#as a Flash fan— I can see the red flags forming

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

Well

Kung fu panda 4 will certainly exist

[landinoandco]

An Unlikely Grand Prix

Daniel Ricciardo x reader

Warnings: flufffff

Word count: 2.1k

Requests are open :)

The Belgium Grand Prix was one that was highly anticipated - not only did it mark the end of the summer break and start to the second part of the season but it also promised some quality racing with its high speed corners.

You and Daniel were sitting in your hotel room on Sunday morning, a drink of coffee in your hand and a vitamin smoothie in his, your laptop open in front of you as you made some edits to the latest version of your book. You were an author and about to finish the final edit of your new novel.

“Have you seen the weather forecast for today?” He asked, leaning onto his forearms. You looked over your laptop lid and nodded, taking off your glasses.

“I have, you better be careful. It was bad enough in qualifying yesterday - “ You paused, saving your work and closing your laptop down. “I don’t care what people say - wet races always make me nervous. They shouldn’t have sent you out in Q3, it was hard to watch.”

A silence fell between the both of you, Daniel watched with a softness in his eyes. He knew exactly how you felt and he loved how supportive you were of him. You were his biggest fan and he could not be more thankful for it - you were there for him every weekend through rain and sunshine and through good races and bad races. You knew him better than anyone.

“I will be as careful as I can -” He reached across the table and took your hand in his. “I really feel like I’m getting somewhere though - P4.” He exclaimed, a smile flashing across his handsome features. You brushed your thumb over his hand.

“It was a really good lap - especially given the weather.” You agreed.

You moved your gaze to the window - the steady sound of rain hitting the hotel window filled the room.

“It’s definitely going to be a tense one.” Daniel muttered, pushing his chair back and getting up. You followed and made your way to the door, shrugging on your coat as you went.

The rain was pouring down as though the heavens above had opened - Daniel held an umbrella above both of you, sheltering you from the downpour. Members from different teams raced around the paddock to dry shelter - the buzz of conversation could already be heard from the grandstand in front of the pitlane. You admired the dedication of the fans; it was far from just a shower and for those exposed without even the slightest of cover would be drenched to the bone even by now and the grand prix was far from starting.

You looked over to Dan, his eyes twinkling and a spring in his step told you that he was looking forward to today’s race. His eyes flickered down to meet your gaze, bumping his shoulder into yours causing you to chuckle.

It was incredible to think about all of the things you two had managed to fit into 3 (going on 4) years. You met each other on the top of Table Mountain in Cape Town, you were there plotting for your next novel and Daniel was there hiking with his friends…

You were sat on a rock, looking out to the city of Cape Town tucked away under the mountain range - you were out in South Africa on an escape from the cramped conditions of London. You had a deadline quickly approaching to come up with a plot for your next book and as of that moment you still weren’t any closer to coming up with the next bestseller. Sure, you had ideas but they were yet to set a light a fire of motivation in you.

You had zoned out, your gaze attached to a bird soaring across the landscape ahead of you when a sudden voice pulled you swiftly out.

“Whatchu’ writing about?” The man asked, his tone was bright and as you looked over at him you saw the beaming smile stretched across his features. His eyes showed a confident but kind manner, brown curls stuck to his forehead and the beginnings of a beard covered the bottom half of his face.

“If I knew, I would tell you.” You quipped back, turning to face the man in order to see him properly. He had a muscular physique, no doubt a sportsman - you had thought at the time - an explosion of colour seeping out from his shorts caught your eye as you clocked the tattoos; they weren’t the only ones either as little drawings were littered over his hands and arms.

“Nice tattoos.” You complimented, nodding over to him. If it was at all possible, his smile grew larger and he put his fist out.

“I’m Daniel, by the way, Daniel Ricciardo.”

The rest was history - an adventure packed history. One filled with enough adrenaline to last you for the rest of your existence. The introductions had also prompted your next plot idea so the following week when you had returned to London you turned it into your agent - who had immediately loved the outline you had presented.

A few hours later and the start of the Belgium grand prix was approaching but still the track was resembling more of a spa - ironically - than a safe and functional track. Dan walked in from the drivers parade and shivered - his coat having provided no cover.

Frowning, you got up and handed him a towel, “What are the conditions like?” Nerves laced your tone. Dan sat down, shrugging, “They’re what we expected them to be like but it’s really rough. If we can even see 6 feet ahead it would be a miracle.”

A miracle was something they were all desperate for and before they knew it the race had been red flagged - deemed too dangerous to race so all of the teams were in their garages coming up with ways to entertain themselves.

You had made your way out of the McLaren garage to join Daniel who was wandering up and down the pitlane looking for a way to cause havoc.

You crept up to him and grabbed his shoulders and shouted: “boo,” in his ear causing him to jump up in shock and scream. You and many witnesses were doubled over in laughter as the Australian held his hand to his chest.

“I just came to say -” You started, “That you looked like you were about to do something mischievous and I wanted in on whatever your plan was.”

Dan looked at you with complete adoration in his eyes, a lopsided grin formed on his face. At that moment, he had never loved you more. It was a strange feeling that he couldn’t quite describe - it was just one he felt warming up his entire body. One thing he had always adored about you was the way you understood him - at the beginning of the relationship he knew you had found it hard to deal with his childish, devil may care attitude. As soon as you relaxed more around him, you two became more comfortable with one another - you decided to try his way of living. Letting fate take you to your next adventure and enjoying the unpredictability of it all. From your first adrenaline seeking adventure Dan had managed to persuade you to join him in - he knew he had found his partner in crime. Most importantly, Dan had taught you a way of living that was more enjoyable, a way of living that allowed you to get more out of life and push your comfort zone right to the limit.

“I have a few ideas.” He smirked, then grabbed your hand twirling you around as though you were ballroom dancing.

“What are you doing?” You giggled, the corners of your eyes crinkled as he pulled you into his chest, guiding one of your hands to rest on his shoulder as he grasped the other in his and held them up as though you were dancing the waltz; finally placing his hand on your waist.

“I don’t suppose you would have seen it but in 2015, the American qualifying was cancelled due to rain and to pass the time I danced with my teammate. I figured I would make a tradition of it.” He explained, twirling you around again.

“Did Lando not want to dance with you?” You questioned, the corners of your lips quirked up. Daniel stopped and took a step back. For a moment you thought you had said something wrong but then a spray of water splashed up the front of your coat. Gasping, you wiped the water from your face and Daniel’s smug smile came into focus. You looked down to where he was standing and saw a gaping hole that had now filled up with water.

“You little-” You had begun, a smile betraying you entirely as it crept upon your features. You wanted to pretend to be angry but he had caught you off guard.

“I thought that you would be a nicer dance partner - but apparently not.” He retorted, biting down on his lip in an attempt to stifle his laughter at your facial expressions. You looked at him and then down at the puddle, back at Daniel and then decided what your next move would be; before you could however he had picked you up over his shoulder, spinning around happily.

“Daniel-” You protested, having to close your eyes to avoid feeling motion sick. You heard him chortle then give in as you felt your two feet touch the ground once again. You pouted at him, strands of hair now stuck to your forehead - it was a sight to behold. Daniel’s heart skipped a beat, his breath becoming shallower as he brushed the loose strands of hair from your face. He had decided at that moment that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, he was ready to start the next chapter of his life with you. It would be a brand new adventure and probably the scariest yet.

“Marry me.” He mumbled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. He froze, an idea sparked, turning on his heel he fled in the direction of the McLaren garage.

Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, your heart thumping against your ribs. Drawing your lower lip between your teeth, you glanced around you only to realise the whole of the pitlane and grandstand of fans had fallen silent - watching on in anticipation. Had they heard what he had said? How could they have, Daniel had muttered so quietly even you had struggled to hear the words that tumbled from his lips. Little did you know, a camera had caught every moment and you were now the sole focus as you waited for Daniel to come back.

Moments later and he was running out of the McLaren garage, something in his left hand. You squinted to get a better look, from where you were standing all you could see was a flash of blue - but as he came closer you realised what he was holding was in fact a Haribo packet.

Your hands flew to cover your mouth, you knew exactly what he was about to do. You were fighting back tears of joy as he opened the haribo packet and pulled out a gummy ring, got down on one knee and said: “Marry me. Our new adventure, just you and me. My partner in crime.”

Tears ran down your cheeks as you nodded fervently, words appearing to fail you. You flung your arms around his neck. There was an eruption of cheer from around you, as fans whistled and clapped and fellow teams called out in congratulations.

You placed a hand either side of Daniel’s face, tears shone in his eyes. To most a gummy ring would seem immature - laughable even but to you, it confirmed to you how much you loved the man standing in front of you. The gummy ring he had presented to you meant so much more than being a Haribo. It represented you both as a couple. A love that was unconditional and would never get old and yet whilst you both would age - the love you had for one another would stay youthful, unpredictable and exciting.

You were more than ready to start the next chapter of your adventure with the man you loved most.

[early20sfailingplenty]

eee requests!!

i LOVE the way you write bo- could i request something with bo meeting/with a paranoid reader- i think itd be fun to see how he'd react to someone assuming he is up to no good from the get go just because its how they are

also! tips on writing bo? i cant seem to master it

- slasher--stuff

Thank youuuuu ~ 💖💖💖💖 other people here, who KNOW who they are, taught me everything I know abt the Sinclairs!! I hope you enjoy this too ~ 💖💖💖 I think I previously answered your ask abt help with Bo!!! I'm happy to talk abt things with you more though if you want to!!!🌸💗 @slasher--stuff

AS ALWAYS, GENDER!NEUTRAL READER, NO CODED LANGUAGE, "YOU" AND Y/N USED.

A big thank you to @ultra-literal-fandom-trash for listening to me throw ideas into the void and helping me to work out how Bo would respond to this scenario! I got a bit stuck with several parts of this piece and you wrote me out of all the corners I'd blocked myself into.😂 Thank you thank you thank you for helping me!!!🙏🙏🙏 I appreciate you so much ~ 💗

Bo meeting a paranoid reader; they suspect him immediately because that's how they are.

TW; CANON TYPICAL DARKNESS, Bo's his own warning (said with love), experiences of paranoia. PLEASE NOTE - I did some research on paranoia while writing this piece. I've done my best to be respectful and accurate in my portrayal but as I don't experience this myself, there MAY be some inaccuracies. I apologise for any you may find. DRUGGING (canon typical; Vincent gets you), STALKING, cornering, fear and anxiety, NO ROMANCE BETWEEN BO AND READER.

I won't be continuing this piece because I have nowhere else for it to go; I wrote myself into a corner just like the Sinclairs end up doing to you. BUT PLEASE PLEASE BE AWARE THIS DOES NOT HAVE A HAPPY ENDING. THIS IS THE DARKEST ONE I'VE WRITTEN YET.

Word count: 2, 624.

Most people who come into Ambrose are really rather stupid. They dismiss every red flag which came their way once they ended up on Ambrose’s borders. The way Lester conveniently pulls up right when their car breaks down, the way he offers up gas or a free ride (though this is more his genuine want to help others and less so a part of his 'delivery' to Ambrose), the way the toilet at the gas station is always out of order but Bo's got one up at the house they're all right to use... the rigged town and it's many lures, traps and other such things are all far too convenient, and most people dismiss that feeling in their gut. The one which is telling them to run, far far away, and not look back.

Yes, most visitors who find themselves in Ambrose are either too desperate for help to see the red flags practically being flashed in their face, or they just don't notice them and assume the very best of Lester, Bo and Vincent... though they're usually dead before they can learn of the Sinclairs' names.

Except you.

You experience paranoia and that can make it really difficult for you to form a close relationship with anyone. Often do you feel as if people are out to get you, as if they might want to hurt you. Offers of help are met with suspicion, and generally speaking do you question everything and everyone around you. As such, when Lester pulled up in his pickup truck beside you and your broken down, abandoned car (you hadn't known that fan-belts were capable of snapping...), you had been immediately suspicious and most definitely on edge. Something didn't feel right, something wasn't right, you should get in your car, lock the door and refuse to come out until the strange man who just so happened to offer you a free ride had given up and left, right?

Wrong.

The one time you should have listened to yourself, the one time your paranoia was more in tune with the world than you knew, was the one time that you didn't. You got in the pickup truck against every fibre of your being screaming at you, and you would, at least in part, spend the rest of your life both hating and loving yourself for it. You had no idea what you were in for, and that was just how the Sinclairs wanted it, how they loved it.

Everything went off without a hitch for the brothers once Lester delivered you to the washed out corner which hid Ambrose from the view of anyone who didn't know where to go. Bo and Vincent had inherited the family business well over a decade ago, and their individual roles were well worth and well loved.

Bo was in place at the church and Vincent was in the lower floor of the house of wax, lingering behind the piano. Visitors had been sparse recently and the brothers had been positively itching for someone to track, for new work to do. Vincent had already chosen a place for you... he hadn't seen you yet, but there were some gaps in the theatre which needed filling. Some of the rows in the actual cinema were asymmetrical and it was pissing Bo off. He had taken one too many passive aggressive comments from his older twin and so Vincent had resigned himself to not getting to choose his work's locations until Bo was satisfied. Such was life, though even with his irritation would Vincent do anything for Bo. Anything.

Red flags were cropping up left, right and centre. Literally. Every store front made you squint in concentration, every abandoned car made you feel a certain kind of way, the layout of the town itself was just odd... and was it you or could you smell something which was bitter, sweet but altogether wrong? You were suspicious as you saw how everything was open but closed, and your paranoia was in full swing. You knew not if it was your paranoia which was making the situation seem as it did or if you were seeing the reality, and the lack of distinction and knowing only made you more paranoid.

You could hear a procession going on in the church but you didn't want to go in. It was unbelievably rude to interrupt any kind of private service; your logic told you that not every citizen of Ambrose was going to be attending the same service and your paranoia leapt on that like a fly to shit - why would a town be so deserted in the first place? You sat on the steps, your skin increasingly crawling with nerves and your every fibre screaming at you to run. Just. Run. But you didn't. Where could you run? What could you do? You needed help, and that was why you were there.

In time, you would come to appreciate that the last thing you could ever hope to find in Ambrose would be help. You had genuinely had that with Lester, but once you had left his truck, that was over. He didn't mess with his brothers' work, their momma's legacy. People who came to Ambrose did so to die, though they were dead before their minds could catch up to such. Most died without knowing what had hit them, who had done it or why.

Some, like you, presented a challenge to the twins, and they took their time with ones like you. It made breaking you so much more fun. The hunt was already fun when the prey didn't know they were being hunted, but, oh, the chase once the realisation set in made all the more delicious to the sadistic pair.

Bo realised that you were going to be the most fun he had had in a while when you didn't come in the church after an entire ten minutes had passed. On his knees was he with his back to the door and over the sounds of the recorded audio could he not hear you. He sensed your presence, so continuously aware of his surroundings was he. He flipped a switch on the bottom of the casket which would 'lower' it into the ground and stood up, feigning grief. He did feel grief over the passing of his parents and he tapped into it as much as he was able to when he was playing the role. But beating a dead horse was only so much fun for a while before it began to get stale, and today he just couldn't tap into his real grief for his false Southern Gentleman Act™.

Usually, he waited until he could hear the sound of shoes on gravel leaving the premises of the church before he finished the 'funeral' but today, the act had some variety in it. Not many were polite like you apparently were, and Bo could admit to himself that he was curious. He never knew who had come to Ambrose until he opened the church doors. Lester never bothered to tell him anything beyond a quick text letting him know that the visitors were on the way up to the town because that was the only important thing to the brothers. Filling the town and completing their momma's legacy.

When his eyes fell on you, Bo could see that you would be the challenge he had been itching for. He was good at reading body language; he had to be in order to be successful with what he chose to do every day, and he could see that you were paranoid and on edge. He was out to get you and he hadn't even met you yet, was your mindset in this moment, and Bo had to bite back his smirk. Oh, this was going to be fun. "Hey," His voice was soft but deep - the act was in full swing now, though he was trying just a little bit harder. If you were already suspicious, then he was going to try a bit more than he usually did, if only to potentially offset you some more. If your paranoia was at total odds with his actions, then he had a greater chance of getting you in either brothers' chair. Bo still couldn't decide if his chair or Vincent's was kinder, but both had the same result: new works for the town. So he didn't care all that much. "Can I help you?"

"Uh...." Oh, help you, but you wanted to refuse. You needed to get out of this town, you needed to leave, but you were here because you needed help. You had had no choice since you had agreed to let Lester drive you here. "That depends. Are you Bo, the mechanic?" On the inside, however, your only thought was 'please say no, please say no, say no...'

"Yeah," Bo nodded, "Ya' found me. Listen, I, uh - I gotta finish up inside. Why don't'cha go back down to the station," He nodded towards the direction which you would need to go in, "and I'll meet you back there in about a half?"

More red flags raised up within you, but you had accepted his help already. It was clear that you were not in control of this situation, that this man was only asking you to meet him as a way of feigning politeness. The hard ice of his blues told you that he was demanding this of you... or were you just overthinking it? You couldn't tell anymore. That, in itself, was a bit of a red flag, but you were in too deep now. "Sure, I... thank you. I'm sorry for your loss, Bo."

Your humanisation of him took Bo by surprise. So many people spoke at him and not to him, but you had gone out of your way to use his name. It made him and the overall situation less scary for you, and it was also a way of gaining back some control for yourself. You doubted it would work, it never had before, but it was all about the small things. If he was going to fix up your car, then the very least you could do was use his name. "Yeah." Bo chuckled awkwardly, opened his mouth as if to say something, but then shook his head and left without a word.

It continued like this for some time; with Bo laying his act on just a bit thicker than he usually did (it would make the moment of realisation upon you that much sweeter for him) and with you wanting to refuse his help but not being able to because it was something you needed. By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, kissing the sky goodnight with a burst of oranges and reds which faded out into purples and blues, the Sinclairs had well and truly ensnared you. You were a fighter, they had to give that to you, and you weren’t making it easy on them.

All good things must come to an end, however, and the moment of realisation dawned upon you when Vincent had lured you into the house of wax with the distant sounds of the music he loved to listen to. The notes of the opera he favoured sifted up through the floor, the door left ajar. It was the most obvious trap he could have set, and indeed it wasn’t something so obvious which he would usually bestow upon the visitors. But you were already on edge, already fearing the worst, already at your emotional limit with all that your mind had put you through this day. In some sick way was Vincent taking pity on you. Showing you that you had a reason to be scared, that your paranoia in this particular instance was very much the reality.

You had wandered into the foyer just as Vincent had orchestrated, glancing around at all the wax statues, but you had gotten too physically close to one of them and the bitter bouquet of death had sunk into your nostrils and awakened you to the reality.

Vincent was stood in one of the many alcoves, shrouded in shadow, with his camera turned on and pointed at you. He wanted to perfectly capture everything - your paranoia, your fear, your realisation - so that he could show Lester later on. Bo was in another alcove, a sinister grin on his face. Collectively had the twins decided not to kill you just yet. They wanted to push you to your absolute limits just to see what you would do. This was the most fun they had had in a long time.

"Oh, my - " You suppressed a gag, bile rising up your oesophagus. Your mind screamed 'no' at you, over and over, in denial were you, but your paranoia for once, for once, was right. "Oh, please tell me I'm not seeing what I think I - " You moved across the room, to where there was a couple on the sofa together, one looming over the other, and you took a long, hard look at both of them. One long finger came out and tentatively poked at the cheek of the one sat down, and everything crashed down on you at that moment. You turned and ran, but the Sinclairs were quicker than you. They had been expecting this, wanting this.

A flash of a scarred wrist and the door was shoved closed and then deftly locked when you were so close to being able to leave, and the chuckle you heard from behind you made your skin crawl, a chill dancing down your spine. "Oh, no," Bo chuckled, "You ain't goin' nowhere. S'quite a show ya' put on for us."

Your stomach dropped and Vincent crept closer and closer as he stopped recording, shut the camera quietly and slipped it into his pocket.

"Ain't had no one figure it out that fast before, m'impressed," Bo forced his body between yours and the doorway, and you took a step back. For every step back you took, Bo took one forward and so did Vincent, until you were practically sandwiched between the twins. Each held a blade in hand, which glinted in the low light of the room. With the haunting music drifting up from the floor, there was a haunting beautiful element to the events, though you were too scared to really take any of it in. Had this been a horror film, you would have appreciated the cinematography and maybe even favoured this scene over others. But this was real life (a horror all on its own), and no such thing as a back button existed. There was no walking away, no getting out.

You were right where the brothers had been wanting you ever since you had accepted Lester's help out on the road fifteen miles away from Ambrose. You'd been fucked from the start and you'd never even known it.

"Now," Bo smirked, "We can either do this the easy way, or we c'n do it my way." His blue eyes looked behind you and just over your shoulder. A message you were never going to hear translated.

Before you could fully register his words, a sharp pinprick entered the side of your neck, and the world went black. You dropped like a sack of potatoes and the brothers let you. They weren't going to kill you, but they also weren't going to let you leave. For the worst were you Ambrose's newest resident, and there was nothing you could do about it. You were trapped, alone, paranoid... and you had every right to be and then some.

[omg-foreverfilledwithweird-posts]

A Siren Song

Pairing: Robert Dubois/ Bloodsport x Reader

A/N: so I just finished watching the new Suicide Squad for the second time and I’m even more obsessed now than I was the first time I watched it. It’s a brilliant film with actually good humor, a non-sexualizing and actually empowering view on Harley Quinn (that leg scene?? y'all-), the rats?? Rat-catcher 2?? THE SHARK?? FLAG?? Who looked really good in this movie, he might be another contender for a story as well as Harley Quinn so lmk ;) but Bloodsport immediately piqued my interest because it’s Idris Elba and he’s gorgeous, I loved the complexities of his character and I want to write for him and no one else has done it yet?? so shoutout to @honey-im-emotional​​ for the support and push to do it! also love The Bodyguard movie, helped with the inspo <3 and i’m so sorry all of my stories are similar but I HAVE A TYPE enjoy and feedback is always appreciated loves and there will be SPOILERS so be warned, also if you want a Harley one next lmk ;) (it’s so long I’m so sorry lol)

Summary: You’re a highly targeted member of the royal family, the last in your line. Bloodsport is hired to be your bodyguard to both watch and assassinate the men after you. He believes it’s below his pay-grade, but reluctantly agrees, doing so to the best of his abilities. But the closeness brings more intimacy than you two expected, and sparks fly.

Warnings: foul language, sexual content, smut, choking, light bdsm, fluffy fluff, dirty dancing, dirty talk, violence and bad guys getting murdered, mentions of Harley x Reader (y’all sexy dance and kiss), reader likes women, dom! Bloodsport, age gap, alcohol consumption, jealousy, heavy kissing, slight angst, just a good time honestly

Word Count: 3,825

You dangle from the ceiling with your aerial silk, fitting your leg in the loop you’ve created, and dangling upside down. The rope wraps around your waist as you hang gracefully from your marble walls, flying. Your friend Harley Quinn taught you how to do this years ago, it now being your favorite form of exercise and relaxation when you need a moment to clear your head. 

As you lightly spin, twirling and dancing in the air with your chandelier reflecting light everywhere, a dazzling fairy floating in a sea of stars. You hear footsteps approach and move to hang upside down, facing towards the grand door. Robert Dubois, a.k.a Bloodsport, walks forward to stand directly in front of you. 

You have known him a few weeks or so now, him having to watch your every move and tracking down your family’s killers. He stands and meets your eyes as you dangle, hair falling below you.

“Hi,” you giggle, face flushed with heat. “I probably look ridiculous right now.”

He composes himself so he doesn’t crack a smile, but you see his lips twitch when he speaks, “No, Mrs. y/l/n.”

“I have a first name, you know,” you grin widely. “I’m younger than you, which hardly warrants such a professional title.”

“My apologies, y/n,” he fixes himself.

“It’s alright,” you ease, filling him with a sense of softness he hasn’t felt in a long time. You flip and land on your feet, letting go of your silks. 

