickly apologize, pursing your lips.

Oscar chuckles and shrugs. "It is what it is."

"Though, seeing you might help him, you know...blow off some steam," Oscar continues, giving you a pointed look.

You force yourself to meet his eyes. "But I wanted to see you."

Oscar blinks, his mouth falling open at your admission. He snickers, as if in disbelief.

"Did the two of you fight or something?" Oscar mildly accuses.

"No, it's just...I thought it would be better if I left him alone for a bit," you explain. "Like you said, he doesn't seem too happy at the moment."

Oscar doesn't respond. He just looks, taking in the sight of you. You'd kill to know what's running through his head right now, with the way his eyes travel down your body. The urge to fidget with your McLaren uniform is strong, your skin growing warm under his hardened gaze.

"And you thought you'd come to me?" Oscar questions. "Like a rebound?"

You pout, but guilt pinches at your chest at his words.

You and Lando were never official, that was clear to you both. You only ever started messing around after his win in Miami, the celebratory dinner and partying leading to you joining him in his hotel room, fraternization clause be damned.

Then it happened again in Imola, and again in his apartment in Monaco. And so it went on like that for weeks, and it was only a matter of time before an unassuming hickey peeking over the collar of your McLaren polo caught Oscar's attention

"Any large mosquitos around here?" Oscar had asked on Thursday afternoon in Barcelona.

You looked up from your tablet, giving Oscar a look as the two of you walked the track. He gestured to his own neck and your hand practically flew up to your throat, your eyes going comically wide.

"That's just an allergy," you lied, ignoring the looks from Oscar's trainer and race engineer.

After the track walk, Oscar chanced upon you alone as you headed back to the motorhome. He fell into step beside you, nudging you lightly.

"Who's the lucky guy?" Oscar asked innocently enough, looking genuinely curious.

Just then, Lando came into view, walking straight towards you from the opposite side of the paddock. He flashed you a smile and a quick wink and all the words you had were lost to the wind. You stuttered, legs stopping altogether, your whole body rooted in place.

Oscar followed your line of sight and audibly laughed.

"No way." Oscar practically giggled. He gave you a long, hard look as you tried to gather back your bearings.

"I thought you were supposed to be my press officer?" Oscar asked teasingly.

"I am," you answered defensively. "What, you want a blowie, too?"

Oscar spluttered, obviously shocked, but he played it off with a nervous laugh.

"I mean, if you're offering," Oscar shot back, head tilted as if to challenge you.

It was your turn to balk at his words, your whole face morphed into surprise.

"Oscar Piastri," you began. "I never took you for one of those guys."

Oscar just shrugged before leaving you standing in the middle of the paddock, dumbfounded.

"I genuinely just wanted to congratulate you," you tell him now, crossing your arms over your chest.

Oscar nods. "You've congratulated me already. Anything else?"

The room falls silent again and you feel your frustration rising. What did you want? Are you so easy that you'd throw yourself at the nearest race winner, hoping that the adrenaline ends in a good fuck? Would you be so callous as to get in between teammates right after a race like that?

As if on cue, Oscar sighs, running a hand over his face.

"I already feel like I've taken something from him. You'd just be the nail in the coffin at this point," Oscar continues, watching you carefully.

You know what he's implying, and you know he's right.

But things have been different with Oscar for the past few weeks after Barcelona and the whole hickey incident. It's as if he refused to let you out of his sight, suspicious of every moment that you aren't in his presence.

'Were you with Lando?'

'Are you going home with him?'

'I'll take you home. No, Lando, really. I got her.'

Which could all mean nothing, really.

But you couldn't be too sure, either. There's a gnawing feeling inside of you, an itch you can't scratch, not until you find out if this is what you think it is.

So, you bite the bullet.

"He doesn't own me, you can't take what isn't his," you state matter-of-factly.

"That's not what I mean," Oscar deflects.

"Then what do you mean?" You press further, tired of whatever this back-and-forth is.

Something flashes across Oscar's face, something you've never seen from this gentle of a human being before.

"If I fuck you right now, will it change anything?" Oscar asks, voice sharp and eyes steely.

You're taken aback by his candor, but it's a relief to hear it outright, finally out in the open. What you both came here for.

"It changes everything," you declare.

Oscar sighs. Then swallows.

His hand reaches for you and before either of you can think much about it, your lips crash into his, your back slamming against the door. You hear the click of the lock and it's like a trigger, the way it strips you of your inhibitions, your hands reaching up to tangle roughly in Oscar's hair.

He licks into your mouth, messy and uncoordinated, but you gasp and pant all the same, relishing in the way he grinds against your thigh.

"Hurry up," you urge as he parts from you, lips attaching to your neck, well above your collar this time.

Oscar merely hums, taking your skin between his lips and suckling hard. You whimper, knees nearly buckling at the sensation.

"Oscar, you can't–"

He pulls away, hooded eyes admiring his handiwork.

"I can. And I just did," Oscar counters, reaching behind you and immediately tugging the zip of your skirt down. The garment falls at your feet and you kick it off to the side.

"You know he'll hate us both for that," you point out, touching right where you know Oscar marked you, a hint of regret in your voice.

You never meant for this to happen. You swear you didn't.

"I'll take my chances," Oscar says with a noncommittal shrug.

He kisses you again, fiery and impatient. Your own hands tug down at his race suit, a frustrated groan erupting from Oscar as he stumbles out of it, undoing his boots in a hurry as he does so.

You're overtaken by the smell of champagne, and you know you'll end up smelling like it too once you're done. Lando would be suspicious. He'd ask. He'd press. He'd beg.

Oscar's bottom fireproofs and underwear are peeled off, leaving him bare from the waist down. Your bottom lip fits between your teeth as you take in what's between his legs.

"Like it?" Oscar asks, voice dropping an octave, pressing himself flush against you. He reaches down and rubs his tip over your clothed cunt.

You gasp, hips bucking forward to meet the sweet friction against your clit. Your whole body rocks with his as you feel yourself swiftly soak through your panties.

"Oh god," you whisper, your fingers digging into Oscar's shoulders.

"So this is what Lando gets after every race," Oscar wonders out loud, taunting you. "This is what you've been keeping from me, huh?"

You shake your head, not trusting yourself enough to speak without stuttering.

"Y-You should've j-just asked," you manage between ragged breaths.

Oscar snickers. "That easy, huh?"

Before you could reply, you're pulled away from the door and shoved towards the massage table. You catch yourself, grabbing at the edge before you can topple over.

"Bend over," Oscar commands, palm flat against your back. He's not pressing you down, his expression stern but cautious.

You can refuse.

You do as you're told, laying your torso flat on the table. Oscar tugs your underwear down, letting it fall to your ankles before you sweep it away with your foot. You arch up as best as you can, just as you know Lando likes, and Oscar curses under his breath.

"Oh, muscle memory," Oscar jokes, aligning his cock with your entrance.

You huff, intending to bite back, but your words cut short when you feel Oscar sheath himself inside you, agonizingly slow, stretching you out completely.

"Fuck," you sob into your hand, a slight burn between your legs.

"You're okay," Oscar reassures, pulling back before fitting back in. The second time is less of a shock but you squeeze your eyes shut nonetheless, still not accustomed to Oscar's size.

"I got you," Oscar supplants. He leans down to kiss your shoulder.

"So good. So good for me."

You let out a breath, your body easing up as Oscar gently takes hold of your hips, going out and back in for a third time. It's easier now and you blink away the tears that have gathered in your eyes.

"Yeah?" He asks, burying his nose in the fabric your polo as he peers at your face. You gaze back at him as best as you can, given the awkward angle, your heart clenching as you catch him looking, eyes shining, even in the dim lighting of the room, imploring you, wide and vulnerable.

You nod.

"Yeah."

Oscar tightens his hold on you and slams his hips against yours harshly. He's relentless, setting up a pace that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

"Oh my god," you gasp, voice garbled with how hard Oscar's going.

All you hear from Oscar is his shallow intake of breath, an occasional grunt when you clench particularly hard. The massage table squeaks beneath you, and you hold on for dear life as you feel your knees tremble.

It's a dizzying feeling to have Oscar this close to you, something you never thought you'd experience. And predictably, you can't help but think of Lando, somewhere out there, maybe even in the next room over, hearing you gasp and moan over Oscar's cock.

This is so fucked. This is unfair.

You whine when you feel Oscar push particularly hard inside, burying himself impossibly deep as you clench and clench and clench.

"Christ," Oscar mutters, thrusting into you shallowly. "I'm not gonna last."

You whimper, reaching behind you. Oscar grips your wrist, using your arm to anchor himself as he tugs you backward. You lift slightly off the table, the new angle allowing him to reach even deeper. His other hand remains locked holding onto your waist.

You know you look absolutely debauched right now, Oscar fucking you from behind like some bitch, in your uniform, no less. It sends your brain into a frenzy, knowing what this means, what it will mean after.

It doesn't take long before Oscar's rapid movements stop, his dick twitching between your walls, his cum spilling inside. He immediately lets go of your arm and you slump forward, exhausted.

Oscar drags his cock in and out a few more times, riding out his orgasm. You feel some of him drip out of you and you both groan simultaneously.

"Don't step in it," you warn weakly. You try to straighten up, your legs quivering from the effort.

Oscar maneuvers around the mess before bracing an arm around your waist and helping you up on the massage table. You watch as he bustles about, looking for tissues, handing you a few once he finds the box.

He retrieves your underwear from the floor and offers it to you.

"Was that too much?" Oscar asks, surprisingly tender.

You pause, unsure what to make of his question. It's nice that he's asking, but not something you expected.

"No," you say with a shake of your head. You push yourself off the table before hurriedly pulling your panties back on.

You can feel Oscar's gaze on the back of your head as you grab your skirt, dressing yourself silently.

"Are you gonna tell him?" Oscar presses. You turn to look at him.

"No. It doesn't matter, anyway," you reason. "We're not doing this again."

Oscar seems genuinely surprised at this. He catches himself and nods instead, portraying his understanding.

"It might matter to him, though," Oscar suggests.

You shrug weakly.

"I'll deal with it."

#f1 x reader #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #op81 #oscar piastri x reader

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shirefantasies · 4 months ago

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The Hobbit Characters Meeting Your First Child Together (Wife!Reader)

Part 2 of this post! Time to find out who has daughters or sons first 😁 also requested by anon, but it was already drafted hehe~

Warnings: Blood mentions, birth complications in some (happy endings for all!)

Balin

Knitting was a bit of a struggle those days, you reflected as your elbows ached from bending to keep your needles above the curve of your belly. Balin sat in the armchair at your side, a hand idly drawing circles upon your thigh. Thus, he felt your sudden jerk, rose with you when you all but threw your needles and their work to the side table. "What is it?" He asked. "The chair," you cried out, "It's ruined!" Moisture seeped into the seat of it, a dark stain upon maroon velvet. "We can most likely get that out," Balin comforted you, a hand on yours, "But what is it?" "My water," you answered lowly, dread of realization creeping in on you. "What water?" "My water," you repeated urgently, dragging your husband by the arm, "I am going into labor!"

The only thing that got you through your labor was chuckling at Balin's attempts to hide his nerves, which somehow seemed greater than yours. Likely due to the way your body went into a near-primal focus, your every thought channeled not even into pushing your child out, but simply keeping them safe. Safe indeed, for soon a very loud cry pierced your ears. "Mahal," Oin remarked, dark eyes widening as he extended your newly-wrapped babe to you, "He's a strong one!" "He?" You asked. "He is strong!" Balin cried out, pulling you into his chest from where he stood, one hand reaching for your son, who immediately gripped his finger tight. "Oh, he is indeed!" "We did it," you sobbed into your husband's chest. "You did," Balin corrected, "I can't imagine how you endured all that." "All for him," you replied, gazing down at your son, whose eyes squinted open and blinked. Brown, just like his father's.

Dwalin

"Get out of the way! My wife is giving birth! Our child's coming!" All but shoving the crowds as he burst through with you in his arms, one hand wrapped less loosely about you so he could fling it out at offending pedestrians, Dwalin carried you down Erebor's halls all the way to Oin's. "It- It takes a long time, you know! The baby isn't coming right now," you stuttered out, jostled by your husband's brisk pace. "I'll not take my chances," Dwalin replied as he disappeared with you into the doorway.

"Stars above, why'd ya wait so long?" "Huh?" Your head snapped up from the bed you'd been draped onto, the world fading sharply back to focus amidst the pain. "You either took yer sweet time or else this is an unusually fast labor." Dwalin grinned down at you. "Now is not the time," you shot back, gritting your teeth. In the end, the agonies of labor were over for you in four hours' time. "Unusual all the way around," Oin remarked, settling the mewling babe in your arms, "You two've got yourselves a little girl." "'N she's going to look just like you, too," Dwalin told you, reaching a tattooed hand out to stroke your daughter's cheek and nuzzling against your head.

Thorin

Thorin knew by the way you gripped his arm, swiveled his head to meet your eyes and see your faint nod. Register the fear in your eyes and cup your cheek gently. He was prepared, bringing you a blanket to hold beneath you when your water began to seep through your skirt. Your husband led you by the hand as you waddled with the blanket between your legs all the way to Thorin’s most trusted healer, his old journey’s companion.

“You can do this. I have seen firsthand how much you can endure. You were made to do this, my love.” “I know,” you whined, unconcerned how pitiful you sounded for despite being a queen, at that moment you were a woman in pain. Pain that had gone on for hours, burning and tearing through your body. “The head is stuck,” Oin told you. “No,” you breathed. “I’m afraid I may have to widen the opening. Looking up to meet Thorin’s eyes, you simply tightened your grip on his hand, squeezing your eyes shut tight when the healer took up a small blade and letting out a cry of agony as he cut. Finally, though, blessedly, a weight lifted as your little one came free with a sound of confusion. Panting, you gave your husband a weak smile, sitting up a bit further and wincing at the pain, enduring to hold your newborn. “My son. Our son. A new prince is born to Erebor,” Thorin whispered, leaning down to connect your foreheads, warmth pooling even amidst the sweat glistening there, “I cannot take away your pain, but I will do anything in my power to be the best king, husband, and father you both could ask.” “You already are,” you told him, laying your hand over his, which was joined with your son’s.

Oin

"It's time, isn't it?" "How did you know what I was about to say?" You asked him, head cocked. "Because I've seen the signs a thousand times," Oin reminds you, "Now come on. Go get yourself comfortable. I've got everything ready." Patting your shoulder and kissing your cheek, he guides you to your bed and leaves the room, only to return with his supplies. "I'll go put the kettles on." "Why two?" "One to keep me clean 'n one for your tea." Oin had, in fact, told you about the tea he made patients to help with their pain. You nodded. "Of course. I trust my healer." The affection in your husband's eyes matched your own gaze as he disappeared through the door one more time.

"Yer doin' great." "I don't feel like I am," you cried. "Shh, I know," Oin soothed, making his way back up to your head to kiss you, "It'll all be over soon, though. Promise. In fact, can you give me one more push?” For all the frustration you may have felt, your husband was both delivering your little one and reassuring you. He was doing amazing for your baby and you could do the same. Whimpering and straining, you pushed until a cry pierced the room. “You did it! A wee thing, too. Oh, oh, love, it’s a girl! We had a girl!” Daughters were all too rare among dwarvenkind. Eyes widening and lips parting, you leaned over to let Oin wipe the sweat from your brow with one newly-cleaned hand after he handed over your daughter. Tears poured from his eyes as he rested his hand over yours that held your daughter’s. “I’ve seen this a thousand times, and yet this is like never before. Thank you for this gift.” Whispering your name, he guided you gently by the chin into a kiss of pure love and gratitude.

Gloin

“Are you alright?” Your husband’s voice was like a buzz beneath the ring of your ears, lightheadedness overtaking you until you felt a hand take yours and heard a louder, firmer call of your name. No anger colored it, just concern that had you finally swinging your head Gloin’s way. Soon as your eyes met his, you nodded faintly and smiled before the spots dancing in your vision won.

When you awoke, your brother-in-law was checking your pulse, nodding as you started. “She’s doin’ better,” Oin told Gloin, “Get back up there, she’s going to start pushing.” Shuffling back up from his brother’s side to yours, your husband took your hand, gently smoothing your hair and dabbing cold sweat off your brow with his sleeve. “I’m ready whenever you are,” he told you, and off you went into another haze of pain and encouragement and anticipation. Oin’s cry of victory actually alerted you both to the birth before the baby made a sound, emerging into the air with a small whine of confusion and near annoyance that had you and Gloin chuckling. The baby started crying as Oin checked him over, fussing in your arms as Gloin leaned down to rest his forehead over his new addition’s. “I’m a da. I’ve finally got a son of my own,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes.

Bifur

“Bifur!” Plodding footsteps filled your vision as your husband tore into the room, almost careening into your dresser. Entering the room, his dark eyes widened as he caught side of you folded over, your water leaking onto your shared bed. “The blankets,” you panted, “I’m sorry…” Waving a hand and shaking his head, Bifur dismissed you, removing his gloves to caress your cheek and feel your forehead before he lowered you down and gestured for you to wait. Squeezing your hand when you nodded in agreement, he disappeared out the door in search of Oin.

Gasps sounded at your feet as Oin motioned for Bifur to join him and rake up a tool. Muscle memory kept the feeling and warmth of your husband’s hand in yours alive for another moment, but you all but forgot it in the panic of Oin tracing a circle around his neck. The cord was wrapped. Spears of ice pierced your heart as you watched your husband frantically aid the healer, eyes stone in focus and motions deliberate. After what felt like hours, you saw both their chests rest in exhales. “He’s alright,” Oin told you, “Your son will be just fine.” Crying out, you reached out your arms, embracing your husband and then sobbing into the blanket that held your new addition. You could tell by his wisps of black hair, the shape of his nose, that he was going to look just like his father. “Our miracle,” you sobbed to Bifur and Oin, “You are true heroes. Thank you. Our son will have no shortage of great dwarves to look up to.”

