#but its been sitting in my drafts for too long and i like the graphic too much so : )))))) here it is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stylesispunk · 3 months

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'You gave me something to lose'

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: Joel is afraid of losing you.

wc: 4k>

warnings: angst, mentions of panic attacks, fluff. Messy writing cause this is an old draft.

a/n: this was on my drafts for so long so I'm posting this as a gift because I'm going to London for the next two weeks and I won't be very active on here. So once I return, I promise I'll write the pendant things and requests I have. I hope you like this one. Happy reading 💌

dividerers by @/saradika-graphics

Joel didn’t fear anything, not dying nor being alone or even broke.

Not the clickers, not darkness, but you.

when his mission to take Ellie to the fireflies became into caring for the teen, he felt panicked.

And when he learned he had fallen deeply in love with you, you gave him something to lose.

And he was frightened.

Joel had always been a fortress, walls built high and strong to keep out the pain and loss he had endured. But now, those walls were crumbling. Each moment he spent with you, each secret you both had shared, each tender touch, chipped away at the defenses he had so meticulously constructed.

Since the day Joel met you at the QZ in Boston, you had stolen something from him. He didn’t decipher what back then, but every time you weren’t on his sight, a knot formed on his stomach. Every time he caught a glimpse of you, his blood rushed into his cheeks.

And God, every single time you smiled at him, he could find a reason to keep surviving in this world, again.

And that’s why when you had decided to go after him, when he and Tess took Ellie with them to the fireflies. He had made up his mind, between the anger and tinted loved was feeling for you right at that moment, he had decided he was going to protect you more than anything or anyone. Even when you got on his nerves.

The journey to the fireflies was grueling. The roads were treacherous, infested with clickers and hunters. Every step was a battle, every night a gamble. But Joel was relentless. He led the way with a grim determination, always keeping you and Ellie close. The tension was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the danger that lurked in every shadow.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the desolate landscape, you found a moment of respite. The group set up camp in an abandoned building, its crumbling walls offering a semblance of shelter. Joel, ever vigilant, took the first watch.

You approached him, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across his weathered face. He looked up as you neared, his eyes softening slightly. “You should get some rest,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

You shook your head, sitting down beside him. “I can’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”

Joel glanced at you, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, I get that.” There was a pause, a comfortable silence settling between you. “You know,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “I never thought I’d feel this way again. Not after everything.”

You looked at him, searching his eyes. “What do you mean?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve…” he paused, “Never mind.”

You furrowed your brow, sensing the weight of his unspoken words. “Joel, you can talk to me. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening. “It’s just… it’s hard to explain.” He paused again, just a few seconds, lifting his gaze up to yours “Why did you followed us three?” he asked.

The question caught you off guard, but you didn’t hesitate in your response. “I didn’t follow all of you. I followed you.”

“Why?”

“Because back in the QZ there wasn’t a life after you” you confessed, “Life sucks in there, but without you it would be worse.”

Joel’s eyes widened slightly, the vulnerability of your words hitting him harder than he expected. He stared at you, trying to process the depth of your feelings. “I never knew…”

“Of course you didn’t,” you interrupted softly. “You’ve always been so focused on surviving, on protecting Tess and yourself, that you’ve never stopped to see how much you mean to people. How much you mean to me.”

He shook his head, struggling to find the right words. “Good to know it because I feel the same about you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, his admission filling you with warmth. "Joel..."

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “When I met you, I didn’t think I could care for anyone again. But you... you changed that.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, but you held them back, not wanting to break the cosmic moment “I’m glad. Because I can’t imagine going through this without you.”

Joel reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away a stray tear that had escaped. “Now can you, please go to sleep?”

“Can I sleep here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s expression softened, and without hesitation, he nodded. “Yeah, you can.”

He shifted, making room for you to lie down beside him. As you settled in, the warmth of his body next to yours was both comforting and grounding. You felt his arm wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you snuggled into his embrace, feeling safe and protected.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his chest.

“For what?” he asked softly, his breath warm against your hair.

“For letting me in. For trusting me.”

Joel pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I trust you more than anyone. And I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smiled, the weight of the world feeling just a little bit lighter in his arms. “We’ll figure it out together. “As the night deepened, the sounds of the wilderness outside seemed distant, the crackling fire casting a gentle glow around you. Joel’s steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest were the lullaby that finally coaxed you into sleep. In his arms, you found a peace you hadn’t known in a long time.

He felt his heart giving up for you.

That had happened a few months ago.

And Joel had become afraid. He found himself lying awake almost every night, staring at the sky and the stars, a storm of thoughts raging in his mind. What if something happened to you? What if he couldn't protect you? The thought of losing you, of seeing the light fade from your eyes, was a nightmare he couldn't bear. It was a fear far greater than anything he had ever faced; greater than the harsh realities of the post-apocalyptic world he had navigated for so long.

During the day, he tried to push these fears aside, trying to focus on the present. But it was impossible. Every smile you gave him reminded him of what he stood to lose. Every time you reached for his hand, his heart ached with the weight of his love for you and the dread of its potential loss.

He watched you with Ellie, how you cared for her, and how you brought joy and laughter into her bleak world. He saw how you made her feel safe and loved, and it only made his feelings for you deepen. Ellie, too, had become a part of this fragile, makeshift family, and his love for both of you intertwined, creating a web of vulnerability he couldn't escape.

The wind howled outside, carrying with it the bitter cold of the frozen winter night. Inside the small, dilapidated cabin, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room. You, Joel, and Ellie huddled close to the fire, trying to fend off the chill that seemed to seep through the very walls.

Ellie poked at the fire with a stick, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "What do you think it’ll be like, Joel?" she asked, her voice filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

Joel looked up from the map he was studying, his eyes softening as he met Ellie’s gaze. "What do you mean?"

"After the cure," she said. "When this is all over. What do you think it’ll be like?"

Joel leaned back against the rough wooden wall, his mind drifting to a time long past. "I reckon things will be...different. Better, maybe. People could rebuild, start over. There might be schools again, towns with shops, places where kids can just be kids."

Ellie smiled at the thought, her imagination running wild with possibilities. "I want to learn to play guitar," she said. "Like you, Joel. You promised to teach me, remember?"

Joel chuckled softly, a rare sound in these harsh times. "Yeah, I remember. We'll find one, and I'll teach you. Maybe we can even have a little concert, you and me."

You watched the exchange, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. "What about you, Joel? What's something you’d want to do?"

Joel hesitated, his eyes flicking to you. "I... I’d like to have a place of our own. Somewhere safe. Maybe a little house with a garden. We could grow our own food, live a quiet life. Just...be together."

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection. "That sounds nice," you said softly. "Really nice."

The conversation drifted into a comfortable silence, each of you lost in thoughts of a hopeful future. You leaned against Joel, the warmth of his body a comforting presence. His arm wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you closer.

Ellie yawned and stretched out on the floor next to the fire. "I think I'm going to get some sleep," she said, her voice already heavy with exhaustion.

"Good idea," Joel replied. "I’ll keep the watch."

Ellie nodded and pulled her blanket tightly around herself, quickly drifting off to sleep. You and Joel stayed by the fire, the quiet crackling of the flames the only sound in the room.

"Do you really think there’s hope for a cure?" you asked quietly, your head resting on his shoulder.

Joel sighed, his fingers gently stroking your arm. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I have to believe there is. For Ellie. For you."

You tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes searching his. "You’ve been through so much, Joel. Yet you still find it in you to hope. That’s incredible."

He shook his head slightly. "It's not hope," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's you.”

Joel’s panic attacks had become more frequent as the days passed. Every quiet moment seemed to stretch into an eternity of worry and fear. He could feel the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him, and the constant fear that he wouldn’t be able to protect you or Ellie gnawed at him relentlessly.

When the three of you had finally arrived at Jackson, Joel’s thoughts were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Jackson was a sanctuary, a place where you could all be safe, but his fears didn’t dissipate. If anything, they grew stronger. The more secure the surroundings, the more he worried about what could go wrong.

Jackson was bustling with life, a stark contrast to the desolate landscapes they had traversed. Children played in the streets, people worked in gardens, and there was a sense of community and hope that was almost overwhelming. Joel watched it all with a heavy heart, his mind racing.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to die, that some unseen danger would take him away from you and Ellie. The thought of leaving you unprotected was unbearable. That’s when the idea started to form: maybe the best way to protect you was to leave you in Jackson, where you’d be safe. Where you could even find someone younger than him to kept you alive.

Joel sought out his brother. He found Tommy in the community hall, finishing up some late-night paperwork. The room was quiet, the only sound the scratch of Tommy’s pen against the paper.

"Tommy," Joel said, his voice low and strained.

Tommy looked up, immediately sensing the urgency in his brother’s tone. "Joel, what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Joel took a deep breath, his hands trembling. He sat down across from Tommy, his eyes filled with anguish. "I need to talk to you. It’s about Ellie and... and my….my " He couldn’t find the words to describe you. Calling you his lover wasn’t a proper word to use, it felt so weak. There was not nickname that could make justice to what you meant to him.

“Your girlfriend?” Tommy asked.

Joel nodded.

Tommy set his pen down, giving Joel his full attention. "Alright, tell me what’s on your mind."

Joel’s voice cracked as he spoke. "I don’t know how much longer I can do this. The fear... it’s eating me alive. I’m so scared something’s going to happen to them, and I won’t be able to protect them."

Tommy’s expression softened. "Joel, you’re in Jackson now. It’s safe here. We’ve got walls, people who care about each other. You don’t have to do this alone."

Joel shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. "You don’t understand. I feel like I’m going to die, like something’s going to take me away from them. And then what? What happens to them if I’m gone?"

Tommy reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Joel’s shoulder. "We’ll take care of them, Joel. You’re not alone in this."

Joel’s tears began to fall, his voice choked with emotion. "I’m asking you to take Ellie with you. Keep her safe. And let my baby stay here in Jackson. She deserves a life that’s not filled with running and fear."

Tommy’s eyes widened in shock. "Joel, are you sure about this? You’re talking about leaving them behind."

"I’m not leaving them," Joel said, his voice trembling. "I’m trying to protect them. They’ll be safer without me."

Tommy sighed, his heart breaking for his brother. "And what about you, Joel? What happens to you if you leave?"

Joel wiped his tears, trying to steady himself. "I’ll find a way to keep going. I just need to know they’re safe. That’s all that matters."

Tommy nodded slowly, understanding the depth of Joel’s fear and love. "Alright, Joel. If this is what you think is best, I’ll take care of them. But you need to talk to them first. They deserve to know why you’re doing this."

Joel nodded, his heart heavy with the weight of his decision. "I will. Thank you, Tommy."

Tommy pulled Joel into a tight embrace; his voice filled with emotion. "We’re family, Joel. We take care of each other."

Joel clung to his brother, the tears flowing freely now. He knew the conversation with you and Ellie would be one of the hardest things he’d ever have to do, but he also knew it was necessary. The fear of losing you both was too great to ignore, and he hoped that, in time, you would understand why he had to make this choice.

Joel walked slowly to Ellie’s room, his heart heavy with the burden of what he was about to do. He knew this conversation would be one of the hardest of his life, but he also believed it was necessary. He took a deep breath and knocked softly on her door.

“Come in,” Ellie’s voice called from inside.

He opened the door and stepped into the room. Ellie was sitting on her bed, reading one of the books she had found in Jackson’s library. She looked up and smiled when she saw him, but her smile faded when she noticed the serious expression on his face.

“Joel, what’s wrong?” she asked, her brows furrowing with concern.

Joel closed the door behind him and sat down on the edge of the bed. He looked at Ellie, her young face full of life and determination, and it made his heart ache.

“Ellie, we need to talk,” he said softly, struggling to find the right words.

Ellie set her book aside and gave him her full attention. “What’s going on?”

Joel took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. “Ellie, I’ve been thinking a lot about our journey, about everything we’ve been through. And... about what comes next.”

Ellie shook her head, her voice rising with emotion. “Joel, no. We’re supposed to stick together. We’re a team.”

Joel looked down, unable to meet her eyes. “Ellie, I’m not sure I can keep doing this. The fear... it’s too much. I’m scared something’s going to happen to you, and I won’t be able to protect you.”

Ellie reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “We protect each other, Joel. That’s how we’ve always done it.”

Joel swallowed hard, his voice breaking. “I’m asking Tommy to take you to the fireflies. He’ll keep you safe until you arrive to the hospital.”

Ellie’s eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head fiercely. “No, Joel. I’m not going without you. We’ve come this far together, and I’m not leaving you.”

Joel’s heart ached at her words, but he forced himself to continue. “Ellie, you need to understand. I’m not... I’m not your father. I can’t be the one to keep you safe forever.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and Ellie’s tears began to fall. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father, Joel. Don’t you get that? Fuck”

Joel’s own tears threatened to spill over, but he steeled himself. “But you’re not my daughter and I’m not your father.”

Ellie shook her head, her voice filled with desperation. “No, Joel. Please. Don’t do this. We need you.”

Joel reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “I need you to trust me, Ellie. This is the best way to keep you safe.”

Ellie pulled away from his touch, her face a mix of anger and heartbreak. “I don’t want to be safe if it means losing you. You and her are all I have, Joel.”

Joel stood up, his heart shattering at her words. “I’m sorry, Ellie. But this is how it has to be.”

He turned and walked toward the door, each step feeling like a lead weight. He paused at the doorway, looking back at Ellie one last time.

With that, he walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned against the wall, his heart breaking at the sound of Ellie’s muffled sobs. He knew this was one of the hardest decisions he had ever made, but he believed it was the right one.

As he stood there, trying to compose himself, he heard footsteps approaching. You appeared at the end of the hallway, having heard the conversation. Your eyes met his, and in that moment, he saw the same mix of anger, hurt, and confusion that Ellie had shown.

You approached Joel slowly, your face a mix of anger and hurt. He could see the questions in your eyes, the need for an explanation that would make sense of the pain he had caused.

"Joel," you said, your voice trembling. "What are you doing?"

Joel looked down, unable to meet your gaze. "I'm trying to keep you both safe. You and Ellie. This place, Jackson... it's where you can have a real life."

Your eyes narrowed, and you took a step closer. "And you think abandoning us is the way to do that? How could you even consider leaving us behind?"

Joel sighed, his shoulders slumping. "It's not abandoning you. It's making sure you're protected. If something happens to me—"

You cut him off, your voice rising with emotion. "Don't you get it, Joel? We need you. Ellie needs you. I need you. You're the reason we've made it this far. You can't just walk away."

Joel's eyes were filled with pain as he looked up at you. "I can't shake the fear that I'm going to die, that I won't be there when you need me most. I thought if I left, you'd be safer."

You stepped even closer, your anger giving way to desperation. "Safer? Joel, we've faced everything together. We protect each other. How can you think we'd be better off without you? How can you think I would be better off without you?""

Joel's voice was barely a whisper. "Because I can't bear the thought of losing you.”

Your heart ached at his words, but you knew you had to make him understand. You reached out, taking his hands in yours. "Joel, I love you. I need you with me, not just for protection, but because you're my love. Leaving me won't keep me safe; it'll break me."

Joel looked at you, tears welling in his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this. The fear is... it's too much."

You squeezed his hands, your voice gentle but firm. "We'll face it together, Joel. Just like we always have. You're not alone in this. Please, don't leave me."

Joel pulled you into a tight embrace, his tears finally spilling over. "I'm so scared," he admitted, his voice choked with emotion.

You held him close, your own tears falling. "I know, Joel. But we're stronger together. I need you. Ellie and I need you"

As you stood there, holding each other in the quiet of the hallway, Joel felt the weight of his fear begin to lift. The love and determination in your voice gave him the strength he needed to keep going. At least for a bit.

After a long moment, Joel pulled back slightly, looking into your eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I was trying to do the right thing.”

You nodded; your heart full of relief. "We'll figure it out, Joel. Together."

Joel took a deep breath, cupping your face in his hands. “I love you so much,” he said, pecking your lips.

Your heart swelled with emotion as you returned his kiss, a soft, reassuring touch. “I love you too, Joel,” you whispered, your voice steady with conviction.

Joel rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as if trying to etch this moment into his memory. “I just don’t want to lose you or Ellie. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to either of you.”

You stroked his cheek, your thumb brushing away a stray tear. “We’re not going anywhere, Joel. We’ve made it through so much already, and we’ll keep making it through. Together.”

He nodded, pulling you into a tighter embrace, the warmth of his body a comforting reminder of his presence. “Together,” he repeated, his voice more confident now.

You pulled back slightly from the embrace, looking up into Joel’s eyes. "Come on," you said softly, taking his hand. "Let’s get cleaned up. It’s been a long day."

He nodded, allowing you to lead him down the hall to the bathroom. The room was small, but it had a functioning shower—one of the many luxuries you had come to appreciate in this place. You turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until it was just right.

Joel stood there, watching you with an exhaustion and adoration. He started to undress, his movements were slow You did the same, your eyes meeting his with every piece of clothing that fell to the floor. There was an unspoken understanding between you. Both of you bared int front of each other, stealing glances of your bodies in display.

Once you were both undressed, you stepped into the shower together. The warm water cascaded over your bodies, washing away the grime and tension of the day. You reached for the soap, lathering it between your hands before gently running them over Joel’s shoulders and back.

He sighed, leaning into your touch. "You don’t have to do this," he murmured.

"I want to," you replied, your voice tender. "Let me take care of you." You said, pressing a kiss on his wet shoulder.

You continued to wash him, your hands moving in soothing, circular motions. The warmth of the water and the intimacy of the moment began to ease the tension in his muscles. When you reached his hair, you took the shampoo and began to work it into a lather, your fingers massaging his scalp.

Joel closed his eyes, a soft groan escaping his lips. "That feels nice," he admitted.

You smiled, continuing to wash his hair with gentle care. "Good. You deserve to relax."

After rinsing the shampoo from his hair, you handed him the soap. "Your turn," you said with a playful smile.

He took the soap, his hands surprisingly gentle as he began to wash your shoulders and back. The feel of his strong, calloused hands against your skin was comforting, a reminder of how much you meant to each other. He took his time, his touch tender and affectionate, showing the love he felt for you.

When he reached your hair, he repeated the process, his fingers working the shampoo through your locks with the same care you had shown him. You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation of his hands in your hair and the warmth of the water cascading over you.

For a while, the two of you stood there, simply enjoying the closeness and the rare moment of peace. The world outside might be filled with danger and uncertainty, but here, in this small bathroom, there was only love.

When you were both clean, you turned off the water and reached for a towel, wrapping it around Joel’s shoulders before taking another for yourself. You helped each other dry off, the intimacy of the moment deepening the existent bond between you.

Joel looked at you, his eyes filled with gratitude and love. "Thank you," he said softly.

You cupped his face in your hands, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "We’re in this together, Joel. Always."

He nodded, pulling you into a tight embrace. "Together," he echoed.

As you both stood there in the warmth of the bathroom, wrapped in towels and each other's embrace, the bond between you felt stronger than ever. The fear and uncertainty of the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the love and trust you had for each other.

Joel kissed the top of your head and took your hand, leading you back to the bedroom. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated the bedroom, casting a warm, golden hue over the room. You both moved slowly, savoring the peaceful moment.

You helped Joel into bed, making sure he was comfortable before slipping in beside him. He pulled you close, his arms wrapped protectively around you. The simple act of being in his arms felt like the safest place in the world.

Joel tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your forehead as he spoke. "I love you so much," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "More than I can ever put into words."

You looked up at him, your heart swelling at the raw honesty in his eyes. "I love you too, Joel. So much."

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don't think I've ever felt this way before. I mean, caring this much for someone. Not since Sarah. And it's... it's scary. But it's also the most wonderful thing I’ve ever felt."

Your heart ached for him at the mention of Sarah, but you knew how important it was for Joel to express his feelings. You placed a gentle hand on his cheek, your thumb brushing against his stubble. "It's okay to be scared, Joel. But you're not alone in this. We’re in it together."

Joel nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You've given me something I thought I’d lost forever. Hope. A reason to keep fighting. And I want you to know that I’ll do everything I can to protect you, to make sure we have a future together."

You leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. "We’ll protect each other. And we’ll build that future, one day at a time."

He wrapped his arms around you tighter, holding you close as if trying to memorize the feeling of having you in his arms. "I promise you, I'll never let anything happen to you. You and Ellie mean everything to me."

You snuggled closer, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "And you mean everything to us, Joel. We're stronger together."

Joel sighed contentedly, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back. "Thank you for standing by me, for believing in me. I don't know what I’d do without you."

You smiled against his chest, feeling the warmth of his love envelop you. "You'll never have to find out, because I'm not going anywhere."

With that, you both drifted into a peaceful sleep, the worries of the world outside momentarily forgotten. In each other's arms, you found solace and strength, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead together.

Hours later, Joel woke up in the middle of the night, the room shrouded in darkness. He instinctively reached out for you, but his hand found only empty space. Panic surged through him, his heart pounding as he sat up, his eyes scanning the room.

"Baby, where are you?" he muttered, throwing the blankets aside as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He quickly pulled on his pants and a shirt, his movements hurried and frantic. The fear of losing you, so deeply ingrained in his mind, took hold as he rushed out of the bedroom.

He moved swiftly down the hallway, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Had something happened? Had someone taken you? The thoughts were unbearable. He reached the top of the stairs and bolted down them, nearly stumbling in his haste.

When he reached the bottom, he paused, his eyes darting around the living room. Relief washed over him as he saw you sitting on the couch, a cup of tea cradled in your hands. You looked up, startled by his sudden appearance.

"Joel, what’s wrong?" you asked, concern etching your features.

He let out a shaky breath, his heart still racing. "I woke up and you weren’t there," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I thought something had happened to you."

You set your tea down on the table and stood up, crossing the room to him. "I’m sorry," you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to make some tea. I didn’t mean to scare you."

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you as if to reassure himself that you were really there. "It’s okay," he murmured into your hair. "I just...I can’t bear the thought of losing you."

You held him just as tightly, feeling the intensity of his emotions. "You won’t lose me, Joel. I promise."

He nodded, pulling back slightly to look into your eyes. "I know. It’s just...sometimes the fear gets the better of me."

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheeks. "I understand," you said gently. "But we’re safe here. We have each other."

He sighed, the tension slowly easing from his body. "Yeah, we do."

"Come on," you said, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. "Sit with me for a while. The tea is still warm."

He followed you, sitting down beside you on the couch. You picked up your cup and handed it to him. "Here, takes a sip. It’ll help you relax."