You don’t notice as his eyes glaze over your body in your sports bra and shorts, something his cold, calculated stare should never succumb to, but he does anyway and he kicks himself for doing it. You’re his client and should therefore remain as such, no conflict of interest or thoughts other than to protect. He didn’t want this job, hell, he still doesn’t know why he said yes. Maybe it was the money. Or maybe it was upon seeing you that first time, in that star-studded gown the night of a charity gala you were attending, the way the diamond littered fabric hung over your figure, absolutely dazzled. The way you looked at him and smiled, like you were used to with all the other nobles and adoring fans. But he let himself believe it was different.

He can’t do that anymore, however, because he can’t allow for any complications. And falling for his boss is certainly a complication. 

You look at him and your eyes widen with realization, “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me cover up.”

You grab a tee shirt and toss it over your exercise clothes. He looks down as you do so and clears his throat. This brings a small smile to your face.  

“You called me in here,” he gestures to the necklace charm hanging around your neck that you can squeeze and send an instant distress signal whenever you need it. “What can I do for you, y/n?”

“Wanted you to spot me,” you tease, a smile overtaking your delicate features. You have a sort of stunning beauty about you that takes him by surprise every time he lays eyes on you. Which is often. You lay on your yoga mat and sit up straight with that same damned smile. 

“I’m here to do a job, y/n,” he says, his deep, honeyed voice coating the way he says your name like heat to sugar. “Not aid you in your workout routine.”

“What? Your assassin training didn’t include sit ups?” you smile, tongue in cheek.

“No, but if you need a way to kill a man with a book,” he presses a foot over both of yours as you begin to do sit ups. “Then I’m your man.”

“Yeah, you and John Wick,” you breathe out with a laugh. “And shouldn’t you be in here watching me already? Not by the door?”

“This room has no windows and no other door or entrance besides the one I was standing by. I thought you would want privacy,” he averts your gaze. “I’m sure it’s a hard thing to come by these days for a woman like yourself.”

You stop what you’re doing and look up at him, blinking, “Well, you’d be right,” you tuck your hair back. “So thank you.”

He meets your eyes, bordering on a smile, “You’re welcome.”

“Is that a smile I see?” you chuckle.

The smile shines, “It was a diversion. And you failed.”

You laugh loudly, “Will the next diversion be an actual laugh?”

“Wouldn’t be a proper diversion if you knew what it was.”

You tap his feet so he’ll get the hint and let you up. You rise to your feet and dust yourself up, “I appreciate your spotting.” You press a hand to his chest and hum. Warmth radiates from your palm and he inhales sharply. “For someone who wasn’t trained, you sure are a fast learner.”

He looks at your hand and back to your eyes, heat sprouting from where your hand touches. His hand flexes at his side as he looks around the room, to the door, seeing if it’s closed. 

“I-” he cocks an eyebrow then settles. “I think I should go.”

He watches you look at him with wounded eyes, brow lowered, you open your mouth then close it. 

You nod, moving away from him, “Right.”

You move to walk away when he stops you, mouth by your ear, voice dropping an octave when he whispers, “Just so you know-” you tilt your head up almost instinctively to hear him better. “-my assassin training did include reminding people who they are when they’ve forgotten their place.”

You look up at him fully now, “You work for me, remember?”

“I work for money. And you didn’t hire me. I was employed by Mrs. Waller to keep you alive,” he cocks his head slightly. 

“So it would be frowned upon by her when you’re unable to walk if you touch me like that again.”

You couldn’t believe he had just said that. Your eyes widen and your cheeks once again heat up, blushing. Your chest gets hot when he doesn’t break the stare like he’s calling your bluff, and fuck, did he do just that. You turn away from him.

You can hear the smile in his voice, “That’s what I thought.”

~~~

“Robert said that!?” Harley exclaims, eyes wide. Her jaw is dropped as she does her mascara aggressively in the mirror. “He’s usually so...”

You tug down your tiny halter top over your head, your bright, flattering makeup complementing the colorful swirling pattern, “An empty void with no emotion?”

She nods emphatically, agreeing, “Exactly! I had no idea he had it in him?” she raises her brow and smooths down her leather black and red dress, “Or that he wanted to put it in you-”

You slap her arm, chastising, “You don’t know that. It might have been a threat to actually paralyze me in a very not sexual way.”

“I say both are arousing,” she shrugs, platinum curls bouncing.

You roll your eyes with a small smile aimed at the floor, “Anyway-” you slip a belt through your tight jeans, hitting at your waist when you cinch it in. “We should get going if we want to get to the club on time.”

She pauses. “Y/n. Are you sure we should be doing this?”

You do a double take, “You’re telling me that we shouldn’t sneak out and have a good time?”

“I know the irony is apparent,” she looks at you with a knowing stare. “But not if it means you’re in danger. Which you are.”

“I know,” you frown. “But I’ve been locked in this house for months, I miss going out and having a life. I’m tired of being coddled.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she sighs, looking past herself in the mirror to flash me a sympathetic smile. She thinks for a beat and finally spins around, “Alright, screw it, doll, let’s go paint the town.”

You buzz with excitement, grinning, “Yay! Thank you, thank you! I wonder who will be djaying...” you trail off. 

Harley’s face falls and her mouth goes in a solid, straight line, looking past your shoulder, “I don’t think anyone will be.”

You laugh, completely oblivious, “Of course there will be. There has to be music. Dancing in silence would be pretty fucking awkward.”

“This moment is pretty fucking awkward.”

“What do you mean?”

A deep, irritated voice sounds off behind you, “Because you’re not going.”

You jump out of your skin, “Shit, Robert! You scared the hell out of me!”

“You’re not going to that club,” he folds his arms over his chest. You look over him and his casual, night wear: a loose tee and low hanging joggers. You almost wipe your mouth from salivating. Your outfit elicits the same reaction.

You pinch your eyebrows together, “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Yes, I can. I’m tasked with protecting you.”

“Yeah. And nowhere on your job description does it say ‘become my parent’. There’s not an opening now just because I don’t have one. I am a grown ass woman and I have been a prisoner in my own home. The same home where...” you pause, a lump in your throat at the reminder of your family’s passing. You shake it off, “I’m just tired. I want a piece of my life back. You can either stay here or come. Either way I’m going.”

He gives you a quick once over and contemplates his options before dropping his arms to his sides and letting out a long exhale.

“Fine.”

You somewhat relax at his defeated tone, “Fine, what?”

He relents, “You can go, but I’m coming with you. But if anything happens to you, I’m not to be blamed. I will leave your ass in that club.”

You grin and jump up to give him a tight hug around the neck. He stiffens before slowly rubbing your back. You sink into his embrace, feeling like you were floating in water, now above the surface as he brings you back to oxygen. Harley smiles at the exchange and she winks theatrically. 

He glares. 

It’s not long before you three arrive at the club, music blaring and colorful lights flashing over the crowded floors. From his stare and intimidating aura, the club staff thought he was a bouncer and let you all in immediately. But before he was roped into working, the three of you bee-lined to the bar. 

“The prettiest and strongest drink ya got, sugar,” Harley smiles at the pretty bartender.

“And what if that’s me?” she responds, ebony hair falling onto one shoulder.

“Then I’ll have to drink you later,” Harley gives her a flirty once over and you roll your eyes.

The bartender grins and gestures towards me for my order, I answer quickly, “Scotch on the rocks.”

Robert looks at you, poorly covering his shocked expression. “Really?”

“Yeah, why?” you look up at him.

“Didn’t peg you for a straight liquor type, Ms. y/l/n,” he finally lets his hidden laugh show through, butterflies erupting in your chest. The diversion definitely worked, whatever you were thinking about before this has immediately left you.

“Then this is going to be the first surprise of many tonight, Mr. Dubois,” you return the smug look as he orders the same thing. You both share a look.

The bartender slides you all your drinks, each of you taking a long swig for liquid courage for the night. Harley’s favorite Doja Cat song comes on and she gasps, clapping excitedly when she grabs you by the wrist, pulling you on the dance floor, “Come dance with me.”

You mouth a small ‘sorry’ to Bloodsport who you left at the bar, he shakes his head with a smile over the rim of his glass, watching you guys’ drinks. 

She dances wildly, jumping up and down, spinning to let her hair fall in many beautiful angles. She’s a powerful force and your greatest friend. She puts her arms around your neck and the two of you move in time with the music.

“So...” she motions to Bloodsport who’s being forced into a conversation with a woman at the bar. The woman puts her hand on his and he visibly shrinks back and whispers something to her that causes the most horrid look from the woman and for her to walk quickly away. You smile at the relief that interaction has brought you.

“So what?” you spin her around and pull her back.

“Quit with the good dancing, or I’m gonna fuck you myself,” she teases with a lightheaded giggle.

You smile, “We’ve tried that already, remember?”

“Too much history, I know, I know. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be nice...” she whispers into your neck, kissing the soft spot under your chin. Your skin heats up under her touch as she drags her hands down your sides, pulling you close to her so that you’re flush against her chest.

You give into her and kiss her slowly, her soft lips melt into your own when her hands tug in your hair. Harley and you have always had a complicated friendship, with enough sexual attraction to fuel a nuclear bomb, but not enough romantic. You love each other but not in the way you both need. You were in love with Robert and she is continuing to explore her sexuality because she likes women and so do you. So as she trails her hot mouth down your neck in the middle of dozens of bustling bodies and you lock eyes with an angry Bloodsport, you knew exactly what she was doing.

You whisper, out of breath, “Are you trying the jealousy trick?”

“It worked in college, didn’t it?” she kisses your cheek, smiling gently against your skin. “And it’s working now.”

“I think you’re just obsessed with kissing me,” you kiss her back.

“It was a win-win situation, doll,” she grins devilishly and you can’t help but agree. “So when you’re done with him, come see me. But right now, I have a sexy bartender lady to drink up.” You grip her hand and let her make her way to her next conquest.

Robert had seen the tail-end of your kiss, his deft fingers clenched around his whiskey glass. He knows he shouldn’t let this sort of thing affect him, something as juvenile and simple as jealousy. But he couldn’t stop that feeling of being stuck, unable to think about anything except the fact that it wasn’t him with his hands on you like that, lips marking you as much as he pleases. Sadness washed over him in a tidal wave and he set his glass down, about to get up to leave when he spotted a man eyeing you from the door. He looked familiar and it wasn’t just attraction he sensed in his eyes but something far more sinister.

A few more men followed suit and began making their way to you in the middle of the dance floor. He had no time to consider the facts, just to get you out of there as soon as possible. 

You feel a rough hand tug your arm and turn to face who you think to be Dubois, you smile, “Enjoy the show?”

“Very much,” an unknown voice answers, and you look up, eyes wide. “Now why don’t you come with me for a little talk, beautiful.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” you yank your arm back, slamming your heel down into the perpetrator’s foot. More men surround you on all sides, making it impossible for you to escape or use your subpar martial arts skills. Aerial yoga was a very different ballpark than kicking ass. And you were just a beginner.

You poorly punch a man in the face, only making them all angrier when you’re grabbed from all sides, being dragged towards the exit kicking and screaming. You didn’t want to be that helpless damsel in distress, but as all of these men, men you recognized from your family’s death, were surrounding you, you couldn’t breathe. Their hands felt familiar, grabbing your arms like they’d done that night before you hid in the secret door in the dining room. You had watched these faceless men through a hole in that door, stifling your cries when bullets sprayed the room your family was having dinner in. So while they were coming after you and pulling you outside, it’s all you felt. That same feeling when he wasn’t near.

Drowning.

There’s a hand that pulls you back and you watch, dazed, as Bloodsport puts every man who touched you on the ground. It’s filled with swift yet aggressive and barbaric movements, controlled, expert chaos and it happens within moments. His chest is heaving when he looks down at you and scoops you up in his arms. You’d object in any other circumstances, but this time, head against his chest and tucked in his arms, you were okay.

His voice rumbles against your side, “We’re going home.”

~~~

Harley’s tears hit your shoulder as you sympathetically pat her back.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. I shouldn’t have left,” she sniffles loudly. “I should’ve been there.”

You laugh softly, fitting your head into her shoulder, “It’s okay, Harls. It’s not your fault, there was no harm done.”

“There could have been,” she sighs. “I’m not letting you convince me to go out next time, you’re staying here forever.”

You roll your eyes with a smile, “Alright.”

She gets up and sniffs, wiping at her nose that’s now flushed from crying, “Good because I’m serious.”

“I know,” you laugh again, hugging yourself in a hoodie much too large for you, (because you stole it from Rick Flagg) swallowing you whole. 

Your eyes wander down the hall to where Robert is no doubt pacing around in your bedroom, the only room not laden with cameras (ironically for privacy). You kick at the floor in your fuzzy socks and think of an excuse to go check on him, even though you’re probably the last person he wants to see right now. You, frankly, don’t care.

“I’m gonna go-” 

“Check on Robert?” she finishes. “I know, honey. I was a psychiatrist, I’m not stupid.”

You crack a smile and grip her arm affectionately as you walk past her towards the bedroom. You don’t even take the risk of knocking for fear he’ll lock it and try your luck with just simply opening it. You see him, shirtless with a towel over his shoulder, a low hanging towel wrapped around his waist, while nursing his knuckles. He looks you over once you enter the room, trained eyes on you and the intimidation is definitely working already when he takes the damp towel on his shoulder and dabs the cuts on his skin.

He remains silent and you move to sit down on your bed, the awkward squeak filling the already high-tension atmosphere, thick enough to make your ears pop like you’re in an airplane too far up in the sky.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, drawing his eye. 

He hums and steps into your bathroom, washing off his hands. 

You frown at his lack of response, “Are you really going to pout this whole time? Because honestly, it’s beneath you, Robert.” You lean forward, watching as he walks out of the bathroom, still half naked, still silent. 

The silence is beginning to slowly kill you, especially when he looks this good, water droplets running down his chiseled torso from a hot shower. You didn’t let your mind wander because if the reaction your body is giving from the image before you was any indication, you want him. He walks in the room once again, mouth in an amused yet firm line. 

In actuality, he was ashamed of himself. Not so much of you. He would’ve left as that despair overcame him back in that bar. He would’ve left you there and abandoned his mission, leaving you to be hurt. If it hadn't been for those men, you could’ve been killed and it would be his fault. He alerted Waller of the attack, making up a lie about the two of you going for a walk at night and getting ambushed there rather than at a club. There’s a hit on each of those men being taken out as we speak as well as a search for their boss. Even though that still got him chewed out. He couldn’t imagine what she’d do to him if she found out the truth.

Robert walks slowly towards you, leaning against the bed frame, gesturing for you to continue. You watch him, distracted, as he wraps a bandage around his knuckles.

“I shouldn’t have kissed her to get a rise out of you, that was hurtful,” you exhale your words, quiet enough he wouldn’t be able to hear you if you weren’t within a breath of one another. You hang your head, “And it was stupid to go out in the first place when I am in this much danger. I could’ve been killed, and you could have been hurt. I’m sorry.”

He represses a laugh at the idea of him getting hurt, when the two of you both know that would never happen. But as the silence from him grows thicker, the more you start to ramble.

“Okay, this silent treatment isn’t going to work for much longer. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you need to stop.”

He gives you a look that says ‘make me’. But you both know you couldn’t if you tried, and vice versa. He thinks of you as a siren, one of those alluring creatures in old sailor tales that lured unsuspecting men to their painful deaths. As if he has no control of the way he feels about you. Which in a way he does, but he knows better. He knows better than to fall under your enchanting song, but he can’t help but be pulled beneath the surface of the water. 

Robert tenses when you move forward and the hoodie falls off one of your shoulders, revealing more of your chest, the smooth skin that lays there. 

His chest tightens when you look up at him and sigh.

“But thank you for saving me,” you say, both because you think that’s what he wants to hear but also because you mean it, you wouldn’t be here at all if he didn’t come with you.

He licks his lips and nods his head in simple recognition. He appreciated the apology, truly he did, but a part of him enjoyed the way you continued to ramble on, so he remained silent. This was an old interrogation tactic he learned when he served, keeping quiet always got people talking. He looks down at you and leans to meet your face, hands on either side of you. 

“I don’t know what else you wish for me to say,” you admit quietly, fiddling with your hands.

He didn’t know either but whatever you would say, he would listen.

“So I take it you’re not mad anymore?” you infer from his relaxed posture, heart beating out of your chest, fast enough that it catapults to your throat. 

He tilts his head down so he’s an inch before your mouth, breath fanning over your face. when he tugs you up to your feet, hands gripping the sides of your waist when he pulls you close. Your heartbeats began to sync up, chest to chest.

“I’m fucking furious, sweetheart.”

You meet his eyes, looking up in that seductive stare of yours you never knew you were capable of until him, and close the distance, kissing him lightly. His arms falter by your side and it’s the first time you’ve seen him hesitate, losing his cool. It’s the most gentle thing he’s ever experienced, everything in his life being forced, hostile, and malicious, while your soft lips against his are anything but. You kiss him like he’s not the monster he thinks himself to be. 

“Then let me make it up to you.”

“Fuck,” he grips your sides harder, palm moving to push you closer with his hand flat against the small of your back. “We shouldn’t.”

You search his face for uncertainty, but all you sense is a profound sense of clarity, in the both of you. “I know.”

“Will you regret this?”

You shake your head, hand against his cheek, “No.”

His dark eyes fall to your lips, pupils filling his dark brown irises, lust blown, “You’re so good, baby. You’re too good for me.”

Before you can tease him about the new nickname and object to that, his lips have crashed against your own. His hand slides up to cup the side of your face, drinking you in with his intoxicating kiss. You hum, content, against his feverish mouth and he opens it, vulnerable and on display. You feel his guard still up, tense and calculated, so you rest your hand against his chest. You press a kiss to his eyelid, his cheek, his nose, his chin, his jaw, his neck. He softens beneath you, groaning aloud as his hands tighten. 

“You don’t need to be afraid with me,” you whisper to him, tender fingers trailing down his shirtless chest, hot skin against hot skin. It’s enough to make you sweat.

He exhales and captures your bottom lip with his own, holding your face in both of his hands. The kiss grows heated and rushed, like you’re running out of time, as if at any moment those men would come back and find you and take you away from him again. His tongue expertly works with your own, licking the pout of your bottom lip, and coaxing you open. He slides his hand down between your legs, dipping his finger to find the slick in the middle of your thighs. You moan into his mouth, his other hand at the back of your neck when he buries his face in your shoulder. He kisses you there, the crook where your neck meets your collarbone, that damned sensitive spot. You succumb to his touch. His beard tickles your skin and you gasp when he sucks hard, a bruise forming.

You breathe a laugh, “Everyone will see if you leave a mark,” you tug on his hair when you thread it through his coarse curls. 

He falls under your spell and there’s something so ironically beautiful about this trained assassin with a heart of gold and the scars to show for it, being so open with you.

His hands, his entire life, have been forced to be instruments of death and violence. But as they slide down your figure, holding your face, and pulling you into him, they’re his greatest gift. He’s surprisingly tender with you. 

But then he has enough and pushes you down on the bed, arms trapping you on both sides.

He responds bluntly, “I don’t care.”

You part your legs for him and he releases a shaky breath. He slowly unzips your sweatshirt and it falls off you just as you do the same and tug his towel down. Both of you are bare before the other as you take a moment to drink each other in. You were just as, if not more, beautiful than he imagined you to be. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly as his hand drapes down the line of your figure. He touches you how someone would handle a glass vase filled with flowers. 

You take his face in both of your hands and kiss him, “So are you.” 

“I don’t think you know what you do to me, baby.” His hand finds your breast and squeezes while he kisses your neck.

You moan when he uses his other hand to grip your neck, thumb against your pulse point, “If it’s anything like how I feel right now, then yes, I do.”

He lifts his head up to watch your face as he chokes you, softly so he doesn’t hurt you but hard enough to play with your breath. His thumb opens your mouth and your legs tremble. 

“So I take it you’re into choking, my love?” You nod excitedly, unable to speak, and his grip tightens. 

You let out a squeak and he releases, face etched with worry, kissing your neck where he touched you. “Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.” 

You shake your head and smile comfortingly, “No, baby, I’m okay. I’ll tap out if it’s too rough, I promise,” you tease.

His grumbling voice deepens, “Good... because, darling, right now all I want to do is bury my face in between those gorgeous thighs of yours.”

You inhale sharply when he opens your legs once again, looking up at you and you nod in consent.

“I need words, beautiful,” he smirks with his mouth just above your center. 

“Yes, please,” you breathe out and he responds with a swift lick to your pussy. He looks up at you and when he catches your eye, it’s as if the sensation grows stronger and your head hits your pillow.

“I’ve barely even touched you,” he mumbles into you and you feel his smug smile in your thigh. His fingers dip into you as he flattens his tongue and crooks them towards himself, you grip your sheets.

“Don’t... flatter yourself,” you sigh out. “I-it’s just been awhile.”

He removes his mouth and fingers from you, “So anyone can make you feel like this?”

You enjoy the feeling you get when he looks at you like that, his eyes dark and dominant, so you play along and nod. “Yes, in fact, I’ve had better.”

He licks his lips and gets up from the bed. He opens his drawer and you sit up to look what he grabs: a belt. Your heart beats excitedly in your chest even though you know you shouldn’t be. He gets back on the bed and climbs over you.

Robert looks at you, “Hands.”

You extend them to him wordlessly, watching as he ties your wrists together and puts them over the bedpost so you’re trapped there, unable to move.

“Now,” he holds himself above you, pressing a kiss to your lips. “You’re to stay tied up until I say so, anything like that again and they get tighter. Nod if you understand me.”

You nod emphatically. You had never seen this side of Robert before, so in control and not afraid to go too far, it was so unbelievably sexy. 

The best part was he didn’t tie it tight enough, afraid of hurting you, so you could easily slip out your hands at any moment.

He kisses, painfully slow, down your chest and wraps his lips around your nipple. He swirls his tongue around the erect bud and you gasp, desperate to touch him. He looks up at you from you chest as he switches to the other, massaging the unattended one as he sucks, the pleasurable feeling overwhelming you. So much so you have to clench your thighs together, longing for some sort of relief for the tension building in your abdomen.

“Baby, please,” you whine, squirming beneath him.

He shuts you up with a bruising kiss while his hand slips down to enter you, two fingers in already. He pumps them in and out of you before sliding back down the expanses of your body and letting his mouth latch onto your clit. He sucks hard and you stifle a loud moan that would surely alert everyone in the home of your arousal. He holds you down against the bed with a palm flat against your stomach as you begin to lift your pelvis. His tongue enters you while his fingers take over, stimulating you with gentle rubs and flicks. But just before you feel that euphoric release, his actions cease and you’re left hot and flustered. 

“Robert,” you look at him with a deep frown.

He grins, “Y/n...”

You blow hair out of your eyes, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He puts his lips near your ear, “Are you ready?” You nod as he pushes himself inside you and you bite back a moan into his shoulder. 

You finally have enough, slip your hands out, and he pinches his brow, unable to hide his shock before you bring him down to press your lips against his. He melts into you, arms wrapped around you while he holds you close, filling you out in all the right places. He quickens his pace and you whine into his mouth, nails digging into his skin. You wrap your legs around his torso and he hits you so nicely. He was right, it’s the best you’ve ever had. He rises and looks at you, lips swollen and red from kissing, eyes clear and pupils large, and face flushed with heat. Your hair is in messy tendrils at all angles and you’ve never been more attractive.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises in your ear, placing kisses across your jaw. “Taking my cock so well.”

You whimper and his movements stiffen as he approaches release and so do you, walls tightening around him. He reaches down and rubs your clit with his expert fingers. You finish together, mouths open and hands all over each other’s bodies. It overcomes you in a tingling, perfect sensation, it continues on, leaving you aching and wanting more.

He rubs his knuckles over your cheek, softly and adoringly he looks at you. You tuck yourself into his arms under the blankets. Everything you both have wanted for a long time, laying right in front of you.

“Still want to make me not walk?” you tease, looking up at him.

He kisses your eyelids and you giggle, “Fuck yes.”

Part 2?

[joaquinwhorres]

Stitches & Blankets (Joaquin Torres x Reader)

SUMMARY ››››› You find Joaquin Torres after he tries to stop the bank robbery.

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,000-ish

WARNINGS ››››› language

A/N ››››› OK, why are there not more Torres fics? I'm legitimately confused about that. Also, I realized after writing half of this down, that a bank was robbed, so there were probably still police on the scene and the reader'd probably be speaking Swiss-German but uh...fan fiction.