Bofur

“Bofur, my labor is beginning.” “Your what?” Wincing, you shuffled forward to clutch your husband by the collar. “Your child is coming, so I suggest you get some help unless you’d like to have a fun adventure with our rug later.” Swallowing, Bofur nodded. “Right. On my way.”

“And I’ll never forget the day I met you. When I saw you I thought ‘There’s simply no way she could be real’. Goodness me, if I’m not thinking the very same right now.” Bofur’s hand never left yours and his mouth never stopped moving, even if you were in no state to respond. Contorting with the pain, you cried out as your body gave its all, spending yourself for one last push. “See what I mean? Oin just caught the wee bairn. You’re all done! Just pushed a whole baby out all by yourself. Plain amazing’s what it is.” “And a girl no less!” Oin chimed in, slashing the cord as your daughter began to cry. “Hear that, love? A little dwarrowdam!” Smiling at your husband, you felt a tear slide down and mingle with the sweat glistening upon your cheek. Oin placed her in your arms and Bofur bent over to meet her blinking eyes. “Hello there! It’s me, yer da! I’m the one who’s going to buy you everything you want, alright?” “Not even five minutes old and she already has you wrapped around her finger,” you teased. “Damn right.” Bofur kissed her head, then yours.

Bombur

“Bombur.” “I’m on it.” Your sweet husband needed only a word to rush off across your home, fetching you a pot and holding it beneath you. “What’s this for?” “The water,” he answered, nodding down to where your skirt soaked through. “Oh,” you accepted one of the cold steel handles, “right. That works.” “You ready? I’ll get yer bag too.” “Ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer with a smile.

Taking a cloth, your husband wiped the sweat off your forehead gently, patting your cheek affectionately. “Still doing alright?” “Best I can,” you grunted. “Everything look good down there? Well, good as it can,” Bombur amended with a glance down to his old companion, who nodded. Bombur had been asking questions and checking in the whole times, not to mention keeping you as clean and comfortable as could be. Rather that annoy you, it made you smile to see how much he cared. You had a healer, yes, but a nurse also. “Almost here,” he said, “just a few more pushes, eh?” Exhaling sharply, you focused all your might, forcing your muscles harder than you thought possible until a wail pierced the room. “You’ve done it,” Oin congratulated you, crossing the room with a little bundle in hand. Reaching out, Bombur wrapped his hands gently around the little one, lowering your baby down to let you uncover her head, which already had whisps of red hair. "She's beautiful." "'Course she is," Bombur replied, nuzzling into your cheek, "Came out o' you, didn't she?"

Dori

"Love, are you alright?" "Yes." You paused, crumpling and wincing beneath the crash of more pain. "Wait, no. That is to say I've never felt this before. I think my labor has started." No more words were necessary; flitting about your home, Dori fetched blankets and a skin of water and all manner of other supplies. "Will Oin not have all we need?" "Can't be too sure," your husband replied, striding to your side and smoothing your hair before he caressed your face, blue eyes staring into yours, "I want you to be safe, you know. I love you." And what could you say? You loved him, too, for all his quirks and for that big beautiful heart.

"Is that normal? That's not normal, is it?" Oin had drawn you a warm bath, lowering you into the water and checking your progress. "What's he doing all this for?" "To relax her," the healer replied to your nervous husband with a shake of his head, "And yes, this happens. 's just a slow labor is all. Some of 'em rush on out and others take their time. I suspect your wee bairn is just in no hurry." No hurry indeed. For all your pains of labor, it was almost 20 hours to the minute before your bath ran red and plaintive cries of confusion drifted into the air, Dori's fretting and even apologizing to you for putting you in this position turning to gripping your hand and all but leaping in anticipation. "You did it," he congratulated you quietly, embracing you without care of the water, sweat, and Mahal knew what else soaked you. "You sure did," Oin agreed, smiling as you accepted your little one, whose face was still red from crying, "She's here." "A daughter," Dori whispered, "A little girl! All my dreams are coming true and it's all thanks to you. How could I ever thank you? You'll never want for anything, neither of you, not love or warmth or all the pretty things you'd ever want."

Nori

Nori’s arms were snaked around your middle when you jerked forward, pushing his hands away. “For goodness sakes, you could’ve just said you didn’t want to-” “No,” you waved a hand frantically, feeling the gush of liquid trickling out, “My water just broke, Nori. It is time.” “Right now?” “Sorry if it’s inconvenient for you,” you sassed. At that, your husband smiled faintly and shook his head. “Not at all. In fact," he quipped, "I was a bit bored.”

“Push!” “What does it look like I’m doing?” Now your ire is focused on Oin, bringing many a snicker forth from Nori. At least until you crush his hand with a steel grip, crying out and falling limply against the sheets on which you lie. “That felt like something. Am I done?” “Almost,” the healer replied, his head popping over the curve of your heaving body, “The other head’s coming out now.” Double-taking between Oin and you, Nori bursts out, “The other head?” “Congratulations,” Oin agrees roughly, hands glistening with blood as he cuts a cord, “You’re a strong one, my friend- you made two at once!” At that, he bursts into a raucous laugh, gingerly transferring each of your sons into Nori’s arms. Bringing them closer, your husband grins like a dwarf showing off his most precious gems. “Look at that, love, two for the price o’ one. Our handsome little lads.”

Ori

Ori had been asking you every day at just about any hint of discomfort if the baby was coming, jumping up before you could tell him no, just a hard kick or your back troubling you again. Thus, the same he had done that day, so caught in the fray of his actions that he failed to think about why you weren't stopping him. At least, that was, until you finally met his eyes with a nod and a nervous smile that sent him pitching sideways. Only, of course, to promptly catch himself and, wide-eyed, take your hand and lead the way.

"You sure you want 'im in here?" Oin asked you, peering up with a teasing glint in his eye. "He looks more afraid than you do!" "He is my husband," you replied indignantly, tightening your grip on Ori's hand, "And I am quite certain I would faint too if I saw the head half-stuck right now." "Oh, beyond half," the healer told you, "Couple good pushes and I daresay you'll be done." Hearing Ori's gasp of excitement had your eyes shining with even more determination than the older dwarf's words, and focusing all your might you pushed and pushed until you felt a weight lifted, your body relaxing. "He's out! A little lad, too!" "Hear that?" Ori turned to you, gathering you up into his arms. "We've got a son! Our son is here!" "'N he's a gentle thing," Oin told you, laying him in your arms, "Didn't even fight me." "He's sweet," you gushed at the sight of your son nuzzling into your bare skin and leaning up to kiss your husband's cheek, "Just like his da."

Fili

“I think I’m in labor.” “You think?” Blue eyes wide and golden brows raised, Fili stares incredulously at you. “I feel it. I feel the pain. But where is my water?” Glancing back up, you see your husband inhale sharply, exhale and steady his expression. Truly a king in the making. “Oin will know,” he tells you, urgently but calmly, “Let us go.” Nodding and taking a deep breath of your own, you take his hand and make your way.

Labor indeed. All the other signs matched and soon- or far sooner than you had hoped- you are pushing, Fili’s hand firmly clasping yours and his head resting atop your own, braids dangling over you as you pant and work. From your feet, you see the healer’s eyes widen and lips part, rounding in surprise. “Is something wrong?” “No, no,” Oin shakes his head, “This is simply a marvel. Your heir coming in a veiled birth.” Frowning, you immediately ask him what he means. “See for yourself,” he replies, showing you the reason your water had not broken. The baby had emerged still inside the birth sac. “Does that harm them?” Fili asked. “Not at all. This is just a very rare sight. You may not want to watch this part.” Fili took both of your hands in his, leaning his forehead against yours as Oin extricated and cleaned the little one. “A veiled babe and a girl. What are the odds?” Accepting your daughter, you grinned up at Fili. “We have a princess!” “Our little queen in the making,” your husband agreed, caressing your daughter’s cheek as a rear rolled down his, “A true miracle.”

Kili

Poor Kili- you had been sitting on his lap when the break happened. Venturing your name with the utmost caution-and fear of your hormones- your husband asked, “Do you, by chance, need help getting to the lavatory?” Shaking your head even as it was hidden in your hands, you told him, “No. Kili, that was my water. The babies.” “Now?” “Now,” you agreed with a nod. Shooting up from his seat and all but yanking you into his arms, he lifted you bridal-style. “Kili, you’ll get wet!” “Already am. May as well give the babies as much time with Oin as possible.”

As much time ad possible being a near-record-speed delivery of three and a half hours. “Impatient little buggers,”Oin teased, tossing aside a red-stained cloth, “But strong little fighters. The sister kicked especially hard!” Chuckling, he lowered the aforementioned girl twin into your husband’s arms, handing you your son. They squirmed considerably less when you held them, both of you loosening your upper garments to hold them against skin. “She gets it from her mother, no doubt,” Kili teased with a wink as if he wasn’t crying, “But the good looks? That’ll be us both. This is all so beautiful. This is the most beautiful thing beyond anyone's imagining. Thank you for being the one to share this with me.”

Bilbo

"Are you sure I can't get you anything?" "Yes, Bilbo," you chuckled despite the pain coursing through your body, "All I need right now is to have you with me." "And Matilda," your husband named your neighbor and midwife who was on her way. "And Matilda," you agreed with a faint nod, "Now come here. Please." "Of course, dear," Bilbo agreed, shuffling across the room so quickly you could hear every hard step clattering off the boards.

"Is she going to be alright?" "Yes, she's still doing great," Matilda replied with an equal mix of amusement and exasperation at your husband, who leaned over to speak to her and immediately balked at the sight of your body dilated, a head beginning to emerge. "I- I feel a bit faint." "Try being me," you shot back as he returned to your side fully. "You're right," he nodded, fingers curling even tighter around yours for the last pushes. After what felt like ages, Matilda finally called up "Cutting the cord!" Her voice barely rose above the cries. "Hear that?" "I do," you answered Bilbo with a nod, tears welling up in your eyes. "You should be proud," Matilda told you, cleaning up your babe and handing her off to the pair of you, as both of you extended hands simultaneously, "She's beautiful." Bilbo lowered her to where you lie, pushing back the folds of her blanket so her skin could touch yours. Wispy hair curled atop your newborn daughter's head. "I never thought anything could be so beautiful, but here we are," your husband told you, voice barely above an awed whisper, "My girls."

Thranduil

"Thranduil." Your husband smirked at the way you panted his name, glancing upward only for that very expression to melt into horror at your buckling knees. Rushing to grasp your hand, he simply says, "It is time, is it not?" Nodding, you allow him to lead you all the way to the healing chambers, breathing heavily and wincing with each crashing wave of pain.

Despite his wide eyes, your husband keeps calm and speaks well the entire birth. "Focus on what is above you," he distracts, golden voice soothing as ever, "What do you see?" "Branches," you breathe, huffing with the force of your latest push, "Lights." "Remember the festival of starlight?" "I daresay that was when we conceived," you grunt, "Remind me to write an edict discontinuing it." At that, Thranduil simply chuckles deeply and winces at the way your voice breaks into tears. "Good," your midwife encourages you, "One more push, My Queen. One more. That is it. Find your strength." Your face contorts in frustration, but you comply, body wracked with one final stab before lying still. "Well?" Thranduil immediately asks. "Is the child healthy?" "Small, but breathing very well. A lovely little princess, My Lord." "My little princess," he all but gasps, head swiveling back your way, "Our daughter is here." A weight falls into his arms, and leaning down Thranduil reveals your little gift to you. Eyes still closed, your daughter wails and reaches for the air with delicate little hands. "Our beautiful woodland princess."

Feren

"Feren." "Yes, my love?" "Feren," you breathe with greater insistence in your loss for words, "I think it is happening." "Right now?" "Yes," you sit up in bed, throwing the blankets off your lap and inhaling sharply. Luckily, you have no need to tell your husband twice; he all but bounds across the bedroom to retrieve your things and find a robe to wrap you in, one hand guiding you up and to the side of the bed. "Breathe, breathe. One moment; I will fetch help." At first, you were reluctant to release his hand, but finally you nodded and let him go. When he returned, a midwife rushed to your side where you squatted and your husband to the other, where he took your hand and immediately winced at your vicelike grip.

Both you and Feren were red in the face and streaked with tears before you heard the wail; your husband from the pain of his hand and of hearing and seeing your body, voice, and expression all rent in agony. Every head in the room turned to face the sound, though, pain almost forgotten. With a soft white cloth that quickly reddened, your midwife cleaned the skin of your newborn. Who was, by the looks of it... "A son! My darling, a son is born to us! Our little boy is here." "Let me see," you cried out, reaching your hands for the elfling extended to you and lowering him to the bared skin of your chest. He was beautiful. "Perfect," you sobbed, "He is perfect." "Just like you," Feren adds with a kiss to your forehead.

Bard

The moment you crumpled, Bard took one look at you and nodded solemnly. “One moment,” he told you, rushing back into the house and calling requests to the girls. Through a wave of pain you saw Tilda hand her father the bag you’d packed as he made his way back to your side. You felt your hand clutched tightly again. “We make for the midwife’s.” At that, all you could do was nod. Luckily for you, she lived close enough that you needn’t take a barge, though the increasing difficulty of hurried walking and weaving through crowds of fisherman and sellers almost had you wishing you did. Your husband called to them to move, his wife was in labor, and luckily many of them began to part at that. All too soon another wave of pain came and Bard hoisted you into his arms, carrying you over the raised threshold of the wooden house that was your midwife’s home.

Hours. Hours it took, hours that wracked your body and soul as your mind was kept knit only by the grace and care of your husband. The midwife's care as well, of course, but all memory beyond the veil of pain went to the feeling of his hand around yours. Bard's grip, warm and solid right up until the moment cries filled the room. "It's a girl," the older woman breathed from at your feet, "A healthy little girl." "A daughter! Oh," Bard told you, bringing your baby closer, "The girls will be thrilled. And look, see how she looks just like you." Looking down, you pushed aside the blanket from your newborn daughter's head, seeing soft strands of hair the same color as yours. "As I had hoped," your husband added.

Beorn

“Three babies. Remind me again why it had to be three babies.” “My people commonly-” “I know, I know!” One arm slung over your shoulders and one tightly gripping your waist, Beorn led you from the garden back into the house. “Do you care to lay or to squat?” “Squat,” you panted. Acquiescing your request, your husband releases you at the bedpost once your hands leave his to grip the wood. “Let me boil some water. I will be right back.” Sometimes you wished he would be less serious. This was not one of those times. Calm washed over you at the sheer capability Beorn displayed, the confidence so present or so well affected. Taking a deep breath as a contraction hit, you attempted to mirror his manner.

“There was one. How do you feel?” “Lighter,” you groaned in between pushes. “Glad to see you have yet to lose your sense of humor. That one was a boy, my heart. Our firstborn son has arrived.” “A son,” you breathed, wincing as another massive contraction came. “Yes, yes, that is it.” A second cry filled the room, this one a bit quieter than your son’s. “And a daughter. Only one more. Whether you know it, you have the strength.” Finally a third set of cries filled the room, these the loudest by far. “Another son. Two boys and a girl.” Smiling, Beorn gently lowered one of your sons into your arms, the other babes swaddled in each of his. “This one looks like you,” you remarked, smiling at your husband though you did not bother peeling your eyes from your new baby yet. His eyes were well occupied with your daughter anyhow. “And I can tell this one will have her mother’s eyes. Much more beyond that, we can hope. …Hope. For my people after so long.” Eyes falling shut, Beorn let tears of joy and relief flow from his eyes before bringing you and his other son into one massive embrace.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @evattude | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🖤

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babyleostuff · 1 year ago

Text

THE NIGHT WE MET

・❥・ for the 2k followers event

summary: the one where you meet a handsome stranger in the art gallery who is as beautiful as the paintings

[ pairing: idol!minghao x fem!reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2k

warnings: a couple of swear words ]

song recommendation: the night we met by lord huron

Your steps echoed through the empty hall, as you entered the last room of the building. It was too early for anyone to be rummaging through the art gallery, even for you. It seemed like the universe wanted you to be here, though. At least that's what you were telling yourself. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that school had been putting you in an emotional spiral for some time now and you wanted to be anywhere but there.

So, as usual, you ran away to the place you always knew would cheer you up.

Looking around the room filled with paintings all covered in beautiful pastel colours, depicting people who looked like they didn't have a single care in their lives, you stopped at your favourite, the biggest out of the collection. Every time you looked at it you felt a sense of peace and... carefree? You weren't sure why, but the girl on the swing looked so free, like she could do anything. Like she was truly happy.

You’d do anything to feel like she did for just a moment.

"Don't you think The Swing is a bit overrated?" You were so lost in thought that you didn't hear someone approaching you. You huffed, shaking your head. If he was going to insult the painting, why did he say anything at all? Jerk.

“I wouldn't say that,” you stated, not looking at the stranger. You could tell it was a guy and he sounded like he was around the same age as you, maybe a little older. But you didn't want to give him the satisfaction of getting under your skin, so you continued to stare at the painting.

He chuckled lightly, as if he sensed that you were annoyed, which made you dislike him even more. Why did he have to speak at all, couldn't he look at the painting and just walk away like any other normal person?

"What do you like so much about it, then?"

"And what about it bothers you so much?" You muttered. A moment of silence passed and you started to wonder if you weren't being too harsh. "I'm sorry if, um... I offended you in any way. That wasn't my intention, really," he said, and you could tell from his voice that he meant it. You sighed, rubbing your forehead. If this continued, your social interactions would drop to zero.

"I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to be so rude. I'm just not in the mood," you said and turned to the stranger. You were going to smile so you wouldn't look like a total bitch, but instead of doing that, your lips twisted into an 'o' shape.

This stranger, or rather the most beautiful guy you've ever seen, was looking at you with a curious expression.

"I-I'm tired lately and it turns out I'm not very nice to other people either," you wanted to hit yourself because that was literally the stupidest thing you could have said. "And it turns out I'm not very nice to other people either"? Well done.

