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all-with-angel · 14 days ago

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High Voltage

❥ Electric Fly Swatter Sukuna x reader

❥ With the heat being unbearable and flies swarming you practically every minute, you have nothing except a faulty fly swatter on your side. even then, the thing does nothing except zap you randomly! Sick of its shit, you throw it out the window, only for it to come stomping back to fuck some manners into you! Don't you know its rude to throw things out of windows?

Content. CRACKFIC, smut, dubcon, afab!reader, sukuna is mean(duh), grinding, oral(f!receiving), his fingers vibrate, he zaps you sometimes, p in v, doggystyle, dacryphilia, begging, creampie :P

A.N. I blame @yenayaps and @madamechrissy for enabling me so i take no accountability whatsoever. @yamadramallamaqueen here you go unc ily

It was hot.

Like, skin-sticking-to-furniture, every-fan-sounds-like-it’s-pleading-for-death, consider-lying-on-the-tile-floor-like-a-cat kind of hot. It was hellish during this time of the year. The heat outside would've been fine, if not for your AC breaking at the start of the week and your landlord doing absolutely jack shit about it. Thus, your humble little home had turned into a sauna and your overhead fans could only do so much. And if that wasn’t bad enough?

Flies. So many damn flies.

It was just the season for them, and you were getting tired of swatting them to death manually. Lucky for you, you stumbled upon a quaint little yard sale on your way home. It was small, stacks upon stacks of books and old cds, and a few barely-working pieces of electronics. A worn out looking fly swatter caught your eye, and when you asked the old grandma about it, she gladly gave it to you in exchange for a few dollars. It was black with pink highlights, residue of stickers clinging on to the plastic.

Lucky you, It was way cheaper than any of the newer models you’d seen, and it worked fine. Sure, it vibrated and shaked whenever you turned it on, and it took way too long to charge, but it worked.

For a while.

A week later, the thing turned on you. You were waving it around in your living room, a surge of slight satisfaction at every loud bzzt! that signaled the death of another one of those flying bloodsuckers. You were about to walk to the kitchen, satisfied with the lack of any more flies buzzing in the room when you felt a sharp sting of electricity course through your hand. You yelped and dropped it, hitting the edge of the sofa and clattering loudly onto the floor.

“What the hell?!”

You hissed, massaging your hand for a moment before grabbing the fly swatter with a cloth. “Stupid old thing.” Murmuring curses and complaints under your breath about how its faultiness was showing after just a week of owning it, you set it on the counter and plugged it into its charging port. You eyed it as it lightly hummed and a red light blinked on and off, you could've sworn it started blinking out of sync— its patterns more similar to a human blinking than an electronic with a set program.

Whatever. It was too hot for this. You brushed it off and turned away.

Over the next few days, it kept zapping you. Randomly. It started when you were just holding it, using it actively when it would zap you when you even dared to put it down. Then, it started to zap you when it wasn't even on. You had turned it off, the phantom pain of getting electrocuted in your hand earlier fading as you tucked it under your arm. Before you could even reach halfway to your room, it had zapped your entire side.

Nothing too painful, not exactly enough to be an immediate health hazard– but the surprise made you scream and drop it (again), clutching your side in betrayal.

It was less a bug killer now and more of an abusive relationship that you couldn’t let go of. At least not with your current fly problem.

On another day of trying to survive through a damn heatwave, you were sweating even as two fans were working overtime fanning you. They were your real friends in this situation, even if they just blew hot air around the room, doing little to help you.

Still, help is help.

But that morning, sweaty, stressed, and so over it, you swore that anything would set you off. As if sensing that you were on your last straw, the fly swatter had zapped you mid-swing. You flinched, face contorting from pain to anger. “Motherfucker!”

You shriek as it hits the floor, except this time you didn’t use a cloth to pick it up, you didn’t fear it anymore. Who the hell cares if it zaps you again. You grabbed it and threw it out your window, hearing it hit the soft grass of your yard as you huff.

“You wanna fucking electrocute me?? Well I’m not having it anymore!” you yelled, flopping onto your couch with all the grace of a damp spaghetti noodle. You swung an arm over your eyes, cringing at the feel of your own sweat-slicked skin but too tired to care. With a sigh, you slump further back and practically melt into the couch.

The crawling feeling of exhaustion caught up to you, crawling from your head down to your chest. A nap at this time would probably fuck up your sleep schedule, but you couldnt seem to care in between the heat and the occasional buzz of a mosquito in your ear. The lull of sleep almost drowning out the sudden bang of your back door.

Wait, what?

The sudden bang of your backdoor startles you awake, loud stomping accompanying your racing heartbeat as you shoot upright and turn to see a very naked and very angry looking man. He was broad, large with black inky tattoos adorning his chest and arms. His head almost reached the ceiling and you were sure that his dick— DICKS, were the size of your forearm.

You could feel both heat and fear crawling up your spine, settling uncomfortably in your throat as you try to find your words. Before you do, he beats you to it.

“You–!” he snarled, pointing a finger at you. “Did no one teach you to not throw your shit out windows!?”

“What the hell are you talking about!?” You stammer for a moment, eyes flicking around you to his glaring red eyes. You grab the nearest thing to you, a throw pillow and point it in his direction. “Who even are you?! And why did you just break into my house!?”

The pink-haired hunk of a man rolls his eyes, muscles flexing as he crossed his arms. As if this was just another nuisance to him. “I’m your goddamn fly swatter, or whatever the fuck you call it.” He hissed. “Congratulations, you broke the seal and set me fucking free. By throwing me out the window.” His voice was laced with sarcasm and brimming anger, finger tapping idly on his forearm.

“You’re my what??” You asked again, stunned. Unconsciously lowering your protective throw pillow as the hot demon man snarled at your stupidity and confusion.

“Your fly swatter.” He repeated through gritted teeth. The fact he was such a menial object irked him, clearly so.

Your eyes raked over him again, from his broad chest to his.. Sizable cocks. Your eyes seemed glued to the pair, your gaze sending a pulse or arousal through Sukuna. One that went straight to his dicks, making them twitch.

God, how long has it been since he’s had a good fuck? Too many years, that's for sure.

You made a noise in your throat that may or may not have been an inappropriate giggle. That seemed to piss him off. He clicked his tongue stomping over to you, who took a few steps back his looming figure. “Something funny, brat?” He snarled, glaring down at you like he hates your guts. But his half-hard cock(s) told a different story.

You swallowed, breath hitching as you craned your neck to look up at him. God, he was so much bigger upclose, not to mention that his chest was right up in your face distracting you from making any proper thoughts. “N-no. Just— this is so weird.” Your voice drops into a mumble as you continue, every three steps you took back, Sukuna would take one– And it was enough to bridge the gap. “Who knew my shitty fly swatter was hot..”

“HUH? The fuck you just call me?” He roared. “I’m Sukuna, the King of curses you heathen. Not some ‘shitty fly swatter’– Who said you could talk to me so casually!?” Sukuna, now you knew his name, had cornered you against the wall. “Throw me out of the window, no less.” He added, seething.

Alarmed by the dangerous— almost predatory look in his eyes, you hit his chest with the pillow in your arms a few times. “THE HELL? How was I supposed to know that?” Unknown to you, with every shriek and pathetic excuse for an attack, Sukuna could feel his cocks harden– throbbing painfully as his body screamed to show you your place.

He was grinning, the hungry look in his eyes snapping as he grabbed your wrist and halting your (fairly worthless) struggle against him. You gasp as you feel your wrist get engulfed by a much bigger hand, shame filling your head as you feel the warmth pooling in your stomach.

“You really think that’ll do anything, brat?” He inches closer, scarily handsome face inches away from yours. “Or did you just want to piss me off even more?”

As if caught like a deer in headlights, you stammer, feeling his intense gaze on you making your heart clench and stomach flutter. “I– No, I mean I didn’t–”

“Shut it, slut.” He grabs at your throat, not quite squeezing— But just enough pressure to shut you up. “I don’t need your excuses.” Sukuna grins. “I know what you want, anyway.” He slides his thick leg in between your thighs, putting pressure on your core as you let out a mix of a yelp and a moan.

He grabs your hips as you slowly start to grind on his leg like a bitch in heat. “Ha, pathetic. Is that all it takes for you to give up?”

Your hips stutter, but Sukuna continues to guide your movements against his thigh. “N-No,”

“Liar.”

Sukuna pulls his leg back and in a blur, you end up manhandled onto your couch with your shorts pulled off of you. “Tsk. No panties? What a perfect whore.” He snickers, and as soon as he sees your already dripping cunt, he knew he was in for a sweet treat. He dared to look at your face, waiting in anticipation and beautifully aroused. He took it all in, the curve of your body and every inch of skin bared all for him. He was one lucky fly swatter. And you were one very, very lucky owner.

“W-wait–” You tried to plead, but Sukuna wasn’t a patient man. He didn’t wait. He took what he wanted when he wanted it. And he wanted you. He took his sinfully long tongue to drag across your folds, groaning loudly at your taste. “Fuck..” He muttered, immediately grabbing your hips to pull you into him as he let his tongue explore your perfectly sweet cunt.

Sukuna was like a wild animal– Or an insatiable toy, brimming with electricity ready to be expended on poor you.

He let his tongue curl inside of you, nose brushing and rubbing against your clit as your hands found purchase in his pink hair. The same shade that matched the fly swatter form this so-called King of curses had unwillingly taken.

Suddenly, you feel a zap of electricity on your thigh, making you flinch further into Sukuna’s mouth. “So fucking loud.” You could feel him smiling against your pussy, just before he continued devouring you like a man starved.

You held into his hair for dear life, tugging whenever he’d hit just the right spot, making him groan and send vibrations straight to your core. It felt more intense, more electrifying than anything you could have ever felt from any other man.

“That needy, brat?” Sukuna pulled away, licking his slick-coated lips before tucking one, then two fingers right into your needy hole. Just as he did, he put his mouth back to work. He could feel you clench against his fingers, the tightness of your hole having Sukuna’s cocks leak pre down his thick cock.

“Y- Y-es!” You moaned out, voice breaking as Sukuna curled his fingers up into that sweet spot of yours. You couldn’t control the desperate gasp escaping your lips when you felt his fingers vibrate inside of you, right against your G-spot. “Oh- Oh god, fuck–” The stimulation felt intense, so much pleasure all at once as Sukuna licked and sucked at your clit.

He was merciless as he finished you off, lapping up at the juices squirting out of your fluttering pussy. You could practically feel electricity shooting up your spine as your back arched further into him, as if fucking his face.

You were definitely testing this demon(?), incubus(?), whatever the fuck he was’ oxygen, but he wasnt complaining. Not even when he pulled away from your cunt, slipping his thick fingers out of you and licking them clean.

“On your stomach. I’m not done with you.”

That's how you found yourself face-down ass-up and drooling onto the couch as Sukuna pounded his fat cock into your pussy, the other slapping against your abdomen with every thrust. You just felt so full, every push of his dick into you hitting every single spot you thought couldn’t be reached.

“Fucking— Fucking slut, shit–” Sukuna growled from above you, barely holding back his own moans from how fucking good you felt around him. So warm, practically made for him— Even if you were such a disrespectful brat. “Throwing me out the goddamn window–” Ah. He still hadn't let that go.

His eyes were glued to the back of your head, occasionally tracing his warm hand on the arch of your back, all to zap you randomly. Relishing in the way you’d flinch and tighten around his length, a condescending grin spreading on his face as he felt himself getting closer to filling you up. To put you in your place.

“Puh-lease–” You gasped as your legs shook, if not for his bruising grip on your waist, you’d have collapsed into a pathetic cum-puddle by now. Tears streamed down your cheeks, staining the couch along with various other fluids.

“Please what, huh?” Sukuna taunted, continuing to thrust his hips into you at an unrelenting pace. His lips parted, breathing heavily as he could feel his cock throb and twitch at the idea of cumming inside of you for the nth time.

Your hips moved back to meet his thrusts, you let out a pleasured sob at the feeling of attempting to rearrange your own guts on Sukuna's dick. “Please cum– I’m sorry, so so sorry for throwing you out the wind-AH!” You shiver as you felt Sukuna slap your ass, his eyes following how a red mark slowly started to imprint itself onto your skin. “What was that?” He mocked, voice condescending as he leaned forward, his chest flush almost flush against your back. “Say that again.”

“I'm sorry for throwing you out the window!” You repeat, moaning and gripping at the sheets as you feel Sukuna angle his hips to fuck you deeper, harder.

“Yeah, you better— fuck, you better be.” Sukuna continued to pound into you, twitching as he felt your pussy spasm around him. His breath was hot and heavy above you and you could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head as his other cock was slapping up against your clit again and again. “Take my fucking cum, take it since you’ve learned your lesson you brat–”

In a second, you could feel warmth start to flood your insides, making your pussy flutter and cum around his girth with a strangled cry. The pleasure was overwhelming, white-hot and so fucking good. Sukuna growled and grunted as his hips continued to fuck his cum deeper into you, cock throbbing with every shot of his seed pooling into you. There was just so much, enough to start leaking out your pussy along with your slick.

You were distantly aware of the cum sticking to your stomach and the couch, but your muddy, post-orgasm brain had barely adjusted when Sukuna's voice had cut through the haze. Unforgiving.

“You think we’re done? I haven’t even gotten my second dick wet yet.”

A.N. I was projecting my breeding kink a bit. Woops

#Jujutsu kaisen #Jujutsu Kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk crack #jjk smut #jjk scenarios #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna ryomen x reader smut #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna crack #angels fics •°. *࿐

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wandaslittlelove · 4 months ago

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Hi!

I saw that you would be want to write something for lady d and i was wondering if maybe you could do one about lady d and r, r is an employee at the castle but they both really like each other but won’t say anything and the lady’s daughters really like r and think of her as a second mother almost, they talk about her to the lady all the time and that lady is very intrigued about r so goes and tries to find her one day and sees her helping her daughters with something and they asks for a chat with r all alone but the daughters are not having their mother take away r so they say no for r and then r say yes. it can’t stop blushing an lady d finds it cute and they have a chat and it turns into them confessing their feelings for each other as it’s just really fluffy and cute. If not that is okay. :)

Confessions

Pairing: Lady Dimitrescu x reader Warnings: Soft Lady D Hi! Thank you so much for the request. I enjoyed writing this one a lot. I hope you enjoy!

“Girls, what are you talking about?” Lady Dimitrescu asks as she sits on her chair in front of the fire. The girls had come buzzing in just a few moments ago talking excitedly about something that happened a few minutes ago but they were all talking over each other making it hard to understand.

“The maid, y/n. She lets us try this bar. She called it chocolate.” Bella answers.

“Oh mother, it was so good! It was sweet and melted in your mouth” Cassandra says with delight, her fingers still covered in the sweet. The lady smiles as she listens to her daughters talk about you. You had been a maid at the castle for about a year now and did your job well. Of course she had taken notice of you. The way you were so eager to please and took care of her daughters. You made the girls happy and Alcina had taken a quick liking to you. Of course even the others had noticed which had caused some problems for a minute but she quickly took care of that.

The girls' conversation continued as they talked on and on about you. How you would smile at their jokes, bringing them little gifts on your trip back from the village, and even on how you had tucked Daniela into bed the other night. After a while the girls went to go find you again. Their flies buzzing off to the direction you must be.

When the lady walks into one of the living corners she pauses. There in one of the corners was you wrapping a blanket around the girls as you tried to warm them up. A window had busted earlier causing the castle to be a bit chilly. It was currently getting fixed but it hadn’t crossed her mind that it may be too cold for the girls. Their bodies shivered slightly as they went in and out of their fly forms.

“Girls go to the library. I will have a maid light the fire I need to speak to y/n alone” All your heads snap over to her not noticing that she was even there. The girls were quick to push you behind them afraid that their mother would take you away. You on the other hand were staring at the floor with a blush on your face. You had always had a small crush on the lady. How could you not?

“Mother no!” Daniela pleaded as she clung onto your arm. Her body is still shivering slightly. You laid a gentle hand on hers and her eyes turned to you.

“Go. You all need to warm up and sitting in here with just a blanket won’t do that.” They all hesitate as they look back and forth from their mother to you before slowly they reluctantly leave.

Once they're gone you and Alcina stand in silence for a moment. The lady gestures for you to sit on one of the sofas and you do with her following suit. She sits closer than she needs to and the blush on your face deepens. A smirk forms on the lady’s face as she takes in your nervous posture and the way your face flushes with her being so close.

“My girls seem to really like you,” She says, breaking the silence. “Thank you. For caring for them. Sometimes it slips my mind that even a bit of chill can hurt them.”

“Of course my lady. Part of my job is to care for you all and-”

“Your job is to take care of the castle. Most maids ignore us as best they can but you my dear do not. Why is that?” Her question leaves you quiet. You knew if you said the wrong thing you could end up being her last meal but for some reason you don’t fear her.

“I- I care for you my lady. You and the girls. I enjoy being around you all.” It comes out as barely a whisper but you know she heard. She remains silent as she gazes at you. For a moment you think you’ve just sealed your fate. That she would take her claws and cut you. But instead she brings her hand to your cheek rubbing softly. You look at her in shock.

“We care for you as well.” Her thumb rubs at your lips and her eyes soften slightly as you lean into her touch. Never in a million years did she believe that someone other than her daughters could look at her like you were. With so much care, so much love. “I care for you”

#re8 lady dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitriscu x reader #re8 alcina #alcina dimitrescu #bella dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x you #lady dimitrescu x female reader #lady dimitrescu x maiden #alcina demitriscu #re8 village #re8 #resident evil village #resident evil 8

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soulofapatrick · 1 year ago

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Wheels up in thirty - Aaron Hotchner x Female reader

Summary: You and Hotch finally get physical and its so much better than you had ever thought it could be

Words: 1.9K

Warnings: smut; p in v; somewhat rough; dom/sub; kinda porn with no plot; plot if you squint

Notes: I need to be stopped, Hotch needs more fiction

Y/N's POV

I’m not sure how I ended up here again, straddling Hotch’s waist in just my panties and him in just his boxers. His hands are gripping my hips hard enough to leave bruises as he guides me along the length of his clothes crotch. The tip has escaped his waistband, red and angry and dripping precum that I want to lick up but I can’t move.

“H-Hotch.” I choke out in frustration when his phone starts ringing, mine buzzing across the room in my to go bag that was thrown haphazardly across the room somewhere.

He surprises me by ignoring it, instead choosing to make me rise to my knees to he can shimmy out of those black boxers, dick springing up and I think I almost come right then and there at the sheer size and girth of him. His left hand goes back to my hips, slotting in the dip as if my body was made just for him. His right pushes my panties aside so grip the base of his girth, lining myself up before slowly beginning to sink down. The stretch burns but it’s oh so beautiful, this being the first time we’ve gotten this far.

I still remember Hotch admitting his feelings for me one night after a particularly stressful case, both of us sat in his office on the sofa. Everyone else had gone home but I had nothing to go home to so I sat there with Hotch, the heat of his skin searing as he turned and kissed me.

“Hotchner.” My head flies down to see Hotch has finally answered his phone, his hand on my hip not haltering its gentle push and pull. It has my jaw falling open at the pure scandal of what Hotch is currently doing when he says, “JJ, we’ll be there as soon as.” He swallows hard when he realises he said ‘we’ “Yes. Alright see you soon.”

His head falls back into the pillow when I rock my hips gently, hanging up and throwing his phone in the top drawer of his bedside table, cognac eyes fluttering open to meet mine, darkening so much they’re almost black. He sounds so wrecked already, a light sheen of sweat over his skin, his dark hair pressed against his forehead and the sight of him alone has me rocking my hips even more slowly, grinding into him.

A surprised sound leaves my throat when one of his hands tangles in my hair ad tugs as he’s suddenly flipping us over. My nails are digging into his biceps until he moves one hand between us to rub circles into my clit to distract me from the new angle that has him buried to the hilt. I swear I can feel every bump and ridge of him against my fluttering walls as I find his now damp messy hair and tugging almost harshly but he just moans, loud and dirty, “C-Can I?” He sounds like he’s choking, trying to keep his hips as still as he can as to give me time to adjust to the new angle.

