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wickedscribbles · 1 month

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if i get too loud you can shut my mouth ch. 2

Masterlist

Ch. 1

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x Logan Howlett/Wolverine

Rating: Explicit

Tags: handjobs, dry humping, oral sex, violent sex, violence (but they're into it), tenderness, dirty talk, choking

Word Count: 2.7K

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated.

There are precious few moments where Logan's brain will shut the fuck up and give him some peace.

You'd think after two hundred years, there would be pockets of quiet. Tranquility, even. That does not seem to be the case. If he believed in karma, he'd venture to say that he's still paying for what he did so many years back – or failed to do.

Alcohol helps. Makes everything go so numb and blurry that he can't bring himself to care about all the things his brain normally can't stop ruminating over.

But lately, Logan's been trying to cut back. Ever since he was yanked out of his timeline and brought into Wade's, he's found things that are worth keeping a clear head for.

Daytime work that he likes; putting things together instead of ripping them apart. A studio apartment that suits him just fine. Wade's friends, who feel achingly familiar as they slowly become his own companions.

Laura – the girl from the Void who had eyed him with such fascination and misplaced grief – had followed them here as well. And though Logan knows that he doesn't technically owe her anything, a part of him still feels a responsibility to check in on the kid. So there's that, too.

So strange, to try and have some sort of a life again after endless years thinking he deserved nothing. All that time in an alcoholic haze, only to be pulled out by the man he now has pinned to the wall, his mouth so soft against Logan's own.

But he's done thinking. He did enough of that on the way here. He's been doing that, worrying about what the fuck Wade even wants. Knowing that it won't end well for so many reasons.

As he has so many times in the past, he's saying fuck it to logic and falling in headfirst. Logan kisses the fool in front of him, despite the fact that the man annoys the shit out of him, despite the ridiculous pajamas, despite everything in his brain screaming bad idea.

Why does he have to be attracted to Wade Wilson, of all people? Logan doesn't know. He just is. Left burning and hard after every fucking interaction, milling over the lighting fast quips and the little flirtations. Hating that Wade can make him laugh, furious that he misses the man when they're not together.

This is more dangerous than the dozens of threats he's been up against in his prolonged lifetime.

Fuck it, he thinks again, drunk on the feeling of Wade's cock pressing into his thigh. He wants this too much. And when was the last time he truly let himself have something he wanted?

The way they touch is hesitant for all of two seconds before it becomes hot and deep and messy and needy.

Logan's definitely not running from Wade now. Instead he's pushing him deeper into the wall, hips rutting against his cock, chasing that friction. The other man's heartbeat is thunder in his ears, and he smells like lust and Irish Spring and the chicken tacos he had for dinner.

For once, Wade is quiet, his mouth busy with the frantic pace Logan's giving him to work with. He makes the softest little sounds every time their lips collide, his scarred hands buried in fistfuls of Logan's flannel where it hangs open at his sides.

God. Fuck.

It would be all too easy to become overwhelmed, to just rut against him until he couldn't bear it anymore, spilling in his jeans like a horny teenager.

But Logan wants more.

He slides one palm down from where he's supporting himself against the wall and slowly, pointedly traces it over the other man's throat. Logan feels as much as hears him breathe faster before he gives one deep, full squeeze. Wade's hips ram into his, faster, harder, and Logan has to bite back his own sound of pleasure.

Vibrations purr against the palm of his hand as Wade tries to say something.

“We gonna stand here all night or are you gonna –hhh–do something?”

Good question.

“No,” Logan replies, after remembering that he's got the mental capacity to dry-fuck this man and talk at the same time. “I think… I think I'm gonna make you come, then you're gonna show me where the bedroom is.”

“Fuuuuuuck,” Wade groans. Every breath comes out in a short burst, and Logan can tell he's close. “I haven't been this wet s-since I got the big call from Feige, Jesus Christ this feels good, I –”

Logan cuts him off by cupping his other hand to Wade's cock between their bodies, and it's a special kind of delight to see his eyes roll back as he forgets whatever he was trying to say.

“That's it,” he murmurs. “Almost there.”

A frantic hand travels to Logan's ass, urging him forward, begging for more pressure, and he provides it on instinct. Wade’s cock is hot and a little damp around the shape of his palm, and Christ if that doesn’t make his own jerk in answer, some tandem reaction that leaves his whole body tense with want. It’s been decades since he’s touched someone, and even longer since that someone had this sort of equipment.

Up until this second, Logan hadn’t let himself think about this except in fleeting, guilty bursts. Hadn’t let himself want it quite like this. Now, he knows he can’t stop until both of them have had their fill.

He doesn't have to wait long for Wade to finish. A few more thrusts and a string of swears has him coming into Logan's palm, the thin material of his boxers soaking through. Logan can smell how he would taste in the close proximity, all salty-sweet and musk.

They need to get to that bedroom fast.

Wade is blinking at him, come-drunk and dazed.

“Fuck, gorgeous,” he breathes. “If I had a clue we'd be doing this dance tonight I definitely would have taken Puppins to Al's place.” A moment of thought. “And maybe lit a candle. Set the mood. I don't know.”

Does he like to talk just for the sake of feeling his mouth move?

They both turn a little to look at the scraggly, ugly little dog nestled in her bed behind the couch. She's only moved to go belly-up, tongue dangling limply out of her toothless mouth.

“I think she'll be fine,” Logan says, withdrawing his hand and wiping it lightly on his jeans. He hopes that Wade can't see what color his face has turned at being called gorgeous, even though the man says that nonsensical shit all the time. Ridiculous.

He clears his throat, arching a brow down the hall.

Lucky for him, Wade's not as dumb as he likes to seem.

“Shit, yeah, okay, bedroom’s on the left.”

They waste no time getting there. Logan is the one to turn the doorknob, with Wade so close behind him that he feels the other man step on the back of his shoe. The door closes behind them with a snap, and in the moonlight coming through the blinds, there's enough light for a mutant to see the room.

It's not much, but it's tidier than he was expecting. Weapons stacked all neat in the far corner. A few pictures hanging up. A tangle of sheets on the bed that smell so strongly of Wade that Logan can't fucking think anymore; he turns around to him and hurls him to the mattress, where Wade bounces with an enthusiastic yelp.

Climbing on top of Wade feels so natural, easy, right. Hands come up to dig at his shoulders and again they're kissing, something brutal and needy until Logan tastes blood and he isn't sure whose mouth it's coming from. All he knows is that he's gasping out a low sound against Wade's lips, pressing his body into the slimmer shape, hungry.

He can't remember undoing the button of his pants, but one of them must have. They're looser now at his waist, Wade's fingers trailing down, down.

Guy looks like he's having the time of his life, and that's doing everything to keep Logan hard enough to hurt. His bright, brown eyes are lit up as if this is something he's been looking forward to just as much as Logan has. They're almost too intense to make contact with, watching his every move as Wade purposefully squeezes the outline of Logan's bulge through his own underwear.

Logan grabs a fistful of the star-patterned sheets beneath them, leaning into the touch. So good.

“Yeah, big guy?” Wade purrs beneath him. “Tell me all about it.”

The tender way he's being gazed up at stirs something in Logan that he's not willing to feel. On top of it all – the heat of arousal, the way they're going so fast, the smell of sweat and grease on his own body – it's too much.

“Shut it,” he bites out.

Fingers close around his cock through his own boxer briefs. It takes everything Logan has not to jolt into the sensation, fuck Wade's hand like he's desperate for it.

He is, but he's trying not to let Wade know that.

“You sure you want that?”

Wade's voice slips just a little lower, confident, and suddenly Logan isn't sure who holds the power anymore. The last time they'd fought, it was clear that they were damn close to an even match. The only reason Logan's on top right now is because Wade wants him to be.

A part of Logan craves that again. The kind of violence where neither knew what could happen next. He couldn't remember the last time he was so thrilled – all while knowing he couldn't actually harm Wade in the long term.

He feels himself drooling pre-come in his underwear, and Wade seems to be aware of it, too.

“Hmm.” Wade hums, satisfied with himself, and squeezes the length of Logan's cock. “You're just full of surprises, aren't ya, babygirl?”

Logan can feel himself blush, again, and Wade takes the opportunity to take his dick out of his boxers and make some flippant remark about the size not being comic accurate, and how that's a relief, and he doesn't really know what the fuck that's about. Once he starts that teasing, sloppy rhythm with his hand, though, Logan can't think of any clever retort.

Fuck, it's good.

It's so fucking good.

He'd never paid much attention to Wade's hands before this specific moment, but now he's more than aware that they're large and long-fingered, handling him with skill. Doing some tricky wrist thing that makes him jolt and gasp and fight not to take more like an animal.

“If you're gonna say something stupid, you might as well not talk at all,” Logan says, jaw clenched so tight that they both hear it pop.

“If that's code for stick this thing in your mouth, then I'm 10-4, good buddy.”

At this point, Logan's not going to complain about whatever the fuck he's saying. He can't find the words to do it over how much he wants what's coming next to happen.

Wade slides down the mattress, a bit of an awkward shuffle, until he's level with Logan's stiff and aching cock. Hot breath ghosts over the skin for all of three seconds before it's replaced with lips, making themselves familiar with the tip of him.

Logan can't stand it. He has to get out of his jeans, and if he stays in this position he's half sure he's going to crush the other man’s skull with his thighs if he places him fully in his mouth.

“Should move,” he mutters, and Wade takes the hint. He lets up, and in a blink, Logan’s on his feet and tearing out of his jeans and underwear. Wade takes the time to shed his own, too, and when Logan turns his attention back to the bed, it’s to find Wade sitting crosslegged at the end of it, all pretty and pert and hard again in the fucking fuzzy bathrobe. Posing like he knows how badly he’s turning Logan on right now.

He deposits himself on the mattress as fast as possible, and it squeaks in protest underneath him. Wade’s quick to move into place again, each hand slow and warm and purposeful as they slide up his knees, his thighs, his stomach…

“Fuck,” Logan whispers, swallowing hard. He didn’t even mean to say anything, but Wade is making it so easy to fall apart.

Tender kisses land their way along where Wade’s hands had just been, but they pause as he laughs a little.

“Mm, correct, my friend. That’s what we’re doing.”

Logan watches as Wade’s lips travels back to where it had been before they’d rearranged themselves, back to his straining dick, where he needs him, and the prick opens his mouth –

“Is this thing on?”

A quirked eyebrow, grasping him at the hilt just to get that extra effect.

Something must have gotten rattled one too many times over the years in his head. A screw loose somewhere, something that didn’t heal right – because he fucking laughs at that, just a little, a snort that melts into a quiet moan as Wade takes as much of him down his throat as he can.

Fucking idiot, Logan thinks somewhere in the haze, and he’s not sure if he’s referring to Wade or himself.

The consistent, hot suction feels too amazing for him to really care. Distantly, he can hear himself panting, watches his hips thrust into Wade’s mouth. He’s trying to be gentle, trying to hold back – but it isn’t long before Wade’s nails dig into the flesh of his sides, urging him to go ahead with it. Telling Logan to fuck his mouth the way he wants to.

It’s clear that he won’t last the second Logan does just that. The first brutal thrust makes Wade gag, but after a second of hesitation – eye contact and a grin around his cock that nearly has him spilling right then – they keep at it. Vaguely, he can feel Wade’s nails digging deep into his skin, leaving red trails that heal not long after they’re made. That’s not what he cares about.

“M’close,” Logan manages, feeling his stomach muscles clench in that familiar, delicious way. So so so fucking close, any second, holy shit– “F-fuck, Red, I’m right there–”

That’s all the warning he can give before he’s spilling hot and fast down Wade’s throat, mouth hanging open in a silent gasp of pleasure. He tilts his head back, back to the ceiling, overwhelmed at how Wade only sucks harder with every pulse. He can’t remember the last time it felt this good to come. Not for his own hand, that’s for fucking sure.

When it finally ebbs – when Logan can finally remember his own name – he blinks back down to Wade.

He’s sunk his claws deep into his shoulder. Right up to the knuckle.

“Shit!”

Logan hurries to pull them back, sitting up in a flash as his heart jackhammers in his chest. Wade just watches him, blood spurting in deep pulses down his robe, onto his sheets. Staining everything it touches, no doubt seeping into the mattress. After a moment, he only looks up at Logan with a whoops kind of expression, shrugging a bit.

It takes Logan a beat too long to realize that everything is fine. Wade is…safe. It’s safe to be like this with him.

Relief isn’t a big enough word.

“Aww, were you worried for a second? You think you got me?” Wade all but beams at him, the skin of his shoulder already knitting itself back into place through the material of his shredded robe. “I’m good as new – and the sheets, eh. A little biohazard never hurt anybody.”

Logan nods, his heart still racing. “Yeah.”

Wade nods a little to himself, licking a stray bit of come off of the corner of his mouth. He traces hearts in the blood puddle soaking the bottom corner of his sheets, looking almost shy.

“Sooo…are you gonna fuck me now, or…?”

Telling him no isn’t even a thought in Logan’s mind. He already wants Wade again, wants to feel him clenching tight around his dick – curious to see what he can take. Ready to give him everything and then some.

“How about we change the sheets first?”

#poolverine #deadpool x wolverine #deadpool x wolverine fic #deadpool x wolverine smut #poolverine smut #deadclaws #logan howlett x wade wilson

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bucknastysbabe · 1 year

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Hi hello I had brain rot and popped this out! Idk if it’s an incoherent horny ramble or not but SKIDIBOP MM DADA BOOM💥💥🤯🤯🤯

Rating: Explicit

Tags: A/B/O, Alpha!bucky, omega!reader, reader is inhuman and former hydra asset, confessions of love, mating cycles, TW//non-descript sexual assault, horrible self talk, hydra trash party tendencies, Sweet fluffy big boy Buck, breeding kink, marathon sex, pnv!sex, kinda feral ass behavior, scenting n marking

@lovelykhaleesiii @godrakin @borikenlove @ilikeitbetterangsty @connorsui I think I got my Bucky slores all counted out ;)

Feral. - B. Barnes

Bucky was panicking, sour pheromones leaking from his pores. He was an alpha, technically, but would be entering his first rut after years of chemical castration by Hydra. Rendered him beta. Now it was coming up on him, soon— you could smell that much.

Being one of the few omegas around that offered to help him out, your own powers would ease the inevitable roughness of a feral Alpha. Bucky chose you due to your close friendship, both Hydra superpowered assets. You guys could relate to each other. Although you never had to miss a heat, your handler taking full advantage of your needy state.

Bastard.

Bucky had all the signs of rut coming up; aggression, hypersensitivity, appetite, and smelling up the entire room. Stark had banned Buck to his apartment citing, “It fucking stinks, go wear him out for the love of God.” You had grabbed your clothes and favorite nesting blankets to join the brunette soon after.

Subtle cramps made you shift, the fuckers scent alone would send you into a synced heat. He smelled good, like a woodsy smell, a winter’s day, all that sappy nonsense. Bucky grunted, “What if I hurt you? Like bite your mating gland without meaning it?”

You tapped your neck, nail clicking on an invisible collar. Bucky stopped in his tracks, brows furrowing. “They have guards for that. You can lick and scent all you want but no bitesies Barnes.” He groaned, “Thank god for the future, I guess.” Another cramp hit you, hissing involuntarily at the pain.

Blue eyes flicked to you, him coming close to you. He asked gently, “What’s wrong?” You clenched your teeth and gritted out, “You. Going to send me into heat soon so stop fighting it and worrying.” Bucky’s eyes widened and he gulped, coming to terms with the reality of the situation. Fucking his good friend, you, who he had intensely mooned over for a while now.

The brunette nodded and gestured, “Do you need to nest first? I’m just going to, uh, eat a little more.” You rolled your eyes at his obvious stress eating. He was cutely fluffy now from the transition of Romania to the Avengers compound, trying to adjust. Cramp, ow. Grabbing the blankets you mounded and moulded them to your own liking. Bucky’s scent only made it better, you taking a deep inhale.

You cried out as the first real pang of heat hit you, slick gushing forth, sending you into the nest face first— drooling and whining for Bucky. Usually you used suppressants, hating how submissive and fucking stupid you got, the intense emotions brought up old memories. But not this cycle, waiting for Bucky had you back to stupidtown.

Bucky almost snarled in concern, swallowing down his protein bar and crawling onto the bed. You clawed at your clothes, ripping off the top easily. “Buuuck, help, leggings, stupid!,” you managed. The brunette yanked down your legging and underwear, growling, “Don’t call yourself that— fucking hell!”

Oh. There it was. He’d finally hit it.

Bucky groaned deeply, taking off his clothes haphazardly, you could hear the ripping and tossing while drooling on a blanket, biting down in agony. You whined, “C’mon Alpha, knot, need it, fill my pussy up!” The normal you cringed on in the inside, but Bucky nodded along. He rasped, “Fuck yes, yes, gonna fill my pretty ‘mega up.”

You could almost purr at Barnes referring you as ‘his’.

Buck’s mismatched hands gripped your hips, sliding an impossibly fat cock between your weeping folds. A shiver wracked your spine, mewing and crying his name at the feeling. He rumbled in that Alpha timbre, “Be a good omega and just take it, make it look easy, please.” By the end of the sentence your sweet Bucky had leaked out some. Turning around to gaze at him he slid in your cunt with a grunt, fangs bared and eyes blazing.

Swollen and fucking hot he speared you fully, stretching and overfilling underused pussy. It had been so long since you’d fucked someone and damn you were glad it was him. Your pussy ached and widened around him, gushing profuse slick. Buck groaned and snapped his hips forward, dragging along everything. He let out a strangled moan, “Fuck, dolly, so goddamn tight. Gonna bl-blow fast.”

“Hurry up and fuck me then!”

A rough smack to your ass had you shutting up with a whimper. Bucky jackhammered your pussy, grunting and gasping, poor thing’s dick probably hurting. His hips smacked into your own, a metal hand pushing at the small of your back for a different angle. You wailed, Bucky cursed and pressed his soft belly to your back, chomping and nosing eagerly at the protected mating gland.

He couldn’t get enough of it, moaning and lapping like a baby alpha fucking his first rut toy. Big hands explored your body, one coming down to toy with your oversensitive clit, making you gush further. The closeness and angle had you whimpering, need forcing you to whine, “Oh, Buck, kiss me, please!”

He blinked dumbly at you, lips swollen from mauling your scent glands. You whimpered, emotions immediately jumping to: oh he hates you, used up omega. The alpha frowned and seized forward clumsily, noses mashing together as he kissed you. He still fucked you raggedly, cock swelling and pulling at your walls.

A pink tongue darted out to claim you, Bucky getting the point and tilting his head for better access to your mouth. He moaned desperately, lips driving across yours wet and messy. You threw back an arm to cradle silky-soft brown hair, fucking back onto that thick cock. “Fuuuck, knot me up baby, need it.” Bucky rasped back, “Yeah?”

“Want it, wan’ your knot, feel s’good,” came the resounding whimper.

Bucky kissed you harder, moaning into your mouth as he fucked deeper, more shallow thrusts than anything now, thick fingers pulling at your clit. He growled, “Omega, so tight— mine.” He shoved your hips flush to him, groaning chest deep and guttural as his knot popped and blew inside. You wailed and scrambled around him, that hot cum painting your insides.

Bucky whined deep in his chest, gasping against you, holding squirming hips still as he filled you up. The Alpha lapped and scented you further, murmuring dazedly, “Won’t be able to smell like another alpha again. Never.” His fingers dug into the softness of your hips, locked in now. You panted and shoved your face into the blankets, overwhelmed.

“Jus’ move to the side,” you said quietly. He gently, so very gently, eased the pair of you to the side. The knot pulled a bit, making both of you hiss. Now spooned in the fucked up nest, Bucky seemed to be dozing off, nose shoved into your mating gland, puffing softly. He slung an arm around you, making sure his entire body was plastered to your own.

Some alphas were clingy like that. Not many. Heat abated by Bucky’s knot— your mind inevitably cleared up. Emotions and old thoughts swirled in your brain. Sometimes you’d have to go through heat with a random elite of the world, them getting a present with the inhuman omega. Once you’d been through the humiliation of being used they’d dump you off with your handler, Sitwell.

He made sure to let you know you were nothing but a whore for Hydra. Used to the point where you were nothing but an easy fuck. “No self-respecting alpha would mate you,” he’d tut while inside you. Your chest clenched up, stupid stupid stupid emotions making your eyes burn.

In the same horrid voice as Jasper your mind hissed. Bucky wouldn’t want you. He knew you were easy and used to ruts. You couldn’t wash off the years of filth and scars on your nape. The great Bucky Barnes would get through this first rut and go find a more demure, self-respecting omega. Hot tears pricked at your eyes, chest beginning to heave.

Bucky’s hand came up quickly, cupping your cheek to get a look. His thick brows furrowed at your likely pitiful expression. “What’s wrong sweetheart? Woke me up when ya’ soured, you hurting?” His concerned expression made you cry harder— chest aching for this to never end. The alpha tightened himself to you, a big thumb wiping your tears. His sculpted lips pulled into a frown.

“I-it’s stupid, been a long time for me too, sorry,” you apologized.

He didn’t seem phased, concern wafting off him in waves. The former assassin practically cooed, “Hey now, seriously, what’s wrong? Spit it out baby, I know you better than that.” You stared into dead serious eyes, knowing deep down Buck would win this contest. Mouth gaping in horror you had no clue how to respond.

“C’mon ‘mega, breaking a man’s heart,” he begged soft and sweet.

Turning away from his gaze, Buck’s hand gently pulled you back with a huff. Taking a deep breath you rambled manically, “I stopped my heats after getting out of Hydra. It brings back…stuff. But I wanted to be there for you and I know I’m an easy option and all, I mean being the pass around for whatever need obviously I know how to handle Alphas.” A titanium thumb in your mouth had you rendered mute with a sudden squeak.

His face softened, pheromones swelling and making you feel woozy. Strong fucking Alpha. The anxiety in your chest abated from the scent. He asked, “Do you really think I’d care about your past?” You shrugged lightly, unsure. Blue eyes turned hard, “Give me a list and if they ain’t dead I’ll personally go castrate them.” Bucky took a deep inhale of you again, relaxing some.

“Look at me.”

You peeped nervously.

“When you offered to help I thought my dreams were coming true,” he pecked your temple, “You’re the only one I want, was gonna tough it out if the only girl I care about didn’t volunteer.” You smacked a big shoulder in shock, squeaking, “No- no you’re lying- this is a joke.” Bucky shoved his knot a fraction deeper inside of you, still swollen to hell.

He deadpanned, “Does this seem like a joke to you? I wish the damn thing would deflate so I can fuck your pretty self already. Been lovin’ you for awhile now.”

Whimpering in desire you clenched down involuntarily, Bucky’s eyes rolling back with a groan. He kissed you again, breathlessly laughing, “I thought you’d think I’m too crazy, overweight, and a load of baggage.” Smooching him back you shook your head to declare, “No, no, you’re perfect as is. This is perfect. Don’t want it to end. Love you too.”