However, the stranger didn't look like he cared too much about what you said, he just nodded as if he totally understood what you meant. "I feel the same way sometimes," he admitted, turning his gaze towards the painting. "That's why I'm here now," he added.

You had trouble taking your eyes off his profile without looking like a total creep, but you honestly didn't think guys like that even existed. He looked perfect in every way. And it wasn't like you fell in love with every handsome guy you saw - love at first sight was overrated, but there was something about him that made you unable to take your eyes off him.

"I'm guessing you're not from around here?" You asked. For a second, surprise crossed his face and his eyebrows furrowed, and you began to wonder if maybe you shouldn't have asked. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have,” you said, and with every second he didn't say anything, you became more and more convinced that he was the one pissed now.

"No no. It’s okay" he said and looked back at you. His dark eyes, hidden behind glasses that you were sure were fake, landed on you. "It's just not often that I meet people who don't know who I am," he smiled and adjusted the sleeve of his white cardigan that had slipped off his shoulder. You gulped as your eyes landed on his sculpted arm, his white sleeveless shirt doing nothing to cover it.

"Should I know who you are then?" You asked, taking a quick breath to calm yourself down. You were sure you had never seen him in your life, though, not even on the internet. Was he some sort of influencer? Maybe a YouTuber?

He chuckled, ruffling his black hair as if you had said something funny. "God, that sounded so pretentious. No, of course you don't need to know who I am."

But now you wanted, no - needed to know who this handsome stranger was, the one who decided to talk to you, a random person in the art gallery. Although it wasn't like he had much of a choice considering you were completely alone here.

"Let's say I'm an artist."

"That doesn't tell me much. What type of artist?" You asked curiously. He looked at you, amused. "I create art on stage."

"Can't you just tell me who you are?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Now you were the one who couldn't stop from laughing. You guessed you wouldn't get more than that from him. "But it's not like Magic Mike, with you getting naked on stage and all?" Where the fuck did you get that from?

Great, it was your official self-embarrassment day. “Not that there's anything wrong with that,” you cleared your throat sheepishly.

You expected him to give you some sort of sarcastic remark, but instead his cheeks turned a light shade of pink and he looked just as embarrassed as you were. "No, but I dance too."

“Ah, that's where the painted nails and earrings come from,” you pointed to his ears and he touched them as if to make sure his gold jewellery was still there. “Yeah.”

For the first time, a comfortable silence fell between you and you honestly didn't want it to end. You no longer cared whether he liked the painting or not, but you didn't want him to leave. You felt a certain comfort in his presence that you couldn't quite explain.

"I like this painting because when I look at it I feel calm. Like I don't have any worries and the world is covered in nothing but pink colours, making everything more beautiful," you said, getting lost in your thoughts again. "I wish life was sometimes just about swinging on a swing.” You felt his eyes on you, but he didn't say anything, as if he was thinking about what you just said.

"I never looked at it that way," he said, tilting his head.

“Sometimes you just need to look at things from a different perspective,” you smiled. For some reason you couldn't stop it when he was next to you.

“I'm Xu Minghao,” he extended his hand towards you, which you shook lightly. It was a miracle that you even managed to say your name without fainting, his hand still in yours. "So assuming you're not from here, how long will you be staying in town?” You asked, finally letting go of his hand, no matter how much you wanted to keep holding it.

But then… Why did he seem to hesitate when he let go of yours, too? Your stomach seemed to do somersaults and your heart was beating twice as fast.

"I’m leaving tomorrow," he admitted, though you couldn't tell from his voice whether he was happy or sad about it. Looking at him, his thoughtful face that didn't look as content as yours when you looked at The Swing, you had a sudden urge to hug him.

He had a comforting presence, but for some reason you felt that he himself needed some comfort.

“Um, would you like to maybe,” you held out one of your headphones towards him. "We can listen to something,” you proposed. He nodded, so you walked up to him, heart beating like crazy, with the headphone still in your hand. “Do you have a specific request, Minghao?” You asked.

“Let’s listen to the last song you listened to.”

Your hands touched again as you handed him the earbud, and you could have sworn Minghao let out a nervous breath then. It turned out the wire was too short for you to keep a big distance, so you stood side by side, shoulders brushing. You unlocked your phone and played your most recent song, rewinding it to the beginning.

The night we met.

“How ironic,” you muttered, as the first rays of rising sun poured through the gallery windows. Minghao smiled gently, looking down at you, with the softest gaze anyone has ever looked at you.

You felt like the whole world stopped at that moment - it was just you, Minghao, and the paintings, which for the first time weren't the most beautiful thing in the room.

I had all and then most of you,

Some and now none of you,

Take me back to the night we met.

You wondered how long it would take you to forget Minghao and he would become just a memory of the handsome stranger, like a ghost that wouldn’t stop haunting you.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do,

Haunted by the ghost of you.

“You have no idea how glad I am that I came here,” he said so quietly you thought you misheard him. "Actually, no one knows I'm here," he snorted. "My friends will kill me when I come back," Minghao shook his head. You felt like you had crossed every line of being a stranger, so you laid your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes.

When the night was full of terrors,

And your eyes were filled with tears,

When you had not touched me yet,

Oh, take me back to the night we met.

“I'm sure they'll understand,” you said, just as quietly as he did. “Everyone needs to get away for a while now and then.”

You stood like that for the next three minutes, your head on Minghao’s shoulder, his hand dangerously close to yours, connected by the cable of your headphones, staring at the painting that meant two different things to the both of you. You dragged out the moment when the song had to end, you wanted to stop this moment forever. "When do you have to go back?"

"I still have one," he looked at his watch. "two hours. Then I have to leave.” You nodded. No matter how much his words hurt you, you decided it was better to use the time you had left. "I know this may be a bit lame, but would you like to go for some tea?" You asked.

His face immediately lit up and his eyes sparkled as if you just gave a new toy to a child.

"You're reading in my mind. Of course I'd like to go," he beamed as he said it. Now he was even more handsome, if that was possible. "Let me guess," you tapped your chin thoughtfully. “You're a green tea type.” He chuckled, causing your shoulders to brush again.

"You are amazing." For a moment, there was no air in your lungs and no words in your mouth. How were you supposed to respond to something like that?

“Let's go then, Mr. Xu,” he smiled and extended his hand to you and you gladly took it.

This time, however, you didn't let it go.

Take me back to the night we met.

[...]

You opened Twitter because you knew that if you wanted to find someone, it was there. You clicked on the first video that appeared to you. "I don't understand but I love you" fancam. Interesting.

You sat up more comfortably on the bed, as the first tunes of the song started playing. So he was a singer, right? What did he mean by saying he did dancing too, though?

But with every second that the video was playing, your eyes were getting bigger and bigger.

"What the fuck?"

taglist (if you want to be added, check my masterlist): @weird-bookworm @sea-moon-star @hanniehaee @wonwooz1 @byprettymar @edgaralienpoe @staranghae @eightlightstar @itza-meee @immabecreepin @hyneyedfiz @honestlydopetree @dkswife @marisblogg @whatsgyud @aaniag @jeonghansshitester @daegutowns @carlesscat-thinklogic23 @embrace-themagic @soul-is-a-strange-kid @ohmyhuenings

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a-998h · 3 months ago

Text

Hotel Day 1

It has been a week since I showed up, bleeding, on the doorstep of the hotel. It's been nice. Charlie is super friendly, if a little hig energy, and so has Vaggie. Niffy freaks me out, but Charlie says she's 80% harmless. Alastor still creeps the fuck outta me, but I'm not sure he can be anything other than creepy.

Waking up, I see a post it on the bedside table. The note was clearly written with a glitter ink pen. Next to the note is also a plate of food and a glass of somekind of juice. Rubbing the last bit of sleep from my eyes, I read the note.

Good morning, Y/N! I figured you'd want to sleep in, so I had Niffty leave your breakfast on the bedside table. It's chocolate chip pancakes! Anyway, once you're awake and ready, you can meet us downstairs for today's activities! See you soon, Charlie 💙 Ps. Husk has juice for you at the bar.

Well... How the fuck did Niffty get through a locked door? I stare at the delicious looking pancakes, Niffty is a creepy woman and I have no idea what she might have done to my food. After about 15 minutes of checking my food for any sign of tampering I decide to suck it up and eat. The pancakes are as delicious as they looked. I smell the jucie too, because even if the pancakes were fine, who knows what Niffty could've done to it. It smells fine, looks fresh, and there is no weird coloring. Drinking it, it tastes like normal cherry juice. When I'm done, I collect the plate, glass, and utensils. Walking down the stairs, I see Vaggie and Charlie looking at the TV with Alastor standing next to it. Angel is on the other couch holding a bottle of alcohol and Husk is still behind the bar. Niffty rushes out from behind the bar and takes my dishes. It was confusing seeing how fast someone so small could be.

Charlie waves me over, saying she has something she wants me to see. I look for a chair, but Charlie pulls me onto the couch between her and Vaggie. Being squshed between the two of them freaks me out, I hate having my personal space invaded and invading someone elses space. The next minute is spent watching something that looks like a lose approximation of a commercial. It makes me want to die on the inside, it looks stupid. Alastor asks us what we think.

"I'm sorry, what the fuck was that?" Vaggie yells.

Vaggie tells Alastor why his "commercial" is bad and how it doesn't explian that the how tell is trying to save people from extermination, whatever that means. Angel raised his hand, saying they could use him in the commercial as he's celebrity. Vaggie argues with Angel about him being a pornstar. As they argue, I start to ferl very uncomfortable. Charlie rejects Angel's offer, and Angel starts listing everything he can do. Walking over to the bar, I hang out with Husk.

"So... What's extermination?" I ask.

Husk's POV

Damn it kid, why did you have to ask me that. I look at Vaggie, she gives me a death glare. Taking a deep breath, I tell the kid to not worry about it. I normally tell it how it is, but this kid is innocent. This kid would be traumatized if I told them what extermination was, plus I don't think Charlie and Vaggie would be to happy with me if I told the kid.

"Ummm, you don't need to worry about it kid. But, maybe ask Vaggie," I tell them.

The kid seems disappointed, but this is what's best for them. Before the kid can stand up, Charlie comes by singing.

*One song later*

Reader's POV

Vaggie says that Charlie is doing something important, so we'll be making a new commercial. She asks Alastor for a camera, to which he makes her an old fashioned camera. Vaggie clarifies she needs a video camera, to which he hums in either annoyance or because he's being a teasing jerk. I watch from the side lines as Vaggie tries to flim Husk and Angel's part. I want to die on the inside with the way Angel is acting. Vaggie tells Angel to be less horny, I don't think it's possible, and for Husk to not have a script in front of his face. Husk says something about no being an actor and Angel flirtly teases him, to which Husk pushes Angel off the bar.

"Alright Reader, all you have to do is list some of the fun activites we do here," Vaggie tells me.

I nod, and Vaggie starts fliming. I start listing activies, but I start to panic and ramble. Vaggie turns the camera off, and asks if I'm ok. Nodding, I run back to the bar and have Husk pour me some juice. Vaggie moves onto the fliming Niffty, who doesn't even say her lines, only staring into the camera. Angel teases Vaggie, which makes her mad. She says she'll fix it in post before storming off. I ask Husk about how Hell works, and he gives me vauge answers. Asking Angel and Niffty leads me to learning a few things. Sinners can own other sinners souls, the extermination happens every year, and as long as I stay inside during extermination then I'll be safe.

I blink surprise. I stare into my glass of juice, scared and confused. I don't want my soul taken, and this extermination thing is yearly! I always figured that Hell was burtal, but this is a lot worse than I thought. Time passes, and I start to feel more and more scared. Niffty tries her best to comfort me, but it's Niffty so she makes me panic a bit more. Vaggie soon walks out with Alastor, saying he'll be helping us make a proper commercial. Alastor snaps his fingers and everyone else gets cool 1920s themed outfits while my clothes stay the same.

"Alastor, why are my clothes still the same?"

"My dear, you're not going to be in it," Alastor explains in a condesening manner.

I was upset and angry at being condesended. I ask him why I can't be in it and he says something about not wanting the commercial to full of people. I sit on the couch, watching as this shadow flim crew takes care of doing the commercial.

*One Commercial fliming later*

Once the commercial is flimed, Alastor leaves the hotel, saying he'll get this commercial aired. I wave goodbye, still disappointed. Vaggie asks what's wrong and I share my anger at not being allowed in the commercial and the condesending way Alastor spoke to me. Vaggie reassures me that Alastor is a just a bit of jerk and that, she is worried about having a child in the commercial. I point out how Niffty looks young, and Alastor reminds me that many sinners know who Niffty is and her connection to him. Vaggie tells me it's ok, and that she'll find another way for me to be involved in the hotel.

Charlie comes back, looking a bit worried. Vaggie greets her and leads her to the couch in front of the TV. I sit next to Angel as Charlie smiles and almost tears up at the fact that the group made a new commercial for the Hotel. The commercial barely starts before it's interrupted. We all growl and complain about it. The lady with souless red eyes and blonde hair on the screen says that the news station had just been told by the Heaven embassy, which was the base of the hourglass clocktower, that the extermination would be happening sooner. The screen shows the clocktower calender showing 176 days. This causes all of us to start freaking out.

Narrator's POV

The angel's ship scans the headless body of an exterminator angel. Inside, Lute gets angry as she tells Adam they should go down there right now and wipe every sinner off the face of existance. Adam tells her to calm down.

"We can't risk them catching on. But don't worry, when we com back there won't a demon left alive to pull a stunt like this again! And, the nephilim kid will be back where they belong!" Adam declares, smash the lamp in the ship.

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hegoeshardasfuck · 4 months ago

Text

you can have my everything

wordcount: 4.1K

tags: breeding kink, light praise kink, creampie, friends with benefits, begging, pegging, hair pulling, fluff, minor subdrop, sub Itachi

synopsis: "Just, hear me out on this, I fuck you." / "That's how it always goes." / "What if I breed you." / He hates the way that the idea makes his heart skip several beats.

authors note: i need to do unholy things to this man, hope ya'll enjoy

Itachi let's you brush his hair sometimes, run your fingers through it, braid it, just sorta mess with it. He reads as you do so, he reads and he writes and he tries to fall asleep. You don't get much free time to hang out with him these days, but it is nice when he isn't stuck on the job and can be with you instead.

You miss when his missions came in slower, when being part of the Anbu didn't mean he was always doing something out there. When it just got him on good terms with his father and earned even more respect to his name.

Still, good for him.

He's Anbu, you're just a cruddy shinobi who barely made it to chuunin.

In spite of your status quo being different, he still likes to hang out with you. Be your friend with many benefits that range from nights in the sheets to extra training time.

The whole weight of his body rests quaintly between your legs as you brush through his hair, "Why do you like my hair so much?"

You shrug, "It's nice, really soft when you take care of it properly."

He falters for a moment, "Then how come you never pull it?"

It catches you off guard. Your hands still, "Itachi what the fuck are you talking about?"

Red rises up to his cheeks, he doesn't get blush like this often, nice change of pace. "I mean during our affairs, how come you never pull my hair when we're in bed?"

"You never asked for it," You answered with as curtly as you could. He's right. How come you never pulled his hair? He's got enough of it to really muss it up, to really reign him in.

"It's awkward," Itachi said quietly, "Anbu status doesn't make asking you to pull my hair any less..." He pauses and gestures a bit.

"Itachi, I've cleaned blood and gore off of every square inch of your body," You said as you started to sift through his hair once more, "How awkward could it be?"

He stays quiet.

"C'mon, we're friends, you can trust me with anything." You tug his hair weakly.

He bites his tongue as the slight sting runs through his scalp.

"Wow." The word falls from your lips without you realizing it, "I knew you were sensitive, but I didn't think you were this sensitive."

"Shut up," Itachi seethed, he did little to get your hands out of his hair.

-/-/-/-

You start small.

Teasing your grip in Itachi's hair as he rocks back his hips to meet yours. One hand on his hip, and the other tangled up in tussled locks.

The moan that runs through him is downright delicious as you bear down and yank. Not worryingly harsh, but rough enough that pain shoots down his spine. His knees go weak and his fingers wrench into the sheets.

He hisses out curses as the tingle of pleasure settles in. It was a staggering jolt ever closer to the edge that he likes to teeter on when you're the one in control. He swallows thickly as you tenderly curl a finger up in a lock of hair.

Then you're coiling your hand in a tangle of hair and digging your nails into his hip and bottoming out. You yank hard, his head jerks back to counter the stressing on his body as he legs threaten to give. Holy fuck.

Something akin to a throaty yowl escapes him as you do it again. Pulling out and harshly thrusting in, and tugging to the point it makes him whimper. Climax rushes him, barreling him down- he's just focused on the tingle in his spine creeping down from the crown of his head.

"Good boy." Your voice is a bit rough, but not in a harsh way. It's just not quite tender and loving either- Itachi knows it's intimacy.

You let go of his hair and his head drops and his body drops with it. Slumped into the sheets and almost shaky, he didn't think it would be that good. He knew it would be decent at the worst, maybe a little bit of technique for you to keep him on his toes.

He didn't even come to imagine it leaving him like this in record time. You've pushed him past this point (not with ease, mind you), but it still leaves him in shock.

Hair pulling.

That's his shit.

His shit is hair pulling.

Why couldn't he have had a useful kink instead of this one?

You slide back your hips and you wish that he was oozing cum after you fuck him. Sadly you still haven't found the time to bring that up with him. Maybe now's a good time...? You did just do him a favor and pull his hair so hard he came.

With practiced motions you unclip the leather harness and slide it off your hips and place it aside. You reach for a bottle of water and watch as Itachi sits up and immediately hangs his head in defeat. There's still cum on his abdomen, his hair is still messy, his breath is still heavy. And he's already regretting it.

"Did I pull too hard?" You ask quietly.

"What? No, no absolutely not," Itachi said. He tried to give you a reaffirming look, but he was too dazed for it to have the ideal effect. He sighed, "Hair pulling..."