I don’t reply, just wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back and he gets the hint. He pulls out until just the tip is in before slamming back to the hilt, dragging such loud moans from both of us, his lips move down my chest until they’re enclosing around one of my nipples, one hand finding my hand and intertwining our fingers while the other hand digs into my hips to stop me shifting up the bed as he sets an almost brutal pace. It adds to the almost overwhelming pleasure and I don’t think I’m going to last long with how I’m already clamping around him and my thighs are shaking and Hotch can tell as there’s a smile etches into my skin as he moves his lips back to the soft spot just below my jaw.

“Come for me princess.” His thumb rubs along my bottom lip and I’m sucking it into my mouth, tasting the saltiness on it and without warning my back is arching, yanking him into a bruising kiss as my body writhes and tries to move away from him as he continues to pound me into the bed, my eyes rolling into the back of my head, “That’s it darling, I’ve got you.” Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes as I come down from my high almost too quickly, body trying to wriggle away from him but his hands are flying to hold me in place as he continues to whisper lovingly into my skin, “One more princess, just one more.”

“Aaron,” I choke out, “P-phone-“ His phone is buzzing frantically in the bed side table but he ignores it so I do too, wanting everything Hotch has to offer me. My nails are raking down his back as another builds so quickly, my legs trembling and he’s picking up the pace, hips slamming into mine hard enough to bruise but it just adds to my heightened overstimulation. His every touch is like fire against my skin and his kisses are messy with lips crushing and teeth clashing but it’s perfect. I get lost in the heat of his body flush against mine, the smell of arousal and sweat heavy in the air and the salty taste as I reciprocate the hickeys all over his neck to try and stave off my second orgasm knowing I’m not going to last, knowing I’ll have to worry about the hickeys covering both of us later.

Apparently it’s too much for Hotch as his hand that was holding my hand moves to lightly grip my throat, his breath hot against my shoulder as his thrusts get sloppy. He’s hitting that spongy spot every time and suddenly, without warning his hips are slamming into mine once more and I can feel him shoot thick rope after thick rope against my walls, filling me up. The feeling mixed with the pressure on my neck has my vision whiting out and I think I can hear myself almost screaming Hotch’s name as wave after wave of pleasure rolls over me and I think I pass out fro a moment or two.

My eyes are fluttering open to Hotch stroking my hair, “There you are sweet girl,” he’s cooing, lips pressing sweet and gentle kisses to my skin, “I’ve got you, come back to me princess.” He’s gentle with every movement as he slowly pulls out, both of us wincing a little and I try to raise myself to my elbows but they give way almost immediately and he feels it as he’s chuckling, “Stay right there, let me grab our clothes. You can rest in the car.”

Oh god, the case. I must look just as much of a mess as Aaron looks as he climbs off the bed. I can feel his seed leaking down my thighs and staining the sheets but I’m too spend and sated to care, groaning weakly when Hotch's hands are back on me, the fabric of a damp cloth wiping away as much of the mess as he can before his hands are guiding my legs into my panties and jeans. He’s then pulling me to my feet. Bad move as my legs are shaking so much they give way and he’s catching me, wrapping his arms around my waist as he buttons my jeans up with one hand. A sweet kiss is pressed to my neck as he sits me back onto the bed, in the spot that isn’t soiled before he’s fumbling around the room again then my bra is being put in place and clasped with ease.

“I’m so proud of you princess.” Hotch praises, a soft sound leaving him when my thighs clench together involuntarily at the praise despite my body not being able to take another orgasm, wanting to snuggle into his strong and safe arms and sleep. But his famous Hotch jumper is being pulled over my head and I’m weakly pulling my arms through the sleeves as he cleans himself up and gets into a fresh pair of boxers and suit trousers.

My jaw drops when take a proper look at Hotch as he reaches into his bedside table to answer his phone that is buzzing again. He’s standing there, phone to ear, listening to who I’m guessing is Emily telling him off for not answering their frantic calls. I currently don’t care, unable to take my eyes off the hickeys of varying sizes and colours all over his neck and chest and the raised and raw scratch marks going down his back, some of them speckled with blood. It’s a mixture of embarrassment and pride that fills me, knowing that we’ve left physical marks on each other.

“Yes Emily, I have Y/N. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. We’ll meet you at the jet.” With that Hotch hangs up, cognac eyes landing on me again and darkening slightly as he takes me in, my legs still shaking a little before he has to shake his head and find a suit shirt and jacket.

We make it to the runway with three minutes to spare and the hickeys and marks still very visible as it was cover them and miss the jet or make it and ignore everyone’s comments.

As we step into the cabin, the atmosphere shifts. Eyes dart towards me and Hotch, lingering on the conspicuous mark adorning both our necks and the fact I’m wearing Hotch’s jumper. Whispers flutter through the air like wayward butterflies, tinged with curiosity and amusement, as the team members look at the scene before them.

Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he exchanges knowing glances at Emily who sighs and hands him some money as JJ attempts to stifle a giggle behind her hand across from them. Garcia, ever the theatrical, widens her eyes in exaggerated shock, her hand flying to her mouth in an ever so theatrical gesture of astonishment.

Rossi, ever the observant one, arches one eyebrow in amusement, his lips quirking into a sly smile as he takes in the sight of us. His gaze holding a mixture of amusement and approval, silently acknowledging the feelings finally accepted between me and Hotch even if it was done in a very unprofessional way.

The comments come in a flurry, a blend of teasing remarks and playful backer, laced with the underlying affection shared among the members of the team. Despite the teasing, there is an unmistakable sense of camaraderie, a bond forged through countless missions and shared experiences, that holds everyone together even in the most unconventional of moments.

Hotch presses a gentle kiss to the side of my head, moving his hand from the small of my back as I smack Morgan’s arm lightly, passing them all to fall into the seat next to my best friend - Spencer - who hasn’t said a word. I rest my head on his shoulder and smack his leg as I feel his shoulders moving with silent laughter, everyone going back to teasing me and Hotch as the case can wait until we get there.

Criminal Minds Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

@guacam011y @rosaliedepp @kajjaka

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revelboo · 1 month ago

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I just wanted to say how much I love your writing! I love all the tfp pet stories (poor smokescreen, he's doing his best), I love the tfo stories (finally got around to watch the movie), but my favourite currently is Waspinator. Our brave boy deserves so many cuddles <3 And I love the pictures from your figures, they're almost as much fun as the fics

Thank you! Waspinator is trying his hardest, but he’s scared out of his processor

Worker Bee Pt 31

Waspinator x Reader

• Getting jerked around as he darts erratically about, he’d left the cover of the trees hours ago, entered a stretch of grassland and brush. The last hour or so had been predominantly brown stretches of nothing, though. Where’s he going? Does he even know? You’d tried to convince him to stop, but he’s babbling and sobbing nonstop, too freaked out to listen. But he’d saved you. Actually attacked another of his kind for you, protected you when you’d been sure he was too scared of his own shadow to fight.

• “Waspinator protect mate. Safe nest. Safe nest for Waspinator and mate,” he mumbles, flying as fast as he can. Slowly registering that he’s heading into Autobot controlled territory and his anxiety doubles. Megatron had sent Barricade to bring him back by force. Had hoped he’d be forgotten, left alone. That he could be happy, but Megatron isn’t going to stop. Hates him, but still won’t let him go. Why won’t he let him go? He’s trembling uncontrollably, optics leaking coolant when he feels the faint hum of a distant biofield and he spots a red truck far below. Autobot? They’ll attack him, hurt you. Right?

• “Wasp, please. We need to stop,” you try again, squirming and still tied up in your curtain, all of his extra limbs clutching you to his frame as he flies in his giant wasp form. Still not listening. Tired, hungry, and really needing to pee, you groan. And slowly realize he’s distantly following the truck ahead of him. Watching it turn off the road and bounce across the dirt. After what feels like forever, it veers and drives straight into the base of a mountain. And disappears. “Wasp?” He’s arrowing down with you, aiming for the base of the mountain where the truck had disappeared.

• Flinching as the holomatter illusion of solid rock shivers over him, and you scream in fear to make his antenna flatten back. Right as sirens shriek. Transforming, he wraps himself around you, kneeling. Autobots might listen. Might also shoot. Wings buzzing aggressively as he tucks your head against his neck, he hisses as Autobots come running, weapons drawn. And he’s tensed, ready to bolt with you. Wincing when you see the weapons on the two of you and start screaming louder. ‘Release the human, Decepticon scum,’ one Autobot, the red truck growls, weapon drawn and humming. “Not Decepticon,” Waspinator growls, servos tightening on you. “Waspinator.”

• Are these the guys that sent the asshole he saved you from? Why would he come here? Heart racing as you look around at the giants and their big guns. ‘Let the human go,’ another black and white mech demands. Wait. Do they think he’s the threat? Scared out of your mind, you reach up to grab at Waspinator’s head, snagging his mandible to make him whine. They’re demanding he hand you over, that he doesn’t hurt you. Trying to protect you from Wasp? And he’s frozen, trembling against you as they yell at him. “Don’t you dare touch him,” you manage, voice breaking and one of them looks at you, mouth opening slightly. “He’s mine.” Hoping you’re not wrong and they don’t just blast both of you as the black and white mech turns and an even bigger alien is striding forward.

• Curling more around you as he hisses warnings, wings buzzing, Waspinator wants to scramble backwards and run with you. Too scared to speak, because they’re going to hurt him. Maybe hurt you. Shouldn’t have come here. He’s supposed to protect his little mate and he’d brought you somewhere dangerous instead. Failed. Screwed up like he always does. ‘Are you trying to defect? Renouncing the Decepticons?’ A deep voice asks, and his head lifts, wilting under the stare of the Autobot leader, Optimus Prime. Is he defecting? “Yes?” He growls uncertainly and the Autobots exchange a look. If it means having a safe nest where Megatron can’t reach him or you? He’ll agree to anything.

#transformers x reader #waspinator x reader #idw waspinator

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jsooly · 5 months ago

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death in the family (4) / sully family x human!daughter/sister!reader

synopsis, with a lot of time on your hands, you look into the RDA hoping to find spider.

a meatier chapter to make up for the break i took <3

(1) / . . . / (7) / (8*) / (9* - ur here! ☆)

+ chapters with an * beside it means that it’s following atwow plot line as opposed to disconnected scenarios

living at the human base was an adjustment. a week in and you still hadn't completely come to terms with it. for one, you had a lot more time on your hands without not-so-little ones to supervise.

you tried to busy yourself with menial tasks. calibrating balances, watching the old logs, getting upset over the old logs, reading and correcting norm's scientific studies... the base was nothing like hometree, and even the rocky expanses of high camp was homier than the metal box you found yourself in. the incessant buzz of the research equipment made it hard to not be antsy, and the fluorescent lighting above your designated bunk was a poor excuse for the gentle light of the sun.

thankfully you did get a room to yourself with all the basics. a desk, bed, mirror, and bathroom. despite being human, you had little experience with human surroundings and things, and you had no possessions to occupy the furniture they provided you. you found it bitterly funny that you had a physical reminder of everything you lost.

norm knocked on your door. "hey." he pressed his lips together in an awkward smile. "your mother left this for you."

you sat up on your bed, your brows furrowing in confusion. "when?"

"about a day before they left." norm dropped a beaded necklace into your cupped hands. "i'm sorry i didn't remember sooner, i was..."

"busy?" you finished for him, not meeting his eye as you turned the jewelry over in your palms.

"yeah."

that was also a theme you were recognizing. norm had a family of his own—mated with an olangi woman and had two kids. between that and his studies, he was often away from the base.

you held up the necklace, letting it dangle in front of you. it was very... neytiri. the garment was layered 3 times, with a multitude of beads colored blue and brown along the woven string.

"she said it was hers a while back. one she grew out of." norm explained.

"why didn't she give it to me when she was here?"

"i..." norm's head tilted, his eyes flickering up to the ceiling as he searched for an answer. "this held a weight of finality for her. she wants to hear how you like it when you see each other again."

you quirked a faint smile, removing your current piece and hooking neytiri's around your neck. even though it was designed for a 8ft tall woman, it fit perfectly against your chest. it even smelled like her.

you sighed deeply, your moment cut short when norm cleared his throat. your focus snapped to him expectantly.

"i've got to go out again. i'll probably be a few days, at most." he informed you. "you remember the rules, right?"

you nodded, smiling politely as he left you to your thoughts. you weren't exactly sure of the details of the instructions norm received from jake. for the most part, you were free to do what you wanted as long as you didn't wander too close to the RDA base.

but you made a promise to kiri, and you were never one for following orders anyway. now, more than ever.

—

"the location of jake sully." general ardmore enunciated her words.

spider was fastened against the interrogation machine, mechanical panels of green light whirring around him in a blur. behind the RDA general, a map of his brain was blown up, scientists buzzing around it like flies searching for their last meal.

"a single thought, and we'll see it." she continued monotonously, "we know you know where he is."

"i don't know! i swear!" spider screamed, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he fought a battle against his very own mind. his eyes squeezed shut, gritting his teeth to zero in on the pain.

quaritch observed the boy, letting the interrogation continue for a few seconds longer before pulling the plug. the general whipped to face him, disgruntled, but he held out a giant blue hand to calm her.

"let me try the personal approach."

"you're not his father." ardmore reminded him, her eyes cold and calculating. "i meant to discuss something i saw on your fallen soldier's body cam, by the way."

quaritch's eyes momentarily drifted to a shuddering spider, blood trailing out of his nose.

"what?" quaritch answered the general.

"you encountered another savage human, did you not?"

"yeah." quartich replied, wanting to speed up the conversation so he could make his play at spider. "do we have to do this now—"

"did you notice she didn't have a gas mask?"

the general's words made him freeze. huh. he, in fact, did not notice that.

"and she was breathing just fine." ardmore scoffed, stepping off the interrogation platform and rubbing her temples. "wonder what freak of nature cooked her up. regardless, she could be a step further in solving the problem of sustaining human life on pandora. she's a person of interest."

"i assume jake sully took her when he ran and hid." quaritch mentally rifled through his memories for any indication of your continued stay in the forest. by his understanding, you were a sully as well.

"that's your first mistake." ardmore's voice was clipped as she stormed off. "just keep an eye out. and if she did flee with the family, don't kill her."

quaritch tossed an unimpressed look at ardmore. he didn't care about the girl, but duty was duty.

"i'm gonna talk to the kid," quartich circled back to his original task. ardmore waved him off.

as if talking would work on spider—and it didn't. quaritch sat on the table next to spider, trying to appeal to his need to escape from here, the tantalizing chance of being out with the recom group. he knew the boy would scheme against them, but he figured he could handle anything the runt tried.

if anything, he was glad spider was the only connection to jake sully he had to tame in order to pursue the enemy.

"i'm not going to ask you to betray jake sully. i know you're not going to do that. you're loyal, and... i admire loyalty." quaritch's lips twitched up in a smile. "just... ride along."

spider refused to look at his pseudo-father, but he wasn't going to pass up that deal. anything to get out of there.

soon enough he was on the squad's airship. quaritch's heavy hand gripped his shoulder, pushing him down into a seat.

"you listen up," he towered over him. "there's a tracker built in that mask. we hit the ground and you take off, i'll have you back in two minutes and i'll give you an old school ass whippin'. understood?"

spider rolled his eyes at him, writhing in the mutant's iron grip.

"understood?" quaritch repeated, his glare sharp and unforgiving.

spider narrowed his eyes, "yes sir." he responded derisively.

when the recoms found a clearing in the forest, they stationed their ship and huddled up among the lush greenery.

"wherever jake sully is, we'll find him." quaritch promised, determination set in his features. "and his batshit crazy wife, too."

he earned a round of murmured chuckles from his squad.

"matter fact, every one in the sully lineage is a pain in the ass." quaritch rested his hands on his belt as he continued. "the oldest son took out zhang. the little ones bit y'all, and their human adoptee put more holes in this squad than i can count on one hand." he clicked his tongue in disappointment. "that's not good. we can't have that. which reminds me of our second objective: bring the girl in for testing."

spider frowned, his mind racing to decipher their intentions. but you should be long gone by now, so his worries subsided.

"if that girl can be just as savage as the rest of 'em, we should have no problem going full na'vi. we're already blue."

spider thought it laughable when he listened to them planning to go 'full na'vi.' he couldn't help but think that it would be easy as pie to mislead them, since they were stupid enough to entrust their learning to him.

oh yeah, there was no way these guys were catching jake sully anytime soon. not if he had any say in the matter.

—

you felt much more comfortable in the forest. sounds of your footsteps didn't echo behind you and for once, you breathed in fresh air instead of the musk of scientists parked in front of their microscope for three days straight.

well, you were mostly soundless. the beads of neytiri's necklace click clicked together every time you took a big leap. but you figured you blended in well enough to the soundboard of pandora.

crouching atop the thick branches a ways away from the RDA base, you caught sight of quaritch hanging out the side of an airship that was taking off.

you followed from a distance, remaining perched and hidden among the leaves. you craned your neck out, eyes peering down at them. you could make out the bandages over the wounds you inflicted. and—

"spider." you whispered before you could stop yourself. he was okay.

though you could hardly call being right in the palms of your enemy 'okay.' your first instinct was to leap out but you silenced the urge and pondered your next move. you knew firsthand you couldn't take them all, so you trailing behind them was all you could do until you found the right opportunity.

—

meanwhile, after a treacherous flight over a raging sea, the rest of the sullys found uturu with the na'vi of awa'atlu, a metkayina clan. no one was happy to begin with, and the rocky start with their hosts didn't help with their moods.

"don't cause trouble." jake warned them in their family huddle. "learn fast, pull your weight."

the soft cries of their youngest caught everyone's attention, all heads turning in her direction.

"i wanna go home," tuk sobbed, her usually bright eyes blurry with tears. "i miss y/n."

"aw, tuk," neytiri cooed with sympathy, her head tilting in concern.

"this is our home now." jake pulled her into his side, squeezing her comfortingly when her head knocked against his chest in defeat. "and soon enough, y/n will be able to live with us."

"what does your father always say?" neytiri supported her husband, giving her children expectant looks.

"sullys stick together." they droned unenthusiastically in unison.

"that's right," jake nodded, a sad yet hopeful smile on his face. "sullys stick together."

tsireya beckoned them outside, and they rushed into the water. that was one thing they were excited about. tuk waddled behind her older brothers', their flashy diving throwing her off guard. she whimpered softly as she glimpsed at the deep water, but after remembering she leaped off a waterfall with you, she figured she could handle a couple feet's worth of water.

she took a few steps back before catapulting herself off the walkway with an excited whoop.

she surfaced with a gasp followed by a bright laugh. "i wish y/n was here, she'd love this!"

"y/n?" aonung treaded water, approaching the group as they surfaced and breathed in deeply. "who is this y/n?"

"just our sister back—"

"shhh, tuk!" lo'ak snapped, lightly shoving her shoulder.

"what?" she whined, her face disappearing underwater momentarily. she returned above water with a glare.

"you have left behind a sister?" aonung scoffed in disbelief. "what, is she more ugly than you?"

lo'ak bared his teeth but before he could bite back, neteyam stepped in. "she's older than us, old enough to live by herself."

"she's staying with our human friends—"

"tuk!" lo'ak hissed, rearing on his youngest sister with an incredulous look. "take a hint!"

"what?" she whined again, more aggressively. "it's true!"

"they don't need to know everything!"

"ahhh," a stupid smirk wormed its way onto aonung's face, looking at tsireya and roxto for support in his interrogation. "is this sister a demon?"

"aonung." tsireya cut in sharply, her brows knitted. he ignored her, enjoying how visible lo'ak's rage was.

"i am not surprised. after all, you all are contaminated with demon's blood."

"let it go." neteyam bit out in lo'ak's ear, pushing him as best he could in the water. lo'ak, a million retorts dormant on his tongue, took his older brother's advice and tore himself out of the water, storming along the walkway back to their marui.