He took the cup, his hands still slightly trembling. He sipped the tea, the warmth spreading through him, helping to calm his nerves. "Thanks," he said, his voice steadier.

You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder. "We’ll get through this, Joel. Together."

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. "Yeah, we will."

The two of you sat there in the quiet of the night, the warmth of the tea and the comfort of each other’s presence soothing the fears that had momentarily overwhelmed him. In that moment, Joel felt a renewed sense of peace, knowing that as long as you were by his side, he could face anything the future held.

As the minutes passed, the tension in Joel's body melted away. He looked down at you, your eyes closed, content and calm. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I love you," he whispered, the words carrying all the weight of his heart.

"I love you too," you replied softly, without opening your eyes.

Joel took another sip of the tea, its warmth soothing him from the inside out. The night was still and quiet, a rare tranquility enveloping your home. He gazed around the room, taking in the modest, yet comforting surroundings. This place, this sanctuary in Jackson, could become more than just a shelter. A home.

You snuggled closer to him, and Joel felt a profound sense of gratitude. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to truly believe in the possibility of a future filled with hope and love. The horrors of the past, the constant threats of the present, they all seemed a little more bearable with you by his side.

"We’ve been through so much," he said quietly, his fingers gently stroking your hair. "But sitting here with you, it makes it all worth it."

You opened your eyes and looked up at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. "We’ve found something real, Joel. Something worth fighting for. And no matter what comes our way, we’ll face it together."

Joel nodded, feeling the truth of your words settle deep within him. "Together," he echoed, his voice filled with conviction. "Always."

The two of you sat there in the stillness, the warmth of each other's presence a balm for your souls. Joel felt a sense of peace he hadn't known in years. With you, he had found a reason to hope, to believe in a better tomorrow.

As the night wore on, the exhaustion of the day began to catch up with him. You noticed his eyelids growing heavy and gently took the cup from his hands, setting it on the table. "Come on," you whispered, standing up and offering your hand. "Let’s get some rest."

Joel took your hand and allowed you to lead him back to the bedroom. The room was still bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, casting a warm light over the bed. You both slipped under the covers, and Joel pulled you close, your bodies fitting together perfectly.

With you in his arms, the fear and anxiety that had plagued him earlier faded away. The rhythm of your breathing, the steady beat of your heart against his chest, all served as a reminder of the love and strength you shared.

"Goodnight, Joel," you murmured, your voice filled with tenderness. "Goodnight," he replied, pressing a final kiss to your forehead.

As he closed his eyes, Joel felt a deep sense of contentment. No matter what the future held, he knew that with you by his side, he could face it all. Together, you had built something beautiful amidst the chaos, and that was something worth holding on to.

In the quiet darkness, with you in his arms, Joel finally allowed himself to drift into a peaceful sleep, dreaming of the life you would continue to build together, one filled with love, hope, and endless possibilities.

828 notes · View notes

nicoline1998enilocin · 6 months

Text

Bright as the sun

PAIRING | Husband!Dad!Young!Tony Stark x Wife!Mom!Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT | 3.6K

SUMMARY | Your growing family is finally adjusting to its latest addition, and now Howard and Maria have invited all of you for a barbecue on a beautiful summer day. This is the perfect opportunity for everyone to relax while enjoying being together as your big, happy family.

RATING | Mature (M)

WARNINGS/TAGS | Use of pet names (Sunshine, Love/My Love, Little One), mentions of breastfeeding,

A/N | This one-shot has been sitting in my drafts for a long time, so I'm happy to finally share it with you all! It was a lot of fun to work on this story, and I want to thank @ccbsrmsf1 for all the support and proofreading for me! You're truly appreciated 💙

EVENTS Masterlist | @anyfandomfluffbingo | "We have chickens."

Banners: Yours truly | Divider: @firefly-graphics | GIF: Source

Main Masterlist | Tony Stark Masterlist | AU Masterlist

"Do we have everything, Sunshine?" your husband, Tony, asks as he's looking at the bags strewn across the floor. He looks at you and quirks a brow to ask, 'Do we really need all this?!'

"Yes, My Love, we have everything. Can you load the car while I change Paxton? Both Hudson and Orion have already dressed themselves, so I'll be right with all of you," you tell him before giving him a soft peck on his lips.

He looks at you as you turn around, your summery dress flowing around you perfectly, highlighting every single curve of your body to perfection.

"Are you ready to get changed, Little One? Yeah? That's what I thought!" you coo at Paxton, who looks up at you with a curious gaze, and you can't wait for the day he will show his first smile.

Changing him into his coveralls and shirt went smoothly, for which you're very thankful. He can be a handful sometimes, but he will always cooperate in such moments.

"Aren't you looking perfect today, Little One? You're the most handsome one of all today," you say as you bring him outside to meet the rest.

"Hi, Mommy!" the twins say in unison, and Tony's head shoots up so fast he hits his head against the roof of the car as he's loading it in. The laugh escaping you is a little too loud and earns you a glare from your husband, but you can't stop laughing.

"Sorry, 's too funny," you say before walking over to the car and putting Paxton in his carrier, ready to be strapped in and driven to Howard and Maria's house.

When the twins and Paxton are comfortable in the car, you can finally tend to your husband and apologize for laughing like you did just now.

"I'm sorry, My Love, I didn't mean to laugh at you like this," you say as you run your fingers through his hair, soothing him with a soft kiss on his forehead.

After a few more pecks on the lips, he lets go and heads to the driver's side of the car, and you can't help but admire the way his butt looks in the outfit he's wearing.

Although long, the drive to Howard and Maria's house went by without any problems, but you can tell you last fed Paxton a while ago.

"I'm so sorry, but would you mind unloading the kids and the things we brought? I'm getting very uncomfortable and need to either feed or pump right now," you say hastily, and Tony agrees.

You slip inside the house, and after a quick "Hi! I'm Going to feed him!" you run up the stairs as carefully as possible and slip into Tony's room for a bit of privacy. Whenever it's this bad, you prefer to be by yourself, whereas you would usually not mind breastfeeding in front of Howard and Maria either.

You open your dress, and Paxton is already a little fussy because he's hungry, but you're glad he's finally drinking. The relief is even seeping into your bones at this point. When you hear a knock on the door about 10 minutes later, you turn your head only to find Tony poking his head around the corner, concern visible on his face.

"Are you okay, Sunshine? You said you were getting uncomfortable, so I just wanted to make sure. I also brought your pump to be sure," showing you the case with your breast pump.

"You're a godsend, you know that? I might need it because he was less hungry than usual.

He puts the pump on the bed for you, and after one more kiss, he returns to Howard, Maria, and the twins, who were already outside and wanted to go into the pool.

Paxton didn't take long to be done, and you decided to pump the rest of the milk he didn't drink right now. He's perched up against your legs, which you pulled up so he can sit at a bit of a slope.

"What do you think your brother and sister are doing, hm? I bet they are already swimming right now!" you tell Paxton, and he melts your heart despite not doing anything other than grabbing your fingers.

The pump makes a soft whirring noise that lulls him to sleep in no time, and you decide to take a photo of it because he looks so cute when he's knocked out cold like he is now.

When the pump is done, you detach it carefully, ensuring you're not waking up Paxton. Then, you lay him in the pop-up crib that Howard and Maria have for him in their room. The baby monitor is also on, so you can go down to put your pumped milk away.

"Hi, Sunshine," Tony says as he walks into the kitchen to get something to drink. You're pouring the milk into bottles for easy access later.

"Hey, My Love. Thank you for bringing the pump earlier; it was a lifesaver because he wasn't too hungry today. Hopefully, he'll drink later," you say, and Tony stands behind you. His hands are splayed out on your stomach, and he rubs softly over the scar on your lower abdomen from the emergency c-section you had when Paxton was born.

You sigh softly as you close your eyes, leaning into Tony's touch with a content smile.

"I'm still so proud of you, you know that? After everything you've gone through since the surgery, the difficult healing process, and my not being home for most of it, I want you to know that you're amazing, and I'm so proud of you. I'm glad I'm growing old with you," he says before placing a few soft kisses on your neck.

A content hum leaves your lips as you slowly sway back and forth in his hold, enjoying the moment until your twins walk into the kitchen, looking for both of you.

"Mommy? Daddy? Are you two swimming with us?" Hudson asks, and you turn around in Tony's arms, giving him a questioning look.

"What do you think, My Love? Shall we join them in the pool?" you ask, and based on the wide smile on his face, he would love nothing more.

"Alright, since the two of you are already changed into your swimsuits, you go ahead, but be careful and listen to Gramps and Glamma, okay?" you say, and they nod in unison before running out the door and into the garden, enthusiastically telling both Howard and Maria the two of you will be swimming as well.

"I might need some help putting sunscreen on my back. Would you mind helping me out?" you ask Tony before placing a soft peck on his lips. His mouth curls into a wide smile at your question.

"I'd love nothing more, Sunshine," he says. Within less than 10 minutes, you're changed into your swimsuits and ready to join your twins in the pool. Maria is watching little Paxton through the baby monitor, and you can enjoy a careless afternoon in the pool with your beautiful twins and fantastic husband.

Paxton took a good three-hour nap when you were all swimming. When he woke up, Maria got him out of bed before changing him into his own little swim diaper and swim shorts, making him look adorable. You got his baby pool floaty ready, and you're patiently waiting for your youngest son to be brought outside so he can cool off in the pool.

"Look at him, Sunshine! He's so cute in his swim shorts!" Tony says as he swims over to you, and your heart melts at the sight of him. Maria is carrying him over to you, and you quickly grab hold of him as she hands him to you.

"Hi, Little One. Did you have a nice nap?" you ask him, and he gives you something starting to resemble a smile in return. You place him in his baby floaty before walking down the stairs, and he's wiggling his arms and legs as you take him with you.

Hudson and Orion are playing with Howard and Tony on the other side of the pool. They keep climbing out and doing all sorts of tricks and jumps while you, Maria, and Paxton are near the shallow end. The sun is shining brightly on all of you, and everything feels right for the next few hours.

There are no worries about work or Tony being gone for weeks or even months on end during a busy filming schedule, and not a single concern clouding your mind as everyone is laughing carelessly, having the time of their lives.

After a while, Tony makes his way over to where you, Maria, and Paxton are floating. He comes to stand behind you on the step you're on, his head leaning on your shoulder while his arms are wrapped around you, and your free hand is interlaced with one of his.

"Are the three of you enjoying yourselves over here?" Tony asks as he looks at Paxton, who is having the time of his life in his floaty. Ever since you first introduced him to the pool, he has been unable to get enough, just like Hudson and Orion.

"We are, yeah," you say as you let Maria take over Paxton's floaty, and you turn in your husband's arms.

"What about you? Are you enjoying yourself?" you ask, and he nods, leaning in to peck your lips.

"Even more now that I have my girl in my arms again," he whispers, and the warmth floods your cheeks as he says those words. Even after being together for the time you two have been together, he still brings out your shy side, and you fall in love with him every day without fail.

"I love you, My Love," you tell him before leaning in, and as soon as your lips descend on his plump, pink lips, you can feel every last worry seep out of your body, and he is taking over your mind completely. Your tongue glides over his bottom one, and he opens up willingly, and you two explore each other's mouths for a little while without a single care in the world.

Howard and Maria give each other a knowing look, but they let the two of you do your thing, instead taking over the care of your kids as you share a private moment. Tony's hands roam over your back before sliding down and giving you a squeeze of your butt, making you smile into the kiss.

"Not now, My Love. You have to wait until tonight to get some of that," you tell him with an eyebrow wiggle, and this time, he turns a bright shade of red on his cheeks. He buries his face in your neck as he pulls you close, your fingers gliding through his hair simultaneously.

"I think I'll start getting ready for dinner. Do you want to help, Y/N?" Maria asks, and you nod. After placing a kiss on Tony's nose, you get out of the pool, but Tony can't keep his eyes off your body as you get out. With every inch of your body dripping water and the sun making you look like you're glowing, Tony knows he will never get enough of it.

"Be careful with the drooling, Son. We wouldn't want the pool to overflow," Howard remarks, and Tony turns toward his Dad to glare at him. Tony still blushes furiously at his Dad's words. He swims to the pool's deep end to play with Hudson and Orion while Howard takes care of Paxton in his floaty.

Meanwhile, you've put on a loose tank top and shorts as you work in the kitchen with Maria. She's preparing the meat that Howard will grill during dinner while you're cutting vegetables for the salad.

"How did you and Howard meet?" you ask your mother-in-law as she marinates some chicken, and a broad smile appears at your question. You have heard Tony say their first meeting was adorable, but he never told you exactly how they met, so you decided to take matters into your own hands. Her smile is contagious as you look at her, and you can't stop smiling.

"Well, as you know, Howard and I met in college. I hadn't been in the US long then; it wasn't even a year. I was looking for a classroom and couldn't find it, so I ran into Howard. He walked me to the class even though his class was on the other side of the Campus, and the rest is history," she tells you. They have been inseparable since then, and it can only be described as 'meant to be.'

"But that's not all, actually. It gets cuter," Maria says as she stops what she's doing as she looks at you.

"Howard asked me on a date that same day because he came to my class after his class was done. We got together not long after, and he is my first - and last - boyfriend. I was supposed to go back to Italy after finishing college, but I stayed for him, and not long after, we got a beautiful baby known as Anthony Edward Stark," she tells you with a wink, making you smile again as you listen to her story.

"And the rest is history," you whisper, and she nods. Your gaze wanders to the pool, where Tony teaches your twins how to flip into the water. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth as you think about how lucky you are to have fallen in love with the most caring, loving man and the best Dad your three kids could ever wish for.

"He's fortunate to have you, Y/N. Running into you is the best thing that could have happened because he told me right after you two had your first date that he had found his soulmate. He is so in love with you, and to see him feel so happy is something I could only wish for as a Mom," she says, and you're fighting against the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

"And seeing Tony turn into a loving Dad as soon as you told us about Hudson and Orion made my mother's heart proud. You're the best thing to have happened to him, and you are meant to be, I know it," she tells you. At this point, you can't fight the tears any longer; they slowly make their way onto your cheeks.

"Thank you, Maria, for everything," you tell her before you pull her into a much-needed hug. She hugs you tight as she rubs your back soothingly. Maria has been a second Mom to you, and this moment only cements that for you. After the sweet moment, you both return to preparing dinner, the rest of your conversation light and plenty of jokes sprinkled throughout.

"Is everyone ready for dinner?" you ask the remaining members of your family who are still in the pool. The weather is still hot, so everyone climbs out of the pool before taking their places around the large dinner table. You take Paxton from your husband's arms as you sit down.

"Are you hungry, Little One? Yeah, you are, huh?" you ask him as you free your breast, allowing him to latch on quickly as you breastfeed him. Howard prepares the large grill while Tony sets the table with Maria, and Hudson and Orion play on their iPads until dinner.

You get comfortable in your chair as you look at your youngest son, suckling contently, when you feel a pair of eyes burning into your head. Tony is staring at you as you breastfeed your son, and he can't stop thinking about how he wants that to be him drinking your precious milk instead. His lactation kink is back in full force, and you can't help but chuckle.

"Maybe tonight, My Love," you tell him with a wink, and he turns bright red as he knows you caught him staring—and you also know what he is thinking. Tony quickly turns around, almost bumping into Maria as he does. She shakes her head with a smirk as she puts down the plates and cutlery on the table.

"He's crazy about you," she says, and you nod in response. Paxton ate a lot more this time, though you chose not to pump the excess, wanting to save it as a little treat for your husband later. The food is gone within no time, and dessert is quickly devoured. Hudson and Orion play in the sun for a bit, and Paxton is napping in your arms as you, Tony, Howard, and Maria enjoy an after-dinner drink.

Tony and Howard are sipping whiskey, Maria enjoys white wine, and you drink water. While you wouldn't usually say no to a nice glass of wine, you always stop drinking during pregnancy and breastfeeding.

"I wish we could have days like these more often," Tony sighs, and you nod before taking another sip of your drink. His hectic shooting schedule usually doesn't leave much time to spend with family, but whenever he can, he spends every second of quality time with them—just like he was brought up to be. Now that he has a big family, he can't get enough of the happiness he feels.

"You could just retire, you know," you joke with a wink, and for a brief moment, you can see Tony considering it. Ultimately, he shakes his head with a smile. He loves being an actor, and he wouldn't give it up just like that. He also knows that if he needs to be home, he will give it all up in a heartbeat because nothing comes before his family.

"I almost forgot to tell you something: we have chickens!" Howard suddenly says, and it makes you laugh at his sudden change of topic.

"Shall we look at them?" he asks, and you nod. Everyone quickly gathers around the large chicken coop they built for their five chickens.

"Do you want to know a little secret?" Maria asks the twins, and they nod in unison.

"We named three of them after you and your brother, and the other chickens still need a name," she tells them, and you can't stop yourself from laughing. Of course, they would name their chickens after your kids!

"Can we name them?!" Orion asks enthusiastically, and Maria nods.

"How about Chip and Dale?" she says, referencing her favorite Disney characters.

"I think it's perfect," you tell them, and then Tony suddenly bursts into laughter. You look at him with a quirked brow, wondering what is going on in that head of his.

"I just thought that Gramps and Glamma used to have a flamingo! Yeah, a real, bright pink flamingo named Bernard! I grew up with him, but unfortunately, he is no longer around. He got old, and then he passed away," Tony says as he thinks about his fond memories with the pink bird.

"Really? I don't believe you, Daddy!" Hudson says, but it's true. You have seen the photos of a little Tony standing next to Bernard as he imitated him, both standing on one leg. Tony sported a bright pink pair of pants, a huge smile, and a messy mop of hair on his head. He was - and still is - adorable.

"It's true, Baby Boy. Shall we go and look at the photos?" you ask, and before you get an answer, Hudson and Orion are running toward the house, wanting to see the photos you talked about.

"You brought this upon yourself, My Love. You just had to mention Bernard, didn't you?" Tony shakes his head with a goofy smile. You give him a peck on his lips before walking inside and putting down Paxton for his night's sleep, and then you join the twins as they look at old photos of Tony.

"Look, Mommy, it's like I see myself in that photo," Orion says, and you nod. The resemblance between her and Tony is uncanny, making you smile at the sight - it's obvious she is your husband's carbon copy, while Hudson looks precisely like you.

"You're beautiful, Baby Girl," Tony tells her as he picks her up, sits her on his lap, and cuddles her.

"Just like you, Daddy, if I'm beautiful, then you are too because I look like you!" she says with a big smile, and she's entirely correct. Hudson climbs into your lap as well, wanting to have some cuddle time with you before bed. His eyes are slowly getting heavy, and sleep is setting in quickly.

"I think it's time for a bath and then some sleep; what do you think?" you ask Hudson, and he nods. He gets up, closely followed by Orion, who is also starting to get sleepy after the day they've had. Their baths are finished quickly and out like a light within 45 minutes.

As you close their door, Tony walks over to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. He immediately captures your lips with his, his tongue sliding into your mouth almost instantly. A soft groan leaves his lips as he lets his hand wander down to your butt, squeezing it softly.

"I think it's about time for us to go to bed as well, don't you think?" he asks in a teasing tone, and you can't help but agree as you jump, wrapping your legs around his waist as he catches you. After all the teasing both of you did today, he can't take it anymore, needing to take you apart in every way imaginable.

"I thought you'd never ask," you say, and he walks you two to his old bedroom, shutting the door and locking it behind him. He won't make that mistake again, after all.

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wonderinglostsoul · 1 year

Text

Criminal Mind Fanfic

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You are an FBI agent with a past and you were about to enter the BAU.

Trigger warning: BAU stuff like killing, violence, assault, mention of rape and suicide. I tried not to get too graphic with the decription

Note: This is a slow burn so I hope you can bare with me. I am trying to make it as short as possible. ( I actually wrote this note when I am writing the first chapter and now I have 8 chapters on my draft sooooooooo)

I know that it is a long read but I tried to make each chapter as interesting as possible by adding some case. And as a reward here is a smiling Thomas Gibson

You can view other chapters on Wattpad

Master list:

Chapter 1

You arrived at the BAU one hour earlier. No one was there yet so you roam around the office to make yourself busy, trying not to touch anything. You don’t want to evade any privacy or think that you were snooping even before you get the job.

As you roam around you study each of the desk. There is a desk with a lot of books and science fiction stuff. The desk was tidy but not organize. You know that this is a guy in his late 20s. He was hired by the FBI not because of his strength but his intelligence.

The next table was easier to identify because of a family picture on the table. It was the blonde woman who is an FBI and her husband? You figure that he is a cop. You were about to go to the next table when one of the office at the top of the stairs open.

“Can I help you?” A man says with a soft voice. He is fit, tall and handsome. You can see a hint of tiredness in his eyes. Or was it sadness? All you know is that he havent left his office since yesterday. You got a glimpse of the name tag on the door. It says Aaron.

“Mr. Aaron Hotchner, Hi I am [Y/N/L].” You hurriedly went upstair and held out your hand. “Nice to meet you sir”

He shakes your hand and spoke “You too. But you were early, our meeting was not supposed to be in an hour. Please come in” He opened the door.

When you enter the room you see some paper works. He go to one end of the table and he asked you to sit on another.

He read your file. You know that half of it are true but the other half? Its only your previous boss knows.

“This is a good recommendation that you’ve got. However, your experience with the bureau is… short. I am not sure if it can be sufficient with what we need right now.” He said while he continue reading your resume. You can see the hesitation on his face.

“I do understand that you wanted to hire someone who has experience. But I know that I can be of help with you here, sir. I can be of help so you dont have to pull all this all nighter and spend the rest of your time with your son.” You told him. He looked at you intently. You knew that he was not convinced but both of you also know that this interview is just a formality. Hotchner does not want to hire anyone through nepotism. And this scenario reminds him of how Emily Prentiss started in BAU and he is afraid that the history will repeat it self

He sighed and put the folder down. “ I want to be honest with you,” he said in a low serious voice. “I dont know who you are but everyone on the higher ups wanted me to hire you. But this job. What we do, its important and dangerous and if I cannot trust you or you lacking the experience you might be endangering us all”

“Then try me.” You said, sighing in between smile. “If my experience is not enough for you then put me on the field so I can show you what I can do. I know that I have all these backers but I also studied behavioral science and profiling so I know what I am doing. I pass my exam here in Quantico so I am qualified as any of the agents here. I am top of my class. ” You said with conviction. A knock on the door interrupted your meeting. The door opens and a bubbly blonde open the door. You figure out that she was not the same kind of agent that you are.