“It doesn’t have to, babydoll,” he cooed into your lips.

After confessing one’s feelings, fucking your official Alpha was much more intense. You’d talked it out with him waiting on the knot to deflate, both of you self-conscious balls of anxiety causing the miscommunication. In full, fuck Hydra with a fiery sword.

You’d grown more heat dazed first, losing any touch to speak normally, writhing around. Buck played with your clit until you’d cum two times, chanting his name like a litany. He was goading you on with a smirk the entire time, cocky as hell now, “Yeah, that’s it, squirt for your fuckin’ Alpha.” Or he’d groan in your ear, “Good girlll, yeah, smell so sweet.”

His knot finally went down and now half crazed you rutted back on Bucky’s cock with hoarse shouts, biting into a blanket. He met you eagerly, slapping your ass and talking non-stop. The brunette moaned, “Goddamn baby, fucking ah, sh-shit!” He nudged thick thighs inside your own, using strong hands to pull you onto him. The whole place smelled of sex pheromones.

“Gonna be my big Alpha and breed me up?,” you teased deliriously, not even sure where this came from.

Bucky rumbled deep in his chest, one of those possessive hands pulling you upright to lock around a slim throat. He rasped in your ear, hot breath puffing, “I’ll fuckin’ give you some pups, s’that what you want?” His hips stuttered, cock beginning to swell again as you wailed. Please please please.

“Make you mine for good,” he nipped at the covered mating gland again, “I’d kill anyone who’d take my precious omega away from me, killing anyone who hurt you, mhm.” You turned your head to kiss his swollen lips, hand digging into his hair as the Alpha dug into you. His soft belly fit perfectly into the arch of your back, hips clapping against your slickened cunt and ass. Your brain purred about how big and perfect he was, a good protector.

Bucky begged suddenly, thrusts sloppy and stilted, “Rip th-that collar off, lemme bite, c’mon love— only one I want, make you a mama.” His lips insistently kissed, hands almost frantically grasping you. A bolt of heady arousal spiked up your belly, the need to be claimed and mated taking over. Bucky as yours sealed with his pretty white teeth, you dripped more at the thought.

Pressing the release on the collar you rocketed into a perfect, quiet, blank euphoria at the feeling of Bucky’s teeth piercing your skin. Things felt complete. You sighed in relief, the held on disgust and shame floating away. Coming back to within seconds you snarled and locked onto his pulsing neck, sealing the bite with a lap. Bucky gutturally groaned, knot popping once again, him following you down to the bed.

The pair of you didn’t speak for what felt like an eternity, hoarsely catching breath, living in the moment. Bucky nosed at the now swollen patch on your neck, commenting dopily, “Wonder what Tony’s gonna say when you pop back out with this.” You hummed and squeezed the big arm around your waist.

“He’ll probably stutter for a minute and then act like he knew all along. Steve won’t be surprised.”

Bucky laughed, “He never is.”

His hand splayed out against your stomach, murmuring, “I know you’re on the pill but I meant what I said. Wanna make the ‘mega I love bred up.” You possibly couldn’t get another orgasm out but his gravelly tone and words made you clench. Touching the bond mark you replied, “Wanna make the alpha I love a daddy.”

He groaned, blues rolling up, “Fuck, yes.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #alpha!bucky #a/b/o fic

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aryxchse · 6 months

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beach talks / percy jackson x mortal! fem! reader.

a / n : and here i thought i wouldn't write anything mortal x demigod trope,,,, but yeah my brain is screaming ideas to me from all of the bf asmr's and percy jackson's hot self i keep up with. and please let demigod's have magical phones!!

warnings : crying, cuteness overload, suprisingly i didn't cursed?? childhood friends to strangers (?) to lovers, first love, enchanted to meet you fr

oh how you missed perseus jackson.

yancy academy was something traumatising for the both of you, but percy made it easier to survive. he was fun, sarcastic, cute, and had the most gorgeous sea green eyes.

you two loved sneaking out from the school, just to visit beach. you both loved the sea, but you knew he loved it more than you. whenever he was near the ocean, he would always be more calmer.

his eyes would change the color according to the sea, or you we're just so in love with his eyes that you romanticised it in every way.

so when he called you last night, to ask you if you would meet up at the beach you always visited back then, you couldn't say no. instead, you laughed and said 'you always loved to be near the ocean anyways.'

you were so mad at him, so mad. you said you wouldn't leave him when he got expelled, but instead, he left you. he dissapeared without saying anything. and years later, the last week of the summer before collage starts, he reached to you.

and you're so, so mad at yourself for agreeing to meet up with him.

but then again, the way you missed and loved him was more powerful than your anger.

the beach was the same as the last day you arrived here. two years after percy got expelled and didn't even answered any of your calls that time, dissapearing. you were 14, now returning as 18.

you saw a familiar boy sitting on the sand, hugging his knees and watching the ocean with a calm look on his face. he had the same messy raven hair and sharp features with the boy you were in love with when you were 12.

"percy?" you called softly, approaching the boy. he immediatly turned to you, bright sea green eyes piercing your soul.

oh, those sea green eyes.

"oh gods, y/n," he said, stooding up. you tried to pay no mind to him saying 'gods' instead of 'god.' since he hugged you like he was going to break your ribs. "i missed you so much."

the tears were already showing themselfs in your eyes. man, you really loved this boy. as you hugged him back, the change in his appearence made you sad. because you weren't there to see it, to tease him for how quick he got taller or how ripped he was now.

he was more tan, he had many, many scars on his body. he smelled like salt water and wow, he was so much taller than you now. not to mention of how bigger his body get. was he in the military or something when he was gone?

"thank you for coming," he said, pulling away to look at you. his smile was bright like you remembered, so strong that always making people mirror his expression. "i really appreciate it."

"well, i deserve an apology right?" you said, sitting next to his previous place on the sand. he sat next to you, expression.. guilty.

"you deserve much more than that," he said quietly, meeting your eyes. you avoided them, 'cause if you didn't, you would scream: it's okay! i forgive you handsome!

"what are you waiting for then?" you asked, watching the ocean. "make up for it jackson."

and with that, he began to tell you everything. he knew he didn't have to hide anything from you, and how you we're a little mythology obsessed. it did suprised you, but you didn't showed it.

"and i knew i had to reach you after the last war because," he said, meeting your eyes again. this time, you looked back at him. "there's not gonna be any prophecy soon."

a sigh escaped your lips, as a way of process everything. "first of all, i'm mad." you said, and percy groaned in sadness. "because i would've helped you through everything, i would try my best."

"i know," percy whispered. "but i didn't want to put you in danger, you're important to me."

good one, you thought. he sure learned how to make a girl melt.

"second of all," you ignored his comment. "i guess i can forgive you since, you saved the world and all." he chuckled at your joke, finally relaxing his shoulders.

"you- you're not freaked out?" he finally asked. and you shook your head.

"you knew i always had a thing for supernatural stuff," you said with a shrug, smiling at him. he smiled back, squinting his eyes because of the sun. "yeah, i know." he nodded.

"so uh," you avoided his gaze again. "got any girlfriends? you've been gone for too long, we need to make up for it."

you were actually scared to ask this question, because you couldn't had a boyfriend after him. you didn't know why, but you were so loyal to him that you didn't even loved someone after him.

"no." he said. "i never loved anyone like i loved you."

oh gods, you thought. did he read my mind? how can we be this same?

"you-" you stuttered. "you- what?" he chuckled, pinching your cheek.

"guess i skipped the part were my fatal flaw is loyalty," he explained. "i had the biggest crush on you when we were 12, and i couldn't forget about you ever since. i knew i had to be with you, so i won the wars and didn't die, just to return to you."

the pinching turned into caress, and the next thing you knew was you were in his arms. "perseus jackson," you whispered, tears rolling down. you hated when you were filled up with this much emotion. "you're really the worst first love."

he only smiled, like he knew the feelings were mutual. and deep down, he did. all those years, he knew he was going to reach you and make you his one day. just when all of the stuff was over, like now.

"i know pretty," he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. he kept caressing your cheek gently, and your noses brushed every once in a while. "but i'm gonna make up for it, i swear it on the river styx."

#haha i hate this #DID YOU GUYS NOTICED THE WAY YOU SAID GODS AFTER HIM TELLING HIS STORY??#its important to me that you did #and you guys are just 'i cant argue with a boy who has sea green eyes'#and like 'okay whatever you say handsome 😍'#same tbh #perseus jackson x you #i am using this tag from now on #percy x you #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the heroes of olympus #percy jackson series #pjo hoo toa #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson headcanon #pjo show #pjo tv show

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not-magdi · 1 year

Text

The one bed trope

Summary: Having to share a bed with your best friend because what could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1k

A/N

I didn't do any proofreading because it's way too late for my brain to function so apologies for any mistakes I made.

Between playing for the national team and having to be back in Barcelona, the players got a few days off to recover a bit. And since many barça players also played for Spain, they decided to rent a house and enjoy their little holiday together.

A few players had their partners with them, wanting to spend the little time they had together.

Normally, only girlfriends were allowed on these little get-togethers well, there is one exception.

The one and only Y/N Y/L/N, best friend and obvious secret crush of Pablo Gavi. The two of them met when Pablo threw a ball at Y/N's face and laughed at her as she started crying.

After his parents forced him to apologize to her, the two of them became friends. She started to attend his football games, and he helped her learn for her tests.

Y/N was the first he came to when a game didn't go like he wanted it to, the only one who could calm him down after his temper got the best of him.

Pablo protected Y/N with everything he had. A boy treated her badly? Ohh, believe me, Pablo had his head. She called him crying because school stressed her? That boy came running to her house at lightspeed.

Nothing and nobody could separate these two, they always tried to do as much as they could together. So her going on holiday with him was no surprise.

The Sevillian is currently driving to the airport to pick Y/N up, she is arriving a day later as she could get time off sooner.

Waiting at the arrival hall, a smile grew on his face as he saw Y/N's bright orange hoodie she stole from him and worn religiously for the past 12 years. The ends were starting to frizz and the color was not nearly what it used to be.

A slap on the back of his head rips him out of his thoughts, blinking rapidly he sees the orange hoodie standing before him.

"You back in the real world again?"

"Y-yeah sorry, I'm still a bit tired" Scratching the back of his neck out of embarrassment he answers.

Accepting his answer Y/N engulfs Pablo in a tight hug, hiding her face into his neck. Happy to be back together with her Pablito again.

"I missed you Pablo-Bear" she mumbles into his neck, tightening her arms around him.

"Mhm, missed you too you big teddy"

Pablo hoped Y/N couldn't feel how his heart was nearly beating out of his chest, and how his cheeks were the same color as cherries.

After they were done hugging for about five minutes he grabbed her suitcase and basically dragged her to his car.

"Woah Pablo slow down, nobody is chasing us!"

"I know but I can't wait for you to see the house, it's so beautiful"

Laughing Y/N lets herself be dragged to the car, the touch of Pablo's hand against hers hot on her skin.

They arrived at the house after a short drive, Y/n being completely mesmerized by the beauty of the house, nearly running into a plant pot while staring at one of the big windows.

After greeting everybody, Y/N decided to unpack her things. Following Pablo up to her room she walks in behind him. Confused Y/N looks around the room, seeing clothes scattered around the room.

" Pablo ... am I sharing with someone?"

"Y-yeah um funny story actually ... you're kind of sharing with me"

"O-oh um ok, yeah sure no problem ... but are we sharing a bed too?"

"No! ... well yes! Umm o-only if you want w-we don't have to ... I can totally sleep on the couch if you want"

"N-no ... no problem at all, I mean it's not the first time we sleep in the same bed right?"

It would be the same right?

Well, nothing much changed since then, only the way Y/N's heart jumps every time his brown eyes look at her, or how her stomach feels all warm and fuzzy when she sees his beautiful smile, and the way his eyes shine while he does it.

But hey what could possibly go wrong?

Well after unpacking and meeting everybody at the pool they discussed what they wanted to do for the week. The whole time she could feel Pablo's eyes on her, tracing every move she made.

Now they were all sitting on the outside lounge letting a peaceful day come to an end.

After yawning for the tenth time Y/N decides to call it a day, waking the sound-asleep Pablo who is cuddled up to her she bids the whole group goodbye taking the sleepy boy with her.

Arriving at their room Pablo immediately flops down onto the mattress.

"Pablo come on you need to change you can't sleep in jeans"

"Hmpf nooo let me sleep in peace"

Climbing into the bed next to him she cuddles herself into the blanket. After she feels the bed dip behind her she turns around, only to be met with Pablo already looking at her.

"Goodnight Pablito"

"Night Y/N, sleep well"

Minutes turned into hours and Y/N was still tossing around, not able to fall asleep. Little did she know that on the other side, Pablo had the same problem as her.

Suddenly she feels two arms wrap around her, tightening around her waist.

"I know you're asleep right now and I hope you can't hear me right now but I just wanted to tell you that you have no idea how much you mean to me and that I hope that one day I have the courage to actually tell you how much I love you and not in a friend way. I know you probably don't feel the same but I just have to get that off my chest. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to look you in the eyes anymore."

"Don't worry your secret's safe with me"

"Fuck you're awake ... Y/N I'm so sorry please forget what I said. I don't want to lose you over t-"

Shutting him up with a kiss on his plump lips she leans over wrapping her arms around his neck.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for you to say this"

"S-so you f-feel the same?"

"Yes, I really really like you too"

Kissing her again the two of them fall asleep together, Pablo having Y/N in his arms, the same since they were kids.

Or was it the same?

No, it was way better this time <3

#pablo gavi oneshot #pablo gavi x reader #pablo gavi x y/n #pablo gavi x you #gavi x reader #pablo gavi icons #pablo gavi #gavi x you

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avocado-writing · 6 months

Note

I will forfeit all my worldly possessions for some gortash nsfw, you’re amazing keep up the good work!

cws: hate sex. gn!reader x gortash. enjoy!

you fucking hate him. oh, you hate him.

you make sure he knows it every time you run your nails down his back, rake them, really; leaving hot red welts in their wake. you want him to cry out in pain. instead he hisses in pleasure and buries himself in your further.

it is delicious. it is torture. it is heavenly.

when he’d suggested you’d work together, you’d swallowed your pride and done it for the good of baldur’s gate. the people loved him after all, even if it was all due to his campaign of faux grandeur. ‘a man of the people’. as if. if he was in a lineup and you had to choose the person who you thought had crawled out of the hells, you’d pick him every single time.

but still, despite it all, despite his devilish upbringing and baneite loyalties, there was a bigger enemy to face, and he was a powerful ally.

so ally you did.

it started off innocent enough, him calling meetings with you, just you. strategising, he reasoned. no point in not sharing information. you looked at him with disdain over his map of the city, he just arched a brow.

you hated yourself for having a reaction to it, burning white hot in the pit of your stomach. a mix of rage and lust. when everyone was asleep that night at the elfsong, you shoved your hand between your legs to ease the pressure he had built up, cursing him as you came.

his honeyed words dripped on you. dulled your senses to the lurid colours of his purulent personality. he was evil. viciously so. no good to be next to in the long run.

yet when he hooked the finger of his gauntlet under your chin and brought you in for a kiss, you did not pull away. you met his challenge head on. you teethed at his tongue when it slipped between your lips. you wanted him to know you’d take what you needed from him and hate him as you went. he wanted you to know he didn’t care and would enjoy it anyway.

and now: this.

his hand slipping up your thigh during your meeting until he cups your sex. you near-snarling in return and ripping at his fine clothes, hungering for the meat of his body. you are no aesthete. there is no use in pretending you care about what your tear away - he surely has the best tailors in this city at his beck and call, and it goes some way to soothing your wounded ego when his gown is in scraps from your ardour.

and it is wounded, of course, because you debase yourself like this.

he sits you on top of the map of the city, lays you out over it, and fucks you. there’s a poetry to your bodies combining on top of your shared home. he thrusts and you growl in the back of your throat, smothering his smug smile by forcing him into a near-violent kiss. hate him. you hate him.

his cock slides into your body, thick and hard, and despite your better judgement there is a little thrill in knowing that you get this powerful man to have such a reaction. that the roseate of his cheeks and heave of his chest is because he desires you with his whole being. you purr when his head dips between your legs and he ravishes you with his tongue, just as clever when it fucks as it is when he speaks.

you want to take him apart piece by piece. as he thrusts down into you, dark and dangerous eyes boring into yours without missing a beat, you know he wants to do the exact same in return. reduce you both to parts. jigsaw them together and let the combination of the two of you rule this city, rule the brain, rule the world.

every time you couple, you let yourself get lost in the idea of it for just a moment. the idea of him. the idea of him and you.

but when it is over and you are both sated, your mind and sense return. you cannot trust this man, even after he has been inside of you, when he knows the most intimate etchings of your soul.

so you bid him goodnight, and no more. he is once again an enemy held as close as a friend.

“until next time,” says Gortash with an easy smile, and you want to tell him there will be no ‘next time’ - but it would be a lie neither of you would believe.

#Gortash x reader #gortash x tav #enver gortash x reader

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wabatle · 13 days

Text

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Siblings go from love to hate

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Synopsis: both of your relationships with your brothers get destroyed. what now?

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Warnings: reader gets implied thoughts of suicide/self-harm/self-hatred, lots of swearing

𓆩⚝𓆪 — Contains: fem!reader (use of sister), reader gets a partner without a specified gender

𓆩⚝𓆪 — A/N: anon i'm going to start calling you the itoshi brothers anon unless you come up with a label for yourself (which is okay). your brain>>>>>>

Ever since you were young, you had always had a close relationship with your brothers. Even since they were born, you knew they loved you.

“Rin…” Your little self gently pushes open the door.

“What is it, (name)?” He replied.

“I'm bored. Wanna play together?”

He blinked. “Sure. Come here.” He patted the ground next to him.

You never thought to treasure moments like these, as you never thought anything could happen to the three of you.

“Sae, Rin, you're so cool!” You exclaimed after seeing the two of them win another match.

Sae ruffled your hair. “Thanks, (name).”

“You're cool as well. You're really smart.” Rin told you.

Everything changed when Sae went to Spain.

It was no secret that things were different. You were missing a whole older brother.

As Sae was doing whatever it was he was doing in Spain, your bond with Rin just grew stronger.

“Good luck in Spain, Sae.” You told your brother. “Don't get a girlfriend and forget about me.” You hugged him.

“I won't.” He hugged you back. “Same thing goes for you, too. No getting a boyfriend. Ever.”

“I love you, Sae.”

“I love you too, my baby sister.”

You stepped back and held Rin’s hand. Saying goodbye had always been hard for you.

You watched the plane take off, and that was it. Your older brother was gone.

“So… what now?” You asked Rin nervously.

“I…I’m not sure.” He replied.

Four years later, you witnessed Rin get crushed by Sae. You saw all of it. It was horrible to watch. The bond the three of you had, ripped to shreds. You tried to catch Sae as he was leaving.

“Sae!”

He stopped and looked at you.

“U–um, welcome home…”

“Thanks.”

“A–about what happened just now—”

“Save it. I don't want to hear it. He's lukewarm and useless. That's all there is to it.”

“B–but—!”

“Enough. You're just as lukewarm as him. You'll never even be as good as Rin, let alone me. You're lukewarm and useless. I truly am disgusted to call a disgrace like you my younger sister.”

Tears ran down your face. Sae continued walking ignoring your tears. Only 5 years ago would he have dropped everything to make sure you were okay. Now, he doesn't even care.

You dropped to the ground, sobbing. You hated everything. You wondered why the world had decided to punish you in this way, and what you had done.

Slowly, you made your way back home. You went right to your room and locked yourself in. You began to question everything. If you really were useless, if you were good enough, if you were worthy of being alive.

You closed yourself off from everyone. You hardly talked to your friends at school, you blankly sat through conversations with your parents. But worst of all, you and Rin avoided each other.

There was… unsaid tension. Both of you had been hurt by Sae. Neither of you wanted to talk to each other. Rin was too busy thinking about what Sae said while you had convinced yourself that Rin was upset at you.

Rin caught you in the hall of your home one day.

“Hey.” He said, averting your gaze.

“Hi.” You said, also looking away.

“Why haven't you come out of your room? You haven't eaten, you haven't spoken to me, why? What happened?”

“I–I don't know,” You stuttered, “I just… kinda thought you were mad at me.”

“I'm not.”

“Are you sure? You seem kinda irritated…”

“No, I'm fine.” His tone was more hostile.

“Um… okay.” You were surprised by his hostility. He usually was never this cold to you. “I'm just gonna go, then.”

“We're not done talking.” He grabbed your wrist.

“Rin—”

“Stop running from me—”

“Can I just go to the bathroom? Please?”

He let go. “Oh. Fine. Sorry.”

You locked yourself in the bathroom for a while, each time hesitating to come out in case Rin was waiting for you.

Finally, you came out, and to your relief, Rin was nowhere to be found.

You made your way straight to your room, skipping dinner once again that night.

You heard a knock on your door. “(Name)?” You heard Rin's voice. “Can I come in? I brought you dinner.”

Reluctantly and nervously, you got up and opened the door. “I'm not hungry.”

“Like hell you aren't. You haven't eaten all day.”

And, like a perfectly timed reason to prove the universe hated you, your stomach rumbled.

“That's what I thought.” Rin said, walking in and setting the plate down on your desk.

After a moment of very awkward silence, Rin spoke, “Did… Did Sae say anything to you?”

“Um, no.” You lied.

“Oh. Well, he said something to me.”

“...Oh?” You replied with feigned curiosity.

“He said that… No, it's nothing. But what he said made me realize something.”

You could tell where this was going immediately.

“You're gonna tell me that you hate me, huh? You're gonna tell me that you're disgusted to call a leech like me your sister, aren't you?”

“What? No—”

“Get out of my room, Rin. I don't want to talk to you.”

“Fine. Eat.” Rin got up and left, leaving you to cry on your own.

The next day, Rin approached you after school.

“You're skipping practice—” Rin cut you off.

“I was thinking about what you said last night. And you know what? You're right. I do hate you.”

You stared at Rin, eyes widening in fear.

“You're useless. You don't add anything to this family and instead drag us down. You'll never be successful, you'll never make any achievements, nothing. You have no talent.”

“R–Rin—”

“And you were right. I'm disgusted to call you my younger sister. Don't talk to me until you've done something with your worthless life.” He waved you off and left for practice.

You were horrified. Your self-deprecation just got worse from here, causing you to fall into a spiraling depression.

When Rin left for Blue Lock, you were more than relieved. You slowly started to feel safe at home again, but your parents, now with only one child at home, took every chance they could to bother you.

Now, you're twenty two. You moved out to University and you found a partner. Not just a romantic partner, a marital partner. You were so excited to change your last name and leave your Itoshi past behind you.

That was, until one fateful day, your older brother showed up on your doorstep. Sae.