"wait!" tsireya called behind them helplessly. she swam closer to the walkway as neteyam helped pull tuk out of the water. "i apologize for my brother. he has no manners. please, come back out with us."

neteyam flashed her a brief, appreciative smile. "we'll be back in a few minutes. i promise."

the minute he turned his back to walk off, his smile immediately dropped and he let out a deep sigh. his work was definitely cut out for him.

—

you watched as spider taught the recoms how to tell if a fruit was poisonous or not. eventually they broke their huddle to go harvest what would be lunch, dinner, and probably breakfast.

strangely enough, a seed of eywa floated out of nowhere and found its resting place on your new necklace. wildly confused but preoccupied with spider, you shooed it away.

now or never. you told yourself, skillfully descending the tree. landing without a sound, you stalked through the bushes, hanging low to the ground.

you snuck up behind them, crouching just behind spider as he looked on with crossed arms, like a schoolteacher supervising kindergarteners during recess.

you grabbed his wrist. "spider. come on, let's go." you whispered urgently.

he tensed up, startled, resisting your grip. "y/n? why are you—"

"we can chat later. come on, they're all distracted."

"i can't."

"why?"

"tracker." he tapped his mask.

your stomach flipped. shit. how are you going to work around that? you sunk back down out of sight.

"okay. face them, act normal. don't react, and don't talk." you whispered your instructions. "i'm gonna ask you questions. show one finger for yes, two for no."

he folded his arms behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"are you okay?" you asked.

he held up a finger. yes.

"okay. do they know jake left?"

yes. his single finger remained extended.

"do they know where they are?"

he flashed two fingers. no.

"but they're still pursuing them." you asked for clarification.

yes.

"can they track them?"

yes.

"they can. with what? radio chatter?"

yes, he indicated, but made a keep going motion with his hands.

"airships?"

yes.

okay. you thought. at least you knew jake and the rest weren't about to contact the human base anytime soon, if ever.

you clutched your head. spider's tracker put a dent in your plans, but you weren't totally surprised. and idea popped into your head. your fingers curled around your own comm choker, snapping it off your neck.

checking to see if the coast was clear, you tied it around spider's wrist. thankfully, it looked like any other omaticayan bracelet.

"i just tied my comm to you." you explained. "i'll reconnect to the system with a spare back at the base. use it whenever you feel the need to or get a chance."

he raised one finger to show he understood.

"round up!" quaritch's booming voice echoed even in the open space. "let's check out the loot."

"i'll see you." you whispered, patting his arm in farewell before sneaking off to a safe distance once more. you caught spider's faint nod before leaving.

tracker in the gas mask. you pursed your lips, racing against the sunset back to base. what could you possibly do about that?

—

"lo'ak, go back out there with your siblings. your hosts are waiting." jake ordered his son firmly, watching the boy pace anxiously.

"they can insult us all they want just cuz they decide to be decent people and house us?" lo'ak sneered.

"hey." jake snapped, eyes narrowing. "none of that. go outside."

lo'ak rolled his eyes, grumbling to himself as he begrudgingly obeyed his father's orders.

as soon as he left, jake sunk into a seat, dropping his face into his hands. "this was the right thing to do." he whispered, but it teetered between a statement and question of confidence.

"no use second guessing yourself now." neytiri advised, stoking the fire.

a beat of silence passed between them. gentle ocean breeze whistled past their marui, filling the atmosphere with a cool touch.

"what do you think she's doing?" jake mumbled.

"sleeping, hopefully." neytiri hummed with a far-off smile.

"knowing her?" jake chuckled, shaking his head. "definitely not."

they shared soft laughter, competing for who's prediction was the most accurate.

if only they knew you were single-handedly trying to undermine the RDA's operations.

. . .

thanks for reading! <3

taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @dae-dreamer @delirious-dolce @strawbaerriesvt @avatar-lover @ryiana @lxon-kxnnedy @zukki33 @chalahyung01 @ssc7514 @shmaptainbonky @aureolinb @whosbibi2000

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ivyyisbored22 · 8 months ago

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𝐂𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐧—𝘏𝘢𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids one shot

Synopsis: Your cramps have been unbearable, leaving you curled up and wishing for the pain to pass. Jisung, your sweet boyfriend, shows up with your favorite chocolates, a tub of ice cream, and a perfectly planned movie night.

Content Warnings: Fluff. Soft, sweet Jisung, cuddles, kisses, holding hands, mentions of period cramps. Just love♡

Note: I know this man would shower you with endless love and cuddles during this time, god I'm so desperate I need bf Han to cuddle me when I'm crying coz of cramps.

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count: 1.3k (Sorry if it's too short, I just wanted to write something quickly since I'm currently dying with cramps (⁠╯⁠︵⁠╰⁠,⁠))

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

"Fuck...Not today..." You whine as you feel a sharp pain in your lower abdomen, your hand flies over your lower belly to soften the cramp but it was pointless.

You slump back onto the couch, pulling your legs up to your chest and resting your head on your knees, the painful cramp feeling like it's going to last for long hours today.

You were in too much of pain to get up and take a pill and hot water bottle, but if you don't, you know it's not gonna go down anytime soon.

The soft buzz of your phone on the coffee table pulls your attention away from the ache. You groan, leaning forward to grab it, only to wince at the movement.

A message from Jisung lights up your screen. You smile softly reading his text.

Hannie : Morning, baby! :D How are you feeling today? Wanna do something fun? ^^

You sigh, staring at the text, torn between responding honestly or brushing it off. The idea of Han's bubbly energy feels exhausting right now, but you also don’t want to push him away.

Me: Not great. Cramps. I think I’m staying in today. Sorry Ji :(

Sending hit and you toss your phone to the side, reluctantly getting off the couch and preparing your cozy hot water bottle. The warm embrace of the bottle against your lower belly offers some relief as you walk into your room, wrapping yourself in a blanket.

As you made yourself comfortable under the warmth of your blanket and hot water bottle, your eyes started slowly closing, falling into soft sleep.

After what felt like sleeping for hours, a faint sound from the living room woke you up, you groaned holding the bottle on your tummy and rubbing your eyes together.

The door to your bedroom was closed, you don't remember closing it and then again you heard someone moving around in the hall.

It has to be Han.

He was the only one who had the keys to your place if he wanted to spend the night after working for the day in the studio. It was almost like you both lived together since he had some of his belongings and hoodies at your place.

You slowly pushed the blanket over and slipped into your slippers and opened the door, making your way to the living room, the sight in front of you made your jaw drop.

The coffee table was set up with your favourite tub of ice cream, chocolates, snacks, your favourite strawberry milk and a bouquet of flowers.

You spotted Han fiddling with the TV remote, changing the batteries, he turned around just in time and spotted you standing at the entrance of the living room.

"Oh hey baby. Sorry if I woke you up." he said softly, almost apologetically, that made you pout cutely.

"Hanji you came," You walked towards him, Han laid the remote on the couch and opened his arms for you.

You immediately hugged him, his minty cologne engulfing your senses as you buried your head against his chest. Han wrapped his arms around you, soaking you with his warmth.

“Of course, I did,” he says, hugging you tighter. “You’re in pain, and I’m not about to let my girl suffer alone.”

You looked up at Han with so much love filled in your eyes for him, his gaze fell on you with an equal amount of love and care, stroking your cheek.

He reached for the flowers on the table and handed it to you, your fingers brushed against his as you took them, the beautiful colours and delicate petals made your heart swell.

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper, your voice soft with gratitude.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Jisung replies with a cheeky grin, but his eyes remain sincere.

You smiled bashfully and leaned up, Han leans just as you do and presses his lips on yours. His tongue swipes over the seam of your bottom lip, your hands wrapping around his neck pulling him closer.

Han deepens the kiss, his hands finding their way to your waist, holding you gently but firmly, as if afraid you might disappear. The world around you fades, leaving only the warmth of his lips against yours and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your hands.

When you finally pull away, breathless but content, Jisung rests his forehead against yours. His eyes flutter open, and the corners of his mouth curl into the cutest smile.

“Better?” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing.

“Much better,” you whisper, the dull ache in your belly almost forgotten in the moment.

He chuckles, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on your sides. “Good. Come sit.”

Han guides you to the couch, plopping down beside you and pulling you into his lap. You let out a surprised laugh as he wraps the blanket around both of you, ensuring you're snug and warm.

“Alright,” he says, picking up the remote and clicking on the movie he had cued up. “I figured a classic rom-com would do the trick. Ice cream is mandatory, and I’m here for all the cuddles you want.”

You glance at him, your heart swelling again at how much thought he’s put into making you feel better. “Ji, you really didn’t have to go through all this trouble.” Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his jaw, brushing your lips against his soft skin.

He tilts his head, giving you a mock-serious look. “First of all, it’s not trouble. Second, taking care of you is literally my favourite thing to do. So, no arguments, okay?”

“Okay,” you chuckled, resting your head against his chest, snuggling closer to him as the movie begins to play.

True to his word, Han makes sure you’re completely spoiled, feeding you small spoonfuls of ice cream and sneaking kisses between scenes. His fingers thread through your hair absentmindedly, lulling you into a state of complete relaxation.

At some point, you shift slightly to glance up at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “I love you Hanji."

He looks down, his expression soft and adoring. “I love you too baby girl.”

A shade of crimson paints your cheeks, your fingers threading his hair, his lips falling on yours. Slowly you both shifted, Han laying on his back and you on top of him, fingers intertwining as your lips moved together in a slow, unhurried rhythm.

The warmth of his embrace and the gentle way his hands held yours made the world feel soft and safe, like nothing else mattered but the two of you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, as if the words were meant just for you. “Even when you’re not feeling your best, you’re still the most gorgeous person in the world to me.”

Your cheeks burned a deeper shade of red, and you couldn’t help but hide your face in the crook of his neck. “You’re too sweet, Hanji. How am I supposed to handle this?”

He laughed softly, his chest rumbling against you. “By letting me spoil you as much as I want. No complaints allowed.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, the depth of his love shining through them. “I don’t think I could complain even if I wanted to.”

Jisung’s grin widened, and he gently rolled the two of you so that you were back on your sides, his arms wrapping securely around you. He nuzzled into your hair, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because this is where I want to be. Right here with you.”

His words were like a balm to your soul, and as your eyes grew heavier, you let yourself sink into his warmth, the steady beat of his heart lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

Han stayed awake a little longer, watching you with a soft smile, cradled in his warmth and love, making you feel safer and more cherished than ever before.

Enjoyed this one shot? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

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lexsssu · 1 year ago

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Again (Uchiha Sasuke)

TAGS: Sasuke/F!reader, yandere, obsession, dirty thoughts, breeding kink, oneshot Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

“Kaa-chan told me to remind you to eat and to give you this! She said it’s your favorite.”

Gingerly taking the bento being offered to him, something flickered within Sasuke’s lone visible eye which disappeared almost as soon as it appeared. Even without opening it, he was already sure of its contents.

You were the one who made it after all.

“Please give her my thanks when you get home. I’ll drop this off myself once I’ve cleaned it,” the Uchiha makes sure to use his left hand as he receives the lunch box, a small shiver running down his spine as a brief image of you happily preparing this meal for him appears in his mind’s eye.

“Will do, Oji-san! And thank you again for today’s training session. Please come visit us at home whenever you can. Kaa-san always looks forward to your visits. She always says you don’t visit enough,” Shinachiku’s soft laughter reminds Sasuke of how much he takes after you than Naruto.

From the shade of green in his eyes, to the way his smiles aren’t as blinding as Naruto’s and yet exudes the same strength and softness yours does. Shinachiku Uzumaki is his father’s son, but no one can ever deny that he is also his mother’s child.

He could’ve been your child.

All of them could have been yours.

If only you hadn’t been so weak.

If you simply had the power…then perhaps she’d have been yours.

Not Naruto’s…YOURS!!!

When both he and the young genin separate for the night, him to his lively home filled with the happiness and laughter of family, Sasuke on the other hand retreats to the lonely Uchiha compound. He is all too used to the dreary atmosphere of the place he once called home, his steps never faltering as he entered the main house’s kitchen and sat himself at the dining table.

Inside the 3-layer bento were several onigiri with various fillings, namely umeboshi, salmon, and bonito flakes. A tomato salad that definitely was one of your own homegrown ones (because he has never seen, smelled, and tasted any tomatoes more delicious than yours). The tomato soup was still warm and felt even warmer as he ate it as slowly as he could, savoring the myriad of flavors contained in such a seemingly simple dish.

Though he wasn’t fond of sweets, the avenger couldn’t ignore the slice of strawberry shortcake you packed for him. The first bite of cake reminded him of the sweetness of the youth he spent with you despite his hyperfixation on killing his own brother at the time.

If he’d known the truth that early on then perhaps he wouldn’t have wasted all his time chasing after Itachi.

Naruto wouldn’t have had the chance to take you for himself if Sasuke understood that you were worth much more than his misguided revenge.

Even though Naruto left for training with Jiraiya, the blonde was more than happy to regale him with tales of how the two of you would do your best to send each other letters despite how they constantly went from place to place. Somehow, you always found yourself to him, and he to you.

It made Sasuke sick.

Don’t even get him started on all the flies that buzzed around you while he and Naruto were gone.

Despite most of the original rookies having settled down, the Uchiha was very much aware of how these same men gravitate towards you before Naruto went and made his formal claim.

That know-it-all Nara, the arrogant Hyuga, even Gaara of the Sand were almost always seen around you.

Hell, even that damned swordsman from Kiri who’s now currently its Mizukage was too close to you. Don’t even get him started on Haku who’d more or less become your guard dog ever since you saved both him and Zabuza all those years ago during that mission in Wave.

As much as he despised their attentions on you, he knew deep inside of him that all of them saw the very same thing in you that drew them all in like moths to a flame.

And he HATED it.

Hated that they all coveted you when none of them deserved to have you.

Sasuke’s last thought as he closed his eyes was that of you.

Always YOU.

The Sakura blooms you gifted him smelled so nice…It was a good thing he placed them on his bedside table, because he could close his eyes and pretend that it is the scent of your hair.

He could pretend that it is his hands that run across the soft pink strands as you sleep.

He could pretend that he is the one who feasts upon your delicious cunt each night. His cock forcing your soft and pliant walls open again and again as your nails drag across his back, leaving angry red lines that serve as proof of how much he pleasured you. That it is his potent seed that fills your womb to the brim, globs of semen dripping from your pussy as he makes sure to pour loads and loads of his love within you.

Wouldn’t that be perfect?

Not only will he revive the Uchiha clan, but knowing that you carried his seed and nurtured them within you…he could burst from happiness just from the mere thought of it.

Sasuke falls into a deep sleep, soothed by the images of a reality that could have been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Even though Sensei told us not to have breakfast, I still think the last thing we should do is train on an empty stomach. So I made us all some breakfast and even lunch!”

Sasuke is once again presented with a bento filled with onigiri, but this time the hands holding onto the container were more slender as slim digits softly yet firmly gripped the lunch box.

“I’m not sure which filling you prefer, but I have different fillings with me so you can choose which one you like best,” ever the thoughtful person you were, you selflessly offered the last Uchiha the food despite how antisocial he’d been towards you despite the time you’d spend together as classmates at the academy.

In his first life, Sasuke simply scoffed at your attempts of kindness towards him. Batting you off at every opportunity as he believed himself above such camaraderie when his only goal in life was to enact his revenge.

Not anymore.

Without saying anything, the raven-haired preteen grabbed the Okaka rice ball just before Naruto could take it.

“Hey, what’s the big idea, teme?! I was gonna get that one!”

“...Tch. Then you should’ve been quicker, dobe.”

“Why you little…!”

The sound of your tinkling laughter and Naruto’s disgruntled mumbling was music to his Sasuke’s ears.

He may have managed to get you the first time around, but not this time.

Uchiha Sasuke didn’t know who or what had flung him back into the past, but Indra knows he won’t ever make the same mistakes he did before.

#lexsssu writes #naruto #uchiha sasuke #sasuke uchiha #sasuke uchiha x reader #uchiha sasuke x reader #sasuke x reader #sasuke x you #sasuke x y/n #crossposted on ao3 #yandere x reader

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orlaunderrated · 14 days ago

Text

The Edges of Us: Chapter 9

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.5k+

Note: LMAO i wrote this at 'work' (i have a weekend job where i work as a 'supervisor' and i sit in an office and play the sims and get paid for it). THNAK YOU EVERYONE for the kindest of words. my heart is so full with everyone talking about this series.

also this chapter is a bit of a love letter to my friends at my own version of The Van. i pray they never see this but i love those guys. also also you all need to play Beerio Kart it goes so hard.

xxx

By the time I get to Ruth’s, her flat is already buzzing. It's the Tuesday crew from The Van, and a few extra people I don’t recognise.

There’s someone from the soup run — I think his name’s Leon — curled up in the armchair, nursing a can of lager and shouting advice at the screen. One of the newer volunteers, Naomi, is painting her nails on the coffee table like it’s not covered in half-eaten biscuits and empty crisp packets. And someone I don’t recognise — probably someone’s partner or flatmate — is crouched in front of the TV cabinet, trying to get the Switch working, sleeves rolled up like it's been a tough day at work.

Ruth lights up when she sees me. “Ugh, finally. We’re all sick of Quiplash. Come teach everyone Beerio Kart”

She claps her hands like a teacher calling a class to order. “Okay! Y/N is going to explain the rules for those of us who don’t know how to play… which is all of us.”

She practically shoves me onto the couch like I’m about to deliver a TED Talk.

I lean in, pointing to my fellow volunteers like a revolutionary leader. “Rule one: you can’t drink and drive. Mario world has standards. Both hands off the controller while you’re drinking.”

“Justice for Toad!” someone yells. Laughter ripples through the room.

“Two: you have to finish your beer before the race ends. Or you lose. Morally.” Everyone is now calculating their strategies.

“You can drink during countdowns, when you fall off the track, when you get shelled—”

“—when your ex texts you mid-race and ruins your whole life,” Naomi adds from the floor. More laughter. I laugh but I do not get the joke, or if there even is a joke.

So I drop into the last open spot — a beanbag wedged between Tom (a guy from Thursday nights who always brings his own gloves) and someone covered in tattoos who’s currently balancing a beer can on their head.

“Three… two… one—GO!” someone shouts, and half the room starts chugging like we’re at some sacred, chaotic communion.

To my left, Amina (who's homemade banana bread is to die for) downs her entire beer before her kart even moves. By the time she slams her can down, she’s already in 12th place, but she’s grinning. “Now I can actually drive, losers!”

Across the room, one of the quieter volunteers — Sam, I think — is casually cruising in second place until he brakes right before the finish line and sips the rest of his can like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Bold move, Sam,” someone mutters, as he finishes with one dramatic gulp and crosses the line with milliseconds to spare.

I, on the other hand, am doing what most of us are doing: swerving off Rainbow Road, nursing bruises from red shells, and sneaking sips during every crash. I’ve barely made it through half the can and I’m losing spectacularly, but Ruth keeps shouting, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” every time I get back on track.

There’s shouting, laughing, cans cracking open. Someone yells, “Wait, I spilled beer in my controller!” and no one stops playing. No one even really cares who’s winning. The flat smells like beer, dry shampoo, and warm energy.

My character flies off the edge of the course for the third time in one lap.

“Perfect time for a drink,” I mutter, tipping my can back.

From across the room, Ruth hollers, “THAT’S the spirit!”

It’s stupid and chaotic and none of it makes sense. But for once, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Not even a little bit.

I'm still getting to know these people, but they’re kind. Loud in the right ways. Familiar in a way that doesn’t ask too much of me. Ruth shoots me a grin from the corner, one that says: See? Told you this would be fun.

And for a minute, it is.

Even if I've been inked and and I’ve been hit by three shells in a row.

Even if the memory of Will’s kiss — and George’s look — hovers at the edge of my mind like stormclouds threatening to crack open.