With cautiousness heavy on your voice, you speak again, "Did you like it?"

"Of course I did! I think that's the shortest time we've spent together where you fucked me successfully. It was great," Itachi tried to explain, he really did, but he was just a bit too caught up in himself to get it all out. He takes another deep breath, "Really, that was really short."

You give a hum. He's right. You'd much rather keep him on the edge of pleasure for far longer than that short little bout, "Wanna go again?"

"Obviously-" He cuts himself off, "I just, of course it had to be hair pulling."

"Are you... Kinkshaming yourself?" You asked as gently as you could.

It takes a moment for Itachi to register what you've said and line it up with his reactions.

That's exactly what he's doing.

And he just doubles down, "I'm firstborn, I have to be powerful, I have a name to uphold, I have plans."

"I don't see where you thinking that it's hot when I pull your hair is gonna come in and ruin all of that," You said.

Itachi dropped down onto his back, "Why couldn't it have been breeding?" The words are wistful and almost disappointed in himself.

"I already peg you, Itachi," You said. You dropped down to lay beside him. Both of you need to wash off but whatever, you can do that later, "Shocked it took you this long to realize you might like getting dominated."

He shoots up, "No I don't!" The red flush across his face says otherwise.

"They really weren't kidding when they said that all Uchiha are repressed, but you know what?"

Itachi sighed, he's not ready for whatever bullshit is about to fall out of your mouth, "What?"

"Things'll work out just fine, you'll figure it out."

He laughs a bit, "You say that like you have yourself entirely figured out, come on now, we're both in our youth."

"Yeah, plenty of time to experiment."

"Let's lay off on the experimenting for a while, sound good?"

"No pegging?"

"It's not experimenting if we already know that we both like it, even if it is... Abnormal."

A brief pause of silence washes over the both of you.

"So," You start with, "Wanna talk about that breeding thing you mentioned?"

"We aren't even, we're never going too-"

"Little bit of sexy acting won't get me pregnant."

"Alright." Itachi sighed, he was really about to unpack this, wasn't he? At least you're trustworthy with this information. He doubts he'd even let anyone else see past his bedroom door these days, let alone have them walk in and inspect the place.

You're a safe place for him.

"We can talk about it."

-/-/-/-

"Shame it isn't actually that hot," Itachi said as he washed away the sweat on your body. Warm water lapped at the both of you, he'll always be thankful for large bathtubs during aftercare.

"The water?" You asked bluntly.

"No, I mean breeding," Itachi corrected. The awkwardness had went down a bit for him, he still felt stilted about it though.

You raise a brow, "Haven't we already tested that?"

"We did, but it didn't really do anything," Itachi said, "Fucking you wasn't as good as I thought it would be."

"Isn't that why you let me start pegging you?"

"That was a long time ago, but, yes, that was the reason I agreed."

"But you still think that breeding is hot?" You gesture for him to spin around so you can reach his back. You gripped too firmly, you're not sure if it broke skin. Better clean him up regardless of that.

"After that disappointment, not as much as I used to."

"Maybe we're going about it wrong."

Itachi raised a brow, then he tilted his head back and leaned against your knees so you could see his face, "How so?"

"You like it when I'm in control, right?"

A nod.

"And you like it when I call you a good boy and pull your hair?"

Another nod.

"And you really like it when your legs shake the morning after?"

One more nod, about twice as ashamed.

"Just, hear me out on this, I fuck you."

"That's how it always goes."

"What if I breed you."

He hates the way that the idea makes his heart skip several beats. The way it makes heat surge just underneath his skin like molten lava. That tingling sensation he gets when you yank his hair is also fanning across his body in a shudder.

"We don't have to, we could like, do other stuff-"

"I want too." He speaks stiffly and as firmly as he can lest he stutter.

Your eyes light up, "You do?"

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained." He's fidgeting with the ends of his hair again, "Just not next weekend."

"You're no fun." A smirk is on your face as you speak. You press a kiss gently to his neck, "But I'm fine with the wait."

-/-/-/-

There was a months time before you actually found the right gear and he had built up the nerves. He could discuss the concept, he could think about it in severe depth as well- but enacting it? Most times you tried to sprinkle it in he immediately shut it down.

He still feels hesitant as he watches you slip into the leather harness. This better fucking be worth it. He's already disgraceful enough as is, letting you enact sexy roleplay better not do nothing for him after all this anticipation.

An entire month, probably more, definitely more. He just twisted the script in his head so he could spare himself some dignity.

There's not a lot of dignity left to be spared after he let you put him in a pair of cat ears and called him kitten.

Itachi swallows thickly as you secure the dildo properly. It's girthier than the normal one. Had to be for the inner mechanism, a simple one really, to work properly.

"Ready?" You asked.

He nodded, he had already stripped down to nothing. He even took the tie out of his hair.

"I need words, Itachi," You said, a bit more firmly this time.

He takes a small breath to steady himself, "Yeah, I'm ready."

"Good, now, you wanna suck me off or just go for it with lube?" You asked with a cheeriness that caught him off guard.

He's still fidgety, still nervous. He gives a prompt answer, "Lube."

Regardless of wanting him to worship silicone you still reach for the lube. Slowly you drape the plastic with slick, every inch until it's almost dripping at the tip. You run your hand along the length of it once and try to evenly distribute the excess at the tip, but you're having a hard time telling if it's actually the lube or the mechanism failing.

Itachi considered himself straight as a rail up until the dynamic advanced between you two.

Not like he regrets it.

He's about to be bred by you and in spite of the fact that you let him fuck himself on it before tonight so he could be a bit prepared, he's still intimidated. Hooking a harness onto a pillow and gently rocking himself is different than this. He's pretty sure that not much could mentally prepare himself for this either.

"Alright, sweetheart."

Red rushes to his face at the pet name.

"Ass up."

He does as told, allowing himself to stretch his spine as he does so. Cat like fluidity to his motions. Relax, don't get too tense.

A yip startles out of him when your hand comes down heavy on his ass. He snaps to glare at you over his shoulder.

"Sorry." You laugh a bit, "Not my fault your ass is nice enough to slap."

"Don't do it again," Itachi snapped back.

You hum as you gently lay your other hand on his ass and grip, "If you say so."

With one roll of your hips he shudders as the weight of the strap rests in the cleft. Not penetrating yet, just rolling slickness across his hole because he can't form his own. He wishes he could.

He rolls back to meet your hips gently and whines when you rear back entirely. Fingers quickly taking the same place alongside a splash of lube. Shivers course through him as an excess of wetness drips down his taint.

You wipe your hands down on the sheets before gripping his hip in one hand and sliding the other down the slope of his back. You go slow, edging the tip until it slips in, his breath hitches in response. Then you ease the rest of the way, no resistance, a smooth and comfortable motion the whole time.

Bottoming out gives Itachi time to breath, slowly but surely breath. Big, it wedges awkwardly into his body from this angle. He can't tell if he'd rather this or ride your thigh on this strap instead. Either way he knows his body would be stretched.

"Good boy." Your hands slink through his hair and he whimpers. One small flick of your hips and he moans, blunted tip squared against his prostate.

You continue on in with small flicks and thrusts, nothing deep and heavy yet. You'll build to that, god knows this might be your only chance to actually 'cum' in his ass. Better off savoring it then letting it go to waste.

You wrench your hands in his hair and moans as sharp shivers snake through his body, your nails grip into his hips, "You're gonna regret this one in the morning."

"Oh yeah?" He's countering you. Playfulness from Itachi, this is new.

You drop the grip on his hip so you can press down on the syringe you left to the side. You can tell the exact moment that the mixture hits his insides because his body goes rigid. In a good way you hope, judging by the way his fingers are digging into fabric you'd deem it as such.

He whimpers when the flow stops and you roll your hips out till just the tip remains. He whines, you're really glad he fell into this submissive aspect instead of refusing to give himself some freedom.

"So, ready to be fucking mine?" A growl sneaks into your voice.

He nods slowly.

You yank his hair and he follows the arc of motion with a moan as you thrust in deep. His hips meet yours and the chill of metal clips hasn't eroded underneath body heat yet. You dig into his hip as you thrust, before you can repeat yourself to get a snappier answer out of him, he speaks.

"Yours, I'll be yours," Itachi answered with calmly, a simple submission in his tone of voice. The act of relinquishing the status quo to you gives him a riveting surge of pleasure.

It felt way fucking better than it should've.

In part he agreed to this for a laugh, yeah, sure, let a woman breed breed him. Like that'll make him feel good. Going against biological function in its essence just to chase a pleasure he was hoping for. No way that'd work.

But you delivered in full- even found a strap that'll let you fill him up.

And he's loving every single second of it for some god awful reason.

Another thrust and he cries out quietly, his back arches up into the yank of his hair. Shudders roll through every single inch of his body, he's glad that he's already on his knees. It doesn't stop his elbows from shaking. So much for pushups building resilience because everything is being kicked to the curb with his mind running wild.

Your hands in his hair, your nails clawing into his hips, your cock fucking him hopefully raw by the end. He's not thinking much as quick snaps of the hips turn into deeper thrusts. Half way out, and back in again, forced against his prostate. For a second he wonders if that's what it feels like to have your cervix fucked and he doesn't know where the thought came from.

You're pretty sure that you're watching Itachi Uchiha's perfect reality fall apart under you right now. You can't see his face but there's a certain way his muscles tense when he's thinking long and hard. All aspects of it is showing up on him as you tug his hair and go off about how he'll be yours.

The very second you shift from a simple possessiveness to the breeding dirty talk he fucking gives. Something in his brain snaps under so much pressure that's been slowly building up over so many years. All sorts of little "what was that?" moments shattering the final barrier in his brain.

One second you're pulling back till just the tip stays inside and he's rearing back with you all the same. You claw into his hips and his back and he's pliant and the stressed tension in his body has disappeared. A yank to his hair and when you let go as he sobs out a moan his elbows give and his face is in the sheets.

He's panting and moaning and all he can think about is your clan sigil between his shoulders and, your teeth in his throat leaving marks for all to see, and you fucking a kid into him. It's impossible but the logic center in his brain has shut down. When you really, actually, genuinely fuck him to the point his body heaves with every motion he's drooling.

He's drooling and babbling some dumb shit about you breeding him. About how much he needs you to own him. About how he'll be good and he'll do what you tell him to because he fucking needs you. And as the words leave his mouth he berates himself until you thrust again and his train of thought is torn asunder by a guttural sound of some sort.

"You're gonna be perfect at my side with that stupid fan replaced." Your nails tear his back till it nearly bleeds because you need to mark him physically. You need to make sure that there's proof this really happened. That Itachi is actually letting himself fall so fucking low.

"Just fucking fuck me!" He's short circuiting if that's the best he can offer up to you. Part of you expected him to snark back, another part of you expected him to just moan.

You slip a hand up his back, sweaty and shaky and tense, to his hip. Tracing over his slim waist to reach his hips that taper out just enough to show depending on how dresses. Nails drag along his thigh as the other hand pushes down between his shoulder blades, right where your clan sigil is going.

The thought catches you off guard but you don't stop. You dig your nails into his skin and watch as he writhes and twists his fists into the sheets. Hand at his thigh, slowly tracing to the tender flesh and then smearing the pre from the tip down his cock.

From the way he reacted you'd assume he came right then and there. Not quite yet though, despite the agonizing pleasure gentle pumps that contrast heavy thrusts brings, it's not quite what he needs. His breathing causes his whole body to shift, inhaling as deeply as he can manage between thrusts and strokes, "Cum inside, please- I need it."

"You need it?"

"Please, fuck." His words come out on a breathy moan with a hiss of need, "You, I need you. Please, please, just breed me."

Oh that's hot with a capital H. You reach desperately for the syringe while trying to keep your thrusts in time. He whimpers loudly at the lack of touch, fuck, he needs you so bad.

It's hard to steady your slick hand along the pusher properly. Even harder to keep yourself from pulling the trigger to soon. You want him like this for as long as you can have him, begging and shaky and wanting you and only you so fucking much.

You grip his hip again and drive to the hilt once, "Gonna fill you up. No one else will ever touch you."

Itachi moaned, crying out because fuck, stop being a tease and just do it.

Again, so deep he swears its driving up into his stomach. He gasps weakly as you go for one last time, sure that you're pressed up against his prostate before you press down on the syringe and fill him to the brim. He whimpers desperately as you slowly and gently roll through the release.

"Good boy, good fucking girl." The word slips out by accident but he's either too fried to answer or he enjoyed it. Either way he's cumming in your hand as you rock him through the peak and carry him down.

Once his breathing has calmed down you press down the rest of the way on the syringe. The little mewling whimper that falls out of him is worth it. When you pull out he yips at the pleasant popping even if quiet, and he moans as you run you spread his ass and run your finger up his taint to catch the lube and the cum dripping from his ass.

Now that's a pretty picture.

Your own hands are shaking as you unclip the harness and gently roll Itachi on his side. He's sort of numbed out, just breathing and oh fuck he was drooling and you didn't even get to see it. He was drooling and moaning and begging for it and you didn't even get to see his face, only a small loss that barely impacts the afterglow you're basking in.

You gently wipe away the drool at the corner of his mouth, "Itachi, you're still awake right?"

He nodded, his words just aren't there even though his mind is.

"Wanna take a bath?"

He shakes his head.

"Too tired to move?"

He nods his head.

"We'll wash off in the morning."

He groans a bit, "Like feelin' full."

As much as bright red rushes up to your face, you hold strong, "I know you do sweetheart, but you should get washed up."

"In the morning," Itachi said instead, "You can shower now though."

"Alright, I'll be back in ten."

He doesn't know how he feels about the way that his hand rests on his abdomen with some twisted hope lodged into the motion. His eyes are half-closed as he stares up at the ceiling. His back hurts a bit too much to stay laid down for too long in spite of his motions.

His throat yearns with phantom bites in it, a sore sensation that doesn't make sense. He just wants, he wants you to bite there and make it make sense. He wants the blank space in between his shoulders to have your crest tattooed into the skin for life. He just does and he can't put words to the reasons why.

He swallows thickly as he listens to your shower run and he tries to just fall asleep instead of think. Just pass out. Talk about it in the morning. Everything in his head is finally free now, that last barrier has just broken down.

This better not have awakened any gooey emotions inside of him. Better not have made him feel all tender over you, this realization better not spawn from you fucking him till he wants to wake up and feel nauseated.

Itachi takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

It'll work out just fine.

#naruto smut #itachi x reader #lemon #smut fanfiction #smutfic #writing

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forever-rogue · 1 year ago

Note

My partner often joke about how we wouldn’t want each other to find anyone else if one of us were to die, so I’ve been thinking…. Joel x fem!reader where reader had lost her long term partner months before meeting Joel. She develops feelings for him but can’t bring herself to move on. “He would want you to move on.” “No, he wouldn’t.” I’ll leave it up to you if they do end up together or not cuz I just can’t decide lol

AN | Please, this is so soft and everything 🥺

Pairing | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings | Language; mention of death (cancer) and grief

Word Count | 2.8k

Masterlist | Joel, Main

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Just before he could kiss you, you pulled away. You pulled away so fast, you almost tripped over your own feet and stumbled backwards.

"What's-"

"Don't," you held up your hand, shaking your head, "please."

"Baby," the way he whispered was so tender that it almost made you cry. He took a hesitant step closer, "what's wrong?"

"I can't do this."

"Do what?"

"This," you repeated, pointing between your bodies as his entire face fell, "us. I can't do this, Joel. I can't be with you."

"I thought…" he exhaled heavily, hands on his hips as he tried to gather his thoughts. This was not what he had expected, "I thought we both wanted this. I thought-"

"You were wrong," oh. That hurt to say. The look on his face made you want to take it all back. You could see the tears listening in his eyes, "and so was I. I-I'm sorry."

"Can we just talk about it?"

"I've gotta go," before he could do or say anything else, you almost ran away from him, wanting to get home as quickly as possible. This was the worst.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"What's wrong with you?" Ellie could tell something was wrong even before Joel got the chance to sigh as he walked into the house. She set her book down and looked at him with a concerned expression, "what happened?"

"I don't even know," he sat down next to the young girl with a huff as she raised an eyebrow. He said your name softly and she leaned in closer, "she just left. Said she couldn't do this. Whatever this is."

"What did you do?" She asked, trying to keep herself from sounding too judgmental either way.

"All I did was try to kiss her," there's a sheepish blush that creeps into his neck and cheeks, "I didn't think it was out of place. It seemed…"

"Yeah," she scooted closer to him and gently patted his arm, "I think she's just scared."

"I haven't done-"

"Not of you," she quickly shut down that path of worry and fear, shaking her head fervently, "its just…has she told you about her partner? From a long time ago."

"No," Joel's face marred with worry. You'd only vaguely mentioned a partner in the past as he'd been getting to know you, but now he was curious and worried, "she hasn't really talked about that much."

"They were together for a while," Ellie explained, "a lot of years…she said…I think this needs to come from her but she said at one point they had a child. She only mentioned it once-"

"Fuck."

"Fuck," she agreed, "her partner died a few months before she moved here."

"Oh," he ran a hand over his tired face and sighed heavily. He'd had no clue - he still felt like a jerk. He wished he hadn't tried to kiss…not because he didn't want to, he really did, but he hated the idea that he hurt you even more. Even if it was accidental, "oh."

"I thought she told you," Ellie hated seeing him upset and knowing that you were upset, "but I'm sure she will…maybe she just needs a little bit of space."

"Yeah," he agreed with a grimace. He wanted to go over to yours now and work it all out. But he also didn't want to chase you away. You were worth, worth waiting for, "I'll give her time."

"It'll be okay," Joel wished he had as much confidence as Ellie did. He desperately hoped she was right, "I promise."

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You felt so stupid for how you just ran away from Joel. The sensible thing would have been to talk to him and explain everything that was going through your mind. But when he leaned in to kiss you, every coherent thought had gone out the window.