“What are you doing here?” You snarled.

“I came to see you. And how you were doing.”

“I'm doing fine, thanks for asking.” You said with a forced smile. “Much better than I was seven years ago.”

“(Name), listen—”

“No. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear some half-baked apology from someone who basically told me I didn’t deserve to be alive. I will never forgive you, and I should be the one ashamed to have such an asshole for a brother. Get out of my house, Sae.”

“I’ll be waiting here until you’re ready to forgive me. I’m aware that what I said was not only horrible, but also straight up false. I love you, you’ll always be my little sister. But I understand if you want to cut contact with me.”

Your expressions softened into a surprised one. “Sae… I hope you know it would take me a really long time to forgive you. You said some really shitty stuff that day.”

“I know. But I can wait.”

“I think it’s best if you just leave.” You said, averting his gaze.

“Okay. Um, I got a new number, so if you want it, let me know.”

You nodded, and Sae walked away. You sat down and put your head in your hands. Just five more days. Then you’ll finally no longer be an Itoshi.

Unfortunately, those five days were nothing short of chaotic. Especially because Rin showed up at your door two days later.

There was only one way you thought Rin could’ve found out about your engagement and your new address.

Sae.

He must’ve noticed the ring on your finger and told Rin.

“Um… Hey, (Name)...”

“What do you want? Why are you here?”

“I, um… I heard you’re engaged.”

“And? What is it to you?”

“I think I have a right to know what’s going on in my sister’s life.”

“Not anymore you don’t. Not after what you said to me.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did, didn’t you? No fixing it now.”

“Don’t get feisty with me.” Rin growled.

“I can act however I want towards you. I’m not the one who crushed your confidence.”

“(Name)—”

“I don’t want to hear it! Back off and go home, Itoshi!”

“Fuck you! I meant every fucking word I said back then, bitch!”

“Oh, go fuck yourself! Get out of my life and don’t come back! I don’t need someone like you in my life!”

“Fine! Fuck you!” Rin started walking away.

“Don’t talk to me again, asshole!” You shot at him one last time.

Rin flipped you off and kept walking.

Rin, you would never forgive. Sae, maybe, with a lot of love and care, maybe you would forgive Sae.

Just three more days, and then you’ll no longer be an Itoshi.

𓆩⚝𓆪 — thank you for reading!

𓆩⚝𓆪 — taglist (ask 2 be added): @mariaace @plsmarrymehioriyo @stellas-starry-stories13

𓆩⚝𓆪 — blue lock masterlist || masterlist

#‹𝟹 — emi's works #PLEASE TELL ME THIS ATEEEE #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi sae x reader #itoshi brothers #platonic blue lock

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eureka-its-zico · 5 months

Text

Violent Delights Pt. 2

Summary: On a trip with your father to Shanghai, your caravan is overrun. You are taken back to a compound of one of the most ruthless Mafia bosses in all of China: Enishi Yukishiro. Who was in need of a new plaything.

Pairing: Enishi Yukishiro x f!reader

Words: 5.6k

A/N: Whelp. Here we are again. Completely unhinged and riding the train to filth town. While the first one may have been filthy, dare I say, part 2 is like mega filth. Idk if I keep writing parts to this if it’s just going to get more unhinged (you know, porn with plot and all) or what it’ll be. For now, I just hope it’s something everyone can enjoy. Welcome to the deranged part of my brain. Much love 🖤 Jenn

Warnings: This shit is dark besties. It’s dark. Mentions of kidnapping. Dubious consent. Mafia trope. Knife play. Harem. Mentions of violence. Fingering. Voyeurism. Unprotected PnV. Oral sex. Its Smut. It's Filth. Please do not read if you are not 18+ (If I miss anything please let me know).

Part 1

Enishi’s solution to ruining your dress was simply getting rid of it all together.

The moment he’d stepped out of the bath, droplets clinging to the ends of stark white hair and racing down an exposed chest, he made his way to where you sat on the bed. Your hands were still clutching to the fabric - the last known extension of yourself. It didn’t take long for Enishi to easily knock your hands away. A strong grip on your thigh controlling you to keep you from scooting away.

His grip was vicious enough that you knew it would bruise.

The only thing left for you to do was to reminisce on what little was left of your former life. The home you would never see again. The fiancée who you’d been promised to and barely gotten to know. Would he move on easily once everyone heard about what happened? What about your friends? Would the lingering ghost of your presence haunt them in any way, or would they easily dismiss you? The plans you’d had for your life were now a fading memory - left standing inside a burning house. The truly worst thought that plagued you was the thought of your father’s body floating out into the Pacific Ocean never to be found.

You hadn’t even been able to mourn him, yourself, and your now-dead life. The only thing you could focus on was survival and surviving meant fighting.

And you wanted to fight him.

To claw your nails down the hard plains of his muscles, until they created a river to rival the water on his skin. You wanted to lash out with kicks, slaps, and hate-filled words until it dimmed the look of conquest in his eyes.

You would do anything to prove to him that, just because he’d coaxed your body to come apart on his fingers, it didn’t mean he got to claim you.

You weren’t his.

But Enishi was always in control of everything around him and now that included you.

He was quick to squash your small act of defiance. The arms you’d placed across your chest to help hold what little of your bodice remained - what remained of your dignity - were knocked away. A controlling hand applied pressure on your throat - delicious pressure - just enough to ease you back against the bed. Into the sheets that housed the sweat of your skin and your orgasm that soaked into the cotton fibers.

Enishi kept the pressure of his fingers wrapped delicately on your throat, holding you down, as his free hand tugged and ripped what was left of the top of your dress. Once he worked the material free off your shoulders, it only took a matter of seconds for him to work it down to your hips.

During the whole process, you’d remained motionless for him. Your pulse threaded against the callous digit of his thumb. Deep down you knew he placed it there - perfectly - to take notice of what would make your pulse tick faster.

Enishi was all about control and, while he held you on the bed, you practiced your own form of control to not show him how his roaming eyes affected you. The way they darkened - darker than shadows - as his gaze drank in every inch of your body he revealed.

You fought to keep your breathing even; your face expressionless. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of showing him a hint, one fucking ounce of emotion, besides hatred. A hatred you were struggling to hold onto as he drew his fingertips to trace across your collarbone, dipping down between your breasts.

It was such an intimate touch. One Enishi didn't deserve to give. In that one touch, it held the exploration of a lover, but a tenderness you hadn’t expected. Not from a man like him. It made your brain struggle against what it was shown, what he’d done, and the softness of his next touch.

You’d remained unmoving through so much. You didn’t struggle when he knocked your hands away or fight him while he removed your dress from your shoulders, or wrapped his fingers around your neck like his long fingers were meant to grasp it. Through all of this, you were a good girl and didn't move.

Not until he touched you so sweetly, and his eyes lost the hard edges of demand. The soft dimming of control exposed something else you weren’t ready to see.

You knew the minute Enishi felt your pulse speed up. The sneer at the thought of winning wore itself plainly on his face, and whatever softness his previous touch had lulled inside your consciousness quickly evaporated.

All your earlier rage sparked fresh and all attempts to obey were wiped away. Without thinking, your hand lashed out and you felt your palm connect with his cheek. The sound of flesh meeting flesh fell heavy in the room. Enishi’s face didn’t even move from the impact, but before your hand was able to drop, you found your wrist caught tight in his hand.

His grip tightened - tighter, tighter - until blackness cropped in your vision. You thought this was it. This would be the moment he finally discards you, possibly kills you, like you’d witnessed him do so many times to so many others - your father - in the few days you’d been held prisoner in his room.

You welcomed the idea of oblivion. No longer being a prisoner to uncomfortable change - a prisoner to thoughts of a man who held you captive - and maybe Enishi could feel it too. Or maybe he just meant to get you close to the edge before he brought you back with your lungs greedily sucking in air through a cough.

Enishi’s hold on your neck remained, but the wrist he’d held captive was gone. His free hand was back to violently tugging, pulling, what remained of your skirts. The rich baritone of his voice carried as if he was yelling. His words deepened and rose in tone while he jerked on the last bit of your skirt until you heard the tearing of cloth crack like thunder.

You were jarred by the burst of cold that hit you. Then came the shock of realizing he’d completely removed your entire dress and your underclothes. You were naked before him, and Enishi hungrily drank every inch of your exposed skin.

You attempted to cover yourself. A choked sound of shock made its way past your lips as your legs tried to rise up off the mattress, your hands back to guarding your chest. Again, Enishi shoved them away. His hand gripping behind your knee to pull you closer to the edge of the bed.

This time Enishi slotted himself between your legs and a gasp you refused to name etched itself into your throat.

Unlike the first time, there was no cloth, no dress, to keep away the feeling of his cock as it pressed against your folds. Nothing to keep him from seeing your arousal - the way your body shamelessly hungered for him. His eyes were transfixed on your cunt and the way it coated his hardening cock.

You watched his cock swell and grow in length - thick, so impossibly thick - pressed against your cunt and inches away from your entrance. For a brief moment, you were almost compelled to beg, to plead and cry for him to destroy you. Your mind selfishly followed the desire that flooded your body. A need so potent to know what it felt like for your cunt to stretch around him, and to feel the delicious searing pain as he pushed deeper and deeper until you threatened to burst.

You knew the raw power Enishi wielded. You’d witnessed it dozens of times whether it was in the form of violence or sex. He was always in control and maybe that’s why you didn’t want to be just another tally added to the list. A conquest he’d have the satisfaction of claiming.

He spoke again. While you couldn’t understand his words, what it was he truly meant, the fire in his eyes told you plainly: you were his.

You belonged to Enishi, and he would not be denied what he claimed as his.

You waited to feel the tip of his cock press at your entrance, and it left the air in your lungs suspended in anticipation. Your eyes took in the rise and fall of his own chest and realized for the first time it wasn’t steady. He was breathing fast as his eyes roamed over your body and you realized, for the first time, maybe he wasn’t as in control as he wanted to be.

In a dizzying moment, you went from being pinned back against the bed, embarrassingly ready to let him fuck you, to feeling the absence of his demanding touch. Enishi released the hold he kept on your neck and moved away from the bed. The sound of his feet padding across the floor was enough to tell you his presence was still here.

You wanted to get up but you knew what was coming. The sound of the chain rattling in the distance was a reminder of the nightly routine you’d fallen into since you’d arrived at the compound. Before Enishi went to sleep he always made sure you were secured to one of the marble pillars that lined the grandeur of his bedroom. You waited for him to come back, to grab you by your arm and haul you off the bed.

Except this time that’s not what happened.

Enishi grabbed you by your arm but only to force you up towards the headboard. Once he had you where he wanted, he released his hold on you and moved to wrap the chain around your right ankle and locked the lock into place. You watched, dumbfounded, as he wrapped the other end of the chain to the wooden leg of the bed frame.

You couldn’t ask him what he was doing or why he was doing it. What it was that suddenly made him decide to chain you closer, closer to him, in his room, and what that meant for you. All you could afford to do was guess his intentions, his next steps, by the body language he rarely showed outside of rage. You barely knew Japanese and it’d become painfully apparent Enishi spoke both Japanese and Chinese. Neither one of them you understood.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the mattress tipping as his weight distributed on the bed. Your body swayed gently as if pushed by a wave until he settled back into the sheets. He barely covered himself in the soft goose-down comforter, the deep v of his hips devilishly exposed, with his head resting against his arm with those endlessly dark eyes trained solely on you.

How did you know he was looking at you when you refused to acknowledge him? Your spine was brutally straight and unyielding to lie back against the soft cradle the bed provided. The answer was simple. When Enishi’s eyes were on you, it sent an electric current of want and fear - a maddening mixture - to flare across your skin.

Just like now.

He spoke to you. His words ghosted over your exposed skin like an intimate caress that seized you as violently by the throat as his hand had earlier. His words were drenched in a drowsy alto that only seemed to grow deeper the longer he spoke. Enishi was so close to sleep and yet…

Your body lurched forward at the callous touch of his fingers drifting over your hip. It earned the sound of a deep chuckle that burrowed itself inside the marrow of your bones and took ownership.

——

At some point in the refusal you’d strongly held on to not falling asleep beside him, you’d done exactly that. You were woken up by one of the concubine’s, Keiko, you believed was her name, raised up in caution. She was Enishi’s favorite concubine from the few days you’d been here. She never protested to anything he did to her or objected to what he asked. Not that you would know what he said, because you couldn’t understand.

And here she was kneeling beside the bed. A bed that was now empty of Enishi’s presence - the whole room empty of it - with just Keiko and you being the only souls inside. You were suddenly very aware that you were still very much naked. Keiko didn’t appear to be the least bit fazed and offered you a small smile to try and ease your panic.

“The master - he asked me to prepare a bath for you.”

It surprised you how well she spoke your native tongue. The surprise displayed on your face no doubt was the reason a smile spread across her face. Warm and bright enough to make you forget for a split second where you were. Who she was.

“Would you like a warm bath?”

Did she even have to ask? You couldn’t answer her right away. A sharp nod of your head was the only response you were able to give as your mind mulled over her words.

Master.

It’s what she’d called him without hesitation and with no hint of disdain tinging her words. A part of you wondered if she enjoyed calling him that - if she called him that while he buried himself to the hilt inside her.

A flash of jealousy flared in your chest as you followed her to the washroom. As quickly as it rose up, you were just as quick to squash it. Bury it down, down, down inside the graveyard of your mind and refuse to allow yourself to dig it back up.

Keiko pushed open the washroom door and, when you stepped inside behind her, found a Japanese soaking tub full of warm water.

A bath. A real honest-to-goodness bath.

It’d been so long since your skin was scrubbed clean. You weren’t sure if you were allowed to just step right inside the steaming water or if you would need to wait for Keiko’s instructions. In the end, you focused on the latter and when she gave you another soft smile, her hand gesturing towards the tub, you didn’t hesitate to sink beneath the water.

When you surfaced from the water a sigh made its way from deep in your chest. A bath couldn’t soothe everything, but it was enough to help make you feel human again. You were leaning against the side of the tub, your head back and eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the water, when soft fingers began to massage your scalp.

Your body involuntarily jerked away and you spun to see who touched you. It felt silly. You knew it was Keiko. It could only be Keiko and yet, you couldn’t swallow past the dread that lodged itself inside your throat. Your own heart pounded like a caged beast against your ribs.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only want to help wash your hair.”

Keiko’s hands were where you’d left them: splayed open with the suds of soap and the scent of bergamot lifting up to greet you. She didn’t push you to return to her. She waited patiently for the panic to subside before she gently motioned for you to return.

“Can I wash your hair for you?”

“Yes. Yes.”

It’d been so long since you've used your voice, aside from yesterday when Enishi had torn curses and moans from you. A memory that sent heat rising to your cheeks that you quickly tried to hide by giving your back to Keiko, offering up your head for her to finish what she started.

After you were properly bathed, and your skin and hair were drying with scent of oils, you expected to be brought a kimono. If not a kimono at least a robe. So, when Keiko instructed you to sit back on the bed after she’d combed your hair, with no clothing in hand, the first real sting of panic began to bloom.

You watched her while she moved around the room. Her hands tidied up areas and her eyes carefully trained on her task at hand. Never on you.

You knew better than to ask her if you could have any clothing items. You were sure part of the instructions Enishi gave her also dictated what you could be given after you were made clean, which was nothing. Enishi was going to make you wait for him with no way to hide your body.

A wave of blinding rage overtook you in that moment. The realization that you weren’t even being given the dignity of having clothes, a robe, or a fucking towel, to cover yourself with made you want to scream. You wanted to tear him apart. Instead, you scooted back farther on the bed, your legs working closer together with your balled-up hands in your lap and your arms desperately trying to cover your breasts.

You were completely lost in your thoughts. So lost, you hadn’t even realized when Keiko departed the room. You didn’t realize you were alone until the sound of the door opening and closing brought you out of your thoughts and back to the present.

It was Enishi and Keiko who’d walked back inside the room. Keiko was closing the bedroom door behind her while Enishi walked further inside. His hands were tucked inside the large open sleeves of the amber and cerulean Haori draped over his body that matched the hakama pants he wore. The material looked finally woven - silken - and expensive. The hakama was cinched tight on his powerful waist and against a thick black vest material. A pair of small glasses adorned his face and sat low on the edge of his nose.

It felt surreal seeing him dressed. You’d grown so accustomed to his naked frame moving with intensity, power, around the room - commanding to be witnessed. The clothes he wore now did little to dim that unspoken demand.

He made his way over to the desk in the corner of the room. Not one ounce of his body showed any sign of acknowledging your presence. He simply pulled his hands free from inside his Haori and placed a scroll, rolled tight and sealed with black string, inside a glass jar.

A part of you was beginning to worry. The whiplash of going from panic, rage, and now fear made you dizzy, but you needed to focus. Focusing meant you realized not even Keiko acknowledged your existence. It felt silly to be worried about the lack of a look because shouldn’t you want to be invisible? To go unnoticed?

The sound of rustling brought you back from your thoughts. A flash of amber drew your eyes back to Enishi who removed his Haori and left it dangling over the back of a chair. No longer were his eyes intent on his scroll, his desk, or anything else. The discontent you felt at being ignored was now answered with the full attention of his gaze.

You immediately dropped your gaze from watching him make his way towards you. The sound of his glasses being placed on his small table made your hands squeeze tighter together. Your knees press closer. Enishi was almost to you and the only thing your brain could think to do was two options: run or hide.

Enishi must have known because his pace quickened and, within a few more steps, he was in front of you. His fingers pressing underneath your chin and forcing it up to bring your gaze to meet his.

You didn’t know if it was night or day. If you would ever see the outside of this room again. If you’d leave this compound wrapped in cloth or on your own two feet. If one day you’d get to remember what it felt like to be free. The only thing you did know for certain was the look in Enishi’s eyes was a warning of what was to come.

He kept a tight grip on your chin, refusing to give an inch, as he spoke. His Japanese was commanding, harsh, and left no room to be disobeyed. Enishi words weren’t directed at you, you realized, but to Keiko who was still in the room. You couldn’t see her any longer. Enishi didn’t allow you to look at anyone - anything - that wasn’t him, but you could hear the shuffling of her feet. The soft sound of her kimono as it rustled until she came to a stop.

“Master has instructed that, starting tomorrow, I will tutor you in Japanese.”

Why?

Why did it matter if you could speak Japanese or understand him? It wasn’t like you were brimming with conversations that could be had about art or philosophy. Did he think you would learn and you’d both what? What did Enishi want from you?

“To be able to speak without me present.”

Keiko’s words jolted you out of your thoughts. Had the question left your mouth without you being aware of it? It must have happened because Keiko answered.

He spoke again and released the hold he kept on your chin. You were about to search for where Keiko stood when you felt Enishi’s hands dip between the mattress and your legs. You didn’t have time to think, to try and comprehend what was about to happen. One minute you were sitting upright on the bed fighting for modesty and the next your back was against the sheets.

It was the surprise of it that trapped your next breath in your lungs. It quickly escaped in a yelp of surprise when his hands pulled you closer to the edge of the bed again. Your hands lashed out to find purchase in the sheets, to pull you away, but you knew it was pointless. It wasn’t until Enishi had your ass hanging halfway off the bed that he stopped pulling and used both hands to spread your legs wide.

The suddenness of having your cunt exposed to the room - to him - caused a scream to tear free from your throat. Your hands scrambled to peel his hands away from your thighs. The hands that kept your legs pried open under his watchful gaze. The thunderous sound of his words ricocheted off the stone walls and, for a split second, the fear from his voice, the fury behind it, left your body still. Keiko was quick to tell you what he said.

“He said behave or he’ll tie them open.”

You watched him as she spoke. Enishi’s eyes were no longer dark with desire but were replaced by something fiercer, darker. One that requires obedience and would accept nothing less. You knew he meant it. The words he spoke and forced Keiko to share in warning. If you didn’t give him this, give him your body freely without a fight, he would punish you for it.

You fought to relax your legs in his grip and to hide your shame you tried to turn away from him. To hide yourself back inside the sheets once more.

You should’ve remembered your lesson from yesterday.

The minute you went to turn away, close your eyes, Enishi’s fingers dug into your cheeks and brought you back to face him. Another angry shout. You didn’t need Keiko to tell you what he meant - what he wanted.

When Enishi was sure you wouldn’t try it again, that your eyes were focused where they needed to be - on him - he drew his hand away from your face. His fingers lazily traced a path along the curve of your jaw, a thumb under your lips, and down to the hollow of your throat. As he etched out a path along your body his eyes followed with each movement of his fingers causing his pupils to grow wider, ever wider, with lust until his entire iris disappeared.

A shaky breath rattled through your bones. A sound that only seemed to excite him more. His fingers moved between your breasts and his eyes caught sight of the perfect imprint he’d left of his teeth in the soft skin. The pad of his index finger lazily swam up to trace along the bruising flesh. His next words registered so low, almost non-existent, you weren’t even sure if he’d spoken. It wasn’t until Keiko spoke his next question that you knew he had.

“The Master - he wants to know if you’re married. If you’ve…been with any men.”

What should you say? You weren’t a virgin. You knew the desire and wants of men. How a woman’s body could turn them into helpless fools when they confused a woman’s sex for love. You were engaged to be married and you and your fiancée hadn’t waited for your wedding night.

You could vaguely recall your fiancée’s touch. The way you felt. It wasn’t anything like the way Enishi made you feel. A hard truth that you loathe to admit even to yourself, but a truth nonetheless. You’d both been fumbling in the dark and while your fiancée had come, you hadn’t experienced a real orgasm until Enishi had been knuckle deep inside your cunt.

You refused to tell him this.

If you told him you’d had plenty of lovers would he throw you out? Discard you?

Your train of thought came to a screeching halt when two of his fingers moved through your folds to scissor your clit. You sucked in a shuddering breath. Your hips dipped down against the bed as your back arched up. You tried to keep your moan housed inside your body but Enishi began to massage the pads of his fingers against your swollen clit, driving a cry of pleasure to tear free from you. Your legs involuntarily clamped shut around his arm and Enishi was quick to punish you. His free hand smacking down on your thigh that only coupled with the pleasure of the next flick of his fingers.

The hard smack against your thigh was enough to release his arm, and Enishi dropped to his knees between your thighs. You wanted to ask what he was doing - demand to know. All thoughts were silenced as he gave one last stroke of his fingers before he pushed both between your folds.

The minute you felt the delicious pressure of his fingers another moan crawled its way up your throat. It quickly turned into a scream at the feeling of Enishi’s teeth biting down into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Pain and pleasure melded together until you weren’t sure if the sparks behind your eyes was from the curve of his fingers inside your cunt or the way your nerves came to life under the pressure of his teeth.

He pulled away just enough - his voice guttural - to ask his question again. Again Keiko repeated it and with the next curve of Enishi’s fingers, curving, curving up, up, you felt yourself close to breaking. You were about to give him the answer that he craved, coaxed, out of your body. You would’ve told him right then and there as his thumb massaged your clit, fingers sliding in and out of you, when he growled his next words in English.