Right now, I’m here.

And I’m winning.

Sort of.

Xxx

The Uber was called, and the room still buzzed with energy. People darted around, perfecting eyeliner flicks and dabbing on last-minute lipstick. The chaos from Beerio Kart had settled into a warm, tipsy glow — everyone flushed and laughing, convinced the game had been a smashing success.

Ruth caught my eye and tilted her head, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“So, why were you late?” she whispered, eyes sparkling.

I hesitated, cheeks heating up. “Kissing Will,” I blurted, half proud, half embarrassed.

Her eyes practically popped. “WHAT, no way! Spill the tea — I did not see that coming. I mean I did, but I was thinking in like, 3 to 6 months.”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but damn, the memory of his lips was still burning a hole in my brain.

We lean in like we’re conspirators plotting something way more interesting than makeup tips.

I explain to her that George had a bunch of his friends over for pre-drinks, “So, he texts me, right?” I grin, leaning in like I’m spilling some top-secret intel. “He can see my shadows moving—and straight-up demands to be let into my room. Like, no ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up,’ just full-on ‘open this door now’ energy.”

Ruth bursts out laughing. “Oh girl, that’s borderline stalker-chic. I’m here for it.”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, well, it worked. Then he hits me with, ‘I’m tired of pretending I don’t like you,’ which is like, okay, chill.”

Ruth raises an eyebrow. “Ooooh, so he’s got a soft side? Didn’t know that was in his skill set.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Right? And then he goes, ‘I would’ve kissed you back’—which is crazy work, so obviously he’s been talking to George.” Ruth looks unamused at that.

“But then we kiss, because, what else do you say to that? It was literally crazy. Fully like Nick-And-Jess-From-New-Girl-First-Kiss-Vibes. It was soooo unexpected but damn, electric.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Electric, huh? And then what? Spill.”

I laugh, cheeks warming. “Okay, so then I tell him to leave, and he pushes me against the wall and kisses me again. More like ‘can’t-help-myself’ vibes. I swear my brain took a coffee break and my lips just did their own thing.”

Ruth claps her hands softly. “Girl, that’s textbook ‘can’t resist’ behaviour. Love it.”

I’m laughing. Genuinely. Not performative or polite — real.

Then Maya—Ruth’s close friend—sits cross-legged on the floor, phone out as a mirror. She's moving her lip gloss wand with the precision of a heart surgeon. She glances up at me, wine glass wobbling in her hand. “Wait, is this Will? Like, your friend WillNE on YouTube?”

I don’t even have to wonder how she knows; Ruth’s been bragging about living with ‘influencers’ all week. I freeze just enough for Maya to catch it.

She grins, totally misreading my silence. “Sorry, I only ask ‘cause I thought he had a girlfriend.”

My stomach twists. A tiny, traitorous lurch.

“What?” I say, too casual, too fast.

Maya’s already scrolling on her phone but keeps talking. “Yeah, he’s all over this girl’s Insta. Brunette, Welsh, really pretty. Posted a pic with him at some gig last week—total boyfriend vibes. Hands-on-thigh kind of thing.”

Ruth shoots me a pointed look, but I don’t meet it. My face stays calm, but inside my heart is pounding like a drum.

“Oh?” I say, voice thin, stretched too tight, like a balloon about to pop.

I stare into my drink, the buzz fading fast, the edges of the room blurring and going cold.

Cue the slow-motion crash in my chest. Sharp, hollow, humiliating. Will never mentioned her. Not once. And here I am, catching feelings like an idiot, clinging to every glance, every inside joke, every stupid little moment like it meant something. Like he meant something.

I thought he was a friend. That’s the worst part. He’s been inviting me everywhere, pulling me into his life like there was space for me. Making me feel like I belonged. I thought he saw me. Really saw me.

And now? Now I just feel used. Like a placeholder. Like some sad, temporary girl who was dumb enough to believe that any of it was real. That feeling creeps in, the feeling where he looks at me like some kind of charity case. Something broken he could fix to feel better about himself. A project. Nothing permanent, just a distraction dressed up as concern.

I feel like an idiot.

Stupid for letting myself want more — for a second kiss, a text that means something, anything that isn’t just some blurry grey area he gets to walk away from untouched.

I take a long sip of my drink, trying to wash the embarrassment down with cheap rosé and bravado. But it lingers, tight in my throat, prickling behind my eyes. God, I feel so naive. Like a punchline he forgot to tell me I was part of.

Maya’s already moved on, chatting about something else, blissfully unaware of the landmine she just stepped on. But my mind is miles away now — back in my bedroom, back against the door, his mouth on my neck, whispering things that now feel like lies. Or worse.

Just meaningless.

I decide I'm back to hating him again, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not at all.

But I already know that I will.

Xxx

The club is a boiling pot of chaos — packed, sweaty, East London at its wildest. Bodies press against each other in a blur of sequins, smoke, and flashing lights. The bass doesn’t just shake the floor — it owns it — thudding through my chest with a relentless rhythm that matches the anger simmering just beneath my skin. Every beat feels like a dare, every strobe flash a spotlight on the pieces of me I’m trying to burn away.

I’m already buzzed, teetering on the edge of drunk, riding that sharp, reckless wave heartbreak always leaves behind — the kind that makes everything shimmer and sting at the same time. There’s glitter stuck to my collarbones, a smear of lipstick I don’t remember applying, and a voice in my head saying: Don’t think. Just move.

So I do.

I dance with my head thrown back, laughing too loud, drinking too fast. My arms are in the air, hair sticking to the back of my neck, spinning in circles like I can outrun the memory of his mouth on my skin. Around me, strangers cheer and twirl and grind and kiss like they’ve never been hurt. Like none of it matters. And maybe, for a moment, it doesn’t.

Someone hands me a drink — I don’t ask what it is. I just down it like it’s a potion to forget. Like it might bleach out the part of me still holding onto his name like it’s something sacred.

I’m hot, dizzy, untouchable. Or at least, I’m pretending to be. There’s something feral in me tonight — a girl made of spite and vodka and eyeliner, just daring the universe to give her another reason to self-destruct.

And under the lights, with my heart cracked wide open and every nerve on fire, I almost feel free.

Almost.

Then I see them.

George, Chris, and a few other familiar faces slice through the crowd like sharks hunting territory. I spot the two Arthurs and Bach, who I’m pretty sure I met once, maybe? One of the group I recognise as he threw a party the first week I got to London. A couple are Sidemen members — I know that because Will’s hyped about them all the time and even showed me a video where he was in. There are others too, faces I don’t fully recognize but feel like I’ve seen somewhere—maybe on my FYP, scrolling past late at night.

How did this even happen? How do a bunch of broke volunteers and a pack of overpaid YouTubers end up in the same club in East London? It feels like a cosmic joke, like the universe just couldn’t resist putting me in the middle of some weird influencer fever dream. I’m in op-shop boots and borrowed eyeliner, and they’re in designer jackets and thousand-pound smiles, casually famous in ways I still don’t fully understand.

Basically, I feel surrounded. Like I’m the odd one in a sea of familiar strangers.

Then, my eyes lock on the girl Maya showed me earlier. Small, built, gorgeous—she moves through the crowd like she owns it, every inch the part. And yeah, she’s with Will.

George locks eyes with me — that same deer-in-headlights look I’ve seen on him before, like he wasn’t expecting me to be here, like I’m some ghost that just stepped through the smoke machine haze. But there’s something else tangled in his expression now. Something darker. Jealousy? Regret? I can’t tell.

His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something — or maybe it’s just shock. He doesn’t move. Just stares across the crowd like I’ve knocked the air out of him. And maybe I have. I’m not sure what I was expecting from him — a wave? A smirk? Indifference? Anything would’ve hurt, but this uncertainty burns.

The lights flash blue, then red, then white, catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looks good. Stupidly good. Which only pisses me off more.

So I turn away first.

I throw my head back and laugh at something someone beside me didn’t even say, just to make sure he sees it. I let my hands slide down the arms of the person dancing with me. It's Quiet Sam. He's a bit confused, but he's also very drunk (he played Beerio Kart with shots). He smells like sweat and cheap cologne and safety. It’s petty. It’s deliberate. It’s survival.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see George shift. Like he wants to move toward me, or maybe away? Like he’s caught in the middle of two impulses and doesn’t trust either one. He raises his drink to his lips and downs half of it in one go. His hand is tight around the glass like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

There’s a beat, just one, where the crowd parts a little and there’s nothing between us. No bodies. No bass. Just silence and neon. And in that breathless, glittering pause, I see it again. Not just jealousy. Not just regret.

Longing.

And it knocks the wind out of me, because for a second, I want to reach for him too.

But then Amina grabs my hand, spinning me in a lazy circle. I let it happen. I let the moment pass. I don’t look back.

And then, Will spots me.

It happens mid-laugh — his, not mine. He’s leaning against the bar, drink in one hand, surrounded by people who probably don't even know his last name. His head’s thrown back, mouth open in that easy, effortless way that used to make my stomach flutter, fuck it still does. Then his eyes flick toward the dance floor—just casually, just a sweep—and he sees me.

He freezes.

Like a record scratch in the middle of a perfect song. Like I’ve just stepped out of a dream he thought he was still safely inside.

And to be fair, last time we spoke — what, five hours ago? — we were making out like idiots in my bedroom when all of his friends were in the next room. Breathless. Hands tangled in clothes. Him saying things like “I’m tired of pretending”, me believing them for long enough to let my guard down. He texted me after and I didn’t text back.

He has no idea I’m mad.

He has no idea.

So when he sees me now — glitter-smeared, mascara smudged, drink in hand like a weapon — he’s smiling. That same smile he wore when his mouth was on my neck. Open, stupid, happy. Like we’re still in that soft moment. Like nothing’s changed.

I make sure it shatters.

I don’t smile. I don’t wave. I don’t acknowledge him.

Instead, I tilt my head back and laugh at something that Sam says in my ear— laugh like I’m free, like nothing in the world is heavy or complicated or still haunting me. Then, without even thinking, I lean in and kiss that same guy on the cheek. Just loud enough that Will sees it. That everyone sees it. A blatant, glittering middle finger. A declaration: I’ve moved on. You were never that important.

It’s petty. It’s calculated. It’s completely unhinged.

But God, it feels good.

And when I finally glance back — just for a second, just to twist the knife — Will’s no longer smiling.

He looks confused. Hurt. Like he can’t quite compute what the hell just happened. He shifts his weight, scanning my face for any version of the girl who kissed him against a doorframe just hours ago. And he can’t find her. Because I buried her the second Maya said “girlfriend.”

He’s blinking too fast. Adjusting. You can see it all playing out behind his eyes: Did I do something? Did she regret it? Is this a joke?

And maybe I should feel bad — but I don’t. Because I did mean it. Every second of it.

And he didn’t think I deserved the truth.

Eventually, Will corners me at the bar, where neon flashes bounce off the bottles. He leans in, shouting over the bass. “You’re ignoring me!” He doesn’t let go of my gaze.

I raise my voice back, trying to sound casual but fierce: “Figured you’ve got options. Don’t let me get in the way.”

He blinks, clearly thrown. “What are you talking about?” He says loudly, confused, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t even know existed.

Before he can say more, the girl sidles up to him, shouting something I can’t quite catch over the pounding bass. She pats his back like she owns the moment, then turns and walks away, leaving him standing there like a question mark.

Will’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, darting to the floor, to the crowd—anywhere but me. I can almost hear the shame vibrating through the thrum of the music, mixing with the sweat and heat and everything else suffocating the room.

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to explain, maybe to beg.

So I spin away from him, grab another drink, down half of it in one go. The sting in my chest has nothing to do with the tequila. I throw myself into the rhythm—into the chaos—trying to drown the ache in bodies and basslines. The club is heaving, sweat and light and noise pressing in on all sides.

And then it changes.

A slower song pulses through the speakers, the bass heavy and honey-thick, like it’s moving through molasses. The lights shift, casting everything in a red-blue haze. It’s still loud, but the energy has dipped into something darker, more charged.

I feel him before I see him. The heat of him at my back. His breath close to my ear, just above the music: “Let me just talk to you.”

I don’t move. Not right away. My body goes still, rigid.

And then—I turn.

And we lock eyes.

And for a second, just one suspended moment in the chaos, it’s like the entire club goes silent. Like the bass cuts out, the crowd dissolves, the song holds its breath. Just me, him, and the gravity pulling between us. His face is flushed, eyes wide, desperate and soft all at once.

I nod. Barely. But he sees it.

And he reaches for my hand.

The noise crashes back around us as we move—shoulders bumping, drinks sloshing, bodies pressing past—but it all feels distant now. He’s pulling me toward the exit, and the club peels away behind us, like a fever breaking.

Like the night’s about to change.

We slip out of the chaos of the dancefloor together and into the smokers’ area. Neither of us smokes—thank God—because I hate the smell of cigarettes. I had a boyfriend in high school who smoked, and I remember how the smell clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, even his lips. I swore back then that I’d never kiss anyone who smoked again. It was one of those teenage promises I thought I’d never break.

To be fair, most people out here are vaping instead, that sweet, artificial fog hanging in the air instead of smoke. It’s better, I guess—less harsh, less lingering—but the smell still makes me wrinkle my nose. It’s a reminder of all the times I tried to convince myself that love could change things. That people could change.

The cold night air hits my skin, sharp and real against the muffled thrum of the club behind us. Suddenly, everything feels quieter, slower—the kind of space where you can finally breathe, and maybe even say what’s been tangled up inside your chest all day.

I glance over at him, searching his face in the dim light, and wonder if he has any idea how much has shifted in these last five hours since we were tangled up, kissing, careless. Five hours since he sent that text, expecting a reply I never gave. Five hours since I decided to hold all my words inside, bottled up like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.

Here, away from the crowd, away from the noise and flashing lights, the weight of it all presses down. And maybe, just maybe, this is the moment where we either break or begin to mend.

“What's going on? Why didn’t you answer my text?” Will asks, his voice low but urgent.

I meet his eyes, steady. “I heard about your girlfriend. I’m not interested in being the sidepiece, especially for someone like you.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Okay, ouch. Also… what girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I nod toward the club. “That girl in there. She’s touching you like she owns you. Maya showed me her Instagram.”

He scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. “Becky? She’s a YouTuber like me. She touches everyone when she’s drunk.”

I fold my arms, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

He looks hurt, defensive. “You’re going to believe Maya—someone you’ve never even spoken about—over me?”

“Yeah,” I say, voice flat.

He shakes his head, frustrated. “God, if you actually watched any YouTube, you’d know this.”

“Sorry, I have a real job,” I snap back. He looks at me in a way I can’t describe — hurt, maybe, or just tired of this. Of me. I don’t mean it, obviously, but I go for the kill anyway, aiming for something I know will land. “I never asked to be your little project, Will. I don’t need your charity.”

He breathes in deeply, and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m going back. We can have this conversation when were both sober”

He’s true to his word. Without another glance, he turns and melts back into the smoky swirl of strawberry-ice haze, leaving me standing there with the sharp sting of unanswered questions—and a bitter taste that isn’t from a vape.

I return inside, the club swallowing me back up like nothing happened. Like I hadn’t just stood outside in a fog of strawberry vape and bad decisions, tearing into someone who maybe didn’t even deserve it.

The music has shifted — something bouncier now, unserious and sticky with synths. I find the guy with too many tattoos by the speakers, his shirt half-unbuttoned and grinning like the night owes him something. He pulls me into a lazy twirl without asking, and I let him. It feels good to move. To not think.

Leon joins us halfway through the song, clutching two drinks and somehow still managing to shimmy in time with the beat. “I lost the others,” he yells over the music. “Maya tried to get into VIP by pretending to be Dua Lipa’s cousin.”

"She’s got the eyebrows for it,” I shout, grinning.

We fall into step, hips swinging, limbs loose. At some point, Tattoo Guy tries to do a body roll and almost knocks over Leon’s drink. We’re all giggling too hard to care. Leon makes a show of pretending to sue him for emotional damages.

“My cocktail is trauma now,” he shouts, faking solemnity, holding up the sloshed glass.

“I want that on a t-shirt,” I say, and Tattoo Guy immediately offers to design it — “I’ve got a guy who prints stuff.”

The lights spin above us, dizzy-bright. The kind that make everything feel a little more alive. For a while, I let myself forget. The boys who can’t decide. The messages left on read. The city that wants to swallow me whole.

But then I catch sight of George across the club — dim corner, low lighting, the kind of shadows that swallow things. He’s kissing a girl.

At first, I think my brain’s playing tricks on me.

She looks just like me.

Same hair — dark and messy like we both ran our fingers through it too many times tonight. Same build — same height, same posture, same kind of slightly hunched shoulders that come from never being sure if you’re taking up too much space. She’s even wearing a lace top and trousers combo that looks so similar to mine it’s almost funny. Almost.

My stomach flips. Sharp. Sour. Like I’ve swallowed something that’s about to come back up.

They’re by the bar — George and this almost-me — and he’s leaning in close, hand brushing her hip like he’s done it before. She’s laughing at something he’s said, tilting her head the way I do when I’m pretending not to care. And then, just like that, he kisses her.

It’s not even a maybe. It’s a full, real kiss. Slow, certain. Like he’s trying to say something with it. Like he means it.

And all I can think is: Is that what I looked like, when it was me?

Is that the version of me he wanted? Or maybe — and this might be worse — maybe any girl who looks vaguely like me would’ve done.

Suddenly the music is too loud, the lights too bright. The sticky heat of the club clings to my skin like shame. Like rejection. Like I’ve been replaced by a mirror image who doesn’t know yet that this ends in heartbreak.

She’s laughing into his mouth like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t once sit on his bedroom floor and paint his toenails. Like he didn’t say he was glad I moved back to him and then reject me entirely.

It hits me in the throat. A weird, mirrored ache. Like watching yourself be replaced in real time — upgraded or downgraded, who knows. Just... swapped out.

I turn away so fast the room spins.

And that’s when I see Will again.

He's leaning against the bar, shoulders slouched, hair a little too perfectly messy. I make my way toward him before I’ve even decided what I’m doing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s self-destruction. Maybe it’s both.

When he sees me, something in his jaw tenses. But I don’t give him time to speak.

I slide close to him, too close. My fingers ghost along his wrist as the music blares, low and dirty. He stiffens at first, but then his hands find my hips like muscle memory.

“I still hate you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his like it’s a dare. I don’t even know why I hate him now. Maybe I just want to. I’m angry and humiliated and wired with adrenaline, and he’s standing there looking at me like I matter. He’s probably telling the truth about Becky — I know that, deep down. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. I also lost count of the amount of assorted alcohol in my system hours ago. Somewhere between the cheap rosé and someone handing me a tequila shot “for vibes,” I stopped keeping track.

“I know,” he says, low and hoarse.

We dance. Or something like it.

It’s all teeth and tension, hips brushing, hands lingering where they shouldn’t. It’s not romantic. It’s not even flirty. It’s messy and desperate and soaked in the complicated residue of our back-and-forths and bad timing and too many feelings left unspoken.

When I left Ruth’s flat, I hadn’t planned on pressing my body against Will like that. I’d planned on ignoring him, on rolling my eyes and laughing with someone else, on pretending he didn’t exist. But here I am—hips swaying to a beat I can barely register, sweat slicking the small of my back, and his hands firm on my waist like he needs something to hold onto before the whole damn room spins away.

It’s messy and deliberate, our bodies in sync and out of sync all at once. I can feel the tension in his grip, the way his thumbs press a little harder when I move against him, like he thinks I might vanish if he lets go. His mouth is near my ear, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he knows words are useless here—too loud, too late.

I toss a look over my shoulder just to see how wrecked he looks. He does. His jaw’s tight, brows drawn together like this whole thing is hurting him in ways he doesn’t know how to name. Good. I want him wrecked. I want him to feel something other than smug certainty.

“I still hate you,” I murmur, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to keep it intimate, like a confession sealed in bass and sweat and noise.