“I’m sorry, sir but the Texas PD called and they need our help.” She said.

“Thank you, Garcia. Tell everyone to meet at the conference room.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” She said then closed the door.

“I hope you have your travel bag with you. Follow me please.” He stand up and headed to the door.

We arrived at the conference room and everyone fell silent and looked at us.

“Everyone this is [Y/N]. She will be part of the team “Probationally”.” Hotchner Said emphasizing the probationally.

He starts introducing everyone. Reid, the guy with all the book, Jennifer, the woman with a kid and cop husband, Penelope, the girl who knocks at the Hotchner’s door, Morgan and Rossi.

They were talking about a mass shooting in Texas but they cannot find the shooter.

“An L.D.S.K. “Reid said as a matter of fact.

“What is L.D.S.K?” You asked.

“Long distance serial killer” Reid answers.

“A sniper?” You asked. Hotchner click the remote and shows the victims photo.

“Most likely yes. It seems that the victims were being assassinated. The shooter is from a high a place and shot in the victims in the head and the trajectory of the bullet is in downward position” Hotchner explained. Great! You thought. The last thing you need is a case related to your past

“We need to go to texas. wheels up in 30.” Hotchner added and then he headed out of the conference room.

Everyone started to stand up and followed hotchner. You stayed because you thought of something but Morgan interrupted your thought.

“Hey newbie, you coming?” He said,

“Yes, yes.” You said absentmindedly.

You arrived at the jet. Good thing that your previous boss told you to ready a travel bag because this assignment requires a lot of traveling. Derek and Reid are already seated beside each other, in-front of them is JJ. So you seated at the long couch beside them. Rossi and hotchner was seated at the other side of the plane. The screen opens and Garcia was at the monitor. Rossi and hotchner both stand up and join your area. Rossi seated beside you and hotchner seated on the armrest beside Rossi.

They started to discuss about the victimology. 2 of the victims are male both from a different age group and industry.

“I remember one of our L.D.S.K unsub. The nurse. He would use his car to hide himself and shoot his victim.” Morgan suggested

“Yes but he was not aiming for the head. He was only aiming for the stomach. And he was shooting as many victims as he could so he can save them. But this new unsub kills all the victim.” Reid said.

“Of course you remember it correctly. This is were you got your gun right, out of hotch pity because you saves his life.” Morgan teasing.

“I was able to pass my exam after that so I earned it fair and square” Reid answered.

“Alright, how about you [Y/N] do you have your gun. If not, I think Reid’s whistle is around here somewhere. “Morgan teases and started looking around

“She has a perfect score on her qualifying exam. She has the license to use any kind of guns” Hotchner said. You glance at him and you saw that he was looking at you. Everyone fell silent so try to join the quip.

“I can teach you when we comeback” You told Reid with a smile. “ But my tip is to Aim, shoot and follow thru.”

“Thats the same tip from hotch.” You look at hotchner and he was still looking at you intently so you smiled at him. To stop the awkwardness you address garcia,

“Garcia, do you know the height of the victim?”

“Not yet but I will send you the details as soon as I got the ME.” Penelope responded,

“And can you please check the trajectory of the bullet. Can they Identify the angle?” You added

“For what?” JJ asked,

“To find where the shooter was located during the shooting. We can narrow down the buildings and floors to search.” Rossi answered JJ. “That was impressive [Y/N]. You seems to know a lot about balistc.”

“Yeah” You answered.

“Rossi, [Y/N] and Reid, go to the hospital and check the bodies, you can get your answers there. Morgan, JJ go to the lasted crime scene. I will meet at the texas pd.” Hotchner ordered. They all go back to their seat. You read your case file again and analyze the crime scene.

“Newbie, what’s your story” Morgan asked you.

“What do you mean?” You answered peaking from the case file.

“What do you do before you join the BAU?” He asked, everyone was waiting for you to answer. Even Hotchner put down his case file to listen.

Of course you cannot tell them who you really are. It is confidential and they might not understand even if you tell them. So just tell them all the half truth on your resume. You study behavioral science and profiling in quantico. At the same time you do trainings to be a field agent. You have a short stint as an undercover agent and then you asked to be transferred to BAU to pursue your dream job and become a profiler.

“Why is it that your dream job is to become a profiler? It seems rare to find someone with that dream.” JJ asked.

“Because I can read people easily like an open book. For instance, you are married with 2 kids. You grew up in a farm and based on your body built you are athletic. When we are waiting for take off, you ere fidgeting your phone, contemplating whether to call or not but you opted to text. I concur that you had a fight with your husband and you just inform him that you were on the plane and might not be home tonight. I can go on but I dont want to be rude. But I guess you got my point.” You said apologetically.

“Thats amazing,” JJ said still in shock.

“I know, but it seems that I cannot read 100% of who they are and it still puzzles me how they can kill so many people. Do they have remorse or do they enjoy it so much. All I know is that there are alot of things that you can learn with the human behaviour.” You said passionately.

“I hope you’ll get what you needed here. “ JJ said warmly.

“Thanks” you answered,

The plane landed in Texas. When you embarked to the tarmac you see 3 cars waiting for you. You follow Reid and Rossi to the hospital.

At the hospital you confirmed that the unsub did the shooting at a high place. Approximately 18 floors. You asked garcia if there are building like that in a 10 mile radius and she confirm that there are 17 buildings. you were able to narrow it down because of the position of the victim when it falls. He was laying on his back so most likely he was facing the direction of the shooter.

You call Hotch and mentioned this to him. He asked Morgan and JJ to join you so that you can check floors 17 to 19.

You were able to find the bullet casing on the 18th floor and handed them with the ballistic team. Hotch asked you all to go back to the station to round up your findings.

On the way Garcia was able to find the connection on the victims. They were a member of robbers who were responsible on robbing a bank in the early 90’s. The statue of limitation was about to expire soon and they can now used the marked money that they were able to rob during that time. The team figures that one of the member was trying to eliminate the others to have all the share by themselves. There are still 3 members alive.

The team was able to profile the suspect. Male in their late 40s early 50s. Previous member of a gang. Not really an anti social but does not have any committed relationship in the past years.

The team investigated the bank robbery to identify the other suspect. You spent almost the whole day and still does not got anything. Hotch told everyone to go back to the hotel take a rest and start fresh tomorrow.

You were walking at the corridor when Hotch called you. You glance back and said “What’s up?”

“You did great a while ago at the building. You were able to identify the crime scene. It seems to me that you really know a lot with regards to guns and ballistic but it does not show in your resume.”

“It was just a hobby.” You said defensively. “I also read alot of cases before thats why I knew how to examine medical reports. And I guess watching alot of criminal drama also do good.” You told him smiling. Hotchner just nod but still examining you.

“Sure. Rest up and have a good night.” He bid you good night and open his door. You make way to your own room and started to settle in.

The next morning you all reconvene at the station. This time you made the connection. You were separated in 3 teams and went to each suspects house. All of them was out. On the 2 of the suspect you saw letters asking them to meet at the nearby plaza but the other one did not. Now you knew who is the unsub. Hotchner asked everyone to meet there but before you go with Hotchner to the car you realized something.

“Hotchner, wait!” Hotch glance back at you, holding the car door.

“I dont think that the unsub will be at the meeting place. If he used a sniper before, I bet he will also use one here. He will hunt both of them down.”

“You’re right!” He get his phone and dialed Garcia.

“How can I help you today lovely people.” Garcia greeted at the other side of the phone.

“Garcia, can you find a building near the park. around 10mile radius.”

“There are several, ma’am.”

“How about High rise building with atleast 18 floor?” Hotchner asked.

“There are 7 but there is one building with exactly 18 floors and the highest floor is currently renovated. I will send you the address.”

“Thank you!” You and Hotchner both shouted. You go in the car. Reid was waiting for you. While driving you called everyone and mentioned your finding. You will go to the building while the rest will go to the park. Hotchner also asked back up. While on the way you saw a taller building, atleast 20 floors high. You ask Hotchner to stop.

“Stop the car!” You shouted.

“Why did you find anything?” Hotchner asked.

“I am about to. You go to that building that garcia mentioned. I will check something here.” You said in a hurry. You were about to go down. When Hotchner asked you to stop.

“I did not authorized you to do any of this unless you tell me why. Why do you need to go to that building. What is the connection to the case?”

“I cannot tell you just yet. But I can promise you that I can help. just please trust me on this. If I screw up then fire me right here. Just trust me please.” But you know he will not do that so you immediately grab the black bag you stash under the seat and jump out the car. You heard the car go away but you did not look back.

You run in the building and asked the guard that you need to go to the roof. You show your FBI ID badge and they escort you immediately. When you were at the last floor you asked the guard to stay put and dont approach the rooftop until you said so.

When you are at the rooftop, you open your bag. Inside is your sniper. Which you always bring anywhere with you. What was not added in your resume is that you were a trained sniper of the FBI. You are one of the best there is. You assemble the gun and insert some bullets.

You position your gun and look into the scope to locate the building that Garcia mentioned. You scan the top floor and saw the UnSub. He was preparing to shoot. You scan the park and saw the target and you also saw Morgan, JJ and Rossi approaching the 2 targets. When suddenly each of the swat team started falling down. You knew that the unsub was shooting. Before anything else, you point your gun to the unsub. You can see him smiling. And with your instinct you pull the trigger. It hit the unsub in the head. You saw his gun fall on the ground when he lose grip and fell down. Your heart was raising. This is the first time that you use your sniper after that unfortunate event. You were still looking at the scope when you saw Hotchner go to the window trying to find the one who shoot the unsub but you know he will not find you because you are a few miles away that the naked eye cannot see anymore. You look at him at scope for a while. Trying to read his facial expression. You know that he knew you were the one who did this so you know that he was angry at you. But when you look intently at his face, it was not anger, but rather worry that was registering in his face. He was scanning every single building around but to no avail. He frowned then you saw Reid joined him. He talked to Hotchner. Based on his lip movement you read that the others are fine and the officer that was hit was not critical. You smiled and put away your gun.

You retrieve the bullet casing and put it on your pocket. You went down and join the team at the park.

When JJ see you she was surprised.

“I thought you were with Hotch and Reid at the building where the UnSub is?” JJ asked

“Something happened thats why we have to split. How’s everyone? “ you answered her

“Everyone was fine. Some of the SWAT Team got shot as we approached the target but there were graze, I dont think the UnSub has any intention to kill them.” Morgan answered.

“And what will happened to the robbers?” You asked him

“The statue of limitation will not expire until tomorrow so they can still be arrested.” Morgan answered. You smiled.

“Thats great.” You know they have questions. Its not normal that the boss will let someone alone especially during they apprehension of the suspect. And the bag that you carry. You look more suspicious than any unsub there is. But you know that this is your last day. so you do not care anymore.

When you arrived at the station you saw Hotchner. He was shocked for a second to see you and is that a hint of relief? No, you must be imagining. And in a split second his face become serious again. He raised on eyebrow and then look away. You know that you were fired the moment you left that car. So you just approached him holding your badge.

“Sir,” You said in a low voice. When he turn around you stretched your arm, offering him your badge. He just raised his eyebrow again at the sight of the badge then he look at you

“We will talk when we arrive in Quantico.” He said then turn back to whatever he was doing. You retrieve your hand and walk away, joining the rest of the team.

The plain ride was excruciating. Hotchner was quiet and pretending you did not exist. The rest was minding also there own business. So you just lay down on the couch and tried to snooze all the noises. You cannot believe that you were able to screw your dream job.

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ostrichmonkey-games · 2 years

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DEATHGRIND!!MEGASTRUCTURE Design Dive

Wow this has been sitting in my drafts, mostly finished for ages now. Anyways, time to release it to the wilds.

A few weeks ago I released a new game (editor's note: it has now been more than a few weeks), DEATHGRIND!!MEGASTRUCTURE for the Together We Go Jam over on itch. Together We Go is a design guide/SRD based on Down We Go, which itself is under the often nebulous umbrella of "OSR" gaming. In this case, it's the snappy mechanics, emphasis on anti-canon, relatively high lethality, and emphasis on the table's creativity is what puts it under that umbrella, imo. I'd consider it part of the maybe post-osr or N(ew)SR but that's a discussion for another time and for people who understand that scene better than me. I was drawn to TWG b/c it's a pretty simple framework with a cool twist on the typical OSR style of classes.

Rather than picking a class, you invest levels into multiple classes as you progress, with each class having its own set of cool abilities and more importantly, bonuses. One class might give you a bonus to hit things, another increases your defense. Stuff like that. It's pretty fun! A full breakdown on DWG/TWG could be fun sometime.

Now, time for the DEATHGRIND!!MEGASTRUCTURE stuff beneath the cut! It's long!

WRITING AND DESIGN

Anyway, DGMS. Originally I had the brain-blast of a title for the eventual game; Hyperpop Megastructure. Which honestly, could be very fun to revisit, but I scrapped that angle because I didn't want to do too much on the layout/graphic design side of things (editor's note; he did in fact do too much on the layout/graphic design side of things) and a hyperpop inspired game should have a wild layout. Also I'm just not familiar enough with the genre to really do it service -lmao.

I stuck with the Megastructure part for the time being and started brainstorming the potential classes (since those make the mechanical core of the game). Below are the early versions straight from my notes;

These were the initial outlines for the classes (a 4th was added later) and really set the tone for the rest of the game (and it marks the first appearance of the FRACTALDEATHMACHINE). By that point, I knew I wanted to do something inspired by BLAME! by Tsutomu Nihei. Its the first thing I always think of when the word "megastructure" comes up. Honestly, it's a very formative piece of sci-fi for me.

I wanted to push DGMS weirder. Just go all out on the nonsense. Together We Go games don't rely on a lot of setting exposition. The information of the world is found within the mechanics, random tables, gear, and factions that are presented.

This is what forms the central idea of an "anti-canon". You (the writer) give just enough info on the world and setting for the table to get started, but the details, the lore and truths about that world emerge at the table as the Referee/GM and players explore and interact with what is on the paper.

The FRACTALDEATHMACHINE is the biggest example of this anti-canon in practice. All the table gets is a brief description of a few general things. The FDM is hungry, it is ancient, and it is always pursuing the TOWER. A few other places in the text provide more spaces for the table to explore by prompting the players and GM to come up with "terrible truths" about the nature of the FDM.

What is this insight? Why is it considered terrible? Go find out!

For DGMS I wrote a relatively short bit relaying the premise of the game to readers; you play as POST_human remnants within the ancient megastructure the TOWER which is constantly under threat by the ravenous FRACTALDEATHMACHINE.

Side note, I absolutely went bananas with funky proper nouns and formatting. Small things like that can really help convey the tone of the game!

And that's really about it for the setting assumptions. More details are tucked into descriptions of the factions, gear, classes, and locations you get to explore, but there aren't any answers out there. Its all up to the table to find those answers for themselves! What is the FRACTALDEATHMACHINE, why is it devouring the TOWER, can you stop it? Who knows!

Go find out!

MECHANICS

The core game mechanics fit onto a single page, and aren't really changed too much from the base TWG system. In general, its a straightforward "roll over a difficulty value" using a d20.

Three of the four classes give a special bonus either to hit things, defense, or "hacking" - the undefined "magic" of the game. The fourth class, the DLVR, gets a special situational bonus that implies something about their place in the world - a special bonus against ARCHITECT relics - something which furthers the potential for the table to explore the anti-canon. What exactly is their link to the ARCHITECTS?

Outside of the core mechanics and classes, there are two major parts of the game (and two slightly more minor-ish parts). The LAYERS of the TOWER and the CTY_enclave. LAYERS are effectively unmapped "dungeons". They are dangerous sections of the world where the "outside" adventures happen.

DWG uses mapped dungeons as its, well, dungeons. I've never been hugely into running or playing through mapped dungeons (though I appreciate a well thought out dungeon!) And also I'm lazy. So unmapped it is. LAYERS are essentially a compact list of hazards, hostiles, and interesting tid-bits for the referee to use to whip up something fun and dangerous.

TWG games have a punchy, fast-paced, high-lethality action, so in DGMS, I was far more concerned with providing refs a general template and list of Interesting Things, than complex maps or complicated enemies. The ref does far more responding to player actions than they do planning out complicated encounters. It is perfectly easy, in this sort of game, to just toss something at the players and see what happens!

Couple that with mechanics such as "reaction rolls" (randomly determining how NPCs react to players) and the ref's job starts to become plugging a few random variables into a mechanical procedure, seeing what gets spit out, and then asking players what they do next, and then continuing the whole loop! I love procedural gameplay, and could, and probably will, write more on that another time.

Aside from being the places where most of the adventures happen, LAYERS are also another way to package Interesting World bits. One of my favorite parts about writing for/designing this style of game, is that you rarely need justification for putting something in. I can say that in one LAYER, players will face a "MACHINE!!GOD blastula". And that's it! Everything about the nature of that thing is going to emerge at the table, and will almost always be way cooler than whatever deep lore I could have written for it! (Now, this doesn't mean that I don't enjoy writing some Dense Exposition, but time and place and all that).

The other half to the LAYERS is the CTY_enclave; the players homebase and secondary adventure site. I whipped up a quick mapping procedure for creating your CTY_enclave, and it shifts every time the players return to it from their adventures. There are different modules within the CTY. In some you can buy stuff, others you can get information and recover health. Some hide valuable resources but also equally hidden danger.

Just like LAYERS, I wanted to embed story-potential, that delicious anti-canon, into the CTY. Little nuggets of Ideas like, Conduit Riders in the middle of a death race, machine monks transporting a metal sarcophagus (that has a small chance of containing a copy of one player!), or gaining the ability to commune with the FRACTALDEATHMACHINE itself, are breadcrumbs that could turn into larger story beats and adventures if the players and table invest their own interpretation and meaning into them!

Aside from that, the main Design Bit I did for the CTY is the mapping method. A hub location is part of the TWG vibe, but I felt that one, mapping using dice is fun, and two, a constantly, randomly shifting hub really suited the tone and setting of the game.

The last two main parts of the game are the gear and hostile lists. Again, they have surface purposes - cool stuff to Get, cool stuff to Fight (and get killed by) - but also help provide more of that anti-canon scaffolding (I am really going to need to do a whole thing on anti-canon at some point).

LAYOUT AND GRAPHIC DESIGN

And here's where my hubris caught up with me. What initially was going to be a nice, simple, streamlined layout, ended up being over the top. But it was super fun to make, so no need for me to learn any lessons here.

When designing layout, I tend to start with some cover ideas and mockups. Since BLAME! was such a large thematic inspiration, I also looked at its covers (specifically the Master Edition versions). I love the brutalist inspired graphic design, and wanted to carry that into DGMS, and then add a layer of grunge and wear and tear to it as well.

I played around a lot with masks and textures (there's literally a picture of concrete that I turned into a texture) before eventually landing on the looks you can see on the cover. Then it was also a matter of perusing fonts for text, headers, etc, etc.

For the interior, I made heavy use of Lone Archivist's Graphic Archive asset packs. They rule. Buy them here.

I made my life infinitely more difficult by making every single page different and unique, but it was also a fun art project, so I don't regret that. I didn't spend too much time on typesetting, because this was technically a game jam entry (though I did clean it up later when the game ended up getting printed).

And honestly, that takes us to the end. My process was kind of all over the place for making the final version, a lot of jumping between the text and layout. But it ended up being a very fun project with one of my favorite final results.

If you're interested in picking up the game yourself, you can snag the digital version off my itch page HERE (there's currently a handful of free community copies if you wanna try before you buy) and if you're interested in print copies, Plus One EXP has you covered over HERE.

Spencer of Gila RPGs also made a fantastic 5-minute overview of the game you can watch;

youtube

And! Tony hosted a stream that I GMed if you want to see how the game is in action;

youtube

But yeah, DEATHGRIND!!MEGASTRUCTURE. It's one of my favorite games I've made!

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg #indie ttrpgs #osr #DGMS #design dive

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andromedadoesntwrite · 11 months

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Twenty Questions: Fic Author Edition

Thank you @bodyelectric77 for tagging me! I always love participating in these fun things. I am quite new to fanfic though (two months more or less) so I'll do my best to answer as much as I can <3

1-How many works do you have on ao3?

2-What's your total AO3 word count?

23,538 words

3-What fandoms do you write for?

The Hunger Games. But I'm not closed to maybe writing for others.

4-What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Cold Coffee

Fated From The Start

I've only published two atm :)

5-Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yesyesyesyes

I absolutely love comments. No matter how long they are I appreciate them so much. To know that people read my stuff AND that they like it AND wanna let me know, it completely makes my day. So I try to answer all of them, even if its just to say thank you. I especially love when the commenter references a specific part of the fic that they liked or made them laugh. It hits a spot.

6-What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

uhhhh.

at the moment I don't have any out. None of my fics have ended lmao. But something may or may not be in the works. Idk, not sure yet.

7-What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

once again, none of my fics have ended but I think Fated From The Start's will be the happiest.

8-Do you get hate on fics?

No at the moment, no. But if I keep writing its possible I will. But we'll cross that bridge when it comes to it.

9-Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Nope. Not really my strong suit or focus when writing. I've written a few suggestive scenes but nothing too intense or graphic. It's very difficult to write good smut so kudos to all writers who do.

10-Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

11-Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No and hoping it stays that way lmao

12-Have you ever had a fic translated?

13-Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

14-What's your all-time favorite ship?

Honestly Everlark. I really like both characters individually and think they're ship is pretty fitting. But if you had asked 12 year old me, she would've said Marshal lee from Adventure Time and me.

15-What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

There's a piece about Katniss not liking Peeta back till they were much older and both married sitting in my drafts buuuut I don't think I'll ever get to finishing it.

16-What are your writing strengths?

I actually don't know lmao. At least I'm not sure when it comes to fics. But I've been told I'm good at evoking emotion when it comes to sadness in other pieces I've written. I guess I still have to develop them.

17-What are your writing weaknesses?

I can get impatient quickly, leading me to sometimes not expand on something at first and just quickly writing it out. It sucks. And in the end slows me down even more. Since I have to come back and write things over. So a lot of times my descriptions fall short. It cringes me out when I read something back that I wrote in a hurry.

18-Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I would love to. I'm actually trilingual but Spanish is my first language so I'd love to write a fic in it. I think some things are just better written in Spanish, at least for me. Maybe one day I'll include it in one of the fics.

19-First fandom you wrote for?