There was a body in the street, which was not what you expected to see coming out to your car.

You'd heard the wailing sirens and shouting and the thunderous footsteps--they're what kept you pressed against the side of the building for the past ten minutes, avoiding the chaos as much as possible. It wasn't fear that kept you there though, it was experience. You'd become used to the quick riots and little skirmishes for resources over the past few months. You knew it was better to stay out of the way, wait out the storm, and then go about your life. They became nothing more than minor nuisances. Bits of unrest that were there and then gone in the next instance. They weren't supposed to leave a body behind.

"Meine Fresse," you murmured, racing forward to the person lying supine on the stones, arms out to their sides, the white of their sneakers reflecting the street lights. As you drew closer, you saw it was a man--about your age with blood around his eye and nose and lip. For a brief second, you wondered if he'd been trampled, but he definitely would have looked worse for wear based on how many people you'd heard.

"Bist du okay?" Your voice was loud as you checked over the rest of his body. He didn't seem to have any other injury, and there wasn't any blood under his head, so you decided it was safe enough to gently shake him.

He didn't rouse.

So, instead you knelt your ear down to his lips, laying your hand flat on his chest. You felt your hand rise before you heard the slow intake of breath, and you rocked back onto your knees. He was breathing. He was alive.

Still, something gnawed at the back of your mind, urging your fingers up under his jaw, gently pressing into his neck. It was only then that you felt a surge of relief. His pulse was there, and it was strong. He was really alive.

And then you remembered that you should probably call 112.

All things considered, it was a quick phone call--the operator seemed to know your exact location and vaguely what had happened as you explained where you were and how you found him. Instead, most of the conversation was spent listening to their instructions to roll him into a recovery position and check for any signs of life-threatening injuries. When they told you that you could hang up because they were close, you did so and found the man blinking at you.

"Hoi," you greeted soothingly. "Wie heisst du?"

He groaned, attempting to roll onto his back once more. You reached out a hand stopping him, and he looked up at you confused.

"Comment t'appelles tu?" You attempted, hoping he wasn't an Italian or Romansch speaker. You hardly knew enough of either language to tell him you couldn't speak it.

He winced and lifted his hand to his face. "Shit."

English. Good.

"What's your name?" you asked, and his eyes seemed to focus on you once more, this time a spark of recognition or maybe just awareness lighting up behind them.

"Joaquin," he informed, and you released an arm, allowing him to finally roll onto his back like he wanted. He had a strong American accent, even through the gravelly voice of barely regained consciousness. "Did they get away?"

"Ähm," you looked around at the empty street. "Yes?" you guessed.

He let out a heavy sigh. "I'm gonna have to call some people."

"I think you should wait for the ambulance."

"Yeah," he agreed, the word breathy and pained. "That's probably a good idea."

"What happened?" you asked, and he raised his eyebrows, looking back at you.

"Flag Smashers."

"I didn't think the Flag Smashers hurt people."

"I'm just lucky, I guess," he answered, and you smiled, letting out a small laugh. He offered a small smile as well.

You could hear the siren now, the faint sound winding its way through the curving streets of Zürich and towards the two of you. Your head turned towards the sound, as if you could trace it back to the ambulance, and gauging the distance. "They should be close," you said, returning your attention to Joaquin.

"What's your name?" he asked, and the question surprised you. Then again, if the two of you were stuck waiting for an ambulance at nine o'clock on a Sunday night, maybe a bit of small talk shouldn't have been so surprising.

"Y/N," you answered, and he repeated it.

"You're very pretty, Y/N."

The laugh escaped you on instinct, although to call it a laugh might not be the best descriptor. It was more of a surprised noise, partially exhale and a tinge of amusement added through the slight smile at the corner of your mouth.

"Thank you," you said. "You are very pretty too."

And he was, underneath the dark red and rapidly purpling injuries. He had a strong jaw and kind eyes, and even the hint of a smile he'd given earlier had made something in your chest constrict.

"I don't feel so pretty," he responded, and this time your laugh was more of a laugh, and he reached up to feel at his face. You took hold of his hand, bringing it back down and trapping it in yours.

"Pretty enough for me to hold your hand," you joked, hoping to distract him from continuing to poke and prod and break all of the rules and instructions the EMTs had given over the phone.

"Well, I got that goin' for me, I guess," he said, letting his hand relax into yours.

Headlights bathed you in a warm yellow light as flashing blue lights bounced off the surrounding buildings, illuminating the rest of the street.

There were some shouts as the doors of the ambulance opened and people poured out, running towards you and Torres. The paramedic crowded around quickly, a blonde bearded man asking  quick questions in German.

"Er spricht Englisch," you explained, and he nodded, switching languages.

It became apparent as police officers pulled up and flooded out of their cars that you were no longer needed. You stood up, backing away and letting Joaquin's hand slip through yours.

"You're not going to stay and hold my hand?" Joaquin called out to you, and you let a smile curl across your lips. Around you, people were starting to come out onto the street, lured by the sounds of the sirens and lack of shouting and general ruckus. Your eyes fell back on Joaquin who was still looking up at you, even as a paramedic flashed a light into his face.

"Maybe he can hold your hand," you said, gesturing to a paramedic who had slid into your place. Joaquin gave half a smile as you turned and left him in the hands of the professionals.

As you rounded the corner, arms full of blankets, the last person you expected to almost run into was Joaquin.

Part of the surprise was the kind that generally accompanied running into someone outside of the context you know them in. A larger part of the surprise was the fact that he was not in the hospital.

Instead, he stood before you, face swollen, bloodied and bruised, with the small white bandages of butterfly stitches above his right eye. He blinked at you, as if he was caught in the headlights.

"Pretty Joaquin," you said, surprise ringing through every part of your voice.

"Y/N."

At least his memory wasn't affected by whatever the Flag Smashers had done to him. His response time was also quicker than it had been two and a half hours ago, and he seemed all in all more present and less hazy. "What are you doing here?"

"I work here." Your own surprise and mild confusion had not quite worn off. "What are you doing here?"

For a variety of reasons, he was not the typical person who stumbled into the Zürich GRC Refugee Camp. He was both too young and too old and far more put together than a normal incomer. He didn't have that haunted look behind his eyes that made your heart wrench. He looked battered and bruised but ok.

"I need a place to stay."

Your eyes ran over his form, from his fluffy dark hair and banged up face to his bright white trainers. You lifted an eyebrow. "The hospital wouldn't take you?"

He shook his head with a sheepish grin. "It's just a broken orbital. Not much else they can do for it." Your eyebrows didn't lower and he gave half a laugh. "Trust me I'm as shocked as you are."

"I'll need you to fill out some paperwork."

He winced. "Any way that could wait until tomorrow? My head is killing me."

You stared intently at his face. Over the past four months of working at the GRC camp, you'd gotten good at reading people. You had an eye for knowing who was going to be trouble down the line and who would need some extra comfort and care. You knew who to push about their stories, and who to wait for--to be there as they slowly unraveled their tale.

So while there was a lot about pretty boy Joaquin that just didn't add up, you could see in his eyes that he could be trusted to stay the night. Just not here.

"You can't stay here without going through intake," you shook your head. "But if you really need a place to sleep, you can come with me."

"Really?" Joaquin asked, turning to follow you as you set back off towards your car, and you nodded.

"It's nothing special--just my couch. But I've been told it's very comfy."

Joaquin faltered a step, slowing down. "You're sure you want me coming and bloody-ing up your couch? I could just stay here and leave before--"

"I'll put down some papers," you said jokingly in an attempt to cut off the subject of him staying at the camp.

"Ok," he said, his voice distracted before there was a quick shuffle of footsteps and he caught back up with you. "Ok, thanks."

The two of you arrived at your car shortly thereafter, Joaquin moving to sit in the passenger seat as you dumped the blankets in the car. You came around to slip into the driver's seat, quickly backing out of the spot and setting off back home.

"So what's with all the blankets?" he asked, pulling his attention from the streets and buildings and back to you.

"We got a late donation tonight," you answered, flicking on your turn signal. "They needed someone here to help organize the drop off and then our washing machine broke, so I have to take work home with me." You smiled at the joke, but he just nodded, leaving you to wonder if maybe your English was off. The next few moments passed in quiet before you checked over at a traffic light to see if he was still awake. He was, but he looked dazed. Maybe he had been telling the truth about his head. You eyed his injuries which looked even worse in the red light. Like his entire right side of his face had been smashed.

"So what brought you to Switzerland?"

It wasn't the question you wanted to ask. You wanted to ask him what had happened with the Flag Smashers--why had they beaten him up so badly. But you weren't sure you were ready for that answer or if he'd even give it. So you asked a question you didn't care if he lied to you about.

"I was looking for someone," he said, and the light turned green, causing you to turn away and focus on your driving rather than him. Still the sentence seemed to end earlier than his thought as you could feel the weight of more words hovering between you. It was a familiar pressure in your ears and your chest, and you'd long grown accustomed to the discomfort.

Like many, Joaquin didn't give the thought words to escape on.

"A refugee?" you asked, and he wobbled his head.

"Yes and no. She survived the Snap."

"She?" A small feeling like a tight wire cord wound its way around your chest and a  warmth of embarrassment flooded the back of your neck. "Your sister? Your wife?"

"No," he shook his head. "My grandmother."

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him look at you for the first time.

"What's her name?  If she came to the camp I should know her."

"Mariana Torres," he answered, and you ran through the array of faces you'd met. There was a Mariana Böschl , but she was old enough to be his mother, not his grandmother.

You shook your head slowly. "I can check the registry tomorrow, but I don't think she's with us."

"Thanks," Joaquin said, looking back out the window at the passing city. "Were you Blipped?"

"No," you shook your head, pulling into your designated parking spot by your apartment. "I was lucky." The two of you climbed out of the car, and he met you by the trunk, pulling the blankets out before you could reach for them.

"Thank you," you said.  And he gave a small grin.

"Thanks for letting me stay with you."

You gestured with your head up the stairs, heading to your third floor apartment.

Joaquin trailed behind you, arms laden with the blankets, waiting patiently as you stopped and opened the door. "Welcome to my home," you greeted, allowing him to enter before you. Your small apartment was dark, and you flicked on the light so that Joaquin could walk further inside without running into a wall or your table. "You can put the blankets by the couch, I'll wash them tomorrow," you instructed, and he did as you suggested before wandering over to the couch.

"I think I have an extra pillow in the closet," you said.

"Great," he thanked, dropping down onto the couch.

It took a few minutes to find the pillow and put a pillowcase on top of it. By the time you walked back out to the living room, the light was still on, and so were his shoes, but he was passed out. You walked over to the sleeping boy, placing the pillow down next to the couch in case he woke up and pulling the blanket over his body, your eyes once more tracing over his injuries.

You would have to speak to Karli about the violence.

[potato-with-hair]

Fake News

First tumblr Story Ever

As the newest Avenger it seemed that Tony Stark and Captain Rogers were more than comfortable sending you out on all of the shit missions, granted, you could use the time in with your new teammates to learn their little quirks and start working to meld your abilities with theirs so that you could start working together seamlessly, but it was getting ridiculous. You were half expecting to start getting told to go out and help the NYFD rescue kittens from trees and helping the NYPD direct traffic on Broadway in Manhattan during rush hour. Y/N was a technopath, which was a fancy name for someone who could control technology and anything mechanical with their mind, or if you wanted to be technical about it, according to the official S.H.I.E.L.D. dossier:

Y/L/N, Y/N: Main Ability: Technology Manipulation

User can manipulate technology, the sum of techniques, skills, methods, and

processes used in the production of goods or services or in the accomplishment

of objectives. However, most users only can exert control over technological

constructs, such as computers, robots, hardware, and other devices that can be

termed as "technology", in any way. Manifested as a special form of electrical/telekinetic manipulation, a special form of "morphing" which allows physical interaction with machines, or even a psychic ability that allows mental interface with computer data.

Also Called:

· Cyberkinesis

· Cyberpathy

· Mechanokinesis

· Technokinesis

· Technopathy

Pretty cool, huh? Anyway, spring was coming to a close and summer was just around the corner. Tony asked me and Sam Wilson, you may know him as Falcon, to head to midtown

Manhattan because there were some “unsavory” characters hanging around Grand Central Station.

Turns out it was some low-level HYDRA minions that were basically trying to see what kind of trouble they could cause, they had planted a pipe bomb in a waste bin in the middle of the station and it was a Friday when thousands of people would be traveling through the station heading to and from work and school. I think that HYDRA was more or less just testing us Avengers out to what abilities we had and see if there are any hidden capabilities we possessed before they come at us for a full-scale attack.

Sam and I arrived and were able to find the pipe bomb relatively quickly, part of my ability is being able to read the signatures of different technologies and mechanics, and if you don’t think that a bomb countdown timer throws out a red flag, you are mistaken. Anyway, we found it, and rather than call bomb and arson with New York’s Finest, I was able to manipulate the mechanics myself using my mind. I shut down the detonator without ever touching the bomb and made the whole thing inactive within a few minutes time.

Easy peasy, 10 minutes, another fast sweep which took an additional 30 minutes, and Sam and I were finished and ready for our close-ups from the media that always, inevitably followed. We had a small group of media that always showed up whenever a call went out that an Avenger was “working” and there was almost always a small fan base at Grand Central or where ever we were working who would come up to thank us, like we were some sort of rock stars, and as per usual some of the younger men and women took the opportunity to do some flirting with us. Tony told us, unattached Avengers, that any publicity and light flirting and playfulness with the fans was good publicity and would help for the public to relate to us and see us in a positive light. I am not going to lie, I may or may not have had a little thing for our resident speedy Sokovian, but our little flirting in the compound never seemed to go beyond that, flirting. I thought there was a possibility he liked me also, but, so far, nothing. Although I did catch him staring at me quite often and Wanda and some of the guys were always talking to him and then immediately looking in her direction like they were just discussing her. Pietro did seem to always try to be around me and sit near me as often as possible as well. Also when the “fans” would flirt with him, I noticed he never really showed much interest in them, always watching to see what I was doing.

Oh well, time to spend a little time with the crowd before Sam and I headed back to the compound. The New York Times was talking to some travelers about the pipe bomb that was found in the wastebasket and what their thoughts were and how they felt about us being there to “save the day, yet again” when an overzealous “fan” started to get a little handsy with me in the background. He had followed me around and asked me to dinner a few times, flashing cash and his business card a few times, trying to press it into my hand multiple times. I explained I was really bust and thanked him but said I was not interested or available, but he kept perusing me. He was leaning over my shoulder with his hand around my waist from behind, body pulled directly flush with my back and he was in an excited state if you know what I mean, and he was whispering in my ear about some of his fantasies and things that he has dreamt of doing to me. Of course, the camera flashed right as he started to kiss my neck and I had a smile on my face because I was focusing on a sweet 10 year old in front of me asking for my autograph and telling me I was her favorite avenger. If the camera had waited all of 5 seconds more, they would have caught me performing a minor assault on the prick and another 5 seconds would have caught Sam pulling me off of him and flying us out of the station and back to the compound with his hand over my mouth because I let lose a string of explicative’s that would put Wade Wilson to shame.

The next morning I woke up and took a shower, went down to the kitchen and made my normal toast and juice and bowl of fruit, and could not help notice that the Avengers that were there were looking at me strangely, I thought it was because I was still in a sour mood because of that jerk from yesterday and the icky feeling he gave me that I was assaulted by scum. I knew that Rogers, Wanda, Sam, and Nat were on their way to Lagos on a mission. Thor and Banner were MIA since Sokovia, which left Stark, Rhodey, Vision, Pietro and I still here.

“Y/N, so, how was the pipe bomb incident yesterday?” Tony asked seemingly hinting at something

“Uneventful aside from a slight annoyance in the crowd, is there coffee left?” Y/N responded looking at him while rising to get a mug and pour a hot mug to clear the remaining sleep from my head.

“Nothing happened? Nobody special you want to tell us about?” Rhodey chimes in.

“Not that I am aware of or worth mentioning now that it’s done and over with, is there something you would like to tell me about?” Y/N asks looking back and forth to them. “Hey, where’s Speedy, he’s usually down here eating everything that isn’t trying to eat him first.”

Tony looks at Y/N and smirks, “It is strange that you should mention that, he came in about 20 minutes ago, I assume you were in the shower or I am sure you would have heard him, saw the cover of the New York Times, flipped out and, well, here you are, please take a look, we are on pins and needles to know what you think. And I hope you know that all suitors must meet the full team before you becoming an “item” and pass Avenger inspection, and Rogers is particularly tough.” He slid the paper across the kitchen island to where you sat, both he and Rhodey watching your face for a reaction. You unfolded the paper confused and looked at the front cover.

There in black and white at you was a close up of the stranger with his arms around your waist from behind, you leaning slightly forward smiling and the stranger kissing your neck, the little girl you were smiling at was covered by the person being interviewed in the foreground. To someone who was not there and did not know the story, this definitely looked bad, like a very intimate moment caught on film, the headline read ‘Newest Avenger Moving Fast With New York Wall Street Trader’ the article went on to talk about how you just met the guy and did not bother to get his name, but just let him put the moves on you, yadda, yadda, yadda. Apparently, after Sam got you out of there, the “gentleman: in question decided to make a name for himself and gave a short interview making it sound like you approached him and started the whole flirt fest, lead him on, and then abandoned him, with the promise to return. You looked at Tony and Rhodey with wide eyes and a sick feeling in your stomach, “This is the biggest load of shit I have ever read in my life, this is not anything at all what happened. About 3 seconds after this picture was snapped, I basically slapped the taste out of his mouth and would have continued to do so had Sam not gotten me out of there. Flirting? More like this guy assaulted me. This was not consensual or wanted. I told him multiple times I was not interested and refused his advances and invitations to dinner and he kept bothering me. I was talking to a little kid and he pulled this crap when I had my back turned to him.”

Tony went from joking to serious almost instantly, “Okay, we were just going to bust your balls on this a little bit, but this has just become a non-joke. I’ll have Pepper contact someone in Stark Industries legal department to get in touch with the paper to track this guy down, he’ll have had to sign a waiver for publication and we’re going to go after him for liable and harassment. If he tries to come after you for battery for the assault, well, we’ll call that defense, Avenger or not, no one gets to touch you without permission. Y/n we really didn’t know, we were just going to play around with you about this a little, and we had no idea. He didn’t do any weird stuff, right?”

“NO, I mean, I slapped him and Sam pulled me off of him and flew me out of there, anything beyond what he did to me and you would have been getting a call from New York’s finest about bail or my court hearing for homicide. I was shocked, but if it had gone beyond what it was, I would have raged a lot harder than I did. The headline in the paper would have read a lot differently today.” Y/N responded.

“Alright, I know that yesterday was weird and I know that Nat and Wanda have had to deal with crap like this from time to time, unfortunately being an attractive woman on the team seems to let the guys out there think that it is open season to treat you ladies like meat. It is unfair and it sucks and if any of the men on the team are around just say the word and well step in and make sure the guys know it’s not okay, or step back and let you take care of it yourself, whatever you feel more comfortable with. In the meantime, take the weekend off and go to a spa or go shopping or to the movies or whatever you need to do to feel better, charge everything to Stark okay. Just let us know if you need anything alright.” Tony hugged you with one arm and kissed the top of your head. “One thing though, Lightning Legs. He flipped out when he saw this. He thought it was true and got hot and bothered. I would suggest finding him and letting him know what is really going on because the last thing you need right now is a crazy Sokovian kid acting like a jealous boyfriend right now.”

You look us at Tony and across the island to Rhodey, “What is that all about, what is he flipping out about, he brags about all the women he is into and dated back in Sokovia all the time, what does he care about what happens to me?”

“Y/N are you serious? That kid has been crazy in love with you since Sokovia. I swear I was coming close to sending you both on a mission that involved a tropical island and a case of rum soon. If he’s not staring at you, you are staring at him. It’s sickening.” Tony finished with a sarcastic eye roll. Go relax in your room, we'll take care of this. Just try to put it from your mind and well talk soon. With that, you left and headed to the elevator bank to the sleeping quarters level, feeling shitty, but better because you knew Tony would do what he could to help.

You were only in your Bedroom Suite for about half an hour when there was a somewhat frantic knocking at your door. You got up from your bed, put down the book you were currently reading, and made your way to the door, opening it, you found a seemingly tormented Pietro, he entered your quarters without an invitation and started to pace the length of your room, looking at you, Y/N could tell he needed to speak, but he was not sure where or how to start.

“Y/N, I ……. The newspaper, I saw the picture and…… Who is he? Do you like him? I mean does he make you happy? I want you to be happy……… I know that no one will ever be able to………. Not like I do………” Pietro kept starting and stopping sentences, never actually completing any, and getting agitated. You had never seen him this disconcerted before, he was always so unruffled when he would flirt with you before and this was a whole new side to him that you had never seen before. It was like he was unsure of himself and it was not something he was sure of how to process. You walked towards where Pietro was walking seemingly carrying on an argument with himself and reached out for his hands.

“Pietro, please stop, okay, please. It is not what you think, I don’t know that guy. It was fake, it was false, I don’t know him, I did not ask for that, I did not tell him it was okay to touch me or kiss me like that, I was not alright with that, He did that without my permission, and the photographer took a picture and they wrote some fake story to make it seem like I was into it. I did not want that. I don’t know him, I feel disgusted by that.” You start to rub your neck where the creep kissed you, sat down on the plush cushioned ottoman bench at the foot of your bed and start to curl into yourself to make yourself as small as possible as Pietro looks at you taking in your words.

“Wait, moja bohyňa (my goddess,) some guy you do not know came up to you and started to touch you and kiss you without your permission? No, I will not allow this, who is this man; I will go fight him right now. Žiadny odpadok sa nemôže dotknúť mojej bohyne bez jej súhlasu. Nikomu by nemalo byť dovolené pozerať sa na ňu bez toho, aby sa poďakoval bohom, že bola stvorená. (No trash can touch my goddess without her consent. No man should ever be allowed to look on her, without thanking the gods that she was created.) Are you okay?” He sat on the bench next to you giving you plenty of space, not wanting to crowd you. “I will kill this man, why would he think he could touch you, Bohyňa (Goddess,) if I had been there, I would have stopped him immediately, I am so sorry I was not there with you. “ Pietro sat staring forward with a look of disappointment in himself. You leaned over towards him putting your head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around you pulling you into him. You snuggled your face into his chest drawing designs on his stomach and chest with your finger as he kissed your head and held you close.

“Tony is going to get the Legal department of Stark Industries to look into the paper and find out who the guy is and get him charged with harassment, and I may or may not have given him a good slap as soon as I got over my shock and realized what was happening, so I figure I should let the cops know everything in case he decided to try to press charges later for battery saying I attacked him. But I promise Pietro, there is absolutely nothing at all going on with that guy or any other guy in my life because I was sort of waiting for someone I had a sort of thing for to maybe make a move, but I didn’t think that he was interested, so I had basically given up hope and just accepted that we would only be friends, and that was okay, but I really was hoping he would let me know he felt the same.” You continued tracing symbols on Pietro's chest with her fingers nervously

Pietro put his hand gently under Y/Ns chin and raised her face so that his clear blue eyes were looking directly into Y/N/E/C, “Do I know this guy?” He asked finally deciding to go with the advice the rest of the team when they told him that Y/N was definitely into him, and Wanda assured him that yes, Y/N thought about him often and was only too nervous to make the first move, but if Pietro would, she would be receptive.

Y/N looks from Pietro's eyes to his lips and back to his eyes again and states “I am sure you have seen him around here, sometimes he’s hard to spot because he’s pretty fast, but when he stops or slows down and doesn’t try so hard to impress everyone he’s really an amazing guy. I have to say to, he is sexy as hell too, and he has this accent when he talks, uggghhh, it does things to me.” Y/N just smiles at him teasingly.