“Answer. Me.”

It wasn’t perfect, but those two words didn’t have to be for them to make the impact they did.

“I was engaged.” You huffed out. “I was going to be married.”

You couldn’t tell if Keiko relayed your answer to him. You weren’t sure of anything except the coil that was tightening low in your belly, tighter and tighter. A mewling sound filled the room and was growing in octaves. It took you a moment to realize it was you making the sound, but it was the only moment of clarity you had before you felt something unexpected.

Enishi’s fingers removed themselves from your cunt with a squelch. Before you had time to mourn the loss of him, his mouth latched over your mound. His tongue mapping out a figure 8 between your folds.

Your chest collapsed in a moan that violently rippled through your body. Your legs shook and you tried to find purchase, to hold onto something while the waves of pleasure rolled through your body. Another roll of his tongue and the feel of his lips gently suckling at your clit sent your body spiraling. Your hands fisting deep to the roots of his hair - pulling, pulling, and it didn’t feel enough.

Another breathless moan shuddered through your body. What Enishi was doing felt salacious - under heard of. Your mind raced to remember if any of your girlfriends shared stories of their suiters, fiancées, ever latching their mouths to their cunts. Their tongue greedily lavished relentless strokes - the way Enishi did now - as your body trembled in his palms. Your hands fisting his hair harder at the root.

You were sure Enishi would let go. Punish you for touching him this way. His hands only dug further under the mattress and took hold of your hips, to bring your cunt closer to his mouth. It allowed his tongue to fuck into you; three solid thrusts before he stopped.

Keiko was still in the room. You knew she was. She had to be. Enishi hadn’t dismissed her and you knew they wouldn’t just take it upon themselves to just leave without being given the order. The thought alone should’ve been enough to drive the cloud of desire from your mind but it wasn’t. A sick thrill of the thought that for once they were watching Enishi take pleasure in you only peaked your arousal.

The coil that’d been tightening low in your lower abdomen grew and grew. Your fingers dug tighter in his hair and you did something that, if you’d been in your right mind, you’d have felt the heat of shame on your cheeks.

You didn’t have time for shame right now.

Your hips moved up to meet the next thrust of his tongue. Eager and wanton in chasing your own release. You wanted to come on his tongue. To coat those pretty lips in the memory of how you tasted long after he’d finished with you. It was in the next flick of his tongue that sent you barreling over the edge.

You thought you were screaming the way your mouth tore open, but no sound came out. It was shuddering breaths that shook free from your chest. You were well aware Enishi was still between your thighs. His tongue hungrily lapping up every last drop your orgasm offered until a quiver of a whimper came from your lips. Your hands that had fisted in his hair to keep him there were now trying to push him away. Your clit overstimulated and sensitive to the touch.

Oh, so deliciously sensitive.

Enishi pried his mouth from your cunt and you wanted to take a moment of pride at the sight of your arousal around his mouth. His chin. You watched as he worked the metal latches on his vest off one-by-one until it dropped to the floor. He worked his way out of the hakama and let it fall at his feet.

His cock sprang free from the fabric aching and hard. You watched, wanton and eager, as Enishi took his cock in his hand and stroked it. He was already hard, painfully hard, so you knew it was meant for you to watch. So, you watched a pearl of precum leak from his tip. You watched his thumb gently smear it like lubricant before he moved to the edge of the bed. With his hands back under your hips, Enishi aligned his tip with your entrance and in one hard thrust was inside you.

Your walls gripped him tightly as Enishi pushed his way into you. You knew he felt it too - the tightness, the resistance that your cunt offered. You could feel it in the way his hips stuttered and the sharp exhale that escaped him once he was fully sheathed inside of you.

You didn’t have time to prepare for the stretch - the searing delicious, oh so, so, delicious pain - that came as your cunt tried to accommodate his thickness. You remember seeing him. You remembered imagining what it would feel like to have him take you and to feel him break you and make you anew. With the next role of his hips you felt your lips part to give praise just as he bottomed out.

Your fiancée didn’t feel like this. Your fiancée hadn’t fucked like this.

Enishi moved your hips further off the bed. His hands pulling you up at an angle that on the next thrust created stars to spark behind your eyes. He pulled your thighs up towards his hips and somehow it only deepened the next. Deeper, deeper, until you threatened to hollow out. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting over and over began to fill the room and you felt yourself becoming lost.

With each unrelenting brutal thrust of his hips, Enishi claimed more and more of you. You struggled to remember why that was a bad thing. How could it be so bad when he made you feel so good?

You were trying to remind yourself of what he’d done - who he was, but with his face inches from yours, your mind went blank. You didn’t know why your hands cupped his face or your thumb touched the small bell of his earring. Enishi was so close, so vulnerable, that for a split second you believed if you brought him down to kiss you, his mouth would’ve eagerly met yours.

In all the times you’d watched him fuck his concubine’s - women like Keiko - you never witnessed him sharing a kiss with any. He used their bodies relentlessly. He broke them and whittled them down to puddles of sweat and come. Never did he kiss them. Never was he truly intimate with any of them.

Did he want to know the intimacy of your mouth? To claim you fully in a way he hadn’t claimed any other?

It was a question that remained unanswered because with the next brutal thrust of his hips your world exploded. Your nails found a home in the groove of his back and dug in as your orgasm overtook you. It felt endless as his cock continued to stroke your walls until you felt his hips give one last thrust and, seconds later, felt his spend spill fill you.

For a brief moment, you should’ve been worried but you couldn’t think past your racing heart and aching body.

The afterglow of the moment quickly vanished and the two of you were left a sweaty, heaving mess. You were painfully aware how close you both were - foreheads almost completely touching - and it made you wonder, if only for a moment, if anything changed. Your hand ached to reach out and push the sweaty strands of hair out of his face.

Your chest was tight with a need to bridge the few inches between you. Enishi hadn’t shook away your hands that were still cupping his face. There was no denying in such a small confined space that his eyes were lingering on your mouth.

Did something change?

You received your answer a moment later when Enishi violently tore himself from you leaving you raw and aching alone on the bed. You were vaguely aware of him barking orders at someone - most likely Keiko - as his padded feet stormed off to the bathroom. The door slamming shut behind him.

___________

As always, thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

___________

Tag list: @ellisaworld @missroro @ram716 @misfits1a

#Violent Delights #enishi yukishiro #enishi yukishiro x reader #enishi yukishiro x you #enishi x reader #enishi x you #enishi yukishiro fanfiction #enishi yukishiro smut #rurouni kenshin #rurouni kenshin the final #mackenyu #mackenyu characters #99% smut and 1% filth

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drewharrisonwriter · 7 days

Text

Friends Without Benefits

Status: One Shot, Complete

Summary: Even if you don't believe it, Dieter Bravo is actually capable of having platonic friendships.

Word Count: 10.5k words

Warnings: strong language, heavy flirtation, sexual tension (no smut--can you believe it??), mentions of past affairs and scandals, alcohol consumption, references to Dieter’s reckless behavior, mentions of drug use, emotional vulnerability, humor, inappropriate jokes (because, Dieter!), legal contract about not fucking

A/N: Okay, I know what you're thinking… another Dieter fic? Yeah, I know—it’s like my fourth one, so clearly, the brain rot is real, and I’m trying to get it out of my system (seriously, I’m trying… sort of). I know I haven’t updated Lifeline in a hot minute, but we’ll get to that later, lol. This fic is a little different from the usual—there’s a lot more fluff and friendship stuff, but I really enjoyed playing with the dynamic of two people who could totally cross the line but decide not to (because, honestly, it’s working for them as is). Also, apologies for any typos—I tried proofreading, but doing it on my phone isn’t exactly ideal. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!

P.S. My laptop, which served me well for 5 years, just gave out. With grad school, the recent loss of my stepdad, and ongoing medical bills, finances are tight. I’m currently managing writing commissions and my dissertation from my phone, which is okay but really challenging. If you can help with a donation or by commissioning some of my writing, or just by simply commenting or reblogging, it would mean the world to me. 💜 Thank you from the bottom of my heart for any support you can offer. 💜🙏🏻

Read this on AO3 | Check out my Masterlist

It started with a rejection email.

Not the kind that offered hope for future opportunities, but the type that crushed your spirit in one curt sentence:

"We regret to inform you that your application for the Screenwriting Development Program has not been accepted."

She read it over twice, then a third time, hoping something had been missed. A reason, some constructive feedback, anything. But it was just a copy-paste response sent to dozens—maybe hundreds—of other hopefuls like her. She blinked away the sting in her eyes and put the laptop to sleep.

The screen faded to black, reflecting back an image she barely recognized anymore: tangled hair, circles under her eyes, and the lingering trace of a smile she hadn’t used in days.

“Whatever,” she muttered to herself. “I didn’t need it anyway.”

That was a lie.

The Screenwriting Development Program was her shot, her dream, the chance to step out of her day-to-day grind and into the world she’d always wanted. A world where she wrote stories that people would actually care to hear.

But she didn’t have time to dwell on it. In fifteen minutes, she had to be at the diner. She grabbed her apron off the back of a chair and stuffed it into her bag before heading out.

As usual, the shift was long. And slow. She spent most of her time refilling coffee for the regulars and plastering on a smile that barely reached her eyes. The rejection lingered like a dark cloud, reminding her how close she was to giving up completely. By the time her shift ended, she was so exhausted that she didn’t even change out of her uniform. She just grabbed her bag and headed out into the night.

The long walk up to her apartment felt heavier than usual. It wasn’t until she reached her front door that the next wave of despair hit her like a punch to the gut.

An eviction notice.

She stared at the paper taped to her door, her heart sinking.

“Great,” she whispered bitterly, ripping it off and crumpling it into a ball before shoving it into her bag.

Four weeks. She had four weeks to come up with the rent, or she’d be out on the street.

Later, she sat on her couch in her underwear and a camisole, trying to ignore the cold chill of the eviction notice that still hovered at the edge of her mind. The TV buzzed in the background, Dieter Bravo’s voice filling the small apartment with a familiar rasp. A half-eaten carton of ice cream sat beside her, its contents softening to a puddle as she mindlessly scooped the melting mess.

Hunger Strike was playing again. She’d lost count of how many times she’d watched it by now. Dieter’s performance was the kind that stuck with you, the kind that won awards. It wasn’t just a movie anymore; it was the movie that had put him on the map—had made him a star and earned him that Oscar. She didn’t care if everyone else had moved on to the next blockbuster; for her, Hunger Strike was it. Every look in his eyes, every rasp of desperation in his voice felt real, almost too real. It was like he wasn’t acting at all.

"We don’t need them. They need us!" His character was yelling now, his voice hoarse, raw with intensity. She could practically feel his pain, his determination radiating through the screen.

She wiped at her eyes, even though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was everything—her life, the rejection, the eviction notice looming like a ticking time bomb. Or maybe it was just Dieter. Watching him made her feel seen, like somehow, through all the chaos, someone else understood what it was like to be on the edge.

The credits rolled on Hunger Strike, but instead of turning off the TV, she did what any fan would—she went down the rabbit hole. The screen filled with suggested videos, interviews, and, of course, the latest tabloid scandals. Dieter Bravo was all over the place lately. She had seen the headlines—everyone had. It was impossible to ignore him, even if you tried.

She grabbed her phone and scrolled through Twitter, where his name was trending yet again.

"Dieter Bravo's Latest Scandal: Sex Tape with Male Assistant Exposed!"

"Gender Identity Crisis or Another Stunt? Dieter Bravo Caught in Love Triangle with Married PA!"

"Oscar-Winning Actor, Homewrecker? Dieter Bravo Linked to Personal Assistant's Broken Marriage!"

She exhaled sharply, half-amused, half in disbelief. Every few months, it seemed, something like this would pop up—another scandal, another explosion in the media circus surrounding him. But this one? A sex tape? With his male personal assistant, who was married to a woman?

It was outrageous. It was chaotic. It was exactly what you'd expect from Dieter Bravo.

How does one even make this shit up? she thought, as she tapped one of the articles. The details were just as wild as the headlines. Apparently, the PA was a guy named James, and he’d been with Dieter for years—right up until last week, when everything blew up.

An article excerpt says: "Sources say that the sex tape in question was filmed during a drug-fueled party at Dieter’s mansion. It shows intimate moments between the actor and his assistant, James, who is reportedly married to a woman. James has since left Dieter’s employment amid the scandal, and insiders claim the actor is ‘unapologetic’ about the affair. This is just the latest in a long string of public meltdowns for the once-revered actor. Dieter Bravo’s chaotic lifestyle has led many to question his mental stability and even his gender identity, as he continues to defy traditional labels."

She snorted, shaking her head. “Unapologetic? That sounds about right.”

It wasn’t that she supported his reckless behavior, but there was something about Dieter that always seemed to push boundaries in every direction. He lived like a car crash happening in slow motion, and yet, people couldn’t look away. The scandals, the chaos—they were just part of his public persona. But there was more to him than that.

She clicked on an older interview from the Cliff Beasts 6 press tour. That was the movie where everything started to unravel for him. The film was supposed to be a big comeback, but instead, it had exposed the man behind the Oscar-winning actor—drugs, sex, alcohol, and a level of unpredictability that no one in Hollywood could quite handle.

Interviewer: “Dieter, after your incredible performance in Hunger Strike, people expected another award-winning role in Cliff Beasts 6, but... that’s not what happened. Can you talk about what went wrong?”

Dieter Bravo (slouching, visibly tired): “Cliff Beasts 6... yeah, man, that was a mess. But, like, it was supposed to be a mess, wasn’t it? I mean, we were trapped in that goddamn bubble for months longer than planned, and by the end, it wasn’t even a movie anymore. It was survival.” He laughed, a rough, bitter sound. “I overdosed on camera, for fuck’s sake. People thought it was part of the documentary. Maybe it should’ve been.”

Interviewer: “So, the extended shoot during the pandemic—did that affect the film’s outcome?”

Dieter (rubbing his temples, shaking his head): “Affect it? It was the outcome. By the time we got to month six, no one gave a shit about the movie anymore. It was just about getting out of there alive. People wanted me to deliver some award-winning performance? Dude, I was barely holding it together. I mean, look at the film—Cliff Beasts was never about art. By the sixth one, it was just... noise. Star-studded, CGI-filled noise. People expected something big, but I gave them a disaster. Maybe that’s what it needed to be.”

Interviewer: “The overdose incident—was that something planned for the documentary, or did things just... get out of control?”

Dieter Bravo (smirking, then shrugging): “Planned? Nah, man, nothing was planned by then. I mean, the cameras were always rolling, right? So when I went down... they just kept filming. Thought it’d make for good behind-the-scenes footage or something. But that’s Hollywood for you.” He paused, letting the weight of it sink in before adding, “People don’t care if you’re falling apart. They just want to know if it’ll sell.”

Interviewer: “That’s pretty heavy. Do you think Cliff Beasts 6 was the start of your... well, decline? It’s no secret you’ve had a rough few years since.”

Dieter Bravo (lighting a cigarette, ignoring the studio's no-smoking policy): “Decline? Maybe. I dunno. I think people were already looking for a reason to tear me apart. Cliff Beasts just made it easier. It wasn’t the overdose that got people talking, it was the fact that it happened while I was making a movie no one cared about anymore. The sixth installment, man. By that point, the franchise was running on fumes, and so was I. But people love a good downfall, right? They see someone on top, and they wait for you to crash. They’ll stick a camera in your face and call it a documentary when really, it’s just a freak show.”

She paused the video, the cigarette smoke still curling from Dieter’s lips frozen on the screen. The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. It was no wonder the media loved to tear him apart; they were practically fed the narrative on a silver platter. His whole life had become the entertainment industry’s favorite sideshow.

She stared at the screen for a few more moments, Dieter’s face frozen in that half-smirk, half-exhausted expression. He was unraveling, and everyone was watching. Cliff Beasts 6 might have been the breaking point, but it wasn’t the cause. No, Dieter had been falling apart long before that.

In a different world, she imagined, she and Dieter could be friends. He’d probably laugh at the mess she just made, tell her not to sweat it. In another life, maybe they’d meet over coffee or work on some crazy indie project together. They’d both be swimming in their own chaos, but maybe that’s what would make their friendship work.

She wasn’t delusional; she knew Dieter Bravo was a celebrity—someone she would probably never meet, never know beyond the screen. But sometimes, when he said things like that, it felt like he was speaking directly to her. Like maybe, in some other life, they’d get along. They’d get each other.

Her eyes drifted down to the eviction notice sitting on the coffee table. Four weeks, it said. Four weeks to come up with the rent, or she’d be out on the street. It was hard to feel hopeful when every option felt like a dead end. And yet, watching Dieter talk about his own collapse, she didn’t feel so alone.

Her phone buzzed on the cushion beside her.

She ignored it at first, assuming it was just another bill reminder. But when she glanced at the screen, her breath caught.

Studio Callback - Screenwriting Internship.

Her heart stopped. A callback? After all this time?

Without thinking, she sat up too fast, the ice cream carton tipping over the edge of the couch and spilling melted chocolate onto the floor. “Shit!” she cursed, grabbing a towel and wiping at the sticky mess with quick, frustrated swipes.

It felt surreal. She had applied for that screenwriting internship months ago and had long since written it off as a missed opportunity. But here it was—another chance.

She stood there, towel in one hand, her phone in the other, staring at the message like it might disappear if she blinked. Four weeks until eviction, a job that barely covered her bills, and now, out of nowhere, this lifeline.

Her eyes flicked back to the TV, where Dieter’s face still stared back at her.

She picked up her phone and, without hesitating, replied to the message. Yes. I’ll be there.

–

The next day…

The waiting room buzzed with the same dreary energy it had since she’d arrived nearly an hour ago. Grey walls, uncomfortable chairs, and that humming fluorescent light that seemed to buzz directly into her brain. She sat on the edge of her seat, fingers tracing the spine of her portfolio, glancing at the door every time it swung open.

But this time, it wasn’t her turn.

It was him.

Dieter Bravo stormed into the room like a hurricane, sunglasses still perched on his face even though the room was dim, his hair a chaotic mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed—or maybe stumbled out of a party. His team trailed behind him, all looking frazzled and overworked. He barely acknowledged them as he flopped into a chair across from her with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

“Well, this is bullshit,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I’m a goddamn Oscar winner, and they’ve got me sitting in this dump of a waiting room like I’m some extra on a low-budget indie film.”

She bit her lip, trying to hide her amusement. She knew who Dieter Bravo was the second he’d walked in—who didn’t? His face had been plastered on every tabloid for weeks. But there was something surreal about seeing him up close, in the flesh, like he’d been plucked straight from her TV screen. Don’t freak out, she told herself. He’s just a person.

Still, the excitement bubbled up inside her, and for a moment, she just stared at him, feeling the shock wear off.

He caught her staring. “What? You think this is funny?”

She blinked, pulling herself together, giving him a deadpan look. “I think you’re acting like someone who’s forgotten what a waiting room is.”

Dieter raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or intrigued. “And you are?”

She shrugged. “Someone who’s been sitting here for an hour. Pretty sure I’m about to merge with this chair if they don’t call me soon.”

Dieter snorted, sitting up a little straighter, like he wasn’t used to people talking to him like that. Not outside his circle, at least. “An hour, huh? That’s it? Try six months trapped in a COVID bubble filming Cliff Beasts 6. That’s real torture.”

She laughed softly. “Yeah, I saw that movie. Pretty sure it was a crime against humanity.”

He cracked a grin. “Hey, that movie’s still paying my rent.”

“Is it? Seems like you should be able to afford better waiting rooms, then.”

Dieter leaned back in his chair, adjusting his sunglasses even though they weren’t needed. “Touché.”

There was a pause, a silence between them that felt more comfortable than awkward. They were sizing each other up, like two kids sitting next to each other on a school bus, deciding if they wanted to be friends.

“So,” Dieter said, shifting his gaze toward her again. “What are you here for? You in trouble, too?”

She smirked. “I’m always in trouble.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Yeah, well, me too.” He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking around the room as if just noticing how drab it was. “You work here or something?”

She shrugged. “Depends if they think I’m good enough to work here.”

“Good enough for what?”

“I’m a writer,” she said, half-smiling, but there was a vulnerability in her voice. “Or at least I’m trying to be.”

Dieter’s eyes lit up with genuine curiosity, which caught her off guard. “A writer, huh? You got anything out there I’ve seen?”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Only if you read stuff on Medium and Tumblr.”

Dieter laughed, the sound deep and unexpected, like he wasn’t used to laughing like that. “Tumblr, huh? So you’re a real writer.” He gave her a playful look. “What do you write? Fanfiction about guys like me?”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a teasing glint in her gaze. “Nope. But if I did, it’d be better than that train wreck you called Cliff Beasts 6.”

Dieter clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Right in the ego.”

She smirked. “Ego as big as yours can take it.”

For a second, he just stared at her, genuinely caught off guard. He wasn’t used to people talking to him like this—like he was normal, not some Oscar-winning disaster wrapped in a scandal. She didn’t seem to care who he was or how many headlines he’d been in. It was refreshing, and he found himself more interested in her than he had been in anyone outside his usual crowd in a long time.

“So what do you do?” she asked casually, keeping the banter going.

Dieter laughed, a full, deep sound that made him look younger than he usually did in the tabloids. “What do I do? I’m a professional disaster. You haven’t heard?”

She chuckled, nodding toward the door. “I think you’re better at it than you are at acting.”

Dieter looked at her for a beat, his mouth twitching into a smirk. “You know, I don’t get a lot of people talking to me like this. Most people, they want to kiss ass or they just want something from me.”

She shrugged, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “What can I say? I’m not most people.”

He leaned forward, intrigued. “You like books?”

She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of books?”

“The kind that make people uncomfortable.”

Her lips twitched into a smile. “I see you’ve read Camus.”

He grinned. “The Stranger. Ever read it?”

“I did. Twice. Though I’m more of a Kafka fan.” She paused for a beat, her voice deadpan. “I like my existentialism served with a side of why is everything a nightmare and also I’m a bug.”

Dieter laughed again, clearly impressed. “You’re alright, you know that?”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, her tone casual, but inside, she couldn’t quite believe she was having this conversation. With Dieter Bravo. Of all people.

They stared at each other, neither blinking, as if trying to see who’d crack first. But before either could say anything more, the door opened again.

“Mr. Bravo?” A frazzled assistant appeared in the doorway, eyes wide as they motioned for him to come in. “We’re ready for you.”

Dieter groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes as he stood up. “Finally.” He paused, turning to her with a smirk. “Don’t go anywhere, book lover. We’re not done with this conversation.”

She gave him a small smile, though inwardly she rolled her eyes. Yeah, sure. Like you'd remember me in two minutes, she thought. Dieter was famous for being distracted, for forgetting people as soon as he turned a corner. Everyone knew about his ADD—it was practically part of his public persona. He’d probably forget her name before the door even shut behind him.