And the thing was that you really liked him. You found yourself falling for him harder and faster than you'd ever dreamed of or imagined. And it was scary. You hadn't felt that way about anyone in a long time…since him.

It still hurt to think about; it still felt just as fresh and deep as the day it happened. And now you felt like you were betraying him by falling for someone else.

It was odd to even think about. You didn't even have to think about it at all, it happened so organically and everything with him felt so natural.

Joel was unlike anyone you'd ever met before, in the best of ways. He was kind, caring, smart, funny, and a multitude of other things that became evident after you'd gotten to know him.

And you knew, deep down, that you owed him an explanation. Even if it hurt and was hard to do, you had to tell him. He deserved it.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A few days had passed since the incident had occurred. It took an entire three days to work up the courage to seek out Joel and talk to him. When you found him working in the small shop you approached quietly, trying not to startle him. He must have felt your presence because he turned around and looked at you with a surprised expression on his face.

"Hey there," you whispered softly, holding up your hand in a meek little wave.

"Hey," the expression on his face was nothing short of relief. His shoulders relaxed and he instantly looked like the weight of the world was off his shoulders.

"Listen, I–...can we talk?" He nodded and he motioned for you to follow him to the back where there was more privacy. It was a chilly winter afternoon, and snow had started falling softly. You held out your hand and caught a few flakes in your palm, watching them dissolve quickly.

"Listen, I want to a-"

"Don't," you touched his arm and shook your head, stopping him before he could fully believe that he was at fault for anything, "don't apologize, Joel. You don't owe me an apology - I owe you an apology."

"You don't have to…" he insisted sincerely, putting a finger under your chin and turning your face up to his, "you don't have to do anything. I just want to know that you're okay."

"I am…I think," you found it hard to look into his soft gaze, swallowing the lump in your throat, "there's something I have to tell you. I think it might help explain what happened. But maybe you already know - I have no clue what people spread around."

"Ellie," he answered as you relaxed. You adored the young girl and if anything, you were glad he heard it from her, "told me the shorthand version of what happened. But if you're ready, I'd rather hear it from you."

"Thank you," you blinked back the tears that were already welling up. He wasn't just judging, he just wanted to listen. To support you, "its kind of funny in a way. In a weird, sad kind of way but Ellie…she's almost the same age as my son would have been."

"Oh," he almost choked on the singular word. He knew that story all too well, "sweetheart…"

"My son, he…his name was Benjamin but we called him Benny. I had him when I was really young," you closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. The cold air felt like it was burning your lungs, "he was born into this cruel world that took him from me way too soon. He was just a kid…he was my baby, you know? He was seven. Seven. How is that even fair?"

Joel tried to keep his composure as he wiped away your tears. He'd told you about Sarah; you listened and held him then. Loved him so much it made your heart ache. He'd had no clue that you'd gone through the same thing.

"My baby," you sniffled softly, leaning into his touch, "but at least then I had my boyfriend - my son's father. We'd been together for a long time already, since we were just kids really. I loved him so much. More than anything in this world besides our son. Everything fell apart but we always had each other. We promised each other that we'd always be there for one another."

"Can I…can I hug you?” he wanted nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and make it all go away, and make everything better. You looked at him with big, wide doe eyes and nodded, melting into his touch, “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

“I know,” you whispered as you buried your face into his chest. You never felt safer than when you were with him, “thank you. Joel, I…”

So many words were swirling around in your head and you wanted to get them all out. You had to.

“You don’t have to say anything more,” he kissed the top of your head and squeezed you tightly, “only what you want to.”

“I want to tell you everything,” you whispered, “Joel, I thought I’d be with him forever. I thought we’d grow old together and experience the rest of your lives together. But then he…he got sick, really sick. They couldn’t…do anything for him. They said it was cancer and that it was too far gone to do anything that could be helpful. They didn’t have everything they needed either. It was a fast onset, but I really wonder how long he’d felt like something was off but didn’t do anything. How long was he suffering without telling me? He was gone so quickly; it felt like I didn’t even get a chance to process everything and then he was just gone.”

“I’m sorry,” he felt his own heart break for you. He hated that you ever had to go through a single bad thing, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I lost my son and my life partner,” you pulled back and wiped at your eyes, “the two people I thought I’d have forever. And it still hurts so much.”

“All that grief,” he whispered, “is just all of that love you have inside of you. It’ll never go away, but it will get better. I still think about Sarah everyday too…and Tess. I miss them both more than anything, but I’ll always have them in my heart. Nothing will ever change.”

“You understand more than anyone,” you inhaled shakily, “you know how hard it is.”

“I do,” he agreed softly, “but it’s okay to move forward - we can’t live in the past forever. It took me a damn long time to realize that too, but it’s true.”

“I want to,” you looked at him nervously, “but I don’t know if I can. The hardest part of all is that…I can’t help falling in love with you. But I can’t be with you.”

And there it was, out in the open. All those things that he had been feeling had just been validated; he just knew that the other shoe was going to drop. He tried to control his expression as your lip trembled with effort to keep from crying.

“I can’t….I can’t do that to him,” your hands balled into fists at your side as you tore your gaze away, “I can’t just…be with someone else. It’s not fair - it’s not…fair.”

“Sweetheart,” the pet name crashed over you and that only made you cry harder. Joel Miller was such a good man that it made your heart yearn and ache for him, “it’s okay to be with someone else. And I’m not just saying that about me - for anyone you could ever be interested in. You’re not moving on, you’re not forgetting him but you’re moving forward with life. That’s okay.”

“It’s not-”

“It is,” he insisted gently, “you’ll never forget him or your son or love them any less. But it’s okay to be happy and to love others. If it was the other way around, would you want him to be able to be happy and move forward?”

“Yes, of course,” you insisted with a fervent nod, “I’d always want him to be happy, even if that was with someone else in his life.”

“Don’t you think he’d want the same for you?” he asked, causing your mouth to open and close in surprise, “wouldn’t he want you to be loved, to love, and be happy?”

“It’s different-”

“It’s not,” but his response was not unkind. It was patient and loving, “you deserve all the love and happiness that you wish for others to have. I know it might be hard to accept that, fuck, it was for me too. But I…I allowed myself to fall in love with you too, and to love Ellie as if she was my own. That never once changed anything I felt for Tess or Sarah. I love them as much as ever. But I…I love you too.”

“Joel,” you were silently pleading with him, wishing you just had all the answers then and there. But it wasn’t that simple. Things almost never were, “I…can’t. I’m sorry, I just…not right now.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” he touched your cheek, brushing his knuckles gently over your soft skin, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here, if and when you ever need me.”

All you could do was nod before turning on your heel and scampering away once again. This time you were left with so many more questions than answers. You had a lot to think about.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was late when the knocking came at his door. Joel grumbled as he got up from the couch where he’d inadvertently fallen asleep to answer the door. Since it was so late, he figured it might have been something important.

Much to his surprise, when he opened the door, there you were. You looked up at him with nervous eyes and a sweet little smile.

“Hey,” he relaxed as he leaned against the door. It had been over a week since he’d last seen you. And honestly? He’d felt like he was dying on the inside, “what’s going on, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been thinking,” you confessed as though it was some sort of secret, “a lot. About a lot of different things. But also everything that you said. And I realized…”

He remained silent as he gave you an opportunity to compose your thoughts. He was busy trying not to scare you away again.

“I realized that you were right,” it was so quiet that Joel wasn’t sure he’d actually heard you, “you were right. I can’t go through the rest of my life being sad and stuck in the past. I have to move on, but I never have to forget.”

“Yeah?” he tried not to get too ahead of himself. For the most part, he was happy that you felt that way; he wanted you to be happy, truly happy, even if that wasn’t necessarily with him, “I’m glad you were able to work it out. You deserve it - happiness and love, all of it.”

“I know that now,” you shuffled your feet nervously, taking a moment to muster up your courage, “and I want to…Joel. I want to…I’m in love with you.”

Butterflies exploded in his stomach as his breath caught in his throat. You were serious - only this time you weren’t running away. Instead you were looking at him with determined eyes and a nervous smile.

“Funny,” he tried to ease his and your nerves, “I’m in love with you too.”

“May I…will you…?” you couldn’t even get the words out, way too anxious and nervous to finish your sentence. But Joel, lovely and wonderful Joel, knew exactly what you were asking. He nodded tenderly, taking your face in his hands before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours.

You stiffened for a moment before leaning into his and kissing him back. It felt so different than what you were used to, but also so right and lovely and amazing. When he pulled back, the two of you were grinning at each other shyly, so many unspoken things flowing between you.

“Everything in time,” he promised gently as you leaned in kissed him again, “I’ve got you, okay? Always, I mean it.”

“I’ve got you too, Joel,” and he knew you did. He knew you were speaking from the heart, “always.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #pedro pascal #tlou #tlou hbo

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years ago

Text

Civilian Asset 3.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Things go from bad to worse.

Master List / Prev chapter

Warnings: 18+, Mild/brief self harm (over-washing), language, peril, first aid/wound care, discussion of terrorism, emotional break downs

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Thank you for your continued support! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Barely edited, but made with love. Keeping chapters short for quicker updates, so that Soap teaser I dropped will actually be in 4. My bad.

You can’t think beyond my face hurts and I thought I died.

The men to either side have you packed in tight, shoulders pressing against yours, knees bumping with every sway and turn. All four of the soldiers keep their eyes on the passing landscape and the road leading through it. The men only speak to make note of potential tails, to confirm or deny the presence of new threats.

You left London a while back, and you’re in the patchwork of expanding towns spilling out beyond the green belt by the time you regain enough sense to notice.

You see very little. Fewer houses. More fields.

None of it really sinks in. The inside of the car smells like gun oil, sweat, and a coppery stink you know rises from your own clothes. Your own skin and hair and empty nail beds.

You let yourself disappear for a while. For maybe an hour, you let the static blanket your mind like snow. It’s like floating on the top of the lake, and if you break that surface tension, you’ll drown, so you let it blind your senses instead. So long as no one notices you, you don’t have to exist. You tell yourself it’s just for a minute, just for a bit, just until something else goes wrong and you have to remember pain, and fear, and whatever else makes up your life in the moment. The protective blur stretches on forever, and you lose track of time.

An itch pulls you back into your body. Eyes on you. Someone watching.

You glance up, and you meet death’s gaze in the rearview. There are eyes, but no face. Only a skull. For a brief instant you think of trying to jerk awake, like you would in a falling dream, because maybe the reaper isn’t real, unlike every other horror of the day. But then you notice the cloth beneath the bone and the military headgear.

It’s just a man in a mask, the one in the front passenger seat with the rifle you noticed as you piled in behind the Scotsman.

Skull-face blinks slowly, twice, confident you won’t look away while his eyes are closed, patiently enigmatic as a cat.

The SUV turns sharply onto a gravel track, and Skull-face turns back to the window, like he didn’t just stare you down through the mirror.

The uneven jolts as the tires dip into grooves and potholes drives away the last of the static. And you blink, eyes still on the mirror, trying to come to grips with reality.

What the actual fuck?

Around the bend, a farmhouse creeps into view. It sits low over the green turf, unassuming apart from old leaded windows that make it look too much like something out of a cottage core mood board for the situation. This isn’t a space for men with guns and tac vests.

But the man in the bucket hat taps on the brakes, nods, and says, “Ghost, Gaz: clear the house.” He doesn’t change gear. Doesn’t park. Even now, he’s ready for an ambush.

You don’t think the men who grabbed you were capable of thinking that far ahead. They did find the original safehouse, though, so maybe you should be a good civilian and keep those thoughts to yourself.

The Brit who clipped the zip ties off your wrists and helped you out of the warehouse pops out with a “Yes, sir.” So does the grim reaper up front. The doors slam shut again, and the two move in concert, guns raised, sights fixed on the windows and door as they approach. The man in the mask takes point, rushing through the door the instant his colleague turns the knob, and they disappear inside.

You’re uncomfortably aware of… everything. Your breath. The ants roving under your skin. The two men still in the car with you. It’s impossible to sit still, and you peer around your enclosure like a gerbil in a hamster ball – technically safe but in no control. The wind stirs the bushes at the edge of the driveway, and you imagine people behind them who move like your escorts. Cold. Efficient. And they’re already too close.

Your neck strains as you try to see through all the windows at once, struggling to catch a glimpse of doom before it drags you under.

“You broken?”

The leader, the man behind the wheel, must be addressing the Scot. It only registers he’s talking to you when you find said Scot watching you, too. There’s more room in the back now, but you still feel crowded and exposed in a horrible, nonsensical mess.

And – oh, right, the man is talking to you.

“Hey.” He doesn’t look through the mirror. He physically turns, arm over the back of the seat, so he can look you in the eye as he asks again, and his words come slow to your adrenaline-scoured brain. “Are you broken?”

You flounder. Puzzled. That… means what? You’re missing context. Is what broken? No bones. They didn’t – technically – hurt you that badly. Everything will fix itself in time. It could’ve been worse. You know that, even if in the moment all you want to do is sprint to the ends of the earth, find a blanket, and curl up in the darkest corner at the edge of the map.

Is he asking if you’re functional? If you can make it through debriefing?

That must be it.

And, fuck, you’d physically fight all four of them at this point if they tried to stop you from passing on the intelligence you’ve literally bled for.

“No.” You’re surprised by your own conviction (and how little your voice shakes). “Not broken.”

There’s an actual twinkle in his eye – and really, how dare he? – but his approval and the uptick of those bushy, bearded cheeks is the right kind of ridiculous in the moment. The Scot huffs beside you, but you don’t have the bandwidth for any more smirks, twinkles, or other bullshittery, so you keep your eyes forward and hope to fuck someone will tell you what to do. You can only hop between so many distractions before you miss a step and fall into a heaving mess on the floor.

“Good,” says Captain Fishing Hat. He turns back to the wheel just as Skull Face comes back.

The burly man signals, and as the boss finally turns off the engine, he opens the door and reports, “House is clear. Gaz is setting up for debrief.”

Gaz, then, must be the youngest Englishman. The Scot shifts, subtly ushering you out, and you scoot along as instructed, letting the men more or less herd you across the yard, through the door, into the kitchen. They keep their heads on a swivel, and that doesn’t help your nerves. Not at all. But they don’t give you time to stop and angst over it, either.

You find yourself in the kitchen, guided to one of four wooden chairs around a square table. It’s covered in tech. A black case sits open on one of the other seats, and the empty foam imprints inside match the boxes, cables, and laptop before you.

“Ready, Kyle?” Fishing Hat asks.

“Nearly, Captain,” Gaz replies. “Working on the connection now.”

So, Captain Fishing Hat is an actual captain. You aren’t shocked. Maybe in shock, but not surprised.

But as you sit where you’re told and watch the screen illuminate, a realization dawns on you. You won’t be debriefing to these men. Someone else at the other end of this connection is waiting for the whole story, and fear flutters to life in your gut like a startled pigeon. Loud, awkward, probably diseased.

What if you’ve misjudged all this? What if it’s a ploy? The enemy of your enemy is not always your friend, and the proper authorities aren’t the only ones hungry for the information you carry. Stiffening in your seat, you prepare for another fight, lifting the prickly guard you let drop as you knelt in the back of the SUV, clinging to the Scotsman’s tac vest.

Just as you’re glancing at the window over the kitchen sink and wondering if you jump high enough to break through the glass before any of the men grab you, a face appears on the screen, and the woman says your name.

You recognize her. Or at least her voice.

It’s the woman from the phone.

You physically droop against the back of the chair, gasping in relief.

Fuck. Fuck.

You’re going to be okay.

“Glad to see you in one piece,” she says.

“Me, too.” A rasp taints your voice, and you feel the phantom pressure of an arm crushing your trachea.

“Kate Laswell,” she introduces herself. “This is a secure line. Go ahead and tell me what you know.”

It’s easier than you expect. You’ve been thinking so much about everything you need to say, turning over pieces in your head, putting it into clearer words, ordering it by importance, that now it just flows. You lean forward, desperately ready to spill. But just because you’ve gathered everything into a coherent thread doesn’t make it any less painful to acknowledge. It’s like tugging up a string of barbed wire from your gut, pulling it out of your mouth inch by inch. You worry if you have to stop, the blades will lodge in your throat.

The woman is clearly a pro, though, and she saves her questions.

You list names first: people in American alphabet agencies with ties to a particularly violent white supremacist group. If there’s any chance they could be listening, she could end the call and try again in a secure location. But she must’ve guessed something was off when the official safehouse she sent you to was compromised. This time she’s prepared, and she lets you continue.

There’s a bomb, a new alliance with ultranationalists, someone named Makarov. It’s a test. To see if the American terrorists are as good as they say, if they’re worth Makarov’s investment. There’s a promise of more if they get the body count Makarov’s set (thousands).

The man whose blood you’ll always feel, slick between your fingers as you confused the thump of the nightclub’s base with your own pulse, kept his cover long enough to get the details of the attack. Date, location, time, target. He didn’t live long enough to give you more. He gave you what he thought was most important. You hope it’s enough. You hope it’s worth it.

Laswell thinks for a minute, then asks, “Did the men who kidnapped you indicate they knew how much of this information you possessed?”

“No. They, uh – that was the whole point, I think.” You lift you hand, so she can see the missing nails. “They wanted to know how compromised they were before they shot me.”

You say it so quickly it only clicks after it leaves your mouth. They were going to shoot you. You knew that, but away from the rough hands and zip ties it feels surreal. People like you don’t get shot. People like you have car accidents and a few too many fast food dinners for your general wellbeing. But the gun against your head was real. It’s a true thing that just happened, and that means people like you do get shot. Every safe, calm moment in your life looks like a lie, a skewed carnival mirror in retrospect.

People like you get shot.

People want to kill you.

You may still get shot. That’s why you’re in this safehouse with four heavily armed men.

Time isn’t the endless resource you imaged yesterday morning. It isn’t a solid path with clear, expected landmarks with which to gauge your progress. It’s ice, and the patch under your feet spiderwebs with ominous cracks.