The Hunger Games

20-Favorite fic you've ever written?

Fated From The Start! It's the one I spend more time in.

This was super fun and I'm tagging @thelettersfromnoone should they choose to do it, and anyone else who sees this since the rest of my mutuals have been tagged <3

#everlark #the hunger games #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #katniss and peeta #ao3 fanfic #tag game

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ohcndrea · 5 years

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ft. Bruce Pearson, Ida Pearson, Zachary Pearson, Andrea Pearson, Louie Pearson contents: history, quick facts, and too much detail for a bunch of npc’s written by: sam, a dumbass triggers: death i mean its family history my guys

Bruce Robert Pearson ( father )

better known as: Bruce

faceclaim: Blair Underwood

age: fifty three

occupation: head of paediatric surgery at Yale New Haven Hospital

relationship status: married

zodiac: taurus

Ida Bente Pearson ( mother )

better known as: Ida

faceclaim: Vibeke Boe

age: fifty one

occupation: professor at Yale Law School ( field: family and juvenile law )

relationship status: married

zodiac: capricorn

Zachary Dante Pearson ( older brother )

better known as: Zach

faceclaim: Jacob Artist

age: twenty six

occupation: medical student at Yale School of Medicine ( focus: neurology )

relationship status: single

zodiac: pisces

Andrea Mona Pearson

better known as: Drea

faceclaim: Alisha Boe

age: seventeen

occupation: junior student at Broadripple Academy

relationship status: single

zodiac: aquarius

Louie ( family greyhound )

better known as: Lou or Louie

faceclaim: imagine jenna marbles dog kermit but bigger

age: six

zodiac: aries

History

A successful legacy has been something that the Pearson family has been after for some time now, Zachary and Andrea are only the latest generation to feel its pressure. Before them was their father, Bruce. The son of an ambitious small business man who never got as far as he wanted to. Now, that’s not to say he was unsuccessful. He was quite successful, by anyone’s standards. He just never got as far as he dreamed, as far as he believed he deserved to go. So when he didn’t make it, who else would carry the expectation but his oldest son: Bruce Pearson. Luckily, Bruce had already inherited his father’s ambitious spirit. He was energetic, charismatic, and above all, eager to please. But like all children that hold their parents hopes and dreams on their shoulders, he eventually let his father down. You see, while he had the perfect attitude for it, he had no desire to be a businessman. Especially not one trapped in one town, in one experience for the rest of his life. He once described it to feel as though he were picking out his own casket.

Ida had always felt similar, except about everything. Every part of her early life felt as though she were organising everything for once she was gone. A feeling that was largely due to her family’s attitude towards death, which was always prepared for it. The person Ida is now doesn’t believe in curses, but when she was young it was almost impossible not to. With each birth that happened in her family, there was a death. Usually within a month, sometimes within a week or even the same day. And Ida as a child had felt especially cursed for the night she was born a true horror occurred. As her parents shared the news of the birth of another beautiful, healthy baby girl they found out their family in law had been involved in a home robbery gone wrong. Ida’s cousin first, suspected to have scared the burglars followed by his parents as they reacted to the loss. Three deaths for one life. While her parents tried to protect her from that mentality, the rest of the family was not so forgiving. She grew up constantly thinking that the universe would eventually have to balance itself out and take her too, that she was constantly out running death. It left her torn between trying to make the absolute most of everything she did and not trying at all. As she got older, she chose the former.

The two initially met during a very important part of their lives. Bruce had moved across country to study biology to prepare for his eventual medical school application and not business like his father had hoped. Left most of his life behind and started pursuing a life he believed was the one that would bring him the most joy. The one where he could contribute while not wanting to roll over and die for how bored he was. Ida was on exchange in the states, getting her first experience of the world without her family right behind her, breathing down her neck and reminding her of something that happened minutes before her birth. Deciding what she wanted to do and what she wanted to pursue. Her mind was set on psychology. Study of the mind so maybe she could figure out the intricacies of her own family’s mentality. But it was her meeting with Bruce that lead her to the path she eventually followed to became a lawyer and later a law professor. While during their first meeting the two did not form a romantic connection they were exactly what the other needed at the time. Someone to believe in them, encourage them, and push them to achieve all they ever wanted to. After a semester of becoming close friends, Ida returned to Norway and tragically they grew apart. There was no hard feelings, simply distance.

Their reunion years later was not planned but was certainly not unwelcome. While neither of them believed in fate, both would agree their reunion was extraordinarily lucky. Even if it was a dislocated shoulder on Ida’s part that ended up bringing them back together. Their relationship progressed quickly, catching up at bars turned to dinner dates at nice restaurants, leaving a few things at each others places for convenience turned to applying for apartments together with both their needs in mind. And finally, pregnancy quickly followed by engagement. It wasn’t until that point that the two really started making an effort in becoming closer with each of their families. Realising then that they didn’t want to do all of that alone. Ida desperately wanted her father to walk her down the isle and Bruce wanted to see her dance with her father at their wedding reception as much as he wanted to hear his mother say how proud she was of him while they danced at the same reception. There was some push back, first, neither of their families had really known how serious the relationship had been. They felt cheated and betrayed from being kept so distant and in the dark about their childrens’ lives. And then they found out Ida was already pregnant. Both families could easily be described as conservative or at least, traditional for seperate reasons. While Bruce had his doubts, his parents were rather devout Christians. They definitely believed that the child could not be born out of wedlock, but didn’t want their son to be married simply because he knocked “some girl” up. It took a fair amount of convincing to assure them that the news of the coming baby had only sped up the proposal he had already been planning. Ida’s family had their reservations for different reasons. Like the Pearsons, they too were traditional and believed that the baby could not be born out of wedlock, and were upset the engagement had happened before Bruce had asked the family for permission. But they also feared for the curse. While Ida had fled to America to escape the constant reminder that her life had taken three of her relatives, it quickly returned to discussion the moment it was revealed she was pregnant. Would the curse worsen because the baby would be a bastard? Not exactly the thing a pregnant woman wants to hear, but a question she heard whispered a lot whenever her family gathered.

But they prevailed. Through judgement and the stress of pregnancy, they made it to the other side and were wed. They had their first ‘legal’ wedding in America, in a church in Bruce’s hometown of Anderson, Georgia. A gorgeous affair that at least Ida’s parents and elder sister were able to make it to until they were able to have their second wedding in Trondheim, Norway, Ida’s hometown. Between the two weddings however, they had to wait for their child to be born. Mostly because Ida couldn’t travel too far, especially not internationally being almost full term. Partially because the closer the baby’s due date came, the more she feared the curse. Would her family blame her beautiful baby for another loss like they had her? Or would his birth finally take her life, had she invited death to come and collect her after so many years and leave her son without a mother? One thing she hadn’t considered, was that her son’s birth would take the life of someone she loved so dearly. The same day Zachary was born, Ida’s own father passed on from cardiac arrest. While Zachary was welcomed so warmly by the American family, he did not receive such love when they made it to Trondheim a few months later. Of course the family was excited for the new baby, they were always excited for a new baby, and her mother was delighted to be a grandmother. They were just in mourning, they couldn’t celebrate while in mourning. Something that took Zachary many years to understand was that while his American family didn’t even know of the curse, to his Norwegian family he was a reminder of tragedy. And he lived too far away, saw them too little to ever truly become anything else to them.

After all the high expectations and pressure Bruce and Ida had received from their own parents throughout their lives you might expect they wouldn’t put the same pressure on their own children. That they might have learned from their parents and not want their children to experience what they did, but unfortunately for Zachary, and later Andrea, this was not the case. They did believe they had learned from their parents, that they now knew exactly what kind of life their children needed to lead in order to be successful and start a legacy that wasn’t family curses and small businesses. While he was still quite young, Zachary was allowed to participate in the extra curricular he wanted, it wasn’t until much later that it was claimed that most of them were a distraction from his studies. While he was pushed into it, he did always enjoy science and math and what his parents considered the “useful” subjects at school. He loved science fair time because it usually meant he got to mess around, talk very loudly about something his classmates likely didn’t know, and if he picked the right thing, he could make something explode. But nothing compared to being able to run around a court or field, be a part of a team, and have people cheering you on. Little league basketball practice and games were his favourite times of the week and he always came back from them with flushed cheeks, wobbly knees, and giant smile.

However, it didn’t last. While people with exceptional talent and incredible dedication and a large amount of luck could make it as a star athlete, Zach’s parents didn’t think it was reasonable to dream for something that only might happen even if he did everything right. They had a vision of something far, far more reliable for their son. A reliable, and impressive career was what they had in mind. Something like medicine, law, or science. Something that would certainly add to their legacy with hard work and next to no luck necessary. It wasn’t that they told young Zach that he had to give up basketball and focus on his studies, no they would never. They simply said that basketball was a distraction, that his academics were what would take him far. And with that he started to develop a fear that if he got distracted, he would fail, let his parents down. He couldn’t just aim high, he had to reach his dreams too. Or, at the very least, his ‘realistic’ dreams.

By the time Ida was pregnant with her second child, Zachary was already well on his way to being everything her and Bruce had dreamed of for their children and their legacy. That, thankfully for Andrea, would lift some of the expectation off of her. While she was expected to continue the legacy they were trying to build, if she didn’t, at least Zach was already doing it. Learning from their ‘mistake’ with their eldest child, Drea was only encouraged to take up extra curricular as hobbies. Hobbies that had designated times and either didn’t distract from her studies or encouraged them. As much as they tried to push her towards the latter, Drea seemed to stick more with the former and on top of that did everything she could to let hobby time bleed out and take on more of her life. She was always pushing to work longer on an art project, or run a few more laps, anything that would get her away from study groups and mathletics and debate teams. As she started to get older, she realised it was easier to just pretend she was interested in academics and keep her hobbies more secret from her parents. Put on the show they wanted to see. And thus, the legacy of hiding things from their parents continued. Not exactly the successful legacy the Pearsons had in mind, but they were all very, very good at it.

Now don’t forget the curse, because it reared its ugly head for Andrea’s birth too. The Norwegian side of the family was worried again, especially after Zachary’s birth seemed to have robbed them of a beloved father, uncle, and grandfather. And Ida was scared too, she desperately wanted another child but she was taunted by the idea that it would steal another family member. But once again she persevered with the help from her husband and this time, her son too. And when Andrea was born, Ida thought that the curse might have finally ended. And so did her family. It was a cautious joy, and rightfully so because it didn’t last very long. Exactly one month after Andrea’s birth, Bruce’s mother passed away. While the time between birth and death, and the fact that it was a member of Bruce’s family and not Ida’s made it hard to connect it to the curse, the fact that Andrea grew up to be so similar to her grandmother did not go unnoticed. Rebellious spirit paired with artistic flair. Almost as though her grandmother’s spirit had passed on to her. But unlike Zach, Andrea had the opportunity to at least try and fight that association in the minds of her and her grandmother’s loved ones. While they didn’t live very close, Connecticut was closer to Georgia than Trondheim and that was enough. The person who took the longest to forget, was Bruce. He saw so much of his mother in his little girl, which only made him want her to succeed even more, push her even harder for success to honour the memory of his mother.

Boarding school was never something that had been envisioned by Bruce and Ida. Private school certainly, they wanted to give their children the best chance they possibly could and they’d decided that public school was too focused on sports and arts, not the academic vision they held. Of course, Zachary being Andrea’s elder by almost ten years, was the first to reach high school. Several schools were thrown around but they eventually landed on an all boys catholic boarding school for Zachary. Catholic hadn’t been their first choice but religious education was hard to avoid not only within New England but also within private education. But it made their elders (what remained of them) happy, and it was a good school so off Zachary went. To get his education and start to gain some independence. And because he graduated as valedictorian and made it into Yale with dreams of med school, his parents considered it a job well done and were already picking out boarding schools for Andrea while she was still a few years off high school at all. But truth was, he had hated it. Being so surrounded by school and people he didn’t like, and then going home to relax and find his parents only ever wanted to talk about school too? It was suffocating. But it was easier to suck it up, and accept that it was so he would have the best possible chance to succeed and live up to his parents expectations, than it was to try and tell anyone how he felt, much less his parents. So that’s what he did. What he didn’t consider, was that his little sister would have to go to boarding school too, given his success.

coming eventually: a seperate post specifically detailing drea’s relationships with members of her family bc thats a whole other 10 paragraphs lmao

#this long as shit and is still the summarised version #but its been sitting in my drafts for too long and i like the graphic too much so : )))))) here it is #( about. )

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hopeluna-archived · 2 years

Text

Something like that

Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader

Warnings: some mentions of bleeding but nothing too graphic, strong language, Geralt being Geralt, my dumb ass leaving the story unfinished

A/N: I don't know what the heck this is, its been in my drafts for so long

M.list

Music and laughter could be heard from the tavern Geralt was heading to. It had been a long journey for him, finding the nearest town to stay for the night.

Usually when he would enter, everyone would halt what they were doing to stare at the witcher. Not this time though. As he stepped into the tavern, everyone was circling around some bards who were singing cheerfully with the people joining in.

Making his way to a table at the back, Geralt ordered a drink from a maid who was passing by.

Looking around the place, his eyes scanned the people. Some sharing stories of their adventures, some flirting with the maids, some fighting and others who had passed out either from the drinking or the fighting, one couldn't really tell but what caught his eyes where a woman sitting at a table across the room, reading a book amidst all this chaos.

Geralt didn't know why she caught his attention, maybe it was how she was reading a book as if she unaware of her loud surroundings.

Almost as if she could feel his gaze, the woman looked up from her book. Making eye contact for a split second, Geralt looked away quickly lightly blushing, not that he would ever admit to it.

Looking back after a few seconds, the woman softly smiled at him and went back to her book. Geralt gazed at her for a few seconds before shaking his head and taking a swig from his drink .

An hour or so had gone by but the liveliness in the place did not stop. Geralt had been sitting at his table, having a couple of drinks and looking around the place from time to time though he avoided gazing at the woman with the book for too long in case she caught him staring again.

Speaking of her, Geralt glanced at where she was sitting only to find her seemingly walking towards him.

Fuck. Geralt straightened up, not sure why he was nervous as it was very unlike him.

The woman took a seat at the table at a distance from him. "You looked like you wanted to say something" softly smiling at him, her voice was gentle over all the cheering and singing.

Did he want to say something? Geralt didn't really know. It was likely the first time he had ever been uncertain of what to do. "What book are you reading?" Geralt mentally facepalmed himself at blurting out something he didn't even wanna know.

"Oh this?" She lifted a book from her satchel "its just a book about healing"

"You're a healer?"

"Something like that" She smiled at him, putting the book back inside her satchel.

"Hmm" Geralt took a swig of his drink not knowing what else to say.

After a few seconds of silence, the woman abruptly stood up which made Geralt almost spill his drink a little.

Glancing at her, she was looking across at a quite drunk woman with golden hair who was dancing or more like stumbling to the music.

"It was nice to talk to you even though our conversation was short but I must go now" the woman gave Geralt a kind smile, which made him melt on the inside for some reason.

She made her way to the blonde woman, leading her outside the tavern in a hurry. As she left, Geralt sat there wondering how he didn't even get her name which he didn't understand why he even wanted to know in the first place as he was not the kind of person to do that.

He shrugged it off, trying to get his mind of the woman he got up to talk to the innkeeper for a place to stay for the night.

•••

"Fuck"

Geralt groaned, holding on to his side where he was bleeding from his fight with a monster.

With a pounding headache, he made his way to a lake. What he didn't expect was the same woman from the tavern he met about a week ago, seemingly plucking some small plants.

Same as that night, as if almost feeling his gaze on her she looked up.

"What are you- are you alright?" She hurried towards Geralt after noticing his wound.

"I'm fine" Geralt grumbled, starting to walk away cause it seemed he would have to be in search of somewhere else to rest.

"No you're not" she huffed, not backing down "you're bleeding"

"Oh really? I couldn't tell"

"You need help"

"No I don't"

"Yes you do"

"No I don't"

"Sit down"

"No" Geralt looked at her to find her looking for something inside the satchel she carried.

"Sit" her voice was firm yet gentle, which Geralt didn't know why he listened to as he sat leaning on a tree.

A few minutes or so had passed with her tending to his wound. "So you are a healer?" Geralt spoke up in hopes of making conversation which omce again he was confused as to why he even wanted to talk.

Giving him a knowing smile, she replied "something like that"

"You do know who I am right?" Geralt sat up straighter, scanning her face for any hint of fear which would usually be there on people's faces but he couldn't find any.

"You are Geralt of Rivia, a witcher" she gave him a soft smile when he hissed at her applying some ointment on his small wounds.

Geralt wondered for a second on what to say, settling on the question he had in his mind since that night.

"And you are?"

She once again gave him a smile he was rather begining to like.

"Y/N"

───────────

Comments and reblogs are appreciated!! Do not repost or claim as yours though, its not cool.

#the witcher x reader #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt fluff #the witcher oneshots #the witcher imagines #the witcher scenarios #geralt x y/n #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia oneshots #geralt of rivia imagines

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beels-burger-babe · 3 years

Text

All Magic Comes With a Price

*I've had this idea sitting in my drafts for AGES now! I am so so excited to finally be writing it. This entire idea comes from this fan art and the song Friends on the Otherside. This one is differently diverging from canon, so bear with me, but I hope you all enjoy this. -B*

Summary: One too many pacts has left Solomon's soul non-existent and in the hands of demons. The effects are irreversible, and you're forced to bear witness as the mage succumbs to the dark influences around him.

CW: Obsessive behavior, Yandere, Graphic descriptions of pain

Part 2, Part 3

It was inevitable.

The soul could only be stretched so thin, and Solomon recklessly handed piece after piece of his, in return for service, to demons for centuries. In all honesty, it was a miracle he was as human as he was after he managed to form 72 separate pacts.

You could only watch as it worsened over the years and he lost more and more of himself.

When he hit 75 pacts, the passion in his eyes began to fade. At 80, he became irritable and less genuine to those around him. With 85, the small fleck of gold that resided in the bottom of his irises grew until his eyes became a predatorial, luminescent gold. At 90, his canines extended and his skin lost its youthful pallor.

You had begged him to stop, to open his eyes and see what he was doing to himself, but Solomon didn't care. The alluring draw of power was too much for him. He wanted more. He needed to feel the power of the demons around him thrumming through his veins as he made them submit to his will.

So he continued on, becoming more malicious with every demon he conquered. If you were aware of half of the crimes he had committed, Solomon had no doubt that you would never be able to look him in the eyes again, which was precisely why he kept it from you.

It left you deliciously naive when he sent you an invitation to his manor to visit him.

You crept into the mage's house nervously. The air tingled and crackled with the o-zone-like presence of magic so powerful, you could feel it constricting around you.

You took in a stuttered breath as you glanced at the hundreds of artifacts decorating the space. "S-Solomon? It's MC!" You called out as you wrapped your arms around yourself. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here, dear."

You yelped and whipped around as his breath, unnaturally cold, waved across your neck. Your eyes widened and you nearly fell backwards as you took in the man in front of you.

This wasn't Solomon, or at the very least it wasn't the Solomon that you had come to love after all these years.

This Solomon's eyes were cold, yet manic with some twisted form of determination and pride. His lips were spread across his face in a wide grin, revealing his pointed fangs to the world. A dark, menacing aura surrounded him and seemed to reach out for, longing to pull you close to his side.

He chuckled lowly as he drank in the terror painting your expression. "Don't look so scared, MC. It's just me."

You slowed thickly, never once daring to take your eyes off him. "S-Solomon, what ... What happened to you?"

His eyebrows narrowed in disbelief of your question. "What do you mean what happened? I'm stronger. I'm the most powerful I've ever been."

You felt your stomach tighten at the statement as you took him in. "Is that really all you care about? Look at yourself! Are you even human anymore?"

Your blood froze in your veins as his grin grew wider. "That's the best part!" Solomon tried to move closer to you, but with every step he took forward, you took one back. "I've surpassed all forms of mortality and humanity. I'm better than ever before!" He looked down at his own hands in awe. "I don't know if I'm a demon or something else, I haven't had the chance to run some tests yet, but I feel better than ever before."

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes at his words. "Solomon," you breathed. "This... This isn't good. This isn't you," you ran a shaking hand through your hair as you looked at him. "There has to be a way to fix this. M-Maybe if we break some of your pacts o-o-or-"

The smile instantly fell from Solomon's face as his newly-golden eyes flared. "Now why would I want to do that?" He questioned innocently, as though he wasn't looking like he would kill you if replied incorrectly.

You felt your bottom lip tremble as you backed yourself against a wall. "Because I miss my friend," you desperately admitted. "Y-You... Your soulless, Solomon. You've lost everything that made the man that I... That I..." You bit back the sobs that pushed against your lips as you felt yourself tremble.

Solomon simply stared at you as though he was analyzing a specimen under a microscope. It disgusted you how familiar the glint of maddening curiosity was; how it reminded you of the knowledge-seeking, sketchy wizard the man once was.

With slow, precise steps, Solomon made his way over to you and gently cupped your cheek. You whimpered and tried to lean away from the hold. He chuckled as though you were nothing a baby animal squirming in his grasp and leaned down closer to you.

"I'm still your friend, MC," he whispered as your eyes met. He smiled gently at you as confusion painted your expression. "I'm still Solomon. I just got a few new upgrades," he tilted his head as he moved his hand away from your face and rested in on your shoulder. "Think about it. I can better protect you like this."

His words only created more questions in your head and offered you no answers. "Since when have I ever needed to be protected?" You snapped. "In all of this madness, have you forgotten who I am? I'm the human representative of the Devildom. I'm the Master of the seven Avatars of Sin."

"And yet," Solomon cut off as his eye darkened. "You came to me just last week with a broken wrist because you got caught in a scuffle between Mammon and Leviathan," you clicked your mouth shut. He sighed and rubbed circles with his thumb into your shoulder. Your breath caught in your throat as it brushed against the edge of your pact mark for Asmodeus resting on the crook of your neck. "You and I both know that more often than not it's those demons who claim to protect you that are the ones hurting you."

Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched him cautiously. A foreboding sense of danger weighed heavily above you. "They never mean to. It's always an accident."

He quirked an eyebrow at the statement. "Always?"

You winced, remembering the incidents from your first year in the Devildom. "Almost always."

Solomon hummed in thought and moved the collar of your shirt so that he could see Asmo's mark. "Do you know what I think?" You silently shook your head. "I think you don't these pacts. You don't need those demons."