Inside the meeting room…

Dieter slouched into a chair, his eyes flicking toward the group of studio executives sitting across from him, all with tight-lipped expressions. They weren’t here to chit-chat. They were here to clean up his mess. Again.

“Alright, what’s the damage?” Dieter asked, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.

One of the executives, a tall man with silver hair and an expensive-looking suit, sighed heavily. “We’ve already settled with James and his wife. They’ve agreed not to divorce, but we’re paying for damages—and couples therapy.”

Dieter raised an eyebrow. “Couples therapy? Really?”

The man didn’t blink. “Yes, Dieter. Really.”

The room was thick with tension, the kind that only came when the stakes were sky-high. Another executive chimed in. “The headlines are out of control. We need to distance you from this. Fast.”

“What do you want me to do? Apologize? I already said I was sorry.” Dieter’s voice was tired, edged with sarcasm, but underneath, there was a flicker of frustration.

The silver-haired executive leaned forward. “Dieter, this isn’t about a simple apology. You’ve gone beyond that. Your lifestyle—this hedonistic, Roman emperor routine you’ve got going on—it’s not just damaging your reputation. It’s hurting us. The studio. The people you’re supposed to be representing.”

Dieter blinked, caught off guard by the harshness in the man’s tone.

“We’ve invested millions in you,” the executive continued, “and right now, you’re a liability. There’s talk of ending your contract early. Cutting ties before you bring the whole house down.”

Dieter’s jaw tightened. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” the man said coldly. “I’m not.”

For a moment, Dieter just sat there, staring at the man, trying to process what he was hearing. They were serious. He was this close to losing everything.

Another voice chimed in—his publicist, trying to smooth things over. “We’re not saying it’s over, Dieter. But we need to fix this. Charities. Positive press. You need to lay low for a while.”

The executive nodded. “No public appearances, no parties. We’re going to find some charity work for you, get the public to see a new side of you. You’re going to disappear for a bit. When you come back, you’ll be better. Clean. Understood?”

Dieter clenched his fists, the frustration boiling beneath the surface. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”

“And we’ll get you a new PA,” his publicist added. “Someone who can keep you grounded. Keep you out of trouble, hopefully, someone you could not fuck.”

Dieter waved them off, already bored with the conversation. His mind drifted back to the waiting room, to the girl sitting across from him, trading quips like they were old friends. At least she’s interesting, he thought.

Back in the waiting room…

She sat there, slumped in her chair, staring blankly at the wall. The interview hadn’t gone well. She hadn’t gotten the job. The casting director had been polite but distant, and she could tell by their expression that they already had someone else in mind. Her stomach twisted with disappointment.

No extra job. No extra paycheck. And no way to make rent by the end of the month.

She stared down at her portfolio, feeling the weight of her failure settle in. She’d have to start packing soon. Maybe call her mom, tell her she was coming home. She could already imagine the conversation.

“We told you so,” her mom would say. “You should’ve gone into nursing. Writing was never going to pay the bills.”

Her stepdad would nod in agreement, disappointed but unsurprised. “Creative writing? Really?” he’d say. “What did you think would happen?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying not to think about it. But the thoughts kept coming, relentless. She’d have to pack up, move back home, admit defeat.

God, I’m such a screw-up.

The door creaked open, and Dieter stepped out, glancing around. His entourage had already disappeared down the hall, leaving him standing alone for once. He spotted her instantly.

“Still here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She forced a small smile, shrugging. “Didn’t get the job.”

Dieter nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well... my meeting sucked too. They’ve decided I’m officially the next Caligula.”

She snorted. “That bad?”

“Worse,” he said, shaking his head. He stood there for a beat, looking around the room, then back at her. “You know what? Screw this. Let’s go grab a drink.”

She blinked, surprised. “What?”

“I’m serious,” Dieter said, eyes glinting with that familiar mix of mischief and exhaustion. “I need a drink. You’re funny. Let’s go.”

She stared at him, unsure if he was joking or not. But he wasn’t. She could see it in his eyes—he was serious.

“You buying?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dieter grinned. “I’m an Oscar winner. Drinks are always on me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then slowly stood up, tucking her portfolio under her arm. “Alright, Bravo. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

He smirked, leading the way. “Baby, you don’t know who you’re talking to.”

–

The black Audi’s engine purred as Dieter navigated the dim streets, his phone vibrating endlessly in the cupholder. Text after text, call after call—all from his team. They were probably losing their minds, wondering where he’d disappeared to. He glanced at the notifications, scoffing, and shoved the phone further out of reach.

“So,” she said, glancing at him from the passenger seat, “do you do this often?”

Dieter smirked, keeping his eyes on the road. “Do what?”

“Pick up random strangers and ask them to grab drinks with you.”

He laughed, the sound low and lazy. “No, I mean, I pick up random strangers... just not usually for drinks.”

She chuckled. “Well, you should probably get better at vetting your strangers. I could be a serial killer, you know.”

Dieter shot her a quick glance, grinning. “Even better. Might actually enjoy being murdered by you.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “You really are a disaster, aren’t you?”

“Disaster, masochist, artist... depends on the day.” He glanced over at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’ve got a hell of a sense of humor, though. I like it.”

“And here I thought you were the sadist for thinking being murdered sounds fun.”

“Nope.” Dieter grinned. “Definitely a masochist. But don’t let that scare you off.”

She smirked, leaning back in her seat. “Too late. I’m terrified now.”

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights flickering through the tinted windows, casting shadows on Dieter’s face. It felt surreal, sitting in the passenger seat of Dieter Bravo’s car, heading to God-knows-where. But she didn’t feel uneasy. In fact, she felt strangely comfortable. It was weird how easily they’d fallen into this rhythm, like they’d known each other for years.

“So,” she asked, breaking the silence, “where exactly are we getting these drinks?”

Dieter’s smirk grew as he pulled into a parking garage, winding his way up to the fifth floor. “Here.”

“Here?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Dieter parked the car, and without another word, led her to the elevator. When the doors slid open, she was met with the sleek interior of his penthouse. Glass walls, dark furniture, and a view of the city that stretched on forever.

“Oh,” she said, stepping inside, taking it all in. “I thought we were going to a bar or something.”

Dieter chuckled, locking the door behind them. “Yeah, well, I’ve been told not to be seen in public too much for a while. You know... the whole ‘clean up the image’ thing.”

She turned, leaning against the counter, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Right. The scandal.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, that.”

She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “So, should I be worried now? You could be the serial killer. I didn’t tell anyone where I’m going.”

Dieter grinned, moving toward the bar in the corner of the room. “Well, if I am, at least you’ll die with a good drink in your hand.”

Dieter’s penthouse bar looked like it had been pulled straight out of a high-end hotel. Polished wood, rows of bottles perfectly lined up, and a set of cocktail tools that would make any bartender proud.

He moved behind the bar with a familiar ease, pulling out a few bottles and setting them on the counter. “What’s your poison?”

“Vodka, Negroni... surprise me.”

“You got it.” He started mixing, moving around the bar like he’d done it a thousand times. She followed suit, sliding behind the bar beside him, the space between them feeling natural.

As they worked, they fell into a rhythm, like two old friends who’d done this countless times before. It was easy, the way they passed bottles back and forth, the clink of ice in glasses punctuating their conversation.

“So,” she said, shaking her drink, “you always this smooth with your guests, or am I special?”

Dieter smirked. “You’re special. I don’t let just anyone behind the bar.” He watched her expertly pour out the drink, nodding in approval. “You’ve got skills.”

She chuckled. “I bartend. Well, I used to, now I just work at a diner, but it counts.”

He laughed. “I used to bartend, too. Before all this.” He gestured vaguely to his sprawling penthouse. “I kinda miss it.”

“Miss what? Making drinks for drunk people at 2 a.m.?”

He shook his head, grinning. “No, the simplicity of it. The quiet moments before the rush. And, I guess, the people. You get to talk to all kinds of weirdos.”

She handed him the cocktail she’d just mixed, and he took a sip, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “Not bad. Actually, really good.”

She smiled, taking a sip of his creation in return. “Yours isn’t half bad either, weirdo.”

He snorted as he finished drinking, “Looks like we’ve both still got it.”

They clinked their glasses, a quiet laugh shared between them.

–

They moved to the couches near the window, drinks in hand, and the night outside stretched on in glittering silence. It was one of those rare moments when the city was alive, but they were in their own little world, insulated by glass and a few too many drinks.

She stretched out on the couch, swirling the last of her drink in the glass. “So, this is what it’s like, huh? Being Dieter Bravo. A penthouse with a killer view and a bar that puts most cocktail lounges to shame.”

Dieter leaned back, grinning. “You sound impressed.”

She tilted her head. “I mean, it’s nice. But I’m not that impressed.”

He snorted. “Figures. I’ve gotta work harder to impress you, huh?”

“You said it, not me.”

There was a beat of silence before he broke it. “So, what’s the story? Why’re you still working at a diner when you’re clearly way too smart for that?”

She shrugged, taking a sip. “You make it sound like I had a choice. You think I want to be a waitress?”

“No, but...” He trailed off, clearly thinking. “I don’t know. You strike me as someone who should be... doing more.”

She arched an eyebrow. “More, like what? Writing fanfiction for Cliff Beasts 7?”

Dieter laughed, the sound filling the space. “God, no. Please, spare me.”

She grinned. “It’s not for lack of trying. I just... haven’t found my place yet. It’s not as easy as, ‘Hey, I’m talented, someone notice me.’” She shook her head, her voice growing quieter. “It’s a lot of failing. Mostly failing.”

Dieter nodded, leaning back in his seat, his expression more serious now. “I get that.”

“Do you?” she asked, her voice softer but still edged with sarcasm. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re pretty damn successful.”

Dieter looked at her, really looked at her this time. “You think success means you stop failing?”

She didn’t answer, watching him with curiosity.

He set his drink down and ran a hand through his hair. “You fail more when you’re successful. Trust me. People are just waiting for you to screw up. And when you do... they’re there to watch you burn.”

“You’re talking about the scandal.”

He nodded, taking another sip. “It’s not just the scandal. It’s everything. There’s always someone out there with a camera, waiting for you to mess up. They don’t care about what you do right. Just the crash.”

“So you’re saying you’re a slow-motion car crash?” she asked, her tone dry.

He smirked, nodding. “Exactly. A car crash people pay to watch.”

She stared at him for a moment, her mind working through his words. “That’s... kind of tragic.”

Dieter raised an eyebrow, his grin fading. “It is, isn’t it?”

They both went quiet, the weight of his words settling between them. But then she leaned forward, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You ever think about, I don’t know... getting out of the car? Stopping the crash?”

He barked a laugh, shaking his head. “And do what? Go back to bartending? Give up the Oscar for a shaker and ice?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged, her voice light but serious underneath. “Or maybe just... do something real. Something that’s not about everyone else’s expectations.”

Dieter looked at her for a long moment, something in his expression shifting, like he was seeing her in a new light. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I do. Look, I might not be some hotshot writer, but I’ve always believed that what matters is the stuff that’s real. The art you make when no one’s watching. The stuff people don’t get to tear apart.”

“Yeah, but the problem is, everyone’s watching.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “So maybe that’s their problem.”

Dieter laughed, and this time it wasn’t the careless, guarded kind of laugh he usually gave. It was genuine. “You’ve got a point.”

“Of course I do. I’m always right.”

“Okay, Camus,” he teased, rolling his eyes. “You’re officially hired as my life coach.”

She leaned back, eyes glinting with mischief. “I don’t know if you could afford me.”

Dieter snorted, swirling his drink. “How expensive are you?” he asked, playful but intrigued.

She paused, pretending to consider it for a moment. “Depends… do you personally know Gérard Depardieu?”

Dieter grimaced, raising an eyebrow as he took another sip. “Gérard Depardieu?” He repeated, blinking in confusion.

She nodded, downing the rest of her drink in two big gulps, the alcohol warming her throat. “What? You don’t know him?”

“I mean, I do, but wow...” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a chuckle. “That’s a... pretty weird choice.”

“Well, what can I say? I like them like that.” She shrugged, her expression completely serious as she set her glass down.

Dieter threw his head back, laughing harder than he had all night. It was loud, unfiltered, and completely genuine, the kind of laugh that came when he wasn’t performing for anyone.

“You’re a trip, you know that?” he said, still grinning as he wiped at his eyes. “Gérard Depardieu. Damn. Haven’t thought about that guy in years.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What, are you saying you don’t have weird celebrity crushes?”

He tilted his head, considering the question for a second. “I mean... I am the weird celebrity crush.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips. “How humble of you.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. “You should hear the shit people say about me online. I’ve been everything from someone’s ‘gay awakening’ to someone’s inappropriate uncle.”

She snorted into her drink, barely containing her laughter. “Jesus. People are wild.”

Dieter smirked, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, c’mon. Who else you got? Who’s on your weird celebrity crush list? Lay it on me.”

She took a slow sip of her drink, savoring the moment, then said with a completely straight face, “Willem Dafoe.”

Dieter almost choked on his drink, eyes widening in disbelief as he stared at her like she’d just told him she was into cryptids. “Dafoe? Willem Dafoe?”

“Yeah,” she said, completely deadpan. “What’s wrong with Dafoe?”

He blinked, still recovering from nearly spitting his drink out. “I mean, nothing’s wrong with him, but... wow, that’s... unexpected.”

She shrugged, taking another sip of her drink. “I already shocked you with Depardieu. What were you expecting? Besides, Dafoe... he’s got range.” She gave him a wicked grin and added, “Plus, you know he’s freaky in bed.”

Dieter let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly doubling over. “Holy shit... you’re a freak. A true freak.”

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh no, it’s definitely not a bad thing,” he said, still chuckling as he reached over to refill her glass. “I’ve met some freaks in my time, but this? This is different. I like it.”

She eyed the freshly poured drink, tilting her head. “Not sure if I should feel good about that comment.”

Dieter grinned, clinking his glass against hers. “You should. Trust me.”

They both chuckled, the easy, playful energy between them lightening the mood even more. But then Dieter leaned back, giving her an amused look. “You know, I actually know Willem.”

Her eyes widened, her curiosity piqued. “No way. You know him?”

Dieter nodded, taking a slow sip. “Yeah. Great guy. Not as intense as his characters would make you think. Really down to earth. Freaky in his own way, sure, but... I get it. I guess I see what you see in him.”

She smiled, leaning back. “Well, that’s comforting.”

Then she paused, glancing down at her drink before adding, “I actually met him once. Worked as an assistant on a theater production he starred in a couple of years ago.”

Dieter’s eyes lit up. “No way. Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” she said, nodding. “It was this small indie thing in New York. I wasn’t his assistant or anything, just part of the general crew, but I did get to work around him a bit. He’s... different, in a good way.”

Dieter leaned forward, intrigued. “Okay, now you’ve really got my attention. You’ve done PA work before?”

She shook her head, swirling the ice in her glass. “Not really. That was more of a part-time gig while I was in school. I applied for a real PA job a few years back, but it didn’t exactly go well.”

Dieter’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

She sighed, her smirk fading as she stared down at her drink. “Well, I got all the way through the interviews, and then the celebrity—someone old-school—told me I was too chubby to work for them. Said I wouldn’t look good in photographs.”

Dieter’s face immediately twisted into a mix of shock and disgust. “Wait, what? Are you kidding me?”

“Nope,” she said, the bitterness in her voice barely masked by the nonchalance she was trying to project. “I didn’t even bother applying for PA jobs after that. Figured it wasn’t worth the hassle.”

Dieter shook his head, clearly appalled. “That’s... Jesus. I mean, I get that people in this industry are eccentric as hell, but that’s way too much. Who the hell cares what you look like in photos? You’re supposed to be doing a job, not starring in the damn pictures.”

She shrugged, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, well, some people care. Guess I wasn’t the image they wanted.”

Dieter looked at her, his expression softening with empathy. “That’s seriously messed up. I’m sorry you went through that.”

She waved him off, smiling more genuinely this time. “It’s fine. Honestly, it was a while ago. I just stuck to writing and waitressing after that.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Dieter said, leaning forward, “that guy was a complete idiot. You’d make a damn good PA.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Thanks. But I think I’m done with that world.”

Dieter studied her for a moment, then raised his glass in a small toast. “Well, here’s to not being the kind of asshole who judges people by how they look in photos.”

She clinked her glass against his, smiling again. “I’ll drink to that.”

The conversation lingered in the air after their laughter died down, a comfortable silence settling over them. She leaned back against the couch, her gaze drifting to the massive windows overlooking the city, the skyline glittering like a distant dream.

“Gotta say,” she began, her voice soft but still playful, “this penthouse is... something else. It’s almost too perfect, though. Feels more like a set than a home.”

Dieter glanced around the room, smirking faintly. “Yeah, that’s because it’s not home.”

She raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “It’s not?”

He shook his head, swirling the last of his drink. “Nah. It’s just a place I own. I use it for... all the shit you probably hear about in the tabloids.”

She snorted, leaning in. “You mean the orgies and sex scandals?”

“Pretty much.” Dieter chuckled, but there was something more behind the laughter. His expression softened as he set the glass down on the table. “It’s not where I live. My real home is out in Sherman Oaks.”

She tilted her head, surprised. “Sherman Oaks?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s an actual house. Big, built for a family, but too large for just me. I don’t bring anyone there. Not my... conquests, not my parties. Just me. I paint there, you know? I’ve got this studio in the back, and when the world gets too loud, that’s where I go. It’s the only place I feel... I don’t know, settled.”

Her eyes softened as she listened. She hadn’t expected this level of honesty from him, but the vulnerability in his voice was unmistakable. “That sounds... nice, actually. Quiet.”

“It is,” he agreed, his gaze distant, as if he could picture the house in his mind. “But the silence can get too loud sometimes. Especially now that I’m older. That’s when I come back here. The penthouse. To drown it out.”

She frowned slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass. “The silence?”

Dieter nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah. You wouldn’t think silence could be so damn loud, but it is. Especially when you’re used to everything being... chaotic.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just watched him, the weight of his words sinking in. There was a loneliness there, one that no amount of parties, conquests, or tabloid headlines could fill. It wasn’t just about being alone—it was about being seen. About finding a place where the chaos didn’t define him.

She took a breath, her tone gentle but sure. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes the noise. Not really.”

Dieter blinked, turning his gaze back to her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, people see the chaos, the headlines, the scandals. But I don’t think that’s really you.” She paused, her voice steady. “You’ve got a whole world inside you that no one bothers to look at. You’re not just the guy who parties and ends up in the tabloids. You’re more than that.”

His eyes flickered with something—surprise, maybe, or recognition. He opened his mouth to say something, but she continued before he could.

“They don’t see the parts of you that matter. The parts that create, that make something out of all this mess. The fact that you’ve got a studio and you paint—that tells me a lot. You’re more than just an actor, Dieter. You’re an artist. And not because you say so, but because you are.”

For a moment, Dieter just stared at her, as if her words had landed somewhere deeper than he’d expected. She was looking at him like no one had in years. Not like a star, not like the scandalized mess the world saw. She saw him. The real him.

His throat tightened, and suddenly, the air felt heavier. “You really think that?”

“I know it,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’re not just memorizing lines. You’re putting something into the world that most people don’t even take the time to understand. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real. It’s real, Dieter. And it matters.”

He blinked, the familiar burn of tears stinging behind his eyes. It was strange—he hadn’t felt this exposed in so long. The vulnerability, the rawness of being seen for more than just the surface.

A tear slipped down his cheek, slow and steady. He swiped at it quickly, but another followed. It wasn’t a sobbing mess, no dramatic breakdown. Just a quiet release, like the weight of everything he’d been carrying finally had somewhere to go.

“Damn,” he muttered, laughing softly through the tears. “You’re really messing me up here.”

She smiled, nudging him gently with her elbow. “You needed to hear it.”

He wiped his eyes, still grinning despite the tears. “Guess I did.”

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward. It was comfortable, filled with an understanding that went deeper than words. In the quiet of the penthouse, with the city lights twinkling in the background, Dieter felt something he hadn’t in a long time.

Peace.

But of course, Dieter couldn’t let the moment just sit there. He leaned over slightly, raising an eyebrow as a mischievous grin spread across his face. “So... is this the part where we kiss?”

She burst out laughing, her head falling back as she clutched her sides. “Oh my God, Dieter, you’re such an ass.”

For the first time in a long time, Dieter didn’t feel even a twinge of offense at being laughed at. In fact, her reaction made him laugh, too—a deep, real laugh that didn’t feel performative. It was just them, laughing like idiots in the middle of a moment that could’ve been serious, but wasn’t.

He shrugged, grinning. “Hey, had to shoot my shot.”

She shook her head, still giggling as she nudged him. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you like me,” he teased.

“Debatable,” she shot back, smirking. “But that was not the move, Bravo.”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender, still laughing. “Alright, alright, no kiss. Got it.”

She rolled her eyes, the amusement still lingering in her expression. “Seriously, though. You’re an ass.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Dieter said, smirking. But beneath the joking, there was a warmth in his eyes, a softness that hadn’t been there before. He liked this—being around someone who could take his nonsense and throw it right back at him, without missing a beat.

–

They had been hanging out for days—Dieter laying low like his team had asked, and her finding herself more and more wrapped up in his world. It was easy with him. The lazy mornings that bled into afternoons, the spontaneous outings, the hours spent talking about nothing and everything. It was like living in a bubble, where the real world and all its mess didn’t exist.

But it couldn’t last forever.

They were lounging in his penthouse, another aimless afternoon with the TV buzzing in the background, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

“So,” Dieter began, his tone casual, but there was an edge of hesitation in it. “I’ve been thinking...”

She looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Uh-oh. That sounds dangerous.”

He chuckled, but there was a nervousness in his smile. “No, I mean... I’ve been thinking about you. Us, I guess.”

She frowned slightly, sitting up a bit straighter. “What do you mean?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze for a moment. “I think I... I really like you. And I want to stay friends, you know? If you’re cool with it.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course he liked her—they got along too well not to. But she knew what had to happen next.

She swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “I don’t think we can keep doing this.”

Dieter’s face fell, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what? Why not?”

“I can’t afford to stay in LA anymore,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I’m going home. To my mom’s and stepdad’s. The diner job just doesn’t cover rent or utilities, and figuring things out in this city isn’t really feasible for me right now.”

Dieter stared at her, the words slowly sinking in. His expression shifted from confusion to something deeper—sadness, maybe even panic. “You’re... leaving?”

She nodded, trying to keep it together. “Yeah. I’ve got no choice.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just looked at her like she’d just ripped the floor out from under him. Then, true to form, Dieter went into full dramatic mode.

“Are you serious?” he groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Like, ever.”

She laughed, despite herself. “Dieter, stop.”