Pietro chuckles and smiling leans in but says softly before he kisses you, “Prednesiem vám básne a texty, ak ma chcete počuť hovoriť, poviem vám všetky veci, ktoré chcem s vami a s vami urobiť, ale nikdy vám nebudem môcť vyjadriť, ako veľmi vás milujem a uctievam. Teraz si môj, ako ja tvoj, navždy. (I will recite you poetry and lyrics if you want to hear me speak, I will tell you all the things I want to do to you and with you, but I will never be able to express to you, how much I love and worship you. You are mine now as I am your, forever.)” He then lays the softest and most soul-baring kiss on Y/N that she has ever felt. It was as if all the passions in the world could have been transferred to her through that kiss and as he softly caresses her face while peppering gentle kisses on her face, Y/N thinks that maybe this stupid picture is not the worst thing in the world to ever happen to her if it is what FINALLY brought her and Pietro together, she figures if nothing else, this will be a brilliant story to tell their kids someday.

Slovakian substituted for Sokovian

Y/N = Your Name

Y/L/N = Your Last Name

Y/N/E/C = Your Eye Color

[carsdreamtoo]

Admitting - Cal x f!Reader

You and Cal have been getting to know each other a little better across the race season, will this be the day that Cal finally admits those hidden feelings?

First xReader submission, I'm hoping to make more of these <3 However this is just some fluff to get started and stretch those writing muscles!

Tags/Genre: Fluff/Feelings / Soft

Pairing: Cal Weathers x f!Reader (female)

Words: 2,671

The air vibrated with the snarling and revving of engines, cars gunning their torque to the very max, moving and sliding around one another and their tires nothing but a blur as they sailed across the searing hot tarmac. The chorus and cheer of the crowd was loud and almost deafening, echoing across the stadium as the sun set, the orange hue settling upon the stadium like a warm blanket. The outside world didn't matter, it was almost as though all the elements had aligned only for this moment here, two cars struggling for leadership in the feat of speed and skill, a light blue faded stock car, and the blazing red of his opponent. It was the only things that the cameras trained on, the audience collectively seeming to hold it's breath as the cars moved at breakneck speed. The white flag flew, and the cheers and cries only became louder, the excitement raging through each and every car that was intended heavily for two contenders. The cars behind the leaders seemed to fall further and further behind, leaving to two racers in a world of their own, their concentrated frowns focusing on eating up the track in front of them.  Crew chief's were yelling to their racers through the mics, trying to put in one last effort to spur their charges on, desperate to at least get a few more points in the leadership, and set them up for the next set of races. Though it was mostly in vain, there were no real changes in position, and the racers all looked tired and mostly done. One such pit stop however wasn't exerting such effort to keep their racer going, the legendary Strip Weathers watching his nephew with pride as he slowly inched out in front of the famous Lightning McQueen, seeing the thrill on the young Dinoco sponsee's face, remembering when he too felt that rush. Beside him was a long time friend and inspiration, Doc Hudson, to watch and support Cal in his mid race season. On the other side of the 'Fabulous Hudson Hornet', was where you stood, a young avid car that could be arguably Cal's 'biggest fan'. You whistled and shouted along with the crowd as Cal soared closer and closer to the finishing line, leaping on the spot in triumph as the blue male practically ate the ground up, diving across the finishing line in a blaze of roars from the audience. You felt yourself leap up ecstatically, cheering out in victory and support, flashes of color and cheer echoing through the stadium with a deafening buzz. He instantly plunged himself into doing donuts upon the track, his tires squealing and engine revving, the friction causing white smoke to plume from the tarmac, his laughter being heard as he peeled away, taking a winning lap round the track at the cheer of his fans.  The feeling was indescribable, and he felt his mood soar higher than the stadium itself, the smile fixed permanently onto his face. Though despite this, he was all the more eager to get back to the pits... knowing full well who was there. He sped along to his stop, skidding to a halt as he glanced up to his uncle, who smiled down proudly to him.  "Real proud of ya' Cal" Strip beamed to his nephew, to which Cal only smiled wider.  "Thanks Uncle..." He started, hearing the congratulations come at him from all sides from his crew, Doc giving a small nod of congratulations, though ready to rib his own young racer for his loss. Cal graciously accepted the praise, though his eyes continued to search, one face on his mind, before he finally caught a glimpse of you, his mind instantly distracted. You moved under the barrier and approached him excitedly, your lights practically flickering in excitement as they did when you dealt with strong emotions.  "Cal! That was amazing! Congratulations!" You beamed, practically hopping on the spot. Despite his calm and friendly nature, you still felt the bubble of nervous emotion every time you uttered a word to the cerulean racer... there was something about him that made you feel lighter than air, and to say you were addicted to the feeling was an understatement. "Thank you... You know I really couldn't have-" He started, when

he saw the media spilling onto pit row, to which he shot you an apologetic smile. Although he wasn't sure what could truly come of it, he didn't want you in the media... he didn't know how that could effect you, and didn't want to put you in that position. You weren't a racer, and he was aware of that. "I'm sorry Miss (y/n)... I won't be long" He promised you, his voice gentle as you also spotted the cameras on their way, your face falling for just a millisecond, knowing he would be torn away yet again. "Oh! No, no take your time, you deserve it!" You said now, covering the slight disappointment you held, and getting hurriedly out the way, just in time for the cameras to focus on him, the interviewer Shannon Spokes beginning to congratulate him herself. It was always this way between you two... just snippets of time together, before his busy life would separate you again. You were pleased for him.. of course you were. And proud! But these small interactions didn't sate the longing that was in your heart.. You of course were too embarrassed to admit the crush you held for the racer, and getting to know him over the race season was always the highlight of your week. You had both hit it off almost immediately at a pre-warming party held by the Piston Cup organizers in order to let the racers mingle, and to bring everyone together before the big season. You had merely gone purely on a whim with a friend that knew one of the racers rather well, and you were now glad that you did. Very glad. The desire to have more than just tiny moments that you could lock in your memories was always there, and in the mean time, all you could do was just hope and wish. You moved over to where the pit box stood, carefully watching Cal with a gentle smile, your heart racing just a little. You couldn't quite hear what was being said, though you blinked as you saw his tires suddenly balloon, Guido racing out from behind the Dinoco racer, and his calls after the cackling racers. You giggled at the sight, feeling just a little sorry for him, before you heard another voice pry you from your thoughts.  "We'll meet him up by the victory podiums. You can tear your eyes away from the love of your life in order to do that, can't you?" Your friend parked at your side, and you raised a brow, scoffing. "Pff, you wish, you'd just looooove to be the matchmaker right now wouldn't you" you mused, before feeling a tire kick your side in play. "I'm better at it than you!" She teased, causing you to turn slightly. "Yeah?" You rebutted, playfully tackling your friend as you had when you were kids, leaping off and trying to evade the revenge attack that would no doubt come your way, move giggles erupting from the pair of you. Little to either of your knowledge, Cal watched with a soft smile on his face, his gaze following you as you left.  -- The confetti reigned free as it exploded high above the podiums, twirling down and settling upon the ground, flashes everywhere as photos were being taken, and more chants and cries could be heard as fans were desperate for their favorite racer to notice them. The audience seemed to settle as a microphone was hitched near Cal, and he began to give his winning speech to them all, smiling gently as his gaze moved through the crowd. "Thank you all! It's such an honor to race, as it always is, and I couldn't do it without the love and support of all you guys out there!" He started, hearing the cheers rising.  "I hope to only bring more wins to the season, and bag another one for Team Dinoco!" He added, waving his tire out to the fans, before his eyes rested upon a certain car in particular, and a tender smile came to his face.  "But lastly... I wanna dedicate this win to Miss (y/n)... she's been a real inspiration to me lately... I owe her" He said now, continuing to watch you as he spied the blush creep across your hood, you gaze falling as the embarrassed smile appeared. He.. he said that? He really said your name on stage.. in front of everyone! He laughed gently, not paying attention to the next speech from

Lightning, only persisting in gazing to you in the crowd. To him... there was no one else in the area, and he could only see you. Suddenly he didn't want to be on the podium, finally twisting his gaze away from you to look to the track, the last of the sunlight glinting against the tarmac, to which he smiled, an idea forming.  By the time the speeches and congratulations were done, the stadium was clearing out, and Cal made his way through the crowd to watch you make your way back to the pits, presumably to help clear up as you always did. You didn't like being swallowed by the crowd and being caught in the rush... besides, any extra time you got to maybe watch Cal wind down on the track or just have any moment with him, was worth the late nights. He revved his engine a little louder as he approached, in order to let you know he was there, seeing your brake lights shine and your gaze rest on your mirror. The blush was back instantly, but you tried to push it down and resume some soft of confidence... even if it left the moment he appeared, as always. "Well hello stranger..." You half teased, before you chuckled. "I see... now that you've grown bored of the screaming and adoring fans, all chanting and desperate for your attention, you've come to me" You mused, giving him a smirk.  "Well... only so much I can take being yelled at, ya'know?" He smiled in return, before he looked to the track again. You had paused, though had started to turn away, and he reached out with a tire to stop you, causing you to pause.  "You ok?" You asked in concern, and a smile flashed out on his face.  "Couldn't be better... but I want you to come with me" He said now, nodding toward the track. You glanced over, unsure, seeing the vast tarmac stretch before you two, your heart thumping a little harder. "You want me to...?" You started, waving your tire to get him to carry on the sentence.  "Just come with me" He smiled, leading the way toward the gate that led to the track. He weaved through, and finally his tires gradually touched the track, his gaze following the loop round, glancing back to see you hesitating.  "It's ok" He assured the you, holding out a tire for you. You gently moved out onto the track, your tires meeting with the smooth surface, keeping yourself low upon the ground. You could feel the heat radiating off it, and you fancied you could almost hear the many years of racing engines and cheering crowds, their chanting and excitement being sucked into the very foundations. You watched as the track shone in the sun, following the smooth lines as it slipped to the side.  "It's... bigger than I thought" You said quietly, moving up to him.  "They don't quite capture the size on tv, do they?" He asked with a smile, to which you shook your hood. He watched you for a moment, keeping you pinned to the spot with his eyes, before he smiled again. "You wanna go for a lap?" "Really?" You asked, your tone questioning, but your eyes danced with the excitement that he loved. With little warning, his engine growled, wheels spinning, before he shot off like an arrow, sailing once more around the track. A deeper blush seemed to fix itself permanently to your hood, his engine sounded tantalizing after all, but you couldn't help but let that smile slip over your features. "Oho, no you don't" You smirked, your own engine thrown into gear as you gunned it, dashing off after the racer. You felt the ground only pass by faster and faster as you started to push yourself onward, settling into a rhythm, despite how scary the track was up close, closing in on the blue car. He moved up a little, laughing out loud as you pulled up beside him, seeing the joy on your face as you raced on, raising your brow a couple times at him, your engine snarling as you pushed ahead, taking the lead. He laughed again, and began to pursue you, spurring the you on, though not overtaking you. Instead he watched you with a gentle gaze, seeing you thoroughly enjoying your experience was giving him a rather nice flutter to his heart.  You sailed across the finish

line, before you half spun, facing him as he crossed it too.  "Congratulations, now you've won too!" He said, before he chuckled lightly.  "Hm, maybe I should be the one to race for Dinoco" You teased, before you saw Cal's expression turn serious.  "I mean... I could go talk to Tex..." He started, before you laughed.  "No! No, no I don't... No!" You said between laughter, which was only echoing his own.  "Well... you're pretty fast... perhaps you would do better than me" He said now, snickering lightly, the sparkle in his eyes brighter than ever as he got to hear your laughter over and over. "Does someone want to retire early? That's the sense I'm getting right now" You giggled, to which he raised a brow.  "Honestly, if it meant I got to spend more time with you, I'd do it" He said without thinking, causing you both to look to each other in surprise. You felt your hood warm again, lowering your gaze as Cal seemed to grimace, before deciding that he was already down the rabbit hole, he may as well finish.  "Miss (y/n)..." He started, to which you gazed up softly.  "I've told you... I'm not Miss (y/n), just call me (y/n)" You breathed, to which he chuckled lightly.  "You know I need my manners" He responded, before you smiled gently to him. "Anyway... I... I wanted to ask something" He said now, looking to the track, his tire twisting in what appeared like nerves.  "I was hoping that you'd... maybe like to consider.... the thing is we've gotten to know each other and... I really... I wanted to..." He started, before he squeezed his eyes shut. "Dammit" He could only mutter, before he glanced up, seeing you having tilted your hood, but you felt like you knew what he was going to say. "Cal... it's ok...." You started, before he breathed in.  "Miss (y/n), I'd be honored if you... would consider perhaps allowing me to... Miss (y/n), do you wanna... go out to dinner... or something at some point...?" He seemed to deflate just a little, though your kind expression never left his.  "I'd love nothing more" You said tenderly, to which you saw the joy dance in his eyes. He gave you a grateful smile, gently moving forward to nuzzle your fender, though ready to leap back if you became alarmed. Though, as he half suspected, you embraced it, nuzzling him in return as he stay close, the contact feeling almost like electricity. Cal breathed out slowly as he nosed his hood to yours, only focusing on the feeling it gave you both, paying no heed to what happened around you. The affection was slow and deliberate, easing into it, before Cal bit his lip a little, pulling back, and kissing your cheek gently.  "We should head back" He said now, before you gazed over to where the trailers were.  "Ah yes... your adoring public awaits" You whispered quietly, before he nudged you. You chuckled weakly, and you began to slowly move across the track again, slowly getting closer to each other, before your sides rubbed, and your gazes flicked away from one another, with embarrassed smiles.

[sneezefiction]

attention

Miya Osamu x Reader

desc: you’re spending too much time fawning over a very fictional captain Levi and not enough time doting on your real boyfriend, Osamu. 

a/n: @starrysamu dearest remy, this is for you. i only just found out that it’s your birthday and i felt like i needed to show my appreciation for you in a tangible way. this isn’t the best, but i laughed a lot while writing it, so i hope it’ll make you smile. so much love to you and happiest of birthdays!! you’re such a joy to speak with <33

warnings: mentions attack on titan (fictional deaths), language, suggestive towards the end

wc: 1.5k

---

“I bet you haven’t moved in hours.”

“Mm,” you hum absentmindedly.

Osamu stays silent for a moment, squinting judgmentally at you from the corner of the living room. He’s been standing there for ten minutes and you’ve not so much as acknowledged his existence. Granted, you already spent the entire morning with him, but you could at least greet him with your usual, “hey, babe.” 

He’d even settle for a “what’s up, ugly” at this point.

However, your eyes are glued to the TV screen. Blue light and flashing colors reflect off of your skin while the blood-curdling screams of various animated characters fill the room. You gasp and a hand flies to your mouth. That’s the fourth time you’ve done that since he’d walked in the room.

Whatever it is you’re watching, your reaction seems reasonable. The show looks and sounds disgusting. Or at least to Osamu it does.

“You really should move around a little.” He coaxes, “You’re gonna cut off all your circulation.”

Osamu approaches the couch, but you continue to ignore him.

“Yeah, and?” you respond, eyes still fixed on the screen, “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

You reach for the remote and turn up the volume a couple of notches. His brows furrow in contempt. Now, this is just plain rude.

“Well, if you lose a limb, don’t come cryin’ to me.” He says flatly.

“I won’t…” you start, “but-“

You point to the screen, singling out a few characters being hunted by hideous and… very naked titans. Gross, Osamu thinks.

“-they might.”

If you were known to watch shows for the plot, he wouldn’t mind your series marathons all that much. But he knows you too well.

Osamu flickers his gaze to the TV and steps in front of the screen, intentionally blocking your view. It’s an attempt to steal your attention away from all of these fictional characters you claim to keep “falling in love with.”

You whine and tell him to “get his ass out of the way,” while craning around his broad shoulders to see. It’d be a shame to miss out on Levi Ackerman’s hella sculpted jawline, even just for a second.

But your efforts are to no avail. ‘Samu (his ass included) refuses to move away from the screen.

You breathe out a white flag of a sigh, slumping back into the couch in defeat. Though you’d planned on this being a solo watch party, you know that the only way to get what you want out of this situation (Levi screen time) is by appeasing your actual boyfriend.

“Whatever ‘Samu. Just join me already.” You huff out.

Tossing open your blanket for him, you pat the empty space expectantly. If you’re going to give him any attention at all, he’s obligated to at least keep you warm.

And he won’t lie, you look very comfortable.

Seeing you cozied up in his apartment and lazily splayed out on his couch has always made him melt a little. Osamu is just a bit domestic like that.

But if you’re just going to use his Netflix account to fawn over fake (albeit incredibly sexy) men, then he’s less than thrilled to have you sitting there alone. Any good boyfriend would be at least a little agitated… right?

So for the sake of reining you and your wandering mind in, he decides to plop down next to you. The whole couch sinks when he sits and you tilt into him like a planet gravitating toward the sun. A really obnoxious, show-interrupting sun.

Osamu snakes an arm around your back, pulling you into his chest, and turns his head toward the TV. All is calm as you get comfortable and adjust yourself against him... until suddenly the screen splatters red. His arm tenses against your waist and a frown forms on his face. Apparently, something or someone just bit the dust. 

“What exactly are ya watchin’?” He asks, tone drenched in disgust.

You whip your head toward him, an eyebrow cocked and lips parted. You’re looking at him as though he’d just gone and grown a third eye or called your mom a hoe. In terms of drama, Osamu is beginning to think you might actually rival Atsumu.

“You seriously don’t know?” 

“Do I look like someone who keeps up with anime?” 

“Well… no,” you admit slowly, “but that’s got nothing to do with you not knowing about Attack on Titan. I bet even Kita has heard of it.”

You wait for recognition to flicker in his grey eyes at the mention of the anime’s name. Instead, he gives you his signature blank stare. Should you be shocked or disappointed? Which emotion would bother him more?

“Yeah, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Have you been living under a rock?” You scoff, mouth still agape.

“No, but I basically live with you and that’s difficult enough.” He jests, poking you in the side.

His warm hands gives you a quick squeeze and you almost jump out of his hold. For someone who runs a restaurant, he’s got some well-toned arms. It’s unlikely you’ll be able to escape his grasp anytime soon.

“No! None of that shit!” You hiss as he tries to tickle you. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

Your back curls like a cat and you bat at his hands to abate any further pokes or prods. He only chuckles, smirking at your feeble attempts to stop him. You were the one provoking him in the first place, but he’ll let it slide just this once.

When Osamu no longer seems like a threat to your ticklish sides, you nestle back into him. Your hand rests lightly on his chest and your head finds a soft-ish spot on his shoulder.

Feigning a pout, you mutter, “Captain Levi wouldn’t treat me like this.”

He’s quick to respond.

“Well, Levi-” the name sounds uncharacteristically bitter as it leaves his lips, “-wouldn’t treat you like anything, sweetheart. Sorry, but he ain’t real.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Osamu beats you to it.

“And judging by the rate these people are dyin’, he probably won’t last long enough for you to even mentally date him.”

“Don’t underestimate me and my mental dating abilities, ‘Samu.”  You warn, “Or Levi. He could totally beat your ass.”

With perfect timing, Levi makes an appearance, striking a lethal blow to another one of the babbling giants. Two giants. Now four of them. Okay, he might’ve spoken too soon.

“Mm… maybe. But he probably couldn’t put up with all of your bullshit. This Levi kid seems like a bit of a hardass,” Osamu responds after a few minutes of transfixed silence.

You jut your lip out, sinking further into the couch, “Crush my dreams, why don’t you?”

He rolls his eyes in response.

“But,” you continue, “you’ve gotta admit, he is attractive. I mean, just look at those eyes. That body, too…” you breathe.

You swoon and tease and clutch at your heart, but it’s all an act to get under ‘Samu’s skin. He is your number one, after all. Teasing is just a part of your relationship and you would try to milk it whenever you could.

However, you don’t get a verbal response from him this time. He just tightens his hold around you and buries his nose in your hair. Warm breath tickles your scalp and trails across your skin.

Is he pouting? Or is he finally watching the show without adding commentary to it? You can’t tell the difference.

Osamu stays like that for a moment and you revert your attention back to the screen, intent on catching the last couple minutes of this episode. 

Though you hardly have a chance to re-invest yourself before Osamu is speaking again.

“Well, I’m just glad he’s behind a TV screen,” he sighs against your head, “and-”

A smirk works its way onto his lips and Osamu begins circling a thumb on your exposed thigh. Your breath hitches and you turn to face him. His fingers press against your skin and play at the hem of your shorts.

The warmth of his hand sinks deeply into you like poison. In a matter of seconds, you’re at a loss for words, rendered unfit for battle… even if that battle is just teasing the ever-living shit out of him.

Thoughts of the show, of Levi, of other fictional men, are long gone from your mind. 

Damn him for still having this effect on you after all this time.

“-judging by the way you can’t keep your hands off of me-“

He glances at your hand, which is resting delicately on his abdomen. You’re pressed up tightly against him, tucked into his side and looking up at his face which seems dangerously close to your own. Then his eyes, heavy-lidded and a shade of grey far prettier than Levi’s, flicker down to your lips. 

Your skin flushes hot and you grip the fabric of his shirt.

“-I’d say you’ve gotta be at least half as into me as you’re into general Levi or whatever the hell his name is,” Osamu murmurs, his breath fanning gently on your lips.

He leans in, planting a slow kiss at the corner of your mouth, effectively teasing the delicate skin.

With one calloused hand on your face and the other still stroking your thigh, you feel your mind going fuzzy. This was escalating much faster than you’d expected it to and you haven’t even had the chance to pause your show. 

You glance over to the TV...  and heaven seems to be shining down upon you. It’s the blessed Netflix “are you still watching” screen; your show is perfectly paused. Now you can focus on what’s right in front of you.

Osamu finally has your full, undivided attention. Just as he should.

“Just for the record, it’s captain Levi.” You whisper to him.

“Oh, shut up.” He says before crashing his lips into yours.

You do, in fact, shut up.

[reflectionsofneptune]

little things I associate with the Mercury signs.

Little dreamy, abstract things I associate with the Mercury signs in Astrology.

Aries Mercury

Authoritative. When I want something, I make it clear. Crystal clear. No beating around the bush. A forceful way of speaking. Don’t talk about it, be about it. Short sentences. A hint of arrogance. Competitive edge seeping through my words. What can I say, I like to be a winner? At all times. A raspy voice. Adopting a youthful charm when it suits me. Attuned to perceiving danger in my environment. Disliking an over-emphasis of niceties in conversation. Keeping it real. Exercising to clear the mind. Pep - talks. The rev of an engine. Pedal to the metal. Talking to me, I need you to bring your A Game and something new. Conversation needs to be stimulating. 

Taurus Mercury

Savouring. Words need to be savoured. Like beauty, they only get better with age. Listen carefully and hear what I stand for. Slowing down. Something about the handwriting. Cursive. An even tone. Words flow out of my mouth like maple syrup oozes down the height of a stack of fluffy, warm pancakes. Stubbornness. When am I ever wrong? Pictures, or it’s not real. Proof being recognised from what my base senses pick up. Inspiration from nature. A level-head. Choosing to see the beauty in my environment. For better or for worse. Don’t be fooled by my lack of conversation, I peep everything. 

Gemini Mercury

Riddles. I’m not going to tell you the answer but the curve of my lip might reveal itself when you’re getting close. Starting one conversation with one subject. Finishing the conversation with a completely different one. Playfulness. Humour as a tool of deflection. Quick texts. Leading conversations. Making a best friend in the supermarket. Another one, on the bus.  Seeing the duality of things in my environment. Information is like crack. I can’t get enough. Multiple tabs, open. Nervous energy. Fiddling. Mimicking your mannerisms if I like you, verbally ripping you apart if it tickles my fancy. Or not, I get distracted quite easily so you may be let off the hook.

Cancer Mercury

Introspective. Thinking about the past. Sometimes not finding my way back to the present. Emotions filtering through my words. Perceptions are protective. A vintage film, the introduction devoid of colour. An interest in knowing where one comes from, what comforts someone. Needing to cleanse myself of everybody’s emotional baggage. Again. Pathetic fallacy. Finishing your sentences. Promise its not on purpose. Wanting security from my environment. A psychological slant to conversations. A rich inner imagination. A diary, signed, sealed and under my pillow. Withdrawing into the cocoon of my thoughts when I feel threatened. 