You felt your expression harden as you slapped his hand away. "As if you're one to talk," you hissed. "How many pacts are you at now? 93?"

"A hundred actually," he corrected in an amused tone. "Which means there are a hundred demons of varying strength and power at my beck and call, and yet I still never managed to get my hands on more than just Asmodeus out of the brothers," he clicked his tongue in annoyance and looked at you. "But you do control them. Even without those silly little pacts, you have them wrapped around your little finger, don't you?"

Your hands curled into fists as you glared at the smirking wizard. "What are you getting to? Just spit it out already."

Solomon laughed, a sinister sound that you knew would haunt your nightmares for months to come, and placed his hand directly over Asmodeus's mark. "Gladly."

You screamed as you felt your mark bubble and burn beneath his touch. You tried to pull away, but with a flick of Solomon's hand, you found yourself paralyzed. "Solomon, what are you doing?! Stop it!" You pleaded.

"I know this hurts," he cooed as he moved his hand to your wrist, holding tightly onto Leviathan's pact mark. Shrieks poured past your lips as the fiery hot pain restarted and felt as though something was being ripped from your body. You had never felt pain like this in your life. "As I was saying earlier, you don't need your pacts with them anymore. It's not like you actually use them anyway, and they're terrible at keeping you safe," he smirked as he took his hand off of you. "I mean, look how easily I got you alone."

You snarled at him as tears spilled down your cheeks. "Because I trusted you, you bastard!"

Solomon tsked as he wagged a finger at you. "That was your first mistake. Rule number one, MC, never trust anybody."

You opened your mouth to argue with him but were cut off as he placed his hand onto your stomach and began to erase Beel's mark. "Stop it!" You sobbed. "Just stop it! Please!" Your stomach lurched at the dizzying waves of distress and concern coming from the remaining pacts.

Solomon remained unbothered and pressed down harder only causing your cries to grow louder. "No. You need to cut your ties with them. Then you'll return to the untouched, magic-less human you once were and have someone who actually knows how to look after humans looking after you," he scowled in thought as he moved on to Belphie's mark on the back of your neck. "I mean honestly. I'm surprised Belphegor was the only one to who managed to kill you."

You knew you were in denial. You could feel the magic, the strength of the brothers, slowly be drawn out of your body and yet you clung to the hope that this wasn't actually happening. That this was just some twisted nightmare.

The pain flaring from your back as Solomon traced his fingers down to Satan's mark on the middle of your spine told you otherwise.

"You're doing so good though," he whispered as you sobbed helplessly against him. "Honestly. You are truly one of the strongest humans I've ever met."

"F-Fuck you!" You cursed, wrath flaring within you as you felt the final remains of Satan's presence slip from your grasp. Solomon merely held you closer.

He sighed and lifted your chin for you to look at him. "I know this is hard on you. I know you care about them. But I am trying to help you."

"No, you're not!" You argued as your pleading eyes met his. "You're trying to make me d-defenceless so you can-can control me just as easily as you control all those demons you've collected! If you actually cared, y-you'd let me go!"

He held your eyes for a moment, and you dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, he was actually considering it. He slid his hand across your face so that he carefully cupped your face. "You've got it all wrong," he stated calmly. "I don't want to control you. It is impossible to control someone as wild and free as you are," you whimpered and trembled as you felt one of his hands begin to trace around Mammon's mark over your heart. "But it's that wilderness, that recklessness that gets you in so much trouble. I mean, you went ahead and without any knowledge on pacts or demons made several pacts with some of the strongest demons in existence because a man in an attic told you to," you couldn't help but sob as his eyes softened and he ran his thumb along your cheekbone. "Someone needs to keep you in check. Someone who understands not only humans but curious, wild, little things like you. Luckily enough, you have me now."

His hand slammed onto Mammon's mark. You wailed, letting out all the grief, pain, betrayal and anger that was consuming you as you cried out to the skies. You tried to shove his hand away, to push him off, but it was no use. Your body was still frozen stiff from his spell.

Solomon frowned as he looked at your tear-stained face and sighed, "I assume you know what's next?" Horror flooded your veins as his thumb stroked the final mark of Lucifer that sat proudly on the crown of your forehead. "Leave it to Lucifer to choose such an exposed and vulnerable place for his mark," useless pleas flowed from your mouth as he pressed a kiss just above the symbol. "It's a shame it has to go, really. It looks so lovely on you, almost like a sapphire tiara," he hummed as he brushed your hair away from your forehead to gain better access. "Oh well. I'll just have to get your own tiara to make up for it, huh?"

You closed your eyes tightly, waiting for the inevitable. Deep within you, you could feel Lucifer thrashing about desperately in confusion, pain, and anger. In a final act of defiance, you called upon what little strength you had left. "Hear me, denizens of darkness, you who are born of shadow and you who give birth to it. Hear me and do as I command," you whispered as quietly as you could under your breath.

Solomon narrowed his eyebrows as he noticed your lips moving. "What are you-"

"I call upon you to send the first one of your number!" You felt your mark begin to heat up with power and knew there was no way to hide this from Solomon. You had to complete the spell and fast. "I summon-"

Solomon shoved his fingers between your teeth and pushed down on your tongue, effectively preventing any further words to come from you. He stared at you with wide eyes as his chest heaved. You couldn't help but whimper as you felt Lucifer's magic slowly dwindle down once more into its passive state.

Solomon growled as he gritted out his own Latin incantation and you felt a tendril of ice extend from his fingers, slither down your throat and wrap itself around your vocal cords. "I don't want to deal with Lucifer and his brothers just yet," Solomon pulled his hand out your mouth and wiped it on his shirt. "I'll have their pacts eventually, but first I need time to get you situated. Fortunately for you, I'm a patient and merciful man. I have all the time in the world, and I understand that you're probably overwhelmed," he grabbed your chin and forced your head up as he looked down at the mark on your forehead. "But let's remove any temptation, shall we?"

Without any further warning, he placed his hand on your forehead. You silently opened your mouth to scream as pain burst through your skull like fireworks and rang through your ears. You could feel Lucifer try to fight, struggling to keep your pact alive. Solomon merely pushed harder causing spots to appear before your eyes as Lucifer's presence grew smaller and smaller until it burned into non-existence.

Solomon panted as he pulled his hand away and wiped at his forehead. He smiled smugly to himself as he looked at your now clear skin. "There," he huffed with a grin. "All gone. You won't have to worry about those pesky demons anymore."

He waved his hand and whatever spell had been keeping you paralyzed finally lifted. Your knees instantly gave out underneath as you collapsed; Solomon yelped and rushed forward to catch you.

He shushed you softly as you trembled and cried against him, remaining limp in his arms. He carefully rearranged you so that he was cradling you and began to walk deeper into the manor. "There, there, MC. It's alright. You can rest," you heard him whisper as your eyelids grew heavy. "I'll keep you safe for the rest of your life."

*** I had a few ideas for different directions I wanted to take this in terms of the ending, but you guys really seemed to like the yandere idea so I ran full speed with it. 😅 Hope you guys enjoyed! Thanks for the love and support. -B***

UPDATE: One of my lovely anons wrote a prelude to this fic that you can find HERE

TAGLIST:

@thegrimgrinningghost @henry-and-the-seven-lords @satans-beloved-riv @cosmixbun @sufzku @tallyscottage @obey-mes-treasure @kissed-by-a-dementor @yukihaie @justtiarra @mammoneybb @poly-bi-mf @burrixino @rulaien @pumpkins-mainside-blog @acousticpen @sucker-for-angst-and-fluff @itskrispy @10paradox10 @vallison-rea @ivoryclive @newfangled-artistry @firecatvariant @lorkai @mammons-wife @fallowdoe

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snickitty-snake · 3 years

Note

And if it's not too much, I'd also like it if you could write Viper with a blood bending/doctor agent, idk it's an interesting concept to me. As a science person I love science people. ♡

Yes of course!! I’ve been thinking of a similar power too so this is perfect. I’ve also combined this with another idea I had. I’m gonna write this fic headcanon style, cause my requests have been sitting in drafts for far too long and I need to start pumping things out a lil faster.

WARNING!: uhhh this is very graphic compared to my other works, and I accidentally turned it into a twilight fanfic, you have been warned.

Bloodthirsty radiant (Viper X Reader)

(Y/N) always appeared like a “normal” doctor. Well, as normal as stealing bags of blood to sip on like capri suns could get.

She would never do it so blatantly obvious though.

After all, it’s all a part of the mask she hides under. Ever since she was a child she had always longed for the metallic taste of blood. Never having a reason till first light.

Even after that discovery, it never changes the fact that (Y/N) will have to continue hiding behind her mask of fake sanity. Pretending like she’s just like her coworkers, never having to choke back on their saliva whenever they smell that warm, irony, liquid.

She had blended in so well. But slowly her supply was spreading thin, and suspicion among staff made it harder to quench her burning throat. People started to meld into one, just bags of skin and flesh.

Until one day, (Y/N)’s body couldn’t bear to go on.

When questioned about that day, she couldn’t remember what happened. But she and her coworkers share one memory together of the event that took place.

Warm, red blood.

The look of pure ecstasy painted on (Y/N)’s face, as her mouth clamped down on the neck of a nurse. A scalpel stuck out of her abdomen, the same one used to slash another patient.

Whether the look was because of finally getting the relief to drink to her fill, so shamelessly and blatantly, or because she can finally be herself, the true face of (Y/N) being unveiled for all, only (Y/N) would be able to tell.

But of course, it came at the price of freedom, to live and assimilate with people. However she didn’t regret it. If that meant that she didn’t have to hide her true self again, she would’ve done it even sooner.

“Uh Viper, are you sure you want to do this?”

Cypher reviewed the manila folder containing information on the next recruit. Not that he needed to, it was quite memorable on its own. Viper glanced at Cypher, even with his mask she could tell he was unsure about her choice.

“Well either we take in the national threat and out of these… living arrangements, or the most fascinating radiant to live gets neutralized.”

“Well I can live with the latter.”

A quick glare was sent to Cypher and he apologized just as fast.

“It doesn’t matter anyways, the government has her out of their hair. It doesn’t matter if she dies here or on the field.”

“Ouch, that’s brutal.”

Two armed guards that stood in front of a door moved to open it, as they walked in the guards quickly shut it and one spoke on the intercom.

“Please do not touch the box, and stand behind the line.”

When they met at the white line there was their radiant, a woman, being held in an incredibly strong glass box, and looking rather worse for the wear. Her hair disheveled, and a collection of dark eye bags were visible. However, aside from her appearance she had a bright (or sinister?) smile.

Seeing that there were two figures in her holding chamber that weren’t officers or scientists (well not to her knowledge yet), she was rather relieved.

“Hm? I didn’t know visitors were allowed in a place like this.” Eyeing the strange way they dressed, her curiosity was peaked.

“Are you guys some executioners or something?”

“No but if you don’t accept our offer you’ll be seeing one very soon.” Viper went right into businesses.

“Ahh… I know where this is going.”

“Then you’ll know that it’ll be good for you to join us.”

Cypher handed Viper the manila folder holding a debrief of the Valorant Protocol, putting it into a door that sent it into (Y/N)’s cube. She got up from her bed and took out the folder, quickly skimming through.

Her smile faded into a firm line as her eyes lowered, and after a short silence she closed the folder, once again focusing on the two now with an eyebrow slightly quirked up.

“So Ms. girl-”

“-Viper, or if you want to use titles it’s Dr. Sabine-”

“Ah an intellect just like myself.” She once again smiled.

“So then. Doctor. You want to- essentially, you’re asking me to join this… Valorant Protocol. Knowing that I’m an out of practice doctor, has never shot a gun, and cannibalizes my own coworkers.”

“You know, now that you put it into words it reaaally puts it into perspective, this is such a bad idea.” Cypher injects his opinion, only to be shut up again by Viper’s glare.

“What? I don’t want to get eaten!” Viper sighs and rolls her eyes.

“There won’t be a need for that. (Y/N)-”

“-Doctooor~” She sighs again.

“… Dr. (Y/N). You could be the greatest asset ever known to Valorant, if it’s the supply of blood you’re worried about… You won’t have to worry, we’ll keep an adequate amount on base. And, it’s possible at least biweekly you’ll have a… Fresh. Warm. Body. Maybe even more.”

Now that had her on board for sure, the perfect push to convince her to join. Even Cypher was impressed, who knew Viper was such a sweet talker?

“Hmm. I like that, but still I’ve never shot a gun.”

“That’s an easy fix.”

“I guess so. Wow, I never would’ve thought a doctor that kills and a guy in a weird hat would be saving me from execution.”

“Hey that’s mean!”

“We’ll then, I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Of course I’ll give my life for the Protocol. Just for you Ms. Doctor.”

As arranged (Y/N) was taken in by Valorant and quickly cleaned up after being fed with blood sourced from donors. Most of team’s original concerns were extinguished within the first week of her integration.

Viper still kept her closely though, not in concern but in morbid interest. How does she bend blood in such a way that it can act like a solid? Can it be applied in different ways? Would this work for other liquids? Is it the blood that she drinks that she draws power from?

‘So many questions so little time to spend with you little mouse.’

Her decision to recruit the blood manipulating doctor was a good one after all. Years of repression did (Y/N) good when it came to the battlefield, quickly dominating any outside invaders.

But still, even after all of this carnage. She was craving blood. She made a discovery after killing the mirror Viper for the first time, licking the blood that splattered on her cheek.

How divine it was.

The taste of her blood was immeasurable to any other, maybe because of her new attachment to this doctor, the inherently forbidden nature.

Then started the new, under the table arrangement. Was Viper the one that included no fraternization as a rule? Yes. Was she also probably the first one to break it? Well only if she’s caught.

And how convenient that her suit covered all of her body. It was perfect really.

They meet in the lab, run a few experiments, take notes and theorize a little, then experiment. It was hard for even Viper to deny it now, she was completely enamored with her.

Viper realized she had fell hard once she offered (Y/N) to bite into her arm when she was hurt on a mission together and no healer was to be found.

Word spreads fast and it was now known in the protocol that Viper had a soft spot. The details of this relationship was not known and were left to their speculation, but the two couldn’t just be written off as mere comrades anymore.

Cypher would totally know though, but he’d be too disturbed of this revelation to talk about it.

#viper x reader #viper valorant #raze valorant #omen valorant #cypher valorant #jett valorant #phoenix valorant #valorant omen #valorant sova #brimstone valorant #Valorant #valorant x reader #valorant fanfic #valorant fanfiction #valorant chamber #killjoy valorant

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amysteryspot · 4 years

Text

You Shelby women do pick your times - Thomas Shelby x Fem!Reader

Request: hi! could I request an imagine with tommy from peaky blinders and Y/N, where the reader gives birth during a family meeting but there is danger outside so they can’t go to a hospital and tommy and his brothers have to deliver the baby and its all chaotic. Tommy and reader are married also. ✨

Requested by: Anonymous

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Summary: Since the beginning, (Y/N) knew that being with Thomas Shelby was no easy deal. What she could never imagine was that she would end up giving birth to their son in the middle of an offensive by a rival gang.

Warnings: swearing and mentions of childbirth, nothing too graphic

Word Count: 1024

A/N: Okay, this has been sitting on my drafts for a long time and I’m just going to post it before I change my mind. Not exactly how I wanted this to be, but I hope it’s good enough. As always, feedback is much appreciated. Hope you enjoy it!

(Y/N) = Your Name | (Y/N/N) = Your Nickname

English is not my first language and this wasn’t proofread by a beta.

If you want to be tagged in my stories, just send me a message.

(gif by the ever amazing @nofckingfighting and this time tagging right, for goodness sake 😂🙈)

Being married to a Shelby was both a blessing and a curse. Never a dull moment in the family’s lifestyle: war between gangs, a plan to gain more power, some enemy wanting to take revenge… The list was endless.

Being married to Thomas only made it worse—the man was unstoppable. His ambition knew no boundaries, he didn’t know when to stop working, and everyone seemed to rely on him in a way or another.

(Y/N) wasn’t even sure why the both of them ended up falling in love with each other, to be honest. He all but invaded the shop she worked in one day, all bloodied and bruised, gun in hand, trying to hide from some men from a rival gang because he was outnumbered. She scolded him for breaking in, not even bothering herself with his treats as she grabbed him by the collar, and guided him to the backroom, cleaning him, and patching him up.

He chased her for weeks after that, receiving a sound “no” to every invitation he made to her until he wore her out and she finally agreed to dinner. The rest was history.

They were married within a year and, as John gloated, she had already been pregnant at the ceremony. Here she was, nine months pregnant, sitting at a family meeting on the snug in the Garrison.

Tommy looked at her, checking if she was okay for the hundredth time that day, and (Y/N) did her best to smile reassuringly at him, but she knew that he noticed the tension on her shoulders and the restlessness on the way she rearranged herself on the chair every two minutes.

The contractions, the pain on her back, not being able to find a comfortable position to stay in… It was all normal, or so she had been told, at this stage of pregnancy.

Polly eyed her, cautiously from the other side of the table, and this time she didn’t try to hide the wince of pain.

At some moment, she had zoned out, a hand on her swollen belly as she tried to get acquainted with all the sensations running through her system at the moment. Looking at the watch again, (Y/N) swore under her breath, catching Ada’s attention.

“Are you alright, (Y/N/N)?” her sister-in-law asked in a worried tone, a hand gently patting her back.

Tommy’s eyes immediately fell on her as she nodded to Ada, noticing that Arthur and John had left the room. Her husband said her name at the same time shots were heard from the outside. Everybody backed down at the sound, trying to protect themselves.

She felt Tommy’s arm around her, Arthur saying something at the door of the snug, but all (Y/N) could acknowledge was the damp feeling between her legs.

“Fuck,” she swore, closing her eyes.

“What is it, (Y/N/N)?” Tommy asked voice filled with worry as his attention was divided between whatever was happening outside and his wife.

“She’s in labor,” Polly announced before she could say anything.

“Fucking hell, you Shelby women do pick your times,” Arthur exclaimed from the door, just for Ada to scold him,

“It’s not like we can choose it, you fucking prick!”

“Okay, John, Finn, push the table out of the way and get out.” Polly got up, giving out her orders before going to (Y/N)’s side.

“How did you know?” she asked when Polly sat down beside her.

The older woman smiled, “You were checking your watch every few minutes for the last hour and I saw you wince in pain more than once. Now let’s get you as comfortable as we can, we have a long way to go, sweetheart.”

It was difficult for (Y/N) to register anything that happened after that, it was too much at the same time for someone who was going through labor in the middle of an attack of a rival gang.

She heard her brothers-in-law calling for Tommy and Polly scolding him after he left the room. There were more shots, the men that were outside of the snug talking loudly something about them being outnumbered and surrounded.

All she could think about was the pain as she tried to follow Polly’s instructions. Then, a pair of arms moved her from her previous positions and she felt someone slipping into the space behind her.

“It’s okay, love, I’m right here with you,” Tommy said in a soothing tone, kissing her hairline and sweeping out the sweat from her forehead.

“Tom,” she groaned, settling into his embrace, and holding the hand he offered her.

“I know, I know it hurts, sweetheart. But I need you to push, okay. I need you to be strong like I know you can and push so we can have our baby with us in some minutes, eh.”

Between screams—hers and from the ragging fight outside—and Tommy’s words guiding her through the pain, a crying (Y/N) finally had their son in her arms.

“He’s so beautiful,” she said, elated, fingers gently tracing the baby’s features as she leaned against Tommy.

“Yeah, yeah, he is,” he agreed, smiling and kissing her cheek.

“We have to deliver the afterbirth and then, hopefully, we can get you home, sweetheart,” Polly announced as (Y/N) nodded at her.

“I can believe that he is ours,” Tommy exclaimed, making (Y/N) laugh.

They were both observing the baby that was sleeping in his father’s arms. Both leaning against the pillows on the headboard of Tommy’s old bed on Watery Lane. (Y/N) had her cheek pressed against her husband’s arm, the both of them in awe of the newborn.

“Oh, dear husband, I can assure you that he is ours. No doubt in that,” she joked, making the both of them laugh.

Tommy looked up at her, so much emotion and love in his eyes as he leaned in to place a sweet kiss on her lips that (Y/N) forgot for a minute about all the pain and tiredness that still plagued her body.

“I love you so much,” he whispered against her lips, their foreheads touching, “Both of you. Till my dying breath.”

Taglist: @stressedandbandobessed7771 @internalmess3 @captivatedbycillianmurphy @giowritess @theshelbyclan @peakyxtommy

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0risha · 3 years

Text

catharsis

pairing :: inumaki x gn! reader

summary :: you tend to a severely injured inumaki with herb infused gauze, little to no sanity and guilt.

tags :: major jjk manga spoilers, graphic mentions of an injury, mentions of blood, slight angst, hurt to comfort, reader is a part of an unnamed clan.

note :: this is my addition to @milktyama 's aftermath of shibuya collab event, this has been in my drafts for saurrr long but I didn't have the heart to edit it but I actually really liked how it turned out. but anywaysss, I hope you likey!

Blood runs in rivulets and for what seems like the upteenth time, panic seizes you by the neck in a haughty grip. An unwanted bout of tears well up, threatening to fall on the unconscious boy in your arms.

A plethora of apologies leaves your cracked lips. He can’t hear a thing in his dormant state, but it still doesn’t stop you from murmuring words of regret.

Hands, your own, dance desperately across the plane of his arm. Well, what’s left of it. You’ve never seen an injury this serious before. You have no clue which bones are left and which bones are not, you’re in no way an expert at anatomy. You curse yourself for not paying attention to one of Shoko's rare teachings.

At first glance, the cut looks clean but mangled flesh laid limp. Your stomach twists and turns haphazardly. But somehow, there’s a plank of hope that floats idly as you watch his chest rise and fall.

Steeling your resolve, you take the patterned gauze from your mother’s lap. It smells of brewed plants and earth. You give a smile of thanks to your mother. Because of her silence, you had forgotten she was even there.

“Do you need help?” She whispers, her gaze full of worry. With the way her body hunches over your own, her worry is seemingly meant for you. You nod, not trusting your voice to be coherent.

“Is he your boyfriend?” You nod again as she raises his body, careful not to jostle him too much. You don't think you can nod anymore, your neck aches. Your whole body does.

Silence fills the room again, untill it doesn't.

“Are your friends still out there... fighting.” You stop. The gauze infused with herbs that were pulled for its healing properties now lays underneath Inumaki.