His grip falters just for a second, then tightens again. Like he knows this is the only version of an apology he’s going to get right now. Me—still dancing, still close, but furious and unforgiving in every breath. This is punishment. This is power.

And maybe, a little bit, it’s still wanting him.

I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. To him. To myself. To George, who’s somewhere out there kissing the ghost of me.

Will says nothing else, just moves with me. And I let him.

There’s no forgiveness in it, not really. Just rhythm and proximity and the quiet relief of being touched by someone who still feels like home, even if that home is full of cracks. We don’t speak—our bodies do all the talking. Frustration, guilt, want. It thrums between us like a second beat under the music.

I don’t know when the plan changes, but we end up sharing an Uber home. Silent, shoulder to shoulder, the air between us is thick and buzzing like static.

I don’t reach for his hand.

And he doesn’t ask me to explain.

We sit there like two halves of a broken thought, still tethered by something neither of us wants to name. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe the memory of his mouth on mine just hours ago, back when the night still felt full of promise.

Six months ago, the Uber with George to his flat was a bubble of warmth and quiet friendship — the heater cranked just right, the soft lo-fi humming through the speakers, raindrops blurring the city outside into a watercolor dream. Inside, I felt safe, like slipping back into an old jumper. The awkwardness dissolved into easy banter and the kind of comfort that only years of knowing someone can build.

Tonight’s Uber to Will’s flat couldn’t be more different. It’s too warm again, but the heat feels like a weight pressing down instead of a gentle hug. The windows are fogged, but the city beyond feels colder, more distant — the raindrops tracing lazy patterns like a slow, mocking countdown. The scent inside is less familiar: a mix of cheap air freshener and something synthetic, sterile.

There’s no easy music, no quiet laughter — just the hum of the engine and the tight knot twisting in my chest. I lean against the window, but instead of city lights bleeding into soft memories, I’m staring at shadows, wondering how I ended up here.

When the car pulls up outside his flat, neither of us moves at first. The engine hums softly, the night stretching between us.

We both get out of the Uber, the cool air hitting me like a shock after the warmth inside. I stand there for a moment, hesitant, the quiet buzzing in my ears louder than the city around us.

Then I turn toward Will’s apartment foyer, the glass doors glowing faintly in the dark.

I breathe in the echo of the night and try to figure out if stepping inside with him is power… or just another kind of surrender.

#george clarke #george clarkey #george clarke x reader #george clarkey x reader #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #george clarke imagine #will lenney #WillNE #willne x reader #willne fic #willne fluff #willne imagine #ukyt #george clarkey angst #willne angst #The Edges of Us

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ironarrow87 · 8 months ago

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Won’t You Smile Just For Me?

Summary: You're having a bad few days. Your friend offers you a ticket to see the infamous radio host live. Can he help lighten your mood?

Warnings: Mentions of blood, implied death

Notes: Currently obsessed with Daisies by Black Gryph0n. Decided to make a a story out of it and shove dear lovely reader into it!

As always, please do not copy or post my work elsewhere.

You actually had no desire to be here. You’d rather be home, in bed, shutting out the world. It was your miserable attitude for the last few days that brought you here, in this audience, for a live show you had little interest in. Your friend had offered you their ticket, pushed it on you even.

“You’ll have a great time!”

“I don’t even know who that is!”

“You’ve never heard of him? Are you kidding? His radio show is so popular right now!”

“I dunno…I’d rather stay home. Didn’t you want to go?”

“You’ve been home for days! I’m worried about you. Please go. You’ll have a great time, I swear. Promise me you’ll go?”

“…okay. I promise.”

So, here you sat, alone in a crowd full of people. Your legs bounced with anxiety as everyone murmured in hushed excitement around you. Hunching your shoulders in an effort to get as small as possible, you hid your face in a cup of tea the staff had served moments before.

As you took a sip of the much needed warmth, you hear the crowd around you buzz with excitement as a man with brown hair and eyes, tanned skin, and a charming grin stretched across his face walks onto the stage. You lower your mug as you listen to him address the audience.

"Well, well, well, my dearest audience! A very good afternoon to all of you lovely souls! I must say, it is a delight, a true pleasure, to have such a fabulous crowd gathered here today—oh, the excitement! I can hardly contain myself!"

He bows and then spreads his arms wide when he stands back up. “Now, now, settle down! Allow me to introduce myself to those who do not know me. Although not knowing who I am by now is quite the feat, haha!”

You swear his eyes zero in on you, and your face burns with embarrassment. You try to hide your face behind your teacup again.

“My name is Alastor, and the majority of you know me from my radio broadcast.” He gives a little bow again, eyes flitting across the room before landing on you again. As if he knew you didn’t know of him. Not really. He broadens his grin to the crowd, twirling the microphone staff in his hands with the familiarity of someone who has done this hundreds of times.

“Now then, on with the show!

It was easy to see why people adored this man. Adorned in a tight fitted red satin vest and dark slacks, he easily captured the audience with songs and stories told in a velvety smooth voice. The charisma that radiated off of him had the audience hanging off his every word and tune.

Though you didn’t want to come in the first place, you found yourself dreading the end of this live in-person show. The very idea brought tears to your eyes as you thought of the empty lonely apartment that awaited you when it was over. To your horror, some tears raced down your cheeks, and you rush to rub them away from your cheeks in the middle of this public setting.

"This show, my friends, was about more than just entertainment! It's about the unforgettable moments that we created. The laughter, the drama, the wonder! The heart-pounding thrills that leave you questioning everything you thought you knew about good old-fashioned fun!"

Alastor’s energy was infectious, and you could feel the people around you just about squirming in their seats as the show drew to a close. “"Ahhh, my wonderful audience, how quickly the time slips away, doesn’t it? You know what they say, time flies when you’re having fun, haha!” He pauses briefly to allow the audience to laugh along with him. “The afternoon was filled with such delightful moments, such charming chaos, and yet—all good things must come to an end, I’m afraid. I do hope you’ll carry the memory with you—like a sweet little song you can’t quite shake, hm?" The crowd matches his suggestive grin as Alastor set the stage for his final piece for the afternoon.

You swallow thickly as his piercing eyes landed on you yet again. He gives you a little wink before starting in on his verse. “Hey pal, hey friend, hey buddy, why so sad, so downright unhappy?” Your heart stills in your chest at the words. He couldn’t be talking about you directly, could he? You follow his movements as he steps off the stage and into the crowd. The radio host moves closer to you, bending at the waist to sing inches from your face. “That's not my cup of tea.” Alastor’s grin widens as you flush. Straightening up, Alastor continues moving through the crowd.

“You know that this could be your last day here on Earth, so buddy please.” He turns, charming smile gracing his features. His eyes land on you once again, and he winks. “Won't you smile just for me?”

You really aren’t sure why you stayed long after everyone had filtered out. You tell yourself that its because the performance has you energized, that Alastor changed your outlook on the future, but honestly, its because you’re afraid to go home. Back to the sadness that seeps into your bones and makes you want to hide away all day.

You sigh, gathering your things and finally ready to trudge home when a voice stops you.

“My, my, still here after my show has long finished? I must have left quite the impression.”

Your startled gaze meets Alastor’s. You meant to be polite to this infamous radio host, but instead you blurt out, “What are you doing here?” Thankfully, Alastor laughs receptively to your question.

“I suppose that’s a fair question. I left something behind, and I didn’t want to worry my staff about collecting it so late after work hours. It was my own mistake, after all, silly me.”

You nod dumbly, unsure how to detangle yourself from this interaction. You clearly spend too long figuring this out because Alastor is already asking you another question.

“Is something troubling you, my dear?” The words are so unexpected, so jarring in this moment, that you felt tears spring to your eyes. You desperately scramble to hide your vulnerability.

“Ah...yeah. Why do you ask?”

Alastor tuts lightly, adjusting his bowtie briefly. “Come now, I’m very good at reading people, my dear. I can tell something is bothering you.”

His insistence in focusing on your distress causes a few tears to fall. You curse yourself for being so weak, for falling apart so quickly at a stranger’s concern as you hurriedly scrub the tears away.

To your surprise, his arms wrap around you and pull you close into his chest, as if he was sheltering you from the world from any danger. His warm embrace smelled of bergamot, leather, amber…and something you just couldn’t quite place. Something…earthy? Or maybe metallic? You’re pulled out of your thoughts as Alastor resumes speaking.

“My dear, my dear, no, you don't have to cry. That ain't a pretty legacy to leave behind.” You give him a watery smile as you recognize the lyrics from his earlier song.

“S-sorry,” you breathe out, stepping away from his hold. He waves you off.

“Nonsense, my dear, we all get out of sorts from time to time.” You nod in agreement, quick to end this social hell you’ve put yourself into. This man, so charming and kind, was trying to cheer you up, but here you were mute and near tears. Ridiculous.

Alastor lifts your chin suddenly, warm brown eyes behind wire bespectacles looking into yours. “You may not have to tell me about what’s running through your mind, dear, but perhaps I could offer you some sort of reprieve for a few moments? Let me show you the entertainment, the pleasures the world has to offer, hm?”

He offers his arm to you, and you hesitate just for a moment. The grin on his face is so kind, so eager to please, that you take the offer. “Excellent! Now, one more thing before we head off into our adventure together.”

“What’s that?”

He looks down at you, his height easily making you feel small before him. “Won’t you smile just for me?”

You give a tiny laugh. And you smile.

You just about forget all the things that have been worrying, stressing, and tugging you down into the depths of despair for the last few days. At least — for a little while. It was no wonder Alastor’s show was so popular. He had a way with showing you the magic in everything.

He walks you through parks and gardens, pointing out the beauty and weaving stories for you as you went. You barely pay attention to where you’re heading, and to be honest, you’re not sure you care right now. He made you feel safe, alive even. Like all the sadness had melted from your body.

"You know I just gotta say, that you might not have a lot of time to waste," he teased, pinching your cheek suddenly. "So lose that long face."

You bat at his hand, laughing, only to find a bright red rose in your face that Alastor had plucked straight from a bush. "Stop and smell the roses while you've got the time." He grins as you inhaled the lovely floral scent he offered you. "Pretty soon you'll be pushing up daisies where the sun don't shine."

You blink, startled by his words, but eventually laugh as you take it to be more teasing from the radio host. Or at the very least, some wisdom he's trying to impart on you about life.

Alastor laughs with you as he guides you onto a forest path.

You have no idea how long you have been walking. It feels like forever, and somehow, like no time at all. Alastor did a great job entertaining you through your entire journey, hands animatedly moving as he recounted stories of his life through the entertainment industry. You hang onto his every word, desperate for a distraction from your own life. Besides, how lucky were you to be spending time with such a celebrity? You'd have to thank your friend for the ticket they forced on you.

Deeper and deeper into the woods, you start to really enjoy the woodsy smells, the sounds of little animals and birds flitting about, and the rustle and crunch of leaves as you you both made your way through. You had long run out of the typical paths, exploring uncharted territory together.

"Oh ho! What's this?" You follow Alastor's gaze to a little wooden shack just ahead. You shift uneasily beside him, the sun setting causing shadows to cast an eerie air around the small hut.

"Ah...I dunno if we should head over there. What if some lunatic lives there?"

Alastor laughs loudly beside you, making you jump a little. "My dear! Where's your sense of adventure? Let's just take a little peek!" He looks to you, eyes searching, hopeful, but ultimately leaving the decision up to you. You felt your fear slip away at his expression, nodding your assent. He grins at you. "Fabulous, dear!"

He leads you up to the door, and you felt a sense of unease as the door easily swung inward with a gentle push from Alastor's hand. Still, trying to be brave and prove yourself worthy of the radio host's time, you follow suit with a big grin on your face.

It died just as quickly as it came about.

On the walls of the little hut were rows and rows of fixed smiles upon placards. Little name tags adorned the jawbones and teeth. Vox. Valentino. Husker. Anthony. So many names that made your head spin.

"W-what..." You choke on your words, bile rising in your throat. What the hell did you both stumble upon? "Alastor...let's get out of here!" The panic was evident in your voice as you turn to look at your new friend.

Your new friend who had his back to you, hands moving as he cleaned something.

Your new friend who turned, brandishing a newly cleaned axe, tossing a red stained towel to the ground.

Your new friend whose glasses glinted with the last of the light from the setting sun.

"Alastor?" you ask, voice strained, small, and full of fear.

He grins.

"Run."

Your lungs burn as your race your way through the trees, blinking back panicked tears. Only now you recognized all the warning signs you blissfully ignored in favor of temporary relief. The narrowing of his gaze during his performance. Tracking you through each set. Marking his target, who was obviously attending his show alone. Conveniently coming back when you were by yourself. The sharpness of his grin when you agreed to come along with him. The smell of blood on him. Or was it metal blades? Maybe the forest earth? Maybe it was all of them.

You had been so foolish.

You pant behind a tree as you try to force oxygen into your lungs, listening for your hunter. That's what he was after all, wasn't he? And you?

His prey.

You hear branches snap in the distance. Then some whistling. Humming even.

"None of us are here to stay, so treat every day like it's a holiday. Until the day you slip away." To your horror, you realize he's singing more of his song. He's taunting you. Telling you how he's had this planned since the beginning.

You start running again.

"Tsk, my dear, my dear, no, you don't have to cry."

You stare up at Alastor, frozen in fear, knees stinging from where you hit the ground. Your back was pressed up against a rock wall. Trapped.

"P-please. Don't hurt me." You swear you see his canines lengthen in his toothy grin as he advances toward you. He continues as if you weren't begging for your life before him.

"That ain't a pretty legacy to leave behind."

Your heart is beating erratically. It may give out before he even has a chance to hurt you. If you were so lucky.

But you both knew you weren't.

It was as if time slowed as you watched Alastor, the infamous celebrity, the radio host, the adored entertainer, raise the axe above his head. And for a brief moment, his eyes and hair seem to gleam red.

"Stop and smell the roses while you've got the time."

It was over quickly. A sharp pain. And then blackness. A mercy.

Alastor laughs, ignoring the sound of dogs in the distance as thrill thrums through his veins. He savored the blood pooling on the forest floor. Your smile was going to make an excellent new addition to his collection.

"Pretty soon you'll be pushing up daisies where the sun don't shine."

youtube

#IronArrow87 #Twyla Tidbits #Alastor #Alastor x Reader #Alastor Imagine #Alastor Reader Insert #Hazbin Hotel Reader Insert #Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel x Reader #Hazbin Hotel Imagine #Human Alastor #Youtube

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vienssunshine · 1 year ago

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Don’t know how to feel

pairing: Choso x fem-coded!reader nsfw: sub!Choso, oral sex choso receiving word count: 3k description: while attempting to escape the chaos in Shibuya station, you run into a man dressed in a strange Halloween costume

Your friends said Shibuya was the place to be for Halloween, that they would just die if you didn’t join them for the party tonight. You surrendered to their begging, it’s not like you had other plans, and put on a more-slutty-than-tasteful vampire costume to accompany them for the festivities in the square. It should be a good time, you thought, the perfect opportunity to get buzzed and maybe laid. But as the screams got louder and you realized that no, someone hadn’t slipped something into your drink and that yes, the stampede coming towards you was real, your only concern became staying alive.

You’re torn away from your friends, elbows jabbing your sides, hands pushing you to keep moving or be trampled under frenzied feet. When you look to the sky, fighting to stay upright, you see that some kind of boundary has fallen over the surrounding area, keeping you all trapped. Despite this, the crowd still searches for escape, lurching in directionless surges and crushing you with pounds of body weight every time the current turns. So when you get to the edge of the mob, you take the chance to break free and run to the first shelter you can see: Shibuya station. You hurry inside, trying to not let the blood coating the stairs leading underground deter you. If you can’t escape whatever’s going on, you’ll have to hide until it blows over.

The bottom of the stairs is covered in rubble, the gaping hole in the ceiling above it the clear perpetrator. You clamber over the loose rock and steel to land on the tile of the train station. Behind you, strange noises from the world above begin to bellow through the staircase. You don't know what could be causing such unnatural sounds, but it's clear it would be best to put distance between you and their origin.

Your feet hit the ground hard, and you’re panting as you whip your head around, looking for anything to use as cover. You spot a small divot in the wall—maybe there’s a tunnel out of here—but when you approach it, you find it filled with the crouched form of a man. He’s in a Halloween costume too—though you’re not sure what he’s dressed up as—and leaning on the cracked wall, eyes wide in a thousand yard stare. It’s clear he’s not taking the situation at hand well, but if he wants to have any chance of surviving, he can’t stay out in the open like this.

A loud roar and a flurry of screams from the ground above echos through the station.

“Hey,” you whisper-shout, “Come with me.”

Unaffected, he mumbles something.

You try again, the urgency in your voice unhidden, but are interrupted by footsteps rumbling down the steps of the train station—though it doesn't sound like a crowd of humans, rather a parade of zoo animals. You’ve got to go, now. Still, you reach down and grab his forearm, offering the poor man one more chance to come with you and save himself. He must've had a moment of clarity because because he allows you to get him to his feet and drag him behind you.

The stampede is reaching the bottom of the stairs when you turn the corner and pull the man through the first door you see, slamming it behind you. An emergency light overhead casts a dim, yellow haze over what you recognize as a closet, allowing you to spy a tall shelf of cleaning supplies—a janitor's closet.

“Help me move this in front of the door,” you command.

You get behind the shelf and begin pushing, digging your feet into the cement ground and pressing your weight against it. Fuck, it’s too heavy. The weird sounds are getting closer. You push even harder.

The shelf flies forward, causing you to stumble and steady yourself with the wall to your side. Though you wish it had been, it wasn't your strength that moved it.

You turn around to see that the man is right behind you, having joined in the effort to barricade the door, and from his extended arm, had only used one hand to do so.

He drops his arm down by his side and looks down at you. For the first time since you’ve met, he makes eye contact. There’s a horizontal line drawn across his face, just under his eyes, with what you assume is make-up, but you’re only able to study it up close for a second before his expression crumples. He backs up, pressing his back flat against the furthest wall—which doesn’t get him very far in such a cramped closet—while his eyes frantically dart over your tattered costume. Then he looks down, staring at the dirty floor beneath his feet. It doesn’t appear that his mental state has improved since you found him.

“Hey, are you okay?” you ask softly, speaking as if you were trying to not spook a stray animal. His hands are gripping the sides of his pants. He must’ve seen something terrible in the commotion above ground.

You try something else. “What’s your name?” you whisper. Hopefully this question is easier to answer and you can work on calming the poor man down.

He doesn’t meet your gaze as he mutters once again.

“What was that?” you say, taking a minuscule step forward.

Thankfully, the movement doesn't startle him, but he stays curled into himself when he answers. “Choso Kamo,” he says.

You introduce yourself, and though he gives you a few quick looks, he can’t keep his eyes on you as you speak. He must be really freaked out. “I know this is a traumatic situation, Choso,” you say, “I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to make you feel better.”

Choso shifts his weight, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. “You’re making me feel weird,” he replies.

You furrow your brow. Out of the two of you, you’re definitely the one acting the most normal. “I’m sorry,” you say, folding your arms over your black corset—it's a miracle it stayed up after all that running. “We’ll only have to be here until everything dies down. Then you won’t have to see me again.”

“It’s not like that,” he says, fidgeting with the sleeve of his costume. He glances at you. His pale face is flushed pink. “The feeling feels…good.”

Now you’re puzzled. “…okay?”

“Can I…can I try something?” he asks.

Well, at least he’s talking now. And he seems to have calmed down, making him less likely to do something stupid and get both of you killed. It's a good idea to keep him this way, make sure he stays relaxed and reassured.

So you agree. “Um…sure,” you respond.

The yellow light flickers.

Choso takes a step forward, a step that crosses the entirety of the small closet, and lays a big hand on your shoulder. You lost the cape of your ‘sexy vampire costume’ in the commotion, so your shoulder is bare; it can directly feel the roughness and warmth of his hands.

“It feels good to…touch you,” he breathes. He turns his attention from your shoulder to your eyes, “and look at you, too.”