Leo Mercury 

Commanding. A leadership position sounds good to me. Confidence in my thoughts. Words that can brighten up your life. Disney movies. Teasing conversations. Class clown. My thoughts are copyrighted. Bluffing. The curve a chest, puffed out to its maximum, makes. Talking loudly so I’m sure you hear me. Describing something in such detail, so you can feel as if you were there. Piping hot tea. Intellect and ego tied together.  Creativity expressed through speech. Seeing my immediate environment as a stage. Conversations in the mirror. The little grooves formed at the corner of the eyes when the smile is genuine. Blowing my own trumpet because if I don’t, who will?

Virgo Mercury

Organised. Seeing flaws in my environment. A to-do list, covered on both sides. Polite but not foolish. The spine of a book, crease free. Stepping back in conversation. The few creases that appear on the skin when a nose is wrinkled. Monotone. Advice given freely. Or withdrawing all help if I see it going through one ear and out the other. Discernment in conversation. Sticky notes. Attuned to see the bullshit in conversation. In life. Helpful suggestions. Take it or leave it. Mind feels like a hamster wheel. How do you turn this thing off?  An upward line of a tick, in red. Not an excuse, but know that the harder I am on you, the harder I am on myself really. 

Libra Mercury

Flirting. Feels as natural as breathing does. A sweet talker. The stem of cherry. A gentle lilt that comes alive in conversation. A fickle mind. Forever weighing up the pro’s and cons. Birdsong, cutting through morning dew. Wanting peace from my environment. Trying to maintain peace in my environment. A white flag fluttering in the wind, atop a hill. Indecision feels paralysing. Waiting for you to finish speaking before I provide an opposing point of view. Feigning innocence. Learning about myself through conversations with others. Sometimes not liking what I see. 3 sides to a story. I am capable of a decision, I just feel better when the internal scales of my thoughts are balanced. 

Scorpio Mercury

Power. Power plays in conversation. Checkmate. Words are comparable to pieces on a chessboard. Not a fan of small talk. Unless it’s for my benefit. Intuition on point. And then some. Probing. Trust issues. Talking to someone for a minute but deducing years of their life from a single meeting. Burner phones in a drawer. The eerie silence that comes around, say 4 AM. Secrets, mine and yours, help me fall asleep at night. Receipts for weeks, days and months. I’ve got it all. Past hurts cut deep in my psyche. Eyebrows pulled together. Pretending to be deaf when convenient. Subject changes. A full stop. Knowledge is power. I am capable of sharing intimate details of myself…..you first though. 

Sagittarius Mercury

YOLO. Sending those kinda texts to the wrong group chat by mistake. Saying what we were all thinking, even if it’s not the ‘right’ time, ‘cos fuck it. Slidin’ in the DM’s. Popping up like it’s nothing. You know me. Is time even real? The underside of a desk, covered with tags, love notes, and condom wrappers. Going off on social media. For a good cause, most of the time. Falling back on spirituality when life gets tough. Thought patterns are expansive and influenced by cultures and theories different than mine. Appreciating the differences in life. In people. Gift of the gab. That person who’s laughing when no one else is. Believing in abundance because that's what my environment reflects back to me. Stretching the fine line between truth and fantasy…….’cos fuck it.

Capricorn Mercury

Blue ticks. Time is of the essence. Thoughts are disciplined. A 3 tier desk organiser, stuffed to the brim with documents. Elocution lessons. Did you know I used to stutter? Deadpan jokes. A raised eyebrow. Judging people. We all do it, it’s innate to us. Keep your friends close. Enemies closer. Voicemail. I don’t need people to like me, but respect me is all I ask. A calculating mind. Always planning ahead. Sudoku puzzles. People give themselves away all the time, you just need to listen. Believing people’s actions over words. Thoughts focused on external recognition became a burden I often didn’t ask for, weighs me down.

Aquarius Mercury

Observant. Seeing the subtle layers that make up human behaviour. People are fascinating. A 360 way of looking at things. Reverb on an electric guitar. Solution-focused. A finger on the pulse of undiscovered knowledge. Static from a radio dial. I’m not afraid to question everything. An outdated statue, tipped. A love and hate relationship with time. Flashes of intuition. Needing time to process thoughts. A cool perspective. Shades of sunglasses, tinted yellow. Including people I’ve never met in my thoughts. In my dreams. My wishes. A Brave New World? I’m still waiting for people to step up and take responsibility.

Pisces Mercury

The red and white swirls of a helter-skelter ride. The path connecting my thoughts and my words is a little beaten. But not many people have bothered to venture this way. Pillow talk during the day. Drifting off in conversation. Overspilling in conversations. Or people, overspilling details of their life onto me. Missing appointments. Two circles merging into one if you stare long enough. Tapped into Source. Weaving you a dream with my words so good, I start to believe it. The afterword in a novel. Doodles in a margin. Sensitivity in conversation. Picking up a million and one signals from my environment. Using music to lose myself and ironically, find myself in the end.

————

| little thoughts about venus placements

| little thoughts about the mars placements

| little thoughts about the saturn placements

[gorogues]

Spoilers for comics in August!

These are part of the official solicitations for that month, which you can see in full at CBR.  It’s a month heavy on Suicide Squad reprints and variant covers, as the movie is out in early August.  But the Mick story continues in the Flash book.

THE FLASH #773 story by JEREMY ADAMS art by WILL CONRAD cover by BRANDON PETERSON ON SALE 8/17/21 $3.99 US | 32 PAGES | FC | DC card stock variant by JORGE CORONA US $4.99 Suicide Squad Movie card stock variant by ALAN QUAH US $4.99 On the loose and bent on destruction, Heatwave's return couldn't come at a worse time for Wally West. Now that the onetime Kid Flash has retaken the mantle of the Fastest Man Alive, he's also taken a new job at Mr. Terrific's Holt Industries. But all of that gets put on the back burner, when the Flash must outrace the flames of one of his greatest foes and figure out why the once-reformed rogue has gone bad again.

Please write ‘Heat Wave’ correctly, DC.  Anyway, it seems that Mick really has gone bad for some reason; I was hoping last month that the covers/solicits were misleading.

I’m not sure who the fiery guy is on the Swamp Thing cover, but he certainly bears a resemblance to Mick (and if it’s him, implies that Mick joins Suicide Squad).  So I’ll post it here just in case.

THE SWAMP THING #6 story by RAM V art by MIKE PERKINS cover by MIKE PERKINS ON SALE 8/3/21 $3.99 US | 32 PAGES | FC | DC 6 of 10 card stock variant by FRANCESCO MATTINA $4.99 US With Prescot’s bio-agent set off in the Kaziranga wetlands, the Green summons Levi back to the land of his making. With Levi unable to access his powers as Swamp Thing, he finds himself trapped in the dense forest and stalked by a group tasked with retrieving his alter ego at all costs. Will he recover his powers before he is hunted down by the Suicide Squad?

Putting the Suicide Squad stuff behind a cut because it gets pretty long -- and not all of it’s included here.  I don’t know if Digger will appear in Suicide Squad: Get Joker!, but included it just in case.  Most of it is TPBs and collected editions, though the Get Joker! series is a new story.

SUICIDE SQUAD: GET JOKER! #2 story by BRIAN AZZARELLO art by ALEX MALEEV & MATT HOLLINGSWORTH cover by ALEX MALEEV ON SALE 9/7/21 $6.99 US | 48 PAGES | FC | DC card stock variant cover by JORGE FORNES Black Label | Prestige Plus | 8 1/2" x 10 7/8" 17+ After turning the tables on the Suicide Squad, The Joker gained control of the device that could detonate the bomb implanted in each of the team members’ heads. Now forced to do The Joker’s bidding, Red Hood, Harley, and the rest of Task Force X find themselves hunted by a newly formed Squad with a single mission: kill the previous Squad and take over hunting The Joker.

SUICIDE SQUAD CASE FILES 1 written by GERRY CONWAY art by JOHN BYRNE On sale 7/20/21 $19.99 US | 216 pages | 6 5/8" x 10 3/16"| Softcover ISBN: 978-1-77951-075-4 Discover the legacy of the film's eclectic villains in this collection of key stories from DC history! James Gunn's The Suicide Squad film gathers the weirdest and wildest cast of characters in superhero movie history—from Squad veterans like Harley Quinn and Captain Boomerang to the downright bizarre King Shark and Polka-Dot Man. But every character starts somewhere! Find out exactly where in The Suicide Squad Case Files 1, a new collection featuring debut and key appearances of Bloodsport, Mongal, Polka-Dot Man, King Shark, Weasel, the Thinker, and Amanda Waller herself, the government agent behind Task Force X.

SUICIDE SQUAD CASE FILES 2 written by JOHN OSTRANDER art by LUKE MCDONNELL On sale 7/27/21 $19.99 US | 224 pages | 6 5/8" x 10 3/16"| Softcover | ISBN: 978-1-77951-156-0 More legacy and origins of the Suicide Squad's eclectic characters in this collection of key stories in anticipation of James Gunn's film, The Suicide Squad! The Suicide Squad Case Files 2 collection includes debut and key appearances of Harley Quinn, Captain Boomerang, Rick Flag, the Ratcatcher, Savant, the Javelin, Blackguard, and more.

HARLEY QUINN'S GREATEST HITS written by VARIOUS art by VARIOUS Available now! $9.99 US | 168 pages | 6 5/8" x 10 3/16"| Softcover | ISBN: 978-1-4012-7008-7 Get ready for this summer's most anticipated movie, The Suicide Squad, with the comics that feature fan-favorite character Harley Quinn! Harley Quinn's Greatest Hits collects eight of her best stories from writers and artists including Paul Dini, Bruce Timm, Jim Lee, Jeph Loeb, Amanda Conner, Jimmy Palmiotti, Scott Snyder, and more.

SUICIDE SQUAD: TRIAL BY FIRE written by JOHN OSTRANDER art by LUKE MCDONNELL AND OTHERS On sale 7/27/2021 $19.99 US | 232 pages| FC|DC ISBN: 978-1-77951-444-8 The classic story that inspired the feature film! Offered again with a new cover! Faced with a rising tide of meta-human crime and terror, Amanda Waller, the hard-headed director of a secret government program designed to neutralize super-powered threats called Task Force X sold the President on her vision: a covert action team composed of incarcerated super-villains who earned time off their sentences for every mission they completed. Deniable, disposable, and deployable to any spot on Earth, this Suicide Squad would be the perfect weapon of last resort—as long as they could be kept under control. Crafted by acclaimed creators John Ostrander and Luke McDonnell, this volume collects the first eight issues of the team's legendary 1980s title as well as their updated history from Secret Origins #14.

SUICIDE SQUAD: THEIR GREATEST SHOTS written by VARIOUS art by VARIOUS On sale 7/13/21 $12.99 US | 200 pages | 6 5/8" x 10 3/16"| Softcover | ISBN: 978-1-77951-073-0 The ultimate graphic novel companion to the high-octane, highly anticipated Suicide Squad movie coming in 2021! Featuring everyone's favorite DC antiheroes—from Harley Quinn to Captain Boomerang—this collection is sure to thrill any fan seeking more high-stakes black ops missions where no one is safe! Ranging from classic adventures by John Ostrander to contemporary takes with art by Jim Lee, all the comics heavy hitters who've shaped the Squad are featured in this collection!

SUICIDE SQUAD VOL. 1: THE BLACK VAULT written by ROB WILLIAMS art by JIM LEE AND PHILIP TAN Available now! $16.99 US | 160 pages | 6 5/8" x 10 3/16"| Softcover | ISBN: 978-1-4012-6981-4 The acclaimed story that helped launch DC Universe Rebirth! Harley Quinn. Deadshot. Killer Croc. Enchantress. Captain Boomerang. Katana. They're dangerous. They're deadly. They're deeply unstable. Their latest mission should be easy enough: recover a powerful cosmic weapon called the Black Vault from enemy hands. The Suicide Squad always gets the job done (mostly). But this time, when the weapon's dark influence spreads and the team is driven to madness and mayhem (more than usual), there's only one person sane enough to save the Squad from destruction…the Clown Princess of Crime herself, Harley Quinn! 

SUICIDE SQUAD: BAD BLOOD written by TOM TAYLOR art by BRUNO REDONDO Available now! $29.99 US | 288 pages | 6 5/8" x 10 3/16"| Hardcover | ISBN: 978-1-77950-395-4 Acclaimed writer Tom Taylor reunites with celebrated Injustice collaborators Bruno Redondo and Daniel Sampere on this GLAAD Media Award–nominated collection When the Suicide Squad is assigned to neutralize a group of international super-terrorists known as the Revolutionaries, the last thing they expect is for the survivors to join the team! Who can Squad veterans Harley Quinn and Deadshot trust when their new teammates are the very people they were sent to kill? This crew could survive the mission, but they might not survive each other—so don't get attached.

[kikilefangirl]

Owed

Steve Rogers x Reader

(Word Count: 1377)

(Found this gif on Google images, so credit to whoever made it)

“Right this way, Miss.” 

You followed the security guard through the gala’s main entrance hall. 

Adorned with sparkling jewelry all through your hair, and matching diamond and ruby necklace and ring set, you were a vision in red. Your form fitting, crimson gown had a wide side slit, offset by your black velvet gloves. 

Eyes were drawn to you as you all but glided across the room. The chandelier bathed your brown skin in a warm glow. On your first sweep you spied three generals, quite a few senators, and a room full of dutiful donors and their plus ones. Not one journalist. 

“We need exactly forty-six minutes and eighteen seconds,” Mo, a crew member of yours, told you over comms. If they needed it, you’d get it. 

“Alright, just get it done.” You replied under your breath. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Mo responded and the line cut out. You grabbed a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and took a sip. 

“Care for a dance, doll?” 

You were getting sloppy on the job. You had to be, because to miss such an obstacle as Captain America and whatever other agents he brought with him, would have never happened five years ago. You shook off your surprise and smiled, your lips parting to show white teeth. 

“I don’t know, a dance with a handsome stranger seems too cliché,” You teased. He lit up at his supposed anonymity.

“Steve. Do I get upgraded from stranger enough for a dance?” He persisted, but made no moves toward you. 

What a gentleman, you thought to yourself.

“I guess you do,” You lifted your gloved arm to him, expectantly.

Steve gently squeezed your hand and led you to the dance floor. The two of you were a perfect fit as you swayed across the room. Other guests gawked, with either jealousy or curiosity, you didn’t know. As the song ended the two of you stood, still close enough together for your breaths to intermingle.

During your dance you counted the two agents Steve brought with them out of the corner of your eye. One was a woman, blonde. Probably SHIELD. The other was a man with a gap toothed grin. He didn’t move like a regular agent, but definitely trained. 

You needed more time. 

“Thanks for the dance, Steve. See you around,” You said, sounding as flippant as you could.

As you pulled away, Steve whirled in front of you offering his arm. You linked yours with his and smirked up at him as he led through the crowd. He leaned down to your ear. 

“Gorgeous, your face didn’t come up once on the guest list,” he whispered. You didn’t react, allowing him to guide you further away from the crowd. 

“Since I’ve been made, I gotta say you’re a great dance partner, Captain.” You countered. 

The male agent was waiting for the two of you in a corner off to the side. Steve’s grip tightened, pulling you closer to him. In a threat assessment, Steve wanted you more towards him than his second in command. A selfless leader willing to put his life in danger over his team’s. 

So he was as much of a dream in real life as he was in your history books growing up.

“Why is it always the fine ones?” Number Two complained as Steve sat you down. You were flanked on either side, quite literally backed into a corner. 

“Nine minutes and twenty three seconds, remaining,” Mo called out in your earpiece. You didn’t reply. Instead, you caught a glimpse of the female making the rounds, most likely checking for any others. 

“You can call your girl off, I don’t bite.” You teased. Steve folded his arms over each other and leaned towards you. 

“Why are you here?” He asked. His lips twitched and he coughed when he caught you staring at them. You looked him in the eye with no shame. 

They were nice lips for a white guy.

“You know, I didn’t peg you as the type who only protects rich white folk, but I guess that’s why your partner’s here. To look out for the rest of us,” Your eyes flicked over to the dark skinned man. He was refreshing, really. 

“I’ll ask again: why are you here?” Steve demanded through a tight lipped smile. To spectators, it looked like you and the captain were flirting, so they tried to avert their gazes.

“You play with toys, Captain. I do business.” You stated, not missing a beat. 

You removed a ruby ring from your gloved hand and sat it across the table. Both men watched you and it like hawks. 

“I take what I am owed by my country, because my country didn’t love me enough to do right by me the first time. Your partner understands.” You said in a breathy voice. 

“I get paid just fine.” He told you. You were right about him not being an agent. You could feel the military bravado coming off him from a mile away. 

“Two minutes.” Mo said. You smirked. 

“Sure you do, soldier. But do you get paid his bucks?” You asked him, never sparing Steve a glance. 

You had a feeling the answer was no. 

“I have a pension with seventy years worth of interest on it. Now, what’s your name?” 

You smiled and turned towards him. Finally, a better question.

“Y/N. Ask your friend Bucky about me. I doubt he’s here, so ask him when—“

Steve cut you off. The games were over with. His expression darkened, his blue eyes harsher than when they first appeared. 

“You’re stalling. Fan out and find whoever she’s protecting.” He ordered. 

Both the soldier and the agent separated to look for your crew. They were long gone. Steve’s iron grip kept you in place, the advantages of a super soldier. 

“Pro-tip Captain, it’s only stalling if you need the extra time. I just like hearing you talk.” You admitted. 

Taking your free hand, you flagged down a waiter. As he drew nearer, your eyes turned a startling shade of purple and so did the waiter’s. Before Steve could react, you used your power to get inside the poor waiter’s head and made him see the single most person he wanted to hurt. 

It was an older man, probably his father. Predictable. 

The waiter launched himself at Steve before he could react, and the hand that gripped you was no more. You slid out from the  small booth and out in the open. The man was going rabid, but Steve was fending him off in the nicest possible way. The attention of the crowd was on them, but the soldier from earlier wasn’t as easily fooled. 

“I’m on her.” He replied, pushed through the masses to get to you. 

“Sorry, man. I hate to do this to a brother, but...” You trailed off, and your eyes flashed purple again. 

You made him see what he wanted most. This time the man, Sam, was stuck in a vision about him, dawning the Captain’s shield. Go figure. Sam stood stock still, his dark eyes turned a vibrant purple. You slipped out of the front door into a waiting car. 

As the driver sped off, you could see Steve bounding down the street after you. He recovered from your little sideshow, and was gaining on you. Damn, he was good. 

Opening up the skylight, you made eye contact with him, stopping him in his tracks. The vision was of you and him dancing like you had been doing only an hour ago. 

So he was a romantic at heart.��

You sat back down and used your powers to nudge Steve closer to the curb. You had no doubt that the man could take the hit, but there was something about him that stopped you from allowing it to happen. 

Besides, incoming traffic honked and swerved to avoid being hit by you or him, anyway. No civilian would be seriously injured and your stunt put enough distance between the two of you that you weren’t followed. 

“All thirty mil is accounted for and ready for distribution.” Mo sounded off. You smiled and fingered your diamond necklace. 

“Great work everyone, you know what to do,” you praised your team through your earpiece. The only bumps in the plan came from your end. You clicked off your comms and put it in your purse. 

As you sat back in your seat and pulled up the partition, your mind drifted to the Captain. You went off into the night with the memory of a handsome man who kept you on your toes all night. It was a shame you couldn’t enjoy him longer. 

“Goodnight, Steve.” You whispered. 

A secret goodbye to a man who wasn’t yours and would never hear it. 

                                                    …

“JARVIS, I need you to ID someone for me. Keyword: Y/N.” 

Steve was standing in Avengers Tower in an undershirt and the dress pants he had on earlier. He was staring intensely at the only image the camera could get of the jaw dropping woman who bested him. He blushed just thinking of the images you made him see. 

“She’s in the wind, man. And that’s probably a fake name.” Sam chimed in as he entered the room, yawning.

“She made me see things,” Steve started, but Sam threw his hand up with a look of almost guilt in his eyes.

Steve elected to ignore that. 

“Sir, there is no record of a Y/N ever existing.” JARVIS stated.

Steve clenched his jaw and thought back to what you said about Bucky. 

“JARVIS, pull up Hydra’s enhanced program. I doubt we’d get a name, but a list of abilities and weaknesses will do. Cross reference with any known or suspected holding facilities Bucky was in.” He ordered. 

Sucking in a breath, he still smelled hints of your perfume. It had been so long since he held a woman without the last name Carter. It was different, but he enjoyed it right up until the part where Sam said you were an uninvited guest with no ID. 

Steve had the worst luck with women. 

JARVIS pinged up a short list of Hydra experiments. 

Only one fit.

“Sam, can you go wake up, Buck. We need to talk to him about his ex-cellmate.” 

[anonymous0writer]

Not Together Anymore

Author: @anonymous0writer

Summary: The break up hurt. It hurt a lot. So why is he jumping in to save you?

Warnings: Swearing. Alcohol use. Fighting.

A/N: Shout out to @lindzaylove, for giving me this idea. (You’re the best)  This is pretty long, and unedited, sorry. The passages in italics are flash backs. 

Let me know if you want a second part!

It hurt. It hurt when he said it. And it hurt now. It never stopped.

“Y/N? Can we talk?” 

Usually, those words never sounded good, but he’d used the excuse before just so you could spend time alone. So no alarm bells went off in your head. No red flags waved. Honestly, you probably should have known by the tone of his voice, but you were distracted. Kie and Pope were arguing over a silly that had you doubling over in laughter and John B.’s side comments made it all the more hilarious. And when he called your name, you took a second before turning toward, him, eyes shining with joy and mouth cracked into a wide smile. You were blinded by the pure happiness, so you didn’t see the hurt about to be unleashed. Maybe it was good you were so happy then, because it was a good moment, and it’d be one of the few you’d have in the following weeks. But maybe it was also a bad thing, because when he talked, you came crashing down so hard from your happy high. And it hurt when you came crashing down. Either way, the hurt was inevitable.

You sat on the beach, a log pressed against your back, rough and hard. The sea pushed and pulled a few feet away from you, content on doing it’s sole job. Fade in, fade out. The water crashed and sprayed the sand at your feet. You were sitting far away from the festivities of the kegger at the Boneyard. Usually, you’d be in the heart of the dancing and drinking, but nothing eased the pain in your chest or the memories bubbling to the surface. Really. You’ve tried everything. Getting high, getting wasted, fucking another guy. Nothing worked. You felt like shit every time you got high. You even tired not coming down from the highs. You wanted to stay in that place forever, but it didn’t work. Plus, that place didn't block him out. Getting wasted wasn’t nice, because the headache and the throwing up and the beyond shitty feeling the next morning made you spiral farther down the bad path you were going down. Even fucking another guy didn’t work to well. Sure, you were screaming his name, but before, after and sometimes during, you thought of him. So now you were left by yourself, finding no escape. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes briefly. He fucked you up.

You grinned wildly, and climb off the couch, following him into the bedroom with a bounce in your step. You giggled when he closed the door. He was so close, breath fanning across your face, eyes watching you and lips mere inches away. He still made your heart race and your breathing uneven. He had a crazy affect on you. And you’d been together for almost a year. This is why you saw a future with him. He still made your heart race even after a long time. You giggled, putting your hands on his shoulders, one hand curling around the back of his neck and pulling him closer. You leaned in to kiss him, but he pressed his lips into a thin line, jaw clenched. He didn’t outright pull away, but he didn’t come closer, just stiffened his back, standing an arms length from you. You frowned deeply. Why was he pulling away? Usually he couldn’t keep his hands off you, let alone his lips. He was always pressing kisses to you neck while you lounged on the couch. Always wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your shoulder as you talked to Pope or Kie. And whenever John B. was teaching you to drive the HMS Pogue, he would pout and have an arm around your waist. He always wanted your attention and kisses. He just wanted you. So why was he pulling away? A bad feeling settled in your gut, and a knot formed. 

“What’s wrong?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. You leaned closer, thinking he just didn’t get it. But no, he pulled away a little bit. With a sting in your heart, you dropped your arms. “JJ?” You pressed when he stayed silent.

The blonde looked up, jaw clenched and an emotion in his eyes that you couldn’t place. The knot in your stomach tightened. You had a horrible, sinking feeling. His blue eyes didn’t seem as happy as they used to be. They seemed sad and determined. JJ ran a hand through his hair, sighing. And then he opened his mouth, speaking the words that would break your heart. 