He looks so incredibly pale, what should be the color of his eyes are now painted on his lips.

If you didn’t know better, you’d take him for dead.

“Yes.” You worry at your bottom lip, the smell of blood and despair tickling at your nose. A weight of guilt chooses to make its home in your chest. But, it was either save Inumaki, return to your clan’s estate or stay and fight.

The weight disappears and you resume wrapping the gauze to his arm.

Inumaki doesn’t wake up the next night nor the one after that.

It's night four and the moon hangs high with a brightness that seemed too mocking. His silver hair catches the light, giving him a face of angel.

He awakens with a ragged cough. Upon hearing the sound, you shoot up from your place in front of the window.

With a cry of relief sitting at the edge of your tongue, you stumble to his side. “T-Toge?” You breathe out, a cloth already in your hand.

In time for your next breath, his eyes flutter open. His violet eyes roam his surroundings before settling on you. He blinks hazy and unfocused, lips parting in confusion. You wipe off the sweat on his brow.

“Yes.” You answer, reading his eyes. "This is my home."

He nods and you stay silent, not sure what to say. Instead, you opt to smooth his hair from his face, brushing it away from his dewy face. His eyes avert to his injured arm. You don’t miss the way he inhales, deep and desperate.

“I-is there anything you need? Water?” You straighten up. “Of course you’d want water. Would you like some wat–”

He turns his attention to you and with his intact arm, he pulls at your sleeve. Stay.

You clench your fist into tight balls. Your nails dig deep into the flesh of your palm, you don't really mind the pain.

The sting returns to your eyes. Sensing your state, he gives you a warm smile, the marks that graced his cheeks raising in tune.

But it only makes things worse.

Your chest heaves as broken sobs choose to escape your lips. “Toge. I’m so, so sorry.” Forehead to his chest, you ask for his forgiveness.

You’re incredibly sorry that you weren’t where he had been, for being weak, for not being able to comfort him. Because for god’s sake, he’d lost a limb. He's lost a piece of his sanity too, you both have.

A warm hand comes to your shoulders, pulling you up slightly. Your breathing hitches as you turn to him, embarrassment riddled in your features. If anything, he'd need the most comfort. But he shakes his head, already reading your mind.

"Sleep." Your eyes grow wide as your body thrums with exhaustion. It starts at your spine, crawls up then caresses every limb. Your eyes are the last to fall shut.

You fall asleep by his side, your body welcoming his command with open arms. You haven't slept in days.

The moon disappears, a bright star taking its place. And momentarily, the tattered world around you both is forgotten.

GENERAL TAGLIST | FORM

@keiwaizumi @crapimahuman @dukina @princess-in-flowers @astraea-essie @italyhrry @zeyyackerman @royalelusts @neavil @g0joluvrrr @izvana @morosis-haze @katsumiiii

JUJUTSU KAISEN TAGLIST | FORM

@theatre-miriko @scnwanna @savantsoulfinder @cari1bunny @milliumizoomi @zensaki @4igital @akisssnigga @racistareversa @ariesfic @hood-nami @revengingvixen @beezebub @myhoodacademia @iheartgirl @kazuluvr @rory-cakes

#after.shibuya.collab #jjk manga spoilers #jjk spoilers #inumaki x reader #inumaki x you #inumaki x y/n #inumaki angst #inumaki scenarios #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jujutsu kaisen x gender neutral reader #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x y/n

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cherryblossomtease · 3 years

Text

Chapter 15

18+ only

warnings and summary - Masterlist

Because sometimes all you need is a simple reminder of who started this mess in the first damn place 💜

Warnings : as always 18+ only please- dom Zemo, sub Bucky, sub reader, punishment, m/m, m/m/f, light bondage

Authors Notes: Really didn't think I would be posting this weekend but it's a holiday in the states so why not! Still working on the rest by you know, neglecting everything that matters to create this fictional world. Anyhow, I can honestly say this is by far the most graphic story I've written so I'm a little nervous but it's already done, can't change it now, and I honestly don't want to! That said I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing!

Nothing lasts forever, especially when it’s this good. And this fabricated reality is about as good as it gets. Still, you know this boat will dock soon and goodbyes will be said. There’s really no way around it, try as you might to come up with a plan to talk Bucky into staying. Even now as you fight to stay asleep, your brain is working hard to create a solution while you refuse to give into your worries so early in the day.

You turn onto your stomach ignoring the dark thoughts, choosing instead to enjoy the feel of a strong arm across your back and a leg, hairy and heavy over both of yours.

Settling again with a content sigh, sleep starts to pull you back under. Thank the stars. You really aren’t in the mood— even if your dreams apparently are.

And what had you been dreaming about anyway?

A little house on a wide cliff overlooking water, and something else? The harder you try to remember the more you feel yourself slipping back into that dream space.

There was a small animal. What was it? A rabbit? Its fluffy body too close to the edge of the cliff. But in the dream you’d stayed standing in the doorway of the little house too indifferent to go and save it….

You feel bodies moving lazily, a stream of breath along your back that tickles; arms and legs and the men they belong to not fully awake and starting to stir like you, even as you quickly slip back into sleep until you’re standing in the doorway of that house again with the warm winds on your face and a view of the French sea below. The drop is dangerous. Deadly even.

Why haven’t you started talking Bucky into staying yet? Because you don’t like thinking about it too much. That's why. You start walking towards the edge of the cliff and you’re fully aware of your worlds crossing over —real thoughts present in your dream.

It’s probably bad luck to resent good deeds, after all that’s what he’s leaving you for. He wants to go off and live the life of the hero he never got to be. That and to keep Zemo’s location safe; but that’s besides the point. Hmm… Look at me, selfish even in my dreams. You smile when you shouldn’t.

Staring over the edge of the cliff it’s suddenly clear how unstable the ground is here and you gasp as it crumbles beneath your feet without warning.

Your eyes open with a start.

Well, that was a bit on the nose. Your subconscious does like to lay it on a thick sometimes, especially when you continue to ignore the things bothering you for too long and you've been setting these feelings aside since the text came through.

But just as quickly as you’re left to shake the shadow of the eerie dream, your frown fades replaced by a slow smile.

There is a very familiar poking at your ass that can sometimes be annoying-- this morning it’s welcome. You reach back and feel for the body that the greeting belongs too, comforted by the warmth and solid muscle of Bucky’s thigh under his tight boxers.

Mmmmm, the source of my distress and my desire, you think and grin into the pillows with a soft moan when his hand, hot and strong takes hold of your hip, massaging as he presses his erection into you.

You’ll talk to him about your dreams later.

Feeling a draft where there should be warmth, you open an eye to find breaks of sunlight in the space between Helmut’s arm and torso. When you turn your head you’re met with the sight of his bare chest, broad and covered in the softest dark hair. His necklace hangs off center, and you, as always, are helpless to it.

Your hand leaves Bucky’s thigh and your fingers slide over the delicate links in the chain and down into the soft chest hair as you turn your head to find he and Bucky locked in one hell of a kiss for so early in the day. It must have been their movement or the sound of their lips that woke you and pulled you from the doom of your fatal fall.

Dreams are so strange…

Your heart flutters when Helmut lays his hand over yours pressing it tight to his chest. “Good morning love birds.” You snicker and watch Bucky pull away from Zemo looking a little embarrassed. He does pause to kiss your cheek however before getting out of bed with a long stretch.

“So where the hell are we anyway?” He asks going to the balcony door, looking out at the passing waves. “Feels like nowhere.”

Zemo is looking down at you, stroking your profile, kissing your nose. “We should be well within the middle of it actually.” He answers, eyes still fixed on you.

“Perfect” You say softly letting him pull you so close that he blocks out the light as your lips meet.

“Breakfast is ready sir,” Oeznik calls from outside the bedroom door.

Zemo grumbles at the interruption but you’re starving. “What? I’m not going anywhere” You huff turning away, trying to escape. “You just said so yourself. I've got no place to go.”

“All by design” He smiles and lets you get up, giving your ass a smack as you go. Bucky is watching from the doorway and laughs at your yelp-hop-rub combination.

Swearing under your breath you go over to the closet, grab your silk robe and pull it on over your shorts and tank top, yawning as you drag your feet over to Bucky. You pat his stomach, kissing him quickly. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Lets go up.” You say tugging at him as Zemo gets up and puts on his own robe across the room. It’s not the thick one you liked from before the raft, but silk like yours— Tom Ford if memory serves— god his influence is strong. How the hell do you remember this stuff?

You watch him scratch at the back of his messy nest of hair like he always does in the mornings, somehow looking both sexy and adorable, alternating between the two with the ease of flicking a light switch. You can only smile at the enigma that is Helmut Zemo and pull Bucky away from the doors.

The three of you leave the room shuffling along, making your way down the hall to the den. Zemo trails you and Bucky accepting a small espresso from Oeznik as he watches the way you and your Sergeant interact. Neither you nor Bucky are necessarily morning people and though it’s nearly ten, you’re both somewhat irritable now that you’re actually moving around and slightly hungover from yesterdays sangrias as you make your way up to the top deck where breakfast will be served.

The sun is so bright you huff about not being able to find your sunglasses and Bucky accuses you of being a diva. The only appropriate reaction is to give him a shove.

Zemo snorts a laugh at your near sibling like banter which you’d established after so many months together, but once you find your glasses on the bar counter and get a fresh cup of coffee and a bloody Mary chaser in your body you’re feeling like a new woman ready to conquer the day… a day spent doing nothing really.

It’s all so casually decadent that it’s nearly sinful. Whats the one? The sin that doesn’t sound as good as lust but feels better after all that fornicating you’ve been doing— Sloth? Yes, you think reaching for what’s left of your blood Mary from the lounge chair, the ultimate of all the sins. Thou shalt not be a lazy ass sloth all day on your yacht.

Cheers.

You read on the deck for a while, play a few rounds of shuffle board with Bucky by the pool and attempt to best Zemo at chess in the den.

Lunch is wonderful, and you think you will need to meet this mystery chef at some point before the trip is over followed by a nap on the bedroom balcony.

When you wake up in the very late afternoon you venture down the hall with your book and unexpectedly find the men in your life moaning on the floor of the den in a tangle of beautifully tanned arms and legs. So you very quietly slip past, feeling a flush rise up your neck to your cheeks highlighting your wide but tight lipped smile.

You stay above decks giving them privacy feeling only the slightest twinge of jealousy. Not because you think you’ve been excluded but because you could use another session like last night.

A shiver runs deep in your belly thinking of the way Helmut brought you to climax, but you’re still more than happy to give them time alone. After all, you’ve had the Baron to yourself for far longer than Bucky.

You sink down onto the upper deck sofa, the image of them entwined, the sounds of their heavy breathing and Bucky’s near innocent moans enough to make you consider touching yourself but you wait, letting the urge build, one of them if not both will take care of you later.

So when Bucky comes up and finds you with a funny look on his face you’re completely confused. “Whats wrong?” You ask putting your book down.

He’s poured a drink and sits down beside you on the couch.

“I don’t know if I can do it.” He says shaking his head tossing back the bourbon.

“Do what?” You have an idea but you thought for sure he’d be eager to try, at least it looked like they were well on their way to his first time.

“Letting him control me, I’ve never had someone tell me no. Not like this.”

“Oh” You smile. It’s the no sex. The lack of it is a cruel form of control but the end results are glorious, if he could just be patient enough. “He won’t let you come?” You ask a little more patronizing than you’d intended.

“No!” Bucky whines taking his cue from you and you stifle your laughter. He’s so cute, even in the throws of his sexual agony. “And it’s making me crazy. I mean I’m already crazy but this is different.” He looks around and leans closer to you. “If you were to so much as look at my cock right now, I’d be done.” He says under his breath.

You let go and laugh rolling your eyes. Dramatics seem to come as naturally as submission to him. “That’s against the rules.” You warn eyeing him sidelong and attempting to go back to your book.

“I can’t take it. Fuck the rules.” He says again pulling the paperback from your hand.

You wave your finger in his face. “James. You’re not allowed.” You say playfully.

“Please.” He begs running his finger down your cheek, brushing your neck and gliding along your clavicle where he knows you’re sensitive.

“I can’t!” You lean away a little surprised by his attempt.

“He won’t know!”

You shake your head “I know but…” You try not to smile.

“I can’t take it.” He insists leaning in to kiss you. “I promise; it won’t take long.”

You give in and laugh sensing his desperation as you kiss. He does feel tense. The muscles of his arm and shoulder are wound tight as a chord. You smile against his lips letting him ease you down onto the couch, your book dropping to the floor as he moans, sliding his hand down your thigh, pushing your knee up and his own hips forward letting you feel what you’re fairly certain is the most rock solid hard on you’ve ever had pressed to your body. You whisper his name as his lips find their way to your neck and his hand slides between you to free himself from those amazing shorts.

“Shame, I had every intention of making your patience worth the effort. But you do love to prolong your torment, don’t you soldat.”

You gasp and Bucky hangs his head as Zemo comes sauntering over. Your laughter is a mix of nerves and feeling like you’ve been caught sneaking around with a boy like a damn teenager. It’s been years since you’ve felt a rush like this. Leave it to the Baron to stir that old excitement again.

“Don’t move” Zemo orders, pointing a finger in your face. You freeze, legs open where Bucky was, your arms tight at your sides. “Sit” He growls at Bucky who obeys begrudgingly as he slides back onto the couch.

Very quickly Zemo shoves your legs closed and grabs you by the arm pulling you up to standing. You lean away as he shakes his head keeping you close, his hold so tight you wince “I thought you knew better by now” He scolds you sounding disappointed.

“I told him not too?” You try looking as innocent as possible. You truly had no intentions of fucking him, but maybe a quick hand job?

There is a flicker of excitement in Zemo’s eyes. It's been so long since you’ve given him a reason to really go for it and you hold in your smile because you’re meant to be sad and hang your head. “I’m sorry Baron.”

He ignores your attempts to apologize and pulls you over so that you’re standing in front of Bucky. He looks you both over for a moment thinking and then smiles. You don’t know if you love or hate to see him looking so pleased. Nothing “good” ever comes of that smile.

“Look James.” He says, waiting until Bucky raises his head. “I want you to see what listening to your eager cock and not my rules get gets you— and her.” He tells Bucky before giving you his undivided attention.

Zemo turns your back to Bucky and you feel his hand between your shoulder blades pushing just a little. You bend at the waist, not all the way, just enough to make sure Bucky knows where his attention should be.

This flouncy little designer sun dress you’ve changed into after your nap only helps direct his gaze as Zemo drags the fabric up slowly so that the reveal of your ass is yet another way to torment him all on its own and you give yourself over to the Baron and wonder how bad this will be.

“Pull them down.” He tells you, his hand smoothing over your simple lace panties. His voice is not so angry as it was when he found the two of you, but every bit as firm, and you glance up at him as you hook your thumbs into the waist band. He nods and you quickly obey, pulling your underwear over the curve of your hips and ass and swear you hear Bucky groan when you bend to pull them from your ankles letting him see the diamond shape of your pussy from behind for just a second, your smile hidden from view.

When you stand again, Zemo offers his forearm. You rest your stomach against him, your hand gripping his shirt, the other you will have to try very hard not to cover your backside with because you know that the breeze will be the last nice thing that you feel.

He tosses your dress back up holding you, adjusting the way he stands just a little so that you are safe but immobile.

“Count them off; to five.” He says leaning just a bit closer. The tone in his voice is confident. Zemo knows that you’re well aware of what this means.

“Yes Baron.” You say exhaling, trying to prepare, but five? Fuck. He does not intend on holding back. If he was being playful he would give you ten or more, but five? He knows you won’t be able to take more that that.

You dig your fingers into his forearm and hold your breath.

The first strike makes you cry out.

The way Zemo can raise his hand and bring it down on your ass is unrivaled. He doesn’t mess around. There is no teasing, no playing, no cute little taps to warm you up. Just instant punishment.

“One.”

Your voice shakes and the rousing heat of adrenaline spreads through your arms and legs.

Again he lifts his hand and brings it down quickly with a stinging force that sends shock waves through your body. Your cry is weaker this time, trailing longer.

“Two.”

You pull his shirt tighter into your fist, your cheeks are on fire already when you feel the air stir as his hand rises again. You wonder if Bucky is watching, you wonder if he see’s how your thighs flex and your flesh shakes when the Baron strikes you.

You close your eyes and draw in your bottom lip trying not to moan, but you arch your back and your hips begin to circle ever so slightly with the anticipation of the next smack. You’re practically whimpering as you offer up your backside for more.

Zemo can feel the light vibration of pleasure sounding in your chest and his laughter is a low, very amused rumble as he raises his hand just a little higher this time.

The next smack lands and you toss your head back with a gasp. You would have gone to your knees if he wasn’t strong enough to hold you up. “Three” You whisper but you don’t move. The air brushes your pussy, wet in spite of your reddening skin.

“Don’t look away.” Zemo says.

There is the answer to your previous question. Bucky likes it, but it’s not always easy for him to watch.

“James!” Zemo snaps and waits. Bucky must be looking again because you feel the Baron move.

The fourth strike comes and you steady yourself knowing you can take it, wanting it, loving it as much as your feel your legs shaking. “Four”

You’re breathing hard, as you anticipate the final blow, desperate for it to be over but sorry for it to end. You rest against him for just a second feeling both safe in his hold and powerless to his dominance.

When the last of your punishment lands you hang your head, rounding your spine unable to offer yourself anymore. You can not pretend and this is why he’s given you so few.

Letting your hips drop as your body shudders and a single tear falls, you whisper, “Five” And only Helmut hears you say it.

Very gently he pulls your dress down, the soft cotton is cool over your burning skin and he turns you around to face him.

He brushes the tear from your cheek, holding you in such a way that you can go limp in his arms. “It wasn’t that bad, you’re just out of practice.” He says smiling at you knowing it wasn’t kind either.

You’d love for him to know just once. Maybe let Bucky give him a slap across the ass to make it fair. But when you look at him the thought is all wrong if not hilarious and you just shrug a little and hang your head again, resting on his chest.

“No breaking rules.” He scolds affectionately, “Even if you’re only trying to help. Understood?”

“Yes Baron.” Your voice is very small.

He gives a nod, kisses your forehead and looks over his shoulder at James. “So, is this what you wanted?”

“No.”

“No… no I don’t think it is.” He agrees. “But I understand. She’s damn near impossible to resist still you must learn to control yourself. Apparently I’ve not made that clear. Perhaps a more direct approach.”

You both look at him wide eyed. What’s more direct than this you think not even close to recovered from your spanking.

“Both of you, go down to our bedroom.” He says as though nothing has ever been more obvious “Take off your clothes. Wait for me on the bed.”

You look at Bucky. He looks at you.

“You fucked up,” You mouth to him.

Bucky just gets up and pushes past you both.

“I suppose you could say I’ve had to get creative with my plans for you. I know that pain is something you can’t respond to in ways that she can.” Zemo says, smiling as he glances down at Bucky and then over his shoulder at you on your knees behind him. “Have you finished?”

You look up from what you’re doing, hoping it’s right. “Yes, I think so?”

He comes around to look at the rope binding Bucky’s wrists. It’s just for show to heighten the experience. Of course Bucky could break free if he wanted to— his strength is no match for a few rough fibers— but this is a training of the mind as well as the body. “You see, pleasure can be just as awful.” Zemo says, his voice making you shiver as he checks your work, tugging and tightening the rope a little more.

Leaning in close, he strokes Bucky’s jaw, his finger reaching to trace the spine of his ear and you smile when the hairs on Bucky’s right arm raise and Zemo loses the air of control for a second simply becoming the man who cares for the other deeply. “The irony of tying you to a chair to satisfy you is not lost on me, based on what I know of your past. But if you can endure it, I promise it will be nothing like the pain you’ve known. I could never hurt you in that way. Still, if at any time this is too much, if it triggers memories that change it from what it’s meant to be, please— James— say the word, your word and it stops.”

Bucky nods. “I will” He says softly.

“Nothing now?” Zemo asks genuinely wanting to know. Bucky shakes his head. “No, nothing.”

Zemo gives a confident nod and kisses the back of Bucky’s head patting his cheek a little harder than he needs too. “I only want to make you feel good— eventually.” He teases and Bucky rolls his eyes with a small laugh.

Pleased, Zemo pushes up and goes to sit in the soft chair across the room, notably more comfortable than the one Bucky has been placed in. Although the more obvious differences being, Zemo is not bound, Zemo is not naked, and Zemo has not been so gently stroked and toyed with that he’s been left with a perfectly vulnerable erection like Bucky has.

You’d had a hard time focusing on the ropes as the Baron made it happen. The way he’d taken Bucky in hand, winding down the length of his sex was in a word, mesmerizing. And when Bucky made that sound, that soft, pleading sound and Zemo stopped — his brow raised with such smug confidence— you wondered who would break first, you or Bucky. He’d quickly brought his hand up with one last tease, his fingers swirling around the curving head of Bucky’s member only to let go as though he’d lost interest.

Bucky’s groan was deep. He was beyond frustrated, but instead of breaking out of his restrains and fucking one of the two of you, he sat there just waiting to be punished for breaking rules in the first place.

He watches as you come and kneel before him, naked yourself as you’ve been told to be. He actually looks slightly scared but mostly curious. His erection is as always flawlessly pretty, arching up and back, smooth while perfectly veined and so inciting.

You only know what it is you’re meant to do to him because you’ve had it done to you before. You figure it’s very similar, only the mechanics are different because his is a man. If Zemo doesn’t approve, he’ll tell you.

The Baron in charge picks up his drink, the ice rattling as he takes a sip and lets the scene settle in his sights for a moment. He likes to see the two of you together, his two helpless things— his to play with and his to love.

“Begin.”

Bucky inhales, but you smile at him to show that it won’t hurt— it’ll just drive him mad.

First you take the little bottle of body oil from the floor and put some in your hands rubbing them together.

He raises his brow watching you and starts to relax thinking he might understand now. You take him in hand and start to stroke, you are after all very good at this. Over and over again, up and down his long, thick shaft, curving your hand over the head of his cock until he moans and rolls his eyes shut. When he opens them he does seem a bit confused by this sudden attention and he flashes a smile because it feels so good. If this is all that’s been planned, he could get used to this sort of punishment.

The room is quiet, there’s nothing but the soft hum of the ship, his breathing and the wonderfully obscene sound of the oil you’re using against his skin as you work faster…

It’s not long before you feel him stiffen and his breath grows quicker, his thighs flex, his hips raise an inch and he starts to moan softly, a staccato sound of pleasure that makes even your heart beat faster. He’s been waiting and suffering through so much you can feel the joy of release seeping into every inch of his body.