You shudder; his gaze is heavy. This…isn’t what you expected.

“I thought I was scaring you,” you say, looking down. There's a few bottles of cleaning supplies scattered on the floor.

“A little bit,” he says, working it out as he speaks, “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s so intense.”

That’s when you notice how strong his grip on your shoulder is, not tight enough to bruise, but enough to communicate a possessiveness. A desire for more. You flick your eyes back up to him, evaluating. He is good-looking, and the expression he has on his face as he waits for your response—cheeks flushed and mouth slightly ajar in gentle pants—is stirring up something warm in your stomach.

You place your hand on his chest. Oh, how his heart is pounding. “You really don’t know what’s going on?” you ask.

He looks down at your hand, then back to you. “I-I don’t, just that…your hand feels so warm and nice.”

You smile a little, tilting your head. “It seems that you’re attracted to me.”

“I didn’t know that was possible–for me to be attracted to someone,” Choso responds. You laugh to yourself, is this guy an alien or something? Maybe that’s what his costume is. Alien or not, he’s still cute.

“Congrats on the revelation,” you say, dropping your hand.

Choso takes a moment to ponder, and you watch with amusement. This interaction doesn’t seem real. Well, this whole situation doesn’t seem real. You hope everything will blow over soon. You’re trying not to catastrophize, to think worse case scenario. And this—

“Are you…attracted to me?” Choso asks.

—is a good distraction.

“You’re handsome,” you say. “I don’t know you that well yet, but I think we are getting off to a good start.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless. He’s trying not to, but his gaze is roaming what he can make out of your body in the dim light. There’s probably a lot to see due to how much your vampire costume already reveals and that parts of it were lost in the scramble for safety.

“Do you want me to keep touching you?” you ask, coy. His breath hitches at the idea.

“If…if it feels good for you too,” Choso responds.

“It does,” you say, taking the final step to have your chest pressing against his. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hovering your lips just a millimeter away from a kiss. “It feels really good to me.”

He leans forward, not able to bear another second without, but just before he can get that release, you lean back.

He voices his frustration wordlessly and you giggle. “So desperate, aren’t you?”

“You’re teasing me,” he says, a whine in his voice.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say, bringing your lips to the side of his neck. Choso gasps, a sweet sound, and when you open your mouth, licking a stripe on his skin, his fingers squeeze your waist.

“Fuck,” he says, breath shaky. Enjoying his reactions, you begin to suck on his skin, earning another swear and no doubt leaving a mark. You push yourself into him, and his back hits the wall, his chin raised, exposing more of his neck to be kissed.

With your body flat against his, it’s easy to feel the hardness beneath his waist. He's so eager; you only kissed him a few times. You slide your hand past his collarbone, down his chest, slender but strong, down to just above his aching erection.

Choso is caught off guard. “What are you”—you palm it—“ngh…shit, that feels so…”

“You like it?” you ask, proud because you already know the answer. His eyes are pressed shut as he nods.

“Use your words,” you say, squeezing his erection—he winces—“and I’ll make you feel even better.”

You continue to rub your hand over the erection pushing through his robe in slow, circular strokes as he forces himself to speak. “Yes, I—ah—like it—a lot.”

“So good,” you tell him. The simple praise makes his dick twitch against your palm.

Your eyes flick down to his white pants, billowing in fabric. You tug at it, but it doesn’t move.

“It’s–uh–all one thing.” He blushes, the color prominent on his pale cheeks. “Do you want me to take it off?”

You nod, and he clumsily pulls off his purple and white robe. You still haven’t been able to place what he’s dressed up as, but you don’t offer that thought another second when Choso stands in front of you, naked and impatiently waiting for whatever it is you'll do to him next.

You don’t deprive him long, stepping forward and running your fingers over his bare chest. Yes, you were able to feel how strong he was when you had your body pressed against his, but being able to see the defined ridges of his torso makes his strength unquestionable. He shivers under your fingers, needing more, needing you to touch him lower than you are.

“Can you…?” He’s squirming against the wall, looking down at you with needy eyes. “Sorry, it just feels so,” he exhales, the breath uneven, “so good.”

“Yeah?” you say, wrapping your hand around his length. It’s hot and throbbing. “You want me to touch you here?”

“Yes,” he whimpers, “There. Please.”

You begin to move your hand up and down his erection in a loose fist, spreading the precum dripping from his tip down his length, and adding some of your spit to coat it completely. Choso’s head falls back against the wall and he meets your hand with shallow thrusts of his hips.

“You’re so sensitive,” you notice. He’s reacting so sweetly to your every movement, every soft swipe of your thumb over his tip, every kiss you press to his neck as you stroke him. “I like it.”

You like it enough to get on your knees on the cold, hard closet floor, and position his length in front of your mouth, just so you can get even more of a reaction from him.

“What?” Choso gasps, “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel good,” you coo, pumping him a few more times—which quickly stops the questions and starts the moans—and then take him into your mouth.

He spasms, hand tangling in your hair, unsure of whether he should pull you away or push you further down on him.

“You’re so warm…and wet,” Choso gets out.

You hum your response, something that only makes him tighten the strong fingers knotted into your hair, and keep going, working your mouth around his dick. You wrap your hands around the backs of his thighs, bracing yourself as you take him in deeper with every bob of your head. He fills your throat significantly, so you take a few breaks, kissing and sucking on his tip as you catch your breath.

Choso doesn’t seem to mind that it’s hard to take his full length, he’s too busy writhing from the sensation of your mouth on him. He's new to all this, not able to process or understand what you're doing and why it feels so fucking good. But explanations don't matter, not when the pretty girl in the outfit that made him hot just from looking at it is on her knees for him, dedicated to blessing him with a pleasure that doesn't belong to this universe.

“Fuck, please–ah–keep going, feels so good.”

Choso's moans are filling the closet and he’s holding onto you for dear life. His thighs are shaking enough to make you worry his legs will give out. “Feel like I’m gonna die,” he murmurs, lost in pleasure.

You’d smile in victory if you weren’t so focused on getting him there, and with the way he’s tensing up, he’s close. It’s funny, how he’s gonna cum already; he must’ve been worked up from the beginning.

You dig your fingers into the thick muscle of his thighs, holding on as he takes over, placing his hands on the side of your head to keep you still, and sloppily slipping his length in and out of your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it’s obvious that you’re taking him well because he’s choking on his own moans, incoherent as he slurs his words.

“I can’t–fuck–oh–please–please–”

A final thrust into your mouth and his hot cum is pouring down your throat. It’s salty, but you’re able to swallow it, coughing a little as he pulls himself out of you. Then his strong arms come down under your armpits and lift you to your feet as if you weighed nothing. He pulls you into his body, gasping and shuddering as he recovers from the orgasm. Poor thing.

You press gentle kisses on his collarbone, soothing him. “You’re okay, Choso. You did so good.”

“Really?” Choso responds, his face nuzzled in your shoulder. He presses a small kiss there.

“Mhmm,” you affirm, smoothing his tied-up hair.

A rumble shakes the ground beneath you.

You swear, taking a step back to see the makeshift barricade you set up come crashing to the ground. Someone enters the closet.

You hold Choso’s arm tight. Surely you're dead now. Who the fuck is this dude? He’s in a weird costume too, possibly a movie villain because he has stitches all along his skin, even all over his face.

“Ah, Choso! There you are!” The patch-faced man is indifferent to Choso’s lack of clothing. He regards you, his grin unsettling. “And you have a friend.”

Choso’s face darkens, “She’s mine.”

“So territorial!” The intruder leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I wasn’t gonna do anything…not to a friend of yours.” His words are lined with a playful deceit. “I’ll find someone else to have fun with.”

He turns on his heel, but before he leaves he says, “One more thing! Does this mean you’re out of our little game? Occupied with”—his slimy gaze oozes over you—“something else?”

“You’re not to lay a hand on Yuji Itadori,” Choso states, narrowing his eyes.

“No way! Guess you'll have to stop me then!” the man jeers, grinning like a bratty child as he disappears from the doorframe.

Choso turns to you. “I need to go help my brother…but not before I get you somewhere safe,” he says. Choso dresses quickly as you watch in a dumbfounded silence. What the fuck is going on?

He wraps a heavy arm around you and leads you out of the closet into the destroyed Shibuya station.

“Trust me, I’ll take care of you.”

Unable to make sense of anything that’s going on, you have no choice but to believe him.

#choso kamo x reader #choso kamo smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #choso x y/n #kamo choso #choso kamo #choso x reader #choso smut

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year ago

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Kalymir and tactition reader? Sort of a brains and brawn situation?

[I enjoy this. "Big dumb villain and their smart assistant that's not paid enough"-core.]

He starts pacing around the table, always does, when something you say isn't to his liking.

" DON'T FUCK ME! "

Fortunately, you were hired to be the brains to his muscle, not to glaze his metaphorical balls.

" M'lord I'm fairly certain I couldn't even if I tired. " You eye him up and down, silently asking if he's done with his bitchfit. " Nonetheless, I believe this is no time to be aggressive. You'd do well to send scouts- "

" SCOUTS?! " He snarls at the top of his rather annoyingly large lungs. Some kind of battle axe flies over your head, decapitating baby hairs. You barely blink as it embeds itself into the wall behind you. " THIS IS BARELY A PROPER SETTLEMENT! I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO EVEN THINK ABOUT THIS PIECE OF SHIT RESISTANCE POCKET- "

The King stomps forward on mighty talons, nearly swiping your pondering orb away as he gestures toward it with a fury of such might that it makes the muscles in his arms swell.

" LOOK AT THESE INSECTS! "

" Precisely. "

The demonlord looks as if his honest desire is to cut your back open and slurp the spinal cord out. Yet, in the midst of the anger constantly frying his nerve endings, is a tungsten carbide core of minimal intelligence that reminds him eviscerating you is a most terrible idea.

" EXPLAIN THEN, YOU MOUTHY CUNT. "

" I've been trying to do so this entire time. "

" THE FUCKING NERVE Y- "

" This resistance pocket- " You start, snapping your fingers repeatedly as if trying to garner a large dog's attention. " Is mixed and dangerous, m'lord. "

Although Kalymir is visibly fuming, he does listen.

You scroll through the field of view offered by the hidden summoned aid currently hiding in tall trees. It provides a top-down map feed of the location Kalymir's latest headache has been operating from. Currently, at least. People buzz from one side to another, not many in numbers but extremely well-organized and efficient, almost as if controlled by something.

" Notice there are more than just wrathful demons in the midst, this group employs humans and monsters, especially the less social of the bunch. The kind of monster you'd find hiding in darkened places, isolated but by no means uneducated. To gain the alliance of these monsters, one would need a surprising sense of- "

" I'M FUCKING SNOOZING HERE... "

Sometimes, you're the one that wants to maul him.

There's a tired sigh.

" Harmonious diversity equals no-no. "

Pause.

" I'M NOT A BABY, YOU SURFACE WHORE. "

" Putting that aside, I'm sure you've noticed by now, that they brandish weapons of ancient times. The very things that allowed the initial group to leave the Rings unscathed despite being hunted, not just in Wrath but in the territory of all the Lords you've made agreements with. "

" CELESTIAL WEAPONRY. " The warlord sneers, thoughtful.

" Yes. "

Kalymir shakes his head.

" YOU CAN'T TELL ME THEY'RE ALLIED TO ANGELS! MOST ARE DEMONS, YOU CAN'T BRIBE ANGELS INTO HANDING THEIR TOOLS OVER- " He slams both fists onto the worn and dented table, making your chair jump. " THEY'RE HARDLY EVEN SEEN. AND LIKE FUCKING HELL THESE PARASITES CAN KILL ONE! "

A smug smile tugs your lips. " But, my King, they don't need to be allied to angels to have those. "

Kalymir makes a rare effort to calm down, sharpened claws tapping at the same table. You can hear a heavy-tipped tail swing, the woosh mildly distracting.

" SPEAK! "

" The archives. "

You can hear the gears melting in his cranium.

" THE ARCHIVES... " He stands, mighty body straight as he beings putting two and two together. " THE ARCHIVES! "

You nod, arms crossing.

Not just any archives, the Royal Archives of Wrath, containing a litany of detailed instructions in old Infernal about how to dispatch different types of celestials. The same archives that guarded weapons of Eden stolen from perished angels, weapons that destroyed the limbs of the brave demons who managed to retrieve them, whose core names and sigils have been carved into the cases holding these artifacts. Those are the only celestial weapons left behind, as far as anyone knows. The type of material prize a lord of Wrath would die protecting.

" NO! " He barks once he realizes the first possibility that statement implies.

" Yes, my King. "

" NO ONE COULD HAVE BROKEN IN, YOU SNOT-BRAINED ANKLE BITER! "

Hm, that one's new.

He's right, no one could have broken in, he knows you know this, and the fact that you always seem one little step ahead of him is both infuriating to the King but also exciting.

" Correct. "

" THEN- "

" Who has access to the Royal Archives of Wrath? "

" I DO! I'M THE KING- "

" And who had access? "

As soon as you ask that, he falls eerily silent, pacing again, this time to the opposite display of weapons, subconsciously studying them as he thinks.

" IMPOSSIBLE. "

You recline on the chair, eyes closing. " Is it? "

" I BUTCHERED HIM! I HUMILIATED HIM. HIS VERY SKULL SITS ABOVE MY THRONE OF VICTORIES! "

" His offspring, my King. His descendants. " As far as you know, they were only juveniles when Kalymir murdered their father.

" ONE DIED IN THE CRUCIBLE... "

" The other...? "

Kalymir doesn't answer, he doesn't know. And neither did you, not until very recently.

You don't need to spell the implications out this time, he gets there on his own two synapses.

" YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS. " The demonlord bristles, not because he finds the suggestion ridiculous, but likely because it's going to make things a lot more interesting.

" But I am. He can't show his face, it'd be too risky, but some dissenting demons still recognize and have followed him to the surface. He then seeks the help of monsters living in the margins of societies or straight up outside of them, safer options to utilize holy weapons. And not just that, these monsters muddle our understanding of the resistance's origins and goals, adding humans to the mix just makes it all more confusing. Many of the non-demonic members are likely under contractual obligation to do this too, I'd reckon. "

The King is silent.

" Think about it. You lost track of them a long time ago. This prince-to-be witnessed the death of his father, his brother, his mother has likely died of old age. He has nothing. Nothing but a sweltering desire to dethrone you. This is his doing. "

A cruel glint settles in your eyes, belying that there is room for your frigid coldness in the boiling Ring.

" Unfortunately, he must have been too young to properly absorb his father's teachings, because this is amateurish at best. A little bit of care and thought is all you need to nip his budding plans, m'lord. "

The King smiles, drags a hand down his face, chest heaving faster as a very thunderous bark of raucous laughter shakes the entire fortress. The clapping of meaty red hands accentuates how wolfishly delighted he is.

" YOU GLORIOUS, ROTTEN WENCH! HOW COULD I NOT HAVE SEEN THIS?! "

Yes, really, how did he not see this a mile away? He should have figured it out before you, you actually had to do research concerning the past ruler of Wrath.

Kalymir damn near sprints towards you, reaching over the table to grab you up by the collar of your outfit.

" LEAD ME TO HIM, STRATEGIST. TELL ME HOW TO GET MY HANDS ON THE WORTHLES TWERP. I WILL WEAR HIS BROTHER'S SKIN. "

" Of course, my King. I will lead you to victory as always. "

" GOOD. GOOD LITTLE HUMAN. "

You're dropped back down unceremoniously, feeling a creak in your hip but remaining composed. Kalymir is clearly getting overly excited over the whole deal, you can tell he'll be obsessing over it from now on.

" WE WILL MAKE A NEW CHANDELIER OF HIS BONES. "

Satisfied, there's a pep to the demonlord's step as he makes to leave, opening the great doors to his hall.

" AND ONCE THIS IS OVER, YOU- "

" YOU WILL SIT BESIDE ME AS QUEEN. "

#Kalymir oc #I've always wanted to use pondering orb unironically

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h50europe · 3 months ago

Text

I feel like an oracle. I finished another write-up about Tommy's part in general without reading Tim's interview with EW. It deals with the upcoming episode feat. Tommy as the LAFD pilot he is, but also with him being the lone wolf in the 9-1-1 universe.

Let’s explore Tommy’s isolation and how it shapes his world, especially given his role as a pilot at the 217 Harbor Station with LAFD Air Operations. Then, I'll bring in that tantalizing future episode idea: danger, helicopters, the FBI, maybe even the National Guard or a terrorist attack, and how it could tie into his current state of mind and relationships.

Tommy’s isolation isn’t just a byproduct of his breakup with Buck. It’s been brewing ever since he left the 118, long before Buck even joined the team. Back in the day, Tommy was part of the crew under Captain Gerrard, but he moved on to the 217, chasing a different path as a firefighter pilot.

That shift alone put physical and emotional distance between him and his old squad. Air Ops is a specialized gig: high-stakes, high-skill, but solitary in a way ground crews aren’t. He’s up in the sky, detached from the camaraderie of the firehouse, coordinating with teams below but not sharing their day-to-day grind. It’s a different beast, and while it suits his steady, observant nature, it also sets him apart.

When Buck came into the picture, Tommy wasn’t part of the 118 anymore, so their connection was personal, not professional. But the 118’s loyalty runs deep, and once Tommy dumped Buck (the first time), that crew closed ranks. They’re a family; Buck’s their golden boy, flaws and all, and Tommy became the outsider who hurt one of their own.

Even if Chimney or Hen might’ve once had a soft spot for him from the old days, their allegiance shifted—no invites to Bobby’s cookouts, no casual beers after shifts. Tommy’s not just out of Buck’s orbit; he’s out of the 118s entirely. And at the 217? Pilots and air crews might respect him, but it’s not the same bond. They’re colleagues, not brothers-in-arms. He’s good at his job—damn good—but that doesn’t fill the void of real connection.

Now, post-reunion and that kitchen blowout with Buck, Tommy’s isolation hits a new low. He’s got no one to call. No 118 to fall back on, no partner to vent to, and whatever ties he had at Harbor Station felt transactional, work talk, not heart-to-hearts. He’s the guy who shows up, flies the chopper, saves the day, and goes home to an empty house. Maybe he’s got a dog or a punching bag to keep him company, but even that’s a guess. We don’t know much about his past beyond hints of old wounds, but it’s clear he’s carrying something heavy. The way he picked up on Buck’s Eddie obsession suggests he’s been burned before, and now he’s retreating further into himself.

He might even avoid the bars where 118 folks hang out just to dodge the awkwardness or the cold shoulders.

Enter this future episode, Tim teased—a helicopter-centric crisis with the FBI, maybe the National Guard, or even a terrorist attack. Picture it: LA’s under siege, skies buzzing with chaos. Tommy’s in his element at the controls, pulling off maneuvers that’d make lesser pilots sweat, but the stakes are astronomical. Maybe it’s a hijacked chopper he’s chasing down or a rescue mission in a no-fly zone with feds barking orders over the radio. The 118 are on the ground, neck-deep in the mess, and Tommy’s up above, their lifeline or their last hope if things go sideways. Danger’s his wheelhouse, but this time, it’s personal. He’s not just proving his chops; he’s proving he’s still got something to give, even if no one’s there to cheer him on.

Here’s where it gets interesting. Say the crisis forces Tommy and the 118 back into each other’s orbits. Buck’s down there, reckless as ever, and Tommy’s the one who has to swoop in, maybe pulling him out of a burning building or spotting him from the air when comms go dark. It’s not a reconciliation, not yet, but it’s a moment where Tommy’s isolation cracks. The 118 sees him in action, not as “Buck’s ex” but as the badass pilot who’s got their backs. Bobby might give him a nod over the radio; Hen might mutter a grudging “nice save.” It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a thaw. For Tommy, it’s a lifeline, a chance to feel useful, maybe even seen, after months of being a ghost.