“No, seriously,” he continued, flopping onto the couch like a petulant child. “You’re leaving me to fend for myself in this godforsaken city, and for what? Your mom’s house in the middle of nowhere? This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

She rolled her eyes, amused but touched by how much this seemed to affect him. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Where’s your loyalty?” he muttered dramatically. “I thought we were in this together.”

She snorted. “I didn’t realize hanging out with you was a lifelong commitment.”

Dieter sat up suddenly, his eyes lighting up as if he’d just had the greatest idea of all time. “Wait a second...”

She eyed him warily. “What?”

“You still need a job, right?”

Her eyebrow arched. “...Yes?”

“I still need a PA,” he said, the excitement building in his voice. “My team hasn’t found anyone, and let’s face it—they’re probably going to stick me with some lifeless corporate robot.”

She blinked, not expecting this. “Wait, are you offering me a job?”

“Hell yes, I am,” he said, grinning like a kid with a new toy. “You’d be perfect. I mean, you know me. You get me. And you’re already here half the time anyway. Why not make it official?”

She hesitated, her mind racing. “I don’t know, Dieter. It feels like... I don’t know, like you’re just offering it because you feel bad.”

He shook his head, his expression softening. “No, I’m offering it because I need you. And not in a weird way, okay? I mean, yeah, it’s a job, but it’s also more than that. I trust you. And I don’t trust a lot of people.”

She bit her lip, still uncertain. “Yeah, but it comes with a paycheck, right? That’s gonna make me feel... really dirty.”

Dieter laughed, leaning back into the couch. “Oh, come on. It’s a legit offer. And I’m paying you well, so you’ll get used to feeling dirty real quick.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Seriously,” he continued, his tone softening again. “Think about it. It’s not charity. It’s not a handout. I really need your company, and I think you need this too.”

She exhaled, staring at him for a moment. “I’ll... think about it.”

A few days later, she was back at the penthouse, this time with Dieter’s manager, his lawyer, and Dieter himself, all sitting around the sleek kitchen island. It felt surreal.

The manager went over the details of the contract, but it was hard to focus on the specifics when her mind was spinning with how fast everything was happening.

“And, of course,” the manager added sternly, “we have to include the no-fucking clause. If you two get involved, it’s not only grounds for termination but also blacklisting.”

Dieter raised an eyebrow, looking slightly offended. “Seriously? That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

She snorted, waving it off. “It’s fine, Bravo. I don’t think you’d want to fuck me anyway.”

He frowned, almost hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The manager chuckled, shaking his head. “He fucks anything that moves.”

She furrowed her brows briefly, her face showing a flash of disgust at the comment, but she kept her mouth shut. This wasn’t the time to start an argument with his team. Still, she couldn’t shake the sour taste the comment left in her mouth.

Dieter noticed her reaction and shot his manager a look, but the moment passed quickly as the lawyer handed her the contract to sign.

Once the papers were signed, it was official. She was now Dieter Bravo’s new assistant.

After the contract signing, they were back in the quiet of the penthouse. She stretched her arms out, feeling a mixture of excitement and disbelief at the day’s events. Dieter leaned against the counter, still processing it all too, and for a moment, the two of them just stood there in silence.

Then she clapped her hands together, breaking the moment. “Okay, Bravo, I’m treating you to dinner.”

Dieter blinked, confusion crossing his face. “Wait, what? You’re treating me?”

She grinned, nodding. “Yeah, to celebrate. You know, new job and all.”

He hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “You just signed a contract. You shouldn’t be spending money on me.”

She waved him off, rolling her eyes. “Take a chill pill. I just landed a sick new job with a really dirty paycheck. I’m excited, let me have this.”

Dieter chuckled, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “I’ve taken way too many pills in my life. Not sure I remember which one the chill pill is.”

She burst out laughing, grabbing her jacket. “Well, then this will be the antidote. C’mon, we’re getting Five Guys.”

Dieter’s grin grew wider, his eyes lighting up. “Damn, baby, you know I can’t say no to Five Guys.”

She shot him a smirk. “Then let’s go.”

They drove in Dieter’s car, windows heavily tinted, cruising through the LA streets as the sun dipped below the skyline. They grabbed their order from the drive-thru window and found an empty parking lot, parking under the dim glow of a streetlight.

Dieter reclined his seat all the way back, pushing the front seats to give them more space to lounge. She did the same, their legs stretched out as they unwrapped their burgers.

“So,” he mumbled around a mouthful of fries, “what now?”

She shrugged, her voice muffled as she stuffed more fries into her mouth. “Idunno.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the radio playing softly in the background, the quiet hum of the city far off in the distance.

Dieter glanced at her sideways, studying her face. “You seem a little... off.”

She paused mid-chew, looking at him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, biting into his burger. “I dunno. Just felt like something’s been bugging you since we left the penthouse.”

She exhaled, setting her burger down, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Well... your manager pissed me off. Big time.”

Dieter stopped chewing, his eyes widening a little. “What? Why?”

“That comment he made,” she said, rolling her eyes, “about you humping everything that moves. It was gross. And unnecessary.”

Dieter’s face reddened, the blush creeping up his neck as he rubbed at it, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, uh... that’s just how he is.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

He chuckled awkwardly, setting his burger down. “I mean, he wasn’t wrong. You’ve heard the stories, read the articles, right?”

She stared at him for a beat, then sighed. She knew he wasn’t trying to defend his manager, and in a way, she found that endearing—his loyalty to people even after everything they’d said about him. All the rumors, the scandals, the affairs. But she tucked that thought away for another time.

“That’s not the point,” she said, shaking her head. “As someone who works with you, the first thing your manager should be doing is protecting you—even from your own team.”

Dieter blinked, her words hitting harder than he expected. He felt something crack open in his chest. She wasn’t wrong. And hearing her say it so plainly made him realize just how much he’d let slide because of loyalty. Because of fear.

He smiled softly, biting into his burger, his voice quiet. “Thanks for saying that.”

She shrugged, offering him a small smile in return. “It’s true.”

Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she leaned over, wiggling her eyebrows. “Besides, you haven’t tried to fuck me yet, so I don’t think what your manager said was true.”

Dieter choked on his soda, laughing and coughing at the same time. “Jesus Christ,” he wheezed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

She grinned, leaning back into her seat. “What? Am I not fuckable enough for Dieter Bravo?”

He immediately shook his head, his voice firm. “No, baby–you’re...fuck– you’re hot. Like, really hot. And I’m an idiot for not jumping you the second I met you.”

She snorted, clearly amused. “But?”

Dieter sighed, running a hand through his hair, his voice quieter but more grounded now. “Look, if we hadn’t had that first conversation, that night in the waiting room... I probably would’ve tried to sleep with you.”

She gasped dramatically, her eyes widening in mock horror. “Excuse me? What made you think I’d even want to sleep with you?”

Dieter burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Oh, c’mon, I’ve got ways. If I really wanted to, I could have charmed you into it.”

She snorted, shoving another fry into her mouth. “Yeah, right. You can’t charm your way into everyone’s bed, Bravo.”

Dieter stared at her, deadpan, raising an eyebrow. “Uh... yes, I can.”

They both broke into laughter, the moment light but laced with a shared understanding. Once their laughter died down, he leaned back, the humor fading slightly as he spoke again, this time more serious.

“But seriously,” he continued, his voice softer now, “I didn’t want to cross that line with you. Because... you’re different.”

She glanced at him, curious now, the playful energy between them simmering down as he opened up.

“I’m a messy person,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the steering wheel, fingers idly tracing the edges. “In every sense of the word. My life, my relationships—they don’t end well. And I’ve ruined... too many things that mattered. I can’t ruin this. I won’t.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely. “Why do you think it would ruin things?”

He took a deep breath, the vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he finally met her gaze. “Because when I sleep with someone, I lose track of... what’s real and what’s not. It always starts out fine, but I mess things up. I make it complicated, and then it all falls apart. And I don’t want that to happen with you.”

She studied him for a moment, seeing the weight behind his words, the sincerity he rarely showed to anyone. This wasn’t the over-the-top, scandal-filled Dieter Bravo the world knew. This was a man who was genuinely afraid of ruining something good.

“Wow,” she muttered, trying to break the heaviness. “So you’re saying I was basically a goner if we hadn’t talked that first night?”

He chuckled, giving her a teasing grin. “Oh, absolutely.”

She laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You really are full of yourself.”

“No, I’m just honest,” he said with a playful smirk. “But really, I don’t want to just fuck this up. You get me, more than anyone has in a long time. And I don’t want to lose that because I was... impulsive.”

She looked at him for a long moment, their earlier banter giving way to something deeper. It was clear that he meant every word, and it made sense in a way she hadn’t expected. Dieter Bravo might have been a disaster in relationships, but he was choosing not to be a disaster with her. And that meant something.

“Well,” she said, her smile returning as she reached for another fry, “that’s good to know. I mean, you’re still a complete disaster, but you’re my kind of disaster.”

Dieter’s grin widened, the tension finally easing as he leaned back in his seat. “I’ll take it.”

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then added with a smirk, “Besides, now I’m legally being paid to not fuck you.”

He laughed, throwing his head back in genuine amusement. “And I’m legally paying you to not fuck me.”

She nodded sagely. “Sounds like a pretty sweet deal if you ask me.”

Dieter chuckled, the heaviness of the earlier conversation replaced by their usual playful energy. “Yeah, it’s working out pretty well so far.”

They both sat there, comfortable in the aftermath of the conversation, knowing that while the chemistry between them was undeniable, the friendship was what mattered most. And neither of them was willing to risk it, even if they joked about it.

They sat in the car, the remnants of their Five Guys feast scattered on the console between them. The night had slipped into a comfortable quiet, the kind that came from hours of laughter, honest conversation, and greasy burgers. Dieter stretched, glancing over at her with a lazy grin.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You heading home now?”

She nodded, finishing the last of her fries. “Yeah. Gotta pack up my stuff and get ready for the big move.”

Dieter raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Right. Moving in with me. Never thought I’d reach this point in my life where a woman’s moving in with me... and I legally can’t fuck her.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she leaned back into her seat. “Welcome to adulthood, Bravo. Full of responsibilities and boundaries.”

Dieter’s grin widened, leaning a little closer. “So, about this moving in thing—are you planning on, like, wearing layers of clothing at all times? Because I don’t need to make this harder for myself than it already is.”

She shot him a look, deadpan. “Harder for yourself?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know what I mean.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face. “Listen, I promise to be fully covered in the ugliest, most unflattering pajamas you’ve ever seen. Think, like, thermal underwear, oversized sweaters, maybe a balaclava if I’m feeling extra considerate.”

Dieter threw his head back laughing, slapping the dashboard. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know if I should be grateful or terrified.”

“Both,” she said with a smirk, grabbing the last fry from the bag and popping it into her mouth.

Dieter leaned back, sighing contentedly. “I still can’t believe it though. I’m actually gonna live with a woman. And she’s not some wild fling, but an assistant I’m paying not to fuck. Talk about a plot twist.”

She laughed, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Well, you better get used to it. I’ll be back in the morning with all my crap.”

Dieter grinned, clearly amused by the whole situation. “Promise?”

“Promise,” she said, flashing him a smile. “Bright and early. So you better get your beauty sleep.”

He chuckled, looking at her fondly. “I’ll try.”

She reached for the door handle, pausing for a moment before looking back at him, her tone soft but teasing. “Try not to miss me too much tonight, alright?”

Dieter winked. “No promises.”

She stepped out of the car, waving as she walked toward her building. “See you tomorrow, Bravo.”

He watched her go, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, leaning back into the seat. “See you tomorrow.”

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precious-little-scoundrel · 7 months

Text

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

Summary: Upon the sudden stop of all their correspondence, Miss Lana Tierney finds herself bereft of her pen pal John Egan’s support -not however, without him first having made a heavy declaration and entrusted her with a precious bit of himself. Battling Tinsel Town’s awful labyrinth of censors, agents, and an ever disloyal mother, Lana seeks to find John, and having once found him, to remind him of his promise to try. Meanwhile in Stalag Luft III, Major Gale Cleven may loiter at his incriminating radio longer than strictly necessary in hopes of hearing a voice that would bring his best friend a shred of hope.

My many thanks to: Christi and Ashley for endless amounts of encouragement and advice and enrichment of the plot, y’all are invaluable darlings and precious friends. To Bri who has been the brains and requests behind the concept and the beating heart behind giving Bucky a love of a lifetime

Warnings: 18+ disturbing content. Not so much war focused but rather Hollywood in the 40’s which can be horribly gruesome itself. We are happily ripping off Lana Turner’s real story for much of this, and so in this chapter you will find mentions of certain harrowing abuses she endured. Such as: brief references to a forced, studio-required abortion, bugging of a woman’s room, arranged engagements, drugging, hinted sexual exploitation, willing current sexual favors in return for a role, Bucky going a little nuts as a POW, Lana’s mother being the worst, John Huston making a cameo that will probably make you wanna punch the guy. It’s ok, the real fella deserved it. Go ahead. Again, nothing explicit, didn’t wanna get all yucky but these themes are prevalent in here in passing.

Word count: a whopping 8k

Character name reminder: Julie Jean Turner goes by the Hollywood alias of “Lana Tierney”

Lana lay abed and stewed. She was past grief, or perhaps it was easier explained that Grief and her sisters, Denial and Betrayal, were more of Julie Jean Turner’s privilege. Miss Lana Tierney, academy hopeful and box office gold, had little left but rage and the moist silk of her pillow pressed to her burning cheek.

“What an awful few days it’s been.” she’d allowed herself to say a few weeks back.

The Julie Jean of that week didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Life was bad enough then, back when he called, but his voice cured everything from her terrible week. Vincent and the engagement and the studios, all of it. But then came a letter, one written awfully like a goodbye, and another one after it but all of them were little provisions for if he were to go down.

Scribbled hours before going up.

“I love you, I know it’s a lot to spring on a gal who’s just doing her bit and keeping me happy but I do. It’s an awful type of love, Julie, very tight fisted and I think I only love you because you love me so well in your way. I don’t think that’s the sort of love to do anybody any good, but I’d regret not saying it, beginners can’t be haughty. Here I wanted to stick my toe in and you gobbled the whole leg, and I love you. I love you for it. I love you.”

She’d rubbed over his signature, not a bit of cursive in that scrawled -John- a million times.

And then, just like that, just like what had happened to her friends and a million women across the world- his letters simply stopped. Julie Jean learned elsewhere he’d been shot down for weeks by the time she’d gotten the last one. It was hard to have finally heard his voice and known of his purpose, but now? -a dead silence that had a voice and face and love attached to it. It was agony of a sort she’d never known and was made worse by the loneliness in her secrecy of not being able to mourn it aloud.

She moaned into the mess of her pillowcase and ignored Bertha's fifth knock of the afternoon. Who’d recognize the glamorous Miss Tierney now? Pitiful and tear streaked and pale from blood loss. She still lay on a chucks pad the studio nurse had rolled her onto, a feeble trickle still seeping between her legs. Curled on her side with eyes glinting at the afternoon sun, she seethed at one more thing taken from her.

Lana could hardly stand it. But she had to try. She’d made John promise he would. They’d promised each other, and somehow she hadn’t any doubts that wherever he was, he was trying.

“Miss Tierney?” That was Herbert’s voice and Jean rolled her eyes at the predictability of this household. After not answering Delores they sent in Bertha and upon not answering Bertha here was Herbert and if she didn’t answer him, her mother might manage to rouse herself and drive over.

“Come in Herb, if you must.” she groaned, hand outstretched and patting blindly for a cigarette on her nightstand.

Her old driver came in with an unusually light step, it bespoke a sympathy for her plight that Jean would have preferred a thousand times never to read on his usually persnickety face. “How are you holding up after -“ he stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed as Jean rummaged and when she sat back with cigarette and holder in hand, she found him looking down at her with such concern she nearly threw the lamp at him. “Tonsillitis, huh?” he hummed sympathetically.

“Oh yes, nasty bout.” she lied merrily, the ache in her violated womb protested her move to sit up. “They had to take them clean out.” it was the only printable explanation for her ailment.

“Yeah.” Herb had been a renowned stuntman before he’d been demoted to driver, and before stuntman he’d been a soldier in the trenches and before that he’d been a clerk. If anyone knew about coat hangers and poor girls held down to be kept forever virginal and ever in use, Herb knew. Herb had warned her even, told her what a sick racket they ran here in Tinsel Town. Much good it did her, she was in too deep before she knew she had so much as stuck her toe in.

Rather like Bucky in love, apparently, and that thought made her madly blink away a stupid rush of tears.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the parcel she just now noticed was tucked under his arm.

“Oh, this? Chocolates. Here, my lighter miss?” Whatever was under Herbert’s arm wasn’t shaped like any chocolates she knew and Jean was about to give him a talking to for being insipid when her mood was so poor but then she saw him press a warning finger to his lips. He walked around the side of her bed and indeed pulled out a lighter, metal and rude and no doubt a relic of the first war, and flicked it for her to light up. Bending down he smelled of tobacco himself when he took the unprecedented liberty of whispering in her ear: “They bugged the room during your operation, Miss. Must be careful. Especially if you want to keep your gift.”

He pulled away and looked down at her sorrowfully before quietly laying the dirty brown package atop her pristine sheets. Mother had them changed after the bloodbath of the…operation. They were spotless before and now they were sooty. That pleased her.

Jean forgot to look away from him. She was startled and upset by the news but she didn’t doubt it. They’d probably bugged the phone ages ago, god knows they’d stop at next to nothing and she did so want to keep something for herself. If she couldn’t have a baby, her baby, then she’d keep a parcel, damn them all. Then a cold feeling of dread filled her and she thought to grab at her books and look for the hidden letters.

Gone. Mother. It must’ve been mother, it was her sort of thing to have rifled through Lana’s things while she was being operated on and found them and took them and-

The rage spurred her to look down at what Herb brought her, cigarette forgotten between her quivering lips. She expected it to be from him, a little pep up. Perhaps a doll or a stuffed animal to cheer her. But no, this parcel in its plain brown wrapping had come from afar, smudged and delayed a million times judging by its redirected stamps -and she’d know that writing from anywhere.

Her Johnny.

Julie Jean’s little gasp let slip the cigarette from her mouth but not before Herb caught it from singeing the sheets. He was quicker than anyone gave the old man credit for, banged up head or not. “Thought that might cheer you.” he grinned in that begrudging way of his, as if he were cross at the joy made manifest on his face.

“I’m scared.” she admitted in a whisper, hands hovering over the brown twine strings. Whatever was inside was squishy and giving. And whatever it was, John had sent it before he’d been shot down. But still, somehow it felt like a gift from him on this, the worst day of her life. Like he was sending some comfort even from hell on earth and without a clue of her own dispair. Herb seemed to read it the same way, and that’s how Jean knew she wasn’t being a delusional, hysterical wreck, if that crusty old sod knew its significance in coming today, then it was plain as the irregular nose on his face.

“Scared of chocolate?” His tease covered a strong reminder for her to watch her words.

“Mm, yes, what if there’s raspberry filled ones?” she whispered back. “You know how I can’t abide raspberries.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be brave and see.” he nudged her.

Nodding her head solemnly, Jean tugged apart the twine that had kept John Egan’s package together for an entire transcontinental delivery. It fell away with a crinkling sound and she found folded upon it, without a bit of fuss or wrapping, the oddest piece of cloth. Almost a patchwork of pale leather and a zipper and -Jean’s throat closed as her hand descended and felt along the soft fluff of a sheepskin collar.

He didn’t. He didn’t send her his jacket? Surely —

Herb made a noncommittal noise beside her which sounded awfully like some touched sorta gasp at the sight, but as it was Herb and he had a tobacco wad where he should have had a heart, so he must’ve been coming down with the same cold that landed Lana in tonsil surgery.

Hands shaky and heart hammering, Jean reached in and pulled the garment out, a tiny little note fluttered out. Someone else’s penmanship. “To the care of Jean Turner, until it can be retrieved by Major Egan.”

“Oh god.” she felt like sobbing before pressing her face into the sweat fumed plushness of it. “Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.” she kept his name buried in his jacket, secret like his gift and his love and his comfort and her desires. Eyes and mouth muffled into the darkness of something that was his. She felt Herb’s gentle hand pat on her head and the following click of the latch as he went out.

“Mister Vincent called to say there’s dinner and photographs scheduled for tonight, Miss Tierney.” he informed her levelly before he left and her ears were not so buried in Air Force Shearling she couldn’t hear of her doom. “There’s been some speculations -they want to smooth it over. Bertha was trying to pass it on.”

Bertha wanted to wipe off whatever remaining blood was on her and primp all signs of coercion off her devastated face, that’s what Bertha was here for. Jean vaguely wondered if her mother’s clenching hand print still lingered on her cheeks, she rubbed John’s jacket against the soreness of her mouth, muffling her sobs the way her mother’s hand had stifled her screams of pain only hours ago.

Back to work, asap, it would seem. -Bleed down your nylons dear, it’ll be alright, so long as they see a happy face and a lucky new couple.

Vincent. She wasn’t sure how she’d face him, the weekend getaway and his little “test drive” of her had been bad enough, the fact he hadn’t the brains to prevent it from having consequences or the spine to stand up for the life of the child he made- oh, she wondered how she’d manage to down her asparagus in the face of it all. Acting, she presumed, a true talent that had suddenly become a personality since -since? -she wasn’t sure when.

Beside her for months now, stacked beneath the pile of new Runyon books she’d taken out of the library, had been a pile of letters that didn’t have a bit of acting in them. Raw and true and terrible and wanton, each of John Egan’s thoughts tumbled off their confining pages and into her heart in mirrored response to her own. Now mother had them.

Jean wondered where all her own letters to him were, now that he was gone and someone else was in his bunk.

Funny to think of that, the most honest account of herself was most likely moldering in the bottom of some MIA airman’s footlocker.

It was all a bit self indulgent, she admitted even as she stripped out of her bloody gown and down to her bare skin, but she had lost plenty and she needed him: so she slipped him on, soft wool caressing her and stopping the shivers of shock that had wracked her all morning. It smelled so manly and sweaty and terribly real she about swooned at the sensation of having a bit of him next to her. Now she’d seen him -all those darling candid photos in repayment for hers- and she’d heard him -oh that awful, wonderful telephone call right before he disappeared- and now she was smelling him.

Jean would have to bathe and take a handful of aspirin and cinch in her girdle and kiss her fiancée tonight, but for a brief hour she layed in bed naked as a baby with her gift wrapped around her like swaddling clothes.

Vincent came later with the car, one of his father’s for certain, and eyed her choice of outerwear with a sour mouth. Fleece and chiffon was an odd mix but Lana always had been a trendsetter and it was early November, even if it was Los Angeles. Of course, for her the jacket was John, and so she wore him like armor -and if she was wearing it, they couldn’t take it without her knowing.

“I’m cold.” she answered Vin’s unspoken question sharply on the ride over, “I’ve just had tonsil surgery, you may recall?”