“You feel it happening?” Zemo asks softly. “The start, the pressure mounting? You see, she is very good. And she will get you there James, every time— right to the edge”

You yank your hand away and he jerks forward mouth open cock twitching with the start of an orgasm he will not have.

“To the edge” Zemo chuckles. “A cruel punishment for a greedy man who must learn to wait.”

Bucky quickly lifts his head, the realization flashing in his eyes as his chest rises and falls. He looks down at you.

You smile and reach for him again.

“Please” He begs breathless.

“Not yet” Zemo says leaning forward a bit in his seat, the drink in his hand all but forgotten. You notice the ice has long since melted as you wait for permission, watching over your shoulder.

He gives you a nod and you turn back to Bucky.

Wrapping your hand around him again, you feel him so solid he’s like stone. His thighs are flexed, his hips raise up in the chair as you begin to jerk your hand up and down and the light reflecting off the oil makes you both shine like gold.

He moans and you watch the muscles of his abs flex as he feels the orgasm coming on, helpless to it and your skilled hand.

“I’m going to come.” He groans sounding sorry for and drops his hips.

“No, you won’t. I did not say that you can” Zemo says like the villain behind you.

“I can’t it hold back” Bucky pants, his voice is thin he sounds like he very well might lose control and you feel him pulse in your palm. You twist your hand around sliding it down to the base thinking it might help hold him off if your focus is less near the collection of nerve endings.

Zemo stands and comes to you, tapping your shoulder. You let him go with a quick up and down and Bucky’s disappointment is the saddest thing you’ve ever heard.

When Zemo looks down at the wonderfully pitiful sight, Bucky shuts his eyes. “Yellow.” He whispers. “Please, yellow.”

“All right.” Zemo says kindly and gives his head a rub. “Rest”

“Thank you.” Bucky manages.

You stand not caring what Zemo says and kiss Bucky’s cheek.

“You okay?” You ask, your hand on his shoulder, lifting his chin to look at his face.

“Please… don’t, don’t touch me for a minute?” He asks and you give an embarrassed laugh understanding his request. You’re not exactly innocent in his torment.

“Of course I’m sorry I…” Your sentence is cut off.

Zemo has you by the back of your arms and pulls you tight against him. “You, not her.”

Bucky sighs dropping his head.

“I’m still confused. Is, this what you wanted?” He asks feigning ignorance though with you naked its clear what Zemo means.

Bucky won’t look.

“Answer me.”

“No, I mean— yes Baron.” He concedes.

You feel Zemo’s laugh along your neck. “You wouldn’t have been fast enough to finish before I found you. Well, maybe you, but not her. Tell me, how quickly can you make her come?”

“What?”

“How quickly?”

You shut your eyes as soon as you realize where this is going.

“I don’t know. I mean she always got there.” Bucky says sounding slightly self conscious.

Zemo smiles. “Two minutes. I can finish her off in just two.”

“Ha!” Bucky doesn’t believe him, who would.

Oh Bucky…

“Tell him it’s true.” Zemo leans towards you.

You nod glancing at them both. “He does this… thing.” You tell Bucky. “He works my spot and my clit at the same time and I come. Fast.” You say simply and totally helpless to it.

“It’s not always the most fun, rarely my first choice; but great when we’re in a hurry.” He shrugs and takes a knee before you even realize that he has. “Open your legs.” He says looking up at you.

Your eyes go wide, surprised to see him down and waiting with Bucky watching. Still, you part your thighs and wisely lay your hands on his shoulders knowing you won’t be able to stay upright without the support.

“This? Right James? This warm, tight, safe place? This is what you wanted?” Zemo asks, teasing Bucky with the way he slides his fingers between your velvet soft folds. You feel him turn his hand and his finger circles your entrance. He sighs and takes hold of your hip to keep you in place.

Two fingers slip inside and you hiss against the stretch, biting your lip as your head lolls to the side. You try to hold in the loudest of your noise but it’s hopeless.

The Baron starts to do his thing and you wonder if you might be able to deny him the pleasure of making you come in front of Bucky again, but just like always you end up gripping his shoulders to keep from falling as he does a perfect come hither with his two fingers as his thumb rubs with the perfect amount of pressure on your throbbing clitoris. He can’t resist and licks your peak for good measure until you hold your breath as he sucks sloppily and until you come on his hand and just as quickly as always. Your wild moaning is nearly feral but you could not care less. It makes you smile to hear him laugh softly so pleased with himself and you and your eyes shut as you pant, catching your breath.

Lowering your head, your eyes only half open, you both look over at Bucky who is glaring at the Baron.

“James.”

“Yes.”

“Stop breaking the rules.”

“Yes Baron.” He says giving in completely.

Zemo smiles and slowly pulls his fingers free from you, raising his hand just enough to show them so wet and sticky and glistening. He kisses your belly and looks up at you. “Go lie down.” He says rubbing your stomach, smoothing his hand over your soft tuft of hair. You’re still floating as you do, happy to go and rest and leave them to it.

“Would you like to come now?” You hear Zemo ask Bucky as he gets up and goes around the chair.

“Please.” Bucky whispers watching you sink down onto the bed on your side.

“I can finish you off just as quickly as I did her.”

“Yes. Please.” He begs through clenched teeth rising up again as if presenting himself to be relieved, the steady rush of blood to his lower half turning his cock a darker shade of desperate as it rises up like a tower ready to fall. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” He pants “I’m sorry I tried to fuck her. I’m sorry for breaking your rules. And I will do anything, please just… fuck. Please!”

Helmut leans down hushing him, pressing his face close to Bucky’s, grabbing him around the chest as his left hand comes reaching over his stomach promising an end to the day’s long torment.

He grips the soldiers gorgeous, endlessly taunted dick; your natural lubricant replacing the oil to help glide his fingers along.

When Zemo starts to work Bucky you can see through the look on his face that this is all he’s wanted to do for so long and you are reminded that this is as much the Baron’s discipline as it is yours— as it is Bucky’s.

Bucky makes a deep sound that gets your attention. His body flexes and you think he looks like a bomb ready to blow. A sexy, finely muscled, lightly tanned bomb with a look of pained excitement as his legs open and his jaw flexes.

“Are you mine James?” Zemo asks, his lips brushing his ear,

“Yes” He says pitifully raising his hips, thrusting once into the Baron’s hand just as Zemo lets go. A deep frown fixes between Bucky’s brows as he waits until Zemo grabs again and starts to perfectly stroke him.

Bucky’s mouth opens, his eyes fix on the incredibly hypnotic rhythm of Zemo’s hand.

“You’ve always been mine haven’t you?”

“Yes!” Bucky nearly shouts, his brows turned down with the exquisite anguish of the nearing release.

“Say it again,” Zemo demands, his right arm tight around Bucky, his eyes shut relishing in the control and the love, you listen to the wet rhythm as it gets faster.

“Yes.”

“Say it!”

“I’ve always been yours” Bucky moans loudly and glances over at you unable to keep your hand away from your pussy selfishly wanting to come again.

“Once more.” Helmut says opening his eyes. The muscle of his arm is flexed beautifully as he pounds.

Bucky moans so similarly to you that Helmut just smiles. He knows, he understands the hold he has over you both.

“I’m yours” Bucky manages and the Baron focuses his movement as if pulling the orgasm from Bucky’s body willing it to come forward. He jerks his hand up and away…but this time he’s finished the job.

He holds Bucky as the man cries out, his hips rising high this time, his cock pulsing with a tight up and down as he finally —god, finally— gives a high pitched groan with that first explosive release of come that shoots past his stomach and onto his own chest followed by equally satisfying spasms that send milky droplets flying free into the air and across his stomach onto Zemo’s arms; Bucky’s groaning and gasping near tears with the absolute exhaustion and relief of his well deserved climax, his moans and gasps of surprise so raw and unaffected.

By the time he lowers back down to the chair unable to do much more than sit there, limp and panting with his eyes closed, Helmut is holding him, caring nothing for the mess. He seems to love the sight of the pearlescent results of Bucky’s incredible orgasm as much as you do.

Smiling as he strokes Bucky’s hair, kissing his temple, he says with a tone only Helmut Zemo could manage at a moment like this, “You see. When you listen to me, I make it worth every second, every moment of torment. Yes?”

Bucky nods but it’s weak.

Zemo chuckles softly, kisses him again and reaches down easily undoing the ropes.

“Look at you both.” He says trying to sound angry, as if it’s not all his fault. “You can’t come to dinner like this. I’ll run a bath.”

He leaves Bucky and comes to the bed bending over you, his hand so sticky from the combination is heavy on your belly as he kisses your lips. “Hows your ass?” He asks.

“Still on fire.” You say and he winks as he rises.

“Good."

“You’re pretty quiet over there.” Bucky says splashing you from across the large tub. You’ve both been in for a while now after Zemo took a quick shower and left you alone letting you know he’d be up waiting at the dinner table.

Roused from your daydream but still not sure you want to talk about why you’re so quiet, you glance over and shrug.

“Whats wrong? You’re not mad about what happened are you?” Bucky asks sliding a little closer. The tub is surprisingly big in an already large bathroom and yet again you wonder how you’ll return to real life when this all ends.

“What happened?” You ask him.

“Getting you in trouble? He really put a shine on your backside.” Bucky says, a smile breaking through any attempt at being serious.

You sit up surprised to hear that’s what he thinks it could be. “Ha! No. Not at all. That was amazing… god” You tip your head back, the image of Bucky, naked and tired to a chair with Zemo holding him and whispering in his ear will be seared into your mind for life. “I didn’t know you could come that much.” You say, slowly looking back down at him,trying not to giggle.

“Neither did I.” He says practically blushing before he grins. “Same goes for you.” He tosses right back.

You laugh and roll your eyes. “Okay well we both know he’s capable of turning us into sex crazed idiots apparently.” You say with a cheeky grin and Bucky laughs shaking his head with a sigh.

“What is it? Some Sokovian spell or something, magic from the old world?” Bucky says with a thick accent wiggling his wet soapy fingers in the air.

Laughing you scrunch your nose. “Nah, that’s all him. Just wait until you’ve been around him long enough to get to the good stuff.”

“The good stuff!” He looks shocked “Well what the hell is all this!”

“This is amazing, but it not… well it’s not him. Theres so much more than sex. Watching tv. Eating dinner in bed. Naps— once he read to me.” You say with a sigh and the room goes silent as you both slip into a day dream laced with Helmuts beautiful voice surrounding you as he reads the classics on a warm summer night…

“You think he sits around daydreaming about us like this?” Bucky asks with a frown. “I worry sometimes.”

“Really?” You ask looking into his big blue eyes. Hundred years old and still so sweet. “Of course he does. Bucky, he wouldn’t have done any of this if he didn’t spend as much time thinking of us as we do him. Don’t be so naive”

He nods looking out the window and you know he’s just out of practice. He probably had a swarm of girls around him back when his life was normal. Maybe even a secret guy. But how long ago had that been. And since he’d been released from the words, his only real time spent with anyone has been with the two of you. For a moment you wonder if that’s fair. He should go out on dates or something, but then again you did try to get him on some apps. He hated them all. Women swiped right like it was their job of course, but he thought it was strange and wanted to meet them the old fashioned way but when he did he could only focus on what he didn’t like and just compared them to you— and Zemo.

“Hey.” You get his attention again. “I mean it, I’m really not upset about anything that happened earlier. Thanks for being such a rule breaker.” You say with a wink.

“No problem” He laughs as if that was his intention. Bucky’s expression softens as he sits back, the water rocking under the bubbles.

Bubbles. Talk about a diva, is anyone is on this big ass boat it’s him. Two adults having a bath drawn from them; why not throw in the bubbles. You roll your eyes ignoring the way your chest gets tight with the feel of being so adored and loving every second of his over the top ways and focus on Bucky who looks stunning in the bath— your heart sinking just a little.

“So what is it?” He asks unaware of your many distractions.

You look back to the window staring up at the sky for a while. “I’m just… sad.” You say giving in to the truth “I mean, I’m thrilled being here. But I’ve had this idea that I could talk you into staying with us. I keep imagining this life with you and Helmut and I know it can’t happen for so many reasons but I’m stubborn and spoiled. I truly hate not getting my way. So I keep thinking, maybe.”

He goes quiet now understanding, and then you feel his hand on your knee under the water. “I know. I’ve thought about it too. Maybe a little too much. Definitely enough that I’ve almost convinced myself it could work, but no. It just wouldn’t.”

You press your lips hesitant to say in case you might offend him but decide to just go for it. “And you’re sure it’s not just that you miss it? Saving the world and everything? I mean, I can see how it would be appealing— from controlled killer to stoic hero.” You tease gently, wiggling your brows up and down until he laughs a little, probably more annoyed than you’d like, and whatever facade you’d put on crumbles. The look of heartbreak turns your brows down, twisting your face with the agony of losing him. He looks surprised to see you so broken about it and finds your hand through the water.

“Hey hey hey.” He pulls but you’re not in the mood to be comforted. Bucky hates when you don’t let him coddle you, but he knows better than to fight it so he simply answers your question. “Yes.Well. No I mean, it’s nice. But honestly, if you really want to know, I could get used to being domesticated.” He shrugs letting go of your hand as he looks towards the shower where Zemo was and you swallow the tears that have been overpowered by your intrigue.

Managing a laugh at his expense you poke his arm on the rim of the tub. “Really? By me or Helmut?” You ask and swear you see him blush.

“You’ve already proven you can turn me into a homebody, and happy to be there, so —Maybe both?” He shrugs and there is such a tone of possibility in his statement that you’re instantly transported into a world in which the three of you are living happily. Maybe in this Mediterranean paradise, you’ve just come home from the market with ingredients for a dinner that Bucky has asked you to pick up and you help him cook while music blasts in your small but bright kitchen and you dance around until the house smells delicious and you set the table, flirting and toying with one another until everything looks beautiful before rushing to sit just as your Baron comes through the door…

Even here and now sitting in the tub with you, Bucky looks like the sweetest house husband glowing a soft gold in the light of the sun. What you wouldn’t give to be his forever. His his and hers, you think and your chin quivers with the threat of happy miserable tears.

Bucky isn’t oblivious to your hurting but he’s trying to keep strong, he can’t give in to you, not this time. “We’ll never know if I stick around.” He says and your little vision fades “I think I’ve got one visit, maybe two in me before someone notices an avenger hanging around their town and his cover is blown. You don’t want that. I don’t want that. I’d never forgive myself."

“I know.” You say and only realize that your head is down when his hand, which is covered in white bubbles reaches to lift your chin.

“Hey, come one. None of that. We’ve only got a little bit of time. I just want to make the most of it. Give me enough good memories to finally forget about whats left of the bad.”

You smile and nod, blowing the bubbles away before they go up your nose. “Fine.” You sigh and look back out the window hugging your knees. “Buck, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He says only cringing a little when you call him Buck.

“Do you think you might ever love him?”

Bucky freezes. He looks— odd. Uncomfortable. Exposed? You realize very quickly that he already does, even if he’s not aware of it and decide not to push him

“It’s okay. I was just curious.” You say and try to calm him with your smile “We come from very different worlds. Letting myself love a man like Helmut Zemo took little to no effort for me, for you— I know why it might come as a shock. But I think you’ll find, when you do admit it to yourself and to him, he might just surprise you with how quickly he says it back.”

#zemo x reader #bucky barns x you #winterbaron #winterbaron x you #buckybarnes/zemo #tfatws #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #winterbaron fic #baron helmut zemo #zemo #self insert #yacht life #these two #i love them so much #also ouch

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angry-geese · 3 years

Text

At Dawn’s Break III

PB!Dio Brando x Maid!Reader, Jonathan Joestar x Reader (platonic)

Warnings: none! sfw, mention of death, but nothing too graphic. Mostly plot. Not the healthiest relationship dynamic. Technically yandere Dio but its very tame

Notes: Part One- sfw, Part Two- nsfw, Part Four - nsfw

This has been in my drafts for so long I’m so sorry. I do have a friend helping me edit my ao3 stuff so there might be some grammatical differences between that and the stuff posted here but i'll try to keep it as consistent as possible- story-wise its still the same.

In the coming months, word would arrive of your father’s death.

Sad wasn’t the right word for it. The man was old, sick, and frail. He fell ill and never recovered. Things like that happen. It was expected. His passing was quiet, happening in the early hours in the morning. You had grieved his death long before it actually happened. Your love for him was more out of a sense of duty than anything else. He was never a proper parent, the harsh expectations of life were thrown upon you rather young. At nineteen you were left as the sole guardian of your siblings. Some nights you would scream about the unfairness of it all, others you would wallow in your pity. The constant "sorry for your loss"s infuriated you. It would not bring him back. It would not fix this hole you've dug for yourself. It did nothing to justify what you've gone through. The world wasn't going to stop spinning just for you to feel sorry for yourself.

So you returned to work.

Your meetings with Dio grew fewer and further apart. Your conversations were short, ending with arguments. What he could dish out, you threw right back. Often you found yourself bitter and frustrated with him, leaving much space between the two of you. It wasn’t that you loved him any less, but he wasn’t exactly understanding in this matter. Neither of his fathers- adopted or biological- could he stand. Putting it plainly: Dio was awful at comforting people. Sympathy was not one of his strong suits. Going to him for comfort was out of the question.

Your life was soon after consumed by the mundane nature of work. The repetition of it you found soothing. It was nice to have a routine. Even if Dio wasn’t there for you, it was. The head maid took notice in your sudden interest in work, and blamed Dio for your lacking efforts. You just nodded and kept your head down.

Mr. Joestar would soon fall ill. Due to his old age, it didn’t come as a surprise to many. Very few questioned it. He was older, but seemingly healthy at the time. He fell sick overnight with the flu, which soon turned to pneumonia. It was not looking like he would recover. His coughing fits could be heard from across the manor. Much of it reminded you of your own father, so you often stayed away, only coming around when it was asked of you.

It makes you wonder if Dio feels the same sense of duty to his father. Probably not. He does not understand family ties in the same way you do. He was very attentive when Mr. Joestar fell ill, often providing medicine for him. If you were called to help, he would go in your place. It feels false, like a mockery of a doting son. Yes- he's providing for his father, but it feels like an alien trying to copy a human. Like a robot trying to replicate human love. It’s not out of any kindness in his heart. What he feels isn’t love. Sometimes you don’t think he’s capable of it. But if he did love something, it was power. He’d never admit it, but it was also you. Having you so consumed with grief enraged him. It was a childish want for attention that he found hard to conceal. He never took out his anger on you, finding himself afraid of turning out to be like his birth father driving his mother into an early grave. Often he thought about how easily he could force your hand, make you chose between him and your family. Deep down he didn’t want to toss out an ultimatum. You had just as much of a bite as him; unstoppable force meets immovable object. In no way he saw that ending well. Others had noticed the growing distance between you. People talked- as they did- rumors spread.

“Y/N.” Jonathan’s voice startles you.

“Mister Joestar, how-”

“Call me Jonathan.”

You cringe at the interruption.

“Jonathan.” You say. “How can I help you?”

“Will you take a walk with me?”

He guides you out to the garden. Winter has left it scraggly and barren, washed out in cold, white light. A few wilting leaves cling to the trees. Only a handful of rooms are lit within the house. It feels personal, being dragged through the place where you spent so many of your nights with your lover. Calling him that feels strange. Lover seems like too innocent of a word.

Over your time at the Joestar estate, there isn’t much you know about Jonathan. Dio talked of him. Often. It was never good, though he had a way of exaggerating things. By now you’ve learned to take it with a grain of salt. Your meetings with the second Joestar son have been few and rather brief. He seems sweet, albeit a bit naive and too engrossed in high society to talk with the likes of you. The girls in the kitchen swoon over him, although he’s sweet on a neighbor girl. Erina- you’ve heard of her. She’s been over for dinner before.

"How are you?" He asks.

"Fine, I suppose." You say, a bit irritated with the small talk. "What is it you need of me?"

"I heard what happened," absentmindedly he picks at his nails, "and I wanted to give my condolences. I imagine this situation is... unpleasant for you."

"I manage." You say. "But I doubt that's what you brought me out here for."

He nods. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Then ask away. I'd be happy to answer."

“You’re close with Dio, aren’t you?” He asks.

“A bit. Why?”

While you’re almost certain he knows, it feels easier to lie. You were not the star-crossed lovers that Jonathan and Erina were, the type of partners that made the girls you work with swoon and wish for such a thing, the type of love people write books about but fail to recreate. Your relationship was more out of a mutual agreement than it was proper love, but you suppose it was there. The two of you were angry, scathing people who were capable of god knows what. Together you could be terrifying.

“You two seem to spend quite a lot of time together.” He says. “Have you noticed anything strange with him?”

“No.” You say. “I haven't noticed anything like that."

"He's awfully attentive with father..."

"It's bizarre." You say. He laughs.

"I'm heading to London in a few days- to the university. Father's medicine hasn't been working, and I want it to be examined." From his coat pocket he produces a small green bottle. it's familiar. Dio has one quite like it.

"Do you need anything while you're away?" You ask, wishing to get back to your work. There was laundry that needed to be done.

"No," he says, turning to you, "thank you for your time. I should get going."

Before you can leave, he stops you.

"I know it's no business of mine, but my brother is bad news. You're a sweet girl and I don't want anything to happen to you. Dio is capable of things you couldn't even imagine."

"You're right. It is no business of yours."

He gives you a quick goodbye before leaving you alone in the garden.

Over time, Dio has grown more serious about keeping you close. He has a malicious, possessive streak to him. Your recent distance has only brought that out more. There is no talk of marriage- his adoptive father would never approve- but he talks of the future. Often. For you, the future meant work. To some extent, you could live with that. You never knew what it meant for him. He jokes of world domination.

You’re not quite sure you want to rule the world, but you do want to get out of London.

You stop just under the apple tree. It’s sickly and sad looking. The last of the fruit has fallen off and rotted. A few wilting leaves cling onto the branches. Jonathan gives you a quick goodbye, before returning to the house.

The door to his room is open. A lantern is lit, though the curtains are drawn shut. There’s no need to knock, you’re the only person who will walk in.

“Sit with me, pet.” Dio says.