But the danger ramps up. Let’s say the chopper takes a hit, mechanical failure, gunfire, whatever, and Tommy’s forced to make a call: land safely and abandon the mission, or push the bird to its limits and risk crashing. He chooses the latter because that’s who he is: steady and selfless, even when no one’s watching. He gets the job done, but it’s a rough landing, smoke, rotor blades whining. Maybe he’s banged up but alive.

The 118 rushes in, and there’s Buck, staring at the wreckage, realizing Tommy just put it all on the line. It’s not about rekindling romance; it’s about respect, maybe a flicker of guilt for how things ended.

Where does Tommy go from there? If he survives (and let’s hope he does), this could be his turning point.

Maybe he leans into Air Ops harder, finding purpose in the solitude, or maybe he starts rebuilding bridges, small steps, like a coffee with Chimney to test the waters. His isolation’s real, but this crisis could jolt him out of it, even if just a little. Or, if the writers want to twist the knife, he walks away from the wreckage alone, still the outsider, but with a quiet pride no one can take from him.

And then there's the other version of it with Buck in the game:

The crisis peaks when Buck’s in danger, classic Buck, diving into the fray, maybe trapped in a collapsing structure or cut off from comms. Tommy spots him from the air, calls it in, and makes a split-second choice: he pushes his chopper beyond its limits to get Buck out. The bird takes a hit by gunfire or debris, and Tommy’s forced to wrestle it down for a hard landing. Smoke’s billowing, rotors screeching, and he’s banged up but alive.

Buck can’t shake it. Seeing Tommy climb out of that wrecked chopper flips a switch. He tracks Tommy down later, maybe at the 217 hangar, where Tommy’s nursing a bruised shoulder and a coffee. Buck’s awkward at first, all “You didn’t have to do that,” but Tommy just shrugs, “Yeah, I did.” It’s not grand or romantic, just real.

They don’t jump back into anything right away. It starts small: Buck texts to check on him, and Tommy fires back a dry “still breathing” quip.

Then a beer after a shift, no pressure, just two guys who’ve been through hell. The incident lingers between them, a shared weight that softens the edges of their past. Buck’s not blind, he knows Tommy’s alone and sees how the 118’s cold shoulder has worn him down.

And Tommy? He’s wary but thawing, picking up on Buck’s effort to meet him where he’s at, not where Eddie used to be.

The rekindling sparks when Buck invites Tommy over to the house, fully unpacked now, with new furniture and no ghosts. It’s a quiet night, takeout and a movie, but it feels like a reset. Tommy tests the waters, asking how Buck’s holding up solo, and Buck admits it’s been weird but good, less about proving something and more about living. They kiss, tentative but deliberate, and it’s not a fix-all… it’s a start. The next morning, Tommy’s still there, in bed beside him, and Buck doesn’t drop any bombs about “first nights.” They’re just… there, figuring it out.

From then on, it’s slow but steady. Tommy’s still flying solo at the 217, but Buck’s a bridge back to the world, maybe even to the 118 eventually. The crisis didn’t erase Tommy’s isolation overnight, but it gave him a foothold, and Buck’s the one holding out a hand. They keep Eddie out of it. Buck’s unpacked that baggage, literally and figuratively, and focus on what’s in front of them.

Maybe Tommy opens up about his past one night, that old wound from being second fiddle, and Buck listens, really listens, promising with actions more than words that this time’s different.

Where do they land? Not a perfect fairy tale; Tommy’s still got walls, Buck’s still a mess of heart, but the incident forged something tougher than before.

They’re not just rebounding; they’re building. Tommy might never fully shed that lone-wolf vibe, but with Buck, he’s not flying blind anymore.

#evan buckley #tommy kinard #bucktommy #tevan #lou ferrigno jr #oliver stark #911 season 8 #911 episode 8.11 #911 on abc

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bethebesttoyou · 6 months ago

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Hii, so there's this song by Adele called All I Ask, it's so sad but so beautiful :(

If you like the song, could you maybe write something based off of it? Although the song is just sad, it would be amazing if you could make it into a fluff ending >.<

ALL I ASK - CHOI YEONJUN

synopsis: As the clock continues to tick, you realize that pretending won't stop the inevitable from happening. Yeonjun is leaving.

pairing: Idol!Yeonjun x afab!reader

song: All I Ask - Adele ( I love sad music so much frfr)

warning: angst with fluff ending!!! suggestive writing in the end ( at least it tries to be LMAO), ummmm that's it I think. lots of crying, reader is low-key dramatic (I would also crash out personally) OH ALMOST FORGOT UNEDITED.... currently being rushed out the door so if its bad.... im sorry LMAO

Wc: 1.9k :3

A/N: anon... first let me just say THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FIRST REQUEST!!!!!! I woke up to it and honestly, it made my day!!!! Thank you a bunches!!! also... are we all just blasting Adele lately?? Are we okay?? Ive been listening to her all week, her songs heal me, even if they're sad LMAO. Anyways, All I ask is one of my favorites, so I hope I did her justice :,3. Thank you again! and I hope you enjoy!! PS I took some liberties, including the member >.< wasn't sure if you wanted one specific but I went with the member that fit the scenario the best!! OKAY ENOUGH RAMBLING!!!! >3<.

The restaurant had been buzzing with laughter and glasses clinking together as you watched Yeonjun rave about the preparations for the upcoming tour with an enthusiastic yet stressed gleam in his eyes. While he seemed tired, you can tell he loved this, he loved what he did, even when it took everything out of him. It made the bitterness and agony you felt in your stomach contort to guilt.

The dance practices, the lack of his things around your apartment, the change of hair color, everything reminded you more and more that he was leaving. Ofcourse, you were happy for him, how could you not be? Having to witness the years and years of sacrifices he put into the team, the training, the long nights he'd spend going over dance routines to the point of ultimate exhaustion… He was finally making it big, getting his well deserved flowers. But it didn't make the leaving any easier. The guilt for the borderline selfishness and bitterness for having to share him with others was tearing you apart. Having to feel his absence everyday was going to take its toll on you, as it did everytime he departed, something that you never wanted to admit in fear of ruining these experiences for him. But these feelings were there, and hard to ignore.

And yet, you smile widely and laugh as he tells you about Taehyun and Kai fighting in the middle of practice. It's his last day in the country, before he flies out tomorrow, and while the other members are working on packing and last minute wardrobe changes, Yeonjun was able to do all of that in advance, securing a free day for you and only you.

The day was filled with a drive, your favorite way to spend time together, with your hand in his, him kissing your knuckles every so often, before placing them back down on your lap, catching your gaze and smiling softly. Along the countryside, Yeonjun would stop at every scenery you gasp at, letting you take in the beautiful green landscapes, snapping a picture of you before heading your way to the next one. He always knew how to keep you out of your thoughts too, his presence itself was enough for you to feel at ease, allowing you for just a day, relishing in the idea that your relationship was convenient, normal…easy. For the day, it was just you and him. Kissing him, holding him, rarely leaving any space between you unless absolutely necessary, it felt like a dream, with him it always did. But, as the clock ticked, and the servers cleaned the now empty tables around you, time was starting to feel real and fast.

You must've gone quiet, spacing out on the plate in front of you, when you feel a hand placed over yours.

“Don't think about it too much, ” Yeonjun says softly, his thumb caressing your palm, he smiles sadly, “the day’s not over yet.”

You smile, “I know…You're right…okay, did I ever tell you about Ryujin at work?” You say shaking the feeling, hoping the lump on your throat can disappear. He shakes his head, smiling before eating another piece off his plate.

—

The car ride home had been mostly silent, the pressure of the next morning finally undermining the playful mood of the day. It wasn't like you wanted the mood to sour, but it was hard to ignore the inevitable.

Hes going to be gone for months.

Even if this wasn't your first time, each time felt like you couldn't fathom it. It felt like a pit in your stomach, the sheer thought made you fidget and shudder, worrying that this time was going to be the breaking point, for either of you. What if he realizes the idol life was easier without a relationship? What if ghosting becomes easy? What if drifting apart becomes inevitable?These overwhelming thoughts had easily filled you with despair, you hadn't noticed you were already inside the house, changing into pajamas before sitting on the bed, ready to break. It wasn't until he came from behind you, kissing your shoulder, that you can't keep it in anymore. He feels your shoulders shake and instantly wraps his arms around you, his face resting at the crook of your neck.

“I'm sorry…” You say hiding your face in your hands as you feel the sudden tears in your eyes. “I'm trying really hard not to do this right now,” you laugh, “I just…I don't know, I'm sorry.”

“Its okay, baby… just let it out…” You feel splotches of water hit your collarbone, and you realize he's crying too. Something about him missing you made you feel less alone in this pain. He turns you around, and you both chuckle softly as you reflect each other in puffy red eyes. He grabs your hands and leads you to lay in bed, him going down first, before pulling you on top of him.

“I'm so sorry, Y/N. I'm really sorry.” His quavering voice breaks the silence, your head on his chest hearing his heartbeat slowly beat against your ear. You both had calmed down by now, waiting for the drowsiness to take effect. Even just moments like these, of pure comfortable silence, made you want to hold him tighter and not let go.

“dont be…I get it…As much as I want you to stay, I would never forgive you or myself if you did.” You pick at the fabric of his shirt.

It was true. He deserved to embark on the achievements he's made, and while you were heartbroken, there was no doubt in your mind that you would be his biggest supporter, no doubt that pride would fill your body, watching him succeed in real time. You would always cheer him on, even if he was a thousand, millions of miles away.

“Dont get tired of waiting, please. If you start to, call me and I'll come back.” He whispers.

“Never. That’ll never happen. I'm yours, always…” you say looking up at him, and smile, “you…dont forget about me, okay?”

“Impossible…” he smiles back down at you and your eyes well up again.

“Stop making me cry!” you laugh, wiping your face in his shirt.

“You're making me cry!”

After hours of refusing to fall asleep, you both eventually did, only to be woken up by the dreadful alarm. You watch as he grabs his bags, making him a small travel sized breakfast before leaving, moving in silence the entire time. The car ride was spent in pecks and silent knowing looks, before eventually just resting your head on his shoulder, waiting to arrive at your destination. It wasn't until getting to the airport and meeting with the rest of the guys, did you start engaging normally, trying to once again, save face and act normal.

Once it was time to say goodbye, you gave each member a hug, giving them a list of demands: stay safe, stay healthy, make sure to eat well and rest often. Yeonjun reserved himself for last, telling them to hurry up from the back, before eventually making it in front of you, clearing his throat. Taehyun ushers the rest a couple of steps away, giving you some space.

“Junie,” you clear yours too before continuing, “Stay safe, stay healthy, make sure to eat well and rest often…”

“And?” he whispers, water beginning to fill the lining of his brown soft eyes.

“and…I love you.” You say before looking around, bringing his mask down and pecking him on the lips one last time, pulling it back up and smiling through a sniffle.

“I love you” he whispers. His hug lasts longer than the rest, and the sniffles continue before you realize they're waiting for him.

“You gotta go...”

“Wait… just a bit longer.” he says from your neck. You don’t fight him, only holding him tighter.

“Hey, last call…” his manager calls out, and you feel him hesitate before letting you go.

“I love you, I'll call you once we land!” he smiles, kissing your hand one last time, before jogging turning back to only turn back and wave, the boys follow suit, and you wave back.

It isn't when you no longer see them but a few minutes after, that you decide it's time to go home, already reminiscing on the ghosting feeling of his hands on yours.

—--

Months later…

Youre pacing around the house, repositioning some items before returning them into their original positions. You honestly couldn't clean anymore, nor fix your dress or your hair, as you had done so already a billion times. Dinner was definitely done, as you kept thinking of sides to add to the table, you basically overdid it. Yeonjun was coming home, on his way from the airport to be exact, and you didn't know how to act. You felt the nerves all over your body, preventing you from just staying still. To say you were excited and scared was an understatement. Your job and school had stopped you from visiting him, resulting in you both relying on facetime and texting. Time and time again, you would grow wary when Yeonjun would leave, believing things would change, you would disappear, only for him to prove you entirely wrong. He had texted or called or updated almost every single day, sent gifts to the house regularly, left notes hidden around the house for you to find, anything that he could have possibly done to keep you from feeling lonely he did. You , ofcourse, met him halfway, leaving voicemails every morning before heading to work, reminding him to rest, sending him updates on loved ones, things you believed he might have missed from home. Your relationship only flourished, making you realize just how strong it actually was. It always was.

But nothing can beat the feeling of love face to face. You realize that now, as you sit on the armrest of the couch in urgency, waiting for that doorknob to even remotely jiggle.

When it does, you're already opening it, and he's standing there, key in his hand, in sunglasses and smiling widely.

“Well, hello…” he laughs and stands in shock.

“Oh my god…” You say, before practically jumping on him, and he drops his bags, catching you, his hands causing waves of shock from the back of your thighs to the rest of your body.

“Oh, Baby…” he whispers into your ear, “I missed you so much.” He's walking in, not really caring about the bags he's left outside, nor the fact that the boys probably laughed when they saw you pounce on him.

“I missed you…I missed you. I can't believe you’re back.”

He sets you down on top of the couch's backrest, before grabbing either side of your head with his hands.

“You look absolutely beautiful.” he says leaning in for a kiss, slightly chuckling at how needy you responded to it. His lips go from being softly placed on yours before he deepens the kiss, small gasps coming out of both of you. The kiss lasts for a while, his sunglasses now discarded on the couch, his hands running against your thighs, only getting higher. After breaking for air, his glazed eyes makes you aware exactly what hes thinking of.

“I made dinner…” you say looking up at him, and as he pulls a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I think dinner can wait, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

A/N: YOU MADE IT!!! pat yourself on the back!!!! SOOOOO.... what did we think??? My first request so it might be different from when I gain inspiration from a song that I drill into my head from obsession!!! As always let me know if you loved it, hate it, dreamed it before and you're experiencing some weird dejavu.... would love to hear about that... Thank you for reading!! and Ill see you guys later :3

ps. if you're still reading, doubt you are, but I will be starting classes soon so I might be a lil slow, but considering this has become my new hyperfixation, I don't think ill be gone for too long in between fics >.<

#txt x reader #yeonjun x reader #txt fanfic #txt imagines #yeonjun x y/n #txt scenarios #yeonjun fluff #yeonjun angst #tomorrow x together #yeonjun x you #choi yeonjun #soobin x reader #taehyun x reader #beomgyu x reader #hueningkai x reader

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senka-mesecine · 18 days ago

Text

His Cog.

―

Robert Barnes x Reader.

• (Part II)

―

― Part one to be found here x. A present for @atmostories 🖤 who is the original author.

---

gif by @woman-with-no-name

---

Bad things always come in threes.

You supposed that was the best way to describe these past few weeks.

These three weeks in precise count.

All shouting, the blur of one task bleeding into another and days stretching into infinity. Time becoming more of an abstraction than a concept with an actual, reliable, firm meaning. From 0500 in the morning until ten in the evening or for as long as duty and current circumstances demanded. Until you could practically feel the stress mounted in the back of your spine, pulsating.

Like a living thing with a heartbeat of its own, attached to your own.

Overshadowing it.

They haul in the wounded by the dozens and you’re rushed off your feet to the degree you find yourself at a loss for time to think about the hunger — about the tiredness — thirst or the pain, not a free moment between running from one makeshift wooden palette serving as a sick bed to another, emptying basins of fresh blood, bringing in clean water, heating it, pouring out the dirtied, soiled remains, washing gauze at neck break speeds, drying the thin, cotton strands of white linen off, breathlessly collecting what bandages were disinfected and bringing them back inside in piles hastily collected, crumpled up and unclassified, handing them to the main nurses, Dorrie and the Doc, often times thanking your lucky stars for the position of an Auxiliary Field Assistant and not something with even more responsibility then you were already given as you turn your gaze, briefly, from jungle rot and gangrenous flesh catheterized from a screaming, sobbing soldier’s shot straight through thigh, the accumulated, oppressive humidity in the tent mixed with the stench of sick meat, the sound of the flies buzzing outside, the removed bullet hitting the empty container with a metallic clank, the acidic, putrid medicinal antiseptics and the sun hitting the roof of the tent nearly having you lose balance and heave over once you rush out and inhale some oxygen, however hot, back into your strained lungs, feeling the emptiness of your insides churn with an acidic ache not unlike the herald of a stomach’s contents about to lurch up, a sweat drenched spine leaning up against one of the entryway pillars holding the busy, green-beige pavilion up, lids heavy, perhaps too tired to even properly produce tears anymore, nearly causing you to jump when something presses against your lips in the buzz and rush at base camp, causing you to shoot up and realize it was thin, white, bearing the scent of tobacco that has you tilting your chin dripping with dampness up — the very scent that dominated the eternity of the nicotine-happy facility out at the heel of the jungle’s perimeters, the fingers holding the Marlboro in question meaty and tan, eerily familiar, causing you to stutter wordlessly in the back of your throat once you meet a pair of blue eyes and you readjust, instinctively, inside of your own skin, startled and pierced, realizing someone's bodily frame was obscuring the sun, the scar and the lacerations zig-zagging the left side of his face giving you a reaction, not unlike a phantom pain — you know, because you cleaned those gashes yourself.

Those craters. That splintered chin. Him?

He looks at you knowingly for a split second, like someone seeing through you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, your lips firmly pressing around the cigarette.

I don’t smoke, your own words instantaneously come to mind, flashing like lightning.

You will, he responded back with a knowing, self assured smugness, while he was still in your and indirectly nurse Colleen's charge under Doctor Foreman back at the hospital. Before you can say anything, after weeks and weeks, he’s already sauntered away at a pace that could only be considered leisurely and confidently nonchalant, if not with a sense of calm determination. Accompanied by an uniformed posse that obscures him out of sight, leaving a gust of air hitched in your throat. Sergeant Barnes. Not a single mouth in that company not adorned with a cigarette hanging askew from its corners.

You catch yourself. How long has it been? Twenty one days?

Maybe more? Less?

You knew men with his scale of injures laid up for years.

-"They need hot water in there, stat!"-

Dorrie’s voice brimming with urgency echoes from the tent slit snaps you to attention and you immediately jump, wiping the cold sweat off of your brow like someone pricked in the rear with a needle, plucking the cigarette that was wordlessly pressed into your mouth before anyone could see it, quickly tucking it into the front pocket of your fatigues, nestling in there without thought. Did you look that tired to him? Was he gloating by self referencing? How many days was it again, your grasp on memory due to overworking was loosening. Was he in pain at all these days? How was he getting along?

You don’t have time to give yourself a single answer.

Throwing yourself back into the fray.

—

The thing about brief and unexpected encounters was simple;

A person spent more time pondering them; far longer than their actual duration was.

Maybe it was a good way to pass the night and all.

The weariness so intense it ironically rendered one incapable of resting.

You wondered why he came out here so soon, when you didn’t recommend him for release? When you knew he lied on the numeric rating of his pain score deliberately. Perhaps he was just the adrenaline chasing type, always where the action was. Even if it could goddamn kill him.

The sundown offering little relief against the heat’s unleashed anvil after a ten hour shift tending to the wounded, the heavy duty waterproof canvas fabric having a way to keep the warmth inside, trapping it there, rendering the air inside humid — an oven door left open to fill the air with a numbing, toasty sensation you couldn’t shake laying on your bunk containing nothing but a bare mattress — all need for blankets, coverings and additional gear stripped, leaving you with nothing but your bedroll doubling as a pillow backrest and eyes pinned to the nylon roof of the dome of what served as sleeping quarters, crickets and the low rumbling of frogs the only companions on the other side of the PVC-coated, ripstop barrier, your legs burning with ache as you stretch them out, hoping to gain some form of relief and finding next to none once your toes hit the edge of the bunk, giving you little space for comfort, Dorrie’s chatter outside of your shared tent blending into the backdrop of dusk — the occasional snort or giggle mingling with thrilling of the twilight’s sparrows. She made friends easily, didn’t she? Like the difficulties of the day washed off of her with an invisible hose. Where she found the energy, you wouldn’t know. Maybe the smiles directed at her helped. Maybe the smiles she gave back, a sort of mutually symbiotic charging, you figure, embracing your own upper torso, the muscle burn impossible to ignore as you touch a lump here and there, underneath your fatigues, hoping nothing swelled with overexertion only for your fingers to land on your front pocket and feel the long, thin shape tucked away beneath the fabric, fumbling to unbutton the damn thing and fish out what you forgot inside. The cigarette. You turn it in your fingers tentatively, lifting it up to eye level, the orange, flickering light of a nearby kerosene lamp painting the thing with a rosy, hooded hue. You weren’t a smoker. In truth, you had nothing against it in others necessarily, you just weren’t keen on it yourself, turning your cheek on your bedroll, facing the slit of the tent, watching Dorrie’s companions, two eager looking, smiling cherries from the 25th, both adorned with a smoke each, her own index finger and thumb balancing a half finished butt. Maybe — maybe there was something prophetic to Sergeant Barnes’s words directed at you back at the hospital? You ponder it, caressing the white filter of the nicotine stick idly. Perhaps you would start smoking, whether you liked it or not. If not to alleviate stress, then to alleviate loneliness; joining everyone else in their habits. Having something in common.