You realize Laswell is speaking again.

“- handle the situation Stateside. Your current location is one of my private safehouses. Not on any list. Totally secure. I think it’s best to stay there and treat it as your base of operations for now, Captain.”

The captain, leaning over your shoulder to get in frame, nods. He’s too close without touching you, but no one’s indicated your part in this is finished. So you stay put.

“Rog,” he says.

“The attack is our chief priority, but closing the active cell in England and following their trail back to Makarov is a close second. I already have taps being set on a few of the names on that list.” Laswell says your name, and she clearly tries to soften her war face, but she’s all business right now. “I’m leaving you in the custody of the 141, under Captain Price.”

He gently claps you on the shoulder, like he’s assuming command. “Understood. Keep us in the loop, Kate.”

“Roger that. Keep your heads down. Stay safe. Over and out.”

The feed cuts out, Gaz – Kyle? – closes the laptop, moving the chaos out of the way as the Scotsman appears with a first aid kit. None of the soldiers leave space for an awkward pause. They all have a mission. Somewhere to be. Something to do.

The captain pulls a second chair up beside yours, meeting your gaze with another of his disarmingly charming smiles that crinkles at his eyes. As he and the Scot begin sorting through the kit, he says, “We’re overdue for introductions. Captain John Price.”

He holds out his hand, and you tentatively accept it in a piss poor handshake, but his smile doesn’t break, and he gestures at the Scotsman. “That’s Sergeant Johnny MacTavish, or Soap.”

The sergeant waves with a handful of cotton pads and disinfectant. He points into the corner, where Skull Face lurks. “Grumpy bastard in the corner’s Ghost. He’s a lieutenant. If you were curious.”

No one offers his real name, and you swallow down every question with a vengeance. The names make them seem real, concrete, and you seize the lifeline they’ve thrown.

You make eye contact with the last man, trying to prove you aren’t a sack of potatoes in human skin and have an actual, working brain between your ears. “And you’re Gaz?”

He smiles, reaching over the table to shake your hand in a way that makes you double down on your bet that he’s the youngest. Certainly the least jaded, even if he’s every bit the soldier the others are. “Sergeant Kyle Garrick, yeah.”

Ghost pushes off from the wall and heads back towards the front door. “I’ll take first watch.”

Whether he’ll be watching the road from a sniper’s perch or chilling by a window, you can only guess, but his captain gives him another nod, and off he goes. Sociable as an alley cat.

“Let’s see about that hand, then.” Calloused fingers rasp along the underside of your wrist as the captain lifts your hand into the light. He arranges it carefully on the table, keeping his touch gentle so you don’t feel the raw bands of irritated skin where the zip ties bruised you.

It isn’t like you’re resisting. The bloody nail beds don’t look right, and you’re struggling to believe they belong to you at all. There’s an experiment where people develop an artificial connection to and fear for an artificial hand. You feel like you’re in an opposite test. Your eyes say the hand on the table belongs to you, but it doesn’t feel that way. If the captain sawed it off instead of gingerly spraying antiseptic ointment over the exposed nerves, you might just shrug it off.

The bandages hurt, though.

The pain tugs at your gut, and you rejoin your whole body with a shudder. That hurts, too. You take a deep breath, and your stomach aches. Your free hand squeezes into a fist, and the scabs on your knuckles crack open. When tears flood your eyes, you can only imagine what new agonies they’d summon if you let them fall, so you blink furiously and pretend your eyelashes aren’t so wet they stick together.

As his captain finishes treating your hand, the Scot – MacTavish, Johnny, Soap, whatever the fuck you’re supposed to call him – takes a seat on the table, pinches your chin, and puts one of those little cleansing pads he’d been fussing with to work. It stings like a bitch, and you flinch despite your best efforts.

Still holding your chin, he angles your face up and blows over a series of cleaned scrapes on your cheek. The tiny breeze might as well be a hurricane. It knocks the soul from your body, and you go entirely still, befuddled.

“The fuck, Soap?” Gaz asks.

The Scot huffs, getting back to work with a fresh gauze pad, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “You’re supposed to blow on cuts,” he grumbles, like he’s trying to sound gruff to make up for the accidental sentiment. “So they don’t sting.”

It makes you want to smile. You can’t remember how right now, but maybe you’ll think back to this moment and smile about it later.

“Thanks,” you say instead.

Soap has not forgotten how to smile. “You’re welcome, bonnie. Let me put a butterfly plaster on this, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”

A nice thought, and maybe true for a soldier like him, but every screaming inch of your body informs you this is a lie.

The captain taps your knee, pulling your attention back to the fading crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He lifts a finger and leads your gaze from side to side, leaning in close to see if your pupils are the same size. “Doesn’t look like you have a concussion. Are you hurt anywhere else? Any risk of internal bleeding? Cracked ribs?”

Gaz, seeing your confusion (because how the fuck would you KNOW if you were bleeding internally?) offers some helpful context. “Did they kick you in the stomach? Any sharp pains in your chest when you breathe?”

Did they kick you? You can’t really remember. Probably. It’s all a furious blur of motion and panic.

“I’m not sure.”

It’s the truth, but it’s a bad one. The captain nods as a wintery flash passes over Gaz’s face. “That’s all right. Let us know if you notice any unusual swelling or new pains, yeah?”

“Okay.”

One more big smile – a bit forced, definitely for show – lifts his whiskers, and he climbs out of his chair, pulling it out of your way.

Gaz steps up to lead you out of the kitchen. You feel like a football – always under someone’s control, being run by one teammate to the next. But what else is there to do to, really? You follow him up a narrow flight of stairs to a pokey hall on the second level. There are three doors, and the first you pass has three twin beds crammed inside. The second is smaller but only holds two beds. And the last door leads to a bathroom. Gaz, clearly used to safehouse etiquette, fishes a washcloth, towel, and little bar of soap out of the deep, dark depths of a cupboard too high for you to reach.

He sets them on the counter in a tidy pile and says, “You really shouldn’t get your bandages wet for forty-eight hours, but I bet you feel like hell. Washing up a little with just the sink might help.”

His big brown eyes fix on you, too soft and looking for some kind of confirmation you’re okay without getting in your face.

Are you broken?

Fuck. They’re all trying to make this normal. What happened isn’t their fault, and they’ve surely seen worse. They probably don’t have to babysit damaged goods after the fact very often, though. The least you can do is try to make this normal for them, too.

“Like a bus ran over me, backed up, and ran over me again.” You think for a minute and add: “Might’ve been some Nazgul, or cave trolls, or some other shit, too.”

The soldier snorts. A grin catches him by surprise and turns his whole face bright. The effort was definitely worth it.

“Tolkien? I like it.” As he moves out of the bathroom, he points at the smaller bedroom. “Take whatever bed in there you want. Since one of us will be on watch, we probably won’t need the other one. Give you a bit of privacy. Try to get some rest, yeah?”

You can’t imagine how you’ll fall asleep, but you act like his suggestion is as reasonable as it sounds.

“Of course.”

He leaves you alone.

You soak the washcloth in tepid water and peel off your shirt. There’s a countdown of little tasks in your head, ways to delay the inevitable. How long can you linger over the soap and cheap terrycloth? What if you just lock the door and keep wake sitting on the cold floor?

Then you notice your reflection.

You haven’t thought about what you look like. It’s less your face staring back and more a collection of hurts, and you struggle to find yourself through the bruises and bandages.

Everything aches, throbs, or stings. You’re so scared you want to smash your head into the counter just in case it’s like in the movies, and time rewinds, letting you wake up in bed at the hostel with a clear head and free day to play tourist. You know how to do that. Always going, doing, seeing. Always a task, a plan, an idea.

Now your hands are empty – apart from that one fucking piece of glitter you can’t get off between your thumb and forefinger. It winks in the light, and you scrub at it in a frenzy. You clean everything in a rush, too rough with your bruises, but you’re on the verge of a breakdown, and you don’t want to fall apart in anything resembling a public space.

It’s all been too much for too long.

You open the door carefully, peek up and down the hall, wary of minding eyes. Then you nearly trip over your own feet getting into the smaller bedroom.

Door shut.

Shoes off.

Everything else stays on, every layer between you and the world outside a blessing as you bury yourself alive under a stiff, scratchy blanket that probably came from a secondhand shop two decades ago. Your breath catches when you breathe in, like you’re choking on the stuff you need to live. The air bubbles out in gasps. Painful. On the verge of sobs. But that would be too loud. You must be quiet and still or something awful will find you again.

It's a good thing tears are silent. You soak the flat pillow with them, hiding in the dark under the covers.

Impossibly, you do sleep. It takes a while, but your body screams for rest, and it pulls you deep as you cry yourself out into nightmares of voices arguing just behind your head, and eyes that send beams of light around shadowed walls.

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #141 x reader #cod fanfic #cod fanfiction #fanfiction

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strwbrrylou · 7 months ago

Text

Cold but you keep me warm

Stargoth (Chase x Buddy) ficlet. 1,165 words.

My first time writing a fanfic, with a little help from AI (pls dont kill me </3) I hope you like it.

>>>

"This is not happening," Chase muttered, pacing in the small cabin that kept him and his nemesis from the snowstorm quickly brewing outside.

Buddy shot him a quick glare before rolling his eyes. "Believe me, I'm not thrilled about it either," he said drily as he tries to lie comfortably on the small bed which barely had enough room for two people.

Chase did nothing but grimace. He didn't expect this story's route to take such an unfortunate turn at all. He regrets letting Deacon choose the story so, so much. Nothing ever goes well whenever he gives that nerd a chance to choose a novel. Chase knew he always had weird and complex tastes, much to his dislike.

Because out of all the books he owned, why did he have to pick one with a natural disaster that trapped and most likely killed the heroine and the villainess together in a bleak and small unwelcoming cabin?

The silence between them continued until the blond finally felt a shudder run down his spine. Either from the chilly air that threatened to freeze them inside the cabin or the thought of having to lie in the same bed with the annoying Mall Goth if he wanted to stop shivering from the godforsaken cold.

"Do you want to die from hypothermia?" Buddy stares at him. Chase couldn't tell if he was finally concerned for him or if he was mocking him, like usual.

"Of course I don't!" he grits his teeth that chattered from each word he spoke.

"Well, it looks like you'll freeze to death soon, if you choose to stay over there, idiot."

Chase glared at him, but Buddy was right. The cold is numbing that he might actually just freeze to death. After a while, he reluctantly made his way to the unappealing bed in defeat, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet.

It's just one night. He can do this. He can stay awake the entire night to make sure Buddy doesn't do anything suspicious until the snowstorm clears off. Yeah, no biggie. It's just a bed. A small bed. With Buddy lying down on said small bed.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid." Buddy sighed as if he can read his thoughts and pulled the covers over himself, moving to the edge of the bed. Chase was relieved that he was willing to give him space. Without a word, he settled on the soft mattress, feeling the warmth slowly creep up to him.

But he still felt cold.

He tugs on the blanket, frowning. His attempts were futile as Buddy was hoarding the whole bundle of warmth. Making it obvious that he didn't want to share.

With a frustrated grunt, Chase tugs it harder one more time. "Can you stop taking the entire blanket? It's not even yours!"

Buddy ignored him and buried himself deeper under the covers. "Great, you're not responding. Is this how you handle conflicts? Being the avoidant type?" He scoffed and decided to edge closer to Buddy's side. He ignores the way their bodies are touching.

But he failed to ignore how his heart skipped a beat as he felt Buddy's body heat against his cold skin.

Chase cursed and punches himself mentally.

This is so not happening.

As time passes by, Chase could feel himself getting more restless by the cold and the silence. The cabin was quiet aside from his own breath that fogged through the icy air.

He finally risked a glance at Buddy, only to see his slim back.

"Hey," he mutters. The goth ignores him.

"Hey, I'm cold," Chase whined.

Slowly, Buddy turns to his side with a sigh. His icy blue eyes meet Chase's warm brown ones.

"And?"

"You're a jerk, at least share your blanket or something."

"What if I don't want to?"

"You have to or I'll die from hypothermia like you said."

Buddy remained quiet and unmoving, but his gaze lingered on him, as if he was studying every inch of his face. Before Chase could complain again, Buddy brought the blanket up to the smaller boy, letting the soft material drape over the two of them.

As Buddy shifted slightly, his arm brushed against Chase's, sending a jolt of electricity through him.

Chase swallowed hard, his heart quickening its pace in his chest. They were so close that if he really examined him enough he could see his long eyelashes that made him look so attractive-

What is wrong with him?

This is his nemesis. The most annoying guy he has ever met. The guy who would do anything to stop him from getting what he wants.

He should really stop staring.

"You're so easy to read, you know that?" Buddy said. Did he just snicker at him? Chase snapped back to where he was and sees Buddy's cocky expression.

He notices the slight tint of pretty pink on his ears, and Chase wonders if he's also feeling what he feels or if it's just an effect from the cold.

"Ugh," Chase dismisses, annoyed at how his heartbeat is still racing. He doesn't want to engage in this conversation anymore.

While Chase watches bitterly, Buddy's eyes slowly drift shut, his cocky deameanor gone and replaced by a weary yet peaceful expression. Like they weren't just hit with a surging storm outside.

Like they weren't arguing over the blanket a few moments ago.

Like he doesn't mind his close proximity to Chase and letting him see him sleep like this—all vulnerable.

Chase's bitterness fades and instead, he felt a pang of softness for the other boy as he scrutinizes the tired expression etched across his face, even though he can't seem to explain why.

It's getting dark now. The wind outside is howling and Chase still feels so cold. But Buddy is already asleep.

He scoots closer to him, ignoring how his head is slightly touching Buddy's chin, because the blanket isn't really doing him good any more. In this awkward position, he could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

For once, the idiot doesn't seem so threatening and irritating.

Chase is surprised at how warm the latter feels. He wished he could embrace him. Or something. But that's out of the picture, obviously. Why would he want to embrace OR be embraced by this guy? He blames the alarming thoughts on him feeling stupidly cold and his dying need for something warm.

As he tries to calms his racing thoughts down, he soon feels a sense of peace and ease wash over him.

Whatever. This will be tomorrow Chase's problem. For now, he relishes in the soothing warmth shared between him and his nemesis.

Not too long after, he begrudgingly falls into a comfortable slumber with Buddy breathing softly by his side, both of them enveloped by the soft blanket and the gentle heat that mingled between their bodies.

Which was, to be quite honest, enough to keep the both of them warm.

>>>>

im not sure how this went but i hope it was okay 😵‍💫😵‍💫 crazy this webtoon got me to write and do smth out of my comfort zone

#cinderella boy webtoon #cinderella boy #ficlet

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beatrixstonehill2 · 1 year ago

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"Mmmm, happy Detrans December everyone! I am so excited I won the latest tag war, sorry Kara, better luck next year.... Or maybe you can join in with me and we can have ourselves another healthy competition? Just dm me if that sounds like fun, or do you just wanna jerk it to me going through male puberty and losing my gorgeous boobies? Either way....

Ever since I first found this tag I was so turned on by the idea. I started transitioning in like the sixth grade and I'm 20 now, so I've had no shortage of people try and detrans me already. Every single time it makes me rock hard. Always a new doctor, or boss, or some coworker that finds out. They start exclusively calling me by male pronouns and tell me how great I'd look if I detransitioned, that I'm already mostly a guy anyway, that I don't pass very well, and they always say me 'moobs' look ridiculous and I have to feel really embarrassed going out looking like this.....

I know it's just people being bigoted creeps, but every time it happens it turns me on so much. I have to run home and jerk off. You wanna know a secret? One of these pervy transphobes was a doctor I had a couple years back who put me on penile growth meds, despite me being on estrogen and progestrone. He said growing a 'fat cock' will make me realize I'm supposed to be male. I..... can't say he was wrong. He kept me on it for six months, and I had to find a new doctor when he outright prescribed me T, but I did fill my first script and have it waiting and ready to go. ❤️ I never post bikini pics or anything tight because my cock is already about a foot long and really thick. My balls are the size of plums! They make it kind of hard to sit sometimes. I bet if I went off my estrogen for just a day my body would be totally flooded with T from these things. Unsurprisingly I jerk off a lot, like a regular guy, I love having such a big fat cock. How could I ever pretend I'm a girl? I'm so silly......

So, as soon as I discovered Detrans December I looked up all the vids and whatnot and got totally addicted to all the pretty girls shooting up T and losing their girly bodies.... So the second I started getting tagged, you legit could not pull me away from my computer, I was scrolling through your tags and comments for hours a day, jerking off like a good boy.... Mmmm, I'm going to love finally taking T, although I love getting fucked too much to say I'll wind up as one of these straight gym dudes you see trans girls turn into.... Hey, Kara, you only live a couple hours away. What if we both became femboys.... dressed all girly, you have a big cock you were forced to grow, to.... I want our cocks so big they're impractical for fucking, they'll be way too fat.... They'll be perfect for our fans and random guys we meet at the club to abuse and smack around, same with our oversized testicles.... Won't that be so much fun? A couple of flat chested boys finally going through male puberty, hung like horses, just begging for our guy parts to be mistreated. I think we'd have loads of fun together, don't you? Oooo, we can even get top surgery together! I can't wait to lose these silly, fat boobs, and I know you can't wait to lose those ridiculous looking JJ-Cup boobs of yours..... I bet you're jerking off watching me say all this, aren't you? Good boy, now cum. ❤️"

#mtf detrans kink #mtftm kink #detrans kink

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starlightazriel · 6 months ago

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a court of love and scars

18+

other parts

༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

part 9, Azriel

Gwen was doing great, the training seemed to come naturally to her, and each day she got stronger. The punching and kicking didn't come as easily, but she had good balance. We hadn't kissed again, it had been a week and a half, everyone had been taking turns coming to the cabin and helping with her training. There was just no time, we trained from morning til night, and by night she was so utterly exhausted and sore... One night she even fell asleep in the bath, and Mor had to wake her up.