Maybe the nickname has grown on you. It no longer draws out the same reaction of disgust and discomfort. Time has softened your hard outer shell. He opens his arms and instinctively you go into them. His chest feels unnaturally cold, but being so close to him makes you feel safe. The smell of his cologne is familiar and comforting, you find yourself leaning in closer. You allow yourself this one moment of weakness. He rests his chin on top of your head.

“I don’t have long,” you say, “I must get back.”

He pulls you closer. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Jonathan came and talked with me earlier.” You say.

You could almost swear you heard his heart skip a beat. His grip around you loosens, allowing you to shift to face him. His expression is unreadable.

“Yes.” He says. “I figured he would.”

“Why?”

You almost ask what he’s done.

Accusing him of something would only make him shut down. You already have a guess. The entire conversation leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s a constant unease and discomfort, more than it is outright pain. He's scheming- as he does- but more importantly, he hasn't told you about it.

“My brother doesn't believe in my ways.” He says. "I would never do anything to hurt father. It's no fault of mine that he won't recover."

"Then tell me what was in the bottle." You say. "As of right now, Jonathan is on his way to get that 'medicine' tested."

"I never gave any of it to him."

Jonathan won't see it that way. The authorities surely won't be as kind as his brother. And if he gets caught- what then?

"So you give it to someone else- so some unassuming person is killing him."

Dio doesn’t respond. Do you really expect more of him? He’s proven to be capable of many things. You’ve long since learned he wants to be the sole heir to the Joestar estate. It was a given. Power is something he craves. As much as he jokes about world domination, there's always a serious tone behind them. In the beginning, it just seemed like his nature; he was always collected and intense. Some truth must have been behind them. He makes no attempt to hide that. But this...

Murder is a bit too cold-blooded for your tastes. Morally you don’t have the high ground. You don’t find yourself above much, but you'd like to think you're above murder. If its what you need to do to survive, you believe you'd give it a pass, but as the time comes you're less sure of it. Mr. Joestar gave Dio an opportunity that doesn’t even come once in a lifetime for many. It feels like a slap in the face, just adding insult to injury. This feels like betrayal in the purest sense of the word. While you aren’t close to his father, you have a bit of respect for the man. His death would not cause you the same grief as your own father’s, but you would be sad.

But he is old, and not all old people recover from illness.

Most of the estate would go to Jonathan upon his father’s death. Really, this seems short-sighted. As the younger son, Dio isn’t entitled to all that much. But getting rid of his brother might be easier said than done. Part of you is angry for how little he’s thought this through. Truly, you expected more from him. With as much as he schemes, you had expected a better plan.

Your reaction isn’t quite what he expected. Anything but blind love and acceptance is seen as betrayal to him. To you, everything that could go wrong, has gone wrong.

If he fails- if- there is no recovering from this. If he is caught, many signs point to you as an accomplice.

Silently he exits, leaving you alone in his dark room.

#jjba #jojo part 1 #phantom blood #jojo's bizarre adventure #dio brando #dio #dio brando x reader #dio x reader #jjba x reader #yandere dio brando #i guess???#yandare dio brando x reader #cw yandere #ik i abandoned this for a full month #but #its back #fem!reader

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

71. you’re famous and you want to hide out in my bookstore which is fine except the stupid paparazzi won’t leave and now there’s a photo of us in the tabloids and they’re printing misinformation and why the fuck won’t you clear this up on your twitter account

Sternclay, NSFW, please!

Here you go! Let's end this round of meet uglies with a bang

The post-holiday slump is always the worst; everyone maxed out their credit cards last month and doesn’t want to buy anything, and the tourists won’t be back until the spring. It’s not that he’s concerned about keeping the lights on; Bookworms is popular and has a prime spot downton. It’s that he’s bored out of his mind.

All his orders for the day are in, everything’s been received and shelved, and he’s running out of things to tidy. If he’s lucky, the clouds that have been threatening a snowstorm since this morning will burst and drive some people to shelter among the stacks.

Dingdong

Thank the lord.

“Welcome to Bookworms, can I help you?”

The man stays by the door, peering through the glass onto the street while pulling off his beanie, “Huh? Oh, uh, nope, just coming in to, uh, get out of the cold.” He turns, and two realizations slap Joseph in the face.

One: this is the hottest man he has ever had the pleasure of seeing.

Two: He’s seen this man dozens of times, just never in person.

Barclay Cobb is a Food Network darling who got his start on Youtube, sharing recipes from vintage cookbooks he found at garage sales. That’s not why he’s starstruck, but it is probably why the taller man is hiding in the craft books alcove and keeps nervously looking his way.

“I won’t tell anyone you’re here, Mr. Cobb.”

“Phew” the man sighs, unzips his jacket, “thanks man. Thought I’d be bundled up enough that no one would spot me while I was out, but I didn’t get my hat on in time coming out of the Chinese place down the block.”

“I love that spot, they have the best beer-braised duck.”

“Yeah, I always stop by when I’m in town, they’re food is worth getting photographed for.”

It’s odd, everything he’s read suggests chef Cobb is friendly and warm when approached by fans in public.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate that people like my shows but, I, uh, sometimes I just want to eat or walk down the street without someone taking pictures of me.”

“Do you want to head into the back sections? There’s no windows in that half of the store.”

“Sweet, thanks. Uh, would it be cool if I autographed any books of mine you have? I like doing that, means I can send a little business towards smaller stores.”

“Of course. Here, the cookbooks are on this wall.” He slips into his office to grab a sharpie while Barclay pulls a stack of books and sits down on the floor. As the scratching of the pen fills the air, Joseph takes a trip to the paranormal and occult section, coming back with three copies of The Case for Bigfoot.”

“Y’know, not everyone stocks these.” Barclay smiles as he adds the paperbacks to the pile.

“Which is terrible business; you’re just as famous in the cryptozoology community as you are in the foodie one. This is the best book on bigfoot ever written, and I should know; I run a, um, a blog where I review books on paranormal topics.”

“You a true believer?” The cook blows on his signature in the copy of Desserts for All Seasons

“More an optimistic skeptic; your book is perfect because you make your case using actual evidence instead of reporting the same ten, poorly verified stories that everyone includes in their books. And I appreciated that you included recipes from the places you visited; that was a very nice touch.”

“Funny story about that” Barclay freezes as the front door opens. There’s definitely more than one person coming in, and when Joseph pokes his head around the corner he sees fifteen people, all with cameras or phones.

“Shit. You might want to hide in my office for a few minutes.”

By the time the crowd reaches him, Joseph is almost done re-shelving the signed books.

“Good afternoon, let me know if you need help finding anything.”

“Uh, yeah, we do, someone saw Barclay Cobb in your store-”

“Strange, we’ve only had one customer” he winces as someone’s shoulder knocks a hardcover off its display, “I didn’t get a good look at them before they went downstairs.” He tips his head at the staircase to the YA and Graphic Novel sections and is promptly knocked into the shelf as the throng hurries away.

“Come on, I can get you out through the back door” Joseph whispers to the Red Dust on his Soul poster on his office door. Barclay is remarkably quiet for a man his size as they sneak across the floor and let frigid, January air rush into the store.

“Thanks man” Barclay whispers, “I owe you one.” He sets a big hand on Joseph’s shoulder, squeezes it with a wink, then pulls on his hat and disappears into a crowd coming off at the bus stop.

---------------------------------------------------

Joseph always comes in through the back, flipping on lights as he goes, so the sea of bodies pressed to the front windows like a zombie horde surprises him. He knows Barclay tweeted about the signed copies, but this seems like excessive excitement even for a celebrity chef.

“Morning, Joseph--whoa, what the heck?” Aubrey clocks in without taking her eyes off the crowd, “why is everyone here this early.”

“Fan culture. I think.” The registers finish waking up, “I’ll pay holiday rates if you open that door for me.”

Aubrey gives a thumbs up, unlocks the double doors, and is swallowed up so quickly he worries she might have been trampled until she emerges near the greeting cards. Some people swarm the cookbooks, but an alarming number cluster around the counter, all shouting for his attention.

“How long have you been seeing Chef Cobb?”

“What?, I, I’m not-”

“Does he often visit your store?”

“No! He just came by yesterday!” There’s a horrible clatter of all the books on display near the door taking each other out like dominoes.

“Do you fuck in the backroom all the time?”

“Oh come on” He pushes past the man who asked that, deals with shouting all the way to his office and slams the door. A quick Google search for “Barclay Cobb” brings up a blurry photo of them in the alley, Barclays hand on his shoulder, and multiple headlines speculating on why the reclusive chef and author has chosen a nobody bookstore employee (he’s the owner, damn it) as his lover.

Okay, there’s a logical, easy fix to this.

He opens the door enough to speak, whistles so everyone will be quiet and listen to him, “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. Mr. Cobb isn’t in any kind of relationship with me; he just came into the store yesterday for some peace and quiet. So, if you’re looking for information about him, this is not the place for it. If you’re looking for the signed books, the cookbooks are there, and the paranormal section is just around that corner.” He gives his best customer service smile as the paparazzi exchange perplexed glances.

“...Is it true he bought you this store?”

“Wh--no! We rent this space.”

“From him?”

“Arggh!” He closes the door, slumps against it and cards his fingers through his hair. As he contemplates closing for the day, he spots a little, copper card on his desk. It’s Barclay’s, which is what he expected, but when he flips it over there’s a message scribbled in pen.

Main St Hotel, room 503, here until Monday.

He pulls out his phone, tells Aubrey she’s allowed to get the crowd out by any means necessary except for fire, and elbows his way out into the winter air.

------------------------------------------

Barclay almost purrs when he peers through the peephole in the hotel door; Joseph, as his nametag read, is standing on the carpet, looking twice as handsome as he did yesterday. His cheeks are even a little pink, and Barclay has some thoughts on how to make that blush deepen.

“Hey, glad you found-”

Joseph holds up his phone, screen in Barclays face, “please fix this.”

“Oh fuck.” He ushers him in, “I’m so sorry, I thought they’d stopped doing this shit.”

“No, and they’re fucking up my inventory as a result.”

“On it, lemme text my assistant, she’s good at drafting these kind of messages.”

“Thank the lord. Right, thank you for that, I’ll go now.”

“Wait” Barclay reminds his instincts that blocking the door is rude, “do you wanna stay a few minutes? You look kinda stressed.”

“Because my store is being overrun!” Joseph snaps, then takes a deep breath and straightens his sleeves, “I’m sorry, that wasn’t called for, this morning has just been a mess. And it, um, it’s a little bittersweet to have people thinking I could land a hot chef when I can’t get past a first date with most people. Um, sorry. Too much information. That’s a bad habit of mine.”

Barclay tucks his hands into his pants pockets, “About that. Y’know how I left my card?”

Blue eyes blink, then brighten, “I thought that might be the reason but I dismissed it as wishful thinking.”

“Nope. A guy who's hot, nerdy, and competent enough to sneak me away from the paparazzi? Sign me the fuck up.”

“I’m not opposed to a, um, tryst, but I really, really need to get back to the store, I can’t abandon Aubrey to deal with this mess on her own, that’s not fair, and now we’ll have to reorder things too....” He laughs, a tense sound, “good lord, I get a chance to fuck a celebrity crush and I’m turning it down for work.”

“Hey” Barclay sets his hands on Joseph’s shoulders, “it’s okay. You’re not the first guy to be married to his job. But, uh, out of curiosity, you got any vacation days to spare?”

----------------------------------------------

“This is all yours?” Joseph takes in the sprawling farm as Barclay unlocks the front door of a charmingly rustic house.

“Yep, all the way to the creek and all the way to the road. Might surprise you, but I like my privacy.”

“I’d never have guessed.” He replies with faux shock.

“Smartass.” Barclay kisses his cheek, holds the door open with his shoulder so Joseph can pull his bags inside. He packed as light and efficiently as he could for two weeks away (he’d initially planned on one until Aubrey and Moira ganged up on him and told him he hadn’t taken a real vacation in years so he was taking one now, damn it) but his suitcase is still heavy as he rolls it to the stairs.

“I got that.” Barclay shoulders his own travel bag and hoists Joseph’s in the other hand, carrying them to the second floor like they’re nothing more than pillows.

The week the chef was in Madison, Joseph went to his hotel almost every night. Fell asleep in his bed more than once, when discussions of fusion cuisine or the Fresno Nightcrawler turned into frantic, heated kisses under the covers. It’s only when the cook drops all luggage into the master bedroom that the truth of why he’s on this trip sets in.

“You really invited me all the way here because you think I’m hot.”

“Yeah but no.” Barclay drapes his arms over his shoulders, lips still a little chilly as he kisses them, “brought you here because you’re smart” another kiss, this one on his jaw, “and funny” another, on his nose, “and you’re the biggest bigfoot fan I know.”

“You wrote a book on it!”

“Point stands. And yeah” he pushes Joseph back so he lands on the bed, crawling atop him as he growls, “I invited you here because you’re so hot I wanna pour sugar on you and see if it melts. Now get your pants off; I’ve been thinking about sucking your dick since we left the city.”

------------------------------------------

“How did the whole bigfoot thing start?” Joseph sips his Irish Coffee as Barclay puts his feet into his lap.

“Guess the same way any famous person ends up with two gigs; I was doing the thing I love, then was dicking around on cryptid hunter forums and found out I was also hella good at researching bigfoot. By the time I got really into it, I had enough cash that I could write my book without worrying about going broke. Helps that I’d handed off The Arch and The Lodge and was just the exec chef on them, since then I could travel if I needed to.”

Joseph nods, moves one hand down to rub Barclays foot; in spite of no longer working the kitchens of his five restaurants or having to test recipes for the books right now, he spent most of today on his feet making elaborate meals for two. Joseph teases him that he’s trying to stuff him to the point he can’t leave. Barclay always chuckles and says he doesn’t know how right he is. The last two days, Joseph then wraps his arms around his boyfriend and tells him he’d stay forever if he could.

He’s never thought of himself as romantic; he’s pragmatic, knows that relationships are things built out of time, trial, and error. But god help him, he’s fallen for Barclay like they’re rom-com leads with only ninety minutes to reach their happy ending.

They’re out near the creek--really more of a small river--the next morning, talking about books and speculating on the existence of life on other planets, when a storm sweeps through the trees. As trunks groan and roots pull loose from the snow, Barclay calls, “we better head back.”

He gives a thumbs up. Then the ice under him cracks.

He doesn’t correct course quickly enough, the rest dropping from under him and dunking him in freezing water. It’s deep, too deep to stand, but he’s a decent swimmer and kicks towards the surface. When the shadow covers the opening with a boom, panic threatens to push the rest of his precious breath away.

The tree that fell across the ice is heavy, and no matter how he pushes it won’t give. He bangs on the ice on either side, trying to get it to crack, but his lungs scream and his limbs alert him that the cold will soon shut them down.

He closes his eyes, trying to think, not ready to give up, not with Barclay so close. There’s a groan of wood and frozen water. His mouth opens without permission, desperate for air, and chokes him on frost instead.

-----------------------------------

“...be dead, please don’t be dead, please please please don’t be fucking dead.”

“Nnff.” That’s not what he meant to say, but it seems to calm the voice above him.

“Thank fuck. I’m so sorry, I got to you as fast as I could, do, do you need anything?” Barclay sounds exhausted.

“Cold.” He mutters.

“I’m trying to warm you up gradually, that’s what the first aid book said but, uh, here.” Warm, fuzzy arms draw him into a hug.

Wait.

The first thing he sees when his eyes flutter open are arms covered in reddish-brown fur. When Barclay rubs their cheeks together, it tickles more than his beard usually does.

“Barclay? What the hell is going on?”

“Uh. So.” He’s rolled with ease to face a creature he’s never seen and eyes that he’d know anywhere, “I’m bigfoot. Or, uh, a bigfoot. Maybe that’s kinda obvious now.”

His brain crackles to life, “What better way to stay undiscovered than get famous by giving people the wrong information about you.”

“Some of it’s true. Just not anything people could use to actually find me.”

“Smart, big guy” Joseph pets his face.

“You’re taking this pretty well.”

“I think my system is too shocked to experience more shock.” He shudders, “relatedly, how’d I get out of the river?”

“I lifted the tree off and pulled you free. Took my disguise off to do that and, uh, the fucking thing fell into the water when I got you. So I’m gonna be stuck like this until a friend of mine can get me a new one.”

“No complaints here. You look incredible.” He runs his hands up and down Barclay’s side and chest, warmth seeping into his fingers as he does, “But I’m a little surprised you were willing to risk someone seeing you or me blabbing to someone and trashing your whole life in the process.”

A low rumble as Barclay kisses his forehead, “It’s worth it. I, this is gonna sound so fucking cheesy, but I haven’t felt this way about someone in a long time, and there was no way I was gonna lose you.”

“Oh.” Affection and surprise well up in his throat, pressing down his words so all he can do is nestle closer to the cryptid and let himself be loved.

His mind rebounds quickly from his misadventure. His body would like him to remember it for a while so he doesn’t put it in such jeopardy again any time soon. Instead of helping Barclay with cooking and chores, he lays under the covers while the storm rattles the roof and the cook clangs pots on the lower floor.

Barclay, attentive to a fault, is downright doting now that he’s stuck in bed. He’s never without a hot drink or something to read, and the cryptid is happy to answer the majority of his questions about the finer points of being bigfoot. When it’s bedtime, his boyfriend pulls him atop his massive frame and cuddles him, whispering over and over that he’s glad he’s okay, until they fall asleep.

Today followed much the same pattern, though when dinner time rolls around he gets a fantastic surprise.

“Chocolate fondue?” He peers hopefully at the bed tray in Barclays hands.

“Only the best for you, babe.” The cook sets the burnished wood down on the bedside table, “we lucked out, the berries I bought last week are ripe.”

Joseph reaches for the fork, but Barclay beats him to it.

“You should save your energy. Since you’re, uh, still recovering.”

He shrugs, sets his hands in his lap and opens his mouth for a chocolate dipped raspberry. It doesn’t take long to spy Barclay’s ulterior motive. The cook has a whole wardrobe designed to fit his cryptid form, but it’s having trouble concealing certain things.

“You’re getting off on this.”

“I, uh, I, maybe a little” Barclay blushes under his fur.

Joseph raises an eyebrow, tilts his head at the bulge in Barclay’s pants, “You call that ‘little’?”

A rumbly whine, the fork paused halfway to Joseph’s mouth, “I can’t help it. I’ve got a thing for taking care of partners, especially ones who are all competent and put-together the rest of the time, and you look so good when you eat and, ohfuck.”

Joseph inhales sharply as chocolate hits his exposed upper chest. It’s not hot enough to burn, and he moans as the sensation seeps across his skin. Barclays eyes, wide and ravenous, keep flicking between the splatter and his face.

“Looks like you made a mess, big guy.” Joseph begins undoing the remaining buttons on his pajamas, “you should clean it up.”

“Fuck yeah.” Barclay lunges, mouth first, lapping and sucking at the marked skin as Joseph laughs. Their shirts hit the floor together as he digs his nails into auburn fur. Barclay grunts at the pressure, sits up with a grin, and drips a line of chocolate down the right side of Joseph’s ribs.

“Oops. Better fix that too.”

“Cleanliness is importantAH, ahhnn.” He squirms a bit as Barclay nuzzles his stomach before dragging his tongue up his skin. There’ve been times he mourned the fact T didn’t make him as hairy as some other guys, but right now he’s grateful for the clear canvas Barclay can mark however he pleases.

“A mess can be more fun.” The cook licks his lips, sucks a hickey above his belly button, “and by the time I’m done with you, babe, won’t be a single part of you that isn’t one.”

“Then get to it.” He shoves his pants down, lets Barclay pull them the rest of the way off and fold them. He lays back, resting his arms behind his head, and moans as the cook drizzles chocolate on each hip. Joseph feels like a gourmet dessert and, from the growls between his thighs, Barclay intends to treat him like one.

His boyfriend is always enthusiastic when sucking him off, but tonight he throws finesse out the window in favor of burying his face at the crease of each thigh in turn, licking his hips clean while clawing at his calves and sides. He lifts his head, wipes his mouth with a satisfied grin that shows the points of his teeth, and dives down again.

Joseph yelps with pleasure, the hint of fangs hitting all his buttons, lighting him up like downtown on a dark night. It’s intense, the scratch of fur on skin just different enough from the usual beard to remind him of who’s down there, and his legs try to kick closed. Barclay growls again, holding them open with ease.

“Not until I’m done with you, babe.”

He surrenders to flood of feelings from both outside and within him, Barclay’s sheer delight at his body rendering all his doubts and worries toothless and small, quieting them until all he can think about is incredible creature holding and all he can say is some variation on-

“Barclay, please, right there, lordalmighty that’s good, that’s so good big guy, please.” He squeezes his eyes shut, craving the impending orgasm more than he has words for. Barclay sucks determinedly and huffs, pleased, as Joseph's thighs tense in his hold and his climax chases away the remnants of yesterday's aches.

As his brain insists that really, body, opening our eyes isn’t that hard, there’s a metallic zip and strong legs bracketing his thighs.

“Here I thought you couldn’t look any better.” He murmurs as Barclay gleefully strokes his cock, “as soon as my brain works again, I’m coming up with so many ways to use that gorgeous thing.”

“Can’t, fuck, can't wait to hear ‘em, but I only got one for tonight; I’m gonna use it to cum alllll over that fucking perfect body, fuck, Joseph, you look so good when you’re ruined, fuck.” An impressive amount of cum spatters up his stomach, chest, and neck as Barclay howlgrowlpurrs and then sets his hands carefully on the bed.

Joseph’s whole body is sticky with chocolate, sweat, and cum, and Barclay definitely has at least two of those things mussed into his fur.

“You’re right, big guy, a mess can be fucking amazing.”

That being said, being sticky gets old quick, and soon they’re in the tub, Joseph whistling as he shampoos Barclay’s chest. The cryptid hasn’t stopped purring, and every time he looks Joseph’s way the sound deepens.

“When are you next in the city?”

The cook yawns, “Was gonna check on how the new chef de cuisine is getting on at Kepler in about two week.”

“Would you like to stay with me? It’s not fancy, but it’s close to the Ismuth, so you can get to Kepler on foot without trouble, and there are fewer crowds there this time of year. I suspect paparazzi are also less likely to track you down at some random house than at a hotel. That might make up for my lack of, um, high class amenities.”

“Good point. But I gotta be honest babe; as long as you’re there, that’s all I need to be happy.”

#sternclay #agent stern/ barclay #meet ugly #taz amnesty #terato #monster boyfriend #trans agent stern

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justforbooks · 4 years

Photo

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

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