Something clenches in your chest at the prospect, though.

You cannot explain why.

The chatter in front of the tent quells and your lids grow heavy as you slumped on your side.

The world shrinks into the claw of your lowered, fluttering lashes.

And you stir on your hip, hands nearly boneless.

A dormant, hazy, semi-lucid part of your brain convinced you were still at the back of the crowded, bouncing army truck that transported you out here, into the heart of the bush, taking dusty country roads through the rice fields and mud for as long as the nose could smell, swaying left and right in crammed up space, your knees pressed awkwardly between a hard pair of thighs, unable to move, making you realize you were on the precipice of dreaming half-awake.

Regaining awareness only once Dorrie steps back inside, clicking her tongue.

-"Oh! Just what I was looking for before bedtime! Could go for another one!"-

Her voice perks up and you fidget on the mattress, blinking her way, unsure what it was she meant — only then do you realize, gasping, that you nearly fell asleep, cradling a single cigarette along the buttoned down line of your sweat stained fatigue shirt. You jolt ever so slightly, like someone caught in the act of something illicit. Like someone who was just caught napping next to a lover. You nearly snort at your own self, but you never do, instead doing nothing but trying to rid your eyes from the prickly sand of sleep. -"You gonna smoke that or —"- She trails off, pointing an index finger at you, a single eyebrow twisted upwards questioningly. She just had a smoke. For the fair share of evening. Not that you wanted to be unkind, but — -"Wha — this? — no."- You shake your head, stumbling over your words, rubbing your burning eyes vigorously, clearing your throat decidedly, too tired to be combative and too exhausted to have a filter just yet. You feel the wave of selfishness flood you like a tidal wave. -"No."- You murmur, not even quite sure why yourself. Not like you intended to light up any time soon, but the words come forth like a flood before you’re able to stop them — push them back inside. -"I mean, I’m not going to smoke it."- You explain sheepishly, re-asserting yourself more clearly, with an apologetic undercurrent, clutching the nicotine stick with your calloused, work strained fingers to showcase you weren't going to share it either --- watching her expression go sour against the light of the lamp. The jacket she’s freshly discarded and peeled off on her bed is slung back on, right across her tank top like she intended to head back out there, into the night. -"Geez. Really gonna make me walk across the eternity of the base in search of a smoke past dark after a ten hour long shift. Amazing!"- She grumbles as you lean up on your elbows, watching her practically slam the tent slit up behind her with an angry swipe, stomping away in wide strides towards the campfire surrounded by men on a night watch boiling coffee. -"You’re not even a smoker."- Is the last you hear her begrudgingly seethe through gritted teeth as you look down towards your own lap with a pang of regret, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket where it’ll attract no attention, giving it a good, protective pat with the open palm of your hand. What if I want to keep something of his? I treated him when nobody else wanted to. I’m allowed a meaningless keepsake — the voice of your subconscious rings out only to disappear as quickly as it sprang up, its echo lingering in the back of your mind like a fading afterthought.

You didn’t even know him outside of his medical record, your logic reminds.

You turn the other side, intending to catch some Z’s.

No more dreams and half dreams that night, regardless of how much you wished it.

—

The aftermath of tending the wounded always walked hand in hand with dirty laundry.

Piles and piles of blood stained fatigues, grimy bunksheets, bedrolls stained with vomit or dried bear smears, the odd pair of trousers entirely soiled mid-operation that filled the capacity of the mobile laundry unit to its maximum, doubtlessly leaving you with up to four to five hours of extensive work inside of a virtual furnace, sweat practically cascading down your neck and disappearing somewhere in the drenched, darkened collar of your short sleeved shirt — no contracted service out in the jungle — it was washing everything manually or no way at all, you thought, saddled with the morning-to-noon duty and in a way glad to be at least busy and out of the way, throwing everything in open furnaces attached to a heated, portable boiler, preparing to slam the colossal steam disinfector shut with a loud, metal thud, in spite of the machine keeping all the dirty fabric insulated, the smell being oppressive as you sift through uniforms marked with faded name tags, worn plates that have seen slightly better days and markered on intended initials to differentiate every piece of gear from another as you placed your wrist against your open mouth and nostrils to avoid hurling — Taylor, Grodin, Vermucci, Huffmeister, Barnes, O’Neill. Barnes. You halt for a second, going back, almost like all nausea instantly faded in spite of the smell being no less oppressive, grabbing the particular uniform from a mountain of others, feeling the coarse, rough fabric or a spare button jacket in your swollen, reddened hands, choosing to place his piece of attire carefully into the washer, giving a pat, like it was a living, sentient thing, a reverie interrupted only a pair of Cherries bypassing the laundry house with a whistle, hands in pockets, causing you stir, throwing your head over your shoulders, tucking a moist strand of hair back under the utilitarian durag that held your hair, tied, out of way, wondering if they just saw what you did. No, they couldn't have. -"Hey! Hey, babe! You got a smoke!?"- One of them shouts your way in stride, making a gesture against his mouth, two fingers pressed against his leering lips, mimicking having a cigar between them. You instinctively tap your breast pocket, about to lie. -"No. Sorry."- You shrug, apologetic, feeling and positively confirming that the cigarette Sergeant Barnes gave you was still there as you watch the pair disappointingly waving you off like they didn't expect you to be a good sport anyway — the tension in your arms dropped; you’re relieved, exhaling, limbs feeling idle and fidgety once you finally shut the circular lid of the 2-ton capacity disinfector equipped with a 3-kilowatt generator set closed, feeling your own hands shake with exhaustion, the only available shade cast by the machine itself, leaving you in an isolated island of glaring sunshine. You could — yeah, you consider it. Spotting the nearby wall of the laundry room, isolated and solitary enough and a narrow patch of dirt pressed between buildings of the barracks and the bunk room. Maybe you could go for a real, actual smoke there? Huddle in? Just have a guilty little drag? See how it feels like? Perhaps it would really take some of the tension off? Relax you?

You feel the lighter you acquired in your pocket, pulling it out and flicking it.

The machine whirls and does its work behind you as you hide away between two buildings.

Fishing the crumpled cigarette out and taking it in, putting it into your mouth.

Only to fish it back out, twirling it between your fingers slowly.

Leaning your head against the wall, closing your eyes.

Maybe this was your comfort.

People made comforts of all sorts of unlikely things out here.

Pin up posters, correspondence with people they never met, weed, alcohol, heroin.

Was a parasocial fondness for a token a former patient gave you quite so bad?

No, you figured it wasn’t, pressing the cigarette back between your lips unlit, intending to hold it there for a while in relative silence, interrupted only by the churning of the portable washer, merely savoring it, the faint aroma of nicotine, not intending, you supposed, to go any further with it, finding the sensation oddly calming, if nothing else, interrupted only by a shift of air, the soundlessness, the sudden chill running up your spine — you snap your eyes open to see a form leaning against the wall of the laundry room’s building, a singular match hanging askew from the precipice of his mouth. Barnes. Your back jolts off from the surface of the wall where you slanted over in the half shade and you find yourself dusting yourself off, adjusting your fatigues, like someone caught in the act. -"You smokin’?"- He drawls casually, head tilted. -"Sergeant Barnes! I was just —"- The stutter that leaves your lips is something fierce, the deep abiding embarrassment sinking into your gut like a searing rock; you prayed to god he isn’t perceptive enough to realize you kept something of his for weeks as he approaches, each footstep simultaneously inaudible yet inexplicable heavy as he crosses the distance between you — he hasn’t been this close since you were treating him back at the hospital. -"Smokin’ this here?"- He effortlessly snatches the cigarette out of your mouth before you can even blink, holding it up to your eyes, giving it an amused stare; a half grin curving his scarred lips you recalled in bandages, peppered with gauze, now bare and fleshy, obscured only by the match in his mouth. –"Yes, sir."- You murmur quietly, averting your gaze, feeling all the warmth seep out of your cheeks exerted with a morning full of work. He was going to crush it in his hand, wasn’t he? -"This a pet of yours now or sumn’?"- He obviously teases, but you can’t tell if the edge he does it with is necessarily cruel or playful. Maybe a bit of both, having no time to decide once he picks the match out of his mouth and drags it along the concrete surface of the nearby wall, lighting it, pressing the tiny flame against the filter, enveloping it in a pillar of smoke. You yelp, feeling like a child bereft of its only toy. -"No, please! That’s mine!"- You plead with more urgency than intended, instinctively reaching out to grab him only for him to grip his wrist with his fingers, causing you covering your mouth in distress once the deed was already done, your heart clenching painfully in your ribcage. You nearly went and pawed at your superior officer. Robert Barnes didn’t seem angry. Only bemused. You weren’t certain if that was better or worse. Better, perhaps. Hopefully.

-"Reckon you been fixin’ to hold unto this shit for the remainder of your contract."-

He coos, the smoke unfurling through his nostrils like two flaring chimneys.

The filter is dotted with embers as the cigarette burns.

A profound, inexplicable sadness fills you.

Yeah. You did plan on holding unto it.

Tapping it inside of your breast pocket.

Doing so whenever things got difficult, unbearable.

He spits the half smoked tobacco out along with his phlegm unto the red dust soil. The heel of his boot promptly stepping on it, squashing next to where you stood paralyzed. He exhales the remainder of the nicotine fumes straight into your face as you hold your breath. His stare alight with humor, nose close enough to touch the side of your cheek as the noise from the nearby laundry room rattles on and on, the embarrassment you felt flaring your face up like a fever burning you up from the inside, the pressure in your gut building and travelling lower and you tell yourself its the loneliness of your time here, the lack of human physical contact --- your fingers coil defensively, so do the toes in your footwear. He looks you up and down, touching you, tilting you chin with an index finger, measuring you up, you supposed. You saw now, in part, why he used to intimidate the girls back at the hospital so much. Why he was handed off to you.

Why did you not mind, though?

Not truly.

-"Like that would save your ass."-

Barnes murmurs, giving you a long, hard glare over the shoulder before striding off.

You gaze down at the half smoked butt in the copper dirt, suppressing tears.

What would save your ass if small attachments didn’t then?

—

Pouring out used water.

Heating and bringing in a fresh basin.

Cleaning and dressing wounds --- listening to the sobbing. The grunting.

Fighting back the sickness and the occasional nausea that would hijack your senses.

Disinfecting the aftermath of operations, the tools, the equipment; rinse-repeat.

Pouring out used water; heating and bringing in a fresh basin.

Touching your breast pocket in times of stress.

Or in moments of idleness, habitually so.

Finding it alarmingly empty.

You discover him looking at you at times --- Sergeant Barnes --- his glassy blue eyes like a scope cast from underneath a scarred brow meeting yours from halfway across the field of the basecamp; how anyone could have an eyesight that disturbingly good and keen, even in the army, spotting you from forty-fifty feet away, was beyond understanding but you'd catch him looking without looking away once caught, instead, you'd be the one occasionally pushing down a ball of accumulated mucus while hauling out a pile of sheets brown and moist with jungle rot leaking unto the fabric through a freshly popped and infected blister, staring down at your own dust covered boots, the in-need-of-washing material obscuring your view, the pathway towards the laundry house and distance it took to get there from the medical tent, anywhere but at him, certain he was still watching you even when you've already decided to place your attention someplace else for the sake of your own sanity, convinced he was staring a hole into your back, into your skull, into your general self judging by the way a shiver would run up and down your spine every time you'd turn away. Did he dislike you...ever since the exchange? Well, it was a question if he ever liked you at all --- everyone thought him a challenging patient. By the looks of him, he seemed like a challenging Sergeant too. In turn, he must've thought you a fool. A grown woman with a child's mind in his opinion, no doubt. When he said you'd start smoking back at the hospital, he meant it in the literal sense, you chastise yourself. You developing your own escapist vices like everyone else because the drudgery of your months served would become that unbearable you'll need something to blow off some steam with, even if its just a cigarette, the occasional bit of boozing in free time, but you shake your head now, hauling the washing into the machine, feeling he must've thought you uppity; a stick up your ass. Like you were too good to sit and smoke with the rest of the 25th's Auxiliary detail, with the other nurses, the military personnel, the soldiers, holding unto naive folly instead. As much as you knew him so far you could almost imagine him chastising you 'You intendin' to walk outta here as clean as a whistle? Pure as the driven snow? Unlike the rest of us?'

He sits on a collapsed log on the perimeters of the wilderness, jungle to his side.

Dewy, sunlit dust heavy in the air and his back is hunched over.

Index finger pressed against the side of his eye.

Gaze far and away, cigarette half smoked between his fingers.

You nearly startle yourself, not noticing him initially, pouring out blood from a basin.

He looks at you quietly, like someone aggrieved.

You might've seen that look before.

At the hospital.

Your words, as a result, you find, come forth instinctively.

-"A-are you in pain, sir? Good morning."-

You try, your legs turning to iron; he merely waves his hand dismissively.

-"Eh."-

Is all you get out of his as his cheeks hollow, dragging in the smoke hard.

More of a grunting sound than an actual answer.

But, it said enough.

He was hurting and he shouldn't have been here.

Any medical practitioner believing in ethics would've said the same.

-"You overstated your NRS to get an early release, though its beyond me why. You rated yourself a three when I know your pain level was realistically closer to a crippling strong eight."-

You set your emptied basin down sheepishly, approaching him anxiously and daring to slowly squat down beside him, fearing you'll come off as preachy and bracing yourself to be brushed off --- you were alone, the base camp still in a vague state of inactivity, with only just the occasional sentry point waiting for a daytime shift; you weren't likely to put him on the spot in front of others. That wasn't your intent. -"It’s a miracle you can function at all, Sergeant, all due respect, least of all as efficiently as you do daily."- You comment as tenderly and as diplomatically as you could muster, finding something about his eyes grow oddly vulnerable for a second, strangely childlike, undeniably sad, yes, like something not supposed to be witnessed, making you goddamn near uncomfortable how much like a boy he looked when he was somber; how the years rolled off of his face within an instant. You clear your throat, uneasy. If Barnes of all people was reacting like this when he had the bravado he had in the hospital when his injuries were still fresh, then he must've been truly in agony. -"Forgive me."- You murmur sympathetically while the fluttering smoke of his cigarette coils between you, fearing you overstepped a boundary addressing him at all; the fact he hasn't gotten up or shouted you down, well, it was encouraging. -"There’s nobody around, you can tell me. It’s part of my job. I...I can administer an Oxycodone now and another one later."- You offer discreetly, knowing he was too proud to take it without coaxing --- heck, knowing he was too proud to take it even with coaxing, being the type to just suffer through debilitating pain for no reason other than the fact that he simply could --- you envisioned him the kind of man who would have to be held down by a medical staff consisting of three or four people needed to administer a mandatory injection and even then someone would end up with a broken nose. He flicks the crumpled, depleted butt of his cigarette into the red dust and tilts his head sardonically; the sad child from a minute ago all but tucked away, out of sight. -"Get me another smoke and I reckon I might tell’ya why I’m here when I ought to be laid up, outta commission."- He quips, seemingly smug and self content and you couldn't believe he found it in him to joke when he was obviously hurting, nonetheless, some phantom memory in your legs has you standing up, no arguing, about to do as you're ordered --- Barnes's eyes travel up with the rest of you.

They land on your face.

You shift the weight of your body awkwardly from one leg to another.

-"Like old times, beaut."-

He observes and the words nearly knock the wind out of your lungs.

You scamper, intent on quickly finding Dorrie.

Coaxing a cigarette or two out of her.

Did he just call you ---

-"R-right away, Sergeant!"-

You stutter in confirmation, turning on your heel, halfway walking, halfway running, stumbling upon a bitter-faced, visibly irritated Dorrie changing the bandage on a foot hit by shrapnel, agreeing, no, being cornered into emptying the latrines of the soldiers at sick beds for a full week in exchange of an untouched box of Marlboros and an old lighter, oh, how sorry you were for bothering her, how much you wanted to apologize --- it was an unfair trade, perhaps --- but in that moment, you're not sure what washes over you; wouldn't be the first time you'd go about fetching smokes for Sergeant Barnes, but you figure, as you rush back out to find him where you left him, catching him standing up as straight as an arrow, headed back to the barracks by the looks of it, no indicator of physical struggle at all, if having a cigarette or a full pack would help him alleviate the pain he was hiding he was having in the first place, then so be it. You dig in your boot heels into the dust halting in front of him purposefully, handing him the tobacco pack and the lighter for keeps. -"Sir."- You announce, tone clipped as he reaches over, taking the offering, his expression seemingly gratified; the seams of his mouth pressing into the scarred left side of his cheek in what could only be called a half-smirk. -"Mmmh-hmm!"- The pleased sound rumbles from somewhere in the back of his throat as he takes the entire package, fishing one cigarette out and tucking the rest into his breast pocket, lighting himself a smoke with the metal zippo; you should've politely made yourself scarce by then, with mission accomplished, but a fair trade was a fair trade; you wanted to know just why he prematurely re-upped back into field service, semi-expecting an answer that seemed typical of him --- War's my life. There's sons of bitches in need of killin', you envision his Southern drawl as vividly as the daylight coming down hard all around you, so best have sumn' 'round who knows how. All you do is catch your breath, wiping the sweat accumulated on your brow, watching him take a drag, then another, every movement measured and slow. Then finally, blue eyes blink up and look at you. It hits you; he must've been very handsome at one point in time, before the injuries, because under this sharp morning light, he almost seemed, well...striking.

-"Eyup! Sumn’ had to look after you."-

He admonishes casually at long last, taking his time.

Flicking the zippo, inspecting whether it was to his liking, you supposed.

What...what was he saying exactly?

-"An’ I ain’ gon’ let the one who gone 'n took care of my ass kick the bucket."-

The gravitas of those words hit you, leaving you stunned for words.

For a second all you can do is look down towards the ground.

Yearning to disappear into a sinkhole beneath your feet.

Swallowed by the jungle roots hidden beneath forever.

-"Oh."-

Is all you manage to utter.

-"Sir."-

You lift up your head, speaking barely above a tiny, meek little whisper.

For you? To keep you out of harm's way? As pay back for your hospital treatment?

Your brain already firmly registers the notion, but the verbalized part lags behind.

The speed of your foggy, hazy thoughts refusing to coincide with your tongue.

You could hardly believe or even accept what you were hearing.

-"What, are you saying you came out here prematurely because of —"-

You gulp, emboldened, perhaps in a flash of madness, trailing off sudden, catching sight of Sergeant O'Neill and Sanderson in tank tops respectively exiting the barracks in tow, heading for the center of basecamp for a morning briefing and Sergeant Barnes taking this as a sign to join them, the awakening of camp activity leaving you to push your conclusion back into the cavern of your mouth from whence it sprang out and Barnes throws you nothing but a smile --- the man actually smiles - teeth bared and the sight of it fully reaching his eyes before he turns on his heel, cigarette in his mouth and leaves you to stew in the notion that it was, in part, for you. He did it because of you.

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