“It stinks.” he huffed back, his nose presumptuously nuzzling under her curls and very near the sweat soaked fleece, “Smells like a barnyard.”

What it smelled like was a red blooded American man’s honest days work killing Nazis. But Vincent and his pale hands and arranged medical exemptions weren’t likely to know what that smelled like, so Lana felt compelled to give him a pass. “It’s for the war effort,” she sighed, “we must all make sacrifices. Mr. Warner told me it would be grand press to wear it.”

She’d never spoken to Mr. Warner about much else but weather and her tits, but growing ever more desperate as these days went on, Lana thought perhaps she’d pay him a visit.

“Great press?” Vincent seethed, charmingly one track focused, “The press should be about our engagement! Not the war!”

“Be a realest, dahling,” she soothed, “nothing, not even the great scion of a prestigious family such as yours is half as fascinating right now as ball bearings and top turret production in Greenfield. If we want them to print about our engagement, it’s got to have something to do with the general war, see?“

“Ah, ah I see.” Vincent swallowed her lie well enough, still perturbed at the fracturing of his beloved media attention but consoled that Lana was not aspiring to make him a fool.

Oh how foolish that was of him, Lana hummed to herself as they pulled up to the restaurant, perhaps not tonight or in a week's time. No, for now she was down and out and no doubt about it, but eventually, she’d scramble on top, she had to or she’d be offed eventually by it all. She knew that now, it was plain with each aching step on wobbly legs and each smile of her crimped, anemic face, Vincent’s pliable hand more vice than support on her elbow as she stepped out under Chasens’ green awning.

There was conversation and photographs all through dinner, her agent and a Warner Brothers executive kindly gracing the table with heavy, stilted and very implied conversation. Lana might’ve breathed better in her booth had they held an actual gun to her head and told her to finish her parsnips that way. They were very happy she had recovered from the tonsillitis so well, they were very eager to see her on set bright and early tomorrow, they were very eager that any doubt about how in love she was with the respectable Vincent be ameliorated -a very big word to say with a mouthful of steak- and very hopeful that Lana wouldn’t get any ideas about a repeat of the War Bond tour. Yes the last one had been very effective and the government was pleased, but too much exposure to common crowds had a tendency to lessen the goddess effect, she must be let out to the pubic sparingly, and they in turn must not feel entitled to her in any way.

Such as…reaching out through the post, for example, much less expecting to be answered with anything less standardized than what Bertha might write twenty times over in her name in an afternoon.

“I just want to do my part.” Lana demurred.

“Oh honey, you’ve done your part, and now you’ve got a new part. Make a wish.” And there before her was brought out a cake slice with much fanfare, icing making a pretty little drizzle of words -“speedy recovery Lana, love from everyone at Warner Brothers Studio.”

She’d seen actresses carried out plastered to the four winds on sedative from slices just like this one, chivalrously poured into a waiting backseat of a producer or studio head, taken back to be put to bed. God knows what else happened in those beds. Her nausea returned fourfold and it wasn’t acting when she gasped a need to go to the powder room.

Instead she dashed to the phone, the one in the cubby near the toilets, trying resolutely to ignore the spying eyes of waiters and curious waves of famous guests passing by.

“Pick up, Herb, pick up.” she begged, listening to it ring and ring, then suddenly felt a horrid fear at the realization she’d left the jacket slung over her chair at the booth, with Vincent. “Herb please, please.” she moaned, stomping one well shod foot against the marble floor.

“Hallo?”

“Herb, oh Herb!” Lana gushed urgently on hearing him pick up, “You must come pick me up, they’re onto me with the letters and they’ve brought out cake and- bring a car, Vincent brought his father’s-“

“-Thank yeeew, Herbert, that will be all.” Mother’s affected transatlantic sent shivers down Lana’s spine right as she felt the cold clasp of her rings around her wrist, receiver wrenched effectively from her nerveless hand, “This is a family matter, your services are not required.”

“Mommy dearest.” Lana felt her lips trembling in a odd way that fought against the creeping numbness, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Would that I could say the same, Lana.” Mother reproved, “To abandon your fiancé without thought? And to find you calling on Herbert, like this were some otiresome fundraiser from which you may carelessly abscond -really. Your behavior is nothing but deplorable lately, I hardly know you. The cost, Lana, think of the cost of it all, this recklessness.”

“Who told you?”

“That you weren’t appreciative of the cake?” Mother smiled shyly, “Alfonso.”

The owner, of course, when he couldn’t get a hand up Lana herself he had become quite partial to mother, loyal to an opulent degree. She suspected that cake more than ever, the phone, too. God there was no getting out of this town, this place, this life.

“Alfonso says you’re distracted,” mother went on, “pale and sniffing some jacket? What has gotten into you?”

“Vincent.” Lana joked miserably and if half of Hollywood wasn’t sat so near, she’s rather sure her mother might’ve struck her.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to smile for the pictures, and you’re going to like it.” Mother laid out the case, the plan and the rest of her life, “And when we go home you’ll be getting a piece of my mind.”

“Oh really mother,” Lana sighed heavily, “I couldn’t take the last piece.”

The pinch on her arm was familiar of when Lana was a child and refused to sing in yet another talent show - the fifth that weekend. “Your fault for falling ill, now we must make up for lost time.” they were gliding back to the table arm in arm with Lana’s pale skin pinched between mother’s manicure, “Smile, darling, smile and wave.” as they wove between one starry guest and another.

Mother’s gait stalled for one fraction of a moment upon coming up to the table and seeing the bizarre article of clothing hanging over Lana’s chair. “Works better than a mink.” Lana proclaimed quite loudly, giddy enough to attract most male attention around who craned their necks to watch her shimmy it on for a try-on, much to Mother’s feigned amusement. She shimmied in the fleece, chiffon doing little to hide the jiggle of her derrière beneath the jacket’s hem and the flash of a bulb cracked significantly amongst the dinner chatter.

“It’s much too large for you -the sleeves, the shoulders-“

“That’s because it’s a genuine article mother!” Lana preened, satisfied to have caught the eye of the one she wanted as he sat in his booth.

Powerful and dark and lecherous, The Jack Huston stared at her unabashedly over the haze of his cigarette, his own date forgotten, taking in the way the man’s coat dwarfed her little body in a pantomime of covering her physically, masculine leather and zipper in stark contrast to baby soft skin swelling out of her neckline. She knew that look well, one of a man sizing her up for how she’d look beneath him.

Lana smirked at him significantly, squeezing the material around her dreamily and created a significantly more substantial amount of decollage for him to view upon doing so. “Lana, sit down for god’s sake.” Mother was hissing and Lana saw Huston laugh at it, she rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged, seating herself as asked but refusing to break eye contact with him until he raised his glass in a toast to her brazenness.

“Lana, photographers! Come now! Chin up, smile, smile darling.”

There were so many flashbulbs here it was obnoxious to not only Lana’s throbbing eyes but the other patrons, still a hard launch of a stilted, lab grown relationship was hardly an oddity in Hollywood or its most favored eating spots, and so it was endured.

“Doll, open up,” Vincent cajoled in Lana’s ear, hand kneading her waist and nose pressed to her hair, “practice for the wedding.”

It looked quite humorous if a little uncouth in the papers next day, Lana’s gasping and amused indulgence of her green boy fiancé as he playfully stuffed her mouth with cake in that pitiful tradition of marital provocation.

“Look at my dearest daughter, tonsil surgery yesterday and already, so eager, can’t be kept from dinner with her darling fiancé!”

The world grew fuzzy as Lana did her best to keep the wad of cake in her gums until she could spit the most of it out. “Tell your studio i want compensation for having to share press with the war effort.” Vin was complaining to the executive and Lana felt her world swim, only one single, dire hope remaining -Herb.

She gripped the edges of the jacket tighter and tried to focus. Mother was being called away, taking her leave with a photographed kiss to Lana’s clammy temple -some business with Aunt Lu and that promised check for her swimming pool. Lana had put in a lot of swimming pools for a lot of relatives, she was beginning to lose track between the pools and the houses and the cars and the wardrobes and always -“it’s family, Lana, they depend on you. Chin up, smile, smile darling, smile for the cameras, there’s my golden girl, box office magic.”

“Lana it’s very important you understand the role of an engaged woman-“ the executive was very insistent and Lana was very tired and very fuzzy feeling, which apparently Vincent could sense as his hands began to grow courageous in his petting, “-it’s a fine balance between respectability and attainability. The studio has worked so hard to give you this life, made enormous sacrifices so you could have a chance at this career, created an expertly crafted persona for you -if you were to jeopardize it all in any way, by inviting speculation about yourself or your lackluster roots-“

Lana was about ready to stand up and scream “I’m Julie Jean Turner from Broken Arrow Oklahoma!” and watch the deflated disinterest cover her audience like snow, it would ruin the effect -she wanted them to care that her life was a lie, but as soon as she told the truth, they’d lose all interest either way. Fame was funny like that.

“Mr Vincent,” Alfonso was most solicitous as well as perispring when he hurried over to her fiancé’s side, “there’s been an incident, your car, sir! The windows, they are smashed! And there appear to be eggs?”

Lana wasn’t sure she successfully suppressed the bubbling little laugh that flitted out of her leaden chest at Vincent’s deathly white pallor. There were two of him in her fractured, drug impaired vision and he acted like looney twins, scrambling up from the table in a flurry of hands and pomade, tux tails flapping like a frightened bird. “It’s my father’s car you idiot! Where was the doorman? Where?”

“Ooooh daddy’s gonna be mad.” Lana cooed to herself, amused at how this failure of a son couldn’t land a deal or a car or his own, only a troublesome actress who was in dire love with a man she’d never met.

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

The executive was waving off the cameras, this part of the night hardly suitable to be recorded. “Stewart, phone call for you.” A commanding, sonorous voice beside her sent goose flesh popping along Lana’s arms beneath the jacket, Jack Huston and his cologne suddenly pervading the place like an ominous deity casting its shadow over the now almost empty table.

“Mr. Huston.” Lana simpered sweetly when Stewart had left and it was just them alone with his hand on the back of her chair, thumbing at the lamb skin. There were two of Huston too, in her vision, and Lana gulped in trepidation of having to please both.

“Miss Tierney,” he replied, grinning a little too wide for her to focus, “you know what you look like you need?”

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

“What’s that Jack?” she tittered, happily courting ruin.

“A nightcap.” Jack declared and was extending a large palm for her before she could second guess. It was the choice of a lion over a wolf here in Hollywood, and Lana had such plans for Mr. Huston. But, like most things, Lana’s plans must wait until Mr. Huston’s plans for her had been satisfactorily met.

Of all the backseats to be poured into in Hollywood, Huston’s was rather plush and smelled nice and had a clinking little bar in the console, well stocked and vintage. Better yet, the car wasn’t his father’s, it was his. As was his mind and his time and his appetite. Lana could only dream of having that sort of brash freedom, for now she must attach herself to those who did if she so much as wanted a taste.

“So what’s with the jacket?” Mr. Huston had the liberty to be casual on a ride back to his house with a much desired starlet, after all, he had a slam dunk assurance she wasn’t going to say no on arrival.

“It belongs to a man who loves me.” she slurred earnestly.

“Pilot?”

“Yes. He writes the sweetest, filthiest things.”

“To you?”

“Only to me.” she whispered with drunken vehemence.

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

Mr. Huston enjoyed ribbons: tying them around her, to be specific but of all the novel and varied ways to be satisfactory it wasn’t so bad, and when he lay next to her afterwards as the drug began to take her fully under, Lana was pleased by the heavy arm around her waist. He didn't care about the tonsillitis. Bucky’s jacket hung carefully over the armchair in her line of sight, Jack had been nice about that, too.

Yes she could make some use of Huston and his ribbons and his new army uniform and his government contracts.

————————————————-

“I was insensible.” Lana maintained the following day at a meeting with Mother and Stewart and a slew of concerned agents and executives who were pleased enough by the engaged cake smashing photographs, less so by the discreet vandalizing of their blonde product by John Huston. “I don’t know what you put in that cake but it did the trick and I was as aghast as you upon waking up where I woke up.”

“And the jacket?” Mother had her priorities straight, troublesome memorabilia first, dear daughter’s virtue second.

“Shoot, I think Huston has it.” Lana whimpered, “I was in such a state, such a rush to leave-“

“Well that was a very unfortunate oversight, Lana.”

“I know.”

“He could use it against us.” Mother fretted.

“He’d make a fool of himself if he did,” Stewart shined best when full of his self-bloated importance and meetings such as these were essential fuel for that importance, “it would look like he took a pilot to bed.”

“Stewart, she’s all over the nation’s morning paper’s wearing the horrid thing!” Mother snapped and while she herself was admittedly awful most times, Lana never doubted she was shrewd, far more than Stewart and all the men in the room she jockeyed for lead with. “In fact Lana, this has really brought to a head a growing issue. Your restlessness, your ingratitude, it’s become insufferable and now it jeparadizes everything. I am speaking of the coat but also of the letters. Oh yes, I know all about those.”

A wise performance required Lana to play the frightened and shocked little miscreant and so she did, wide doe eyes looking beseechingly penitent and horrified in the face of having been caught doing a single independent thing. “Oh mother-“

“They are bad enough with their filth and their familiarity,” mother cut her off, “but to have written to him in your old name! Lana, the carelessness! It’s a mercy he’s dead, think of the presumptuous attitude he would have adopted had he returned. Unthinkable!”

“Dead?” Lana felt her throat close up, wishing desperately to be back in his jacket again, regretting most harshly her high-priced scheming of last night. All of it had been for him, and he was dead.

“Quite dead.” Mother was irritated by her crestfallen state but not so much as to prevent her crowing over little Lana’s misstep. “And now I am burdened with the necessity of tracking down his effects, getting your side of the correspondence back, think of the unpleasantness of contacting his family! Conversations with dead servicemen's families are always so tedious. You do recall what a bore it was for me to have to carry-on with them on your tour. And all of this to get back your filthy, perverse break of discretion.”

“Were they to get out they’d ruin your reputation.” Stewart put in the obvious, “They’d reveal your plain and common upbringing, your drab name and worse, you would be known to be a horny, hungry young woman.”

Lana stared at him across from his desk, that adrift feeling of aloneness taking over her, such as she’d only felt a few times in her life, like when her mother left her on her first studio couch for an audition, despite her pleas to stay. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, “it would be a terrible thing for an object of desire to appear willing. Or wanting, at all capable of their own needs. It would really ruin the shine of it all, I see.”

“Lana!”

“Oh mother, really, pimped out all my life -all for it to be ruined by the suggestion I might like it!”

“It’s worse than all that.” Stewart insisted gravely, immune to female objections and tantrums, “I’ve been contacted this morning by one of the branches of our government dealing with espionage and information,” -no wonder he was feeling so very important today- “and they’re concerned that the German Air Force is aware of your correspondence with Major Agen-“

“It’s Egan, actually.”

“-Agen and a tapped phone call as well, they have concerns, Lana, about the Germans using this connection as leverage on him, now they have him in their camps, under their thumb, at their mercy.”

Lana’s fractured world slid together again like a suctioned mosaic, one focal point of reason being clear. “He’s a prisoner of war.” she knew just the right inquisitive tone to encourage Stewart to keep blabbing.

“Yes.” Stewart was very grave and very important about being privy to this information, and Mother let out a fuming little cluck of her tongue at his fumble.

“So, he’s a prisoner.” she smirked triumphantly at Mother and was not corrected for once. “Not dead.”

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

Lana still smiled, she could work with “good as.”

———————————————-

“Jack?” Lana had timed her delicate attack most carefully, waiting until Huston was relaxed but not asleep, dressing but not in a hurry, happy but not restless, and most importantly, not remotely tired of her.

“What doll?” Jack had a broad back and nice hands, sometimes Lana imagined they were rather like Egan’s, or maybe that’s what she told herself to keep the tears at bay long enough for each amorous performance to conclude, “Your mother bitchin’ about me again?”

“Well,” she shied away into the bedding, “to be honest, yes.”

“Little rebel.” he praised her on his way to sling on his suspenders, apparently he was going out tonight, she felt a clench of panic in her gut at the need to throw her pitch before he left or hushed her.

“Jack I’ve been thinking.” She began again.

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

“No, true.” Lana was used to laughing at that same joke told by a couple dozen different men, “But is that skit competition still on? The one for the CBS slot?”

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

“Anything promising yet?” Lana ventured carefully, Jack was so very busy with all these government contracts for documentaries and proganada shows, and ever since then he’d had a very short fuse, fussy over his stalled artistic dreams. Not that he didn’t care about the war, he did in fact, and that’s why Lana liked him if she liked him at all. But he liked it the way a movie maker does, he wanted to tell stories and he wanted to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t going to be shot at he damn sure would be known to hang about the guys who were.

He was off to the Pacific to film some Marines mucking about on some godforsaken Atoll in a month or more. She had to make her move.

In the meantime, he was to organize a broadcast. Lana bad learned that from the grapevine at Warner’s, Betty D. dropping as much over her three carrots at lunch.

“I was wondering why we haven’t got ourselves an anecdote to Axis Sally.” Lana chose to be blunt, Jack was different from other men, he liked her babified act as much as the next man, but he’d belted her too for ‘playing dumb’. Since then she’d said her mind, as much as she dared and he called her idiotic often, but she’d not been belted again. “Our boys keep listening to that trash, and the housewives too, just to hear reports on the missing and the prisoners.”

“They listen ‘cause she’s sexy and funny.” Jack informed her with a pointed look.

“That too.” Lana contemplated the sheets before her, “But can’t we be funny and sexy too? Instead of demoralizing we could be happy! And we’d not have reports on prisoners but we could give them clues and hope, in case anyone's listening in.”

“Listening in.” Jack had stopped his halfhearted listening to her, wheeling suddenly with cuff links partway hanging, “You mean in camps?”

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

“They don’t let them have radios, ya know.” Huston pointed out, but it wasn’t said in argument, he was pondering too.

“You know they still manage.” Lana smiled softly and he smiled back.

“Ok, what’s the pitch?” He sighed and sat himself down again on the side of the bed, evening plans abandoned for the moment.

Lana’s heart swelled with hope and the delicious feeling of being taken seriously. Even if she was lying in his bed with hair a mess and dignity mighty rumpled. “Perhaps we could tack onto Fred Allen’s spot? Hasn’t he got a vacancy? A variety show? A skit? I don’t know, but we could have repeat actors and we could have guest stars. And it could- it could be a girl-“

“-Allied Sally.” Huston joked and Lana genuinely snickered at that.

“Something like that.” She agreed, chagrined at the need for a catchy, corney radio name, “And she could be waiting for her sweetheart, sending him messages and well wishes and jokes and -Oh! The score! The scores on everything! Baseball! Jack!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s decent.” Jack hushed her, waving her giddy self back down as she warmed to her topic, “And you could be her.” he stated the obvious.

“Don’t you think I’d manage it well?” She cajoled, cocking her shoulder in her best pantomime of a coquette. “Aren’t I funny and sexy, Mr. Huston?”

“Hmph,” he scratched his cheek and stared at her as if summing up the likelihood of this working, “needs another angle. Beyond skits.”

“Alright. Like what?”

Huston secured his cuff links, smile broadening as his mind began to whirl, “Letters.” he stated and Lana’s heart froze, “Love letters, we gotta keep it sexy, you said so yourself. There’s nothing so funny as a redacted letter being read out over the censors. The constant beeps alone will get laughs, give it the right inflection in between and you’ll have a game on your hands with the listeners guessing and filling in.”

“Letters.” Lana mumbled in agreement, numb at the brilliance of it and filled with horror at the idea of monetizing what John Egan had given her -connection, love, devotion, grit, humor. But this broadcast, it might be the only way to keep in any sort of contact with him. At what cost? Would he care at all for her after it? Would he think she used him up for a little business inspiration? Oh she couldn’t bear it, yet worse, she couldn’t bear life as Vincent’s wife, locked in for another ten years at Warner’s under mother’s thumb. “It’s brilliant.”

“Almost uncanny how likely a story it is.” Huston grunted as he pulled on a shoe, sending her a sly look that broke her a heart a little more, “Nothing so powerful as a tale based on a real thing, Lana.” he reminded forcefully.

The letters, the blackmail her mother hung over her, all of it dealt with if this pitch became a reality. It would all fade into a myth. And with it all the realness John had brought her. “Yes, I said -it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, easy does it for now.” He cautioned, “Gotta sort your mother and let that contract expire gently. I’ll pitch it myself. See what CBS can wrangle up. Don’t get your hopes up and keep that jacket safe, it’ll be invaluable when we get you a storyline for it.”

“Right.”

“Well go on, tell mommy dearest.” he goaded, nodding to the phone.

“Oh they wouldn’t be approving.” Lana disagreed, referring to the whole pack of them, her mother and her lawyers and her agents.

“Why not? Sounds like great business. Solves all the scandal too.”

“Something like this part-“ Lana demurred, “-wouldn’t suit my image, mother says.”

Jack barked out a rough laugh, plopped back down on the bed and tugging the sheets from her clutches. “Your mother does realize you’re walking wank material, right? That’s your image.”

“Yes,” Lana sighed, “but…unwilling, she says. That’s the crucial part.”

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jack eyed her up, “you do make a great impression of a scared lamb in bed.”

“They’re concerned it’ll make me too independent. Like the War Bond tour,” she gave a wistful smile, “I kissed so many boys my lips swelled right up. It was grand.”

“Now Lana,” Huston cautioned, “I’m not on any crusade to liberate you, myself.”

“Oh I know!” She was quick to assure, ever the obliging little lady, “And I don’t want to be. Not from you or the studio-“

“-just from mother dearest?” he nodded knowingly, not knowing the half of it.

“Yes.” she pretended great relief at his perception.

“Huh, well, good. Because this idea would have a contract of its own, and it would be long if I’m any judge of the longevity of the project. You’ll be locked in for years.”

“But it’ll be my choice.” She reaffirmed, and this time she meant it.

“And you’ll look willing.” Jack grinned and she grinned back, compulsively like a child mimicking their threat. “Might take some practice though, to make you look willing. Get over here, doll.”

———————————————-

Major Gale Cleven was appreciative of the dangers of listening to the radio in camp, it was one of those necessary and crucial risks that required responsible stewardship and utmost care. It wasn’t a flippant pastime and it wasn’t a recreation, but then again, neither was it strictly business. Like much of their lives as prisoners of war, he and his fellow soldiers toed a strict line between honoring their captors’ jurisdictions while also thwarting their imposed restrictions at every possible juncture.

Sometimes one should listen to the radio because that is what free men did, and Gale Cleven tried by any means possible- letters, books, calculus or his frigid metal headset- to stay free in his mind, to comport himself with the same surety as his free counterpart.