“We aren’t good for each other, Y/N. We should take a break.” 

Your stomach dropped. He was breaking up with you? Your heart raced for a different reason, and the bad feeling increased to the point where you thought you were going to throw up. Break up with you. His words rang in your head, a scream of heart break. We aren’t good for each other. You aren’t good for me. You aren’t enough. His words twisted and morphed into your nightmare. Tears pricked at the back of your eyes. You gaped at the boy. 

JJ’s expression hadn’t changed. Your frowned. “A break?” You shook your head. A break never meant a break. It meant breaking up. It meant avoiding each other, finding other people, moving on. Forgetting the memories you shared. Forgetting the love. Moving on. That’s what it meant. Not, ‘let’s take a break and then figure this out and get back together’. A break meant extracting yourself from their life. But that would be impossible. You shared the same friends, went to the same school, hung out in the same spots. One of you had to leave. And you were positive that person would be you. You were going to have to say goodbye to your friends. Goodbye to your best friend John B. Bye to your sister, Kie. Bye to your levelheaded smart ass Pope. And goodbye to your boyfriend. “JJ, a break isn’t a break. It’s a break up.”

JJ threw his hands up. “Fine. We’re breaking up.”

You shook your head again. The words made your heart ache and your vision swim with tears. “You’re breaking up with me. Why?” 

JJ swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing. Tears fell down your cheeks, little rivers of sadness. You hated this. Hated that he felt the need to break up, and you didn’t even know why. Or what you did wrong.

“We’re not good for each other. We’re too dependent.” He repeated.

Your heart broke. ‘We’re too dependent’ turned into ‘you’re too clingy’. You had messed up big time, but there was nothing you could do to fix it.

You sighed, debating whether or not to enter the crowd to find Kie and tell her you were going to split. It was better than just leaving. After the break up, you still stayed in touch with the pogues, but it was mostly Kie. You didn’t hang out at the Chateau as much as you used to. The first week after the break up was when you tried getting wasted or high or fucked. After the second week you completely avoided everyone, convincing yourself that the rest of the pogues hated you. It was completely irrational, but it what you believed. It wasn’t until Kie came over unannounced for a sleep over that you eased back into regular life with your crew. You missed them. All of them so much. And JJ. Even though he hurt you so horribly, you still ached to kiss him. Or just talk to him. How could you still love someone even though they broke your heart?

You stood, brushing the sand off your shorts. You walked back into the throng of people, dancing and drinking. You could use a drink, but over the week of getting wasted and drinking alcohol almost constantly, you decided it was best not to drink for a long time. You were surprised you didn’t get addicted, and didn’t want to push it.

You looked for your curly haired friend, but she was no where to be seen. You sighed. You just wanted to send her a quick goodbye, have her pass it along to John B. and Pope, and leave. Quickly, you spotted a tall guy, curly hair tamed under a backwards cap and an open button down shirt. John B. You called out his name and once he spotted you, he grinned. 

“Hey, Y/N!” As you joined his side, he flung an arm around your shoulders. He was definitely a little tipsy. “Where were you?” 

You bit your lip. “Just hanging out.” You peered up at his freckled face. “How many drinks have you had, John B.?”

He laughed. “Not enough.” He seemed to realize why you was here and frowned. “Are you leaving?”

You nodded. “Yep.” You peered at the crowd, still looking for your best friend. “Where’s Kie?”

John B. shrugged, taking a sip of the alcohol filling the red cup. “Stay, Y/N. Really. It’s not fucking fair we barely get to see you anymore.”

Your heart ached. It wasn’t fair, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to handle seeing JJ. And you were pretty fucking sure he didn’t want to see you at all.

“You know why I don’t come around often. I want to, but he doesn’t want me around.” Anger started to fill your veins. It wasn’t fair at all. “So talk to him about it.” You spat.

Making a rash decision, you agreed to stay and told your oldest friend you were going to get a drink. It wasn’t a rational decision, but your judgment was clouded by the anger. It wasn’t fair you never got to see your friends. They were your friends too. Hell, you’d known John B. since birth and he’d met JJ in second grade. If anything, JJ shouldn’t see them. He chose to break up with you, for a fault of yours, but he did it. He should have to deal with the consequences. Not you. Your thoughts spiraled into angrier, more delusional ones, but you didn’t stop them. You needed this. To feel another emotion other than sadness. Plus, not seeing the pogues everyday was making it worse. 

You arrived at the keg, filling your red solo cup to the brim, the beer sloshing over the rim and falling to the sandy ground. You took a deep breath and with a final angry thought, you chugged the beer. To hell with JJ!

“Hey pretty girl.” 

A voice lulled you out of chugging the rest of your beer. You looked up from the rim of the cup, surprised. You lowered the cup, and took in the sight before you. Two boys, grinning at you, red cups decorating their own hands. The first one was tall and dark. Tan skin, wide smile, dark eyes and even darker hair. The second was average height and reminded you of the boy who broke your heart. Hell, they could be brothers. He had the same blonde hair, but this random’s was cut shorter. God, the eyes were uncanny. Bright blue, same glint. The lips got you too. If the eyes didn’t have you on your knees, the lips did. The ones that used to kiss you and whisper “I love you’ into your skin after long nights.

He pulled out of you, flopping next to you on the bed. You flipped on your side, facing him. You have him a sleepy smile as you pulled the covers over your naked body. You giggled as he pulled you close, hands on your hips. He peppered your faces with kisses, unfazed by you laughing loudly and telling him to stop. He pulled away, smiling. 

“Is this better?” He asked, tickling your sides. You withered underneath his touch, barely able to catch a breath you were laughing so hard. 

“JJ!” You squealed, and his fingers finally stopped their attack.

You were pressed against him, craning your neck just to look at him. The only view you got was of his lips. He was talking, but you weren’t listening. Just memorized by the way his lips moved. You thought of all the blessed things those lips gave you. Unmentionable things. But the first I love you, and the countless ones that followed it. The words that sparked your relationship further than friends. The words the spilled out of his mouth that had you laughing your head off. Or the words he first spoke to you when John B. introduced you to him in second grade. Or the words that confessed the horrible things his father did to him. The words that broke your heart, but always repaired you. You sigh, delighted in watching his lips move and lull you into a sleep. Sometimes it wasn’t words at all. It was the smiles. The grins, the smirks and the winks that came along with them. The smiles after you beat him in a race to the waves you were surfing. Or the grin he always gave you when you said something funny. And the bright, genuine smiles that made his face light up when he saw you. Just because he saw you. 

“Are you listening to me at all?” He asked, lips ceasing their movement. 

You blinked and grinned sleepily at him. You buried your face into his chest. You mumbled an apology against the warm plains of his chest. He laughed, the sound amplified in your ears. His arms wrapped around you tightly and he rested his chin on your head. You wrapped your legs around him, becoming a tangle of limbs and sheets. JJ pressed a kiss to your hair, running his fingers gently through the locks.

“I love you so much.”

You gasped, the memory fading. You desperately wanted it back. It was one of your favorites. It was a time when nothing was wrong, and you two were happy. None of this avoiding each other and not speaking bullshit. How could you go from that to this?

The tall one smirked. “I’m Caleb.”

You smiled. They seemed nice. Plus, your mind was already a little muddled by the alcohol coursing through your veins. “Y/N.”

“This is Jack.”

Your heart gave a painful squeeze. Jack was so close to JJ. Hell, it could even be JJ’s real name. You swallowed hard. Jesus- what were you doing?

“You want company?” Caleb asked, watching as you tipped the rest of the beer into your throat in one smooth movement. 

“Sure.” You said, “I’m getting another drink.” You turned back around, and filled the cup halfway, downed it and filled it back up to the brim. Tomorrow you would hate you right now. But you didn’t care. You just wanted to talk to two nice boys and forget how similar one was to your ex. You shivered at the words. Ex. You’d never get used to that.

You walked past the boys, letting them follow you to one of the bonfires. The flames licked the sky, sparking embers that floated down to the sand. The warmth from the raging flames touched your skin, lighting you up. You felt better, warmth spreading through you. Jack came to stand on your right. You three fell into easy conversation, Jack taking a step closer. You kept drinking, trying not to focus on the boy with the same eyes as JJ and only held the eyes of the other.

Suddenly, as you were talking, staring down at your almost empty cup, you’re mind reeling from so much alcohol at once. The beer had been switched to something stronger. Which wasn’t a bad thing. It helped blur the lines. Jack closed the gap between you, lifting your chin and pressing a hungry kiss to your lips. 

You startled, and then kissed back. Rational thoughts having left a long time ago. Then his hands gripped your hips, and slid to your butt, sparking a memory you buried deep. 

“Did you miss me?” A familiar voice teased.

You spun, squealing with delight as you saw your boyfriend walking down the beach towards where you and Kie were sun tanning. You picked yourself off the sand as fast as you could, speeding toward him. Your feet couldn’t carry you fast enough as JJ stopped, and opened his arms, grinning wildly. You crashed into his awaiting arms. He stumbled backwards, but held you tightly. He spun you around, laughing. 

“Hey baby.” He said softly, placing you back down. You hadn’t seen him in a week. You’d gone to visit some family and the day you got back, which was yesterday, JJ had been at work, and couldn’t see you until today. The whole day, as you and the rest of the pogues were waiting for JJ to show at the beach for a day of surfing, you’d been bouncing up and down. You were so excited to see him again. You had missed everything about the boy, but you missed having his kiss against your hair and his hugs where he squeezed your butt. You also hated the fact that you had to sleep alone.

“Hi,” You breathlessly exclaimed. He hands traveled to your hips and farther as he leaned in. You kissed him as his hands squeezed your butt before going back to your hips. You smiled at him. “I missed you.”

“I know.” He says, kissing your hair before starting to walk to Kie and the rest of the crew. “Me too.”

You instantly pulled away from the boy, scared. Scared of how the memory hit you out of no where. Scared of how this boy was just a slight variation of the ones in your memories. Scared of how quickly you fell into the deep end.

Jack didn’t take the hint, and kissed you again. You pushed him away. “Stop.” But your voice was quiet, mind still consumed by the memory. That was such a good memory. All of them were so good. And Jack and his lips and eyes and hair didn’t help you get over JJ. 

“’C’mon, we’re just having fun.” Jack insisted, still too close. His breath fanned over your face, sparking yet another memory. 

The keys jingling in the lock and the footsteps coming down the hall had you shoving the blonde into your closet. You followed soon after, closing the closet door and shutting off the light. You both listened to the movements of your mother throughout the house.

You couldn’t help it, you giggled loudly, trying to stop it by pressing your face into JJ’s chest. He huffed a laugh, trying to shush you. You weren’t supposed to be home. You were, as far as your mother knew, having a fun night with Kiara. At her house. Not pressed against your boyfriend in your closet because you lied to your mother so you could have a night alone with your boyfriend. Not making out on your bed before you heard your mother’s keys in the door.

“Shh!” JJ said, eyes wide but laughing as he pulled back to look at you. 

You pressed your lips together to stop laughing like an idiot. You calmed down and finally realized how close he was. You were chest to chest in the tight quarters that made up your closet. His breath fanned across your face. You didn’t mind, you liked the close proximity. You liked hearing his breathing. It was soothing.

“Hi.” You whispered. 

JJ gave you a funny a look, but he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “Hi.”

You pushed Jack away again. “Stop!” You glared. You took a step back, but met the chest of Caleb. His mouth was close to your ear. “We’re just having fun, Y/N.” 

You shivered, his words chilling. You wanted out of this, but your back was pressed against Caleb’s chest and you were inches from Jack’s hungry lips. You shoved Jack away, “Get away from me!” 

The alcohol made you dizzy, so you stumbled a foot away from the boys before Jack was there again. He smiled at you. 

“C’mon. Just a dance?” You frowned, about to protest, but he was grabbing your wrist and pulling you back to Caleb. 

“No!” You screeched, catching the attention of other party goers around the fire. “Let me go!” 

The party goers stared, frozen. You tugged yourself out of Jack’s tight grip. You fled, knowing the two creeps were on your heels. You pushed yourself farther into the throng of people. The crowd was thick and loud, so you hoped you’d loose them. But you smacked right into Caleb. 

“Where’re you going, pretty girl?”

You shivered, but Caleb smiled, reaching for your hand. A blur of blonde and gray flashes before you, positioned themselves in front of you, blocking off the tall creep.

“Get the hell away from her man!” The voice yelled. 

For a painful moment, you thought the blonde was just Jack, but after a second you knew exactly who it was. The height, the build. The gray, sleeveless top, and the shorts and boots. The blonde hair and the voice.

It was JJ. Your heart gave another painful squeeze. 

“Dude, chill. We’re just having some fun.” Caleb scoffed. 

“No you weren’t.” You could tell JJ was glaring even though you stared at his back. God, you could recognize him just by his back. The way he moved, his tan skin, the freckle on his left shoulder blade. It was JJ. “Now get the hell out of here.”

“No. I just want to enjoy the party.”

“Get out of here!” JJ insisted, shoving the taller guy back. 

And a fight ensued. Caleb tacked JJ, both boys throwing punches. Blood sprayed and the sounds of a fist smacking against skin filled the Boneyard. People cleared, a circle forming around the fighting boys. They looked on, hunger for a fight bright in there eyes. You looked up as John B., Pope and Kie pushed they’re way to the front. You met eyes with Pope. 

“JJ!” Kie screamed. 

“JJ! Get off him.” John B. yelled, the three trying desperately to diffuse the fight without having to get in the middle of it. 

“JJ! Please!” You yelled. Maybe he’d listen to you. He’d done it before. Plus, if you still had feelings, maybe then he did too. “Stop!”

JJ kept going, getting pinned to the ground and then flipping. It was an even matched fight. The taller boy, taller and stronger, but JJ with the experience. The pogues continued to scream at him until John B. and Pope pulled JJ off the bloody Caleb.

The crowd quickly eased back into a party once Caleb got up and left with Jack, and JJ was contained by JB and Pope. It was almost scary had easily people forgot the violent fight. You stood in the middle, unsure of what to do. Thank JJ or getting the two creeps off your back? Or leave, just to continue the pattern of avoiding each other?

You stepped closer to the pogues. Kie was arguing with him about stopping the string of fighting. JJ’s face was already starting to bruise, purple marring his skin like a tattoo. His lip was split and blood ran from his cheek. You winced. You’ve seen him get into plenty of fights. But none quite like that.

The boys were fighting. Actually, JJ and Rafe Cameron. They fought all the time, always on each other’s nerves and ready to throw a punch. They loved fighting. They were fighting for their sides. JJ for the Pogues. Rafe for the Kooks. They were natural enemies. Currently, JJ was getting the shit beat out of him. Rafe was straddling him, fists pounding into JJ’s face. 

“Rafe! Stop!” 

You looked up. The voice wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t Kie, but it was female. It was Sarah Cameron, the Kook princess. Her blonde hair loose and falling around her shoulder, her pretty face contorted into one of concern. 

“Please stop, Rafe!”

JJ had gotten Rafe underneath him, and started beating the shit of out him. You swallowed, your voice hoarse from begging your boyfriend to stop. 

“JJ! Please!” The last word was filled with pleading and desperation.

JJ did stop. He threw the Kook to the ground before standing and spitting on him. You sighed in relief. You hurried to reach him, taking his hand. You studied the damage done. It was bad. You had to admit. Rafe Cameron knew how to throw a punch. You glanced over at the boy. Sarah was kneeling over him, helping him up. But she wasn’t happy. You could faintly hear her lecture him about getting into stupid fights. She looked up at you, eyes meeting. 

You smiled at her. You’re thought process was the same You both wanted them to stop. You wanted to make sure they were safe, but were angry about all the stupid fights they picked. You also smiled to make sure there wasn’t bad blood between you. God knows you didn’t need another feud between Kooks and Pogues. Sarah smiled back. You sighed. No bad blood.

You stood still, staring at JJ and your friends. Kie was done, rolling her eyes, annoyed with her stubborn friend. She walked away and caught your eye. She met you, asking if you were okay. Kie’s dark eyes were watchful. You studied her. Her hair was pulled into a bun, and she was wearing more muted colors. That’s why you didn’t spot her in the crowd. 

“Hey. Are you okay?”

You nodded. How were you going to explain what just happened? You got drunk, breaking a rule you promised you’d keep and kissed a boy that was the spitting image of your ex? But when the memories of you two together came back, you didn’t want his touch? And you pushed him away, but they wouldn't leave you alone, so JJ intervened? Would you tell her how you still loved him?How you weren’t okay hadn’t moved on? 

“I’m okay.”

Kie smiled, pulling you into a hug. It felt good to hug her. Her scent was familiar and comforting. You loved Kie like a sister, and she you. Kie pulled away, her brows pulling together in confusion. 

“Did you know why JJ was punching that guy? Getting into another fucking fight?” 

You blinked. Another fight? “Um,” You started, but were cut off by Pope. He called her name, waving her over. Kie nodded to you and met JB and Pope. You could faintly hear them talking. 

“He got into a fight because the guy was an asshole, apparently.”

“Does Y/N know why?”

“Who was the guy?”

“I think the fight was because of Y/N.”

You zoned them out, not interested in hearing their ideas. Without thinking, you scanned the crowd, and your eyes fell on a familiar blonde. JJ. Your heart ached. How could you have so much love for a guy who caused you so much pain?

But JJ wasn’t staring off into space. He was looking right at you. His blue eyes still striking even from far away. You met eyes. No one looked away. 

“We’re not good for each other. We’re too dependent.”

You finally understood. You weren’t too dependent. He was.

[taeyohonic]

Just a Taste – Chapter One

Summary: Being asked to take a blood test just to work at a merchandise booth should have been the first read flag for you. But you just gave them a sample of your blood in exchange for a very much needed paycheck and a summer job during BTS’ world tour. After the youngest member of the popular kpop band finds himself in a difficult situation, you come to realize that this wasn’t the last time you shed blood for your idols. or: You becomes the new donor for seven bloodthirsty idols, who seem to be way too interested in their new food source.

Pairing: OT7xfem!Reader

Genre: Fantasy, Smut, (Fluff)

Warnings: blood, they aren’t very nice to you...

Words: 2.7k

Chapters: Prologue, Chap. I, Chap. II, Chap. III, Chap. IV, Chap. V, Chap. VI, Chap. VII

“What do you mean ‘all the bags are gone’?”

Your supervisor does not look amused. The girl with an abnormal amount of glitter on her face does not look amused. Hell, even you don’t look amused. The stadium hasn’t even begun to let the fans in and your merch booth ran out of the official “speak yourself”-bag ten minutes ago.

This job is in the top three most gruesome things you had to do for money. But money was tight, and you didn’t want to survive another summer on ramen and cheap wine. The job ad was harmless at first glance. Just another sales job. But they promised good pay and international traveling, which was enough to let your eyes linger. There was no company mentioned, just a post box.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise when BigHit responded to your application a week later. With Bangtan’s rising popularity and the massive size of their tour, extra staff had to be hired. Still, the ARMY in you couldn’t contain her excitement. This was a big deal for you. Touring with one of your favorite kpop bands, traveling to Japan and getting first dips on all the merchandise? This was a no brainer. Hell, you would have even paid them to tag along. So you dressed to impress when you attended the interview, keeping your giddiness locked behind a professional smile.

“You want what?”, you ask – disbelieve coloring your voice.

“A blood test”, the interviewer repeats nonchalantly without looking up from her questionnaire.

Was this normal procedure? You had only ever worked in your aunt’s bookstore during senior year of high school and at a fast food place all through undergrad. Neither asked for your freaking bloodline.

“What? Do you discriminate certain blood types?”, you say in mock humor. A laugh disguised as a cough rings through the room, as the cute guy in the back of the room tries to hide his amusement. His eyes are locked on your features.

“We just want to make sure all our employees are healthy. You’ll be travelling to a foreign country, working long hours.”, the woman in front of you replies, ignoring your bad attempt at a joke. She continues: “You don’t have to – of course.”

“But then I won’t be asked back for a second interview, am I right?”

The woman looks you in the eyes for the first time since entering the room. She doesn’t look as evil as she sounds. “No”

So, you guess you’ll leave with a bit less body fluid than you anticipated.

There wasn’t a second interview. The test results came with a pre-signed contract.

***

“What the fuck is up with this boy today?”, Joo-Won swears as his eyes are glued to the screen in front of you. Your shift is officially over. Most of the merchandise is packed up, all the sold-out item IDs are sent to the head quarter and you already got a notification that the next delivery will be arriving first thing tomorrow morning. Now you’re sitting together with some crew members, a half-finished soju bottle in your hand and an empty carton of take-out on your lap. The guy at your job interview turned out to be quite fun.

Joo-Won introduced himself during the briefing on your first day in Japan. He is responsible for the ARMY Bomb stands, which seems to be a very big deal around here. This is his third tour with Bangtan and he seems to know nearly every henchmen in this operation. So it came to no surprise when a stage assistant invited you both to watch the concert from one of the twelve monitors backstage. Of course, you didn’t look too out of place with your name badge and the Love Yourself-hoodie you may or may not have purchased with your employee discount.

The stage assistant, whose name you can’t remember, is fuzzing with screen number five as you take another sip of your afterwork drink. You stare not really focusing on anything. Just blank nothingness.

“You did see this as well, right _______?”, Joo-Won asks breathlessly.

You can only nod. The Fake Love performance just ended. And even though all seven idols were on fire, the youngest was just out of control.

“What did we just see?”, the boy continues.

“Rudeness”, you answer and empty the bottle with a hefty swing. You knew Jungkook would lift his shirt. You were prepared as you had seen their comeback stage more times than you’d be comfortable to admit. This was not news to you. But the aggression in his stare, how dark he growled his verses, the hard edges on his mouth, not even hinting a friendly smile, was making you uncomfortable.

Before your new friend can respond his headset beeped. Joo-Won answer, his eyes still on the screen.

“Yeah?” After a beat his eyes flash to you. You squirm uncomfortably in your seat.

“_________ is with me”, he says and you need a second to register your role in the conversation.

Joo-Won’s stare lingers on your face – a silent question in his eyes.

“Sure, sir. I’ll bring her to you right away.” Then he ends the call sifting, so your knees are brushing against one another.

“Care to explain, why Bangtan’s prime management wants to speak with you, _______?”, your friend asks, no judgement in his voice. What?

***

“So, I have to sign another NDA?”, you ask the manager in front of you, trying to swallow your nervousness. This is the Sejin, Bangtan’s right hand advisor. Every fan knows him from countless Bangtan Bombs and can easily recognize the fathering care in his work.

“This one… is more specific”, he explains and moves the stack of papers to you. You try to calm your excited fingers as you grab at the legal document, flipping through it.

“And it’s time sensitive”, Sejin adds and searches your eyes for attention. You give it to him.

“Time sensitive?” The papers abandoned on the table. “Is something wrong with the boys?”

There will come a time and place when you reflect on the choice of calling these men “the boys” as if they were your closest friends. But it’s not today. Today you just see a glint in his eyes.

“Yes, it’s Jungkookie”, Sejin starts and your memories flash to their concert an hour prior. How Joo-Won and you both discussed how beastly the youngest looked – how aggressive.

“Wh-what?”, you answer in question. The manager’s hands move on top of yours.

“He is ill and … you might be able to help him. We can’t transport him. And we are not sure he’ll survive an ambulance ride.”

Your brain blanks as you stand up in a swift move. This is simple: One of your most cherished idols is ill and his trustworthy manager tells you that you’ll be able to help. This is a no brainer.

“Take me to him”, you order, not even caring that Sejin’s words are not making any sense. How can a twenty-four-year-old college dropout help the golden maknae? What even is his illness?

Sejin’s smile should have been another red flag. “Slow down, _________”, he sooths and moves around the table so he is standing in front of you. “This is important. You have to sign the documents. You’ll have to transfuse blood to him.” He is handling you a pen. “There are health risks. This isn’t … the most optimal environment for a blood donation.”

Jungkook needs your blood – memories of your job interview come back.

You sign the contract, not even reading all the small-printed clauses on the pages. Before the ink is even dry, Sejin is moving you through a long corridor. His hand rests on your neck – squeezing reassuringly. A glimmer travels across your body and you try to ground yourself. Of course you are nervous. This is reasonable. You’ll donate blood to one of your favorite idols. Maybe you’ll see him, when he gets better. Hell, maybe he’ll even thank you in person! Meeting Bangtan is the closest form to aspiration you have at the moment.