Though, we didn't kiss again, we stole glances, at training and meal time, she would catch me staring. I wouldn't drop my gaze, I would just slowly lick over the bottom of my lip and watch her squirm from across the table. We almost kissed again, at training, somehow she had ended up on top of me, while sparring, our noses nearly touching. "Get a room." Cassian had interrupted our moment and Gwen had jumped off of me so quickly, her cheeks red, smoothing her clothes like nothing happened. But I could smell her arousal, so sweet, so damn sweet.

Tonight was the first night we would spend at the cabin alone, Rhys was here now, but he said he had to go tend to Feyre, something to do with the river house they were building. I hadn't told Gwen we would be alone for the first time tonight.

"So, work on everything we did before lunch, and Cassian will be here some time in the morning," Rhys picks up his bowl of stew, tossing it back.

"You're leaving?" Gwen squeaks, stealing a glance at me, a small smile tugs at my lips which just makes her blush. Was she nervous to be here with me alone?

"What, did you need a chaperone?" he glances between the two of us, raising a brow, his eyes settled on me. I shrug, cool indifference.

"No, no. We don't," Gwen says quickly, Rhys' eyes snap to hers, a devilish smile creeping up on his face. "Alright, alright," he stands now, taking one more glance between the two of us. "You know, you two make a proper attractive pair," he says and before either of us have a chance to say anything, he's gone, his dirty dish disappearing with him.

"Ready to get back out there?" I ask, rising to my feet, adjusting my boots and leathers again.

"Barely," she mumbles, her eyes snapping up to me. "It's so cold out Az, no one would know if we just-"

"We aren't skipping it," I say smiling down at her. "We'll go easy, but we aren't skipping it," I chuckled, earning a long exasperated groan from her.

"But I'm so tired and sore and-"

I couldn't stop myself. "I've been known to give a good massage," I say, her cheeks heat all the way up. "When we're done, I'll help you out," I breath, my pants tightening at the thought of my hands all over her bare skin, she nods slowly, I could tell she must have been thinking of the same thing, her cheeks warming shifting in her chair. "I'll meet you out there," I mumbled, turning around, and walking out, shutting the door behind me. I didn't want her to see the straining in my pants at the thought of her splayed out on a bed, my hands all over her, rubbing her. The freezing bitter air bit at my cheeks and I rubbed my hands together, huffing out a breath, cold indeed.

"There you are," I chuckled, a few minutes later, I turned, smiling at the sight of her. Rosy cheeks and nose from the bitter cold, blowing on her hands, her arms tucked in close to herself. "Come on," I coax, jerking my head, beckoning her.

"Get in position," I look down at her, she pouts, getting into her fighting stance, I lift my hand. "Punch," I murmur, holding myself steady and I can't help but smile when her fist connects meekly with my hand.

"Harder, rabbit," I chuckle, she blushes furiously, huffing out a breath, blowing some hair out of her face.

"Why do you call me that?" She ask, squinting her eyes at me, focusing before throwing another punch.

"Because you're like a little spring rabbit," I chuckle quietly, my lips twitching up in a small smile. She scrunches her nose up.

"Well pretty soon, I'm gonna turn into a big spring mountain lion, and take you down," she punches again, a little harder this time, my shoulders shake in silent laughter.

"I'd like to see you try," I move my hand at the last second and her fist connects with my rib cage, I don't even flinch. "Is that how you're going to take me down?" I tease quietly, she sticks her tongue out at me and tosses her hands up. "Remember, your opponent won't just be standing still, Gwen, gotta stay sharp," I say, holding my hand out again, just in another place.

"I'm not a fighter Az, I'll be better off trying to tap into my father's shape shifting," she mutters quietly, looking defeated.

"Everyone is a fighter, rabbit," I nod, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, "just takes practice," she huffs again, rolling her eyes at me but she gets back into position. We trained until our faces stung and our fingers were raw, I finally gave in to her begging and pleading to finish early, and I followed behind her into the house, she was running.

"I think that's the hardest you worked all day," I tease, shutting the cold out behind me.

"Oh shut it," she whirls around, and suddenly, it was like the air went hot and thick, the space between us seeming to shrink, I was leaning against the door, her against the wooden table.

"Go wash up," I chuckle quietly, the tension in the room was so thick, so hot and heavy. "I'll get us some food," I swallowed hard, watching her disappear into the wash room. I warmed up the same stew we had for lunch on the stove, getting two bowls and filling them up at the table. I broke some bread in half, smaller piece for her, larger piece for me and I sat and waited.

When she emerged from the bathroom, her clean scent filled my nose, lilac and dew. I wouldn't ever get tired of that. Her hair was still damp, soft ringlets forming as it dried. I shifted in my seat, mother save me. Soft wool socks, silky night gown that flowed to mid calf, the material slightly strained at her perky little breasts. She had stopped in the doorway, looking at me with those big green eyes. "Hungry?" I ask, she nodded and slid into the chair across from me. We began to eat, nothing but the sound of our chewing and clinking silverware filling the room, and the occasional pop from the fire that was burning.

"You're quiet," I observe, her eyes snap up to mine, I smile. "I'm still gonna give you that massage," I say, licking my bottom lip. "if you want it," I add quickly, searching her face.

"I don't just want it, I need it," she groans a little, earning a big smile from me.

"Oh yeah?" I ask, a suggestive smile covering my face. "Well I'm going to take good care of you," I said, licking my lips again, my tone sensual, her lips parted beautifully and I watched her squirm in her seat, squeezing those delicious thighs together.

Gwen had made it clear that she wanted me. I couldn't figure out why, Illyrian, shadowsinger, spy of the night court. None of it even phased her. She didn't bawk when my scars showed, no, she had some of her own. She didn't flinch away from the shadows or the darkness. "Let me just freshen up myself," I stood from the table, excusing myself to the wash room while she finished up. I bathed quickly, my blood feeling hot, I couldn't get rid of the hardness between my legs, not even with a cool bath.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I wore only my sleeping pants (or the pants I would put on in the morning after sleeping naked), she was laying on her stomach on the sofa, legs kicked up in the air, reading a book. I sunk down on the sofa next to her, pulling one of her socks off, and then the other. She twisted, a blush rising to her cheeks. "Good place to start?" I ask, she was laying on her back now, feet over my lap, she nodded quickly and dropped the book on the floor, folding her hands on her stomach, watching me nervously.

I massaged her delicate foot, rubbing up and down the center with my thumb, earning a hum of pleasure from her. I didn't take my eyes off her, I turned a bit, my back against the arm of the sofa her legs on either side of me now, spread, her nightgown rode up to her thighs. I moved my hands to her calf's now, my large hands massaging each one, thumbs pressed atop her shins. She gasped quietly, her chest and cheeks glowing with a brilliant pink, I could see her pulse quicken. I grunted, my eyelids heavy with lust as I stared down at her, my shadows caressed too, blowing a cool breeze over her soft skin. She moaned.

"Az, that feels so good," she whispered, my hands moved higher now, fingers curling behind her knees, thumbs rubbing over the tops of them. And higher, dangerously close to the hem of her nightgown that was already at mid thigh, I bite my lip. "This is going to turn into my dessert real fast, if you don't get back on your stomach so I can rub your back," my voice is raspy, even toned, low, my thumbs rubbed gently up and down the soft skin between each of her thighs, my cock strained in my pants, aching for her.

The things she had been through, and her she was, submitting to me, of all males in the world me. Feared across the lands, but she was not scared. Laying here in front of me. Completely relaxed, a puddle of desire and heat and arousal. Her scent filled my nostrils in a way that shot right to my brain spreading out and settling itself there like a high from a drug. I flipped her over gently with ease, her face pressing into the soft cushion, I groaned at the view, the fabric straining over her plump rear, I could see her silky white underwear, the fabric soaked through, again for me. I tossed my head back, closing my eyes for a moment and mouthing a silent thank you and prayer. I leaned forward then getting up on my knee, I started at her shoulders, rubbing them gently my thumbs slipping under the loose thin straps of her nightgown and pulling them down, exposing her bare back to me. I didn't miss her slight flinch, and I inhaled a sharp breath, almost nervous as I reached my hand down, running my own scarred fingertip over one of her long scars, she shivered, goosebumps rising on all surfaces of her skin.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," I said with a sincerity that pricked heat in her eyes, I saw it, she blinked it away, her breath hitching. "I mean that," I emphasize softly, trailing my finger down a second long thin scar, my wings draped lazily at my sides, I felt her lean into my left one, the feeling making me swallow hard.

"T-thank you," she stammers, the back of her neck pink with heat, she shifted, hips pressing into the couch, I hummed in approval. I had almost forgot I was massaging her, the intimate moment we just shared had my heart hammering in my chest, I couldn't remember ever feeling like this in the centuries I had been alive.

I massaged her back slowly and deeply, thumbs rubbing circles into her soft skin, my hands dropped lower, fingertips curling around her ribcage massaging the soft skin underneath her breasts, my thumbs pressing into her back. She was too perfect, fit in my hands so damn perfectly. I needed all of her immediately but I forced myself to take my time, forced myself to worship her in every single way I could. "May I?" I ask quietly, she only nods, looking back at me her eyes screaming yes, speechless, I smirk and pull her night gown down along with her undergarments.

My mouth drops slightly open at her bare backside sprawled out in front of me, legs slightly spread. Puffy pink lips leaking with her arousal nestled between her generous tanned cheeks. I couldn't help myself, I spread her open, leaning down and placing a lick of a kiss on the pucker of her ass, she whined in response, her body melting further into the sofa. "Its still turning into my dessert," I mumbled lazily, need to taste, I flipped her back over so she was on her back again, pushing her back just a little bit so she tipped back over the edge of the sofa arm just a bit.

"Mother above," I let out the lowest whistle, my eyes searching over every beautiful naked inch of her. I wrap my lips around her breast, sucking her nipple into a delicate point and then the other one, shadows breezing over her skin in my wake, she moaned again, her hands tangling into my hair. I kissed down the front of her body, my breath hot but shadows cool against her skin.

"Please Azriel, I want to.. I want you, I've never-" she cuts herself off, embarrassment staining her cheeks, my fingers just pressed into the delicate flesh of her thighs. "Shh," I hummed against her, my lips against her pubic bone as I stared up into her eyes, my own so dark with lust, dancing with my arousal. I pulled my head up again, placing each one of my large hands on the insides of her thighs and i pulled gently, spreading her open for me. I groaned at the sight and dipped my head down, starting at the pucker of her ass I licked a long stripe up the center of her, gently sucking on the bundle of nerves at the top. I repeated this motion again and again. She moaned loudly, her head tipping back, soft pants leaving her lips.

I savored every last drop of her, sucking, and licking and moaning against her soaking wet sex. She cried out when I wrapped my lips around her most sensitive part, sucking softly as my finger gently dipped into her, curling up, hitting that little spot. "Azriel!" she cried out as she released, her back arching, soaking my nose and my lips with her, I moaned against her, continuing to softly suck as she finished. It was the most beautiful erotic picture I had ever seen, her first release. Delicious and sweet and perfect.

"Azriel," she pants, her eyes wide with shock as she looks up at me, like she couldn't believe how I'd just made her feel. Her eyes drop down to the straining in my pants and they grow even wider before looking back up at me. "Take me," she mumbles quietly, eyes so heavy with lust and the aftershock of her sweet release. I let out a soft groan at sight, licking every last drop of her I could off my lips.

"I'm going to take good care of you,"

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is it hot in here 🥵🥵 part 10 will be up soon

#acotar #azriel smut #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #acotar smut #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #azriel spymaster #azriel fan fiction #azriel fluff

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thatoneandlonelyemo2005 · 5 months ago

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I keep almost forgetting about these

But 4th part! No NSFW just body descriptions that make Mush go crazy. ALSO Blink isn't being mean anything with the pet names is just him being silly although later on in the AU Mush grows to like them

“Ya need any help?” Blink asked as he saw the pastel looking at his car. His locker was jammed and he had to hunt down the janitor. Making him one of the last ones out of school.

"I can figure it out myself." The pastel glared at him.

Blink shook his head, "Sure sweetheart, like you know more stuff about a car than me. But I can just drive away, just wanted to be helpful, but if you wanna stay stranded here, be my guest." Blink scoffed and started to walk to his bike.

"Wait! I'd promised a friend I would meet them tonight. Can you fix it please?" The boy's eyes were wide and hopeful.

Blink grins before turning around, settling on a frown again to make the pastel a bit uneasy. He went to the front of his car and opened the hood. "Well, sugar, that's something you did need a mechanic for."

Mush glared at the punk, "Whatever! Can you please take it to your shop?"

"Well we need a tow truck for that honey-"

"Stop calling me pet names you creep! Just do what you gotta do."

Blink rolled his eyes. "Well if you don't wanna hang around here until I can get a truck, dollface, you'll have to ride my bike to the mechanic shop. You can do whatever there, Klopps' also got a chill area. But I fear you'll have to ride with a creep like me." Blink roughly closed the hood again, crossing his arms and staring at the pastel boy, awaiting his decision.

"Can't you just call someone?" Mush glares at him, praying he wouldn't have to be on a motorcycle.

"Well yeah but either way you'd have to sit here by yourself. And I heard this place gets rough at night. "

"That's such a lie! This is a damn high school." Mush shook his head.

Blink sighed, "Look, just get on okay, it's really not that bad."

"No thank you." Mush crossed his arms and turned away. Blink rolled his eyes, "God you pastels are such babies.”

"I'm not-" Mush made a noise like he was screaming silently. "You know what? Sure, get me on that damn bike, blondie."

"Hey, don't-"

"You've called me 4 different weird pet names in the last ten minutes, you don't get to complain!" Mush, with as much dignity as he had left, got to the bike and waited for Blink to mount it, the punk only shaking his head and forcefully shoving his helmet into Mush's hands. "Get that on and then hurry up, pastel."

Mush grumbled something but it was drowned out with the rev of the engine.

"Hold onto me okay!" Blink yelled.

"No-" But the jerk of the bike stopped him from speaking. Instead he wrapped his arms around Blinks' waist hoping he wouldn't fall off.

It was a terrifying experience, Mush really had to hold on tight to the punk, the leather of his jacket was cold under his fingers, even though he still felt hot. It was just too much. With every turn he thought he'd fall off but he never did and then luckily, he stopped in front of the mechanic shop and Mush could stumble off the bike, ripping off the helmet to take a few deep, clean breaths.

"Never again am I riding that! How do you even ride that thing? You could get killed!"

"Whoa calm down sugar-"

"I said not to call me that!" Mush threw the helmet at him.

Blink caught it before it hit the ground, "Hey! Be careful with my helmet. And I don't know your name so what else should I call you."

Mush hadn't thought of that, but it still didn't make the names okay. They were nice, in a way, but it just felt like he was doing it to be mean. "Mush. My name's Mush. Now let's get a towing truck to get this over with as quickly as possible, please." Mush crossed his arms and looked around the mechanic's shop carefully, finding a curly haired punk smoking a cigarette and looking at them with barely restrained gloating.

"What'd catch Blink?" He called over. Blink set his helmet on the handle bars, "A pastel fish I'd say." He smirked as he passed Mush. It suited him in a way. Mush he kept repeating in his head.

Mush frowned at the comment, "He said you got a tow truck."

The curly boy raised an eyebrow, "What's it to you?"

"His car is a little fucked up right now." Blink said as he passed go get the keys from the rack in the office area.

"Oh, did his car get too much pink and break down?” Mocked the smoking boy, throwing his spent cigarette down and stepping on it to extinguish the flame.

"God, are all you punks this infuriating." Complained Mush.

"To you, yeah." Blink roughly pat him on the back as he came out again with the keys. "I'll get the car, you can wait somewhere 'round here, Kloppman'll show you what you need I guess. Until later, sweetheart."

Mush watched the boy climb in the car and he wanted to yell at him but couldn't even form words. He hated him yet something about him wanted to not say anything. "He's over there Mr. K." The curly boy pointed at him.

"Hello." The older man smiled. "I hear you're having car issues."

At least someone here was nice. "Yes, it just wouldn't start in the parking lot. I didn't know what to do."

The old man put a hand to his shoulder and steered him inside where it was cooler. "I'm sure Louis can repair it, would you want a cold drink until he's back? For the shock."

Mush sat down in one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs and nodded. "Only if it's not too much trouble, Mr. Kloppmann."

"Oh it's nothing. Trust me, I know the boys can be a bit rough." Mr. Kloppmann chuckled while going to the fridge.

"You can say that." Mush grumbled out.

Mr. Kloppmann pushed a glass to him filled with lemonade, "Louis is a great kid ya know. He's just a bit rough sometimes."

Mush shook his head and looked away through the door to see the curly haired boy hug a smaller kid. Maybe it was his brother or someone who would become another punk when he grew up. But the curly head boy spun him around and it was weird seeing them act nice. He'll just have to wait now. He prayed for the time to go faster.

It didn't take too long until he saw the truck driving back, Mush's pale yellow car in tow. It didn't look any worse for wear so it was probably fine, but he still felt anxious.

"That's yours then, boy?" Asked Mr. Kloppman, looking out the windows.

"Yes. Louis um... he looked under the hood at school and everything."

The man nodded. "Well I'll take a look myself until Louis changes to something he can work in. Feel right at home, my boy."

Mush nodded and sipped on his lemonade, looking out the windows. Kloppman first helped the curly haired boy and Louis put his car inside the working area and then opened the hood himself, the taller boy looking over his shoulder but quickly getting swatted away. It was a few minutes where Mush wasn't sure what to do, just worriedly looking at his car until Louis came out again, now only wearing an already slightly stained white tanktop and just under the knee-length shorts. Mush sank a bit deeper into his chair, sipping on his lemonade and trying to keep from staring at him.

His lemonade was gone before he knew it. He blamed it on staring at Louis bend over to grab things and look at stuff. Mush crossed his legs as Louis wiped his face with his shirt showing off his stomach. A blush spread on his face and he held a hand to cover his eyes. He was screwed.

A little bit later he was talking to Kloppmann about payment. Handing him the money and saying a ‘thank you’ he began to walk to his car where Louis just closed the hood.

"Should be workin' well again.", the punk said, cleaning off his hands from oil stains and Mush had to physically move his eyes away from the action.

"That's good." Mush shuffled his feet, feeling like he shouldn't just leave like that. "Thank you... for offering help, Louis."

The blond startled a bit. "How'd you... oh, Kloppman. Yeah just call me Blink, the old man don't call us by our nicknames out of principle or something."

"Ok...i-ill be going now." Mush walked around him and opened his door. But he grabbed his wallet pulling out some money and shoved it towards Blink, "A tip... For all the hard work. Thanks again." Mush got in his car and looked up to Blink who was transfixed on the money. Mush bit his lip but shook his head and began to roll down the driveway.

I just might be biased but I do like this one a lot<333 Blush can warm my heart just as much as Bumswiftery can ( @chaosfairy18)

#a small mention of Skittery and Tumbler<333 #92sies #1992 newsies #1992sies #newsies #newsies 1992 #blush newsies #kid blink #kid blink newsies #mush myers #mush newsies #pastel au

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gwiyeounsonyeon · 6 months ago

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May Writing Challenge Day 16!

Pairing: Zeffirelli x Male Reader Summary: You and Zeffirelli share a few kisses Words: 629/200 Warnings: You burn yourself Notes: were getting into the nitty gritty with this one

☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The sharp sound of the curtain being pulled open is loud in the quiet bathroom but Zeffirelli’s yelp is louder. You raise your brow at him; naked, smoking, and scribbling in his notebook. “What in the hell are you doing now?” The amusement in your voice is undisguisable and he gawks at you. “You’re in my bathroom.” He says indignantly, you tilt your head, unable to fight the smile slowly creeping up on your face, “Yes?” It shouldn't have been a question but your tone pitches anyway, the movement of his adams apple draws the attention of your eyes, then your gaze drops only to dart back to his face. “... While I’m in the bath?” Color rises to his face when he catches your wondering gaze, “It seems you are.” You say simply, you shift your weight to the other foot, the movement rattling the curtains.

“While I’m naked” His voice had pitched up slightly either out of nervousness or embarrassment, “I’d hope so.” That came out so wrong, both your faces go bright red. He gestures with his cigarette held between his fingers. “Close the–” You dont give him time to finish before jerking the curtain closed. Once shielded from view you let out a unanimous breath of relief. You slide down to sit on the floor, leant against the side of the tub staring off at the far wall trying hard not to think about Zeffirelli, or his…

You huff frustrated at the flush on your face and your stubborn wondering thoughts and you stick your two fingers through the crack of the curtain. It only takes a moment of hesitation before Zeffirelli is gently placing his cigarette between your fingers, the flush on your face darkens as his fingers brush against yours and you find yourself pulling the cigarette back too soon and nearly dropping it. You dont, saving it by catching the smoldering tip in your hand, you hiss and Zeffirelli pulls back the curtain to see what happened. He plucks the cigarette out of your hand and places it between your lips, he drops his notebook and pen on the floor to pick up your hand to inspect the damage. “Why’d you do that.” You roll your eyes and blow smoke in his face, pinching the cigarette between the two fingers of your other hand carefully.

“You say it like I did that on purpose.” – “Didn't you?” – “Absolutely not?” He eyes you, squinting slightly. “You dont sound sure.” You roll your eyes again, “Why would I burn myself on purpose?” – “To get my attention.” You look at him quizzically. “And… Why do I want your attention?” He watches you for a moment, you try your best to hold eye contact, swallowing the buildup of saliva that's gathered in your mouth at the pictures your awful brain is putting in your head. It becomes too much and before you can catch yourself, your eyes glance down to his lips, just for a second but he still sees it. “That.” – “That, what?” You respond entirely too fast but before you can start criticizing yourself about how stupid you must seem Zeffirelli leans forward and chastely pecks you on the lips.

He pulls back entirely too soon, he kisses you entirely too soon and for a few long seconds, you’re both left staring at each other in shock. You swallow before leaning in again but he has the same idea and when you meet in another kiss your teeth click painfully, drawing you apart once more. You let out a choked sort of chuckle and bring the cigarette to your lips, your hands shaking anxiously, “I’m writing my manifesto.” His voice is too shaky, too hoarse but the distraction is good enough, “Let me read it?” – “Absolutely.”

#x male reader #zeffirelli #the french dispatch #zeffirelli x male reader #zeffirelli x reader #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x male reader #timothee chalamet x reader

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peggy-sue-reads-a-book · 1 year ago

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Soldier On, Achilles

Captive!Patroclus AU

rating: 18+ | violence, character death, slur

Additional tags: hurt/comfort, angst, soulmates, whump

Summary:

Regret sets in as Achilles waits for Patroclus to return from battle. Thetis is rude. Agamemnon throws a tantrum.

Chapter I

He did not know why his mother took the form of a sea monster around others. Probably just to be obtuse. In fact, she is graceful, glossy hair like a Persian warhorse, fair as new milk. But she did not like to garner attraction.

Achilles cannot not decide if he is relieved or irritated to see his pretty mother now. “Six hours,” he grumbles, aware of the sullen note in his tone, “I wish you had gone with them.”

“With him,” she corrects, mocking, “You don’t care about them.”

“You don’t either,” he bites, jerking around to face her. She stands only a little taller than him, softened in this form. A willow where she had been pine. Her eyes are not black but deepest green. Human. She looks at him as in childhood, ready to comfort. Something is wrong.

Achilles grits his teeth, flinching away. It hurts her visibly.

“Mother, if you let him come to harm—”

“If I let him?”

Her eyes darken, narrow. An eel poised to strike.

Achilles’ heart drops ten feet. His blood roars.

“He is injured?” He looks every direction, ears suddenly at twice their sensitivity. Any sound. Any sense at all. But there is only the empty camp. The murmur of girls, ignoring him in their tent. Slaves and grunt-workers who pass him as if invisible.

“I see you are not a favorite,” she says, “Achilles.”

She emphasizes his name: pain of the people.

“If you think a despised man earns favor with—”

“Gods be damned!” he shouts. It is foolish of him. “Can you speak of nothing else? Where is Patroclus?”

He does not wait for an answer. He shoves the flap of the women’s tent open, barking for any of them to follow, to help him arm.

“Why?”

Their collective reproach sounds through Briseis’s voice, a creeping python.

“Patroclus is hurt,” he says, attempting the curtness of a prince, “I will go.”

A sharp inhale. She follows. Briseis works quickly, but her hands are unused to buckles and bronze. Achilles clenches his teeth against the rockslide harsh words. Couldn’t she go any faster? He thinks of his love, his boy, a medic. An untrained soldier in armor not fitted to him, a sword balanced for Achilles’ alone. What was I thinking?

Competing answers:

I was not thinking

and softer,

I was thinking of myself.

Briseis keeps her eyes lowered like a slave. But he cannot mistake the flush of hate in her cheeks.

“If Hector kills you,” she hisses, shoulders trembling, “I will only be sorry for him.”

His prize has no leave to address him thusly. He raises his hand to strike her. Then lowers it.

“If Hector kills me,” he says, “You will say I punished you. No—that I took you to punish him. It is unseemly that my companion should take liberties I have not with my bed-slave. You will say you are pregnant and without your honor.”

“But I am not,” she says bitterly.

“Then lie!” he yells, cowing her, “You will lie, and he will reproach me. It will dull his grief. Honor will compel him to leave Troy with you as his wife. I’m telling you to save his life.”

“He won’t believe it,” she says softly.

“It will be easier than you think. You’ll enjoy spiting me,” he snarls, stomping out of the tent. She is alone among the men’s things. He was right on only one front. Deceiving Patroclus into marriage would save him. But defaming his lover would only sharpen the grief. And that was if he believed her.

The creek of chariot wheels. Horses’ crying sharp and panicked. A six-hour campaign. What could have happened? But they were returning now. His boy would be with them. Bruised, perhaps, even broken, but here. Tears stand in Achilles’ eyes and he all but runs to meet the returning army. They move slowly – he sees a shrouded body hefted between Odysseus and Diomedes. Their faces are creased, exchanging heavy glances. Someone of importance, he supposes. This does not matter. Not now. Achilles searches the company, escalating from fevered to frantic. Where was he? He would flog Automedon if it was he would had failed to make all haste. A horrible thought: the walls. An image, as if from a remembered dream. Of pair of them, Patroclus had always been more adept at climbing trees.

And on Scyros – he had been so upset. To upset to notice his feet cut to shreds when he had scaled that cliff to what – to howl Thetis into being? No.

Achilles dives into the crowd, elbowing past his own men, knocking them into the dirt without looking. He shoves soldier after soldier aside. If he fell. He would have caught himself, known to tuck his chin and roll, but there would be broken bones. His back, perhaps, or both arms. Both femurs, even. That would explain why he had been carried so slowly. Achilles shouts, howls his name. “Patroclus!” then, “Automedon!”

There was no way he had not been knocked unconscious by a fall like that. No way for him to hear Achilles’ voice, to be comforted at all. And it was his fault.

What was the word he had used again in their quarrel?

Hubris.

He nearly crashes into Odysseus and would have upset both counselor’s and their burden had Odysseus not stopped him with a firm hand, flat to his chest. A fatherly gesture. The prince of Ithaca looks in his eyes, stern, unintimidated.

Achilles stops in his tracks. The blood drains from his face as his eyes lock onto the shrouded form.

Your Grace. Automedon’s voice is blurred as if by a sudden strong wind. Achilles screams, and screams, and screams, pivoting to strike the boy in the face. The blow knocks him to the earth with a squealing cry. The crunch of a wrist breaking. Shame laces its way through Achilles’ rage. Reproachful eyes – he does not know whose—as a larger man helps the injured boy up, dragging him into the throng where he will be hidden.

When he raises his fist again, Diomedes catches it with a face full of scorn.

“Enough.”

Odysseus raises and deepens his voice at once. It is a king’s voice.

“You disgrace yourself and him, prince,” Odysseus says with cold authority.

“He is mine,” rasps Achilles, his face contorting as he stares at the body, just barred from his reach, “My companion. My right.” Two more have him by his other arm. He does not look to see their faces.

“I think not.”

The prince of Ithaca lifts his chin, arms folded calmly.

With an inhuman roar, Achilles wrenches himself from the other men. Odysseus steps deftly out of his way as a performer from a charging bull. It occurs to Achilles that he is being mocked but it does not matter. All that matters is to reach him. To see punishment for those who mistook his Patroclus for dead. For dragging him home shrouded when he needed immediate medicine, needed Achilles. They would all be beaten. Their women with them. He tears off his helmet, scraping his knees raw in the sand.

“I’m here,” he cries, voice finally breaking with tears. Everyone can hear him. Let them. “Patroclus—my darling—my precious boy, my love.”

He lifts the body into his lap, tearing the cloth away. Red hair, dulled with grey spills across his legs.

There is quiet. The crowd has stilled, backed away. Odysseys and Diomedes look at one another again, this time with held breath. Men part to clear a path.

A grim voice rumbles, close now.

“Faggot,” it sneers.

As Agamemnon approaches, one foot at a time. Heavy, yet noiseless. A tiger stalking. Diomedes snaps to attention, leaping on the opportunity to clarify loyalties.

“You sully the King of Sparta,” he says in an affected pitch, “I’m sure you can find another boy to dote on.”

Tentative laughter rustles through the army. Achilles is frozen where he kneels. His face that of a startled little boy.

“Silence!” bellows the general. Then, to Achilles. “Prince of Pthia. You indeed dishonor my brother with this . . . display. And so twice dishonor me. I will consider what to say to you when my grief has eased. You will leave now.”

Achilles moves to his feet, slow and trembling, anemic with terror.

“Go!” Agamemnon’s shout carries down the beach. “Men of Sparta! Your king is dead at Hector’s hands because the famed Myrmidon’s princess would cower behind his mother before doing what was necessary!”

Menelaus is dead.

Hector had killed him.

As Achilles darts through the crowd as a deer weaving past hounds he asks endlessly:

but where is Patroclus?

*Author’s Notes:

Yes, this is the fiction I began over a year ago and was unable to continue due to a depressive episode during my pregnancy. All seven completed chapters are posted to my AO3 but I also plan to release periodically on Tumblr. From the bottom of my heart, I appreciate the kind and encouraging comments and emails I have received on this project while my mental health was in the toilet. Comment if you want to be tagged. Minors will not be tagged.

@nambnb @withlovefromolympus @ygnoe @human-still-developing @hycinthrt @johaerys-writes

#greek mythology #achilles #the song of achilles #the iliad #patroclus #patrochilles #tagamemnon #tsoa #apollo #tsoa fanfic #angst #hurt #ok maybe it’s even a little whumpish #minors shoo

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like-rain-or-confetti · 2 years ago

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Copperhead (Copperhead x Female!Reader)

So Copperhead isn’t completely fleshed out but i wanted to give her a go. Copperhead goes by he/she/they pronouns. I personally go by she/her pronouns so if i get this wrong, i’m not trying to be upsetting and apologise for any offense should there be any.

You were at Roman Sionis' club, rather reluctantly but never the less you had to show your face. Roman wouldn't be happy if you hadn't. That didn't necessarily mean you had to speak to him. You just had to ensure he saw you and he did. His gaze drifted to you behind his mask where he sat in the booth. Two girls on either side of him, getting more and more drunk and flirting shamelessly. You nodded to him from the bar acknowledging him. Not long later you went to the bathroom.

You had been washing your hands when you heard the bathroom door shut to your right. Your head jerked towards the noise. A blonde entered, five foot nine in height and very muscular. Common sense told that if this blonde walked into the ladies bathroom, then this was clearly a woman. Her cleavage another ROBUST hint. However she didn't fit the gender stereotype. In fact, if her clothes hadn't given her away, you wouldn't have had a clue if this was a man or woman. Her jaw, was very defined, her muscles in her arms rather large. Her chest and neck were tattooed. As well as her bicep having a separate tattoo. Her hair was short, resembling a messy pixie cut. Her eyes were most striking. They already popped given the black make up covering her eyes and across the bridge of her nose like a mask but she had bright yellow eyes, her pupils black slits- like a snakes. You hoped it was contacts. She was very attractive although very intimidating. The tattoos were reminiscent of gang affiliations but none came to mind. "Hola Chica." The woman smirked, her eyes looking you over like you were a snack and she was hungry. Like a predator eyeing her prey. "Uh...hi." You swallowed hard before turning your back to her to dry your hands. "You're Roman's friend, right?" You grimaced. You'd hardly consider Roman Sionis a friend. He scared the shit out of you. You shivered at how she emphasised her 'S'. "Uh, yeah." You nodded. "I haven't seen you before. Who are you? Are you a friend of Roman's?" You asked, turning back around to face her. "Me? I could be anything you want me to be." She grinned. "Sionis is not my friend. He's the contractor, he pays up and we get along just fine." You felt a shiver run up your spine as you noticed her tongue. It was split down the middle, another feature looking more like a snake. You took a step back and she took a step forward. "As for who I am. You can call me Copperhead." Your eyes fell to her hands that had claw like contraptions on each finger. "Oh...Nice to meet you." "Isn't it?" Her eyes gleamed. "I'm (Y/N)." You said quickly. Her words caught up to you. "Sorry...Roman pays you?" She held up a clawed a hand with a smirk. "I don't think I need to give you many hints as to what my job is when I have these, do you?" Realisation struck you. Shit. You were talking to an assassin. Your eyes widened and you moved to pass by her. She caught you and pushed you up against the tiled wall. You could smell her perfume as she seemed to breathe you in, a mischevious grin on her face. "Let me buy you a drink." "Oh, y-you don't have to-" You refused quickly. "I insist." She fired back. "Come on, Chica. I've had my eye on you for a while. You don't want to be here and I bet you got a story. So come on, I won't try anything. It'll certainly keep the creeps away so what's the harm until you gotta leave huh?" She had a point. However she seemed to miss out the part that she's just as much of a stranger as everyone else in the club and she was the first to pin you to a wall. "Fine just...no funny business right?" "Honey, if I wanted to sleep with someone- I would have grabbed one of the party girls. They're the easiest. They'll do anything to rebel against daddy with his money." She pushed herself away from you. "I'm buying." She wiggled her eyebrows and you sighed. "Yeah, I guess there's no harm in it." "Great! What's your poison?" She asked.

You sipped at your vodka, scrutinising Copperhead. She giggled, noticing your gaze. "Enjoying the view?" You grew embarrassed. "Sorry! I don't mean to stare I just...this is gonna sound weird but Roman doesn't usually hire female assassins." You began. She hummed. "Well, I'll let you in on a little fun fact, Chica." Copperhead leaned in. "It's not gonna work trying to fit me in one category. I'm hardly a girly type but on top of that- I'm genderfluid." She chuckled. "There's talk as to where Copperhead is more than one person. It never dawned on anyone that perhaps I don't fit into any category they want to put me in." "Oh...are pronounces ever an issue?" You asked. Copperhead shrugged. "Honestly, babe... I don't care what anyone calls me. You don't get to be hurt by what people call you in my world. As long as its respectful. I can go by anything." A smile grew on your face. "What?" Copperhead asked playfully. "I was just thinking how fun that must be. No restrictions, untouched by stereotypes." You replied. "It grows on you, once you accept yourself and learn to kick the shit out of anyone who dares to utter a word against you." A smirk on their face, Copperhead nudged you playfully. "Good for you. That's enviable. I'm shit at sticking up for myself." You replied. "You gotta learn to say fuck it and fuck them...and not in the fun way." They replied and you giggled. "Yeah, I'm a bit of a wimp when it comes to that." You admitted. "Well, if I see you around Chica. I'll make sure to scare you enough to frighten you into thinking what could happen if you don't stick up for yourself."

#batman #batman villains #copperhead #larissa diaz #reader #oneshot #one shot

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