Otherwise, you lived like a ghost in your own body. And that was no good for oneself or those around you. As everyone who shared a bunk and combine with John Egan was quickly learning. The immediate joy of reuniting with him, the fear of losing him to his wounds, the relief of his recovery, it had all leveled out at the end like a anticlimactic ride on a rollercoaster, skidding to a plateau where he was neither well enough to be exempt from Gale’s concern, nor ill enough to warrant the patience required to put up with his rabid moods. Always restless, being kept in the glamorized equivalent of a dog run was hardly fitting for his nature. It was hard on everyone, but Gale wasn’t such a relativist as to assume John Egan had it the same as everyone. Some folks required more miles and more sky to keep them sane, and Bucky was one of those.

It had tipped Gale into a habit that could no longer be qualified as strictly informative, nor could he defend it as necessary where he to get caught. It was undoubtedly poor stewardship to spend an extra half hour listening to the inane comedy of a BBC guest production. But he had started it to cheer Brady when Glenn Miller’s band was on, and it had done such good for him and Bucky as they crowded ‘round, that Gale had since stayed alert for any other such ‘triviality’ that might be of use.

If the Colonel walked in and demanded an explanation for this extra bit of carelessness, Cleven thought he might make a decent defense about waiting for Ed Murrow to come on, broadcasting for CBS from London, always with a decent take on what was happening in the war. The motivation of Murrow often having stars on his program was completely erroneous.

Or so Gale swore to himself for the tenth time as Demarco kept watch and he himself painstakingly tuned the dials and bent his ear to sort the static.

There was music and the typical overlap of voices for awhile until he honed it down, British and American accents floating in, obnoxiously layered all on top of each other still, yet this time intentional. He must’ve hit a variety show. He gave himself two minutes, that much he’d allow and if the thing he’d been waiting for in secret for months did not occur,

he’d move right on or pack up for the night.

“I’m not sure about no boy writing you letters!” a man’s voice crackled through, comedically irate.

The next voice was girlish, smooth despite the poor frequency and made the hair of Gale’s arms stand on end from universal male appreciation and a gut wrenching sense of recognition: “Well I don’t know any more about it, paw paw, except that he loves me and I love him!”

“Yeah?” -Gale thought perhaps that was Bob Hope’s voice, play acting as the fuming father figure, “Yeah, then tell me, dear daughter, what sorta fella calls the girl he loves: Acorn! Huh?”

Gale’s eyes bugged from his head, glassy and shocked and Crank rushed over in solidarity, terribly sure the whole continent of North America had just been reported as broken off into the sea. “What is it Buck?”

“Crank!” Gale croaked, “Go! Go get Egan, tell him his girl’s on the radio and to get his ass in here, goooo!”

“Egan’s got a girl?” Benny was bewildered.

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

“But that’s Lana Tierney.” Crank pointed over the spunk wall, or as it was called in more noble moments of higher aspiration, the Wall of Hopes and Dreams, where Lana and Rita smiled tantalizingly and warm from their crinkled posters, down on the men’s bunks.

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

Gale held his breath and listened harder, trying to gauge how far into the sketch he had caught them, wishing them to linger, as if by sheer willpower alone he could make her stay on until Bucky got there.

Fuck -acorn? Why would she use that? She had to be out of her mind to dare a thing like that, had to be just to get his attention, right? Surely? Had to be out of her mind, Gale decided, which was just another diagnosis for love. And that gave him pause.

“What’s your feller anyway? He a squirrel?” Bob Hope was pressing the issue right as Bucky burst in with a flurry of flapping overcoat and steaming breath.

“Get in here, come on, get over here.” Gale stood up and pointed to his vacated seat, shoving Bucky down for good measure and crouching to press the headpiece to his ear, wanting to share it for some idiotic reason, as if like a parent he could cut the cord if something sad or risky came on.

“Maybe he is,” Lana was breathily defending, “and we’ll live happily ever after in our tree. And there’s nothing you or Jerry can do to stop us!”

“Shit.” Egan breathed out reverently like he’d been punched real and good and an epiphany on life was brewing beneath his shuttering smile. “Holy hell it -it is her. It’s acorn.”

“On a show called ‘Dear Acorn’, Bucky.” Brady chimed in, face as lit up for Egan’s current happiness as if it were his own.

“So what’re you twos gonna live on, huh?” Bob Hope crackled through “Love and nuts?”

“Oh well dunno, I do so love my nuts.” Lana rejoined.

“Jesus!” Gale pulled away from the headset like it had personally accosted him for a tumble in the sheets.

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

“And there’s nothing you or Jerry can-“

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

“Pinky promise!” Lana chirped a couple thousand miles away, and John Egan obeyed her once more with a raised hand and a crooked finger.

That night at roll call they had something to whisper about, and for once it wasn’t half cooked schemes to climb the barbed wire or try smothering the commandant in his sleep. Instead Bucky was rocking back and forth joyfully on his heels in the bitter night air, trying hard to keep his grin in check as the spotlight swooped over, choosing the intermediate bits of darkness to nag Gale for any bits he’d missed.

“I sent for ya right away, Bucky.” Gale insisted in a gentle whisper out the side of his mouth, “They were just starting to joke about letters being written to an acorn.”

“Can you believe it?” Egan hissed, almost demented in his sudden good cheer, “She’s that proud of me, built a whole damn show on it. Fuck, it makes a man wanna fight a dozen wars.”

Gale eyed him up carefully, the inside of Bucky’s head a foreign place even to him, but if his friend was hopeful and generous enough not to mind his intellectual (or rather, lack of intellect) property being capitalized on for the war effort, then Gale wasn’t about to sow seeds of doubt. “She’s somethin’ else.” he agreed nebulously, and meant it, “Bombs Away Betty, huh?”

“Showing partiality to one branch of the armed services, Buck.” John was back to grinning, “She must’ve liked the jacket.”

Hope you enjoined, thank y’all for all the screams and thoughts you’ve sent through my asks, the comments and reblogs too, I treasure each.

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mistyresolve · 1 year

Text

| His Foresight - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Medic!Reader (Part 3)

Word Count - 3.7k

Summary - It’s been a couple months since you last had contact with Lt. Simon Ghost Riley. While you are repairing your tarnished reputation, Simon is on the other side working from the shadows and doing everything he can to take back his words. It isn’t until the three-month marker that you finally face him again, this time you’re willing to hear him out. If only because you guys are going to be team members.

Tags/Warnings - Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Maybe a little bit of angst, Mentions of childhood trauma

A/N - as we near the end of this storyline I would like to thank everyone for their love and support and I appreciate every one of you guys 🤍🤍🤍 I am also going to post a brief POV from Ghost later, and one more part, two at tops.

Part 1 ❤︎ Part 2

Masterlist ❤︎ Tag List Form

It had been a month since you last spoke with Ghost and since then you learned three things. The first was that he truly was a ghost. He haunted hallways and existed only in rumors and whispers. He made himself seen only when he wanted to be. For the rest of his assignment, he kept his distance. You figured since you have yet to see him it was because he was better at spotting you first and turning in the other direction. Soap would still drop by and fill you in on the latest 141 gossip. It didn’t go over your head that Soap never had any gossip about Ghost. Never once did Soap mention him. Whether Soap figured out that something had gone down on his own or forced it out of Ghost himself was a mystery. You didn’t have the energy or care to ask.

The second is that whatever he had been previously telling the higher up was either rescinded or someone had put in a good word about you. If it was Ghost or not, you also didn’t know. Nor did it matter if it was him, the damage was done. You put your hand up for every opportunity, followed every rule, and every patient that came to you left you with positive feedback. You were an HR dream.

The third was that you missed his company. Even a month after you were still fuming, still ready to rip his tongue out should you see him again. Still heartbroken and yet some part of you still missed Ghost. You kept a very tight leash on that part of you and squashed it beneath your boot. How was it fair that his fuck up, and his selfishness resulted in you losing a friend. It wasn’t, and that’s what you were most bitter about.

After two months, you have decided to let go of the anger and hurt. It wasn’t going to help you now. You kept yourself preoccupied with work and more work. You were still based in the new camp, now dubbed Fort Cardinal, which has since become one of the biggest bases.

You were just leaving the mess hall after breakfast when you were intercepted in the hallway.

“L/n?” the private asked.

“Yes?” your brows furrowed.

“Crawford wants to speak to you. He’s in his office.”

Crawford was the commanding officer, and when he summoned someone to his office it could mean only a few things. Most of them were bad. You pivoted and headed towards HQ. You might have taken the scenic route too. Pausing at the entrance to Crawfords office. “Sir,” you stood by the doorway waiting for your CO to acknowledge you, “you requested I come to see you.”

He looked up from the files splayed out on his desk, “Take a seat.”

You pulled out a chair opposite him, your palms began to sweat and you wiped them on your pants. Racking your brain to try and remember if you had done something wrong, or inappropriate, but came up blank.

“How many years have you been with us?” he questioned, folding his hands over the papers.

“Four, Sir,” you straightened your back and squared your shoulders.

He stared at you for a second, his face hard, before nodding and looking back to the papers. They were your files. A collection of reports and logs and records, “It’s of my understanding that you’ve voiced your desire for a transfer.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Since your enlistment, your peers and superiors have had nothing but good things to say about you. Your records show that you excelled in both the field and the classroom. Never missed a work day, never late,” he began listing things off from the note in front of him. You couldn’t tell if he was impressed or irritated, and it was psyching you out. He paused as he flipped through, “Have you fully recovered from your injury?”

“Healed like a dream,” you offered him a tight-lipped smile. It did, after the first couple of weeks you were back at work in full force.

“Good to hear,” he flipped a page back so it was facing you, “Any idea what this might have been for?” It would have looked the same as any other report aside from the fact that it was entirely redacted. Whatever was written beneath had been obscured by a thick black line.

You leaned forward, your smile fading into a frown. You shook your head, “I have no idea. No.” This was the first time you saw your files all laid out like this, so you were just as lost as him. Whoever redacted it must have been of higher status than him if even he didn’t know. Then again, you weren’t sure about what happened behind closed doors. You met his eyes, trying to read what he was thinking and when you couldn’t you wanted to melt into your seat.

“There’s been an opening,” he leaned back in his chair, “Aerospace medicine has requested a combat medic. It’ll be a one year contract. Should you take this position you will be sent out for a three week training program and your first assignment will be right after that. ”

If it weren’t for those four years of service and learning that people like your CO didn’t like a show of emotions you would have hopped around his office. So, you remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“The captain of Special Task Forces 141 has requested you himself for their next mission.”

Your heart dropped.

“Captain Price?” you echoed. Maybe it was a different 141.

“Correct,” he waved a hand, his patience shortening, “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” you answered before you could think it over, and he excused you before you could process your answer. This was what you had been asking for, what you were working towards, and now that it had been offered to you you were left uneasy. Working with the 141 was an honour and a nod to your capabilities. It also meant working with Lt. Simon Riley. You couldn’t unscramble your feelings about the implications.

You determined that professionalism would yield the best outcome.

You were packed and heading out for your training by lunch.

When you entered the briefing room, it was as relaxed as you expected from the 141. Which was not at all. The air was thick and sober. You were half an hour early and still the last to arrive.

“Morning,” Price stepped around the table everyone was surrounding.

“Good morning,” you replied, making your way to the table. Laswell met up with you during your training to give you a rundown on what to expect. You were going to be their combat medic, yes, but you could fight and shoot just as well as any other soldier. You even had the grounds to brag about your close combat skills. Laswell was visibly pleased when you told her your dad forced you into mixed martial arts when you were ten years old, and could take down a full-grown man like he was a bag of flour.

You scanned the table and the map splayed out was a replica of the one Laswell had provided. You tried to hide the smile and pointed to the empty medicine vial on the map, “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Aye,” Soap puffed his chest out, “that was my doing.”

When you looked up at Soap, you purposefully ignored the large burly man dressed in all black beside him, “Creative,” you noted how Ghost seemed to shrink back into the shadows at your indifference towards him.

Soap had actually picked everyone's avatar, a sniper bullet, a lighter, a toy skeleton, and an angel wing that looked like it used to be a necklace, and a battery. You couldn’t decide whether to laugh at the figurines or the fact that everyone accepted them.

Price ran through the plan, the target, and his expectations of everyone. He revealed that the target was going to be “Cameron Rowe” , a former sergeant turned rogue. His headshot was stabbed into the table with a knife. You recognized it as Ghosts, the blade usually fixed to his thigh.

“Since we have no real idea as to where Rowe will be we’ll be splitting off into teams.” You had to suck your lips into your mouth to keep from making an argument when Price moved your vial next to the skeleton on the map. “Soap and Laswell with nest at the top of these two buildings,” he pointed to the two highrises in front and behind Rowe’s apartment building. “Doc and Ghost will take watch at the port,” he dragged his finger to the loading docs, which was usually Rowe’s meeting place. “Gaz and I will be tailing his informers and hopefully, catch them in the act.”

You had a sneaking suspicion they stuck you with Ghost was to balance out the teams. Ghost was a one man army, you were basically going to keep him company. Or so they thought. You didn’t plan on sharing a single conversation with him, and you knew you could easily hold your own. The 141 had plans of not only taking down Rowe but finding out whoever he was working with. So, they couldn’t just pick him off in his apartment building.

After the briefing and everyone knew their role people started to filter back out. You stayed behind to speak with Price, having a few questions of your own.

“Captain,” you started and he turned back around, “Why ask for me?” This assignment was only temporary, you weren’t a part of the 141, but Price could have picked anyone in the world to help with this job.

“I read your file,” he closed the door behind him, coming to meet you by the table again, “You have an impressive background, and it makes me wonder why you chose the medical field.”

You were at the top of your class for both basics and medical school, so it was a genuine curiosity. He also probably had access to your life before enlistment, “It’s what I wanted,” was the only answer you could give him, and it’s the only one you had.

He hummed, his eyes turning to slits, “Then why agree?”

“I’ve been waiting for something like this since day one. How was I supposed to say no?” You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to show your versatility. This mission might have been overkill but it was what you wanted. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“You’re a strange one,” Price crossed his arms over his chest, “You’ll fit in great,” he looked like he had something else to say but changed his mind. He tilted his head towards the door, “Better go and get some rest, we leave at 0400 tomorrow.”

You nodded, parting off with a “Thank you,” before heading to the door.

“Can we talk?” Ghost was waiting outside the door when you left the room.

You shot him a blank look, “About?” you kept walking down the hall not waiting to hear his answer.

He followed after you, “I want to apologize.”

You exited the building and met with a blast of the hot sticky air of summer, the sun was getting low in the sky, “Go ahead, Judas” you turned to him, making eye contact with his chest. You gritted your teeth when you had to look up at him, “I’ll keep it civil for the sake of the mission but I don’t want to be your friend.”

His shoulders loosened as if he had just received the best news, “I understand,” he shifted back on his feet, his tired eyes scanning the area, before returning to you, “I was out of line. I was mixing private affairs with work, I see that now. And I’m sorry. I was being selfish and I wasn’t taking your needs and wants into consideration. So, if you’ll give me some grace and let me show you how good I can be.”

“Keep your fingers out of my business and I’ll think about it,” you quipped.

He lifted his hands before him, splaying his fingers out before curling them into a fist, “They’re put away,” he might have broken your trust and crossed you but he was still the friend you lost and missed. He was going to have to work for it either way. This was a start.

“We can talk more later,” where there were fewer listening ears and watchful eyes. “I’ll come to you when I’m good and ready. For now, just stay away from me,” you’d think after 3 months you’d have figured out what you’d say to him, but you didn’t. And tomorrow you were going to be trapped in a room with him, so you were going to have to cross your t's and dot your i’s tonight to present them to him for tomorrow.

He physically flinched at the dismissal, but he took a step back, providing you with space, “Of course.”

Your chest twisted at the sight, you didn’t like treating him like a disease, but you refused to let it blind you of the truth. Still. You sighed, cursing yourself for what you were about to say, “Thank you, for apologizing.”

His eyes crinkled in the corners and you could have sworn they gave way to a smile. The awe-worthy occurrence was sadly hidden underneath his mask. You rolled your eyes at him before pivoting and walking towards the barracks.

You sat with Laswell on a stray crate on the tarmac while you waited for the rest of the team to arrive. The two of you just people watched, with her occasionally pointing someone out and telling you a little about them. This guy was grounded a couple of weeks ago because he arrived at work still drunk from the night before. That guy had a crazy, entitled wife.

The chopper started its engine and was ready for lift-off at exactly 0359.

“Doc, about our talk yesterday. I also figured you want to take part and get some revenge for yourself,” Price bellowed over the sound of the chopper, and he ducked below the propellers. Realization sprung to life in your chest. Price had asked for you to be on this mission because you had something to gain from it. This Rowe guy, this squealer had been the one to rat out the convoy to the enemy. He was the reason you were injured, and the reason Butters was dead. This wasn’t the sleight of hand of Ghost but Price. It put your nerves at ease and allowed you to be a little less angry with the former.

“I appreciate it, Sir,” you nodded at Price. He clapped a hand over your shoulder and hopped into the helicopter after you. Being squished between Price and Soap made you feel a little safer with the fact that there were no doors on the heli. Ghost took his spot on the side of the heli, letting his legs hang out the side, his gun at the ready. Gaz sat opposite him and Laswell adjacent to you. Her pack and gun took up an entire seat. She reached into her front pouch as the heli lifted off the ground, pulling out a chocolate bar. Your mouth watered. Chocolate was hard to come back at base, people traded whole MREs for one bar. Soap handed you a headset for the chopper just as she noticed your drooling expression.

“If you promise you can get an appointment with the chiro, I’ll give you some,” she waggled the bar in front of her, a trade.

“I know both the chiropractor and the masseuse,” you countered. She made a look of delight, before reaching into her pack and tossing you your own bar.

Oh, you liked her.

You stuffed the back into the small day pack at your feet, saving it for later. Acutely aware that if you opened it here at least two people on this aircraft would put their hand out for a piece. You eyed Gaz and Soap.

The helicopter had been an hour's flight, and they had landed on a field. Without permission, you might add so you had to be quick on the exit. A line of blacked-out SUVs and trucks was waiting for a quick escape. Price ordered everyone to join up with their duo, and head to their discussed position.

Ghost strode for one of the SUVs, opening the back to place his pack and guns. He stepped to the side to allow you to do the same and closed it after you. He was spinning the keys around his finger when he turned to you, “Who’s driving?”

You didn’t respond, instead, you opened the passenger door and slid in. From the side mirror, you could see him look up at the sky, take a couple of deep breaths, then clasp his hands together before moving to enter the car. He was silent the rest of the way, his attention on the road. Even through the mask, you could see his jaw tighten and flex.

He parked the SUVs at the back of the building, between the wall and another vehicle. He lead you into the building, a warehouse or collection center of some sort into the offices on the second floor. He pointed out exit routes and potential areas to hold our position. The gravity of his pointing stuff out like that said a lot about how he thought this mission was going to pan out. The thought should have frightened you but knowing that the Ghost was fighting on the same side as you had the opposite effect. The office he brought you into was already vacant, with nothing but an empty desk and a chair on each side. He locked the door and placed his gun on the desk, and informed Price over the radio that we were in place. You made your way to the window, pulling one of the vanes down to peek outside. The window gave a good view of the entrance of the port and a decent view of the sea cans.

“How long will he have to camp out here?” you asked, letting go of the blinds.

“The day. Maybe into tomorrow,” he shrugged, as he started pulling things from his pack, “Depends on Rowe, really. Price and Gaz have the biggest probability of catching him. Laswell is going to be our eyes in the sky, and Soap already has access to the cameras in Rowe’s apartment, and a couple in this harbour.”

You took a seat in one of the swivel chairs, “And you?”

He paused, his eyes refusing to meet yours, “I’m more for after we catch him,” he cleared his throat. The question made him awkward, he didn’t want you to know what exactly it was that he did. You had your ideas and presumptions already but his hesitation had you second guessing.

“You the one who’s going to get the information out of him?” he picked up one of the blades he had laid out on the desk, turning it over in your hand. He watched you, following your movements with predatory grace.

“Is that why I’m here?” you continued, “To make sure he stays alive long enough to give you that information?” He was the butcher and you were the surgeon. A strange dichotomy.

He stilled, “I don’t want you to see it.”

“It”, being what he was going to do. What he was trained to do. What he was good at. You placed the knife back on the table, pushing away with the wheels on the chair. You prepared yourself for the upcoming confession. Playing this out in your head last night was way easier than actually doing it.

“You know, I think you and I have very similar pasts,” you looked down at your hands, at the lines and curves etched into them.

“Don’t say that,” he shook his head, and his shoulders rolled forward.

“I also think we took very different paths, though,” you saw it in his eyes the moment you met, the wounds that were too deep to see on the surface. It was why you understood him, and why you were going to forgive him, “You don’t have to hide it from me, Riley. I’ve seen the worst in humanity, and I know that you are nothing like them”

You didn’t think he was breathing, didn’t think he was in his body. When you met his stare, his eyes were wide, and his pupils were pinpricks. You stood up from the chair and walked to his side of the table, “Can I touch you?”

It was barely noticeable but he nodded. You wrapped your arms underneath his arm and pressed your cheek to his shoulder. He immediately returned the gesture, his arms encircling your shoulders, his one hand reaching up to cradle your head to him. He released a shuddering breath, and if you closed your eyes and focused hard enough you could hear his heart hammering against his chest.

“There isn’t anything you can do that will make me think you're a monster,” you whispered into his shoulder, “Aside from maybe sabotaging my career,” it was almost a joke.

“Noted,” you could hear the smile in between his words. Feel the relief thawing his muscles. You pulled back just as Soap and Laswell confirmed their position. Ghost took a step back himself, “We should get set up.”

He pushed the desk so it was against the same wall as the window, propping his gun onto and looked down the scope to the entrance of the port.

You settled down and at the end of the desk, it was going to be a long, boring wait. You set to counting the bullets in the magazine Ghost pulled from his pack if only to find something to distract yourself. You were elated when he pulled a deck of cards from his pack and the two of you played a couple of rounds of poker, then switched to go fish. There was also the occasional chatter about what each other did in the three months you were separated. The both of you had become incredibly busy.

It was nearing dusk by the time anything of importance aired over the radio.

Price’s eager voice came through, “Ghost, Doc, we’re following the informants to the port. Be at the ready.”

Part 3.5, Part 4

Masterlist ❤︎ Tag List Form

A/N - the sniper bullet is Soap, the lighter is Price, the toy skeleton is Ghost, the angel wing is Gaz, and the battery is Laswell. Also, also, Price is definitely playing Cupid.

Tag List - @thychuvaluswife ❤︎ @shuttlelauncher81 ❤︎ @marytvirgin ❤︎ @stickygumchewer ❤︎ @lauraliisa ❤︎ @jungcoccc ❤︎ @lovelyladymayyyy ❤︎ @lululandd ❤︎ @chrissyfishywissy ❤︎ @naxxsstuff ❤︎@sididakra-jo, @yukisawer ❤︎ @q8852p ❤︎ @lostinsideourminds ❤︎ @kat-nee

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