“When is the nurse coming?”, you question the logistics as you move towards the farthest door labeled “BTS”.

“Which nurse?” You look at Sejin in surprise – if not a nurse, who’ll take your blood?

“Then a doctor?”, you ask and Sejin shakes his head, a humorless chuckle escaping him while you both come to a halt in front of the door.

“There is… no time I’m afraid”, he answers – with remorse in his voice. There is a sinking feeling in your stomach, some of the fog lifted. How the hell should you give Jungkook your blood if there is not even a transfusion station here?

Sejin knocks at the door, ignoring your thumbing heartbeat and opens the door, softly pushing you into the room. “I’ll explain everything; I promise.”

***

The starving vampire smells your sweet blood as soon as the door opens – Sejin a mere decoration in his vision. Jungkook’s whole body turns towards you while your eyes nervously shift across the room. Time slows down as the maknae swiftly moves straight to you. His muscles ache and he cannot even recognize his swallow breathing. His stare is fixed on the nap of your neck – deliciously soft, milky. Not even the slightest imperfection in this human before him.

You do not even sense Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s presence as your eyes take in the predator advancing towards you. The older ones seem frozen as their youngest stops just a breath away from you. You look mouthwatering – clad in one of their merchandise hoodies, hair pinned in a mess at the top of your head, some bold eye make-up, but otherwise barefaced. You look… just right.

Before Jungkook’s grin spreads across his face, Jin takes action – trying to move between the sarved vampire and this … girl. What the hell was Sejin thinking just throwing her in here? Did he want this human dead so badly?

But the oldest is too late – Jungkook growls aggressively as he snatches you against his firm chest. All the air leaves your lungs – your breasts pressed painfully against solid muscle.

“Ahh”, you groan. As soon as the noise leaves your mouth, his lips descend against the white of your neck. The maknae hisses in pleasure; and then he is biting – hard.

Your scream misses the volume and you feel tears on your cheeks as you gaze into Seokjin’s overwhelmed eyes – hands outstretched.

Blood flows freely into Jungkook’s mouth and you hear a sickening slurping sound. The pain is blazing against your skin, every fiber of your body vehemently trying to get away from the maknae. But your fingers don’t push him away. No, the curl around his biceps – acting against every rational though inside your brain. You cling to the man sucking your blood as if he’s merely leaving a love bite.

The pain in your body slowly ebbs and you feel a bright bliss surrounding you. You’re not even sure if you are still standing at the door. There is no room – just lips against your neck and whimpers in your throat… and Namjoon’s voice far, far away.

“Jungkook stop now.”

“This is an order.”

“Jin, help me.”

“Let’s lay her down.”

“Is there a pulse?”

***

“How do you take your coffee?”, Yoongi asks while starring at you with such indifference in his eyes you’re not sure your answer even matters.

“Uhm- I” His sigh interrupts you as he makes his way from the couch across form you to the kitchenette. The whole room is dimmed in a soft light, the furniture a clean white. You feel your head spin as you try to recall what happened. Weren’t you backstage? Didn’t Jun-

“Jungkook”, your voice more of an accusation than a whisper. Yoongi’s back stiffens, but he continues to brew hot water over a ceramic filter and soon a soothing smell of coffee drifts towards you on the white leather.

“Jungkook sucked m-y – he su”

“-cked your blood. Damn girl, how hard did you hit your head when you fainted?”, your favorite rapper asks – his body finally turned towards you.

Slow, leisure steps are taken and then he sits in front of you, taking you all in. You must look like a mess; grease and sweat from your shift in the booth, plus the incident with the youngest vocalist in the band. All the blood. Your stomach turns around uncomfortably.

Yoongi is looking into your eyes and for a split second you see something other than complete boredom behind his stare, but as soon as you try to pinpoint the emotion, it vanishes.

“That’s what vampire do”, he continues and you heart reacts before the triggering word even registers in your brain. Vampire. No way.

“Go-ood one, Yoongi-ssi. This… this isn’t – some romance novel for teenagers”, you scoff, disbelieve in your voice while your heart beats hard against your chest. Without missing a beat, the idol is in your face – literally just millimeters away. The air is stuck in your lungs as you try to calm yourself.

“You know what I hate, dumb human?”

His fingers draw lines across your face – just a feathering touch, barely more than an illusion. You can only shake your head; afraid your voice will give out if you try to answer verbally.

His face moves down to your neck as his hands frame your face – no longer brushing but locking your head into place. Then his mouth dives into your neck, just resting against your pulse. You can feel the sinister smile against your skin as you shiver.

“Talking to dumb people”, his lips vibrate and you feel goosebumps traveling across your body.

“You have all the proof, but your silly little brain still doesn’t – connect the pieces”, Yoongi trails small kisses across your collarbone; a stark contrast to his insulting words.

“Do you really think our little maknae just has a blood kink?”

He moves to the other side of your neck, while titling your head forcefully to the left. You can’t move your body – muscles frozen into place. You’re just passively… enduring what your favorite idol does to you. Now his teeth are grazing your right earlobe, as his voice drops another octave into a threatening growl.

“That we just hire a college dropout because of her work ethics?”

His words hurt, but you’re more concerned with the information behind them. They know about you, must have read your file. Shame colors your cheeks and Yoongi’s nose inhales deeply against the red of your skin.

“You smell fucking delicious”, he moans and places an open mouth kiss against your rosé cheek. You can feel his saliva on your skin and a whimper of your own escapes your throat.

“You like that, dumb human? Knowing I’d love… nothing more than to bite in your flesh? Drain you dry?”, he slurs. You both know that this is nothing more than a rhetorical question – your heart, your breathing and the wetness between your tights enough evidence.

But before he can act on his words, a searing pain flashes through your brain.

“Argh”, you groan pressing your head against his cold hands with virgo. The dead skin of his fingertips sooths the throbbing in your brain temporarily. But he knows that your time is nearing its end.

“Human, listen to me”, he whispers, his previously threatening tone making place for urgent whisper.

“When you wake up” What? His hands still a vise to keep you grounded, while the pain in your head expands to your whole body. “Damn human, focus!”

He searches your eyes for recognition, but your stare moves around the room – now noticing how alien the light looks, how… clean the colors are. Is this? Are you still sleeping? How?

“When you wake up”, Yoongi’s voice nothing more than a vibrating hum in your ears, “Say no to Namjoon.”

Now he is shaking you. “Say no”

***

“Good morning, sleepyhead”, Namjoon says after you open your eyes – the morning sun blinding you momentarily.

“I made you coffee”, he adds as he pushes a steaming mug in your hands. The familiar smell takes you back to your dream, to Yoongi, his words, his plea – and you gape at the leader in front of you.

“I thought we could talk?”

_______________________

A/N: What do you guys think? I am so thankful for the feedback you guys sent me. It means a lot! I hope you like this chapter as much as i do! I’d love to hear from you again! love, dana

taglist: @m0chilattae @gali-005 @fangirls94 @dinopowa @toddsgirl27 @littlemanismoon @dkck99 @slutkoo @subtlepjiminie @coffeebeanismylife @iloverubberduckiez-blog @geminidrawsstuff @olivialovemason88

[mulderist]

Wicked Game

Chapter 1  // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3  // Chapter 4 // Read on A03

Washington, D.C - 1948. Fox Mulder is a detective on the top vice unit; scandal, corruption, and lies come with the territory. He is forced to investigate a fellow officer and finds the lies go much deeper than the truth.

tagging @today-in-fic​

CHAPTER 5

The phone rang three times before she answered. My jaw ached as I tried to mask the slur in my voice when I told her who was calling. I realized it was a long shot ringing her number but I needed something to get my head on straight. I told her I was in Georgetown and as luck would have it she did not have a shift at the hospital that evening. She accepted my invitation to have a drink. I confirmed her address and I said I would wait outside the building to meet her, adding to look for the forlorn gentleman with a grey fedora. We disconnected and I exited the booth then walked to the curb to hail a cab. 

Scully’s apartment building was tucked into a quiet tree-lined block on Q Street. In a town built on history this neighborhood dripped vintage charm with neat colonial rowhouses and brick sidewalks. I paced a slow line in front of the staircase then stretched a foot on the bottom step. The sound of a door opening and heel clicks on brickwork caught my attention. There she was. A vision in a short-sleeved olive green sweater with a high neck, wide-leg trousers gave way to dark t-strap shoes that peeked out from under her pant cuffs. Her ginger-red hair was pinned up halfway and decorated with a small flower. I straightened up and tried to smile as she landed on the last step. 

“God, what happened to you?” she questioned before I could even greet her properly. 

“And hello to you too.” I replied.

“Oh, your cheek,” Scully frowned, “This reminds me of when we first met.” She inspected my face without laying a finger on me. I tipped back my hat slightly so she could get a better look. In the afternoon sun her eyes processed a diagnosis and she reached out a caring hand to touch my jawline but withdrew it quickly. Fingers formed a loose fist instead as her hand dropped slowly towards her hip. I cleared my throat.

“Serves me right for interrupting someone’s lunch, huh?”

“Must have been someone important for them to leave a mark like that,” Scully said, stepping back and adjusting her handbag. I shrugged then said,

“No, just me being a nosy cop.” I found myself staring as she smiled.

“So now that we’re here, where are we off to?”

“There’s a little place I visit when I’m in the neighborhood.” I slipped my hands in my pockets and gestured with a nod down the block. She joined me at my side and we strolled for a few silent moments. Her presence helped to mute the extra noise in my head. Though with each intersection we crossed I was still checking my corners, making sure we weren’t being followed. After the little scene I caused at the restaurant my guard was up. I knew I could never be too comfortable with my surroundings and I certainly didn’t want to put her in danger.

We walked farther down Q street and crossed over to 33rd to a small bar named The Blue Note. I opened the door for her and followed inside. It was your standard set-up with a small stage on the side arranged for a jazz combo. Too early for a gig, so the jukebox in the corner played the matinee performance. Regalia from the university littered the walls but in a more dignified fashion, like the proprietor was trying to distance the establishment from looking like a run-of-the-mill college bar. Still, it was dark, smoky, and my kind of familiar. Only a couple of bar flies had landed to start their day-drinking. I ushered her through a fresh haze of cigarette smoke to an empty spot at the far end of the bar. She took a seat and I adjusted my barstool, sitting close but not too close. Scully caught the attention of the stout bartender.

“I’d like a vodka tonic and my friend here will have?”

“Whiskey.” 

The man nodded and scuttled back to fix our drinks. I put my fedora on the bar and ran a hand through my hair.

“Can you tell me about this case you’re working on?” Scully asked as she placed her handbag in her lap. I thought about how much I wanted to divulge so I kept the names and places to a minimum.

“It involves a drug ring, fairly standard for the vice unit. However the fly in the ointment is that it also involves an investigation into my partner.”

“Wait, the one who was buried at Arlington?”

“The very same,” I answered as the bartender delivered two short glasses. I grasped the drink and raised it, she mimicked the motion. “Cheers,” I said before taking a long sip and swirling the ice cube around. Scully sampled her drink as well and I continued.

“The papers painted it that he was killed in the line of duty. Now, I was there that night. It was the same night I got a hot lead kiss on the shoulder and I think my partner was bumped off in a deal that went sour.”

“Your partner was a hophead?” she asked as she twisted the bottom of her glass on the bar napkin.

“I didn’t suspect he was a hophead,” I said after I downed the last of my whiskey, “but the medical examiner ordered blood work that confirmed he was sky high.”

“Did you see who shot at you?” she asked after a beat, tracing a fingertip along the edge of the highball. 

“No, but we did get a match on the weapon. So all I need to do is take him in .”

“Let me guess, that’s who gave you the bruise.”

“Very perceptive Scully. It was one of his goons actually.” I said as I rubbed my left cheek and glanced reflexively over my shoulder. She held her glass close to her lips and thought for a moment before taking another sip to finish it off. Scully pressed her lips together and focused on her now empty glass. I caught the change in music from the jukebox; a heavy piano piece that fit the tone in our little corner of the bar. I flagged the bartender and ordered another round.  She was hesitant at first on the refill but I guess she didn’t mind my company and decided to stick around. Time seemed to slow to a halt, dripped down like molasses on a winter day.

“Enough about me and the DCPD, I want to know your story.”

“My story, Mulder? I don’t think I’m as interesting as all that,” Scully said as she glanced at her hands, admiring the tidy red varnish on the nails.

“Try me,” I replied as our second round arrived and my attention was now only on her.

“Let’s see...you already know I’m a nurse,” she began with a gesture, “I’ve been one since before the war. Schooling was no cost and once the conflict started I opted to stay home in Maryland to fill the nursing shortage. My brothers had gone through the gauntlet at the naval academy and were sent to San Diego then the South Pacific respectively. It would have broken my mother’s heart if I joined up and got shipped off too” She paused and took a drink. “My sister and mother stayed in Annapolis but in ‘45 I headed to Washington to continue with medicine. There was more I wanted to learn and more ways I felt I could help.”

“And that’s how you ended up in Georgetown?”

She nodded and softly exhaled.

“After I buried my father, I buried myself in studies, work, and other hobbies. I figured if I kept myself busy enough I wouldn’t have time to think about the loss.” Her shoulders shrugged and she absentmindedly toyed with a strand of hair then swept it behind her ear.

“Any travel in that time?” I asked, hoping she had an answer. I was shit at small talk when I wasn’t using my badge.

“California after the war ended to see my brother Bill and his family for Christmas, then last year I took the train up to New England for a change of scenery.”

“Ah, I’m familiar with that area. My parents live on Martha’s Vineyard.”

“It’s really lovely. I was fortunate to visit in the fall.” A hint of a smile crossed her lips as she recalled the memory. A pleasant silence then fell between us. More small talk followed, less personal this go around. Filler subjects like the weather and sports weaved their way into conversation. I was pleased to learn she was a baseball fan and was hoping for a better season than last year. 

The bar was getting more clientele and as much as I wanted to stay and extend my friendship with Mr Jack Daniels, I figured we should make it last call. I paid our tab and escorted Scully outside, placing a featherweight touch on her shoulder as I guided her through the open door. The air felt cool as the sun hid behind passing clouds, setting up for another storm. She thanked me for the drinks and though she was a captain’s daughter who could certainly hold her liquor, I offered to walk her home. 

As we turned the corner and walked back up the block I still felt that we weren’t alone. I kept a close stride next to Scully as we neared her building. She ascended the steps and I joined her at the door. This time her hand found my cheek. 

“I hope to see you again,” she said as she gently stroked my jawline, “But next time without any occupational damage.” 

“Can’t make any promises, doll,” I said moving closer, feeling her fingers twitch, catching a flutter of her eyelashes as she exhaled. My gaze was soft, hypnotized by her features. She grazed the stubble on my skin then Scully raised her chin and placed a soft sweet kiss on my injured cheek. 

“Take care of yourself, detective.”

Through the narrow pane of glass on the building’s door I watched her walk up the stairs, she looked back over her shoulder giving me a final flash of that flower nestled against her red hair. As I turned and walked down the steps I noticed a car parked across the street and a man with a sharp suit and glasses leaning against the side.

“Are you following me?” I called out once I was on the sidewalk, my hand on the butt of my weapon.

“This is your surveillance detail?” Skinner questioned.

“Chivalry isn’t dead yet, Captain.”

“Something’s come up. Get in,” Skinner said as he motioned to the car. I walked around the front of the cruiser and opened the passenger door joining him inside.

“I heard about your incident with Carlo Lodi today.”

“Word travels fast.”

“You’re damn right it does, Mulder. This city is more connected than ever. I had a conversation with our friend Alex Krycek when he returned the squad car you lent him. Seems that he was privy to information regarding a Vincenti heroin shipment tonight.”

“Ha! What did you have to trade for that info?” I asked. He tensed his jaw then said,

“Continued protection. It appears he’s been sitting on this since we first interrogated him.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“There will be a boat arriving at the Navy Yard tonight. Small crew. They are going to make a transfer to one of the warehouses, but it’s up to you to find how they’re moving the shipment from there.”

I took a moment to process the details of my assignment. 

“Will I have back-up?”

“Via radio. Do not engage after you make the mark. Follow standard tailing procedure.”

“If you’re going to send me on a suicide mission, can you at least drop me off in Alexandria. I could use a shower and something to eat.” Skinner gave me a sideways glance and turned the key in the ignition, bringing life to the cruiser. He shifted into gear and we were on our way back across the Potomac.

[karihighman]

Witness – Upstead AU

PART ONE: MEETING YOU WAS FATE

Hailey couldn’t believe it. Well, she could believe it, since she saw it happen right in front of her eyes. But she really could not believe that she would be the one to witness such a thing.

She was walking to her car from her family’s Greektown cafe and bakery, where she worked, and she heard a rustling in the alleyway across the street. She turned, but couldn’t see anything. She had just put her key into her car door to unlock it when she almost jumped out of her skin.

A gun shot.

That she knew she heard.

Before she could even blink, the gunman was fleeing the alley. He was panicking, but not only from the crime he had committed. No, Hailey had a feeling he wasn’t from around the area, because if he were, he would’ve ran the opposite way, as the back of the alleyway would dump you onto a service road, which would make the perfect getaway.

No, this guy ran to his right, forward, and even crazier, in the direction of Hailey. She had tried to avert her eyes, but she felt frozen with fear as she heard strangled sounds coming from said crime scene.

Oh god, was someone dying? Shit. She couldn’t just leave them there. She had to help.

She blamed it on her masters in psychology, which she was just two more months away from completing. She was splitting her time between school, and work. It was actually how she met her now-roommate, Vanessa. They studied at CCU together.

Hailey whipped out her cell phone and dialed 911. She was talking with the dispatcher when she cursed herself for not shining her flashlight in the dark alley. She flipped it on, and in front of her was a man, couldn’t be more than 5-10 years older than she, lying on the ground.

His words were mangled, but it took Hailey a moment to realize it was because blood was spilling from his mouth. She held her breath, as if that was going to help something. She was trying to find where the actual wound was, but she was having a difficult time.

The man’s fancy suit jacket was covering his arm that put pressure on his abdomen. Shit, that’s not good, Hailey thought to herself as she tried to assist. “Yes, at 501 S Racine. Yes, he’s been shot in the stomach, he’s bleeding really bad, please hurry.”

“Ma’am, paramedics and police are in route.”

Hailey heard the dispatcher as she dropped her phone, not caring where it landed, and turned her attention to the dying man in front of her.

“Sir? Hey, the ambulance is on its way,” she tried, but he wasn’t responsive. “Hey,” she said with a bit more authority. “Do you know who did this to you?”

He barely moved his head up and down, but that was enough for Hailey. “Who? Who did this?”

“My,” he croaked, his speech cut off by the gurgling of blood. Hailey idled helplessly as the man’s eyes shifted closed.

“No, no, no. Hey, hey!” She exclaimed, ears perking up when she heard the sound of the sirens. “Sir, please hold on. They’re almost here.”

She saw a myriad of flashing lights, red, blue, and white. She had the most idiotic thought when she looked at it. It reminds me of the flag. As fast as it entered her mind, it was gone as she screamed for the first responders to get over here. She wasn’t sure if they could see them from the street.

She saw shadows along the brick wall, rushing to meet her own. She didn’t expect to be pushed and prodded, but she supposed it was what needed to be done. She was plucked up by a paramedic, while 2 tended to the man. He was up on a gurney and into the first waiting truck before the one that stood by Hailey spoke.

“Ma’am? Are you hurt?”

Hailey hadn’t spoken yet, but when she brought her hands up to her face to brush her hair out of her eyes, she found them to be covered in blood. His blood. She felt her breath come in spurts, and she felt like she couldn’t move, let alone say anything. So much blood.

“Okay, we’re gonna get you to Chicago Med just to be safe,” the medic told her, leading her zombie-like frame over to the second ambulance. “Did you see what happened?”

Hailey parted her lips only a tad, still unable to form the simplest of words: yes. So, in a disturbing twist of events, she took her bloodied pointer finger, and etched a “Y” onto the back of her hand, which was clear of blood. She felt like she was watching herself do these things: showing her hand to the medic, hearing calls for a cop to follow them to Med, and a distinct two taps on the back of their truck before it propelled forward.

What the hell just happened?

——————-

Jay wasn’t the hugest fan of the late night calls that Intelligence seemed to always pick up. Well, at least not lately. Seemed like he barely clocked in two hours of sleep a night because he was always on the clock at work.

He wiped the sleep from his eyes as he surveyed the remnants of the crime scene. They couldn’t call it a murder yet, because as it stood, their victim was on his way to the hospital. Blood littered the brick wall, some trickling down to the unevenly paved cement ground.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he took it all in. Why the hell would someone be shot here? It was just outside the dinkiest shopping lot, with a bakery across the street, a gas station on the corner, and a couple of random stores in between.

“Halstead,” Voight’s voice echoed over his own thoughts. “Get to Med. You’re interviewing the witness.”

Jay opened his mouth, wanting to at least get someone else to come with him. Ever since his ex-partner and subsequent ex-girlfriend Erin left a few years back, he’d been rotated through all the rest of the Intelligence Unit. He’d felt most comfortable with Adam, as the two were able to dick around in their free time to take the edge off the homicides and robberies they dealt with every day.

But, because Adam was a bit – according to his fiancée Kim, a lot – dismal, he’d managed to get stuck with a needle while chasing after a suspect a few days back. He was holed up at the apartment he shared with Kim until the end of this week, when his tests would come back. Just to make sure he didn’t catch anything. Adam had called it a “free vacation”; Kim called it “the dumbest decision he’s made in a while.”

So, he was left without his usual buddy, and everyone else had already been assigned a job. Kevin and Kim were out canvassing, meanwhile his sergeant and sergeant Platt were knee deep in the middle of a discussion. It made sense that the only other missing piece was the witness statement. The medics had whisked them away before anyone could speak to them. Jay didn’t even know if he would be speaking with a burly guy or a timid girl.

Only one way to find out, he figured as he climbed back into his truck. Off to Chicago Med, he went.

When he arrived a short time later, he saw a flash of red hair, which meant his brother was making his rounds. “Will!”

The redheaded older Halstead turned at the sound of his name. His face softened for a split second when he saw it was his younger police brother, but fell serious once again when he realized why Jay was there. He’d not been in the operating room while Dr. Marcel was working on their gunshot victim, but, he knew by hearing the experienced surgeon call “time of death” that they couldn’t save him.

Him turned out to be interim Superintendent Jason Crawford. And Will, being the nice guy that he is, would break the news to his brother.

“Jay,” he said carefully as he walked over to his brother. “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

“Dammit!” Jay said, slamming his fist against the nurses station. Maggie gave him one of her looks, and Jay mouthed a “sorry.”

“Shit. Will, who was it?”

“Ex-superintendent Jason Crawford.”

Jay just stood there for a second, mouth slightly agape. Well, fuck. This couldn’t get any worse.

He slapped a hand over his mouth as he began to pace. Will’s hands steadied his shoulders, making him focus again. “Jay. Go make yourself useful and interview the witness. I think April’s finishing her vitals now,” he nodded his head across the way. Jay’s head swiveled, following until he saw April’s coiled hair and nurses uniform.

Got it.

“Yeah,” he said, giving Will’s shoulder a quick pat of gratitude. “Thanks.”

He made his way over towards April, and when he asked her how they were doing, he was surprised when she said that “she’s good to go. No injuries, just shock. Blood was not hers, it was your victim’s. All yours, detective.”

He played off his surprise with a cough. “Thanks, April.”

He finally turned to face this mysterious woman, and was met with the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Her blonde waves were mussed, but he assumed that was from the hospital staff poking at her all night. Her lips were pursed, and she sat calmly on the hospital table.

“Hi,” was the first thing that tumbled out of his mouth, and if it was remotely possible to stick his foot in his mouth whilst standing up, you’d better believe he would’ve done so. Really, that’s all you got? He tried to pull it together so he wasn’t just gawking at her. “I’m Detective Halstead, with the Intelligence Unit. Can you tell me what happened?”

She blinked, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, sure. I was walking to my car, and I heard a noise. I wasn’t thinking much of it until I heard a gunshot. Once I remembered how to use my legs again, I ran over to where the guy sat, er, lied. I asked him if he knew who did this to him, and he nodded – well, as best he could. He only said “my” before he passed out, or went into shock, I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. But, if I had to guess, it was someone close to him, because a close range shot like that suggests they were within arms lengths of each other.”

Jay was in the midst of scribbling down her answers when his ears perked up at her suggestion. He felt a small smirk play on his lips, and he miserably failed to tamper it down. “Not a doctor, huh?”

“Nope,” she responded, popping the “p.” Sensing he’d want an explanation, she tacked on: “Future psychologist.” She nodded, the smallest of smiles gracing her lips. She held out her hand, and Jay had forgotten what the custom meant. Damn her prettiness.

He regrouped, placing his hand against hers to shake. Their fingers connected, and even though it was a simple handshake, he’d not felt anything during all the other hands he’d shook in his lifetime. Not a one.

“Hailey Upton.” Even her name was pretty.

He locked his eyes on hers. “Detective Halstead, but you can call me Jay.”

[westerhos]

Our Story: Chapter 7

Hi friends! Sorry for the delay here. I’ve been on vacation, so my priorities have been boozin’ and cruisin’. Thanks for your continued support of this story—I love hearing your feedback. This one’s a whopper of a chapter!

______

We often lose track of time in this great, big world of ours, in much the same way we lose a pair of keys, a couple of pens. “I swear I saw them two seconds ago!” we groan, groping to purse-bottoms, finding only lint and chump-change. So many things—these small facets of our lives—sucked into the void of bygones, taken before we can ever think to tie them down.

“I swear I was twenty-two just yesterday.”

This is how it is for Jamie and Claire, their years like old playbills confiscated by the wind and an invisible clock. Certain acts reappear from time to time, when the arm of a broom sweeps them into the light, when the frosting of dust disturbs, then floats. And for a brief moment, as the particles of time and forget resettle themselves, Jamie and Claire can hear their lives’ most glorious crescendos. The lowest notes tip-toe from the long-kept silence, rising and sinking slowly, steadily. All plucked strings, still vibrating, until the echoes die, cradling the past.

You can write an entire story with these bits and pieces of their lives, cut the acts together to form one winding opera. It plays and stops until, eventually, the grand finale. The overlap: a perfect harmony which carries them from their separate wings, to center stage and to each other.

And it is there, finally, that they meet again, lips and lives melding. They stand together in the orb of the spotlight. A single sun, glowing.

THE SPIRIT IN THE HORSE, 2000

Starring James Fraser, Jenny Fraser, Brian Fraser, The Doctor, Ellen Fraser, Fitzy (and a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else)

Though a bestselling author, JAMES FRASER did not grow up with dreams of books, but of horses.

He was born on an unusually hot day, spring 1968. Everything melting at its very seams, the birthing room’s thermometer feverish with mercury blood. His father and sister had fashioned fans from intake forms, moving heat-murk and birth-stink with the accordioned papers. They looked on with damp foreheads, lips white and tight, so that Ellen could have the breaths they saved.

At half-past noon, the doctor had caught Jamie’s auburn crown, dripping more heavily than his own laboring mother. All of this—the heat, the sweat, the waving forms—was taken as the stamp of Jamie’s fate. Surely, they had all agreed, he would set the world on fire, would be a brand forever puckering its skin.

The hibernators had emerged early that year, scurrying from their earthen wombs just as Jamie had slipped from his mother’s. Heat-drunk and dizzied, they had eaten everything in sight. Corn stalks, cabbage leaves, whole fields of barley—gone. Even Ellen’s strawberries, barely ripened—devoured by mid-April. The red fruits had shrunk to halves, then thirds, as the creatures munched and munched. Fleshy hearts eaten to bleeding, the pulp left to the sleepy stragglers.

And so on the day Jamie entered the world, the Frasers had returned to a dark and stifling house. Rot wafted from the windows, and the electrical wires were chewed cleanly through. One rabbit, the chosen martyr, had laid cooked in the grass, fur spiked.

Brian had thrust Jamie into his daughter’s arms, ran inside to rescue what unspoiled food he could (three eggs, a loaf of bread). Waiting in the yard, Jenny had imagined the wilting lettuce inside the fridge and Ellen, equally wilted under the blue hospital sheet. She had watched a squirrel leap across the berry guts, a rope of black wire between his paws.

How—if at all, she had wondered—would they survive without her mother?

Too exhausted for a trip to the store, Brian had fried the eggs on the driveway. The yolk was thick in his mouth and the sorrow thicker in his chest, before he realized Jamie’s cries had quieted. He started when he heard the horse’s whinny, the snorty exhale through its nostrils. Beside him, Jenny had scuttled away, feet scraping at the egg crusts.

Incensed by the heat and the crowd, Fitzy the horse had stormed her stable doors to freedom. She had brayed, desolate to find her owner gone, until she spotted the flame in Brian’s arms. Copper, auburn, cinnabar—all Ellen’s colors—poking from a swaddle of blue. And so Fitzy had bowed her head, brought Jamie into her awed silence. One shining moment, the first since Ellen’s passing—calm and peaceful.

Even now, 32 years later, Jamie loves to tell this story. How Brian had pressed his baby fist to the mane, his mother still a stickiness on his baby thumb. And how, as a young boy, Jamie had thought Ellen lived somewhere inside auld Fitzy. Something in the black bead of the mare’s eye: a flash, a peculiar spark. It was an acknowledgement that, until one night in 1989, Jamie had never felt before.

After his book tour in ’99, Jamie Fraser decided to take the leap—carpe diem—and purchase his own horse and his own land (fields way out in the Highlands; a farmhouse converted to splendor by his millions). The horse, like Fitzy, wears a chestnut coat. She is stubborn but loving, recognizes Jamie’s voice when he calls and his face when it floats above her stable door. He sees a flash of Fitzy—and of his mother, he thinks—when she surrenders her anger to Jamie’s flags of truce: a fresh Granny Smith, a carrot stick plucked from the ground. He sees a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else when she nudges his shoulder, apologetic. The only source of happiness, this beautiful beast, outside of his writing.

“Ye see?” Jamie had said after their first standoff, “Ye canna stay mad at me forever.” And when the horse had chomped the apple from his hand, he’d sworn that she was smiling.

“Mo nighean donn,” he’d whispered, and decided, then and there, to name her Sorcha.

______

CARROLL’S THEORY OF TRUTH, 2003

Starring Claire Randall, Frank Randall, Joe Abernathy, duncandonuts, wetwillie, mark_me_1745, parsleymarsley, l.mackenzie (and The Author)

When CLAIRE RANDALL is not working at the hospital, her nose is pressed to a blue-white screen.

For years, she had resisted those monstrous, blocky machines—Macintosh, Dell, Gateway—all brand names accompanied by her husband’s greedy and jabbing elbows.

But there was value in tradition, Claire had argued. A kind of sanctity in the ping of an Underwood or the swish of pen; privacy and authentic connection. Frank had merely rolled his eyes, always lusting after the new and shiny—whether it was a computer or a student’s gloss-plumped lips—knowing it was not “tradition” itself that his wife was holding onto.

“So like you, Claire,” he’d said bitterly one day, “wanting to stay stuck in the past.” And, of course, he’d been right. Just to spite him, she’d finally surrendered and gave him one for Christmas.

Gradually, Claire came to love the whirring engine, the wail of the dial-up, the period of isolation where she was unreachable by phone. Like time travel, almost, the way it took her places past and present, opening every door like some futuristic gentleman.

But mostly, Claire loved the computer for the freedom it gave her. Boot up the system, click the mouse, log on, be someone else. Online, Claire could play a different role than the surgeon or the amateur gardener, pretend she was not the wife who turned her cheek as often as she made her husband’s dinner. On the Internet, her identity was a thirty-word bio, her face a grey silhouette displayed comfortably—anonymously—inside a neat, square frame. A million different bodies growing inside her, once her fingers flew across keyboard:

Claire Randall, the British spy.

Claire Randall, the avid hiker, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Claire Randall, the mother, who loved the melt of ice cream down her daughter’s chin. Her tiny mouth, sweet and sugared, when it met hers for a kiss.

One website, her favorite, was this: a forum, populated by other faceless humans who, like Claire, could recite page 451 (or any others) of A Blade of Grass. In this corner of the online universe, they had spoken of The Author on a first-name basis, trading facts like prized baseball cards. But it was only Claire who could share the most private knowledge, attribute it all to her keen nose and thus earn the respect of 16 anonymous users.

Even so, Claire had been surprised by what they knew solely through their reading. The Author’s childhood, his relationships, his favorite color. She was able to ask her own prodding questions and receive correct answers, such as:

whiteraven: A long shot, but does anyone know how to contact him by telephone?

And five of the grey-faced few had responded.

duncandonuts: easier to send him send him a letter (might get lost among the rest of his fan mail though).

wetwillie: have you tried his agent, john grey, in london?

mark_me_1745: if u meet him, tell him 2 come 2 brasil!!!!!!! we <3 him!!!!!!!

parsleymarsali: Publishers Weekly mentioned he’s now with Geordie Gibbons at the Claude F. Agency, not Grey, @wetwillie. Think it had something to do with creative differences and missed deadlines.

l.mackenzie: pass that info onto _me_ if you find it, girl! <g>

By a stroke of luck, someone had known someone who’d known someone who’d known someone. And just like that, she was given a phone number the following Wednesday. A day like any other, if it weren’t for a single string of digits sitting in her inbox, a silent but ticking grenade.

She spent three months with the numbers inside her head, stored in a folder marked with The Author’s name. She did manage to call though—once—when her hand finally lowered from its hover. She’d waited out the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the robotic chime, “You have reached the voice mailbox of..." She had listened to the beep that followed and then the silence, stretching, until she remembered her mouth. It opened, exhaled, then shut abruptly with the click of her teeth. There was the clatter of keys and the thwop of a briefcase—Frank home from work.

She had almost whispered, but did not.

It was too much to have both men in the same room: one gently pecking her lips, the other pressing an electric current into her cheek, crackling. Too much, too much. Claire had slammed the phone down and cursed, “Bloody teleprompter. Always calling before dinner,” which had made her husband laugh. She’d made him spaghetti that night, the spices forming twelve digits in the saucepan no matter how many times she swirled the spoon.

It’s been four months since that first and only call, though Claire still remembers The Author’s number. She thinks of if—when—she will have the courage to call again, to finally speak and fill the space of eleven empty years. While Frank snores beside her, she plays the scene from start to finish, like a draft of the real, inevitable thing.

Again: the sonorous ring, the tinny greeting, the beep, and the silence that waits for her. But this time: her mouth opens—one, two three times—and five words repeated, again and again.

In some versions, she says them aloud. In others, merely pushes them, soundless, into the air. Still, they are there, held aloft by satellite arms high up in the sky. Somewhere between her and The Author, existing: I was born for you, I was born for you, I was born for you.

And what is said three times—even unfinished, even without words—is always, always true.

______

THREE TIMES THE WORLD ENDED , 2004

Starring Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser, and Laoghaire Mackenzie (and The Girl)

JAMES FRASER, age 34, can pinpoint three moments where his world fell apart.

He was eighteen during the first, a brazen thing, but still as green as the pot freshly stinking his Levi’s. After reading the call notice pasted to his door, he’d floated to the common room on a cloud of White Widow weed. He dialed, laughing, until Jenny’s voice had sobbed down the line, breaking the peace of his druggy fug.

Their father, she’d cried, had died the previous evening.

With the news, the had drugs turned. Floors slanted, limbs jellied. Jamie watched as a hole ripped open the wall behind him, its enormous black void revealing the space Brian Fraser had left behind. It had swallowed Jamie up, refused to spit him back again until The Girl reached inside and found his heart two years later. Returned it to him, like a love note, passed on the inside of her smile.

Jamie describes the second collapse in his two famous novels, A Blade of Grass and Two Centuries in Purgatory. This time, the world had split completely, Jamie and The Girl like two tectonic plates shifting in the night. It was his writing that had bound Jamie’s world together again, though the spine remained cracked, a few of the pages missing.

The third time occurred just last week though Jamie was not entirely surprised. It’s what happens, he supposes, when you build something on uneven ground. Physical presence—someone’s here-ness—does not equate to love.

Nine years after the second earthquake, a new person had come into Jamie’s life. She would stand in the doorway at 6:30PM, jump to her tip-toes to welcome him home. There would be steam from the stove, and utensils would gleam in perfect, shining order. Napkins would wait with their patient folds, each prepared to catch the food that she, his ever-present Laoghaire, had prepared during the day. And for those three years, Laoghaire’s toothbrush had sat next to Jamie’s, her silks hanging beside his cottons. Evidence, he had thought, that he maybe-almost loved her.

But then Laoghaire had grown curious—“Why’ve no made progress on yer novel? What are ye writing all day if it isna yer third book?”—and stuck her piglet nose into places it did not belong. She, in a rare moment of ingenuity, had unlocked the safe and found his letters.

And so this time, Jamie’s world had not ripped or split—but exploded with a thousand sticks of paper dynamite. Laoghaire had burned through the house, burned through the letters. She’d called the magazines and the bloggers, vowing to tarnish his reputation with lies: cheater, drunk, lunatic, fraud. Finally, she’d left, taking the napkins, the cutlery, and the toothbrush—but leaving the embers in her wake, smoldering. A few scraps had avoided the fire, and Jamie read them as the night rose.

My da once told me I’d know straight away, that I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t.

For so many years, for so long, I have been so many different men.

The love of you was my soul.

and

Yours, Jamie

Forever, Jamie

Come home, my heart. I am not as brave as I was before, Jamie

On and on and on they went. Singed pieces of his letters. Every one meant for The Girl who’d confronted his darkness, had rescued his heart at a Christmas Eve party.

4,380. One letter for every day he had missed her.

______

THE KILLING GIRL, 2006

Starring Claire Randall*, Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, Frank Randall (and The One Person)

CLAIRE RANDALL* , resident at Boston GH, was five years old when she thought she was murderer. For years, she could hardly sleep, fearing not the monster beneath her bed, but the one beneath her covers.

Instead of counting sheep, she’d recounted facts as they’d been reported in the paper: Henry and Julia Beauchamp, parents of one Claire Beauchamp. Their mangled car, and a rocky deathbed set one hundred feet below. Both husband and wife, father and mother—dead upon impact.

Rarely, did this guide Claire towards sleep, and so she began to picture the accident as she’d recorded it in her diary. The same story, but more accurate—one that played behind her eyelids as if she had watched it all, a spectator on the road’s shoulder.

There was her parents’ blue Ford ribboning the cliffside. The low hum of conversation and the static of the radio. There was Claire’s goodbye before they left—“You always go without me! IhateyouIhateyou!”— which followed her parents and pushed them off the edge. She was sure it was her words that had broken her mother’s neck, had snapped it like a flower’s stem. One Claire Beauchamp, the little killing girl.

Five years passed before Lamb had found her in the courtyard, weeping her guilt into a mat of grey feathers. She had confessed to her five-year old anger then; how she’d pried open the rocky mouth and dropped her parents in.

“Death doesn’t move according to reason, my dear,” Lamb had said, “but only chance. And by no fault of yours.” He had patted her on the head like a priest grants forgiveness, and they buried the bird in the Nyungwe Forest. Wings and Claire’s blame laid to rest beneath the trees.

Still, Claire likes how accountability sets her world—so wracked by coincidence—back on its axis. Responsibility, however false, is easier to accept than the fickleness of husbands, of dead parents, of love and life. She assumes the role of the guilty to feel a sense of control, like she herself is in charge of the scale’s tip. And so:

It was Claire’s fault that the frost returned in May, all her marigold suns snuffed out.

It was Claire’s fault that the infection took the wound, gnawed the patient’s flesh so that a saw had to chop the bone.

It was Claire’s fault that midnight voices chirped down the receiver. The girls’ lovesick pleas—I need you. I love you. Leave her.—placed in Frank’s pockets by Claire’s own hands.

And of course, it was Claire’s fault that things had ended as they did. The final fight, every bit of hate, hers to claim:

“I am not an idiot, Frank! And I’m tired of being made into one.”

“Darling, you aren’t an idiot. I never said you were an idiot.”

“Don’t bloody ‘darling’ me, you bloody cad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How novel.”

“Truly, I am.”

“So that’s it, then? Just ‘I’m sorry.’ No excuses? No begging-on-bended-knee?” (Claire had scoffed. Her laughter, like the paring knife that guts the beast.) “No, of course not. Begging would be too embarrassing for you. Too much effort. All your energy is spent chasing skirts and quick fucks. You selfish, disgusting man.”

“So I’m the only selfish one here, is that it? Just me?”

“You’re saying that I’m selfish?”

“I am.”

“Me.”

“Yes, you, Claire! You, who is always working and never here. You, who sleeps with his books under our mattress, still wears the man’s goddamn ring on a chain. Like a fucking noose around our marriage, from the start.” (Claire had winced; Frank’s knuckles had cracked the wall.) “No, I’m not selfish, Claire. I’ve shared you with another man for thirteen years.”

“So I see you’ve lost all sense, but still have some fucking nerve."

“Cursing doesn’t improve your argument.”

“Wanker.”

“Now Claire…”

“Just go.”

“Claire, please—”

“Go.”

And thus, it was Claire’s fault that Frank had whispered, “You’ve never looked at me. Not once, not really.” And it was her fault that he had grabbed his keys, slipped into the blizzard and into his car.

And it was Claire—Claire, Claire, Claire—who became the ice that hissed against tires. Who launched Frank’s body through the glass, turned his skin purple-blue and the snow dark red. Her fault that the last thing she’d said was “go”, and Frank had taken her at her very word.

All of this, she has put upon her shoulders, for its burden is lesser than the truth: that she has no control, never did and never would. Claire is forever held at the mercy of a capricious gravity—she and everyone else, a little bit helpless. Always.

But there was One Person, she often remembers, who had given her a kind of foothold. On their wedding night, she had whispered about her mother’s flower neck, about the grey bird whose wings she’d given to the Nyungwe. And he had understood, promised forgiveness for whatever wrongs she had and would commit. “Real or imagined, Sassenach” he’d said into hair, “Already forgiven.” They had spiraled through life, the pair of them, both a little bit helpless—but everything shared.

But of all of her false faults, this is one Claire fears is true: that she is the reason The One Person is not here, but some 3,000 miles away. She was, after all, the one who had packed the suitcase and caused the gavel to fall, Divorce.

All her fault: Claire Randall. The guilty one, the killing girl, the widow. Spinning and spinning into empty space, grasping at stars, alone.

*[Note from director: Ms. Claire Randall has requested we change her name to Claire Beauchamp. Please reprint with this correction ASAP. Thank you.]

______

POINT OF CONVERGENCE, 2007

Starring Jamie Fraser (The Author, The One Person), Claire Beauchamp (A More-Than-Flash Of Someone-Else, The Girl), Geordie Gibbons

JAMES FRASER does not like to disappoint. It is his greatest fear, seeing someone’s face pull, twist, and finally droop into an expression of discontent. Even worse: when the expression is given a name, “I’m so disappointed in you, Jamie.” And worst of all: when the name is given by his agent, Geordie Gibbons.

One of the most important days of Jamie’s life began in anticipation of such disappointment. He had twiddled his thumbs beneath a table, dreading the moment Geordie’s fedora ducked beneath the restaurant’s eaves. The wait staff had milled around him: A waiter dashed towards snapping fingers, the hostess offered towels for rain-soaked heads. He’d felt jealous, watching them, of their readiness—how they could be so effortlessly on time. Jamie couldn’t even manage to meet his deadlines, the desk calendar at home flipped far beyond the designated X.

Jamie and Geordie were to have “lunch” and “catch up”. This would, inadvertently, devolve into an interrogation about Jamie’s third novel, which was nothing more than a series of working titles. It was a pattern, this lateness and lunching, never changing despite the demands and promises made by both parties. Geordie would remove his hat, exposing the frown previously shadowed beneath its brim. Their food would be served—Jamie, something yeasty; Geordie, a taxidermist’s culinary experiment—and Jamie would choke down a side of his agent’s disappointment. Eventually, they would part ways, and Jamie would return home, knock out a few pages. Turn in a shitty draft the next morning for the sake of postponing a second “lunch.”

But on this day, the universe had shifted; the pattern broke. Jamie had continued to sit there, all sweat and nerves, but Geordie’s fedora, the interrogation, and the food never came.

Because while Jamie had waited in the restaurant, CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP was arguing in her bedroom mirror: Claire vs. Claire, Head vs. Heart. She was thousands of miles away in a Boston apartment, but still—the tremor traveled, pushing a storm across the Atlantic, down the Royal Mile, to Jamie. The trajectory of his day and his life had changed as Claire gesticulated wildly at her own reflection.

So at 12:14, Jamie had been alone, Geordie unusually late for a man so fond of punctuality. He read the menu three times, settled on a whisky. Thought better of it; ordered two.

At 12:30, Claire’s battle had still raged, no victor in sight. The thunder had shaken the house, shaken the mirror on the wall.

At 12:46, Jamie had condemned Geordie, then deadlines. Art, he’d fumed, was beyond time, existed outside of it. He had ordered a third whisky when a wine spill was wiped up, gone before it had the chance to leave its mark.

At 12:48, Claire had moved to the kitchen. Both armies were advancing quickly, charging into the living room, to the yard, back to the living room, over and over. She and herself, it seemed, had reached a stalemate. Head and Heart had squatted, dripping rain, and awaited the other's surrender.

At 12:50, Claire had paused and looked through the window. She caught a glimpse of her garden, reborn and thriving despite the storm, and the sight of the marigold blooms did not reveal an emptiness inside her. She felt, for once, happy. Her Heart had stormed her Head’s walls, then, the gates of decision giving way.

At 12:51, Claire had opened her scrapbook, a secret once kept from Frank. It was filled with bits and bobs: a piece of bubble wrap, a bell from her holiday sweater. Both of them glued beside old polaroids. Again, she did not feel her Heart stutter, but expand; lift straight out of her chest. A full siege after that. Her Head’s weakest men fell beneath the lash of artery whips.

At 12:52, the end was near, and Claire’s Heart marched to her computer, hunted through years of mail. Its trophy had laid buried in a folder—one message with twelve digits—and the battle, at last, was won.

At 12:53, both Jamie and his phone had buzzed. The door opened, letting in the air. It had smelled of wet soil, earthy and ripe. Familiar, like a ghost’s kiss on the back of his neck. He put the phone to his ear, and…

At 12:53:05, he said, “Jesus, man! Where are ye? I’ve been waiting nigh on 50 minutes!” There was no response.

At 12:53:08: “Did ye get caught in the storm? Are ye calling from a pay phone?” More silence.

At 12:53:13: “Hello? Anyone there?”

At 12:53:20: “Geordie, man, is that you?”

At 12:53:25: A deep, shaking breath. An audible gulp. Claire’s Heart whispering its victory song.

12:53:26: “It’s isn’t Geordie.”

12:53:27: “It’s me.”

And at 12:53:28, everywhere, suddenly—the brightest sun.

Phew! This chapter is one of the longest, but it’s also one of my favorites. The structure is lifted straight from Fates and Furies—there’s a chapter that is just a series of the protagonist’s plays—and I was looking to try something new (it also weirdly fits in with the tone of the chapter introductions). In my opinion, the best thing about writing fanfiction is that you have so much room to experiment.

This structure also allowed me to do what I’d been wanting to do from the beginning: move away from the One Day conceit and explore Jamie and Claire’s pasts. It was very easy to just run with any image or idea that came to mind—we know so little about their childhoods; there are so many possibilities!

And speaking of why fanfiction is so awesome—and I mentioned this in another post—but it’s a blast figuring out how to incorporate canon into an AU setting. Using canon dialogue can boost the emotional punch of a line in a way that is just *chef’s kiss*. “I was born for you.” “I am not as brave as I was before.” Ugh, kill me.

I have to whistle past some of the melodrama and Frank’s computer craze (wouldn’t he also be a typewriter sort of person???). And modern!Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Brazil comment still tickles me. This is not meant as an offense to Brazilians—y’all are just always on *clap* it *clap*, and I love your enthusiasm.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed :)