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scoutofmymind · 28 days ago

Note

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

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thespnreferencedesk · 19 days ago

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A Fic Writer's Guide to Bobby's House

Part 1 | Part 2: Library/Den

Click for the full-size, annotated versions of images!

Bobby's library is the unofficial home base of many of the show's earlier seasons. If you keep an eye out, you can spy a handful of objects and pieces of furniture consistently popping up over this room's many appearances, but no two episodes have them arranged the same way. It's also very often that a piece of furniture will pop up in one episode only to be gone the next. Since 4.02 reveals that Bobby has a spare storage room upstairs, it's possible that's where he keeps most of this extra furniture.

There are two main iterations of Bobby's den. The first appears during seasons 1 - 3 and features less furniture, far more books, dark brown trim instead of black, and a different wallpaper (or no wallpaper in 1.22). The new wallpaper and black trim first appear in 3.10, and they can be seen alongside the new layout in seasons 4 - 7. This iteration of the library includes a large Persian rug, ornate wooden desk, twin book shelves to the left of the fireplace, a floor lamp and bookshelf to the right of the fireplace, the red couch in front of a set of bay windows, a half bookshelf in the far left corner, and a rolltop desk in the far right.

A large Persian area rug typically sits in the center of the room except for when some type of trap is being painted on the floor. A devil's trap can be seen on the ceiling in 1.22 and 6.20. Bobby's ceiling is beige and has wooden beams that match the rest of the trim.

The heart of Bobby's library is a wood-burning fireplace with green tiled surround and a black carved mantle where Bobby keeps books and random knick-knacks. In the later seasons, these include a small bulldog statue/bookend, a pewter pitcher with tankards, two silver trophies, and a wooden antique radio. Above the fireplace is a landscape painting framed by two electric wall sconces.

Decorations aside, Bobby's fireplace is also a practical hunter's tool. It's often used as a flame source for spells, and the iron pokers and other tools make for an easy handheld weapon against ghosts and specters. In 5.04, it's revealed that the center section of the mantle hides a secret compartment where he keeps a hunting journal similar to John's.

Bobby's carved wooden desk is first seen in 4.02 and, with a few exceptions, appears consistently up until it burns with the rest of Bobby's house. Earlier episodes (3.03, 3.04) either have a simpler table in its place or no desk at all (seasons 1 - 2).

Bobby's desk is a free-standing open pedestal desk with turned legs, lower shelves, and diamond-shaped carvings. Based on the style, it's likely from the late 19th or early 20th century. Similar desks can be seen here and here. The desk also has three shallow upper drawers, two deeper drawers on each pedestal, and a green stone top that Bobby uses as a chalkboard for spells. In 5.18, it's shown that Bobby keeps his Single-Action Army revolver in one of the drawers. In 6.15, Balthazar is rummaging through Bobby's drawers and finds a saint's bone underneath a false drawer bottom.

In seasons 4 - 5, Bobby tends to use a black flexible goose-neck desk lamp. Starting in season 6, he switches this lamp for a thin, rectangular, golden brown mid-century lamp. It could be assumed that this lamp was also destroyed in the fire that burned Bobby's house, but it actually shows up in Dean's bedroom in the Bunker in later seasons. So either the Men of Letters had the same lamp, Dean found a similar one at a thrift store at some point, or he was able to recover the lamp from the ruins of Bobby's house.

In seasons 1 - 3, the corner to the left of Bobby's fireplace contained the rolltop desk, a console table, and piles of books. This layout can still be seen in 4.01, but it is replaced in 4.02 with two matching bookshelves. The more left of the two bookshelves has a black gooseneck lamp clamped onto the top shelf, and sometimes a dining chair stacked with extra books is also pushed into this corner. Inside of Bobby's mind in 7.10, these shelves also hold framed photos of Bobby with loved ones as well as a book cut out to hide an elaborate crucifix.

Along with the matching bookshelves, 4.02 places a floor lamp, chair, and upright bookcase in the corner to the right of the fire place. This chair is typically some kind of living chair but is sometimes one of the wooden dining chairs that frequently get moved around the library. Next to the bookcase, underneath the bay window, is a red couch with a faint swirl pattern, carved wooden feet, and decorative panels on the arms. Bobby also owns a matching armchair (5.18, see above), but it is not usually seen in the library.

This couch is where Sam or Dean sleep while at Bobby's. If the both of them are there, Sam takes the couch while Dean sleeps on the floor (4.02, above). A gray blanket with faint stripes pops up in a few episodes as well as a striped pillow that appears to match the pillows on the cot in the panic room and in the linen closet upstairs (4.02). Various end tables and dining chairs get moved around the couch and used as nightstands or bookshelves.

To the right of the couch is a half bookshelf and console table stacked with books. In season 5, the console table is replaced with a vintage stereo cabinet. The stereo is used as a table and sometimes holds records (5.18 - 5.21), sometimes holds drawers and books, and sometimes holds a TV (6.04). A similar stereo can be seen here, though note that Bobby's has tapered legs. Also note that the wall sconce in this corner is the only one in this room that has two lights instead of one.

A pair of black pocket doors sits at the back wall of the library and leads to the kitchen. These doors slide into the wall rather than opening in- or outward, and are typically left closed. To the right of the doors is a black double light switch.

To the right of the pocket doors are typically a dining chair stacked with books, a black trunk, an upright blueprint holder filled with maps and plans, and at various times books and a radio. When this radio isn't on the trunk, it tens to sit on top of Bobby's rolltop desk alongside one of his many desk lamps and a decanter and glassware set. This desk is also where Bobby keeps a CB radio (used in 5.10).

Like Bobby's main desk, the rolltop desk is also either likely from the early 18th or early 19th century or is a replica of a desk from that period. It's always seen open and has an assortment of small drawers, cubbies, and cabinets on the desktop. It has a center drawer, and four drawers on the pedestals, and sits on casters so it can be easily moved.

As previously mentioned, there are several variations of Bobby's library within the show. In it's first appearance in 1.22, the library didn't have it's signature red wallpaper. The first wallpaper appears in 2.14 and has a toile pattern while the second wallpaper has a look closer to a jacquard or brocade. When we see Bobby's heaven in 10.17, the wallpaper (and rug and radio and couch...) is different once again.

Sometime between seasons 3 and 4, the dark brown wood trim in Bobby's library is painted black. In season 5, while Bobby uses a wheelchair, the couch is replaced with a twin bed with wooden headboard.

Bobby's library gets neater and cozier with every episode. What is little more than a dark place to stack hundreds of books in its first appearance is, by season 7, a proper living space with multiple light sources, tchotchkes, records, a couch, and pillows. No wonder it's the place where time and time again someone is brought when they need to stay somewhere safe and familiar. After years of being alone after his wife's death, it's almost as if reconnecting with his boys motivated Bobby to finally turn his house back into a home.

#my guides #art refs #locations #bobby's house #singer auto salvage #sioux falls #bobby singer

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bullet-prooflove · 4 months ago

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The Cowboy At Your Door: Dwight Manfredi x Reader (feat: Bill Bevilaqua)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @skellyagogo @sca3a @kenbechillin @mandy426

Companion piece to:

Poker Face - Dwight's night takes a turn when he meets you for the first time at a poker game.

Dior - Dwight wakes up to the scent of Dior and lipstick on his chest.

Gunpowder & Roses - Dwight's enemies make a mistake when they come after you.

Hell of A Message - You send a message to your ex Bill.

There’s a cowboy at your door. One with a black hat, heated eyes and a smile that’s made for sin.

“I got your message.” Bill Bevilaqua says as he stands on your porch, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his Wranglers.

You tuck your hair back behind your ear so he can see the bruising blossoming across your features.

“I got yours too.”

His gaze darkens, his jaw tightening as he surveys the butterfly stitches, the busted lip. He reaches out, his fingertips tracing over the place where Joey’s ring split your skin.

“I’d kill him myself if you hadn’t done it already.” He tells you and you can see the sincerity of it in his eyes before you open your door and invite him into the house.

“We should talk.” You say and he doesn’t respond as he steps into your living room, drinking in the essence of you.

It’s the first time he’s been to your home. It’s light, airy and somehow cosy at the same time. Soft greys give way to berry and blush undertones creating a warmth that was never present in the house that you lived in together. His personality and heritage had dominated the ranch that you’d shared. It was always harsh, always masculine, the same way that everything was in his family.

“This is what our home should have been like.” He says as he turns to face you, his thumbs looped through the rungs of his jeans.

“There was never any room for me underneath all that toxic masculinity.” You remind him as you settle down into the stone grey love seat.

No there hadn’t been, not in the world you were both born into. You were the only child of Vinnie Cincinetti, head of one of the most powerful crime families in Oklahoma. You would have been a force to be reckoned with if you’d taken up the mantle, instead you’d been married off to the Bevilaqua syndicate because you weren’t the right gender to lead.

It may have been an arranged marriage but Bill had fallen in love with you almost immediately. Instead of being the pretty, little wife that sat at home and spent his money, you earned your own by running poker games and pulling in whales that thought nothing about throwing down six figures at one of the most exclusive card tables in the country.

It isn’t until he catches a snide remark from his cousin Frank that he realises that your success is making him look weak, like he can’t control his wife, that he’s not providing for her. The thing is, he’s never seen you as exhilarated as when you’re running those games. You’ve never been so happy, so engaged and he knows in that moment he has to let you go because you were destined to be much more than just a gangster’s wife.

So he divorces you, sets you free and he hopes that maybe one day, when you’ll return to him. It’s been five years since you left Kansas and you’ve still not come home. He’s starting to doubt you ever will despite the nights you’ve shared since.

He takes a seat on the sofa close to you, taking off his hat and setting it upon the dark wood coffee table.

“You need to meet with Manfredi.” You tell him, running a hand through your hair and shaking it out so it falls across your features. “Sort out this territory dispute before it turns into something.”

He sinks into the plush comfort of your couch, his gaze drinking you in. It’s only now as he looks at you that he realises you’re wearing a man’s dress shirt and it riles something inside of him.

“Darlin.” He drawls. “It’s already something. I can’t have New York coming here and stepping on my shit….”

“It isn’t really your shit though is it?” You respond, leaning forward and his gaze strays to the dip in the shirt you’re wearing. Your bra is visible, he can see the contrasting black lace against your skin. “You gave Tulsa to me.”

“You’re still an extension of the Bevilaqua Family even if we aren’t married anymore.” He reminds you, shrugging his shoulders.

“Tulsa is my playground.” You say fiercely before giving him a knowing look. “The real problem is you don’t like the fact there’s another kid playing in it.”

“No.” He says pointedly. “I don’t.”

You sigh as you recross your legs and he catches a flash of that tattoo on your inner thigh, the one that covers his mark. His family, they brand their property. Horses, drugs, their wives too. You hadn’t screamed when they’d forced it on you, you’d bitten down on his belt instead, stifling your agony. He still wears the damn thing around his waist, your teeth indentations still etched into the leather.

“I heard you got it covered.” He says gesturing to the space between your legs. “I want to see it.”

You sigh as you part your thighs, the dress shirt creeping up so that your black panties are on display. His gaze comes to rest on the greyscale dahlias inked onto your skin, they cover the entirety of the brand, obscuring it from view. He sinks to his knees in front of you, his calloused palm coming to rest on your thigh as his thumb traces over scarring underneath, the ‘B’ etched into your skin for eternity.

“I’ll always be a part of you.” He whispers, his lips ghosting over the edge of your tattoo. “And you’ll always have a part of me.”

Your hand rakes through his dark hair, grip tightening on the roots, making him moan against your skin. He’s been hard since he laid eyes on you, it’s the way he’s always been with you. He gets off on the coolness, the indifference, it only makes him try harder to earn your attention. You tug his head back to meet your eyes and his whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“So…” You say, your voice dropping an octave. “Do I get my meeting or not?”

He’d give you anything you in this moment because all he wants is to spend the night between your legs, his tongue thrust in your pussy until you see God. He wants to feel you coming on his cock as you use him like a fucktoy, like he’s nothing but a vessel for your pleasure.

“Bill.” You say, your voice like silk caressing his skin. “Do I get my meeting?”

“Yes.” He bites out.

“Good boy.” You murmur, your palm lightly slapping his cheek and his dick fucking leaks, smearing the inside of his underwear. “You can go now.”

“Dahlia…” He implores but he knows he’s lost because you’re wearing sitting here in another man’s shirt, your gaze already flickering to the clock on the mantlepiece.

“No Bill.” You say, indicating to the bruising on your face. “You don’t deserve my pussy tonight.”

Love Dwight? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#dwight manfredi #dwight manfredi x reader #tulsa king #Bill Bevilaqua #Bill Bevilaqua x reader

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sunlightmurdock · 5 months ago

Note

Katie!!! 💗💗

❛ you can kiss me, you know. ❜ SCREAMS dbf jake 👀👀 like i can just hear it in that smug, sexy voice of his 🫠

also the new theme is so cute, i love it!! 🧡

Krickett!! @sugarcoated-lame! Thank you! And yessssss I 100% see the vision. Like a lot of time with dbf!jake I talk about him resisting the urge a little bit, trying to be a good friend or whatever, but can you imagine that in this situation he’s the instigator?

He knows that reader has a crush on him, and he knows that her feelings are farrr from being sweet little girl next door feelings. He kept his distance for a while, and he really was just trying to be a nice guy by offering to let you hang out with him for the evening after your date bailed on you last minute.

But then, you’re in his place and you’re all dolled up for the date that you didn’t end up going on.

Somehow, you sweet talk him into teaching you his best poker skills. Looking at him through your lashes, all serious as you work on keeping a straight face over your cards. Each of you sipping on a couple of cold beers as the night goes on, him pretending like he doesn’t know you’re flirting with him.

“Alright, fine! — Let’s raise the stakes, if I win then…” You trail off, giddy and buzzed, “If I win then you have to pick me up from work for a week.”

There’s a different look in his eyes as he stares at you from across his coffee table, his poker face not only protecting his cards but also the fact that he can see right up that short skirt of yours.

“And if I win?” He murmurs, his voice deep and serious now.

Your eyes flash with excitement for just a second before you manage to compose yourself, shrugging like you’re innocent and oblivious.

“A— Well, anything that you want, I guess.” You answer him, flustered and suddenly veryyyy focused on your cards.

“Anything?” Jake asks, loving the way your eyes go wide when you steal another look at him. Loving, even more, the way you nod your head dumbly for him. He nods, silently accepting the terms and waiting for you to set your cards down. He already knows he’s got the better hand, you’ve got a tell.

You glance between him and the four of a kind that you had just set down. He knows, at this point, that you don’t even want to win. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head like he’s sorry as he sets down the straight flush on the table.

“Read ‘em and weep, princess.”

You press your teeth into your bottom lip, letting the silence settle between you for a second too long before you look up at him.

“So… what do you want?” You whisper, so quiet that he can practically hear your heart thudding.

His mouth twitches, his green eyes suddenly dark through the soft lighting of his dark wood accented living room. He studies you from across the table, taking his time in looking you over.

Then, he taps his finger against the empty beer bottle in front of him.

“Just another one of these. Thanks.”

Disappointment flashes instantly across your face. He just shot you down in flames. You close your mouth swiftly and mumble an embarrassed agreement, grabbing both of your empty bottles and rushing for his kitchen. Thinking so loudly that you don’t even hear him push himself up to follow you.

You slam the fridge door shut with a huff, almost dropping the two new beer bottles in your hands when you find him standing right there in front of you. He takes a step closer again, reaching up and curling his hands around the two bottles. You release them immediately into his grip, speechless as he sets them on the countertop behind you and lets his chest bump yours.

Silently, he lifts his hand and trails his knuckles across the apple of your cheek.

Your chest heaves, heartbeat thundering inside your ribcage.

“You can kiss me, you know.” He permits, dropping his hands and grabbing at your waist.

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

“Mhm,” Jake mumbles, letting his nose brush against your cheekbone. “You can have anything you want, honey.”

#dbf!jake #dad’s best friend!jake #jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin smut

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psychotic-nonsense · 5 months ago

Text

|| >

There's not much Steve remembers.

There's a group of people walking through the woods, some older, some teens. He's amongst them. The sky is too dark and the trees are too dead. His hands are tight, holding something close. There's an air of panic, stress, hurry, caution. A mistake was made, and they need to escape.

Then instincts flare and the trees descend on them. Sharp rushes of wind, the shrill shrieking of something otherworldly. There's teeth and sharp whips and screaming and gunshots.

Then the swirling mass parts and the shrieks turn human, and Steve remembers the visceral fear of seeing the mass separate. One half rises, carrying a flailing, manic figure, and no no no Robin please no not Robin please no me take me instead you bastards not Robin please no Robin Robin-

Then the other half descends, whips circle his wrists, and the ground falls beneath him. There's screaming behind and before him as the earth fades away, and it's a cruel parallel, floating when all he wants to do is sink.

Robin's thrashing, Steve's thrashing. Their weapons have no use here, where teeth and whips maul them. Amid the pain, all Steve can do is plead to Robin, to forgive, to hope, to fight.

Robin finds the weak spot first. A quick succession of blind swings, a fierce thrash of flailing limbs. The bats scare, release her. But they're too high. Steve feels his throat go coarse as he watches Robin crash into the dead forest below, unable to differentiate the snapping between bark and bone.

Steve finds it in him to copy the act, do the same. And somehow, it works. Somehow, he's weightless.

There's a fierce pressure and the first snap he remembers feeling both on and within his skin-

And Steve wakes up.

It's not sudden, it's gradual. He feels the pains within him slowly throb to life, rousing him from sleep like an anchor rising from the sea. His left hand feels thick, and there's a burning poker laying across his forehead. His jaw feels wrong, and his eye stings and throbs.

His other senses slowly begin to return as well. He's laying down, his head tilted to his left, a bit cramped in the space as something presses around his shoulders. The material he's on isn't very comfortable either, some parts stabbing into his back, and there's a crinkling sound every time he breathes. He hears the faint rippling of water, and somewhere out there, it rushes fast and hard.

It's hell to even think of doing it, but as Steve returns to reality, his instincts rise to the surface, and he knows he has to get up soon. So he opens his eyes. He fights the involuntary tears, wincing as the stinging worsens, then wincing further when his face crumbles in the looping pain.

Finally, he can see a little. Where he is, it's thankfully pretty dark, with only a faint golden glow illuminating the area around him. His eyes strain to see through the darkness past the range of the light-

And then Steve notices where he is. A boathouse. The boathouse. The same one from a night that feels like a lifetime ago, rather than a few weeks. The start of their worst journey, the beginning of a friendship that would grow just to rot into a sour mess of guilt and loneliness.

He's laying within the same boat too...

His eyes focus on some motion across from him. A table covered in a lump of tarps and ratty cloths, and atop it sleeps a figure. Her face is scrunched up in pain, a patch of bloody fabric covering her cheek. One leg has been removed of all clothes, the ankle wrapped and foot elevated. Steve knows her, and instinct briefly overpowers everything else.

"Robs?-" Steve cracks out, his voice sore and rough. His body tries to rise, moving habitually, and he barely rises onto his elbows before the world pounces on him again. It's so strong and he's so weak that he can't move more than the closing of his eyes and the falling of his chin to his chest, can't make a sound louder than a whimper.

Suddenly there's a noise, there's movement beside him. The light glows just a tough brighter, and there's a base warmth suddenly pulsing through his chest.

It's a person, shushing him. Their hand is resting softly on his back, simultaneously supporting him and urging him down.

"Please, stay. It is better for you to rest."

The voice speaks softer than Steve can remember, but he still knows it. It's monotone, sounds ghostly, faint, quiet in a way that has nothing to do with volume, but it's still familiar. Still brings the memories around Steve right into the present, takes him back to that corpse, makes the presence around him feel more melancholic than scary.

Which is funnily enough, even more terrifying.

Steve can't move, can't pull his sight up to face what can't be reality.

"Apologies for the location. We cannot stray too far from the Gates."

The monotone changes to sound almost apologetic, more real, more like what Steve has been craving. It's what finally makes him cave, to turn his eyes to face the impossible.

Who he sees, what he sees, both crushes and rises his hope. Because past everything before him - the inhuman glow, the calm, plain expression - he finds exactly what he's been fighting for.

"Eddie...?" Steve pleads.

The blank face falls, just slightly. Like it's guilty.

"I'm sorry. No. Not quite."

(cleaner version below)

#MY SHOWER THOUGHTS KEEP GOING WAY TOO HARD #why did thinking of lore for vecna's generals create this completly different story wtf-#anyway eddie's body gets possesed by the original spirit of the upside down #it saves stobin from death and takes them to rest at the boathouse for safety #all bc of eddie's input bc dude's still in there #he just can't drive #I’LL EXPAND LATER BUT HERE’S THIS FOR NOW JHGVJYGCJYGV #also it’s stobin bc i couldn’t decide if the story was better with just steve or robin so fuck it let’s have the siblings suffer together #stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #stranger things au #platonic soulmates stobin #platonic stobin #stobin friendship #steddie #steve x eddie #implied bc it's me of course

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irisintheafterglow · 8 months ago

Text

HAND SIX - FLUSH

summary: in a season where you're determined to fly under the radar, newly-returned crown prince!touya todoroki has other ideas. in this hand, a suitor sneaks you out and desire rears its head.

wc: 2.7k

cw/tags: royalty!au/regency!au, fem!reader (she/her used), explicit language, joking death threats (reader gets salty during poker), league of villains found family cameos, emotionally constipated touya todoroki, a lil steamy toward the end wink wink

note: trying to write a poker game where you have to imagine the hands of two different players is,,,,challenging to say the least. but stick around until the end of this part for a welcome surprise :)) hope you like it!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“You said you wanted to be my friend.”

“I wasn’t aware that meant sneaking out of my house!” Your hushed anger is lost among the gentle breeze of the branches outside your window. Your suitor and self-proclaimed ‘friend’ has perched himself on one of the heftier arms of the oak, rapping his knuckles against your window until you appeared. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I can’t say I do; I have regrettably left my pocket watch at home,” he says with a poorly-hidden smirk. He frowns at your insistent glare and glances over your shoulder expectantly. “Well? Are you coming or not?” You abruptly shut the window, pulling the curtains shut and leaning against the dusty fabric. Your hand finds its way over your pounding heart and you hope none of the commotion Touya caused has awoken anyone else in the house. More taps against the glass make you slide one curtain to the side to reveal Touya yawning. Catching your incredulous expression, he merely winks before dropping backward into the darkness, disappearing among the nighttime shadows of the garden.

“Idiot. I’m being courted by an idiot,” you say to your stale bedroom. By a stroke of curiosity or plain irritation, you tug your sleeping clothes over your head and step into the pair of trousers you’d pilfered from your father’s drawers. A few minutes later, with your boots slipped carefully over your feet and a hood drawn over your face, you find Touya lurking next to the magnolias. “Care to enlighten me as to the terms of my current abduction?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he scoffs with a small smile. Touya’s smiles were few and far between, and you’d noticed he only seemed to smile so fondly when he was with you. “Hurry up, you’ll fall behind at the rate you’re moving.” You bite back a shrewd remark about your hastily-donned attire. Still, none of his words land as insults as he offers you his arm and, when you take it, skillfully navigates you between back alleyways and shortcuts.

“Where are we going?”

“Home,” he replies, eyes watchful as ever.

“The palace?”

“Not exactly.” He guides you through the creaking door of an abandoned textiles warehouse.

“As much as they despise my decisions during this season, my parents would be less than delighted if I turned up dead in a warehouse,” you comment as your suitor leaves you momentarily, fishing around in the darkness for a match and lighting a candle. The space itself is huge, an extensive balcony for a foreman running around the perimeter of the high windows, but the area Touya occupies is quaint enough to be homey. “Is this where you–”

“Hide?”

“I was searching for a different word,” you admit, “but that works to the same effect.” A small bedroll sits haphazardly in a corner, along with a pile of scrappy blankets and small pillows. The main event of the space, however, was the large work table where the single candle sat, the old wood covered in vials of various powders and solutions. You take a cautious step toward the table that was probably once used for cutting fabric, now littered with excess scraps of leather and tools. “What do you make with this stuff?”

“Salves, mostly, for the…you know.” His voice trails off and you nod when he gestures to the scar tissue on his cheeks. “A friend needed me to make some smoke bombs and I had the materials, so I started doing that too. Now, I just make whatever comes to mind.”

“These are where you find the formulas?” You flip through the pages of a thick, dust-covered volume about chemistry and eye another about something called pyrolyzing.

“Mostly,” he shrugs. “The rest of the time, I just put stuff together and hope it works.”

“That’s dangerous, Touya.” He shrugs again, fiddling with a wrench and adjusting the placement of a test tube.

“It’s alright. It’s why I do all this stuff here and not in the palace.”

“And also why I keep needing to buy this dumbass new warehouses,” calls a new voice from a corner of the large room. Touya snorts and rolls his eyes, peering at you with amusement when you unconsciously move to shield yourself behind him. “Don’t be afraid; if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it out of your garden.” You stiffen beside Touya, who sends you a half-sympathetic look.

“Tomura, stop. You’re scaring her,” he states as the stranger, Tomura, steps into the light, a dry face hidden by long white hair spilling over a blood red cape. “Ignore him,” he mutters to you when you flinch as Tomura steps closer to the table. “If anyone actually wanted you dead, I’d roast them alive before they could breathe in your direction.”

“How romantic,” you deadpan and Touya chuckles. “He’s a friend of yours?”

“I’d say ‘working relationship’ at best,” he corrects and you let out a shaky breath, his quiet confidence overriding any unease caused by the weird man across the table. “Himiko here?”

“I was waiting for you to introduce me!” From another corner of the warehouse remarks a higher pitched, jubilant voice. A young girl with blonde hair tied in two buns swings down from the balcony, dancing over to you and shaking your hand with excitement. She’s short, but beams up at you so kindly, you’re taken aback by the contrast between her and Tomura. “Toga Himiko,” she states brightly. “You’re even prettier than Dabi described!”

“Dabi?” You glance at Touya, your confusion obvious. You can tell his walls are struggling to come down and you inch closer to him in an effort to sink them further, questions still rattling about in your brain. “Is that your alter ego?”

“Alter ego implies that Dabi and Touya are two different people,” he explains after an awkward pause. “But I think they’re one in the same.” You nod in understanding, not pushing the subject further even when he continues anyway. “These guys,” he gestures to the various figures approaching you at the worktable, “know me as the former. You have the privilege of knowing me as the latter.”

“And now you’re letting me know both,” you finish for him. He smiles softly again and hums quietly, grateful that you understand what he’s trying to do.

“Attagirl.”

“Thank you for letting me in,” you murmur. You stare into his burning blue eyes for a second longer before he turns away, clearing his throat.

“You’re not done quite yet. It’s poker night and I still haven’t introduced you to everyone else.”

Once the worktable is cleared and half a dozen wobbly stools are dragged over to it, Touya pulls a deck of cards from a hidden drawer. Tomura mirrors him, retrieving a box of chips and tossing it on the table. Toga sits to your right and Touya stays stationed on your left, occasionally letting his hand cover yours whenever you drummed the table anxiously. Even with his so-called ‘acquaintances’ causing chaos across the table, his focus only ever stayed on you.

During one of the last hands, you’re dealt an eight and a six of clubs. With a mediocre stack of chips and a sudden urge to challenge Touya, you push in a third of your stack after the initial dealing reveals a seven of clubs, a seven of spades, and a ten of clubs. With four out of five to make a straight flush, your odds were looking good and you prayed for a nine or a five of any suit.

You have to stop yourself from laughing when a five of hearts and a nine of spades is dealt. As nice as it would have been to have a straight flush, your odds with the straight weren’t terrible.

“Ah, shit. I’m out.” Tomura folds, sliding his cards to the middle of the table. “It must be an off night for me.”

“Yeah, me too,” Himiko pouts and follows suit, along with energetic Jin and stoic Shuichi. “Tonight sucks.”

“Whoever has the six and the eight will most likely win.” Shuichi is glum at the other end of the table after folding almost every hand so far. Himiko gives you a thumbs up and whispers loud enough that the whole group can hear.

“I’m rooting for you!” You give her an uneasy smile.

“It’s down to you two.” Kurogiri sits shrouded in the darkest corner of the table. You shiver and peek at Touya from the corner of your eye to find that he’s already looking at you, no doubt trying to read you. His unnaturally white hair catches in the moonlight streaming through the high windows, painting him like a portrait that would hang on the palace’s walls. There was an intensity to Touya’s expression that you found yourself wanting to push against, even when your current cards certainly gave no guarantees. You push all of your chips to the center without breaking eye contact and he smirks, copying you.

“Alright, reveal,” Tomura commands and you put your two cards down, a chorus of ooh and damn and I fucking knew it resounding around the table. Your straight put you in a relatively good spot, considering how the other hands of the night had progressed.

“Bold move, doll,” Touya drawls, running his tongue over his top lip. “But…” he says, laying down his two cards and grinning when your jaw drops to the floor. “That’s the one you were looking for, yeah?” You gape at the three of hearts and nine of clubs. The card that you needed to make your perfect hand was in Touya’s the entire time.

“Oh, you’re such an asshole. You are the biggest asshole to ever exist,” you groan and he scoops all of your chips into his pile with a self-satisfied grin.

“See, she gets it!” Everyone voices their assent in playfully bitter grumbles, muttering accusations of rigging the game and marking the cards beforehand.

“I am going to hide your body so far that your cells will never see the light of day again.” You point an accusatory finger at your suitor, who raises his palms in prideful surrender. “I hope you’re ready to feed the worms with your decaying flesh.”

“Yes, you fit in just fine here,” Tomura nods in approval.

“Don’t hate the players; hate the game,” Touya shrugs. Your continued threats are lost among the raucous laughter that echoes off the rafters of the warehouse. He gives himself the indulgence of looking at you, really looking at you. You were here, cackling with his friends like you’d known them longer than he had. He’d allowed you into his most sacred of spaces and you treated it with the same care you treated him. In the dim candlelight of the building with its rotten wood and blood-stained floors, you were still the same as ever.

Touya stares at you like you’d never looked more beautiful.

—

“I believe I’ve found a more entertaining poker opponent than you,” you remark slyly on the leisurely walk back to your part of the city. Clumps of stars peek out among the summer clouds, winking at you like the constellations holding secrets you couldn’t possibly fathom. Touya hasn’t stopped looking at you since the hand you nearly won, something you find is stirring a fluttering feeling in your chest.

“Have you, now? And who, pray tell, would that be?” His bicep flexes under your fingers, the placement of your hand on his arm fitting like two missing puzzle pieces.

“Now that I know Tomura is harmless, it’s much easier to read him than it is to read you. The same thing goes for Shuichi. Himiko…I think she tries her best,” you declare with a sparkle in your eye. “Kurogiri, however, remains a mystery to me. I don’t believe I saw the man’s face the entire time I was there.” Touya barks out a laugh and you once again hope no one is having a midnight cup of milk to find you both unchaperoned.

“You fit in well with them, all things considering.” You seem to take pride in his compliment. Seeing you so happy made him lightheaded, akin to when he swiped one too many shots from the palace cellar. “The only things missing are a few battle scars, but I won’t let you get any.”

“Why, you don’t think I’m tough enough for those?” You poke your tongue out at him and step away, drawing him to you in the cover of the alley like a magnet.

“Bold of you to assume I’d let anyone close enough to hurt you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coming to stand in front of you until you’re backed up against the bricks. You’re nearly chest to chest and close enough to smell his cologne and the lingering scent of smoke. Your words drop to a nearly imperceptible level, but he hears them anyway. He always does.

“You know, we’re a long ways off from that duel in the courtyard,” you say quietly, heart pounding so loudly that you can’t meet his eyes. “I couldn’t have predicted that this would happen in a million years.”

“I had every intention to court you when I found you hiding behind that pillar,” Touya points out.

“I was not hiding,” you insist, taking the bait and ignoring the smirk that instantly appears on his stupid mouth. “I was just–”

“Taking a break, I remember,” he finishes for you. “No need to become argumentative about it again. It is in the past and I am pleased with how this arrangement has panned out.” Right. Your grin falters at the word ‘arrangement.’ You’d temporarily forgotten, if only for a few hours, that this was not real. Touya’s affection was fleeting, a memory that would fade into oblivion once his presence was gone too. His eyebrows furrow as he scans your face, looking for an indicator of what suddenly has you feeling sorrowful. “What ails you, my love?”

“I…I carry too much affection for you,” you admit, heat rising in your cheeks. You still won’t look at him. He hates when you don’t look at him. “An embarrassingly large amount, enough that it pains me when you reinstate that I am only an ‘arrangement,’ a business transaction.”

“I thought I said that you were more than that. You are more than that.” Touya grabs what little courage he has cowering at the bottom of his soul and yanks it into the open, gently turning your head to meet his eyes. Damn it all if he couldn’t tell you what he felt because he was scared. “You are…everything. To me.” Your breath hitches in your throat. His fingers find your face.

“I don’t understand–”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “You never could, nor could I. But I cannot take one more step or inhale one more breath without confessing how important you are to me. You are everything, and I swear on my life that what I say is true.” He pulls you closer ever so slowly until your own body closes the empty space, grabbing the back of his neck as a lifeline. You don’t know if he leans down first or you press up to him; but when you kiss Touya for the first time, it’s a match dropping into a dried forest. Months of frustrating, unspoken tension breaks the instant he touches you. You are a hellfire that he walks straight into.

“Touya, please–” Intoxicating, the way you say his name, and the drunken rush goes straight to his head.

“Everything…you are everything,” he rasps against your mouth, letting himself be burnt by his own selfish desires. Something in him snaps when your fingers find his hair and tug; the possessive grip on your waist tightens like you’d disappear if he let go. He kisses you until you’re breathless, until you’re forced to pull away because the only oxygen you’re taking is from his lungs. Even so, he refuses to let you go far, keeping his forehead against yours as you both regain control of your breathing. “I–I–”

“I know.” You stop him with a thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I can’t say it yet,” he forces out. “I’ve never known how to.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, softly stroking his cheek with your knuckles. “Tell me when you’re ready. I’ll wait for you.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

#dabi x you #dabi x reader #dabi x y/n #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x y/n #mha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #touya x you #touya x reader #touya x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n

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daryltwdixon · 4 months ago

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The Promise of Us: Chapter 5

warning: gore & violence

Hammers, bats, and batons lay heavy on the table between the two groups—T-Dog, Rick, Daryl, and you on one side, and the five prisoners standing across from you. Each man is testing the weight of the weapons in their hands, their expressions a mix of confusion and unease. They seem confused on why their using hand to hand combat weapons, instead of the guns they probably expected.

Rick glanced at you when you approached, his eyes lingering a little longer than usual. You can tell he noticed something—maybe the lingering paleness of your face or the way you’re gripping your weapon too tightly. For a second, you think he’s going to say something, but he only shoots a look at Daryl. Their silent exchange speaks volumes, and it’s clear they’ve come to an understanding. You’re better off here with them, facing whatever this is, than back in that room where the air is still thick with blood and panic. Rick looks exhausted beside you, his shoulders still tense, dark circles etched under his eyes. You wonder what kind of conversation he had with Lori after everything—about Shane, about the choices they’ve had to make. Lori hadn’t taken the news about Shane well, but in the end, she was in on the plan. Still, you can’t help but wonder what’s been going through her mind, how she’s processing everything. You’ve tried to make sense of it yourself, but it always leaves you more tangled than before.

For now, you shove that thought away. You’re finally clear-headed after the haze of panic that had threatened to swallow you earlier, and you don’t want to slip back into that spiral. The weight of your trusted knife in your hand feels grounding, solid. You focus on that—the here and now. The smell of rust and wood, the low hum of nervous breaths, the scrape of boots on the cement floor.

“Why do I need this,” the long-haired man—the leader, it seems—asks, holding up a metal rod—almost like a firewood poker— in one hand and a gun in the other. “When I got this?” He looks directly at Rick, the glint of the gun catching the dim light.

“You don’t fire guns,” Daryl says, his voice low and edged with warning. “Not unless your back’s up against a wall.”

“Noise attracts them,” you add, your voice steady but firm, “Riles them up even more.”

Rick steps in, his tone authoritative. “We’ll go in two-by-two—Daryl on point with T, and I’ll bring up the rear with you.” He gestures toward one of the prisoners, the one gripping a hatchet, as he lays out the plan. “Stay tight, hold formation…”

But as Rick speaks, a chill runs down your spine. You can feel the leader’s eyes on you, heavy and unsettling, like a weight pressing into your skin. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, it’s like the air stills around you. You grip the hilt of your knife tighter, feeling the leather warm under your palm.

“These things only go down with a head shot,” Daryl says, bringing you out of your transfixed gaze locked on the man in front of you. There’s more conversation, but you palm your knife in your hand, holding the hilt steady, tightening your grip. The group is going over the basics for the prisoners, explaining the rules of survival. You already know them well enough. It still bewilders you how these men have managed this long without knowing.

“You ain’t gotta tell us how to take out a man,” the leader growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks up at you all from under his lashes, his head tilted low.

“They ain’t men,” T-Dog says, his voice hard, unwavering. “They’re somethin’ else.”

With that, the group starts to move. Everyone makes their way out of the cell block and into the hallways, the atmosphere tense and thick with anticipation. The sound of keys jangling in Rick’s hand echoes as he unlocks the door, each metallic clink reverberating off the walls.

As you make your way down the hall, you can’t help the soft spot in your heart as Daryl tries to help a few of the prisoners with their whereabouts. When one says it’s too dark in the hall, he shows him how to hold his flashlight up high in front of him. He’s whispering, telling them you’ll most likely hear the walkers before you even see them. He wants them to survive.

“It’s coming!” someone yells behind you, making you leap out of your skin. Rick immediately shushes him loudly, and you have to shake the feeling of your element of surprise completely being taken away.

There’s a clanging, a snarling coming from up ahead as Daryl holds his hand up in front, stopping everyone. It’s dead quiet other than the breaths of the group overlapping with the walker’s rattling breaths. Daryl steadies everyone as they come into view, and counts on his fingers to let them go after the two that round the corner. Before he can even raise his third digit, the men between you scream and rush forward in a battle cry. A zing of electric shock goes through you as you jump, nearly laughing at the ridiculousness of them. But as they run to the walkers, they only hit them below the neck, holding them back by the arms, the other going for their torso and chests. They seem to use all their energy in kicking, screaming, and beating them. You stare in astonishment once your nerves come down, blinking rapidly to make sense of what the hell they’re doing. All four of you stand back and just watch, and you meet Rick’s serious eyes as he looks between you. You shake your head, mouth agape as you watch.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You round another corner, and Daryl moves to the front as two walkers shuffle toward the archway leading into the next corridor.

“It’s gotta be the brain,” he explains, his voice calm, “Not the heart—the brain.” He releases an arrow, letting it fly straight into the forehead of the walker in front of him, then quickly reloads and fires into the next one.

More walkers start to filter into the corridor, one by one, and the prisoners finally get their chance to strike. Hesitant at first, they smash their weapons into the walkers' heads, clumsy but effective.

“Stay in tight formation—no more prison riot crap!” Rick snaps, his voice low and commanding as he keeps the group moving together.

As more walkers appear, you lunge for one’s head, gripping its neck to keep it steady until your knife sinks into its eye socket. You lurch back then move into formation again. The noise has attracted more walkers, and they’re coming faster now, spilling into the hallway in greater numbers. You can see the guys with less experience are starting to panic, their movements growing sloppy, overwhelmed by the surge. But one by one, you’re able to take them down.

A scream from behind makes you turn. One of the prisoners is in trouble, surrounded by a couple walkers. Rick darts forward, but before he can reach the man, gunshots ring out, deafeningly loud in the narrow corridor. The leader of the prisoners is firing, taking down the walkers with a few quick shots. The noise is jarring, bouncing off the walls, and you wince, pressing your hands to your ears to block out the worst of it.

One of the bigger guys stumbles against the wall, pulling his hand away from his shoulder, blood smeared across his skin. You feel a knot form in your stomach as you glance at the wound—it’s either a bite or a scratch. Either way, it’s not good.

“I’m tellin’ you, man, it’s just a scratch!” he protests as Rick flashes a light on the wound, his voice tinged with panic.

Rick’s expression hardens, exhaustion and dread heavy in his eyes. “I’m sorry, man,” he says, but the big guy keeps going, desperation creeping into his voice.

“I’m tellin’ you! I don’t feel anything! It’s just a scratch!”

A voice from the group pipes up. “You cut that old guy’s leg off to save his life!”

Rick shakes his head, his voice quiet but resolute. “Look where the bite is.”

But the man isn’t listening, his voice echoing off the cold walls. “Guys, I’m fine!” The rest of the prisoners shout, some begging to save him, others suggesting quarantine, anything. But deep down, you know it’s too late. The wound is too close, and everyone’s just grasping at hope that doesn’t exist.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Rick says, voicing what everyone is too afraid to admit.

The shouting continues, frantic and desperate, but then there’s a sudden clang of metal. The sound is harsh, final, and the next moment the big man crumples to the ground with a dull thud. You swallow hard as you look down at him, your breath catching. The silence that follows is heavy, watching him with bated breath.

Then, without hesitation, the leader steps forward, his expression unreadable. He raises his weapon and brings it down on the man’s skull, again and again, each blow sickeningly loud. The wet, brutal sound fills the hallway. You feel your chest tighten—not out of fear, but from the sheer brutality of watching a human life snuffed out in front of you.

You avert your eyes, turning into Daryl’s shoulder, letting your hand cover your face as you lean into him. His hand brushes your arm briefly, but he doesn’t pull you in. He stays there, still and solid, letting you rest against him without making it obvious, without saying anything. He’s just there, steady, as you try to block out the scene in front of you.

The thud of the leader’s final blow lingers in the air, and though you don’t look, you can feel the tension around you. Daryl doesn’t move or speak, but his presence is enough.

When the clanging of metal, bone, and cement finally stills, you pull away from Daryl, glancing up to see the leader standing there, drenched in blood. His hair hangs wildly over his face, matted with the splatter. His chest heaves with deep, ragged breaths, but his eyes are still dark, unfazed as he stares down Rick. The air is thick with tension, an oppressive silence hanging over the group as everyone stares, trying to make sense of what just happened.

For a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning, like everything is holding its breath. Then, as if the earth finally shifts back into motion, the leader steps forward, breaking the quiet. The weight of the moment lingers in the air, though, like something unsaid.

As you prepare to follow, you feel Rick’s hand on your arm, his grip firm but not forceful. You turn, meeting his gaze, and he leans in, his voice barely audible, almost drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat.

“Stay close,” he whispers. “Get in back with Daryl and I.”

His words carry a quiet urgency, one you don’t question after what you’ve just witnessed. Nodding, you fall back next to Daryl, your knife still held up but tentative. Your fingers tighten around the hilt, but the weight of the blade feels small now, insignificant compared to the violence you just saw. You make note of the pressure of your gun against your skin in your waistband, making sure it's still there. The real threat might no longer be the walkers—it could be standing right in front of you, covered in blood.

Daryl glances over at you briefly, his face hard to read, but his presence beside you is a small comfort in the growing tension.

“You see the look on his face?” Daryl mutters as you approach him, his tone low but sharp.

“He makes one wrong move—” Rick begins, his voice steely with the weight of unspoken threats.

“Just give me the signal,” Daryl affirms quietly, his hand tightening slightly on his crossbow as you all move forward behind the group.

In front, T-Dog reaches for a door, pushing it open to reveal what looks like an old prison laundry area. The machines are long abandoned, covered in layers of dust, with piles of clothes and towels strewn in the corners. You make a mental note to return here later—supplies like that could be useful—but your attention is pulled back to the men ahead of you. Your eyes stay glued to them, the atmosphere thick with tension.

There’s snarling from the other side of double doors straight ahead of you, and the leader of their group is at them. You can see his chest heaving, working himself up to get ready for what’s waiting on the other side. Daryl gives him the keys, but instead of handing them off, he throws them to the ground so that they slide to the man’s feet. You watch wide eyed, taking in the man’s reaction.

The man’s lip curls into a scoff. “I ain’t openin’ that.”

“Yes, you are,” Rick says, his voice cool and authoritative. He steps forward, eyes locked on the leader, his presence commanding. “If you want this cell block, you’re gonna open that door—just the one, not both. We need to control this.”

The man hesitates, his hand twitching before he bends down and scoops up the keys. He approaches the door, moving slowly, almost like he’s considering his next move. You feel like the air is tightening around you. Something feels off.

As he slides the key into the lock, your heart begins to race, and before the thought even fully forms, you know what’s coming. Your stomach twists as he makes the move you feared—he yanks both doors open wide, unleashing the snarls of the walkers waiting behind them.

“I said one door!” Rick roars. But the man just snaps back, “Shit happens!”

You all coil into action, ready for the walkers to approach. As one comes towards you, its stinking breath putrid in the air, you lunge forward for it. But before you can reach it, a metal rod swings around, crashing into the walker’s skull just inches from you, slashing into its head, but not stopping. The rod swings through its skull and towards you, so close, it only takes a blink for you to register that you’re lurching back to avoid the impact, your neck craning away. The walker crumples to the ground, its body collapsing at your feet. Your heart pounds in your chest, the sudden violence and closeness freezing you for a moment.

You snap your gaze to the source. It’s him—the leader, standing just beside you, lowering the metal rod with a slow, unsettling smile stretching across his face. “Gotcha covered,” he says casually, winking at you, and his voice smooth but laced with something darker. His eyes glint with satisfaction, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach twist. Your lips curl and you bare your teeth at him for a moment, before you turn away quickly, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. But the feeling of his eyes on you doesn’t go away—it clings to you, like a shadow you can’t shake. Daryl catches the moment from the corner of his eye, his lip pulled back in a snarl as he looks at the man. But there’s more walkers coming in, and there’s no time to react. You keep moving, but that sick feeling lingers. The room is full of the noises of everyone’s grunts, metal clanging, bodies hitting the floor as you continue to take on the horde at the doorway. T-Dog uses his shield to pin walkers against the wall, dispatching them with swift, practiced blows.

But just as you think the leader’s game is over, he’s in front of you again. This time, he grabs a walker—a decayed man with barely any face left, just bone and patches of hair—and throws it straight at you. Before you can react, the walker is on top of you, its teeth snapping inches from your face. You hold it at arm's length, struggling to keep its filthy mouth away, but it snarls and spit flies in all directions. Your heart races, panic starting to rise—but just as suddenly as it began, it ends. Daryl is there, driving an arrow into the back of the walker’s head.

You shove the body off with Daryl’s help, rolling to your side and scrambling back to your feet in less than a second. You, Daryl, and Rick exchange a single glance, all thinking the same thing.

That motherfucker.

Everything quiets, the last of the walkers dropping to the ground with a sickening thud. The only sounds now are your ragged breaths, the metallic clinks of spent weapons, and the occasional creak of the prison walls settling. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and blood, heavy and oppressive after the chaos.

You stand there, muscles still coiled tight, recovering from your close encounter. Your heart is racing, your chest rising and falling as you try to steady your breathing. The image of that walker’s rotting face, its teeth snapping just inches from you, plays in your mind. But that’s not what has your blood boiling.

You stare daggers at the leader, his figure cast in the dim, flickering light of the room. He’s standing in the middle of the room, wiping sweat and blood off his forehead, completely unfazed by what just happened. That smug grin lingers on his face, and every glance he throws your way makes your skin crawl.

You can feel Daryl beside you, his presence steady, but there’s tension rolling off him. His eyes are sharp, following Rick’s movements as if sensing something in the air—an unspoken warning. You glance at him briefly, and it’s clear he feels it too. Something’s about to give. Rick is still standing by the man, his chest heaving slightly from the fight, but there’s a look in his eyes—something dark and calculating. He watches the leader with a cold intensity that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You see his grip tighten around the handle of the machete, the veins in his hand pulsing as his fingers flex.

Rick stands in front of the leader now, who shrugs nonchalantly, glancing between you and him, “it was comin’ at me, bro,”

“Yeah…” Rick nods, glancing at you and Daryl before his eyes meet the man again, “I get it… shit happens,” Rick finishes, voice cold and final.

In one swift motion, he swings his machete overhead and buries it into the leader’s skull. There’s a sickening crunch, and the leader crumples to the ground with a thud. One of the other prisoners screams, his voice cracking with shock as the man’s lifeless body collapses. Rick kicks the body aside, pulling his machete free, his expression unreadable.

The group braces, waiting for the others to react. One of the prisoners—the one who screamed—lifts his bat, but Rick kicks him down effortlessly. Daryl raises his crossbow, aiming steadily at the man’s face. “Easy now,” Daryl warns, his voice low, a threat in every word. The man hesitates for only a second before turning and bolting out of the room, sprinting down the hallway with Rick on his tail.

You make a move to follow for backup, but Daryl’s hand grips your arm. “Absolutely not,” he growls, pulling you back firmly. His eyes don’t leave yours until you stop trying to follow.

Daryl turns his attention to the last two prisoners—the burly one and the strawberry-blonde—and barks, “Get down on your knees!” Without hesitation, both men drop to the floor, hands raised in surrender.

“We don’t have no affiliation with what just happened!” the redhead stammers, eyes wide with disbelief, “Tell ‘em, Oscar!”

The other man, Oscar, has his hands up next to his face, surrendering under the pressure of Daryl’s bow. He keeps his hands raised, his expression calm but defeated. “Stop talkin’, man,” he mutters, his voice hollow.

You and T-Dog both press your guns to the redhead’s skull, your breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. Your grip tightens around the gun, your knuckles pale. The room feels heavy, the air thick. The silence stretches, every second dragging as you pray these two don’t do anything stupid. You’re not sure you could pull the trigger on this man.

Rick reappears within minutes, his chest heaving as he catches his breath, but he’s alone. His gun is already out, aimed at the larger man. The man trembles slightly, his voice shaking as he insists that they had nothing to do with the other prisoner’s actions.

“You didn’t know?” Rick’s voice is mocking, dripping with disbelief, “You knew. ” His eyes flash dangerously, and his gaze snaps to Daryl, “Daryl, let’s end this now!”

Daryl moves without hesitation, his knife pressed to the other man’s throat, ready to end it with a single slice. The redhead’s eyes widen, and the room crackles with tension. Rick is in front of you now, his gun at the smaller man’s head.

“No!!” you scream, your voice cracking as you lower your gun, stepping back from the man on his knees in front of you. You’ve seen enough death today, enough blood, enough people falling at your feet. You don’t need more.

The smaller man pleads, tears spilling from his eyes. “Sir, sir, you gotta listen to me, please! It wasn’t us! We weren’t like him!”

Rick doesn’t flinch, his jaw clenched, his gun unwavering. “Oh, that’s convenient,” he snarls, the fury in his voice barely contained.

The man shakes his head desperately, his voice trembling. “You saw what he did to Tiny! He was my friend !” He turns pleading eyes to you, voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “Please, we ain’t like that. I like my pharmaceuticals, but I’m no killer.”

When no one responds, he rambles on, frantic. “Oscar here—he’s here on a BnE! He ain’t even very good at it either!” His words come out in a rush, trying to explain, to humanize them. You piece it together—he either stole drugs, took them, or both. And Oscar? Breaking and entering. Neither of these men were killers.

You look at Rick, your voice quieter now, steady but pleading. “Rick—please.”

Rick ignores you and spins around, pointing his gun straight at the other man, the one Daryl has pinned with a knife to his throat. The weight of the decision hangs in the air. You glance at T-Dog, but he’s just as silent as you are, his face set in a grimace, unsure of what to say, what to do.

Rick’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and dangerous. “What about you?” he asks the larger man, his gun now pressed to the man’s brow.

The man’s calm, collected voice is unsettling as he responds. “I ain’t never pleaded for my life,” he says, his tone steady. “And I ain’t about to start now. So you do what you gotta do.”

You hold your breath, the tension so thick it feels like the walls are closing in. Your eyes dart to Daryl, who’s watching Rick closely, his knife still at the man’s throat. His gaze flickers briefly to you, seeing the anguish written on your face, but his expression doesn’t change. Daryl’s following Rick’s orders, and this isn’t a democracy anymore.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

“Let’s go,” Rick says quietly, his voice flat and tired as he turns to leave the cell block. You had arrived with the two men still in one piece, T-Dog watching at the door for any oncoming walkers. Bodies littered the floor inside the cells, dropped down in front, clearly gunned down, unarmed, with their hands cuffed behind their backs. It was a gruesome sight.

“You’re just gonna leave us in here? Man, this is sick!” the larger man hisses, his face contorted with anger, his brows furrowed deeply as he glares at Rick.

“We’re lockin’ down this cell block,” Rick replies, his voice almost robotic, drained of emotion. “From now on, this part of the prison is yours. Take it or leave it, that was the deal.” He doesn’t wait for a response, turning on his heel and leaving the room without looking back, not waiting for you or Daryl.

You turn to leave, but Daryl is still standing, approaching them with a look in his eye, “You think this is sick? You don’t wanna know what’s outside,”

“Consider yourselves lucky,” Rick says in low tones from outside the door.

As Rick walks out of sight, Daryl’s gaze softens just slightly. “Sorry about your friends, man,” he whispers, and the quiet sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart. It’s the gentleness, that trace of compassion in the midst of all this brutality, that makes you pause.

Daryl turns toward you, his expression unreadable but there’s something there, something only you can sense. He reaches out, and his hand finds yours, but he doesn’t fully hold it—just the outside two fingers, a quiet, familiar gesture that says more than words ever could.

As you both exit the room, you glance back at the two men. There’s sadness in your eyes, a kind of sorrow for what they’ve lost, for what they’re facing. But deep down, you know this is for the best. Your people couldn’t risk any more danger, any more loss. This was fair—food, shelter—they had everything they needed to survive. They would live.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You arrive back at cell block C with everyone in tow, and the moment you step inside, you hurry to check on Hershel. Carl and Glenn are standing at the door, the young boy’s face tight with worry as he looks to his father, who approaches behind you.

“Hershel stopped breathin’," Carl says, his voice small but steady, "Mom saved him,”

“It’s true,” Glenn says softly beside him. Rick enters the room, his presence quiet but commanding, and the entire group falls silent. All eyes are on Hershel, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“Still no fever,” Lori whispers from the corner, her voice barely audible but filled with relief.

You remain at the door, frozen for a moment, watching alongside everyone else. Daryl’s hand rests gently on the small of your back, a quiet reassurance as you both stand there, taking it all in. It’s the first real sense of peace you’ve felt all day. And it had been a long day.

Suddenly, there’s movement. Hershel stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and the room fills with quiet gasps of shock and relief.

“Daddy?” Maggie cries, rushing forward, her voice cracking as tears spill down her cheeks. Beth is right beside her, her face a mix of disbelief and joy, “Daddy!”

Rick steps forward, his expression softening as he leans down to release the cuffs from Hershel’s wrists. The older man lifts his hand, weak but purposeful, reaching out toward Rick. Without hesitation, Rick takes it, leaning down, holding Hershel’s hand tightly in his own.

For a brief moment, everything feels right. The room is filled with the warmth of a shared hope, a collective exhale. It’s a beautiful, fragile moment, and for the first time in a long while, it feels like things might be okay. Hershel is alive. He made it.

You watch as Lori quietly excuses herself from the room, slipping out unnoticed by most. Rick follows her soon after, leaving the rest of you standing there, holding onto this fragile piece of hope as if it might slip away at any moment.

Daryl’s fingers tighten on your shirt around your lower back. You glance at his face, noticing how soft and open it looks, a stark contrast to the hardened expressions you’re both used to wearing. He nods his head to the other room, and you both walk away from the quiet space of Hershel’s space, giving his family privacy with him. You follow Daryl up the stairs to your perch where he lowers his crossbow and weaponry with ease, the sound of metal clattering against the floor. You collapse onto the cushion below with a long, exhausted sigh. Daryl sits across from you, the two of you soaking in the silence, letting the weight of the day settle.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long stretch of silence, your voice soft but filled with gratitude. You reach out, tracing your fingers gently over his knuckles where his hand rests flat against the cushion. He looks at you then, his blue eyes searching your face, always trying to read you.

“Don’t ever need to thank me for nothin’,” he says, his voice rough but sincere, like he doesn’t even realize he’s done anything worth thanking.

“For earlier,” you manage to say, though your throat tightens as you think about it. “Seeing all that blood... it just...” The words trail off, stuck somewhere deep inside you. The memory of it, the feeling of it on your hands, it’s still too raw, too heavy to explain.

Daryl’s eyes soften, and he shifts closer, closing the space between you. “Hey,” he says quietly, his voice gentler now. His hand moves over yours, squeezing it lightly. “You’re alright. We’re alright. Shoulda' learn my lesson by now you're better off next to me anyway,"

Daryl hesitates for just a moment, then moves closer still, reaching out to wrap his arms around you. “C’mere,” he mutters. His embrace is firm, steady, grounding. He holds you against him, his chin resting lightly on top of your head. You take a deep breath, letting the tension in your body slowly melt away.

#the promise of us #the ruins of us #daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl #the walking dead #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl twd #daryl dixion imagine #daryl one shot

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thevoicefromanotherworld · 6 days ago

Text

"I CAN'T RESIST YOU"

Soooo here's THE fic with Friedrich Harding

I hope you like it! I think this fic is one of the best I've written in my entire life (been writting since 2018)

(Photo taken by me when I went to see Nosferatu to the cinema) ☝🖤

(ALSO, LOOK AT THE NEW DIVIDER I MAKE FOR MY FICS, I LOVE IT SM) 🖤😊☝

Every time he saw her, Friedrich reminded himself to behave like a gentleman, which he was, but because of her he found it too difficult to follow his refined English manners when she was in his presence.

Like right now, for example.

She was wearing a gorgeous, and visibly heavy, cinnamon-colored dress with slight touches of white.

Harding thought that at that moment, with her black hair spilling down her back so naturally, she looked like an angel who had just fallen from heaven.

Or a demon, ready to torture him. The funniest thing of all was that she didn't realize how much everything she did affected him, which only made Friedrich desire her more intensely.

Sometimes he found himself thinking about removing her heavy clothes, to find out if underneath it all she was the same version of herself that she showed to others.

In others, he recalled more selfless interactions, such as opening the door for him when he entered the house or leaving a glass of freshly made hot tea on the bedside table in his room.

Sira had been working as his maid for several months, although he did not like to call her that, but rather “housekeeper.”

The title of maid sounded too derogatory. She was in charge of keeping the house clean and tidy while he was at work or traveling on business.

The first time he saw her get out of the carriage, he believed that she was not sufficiently qualified to take care of a house of that size. As the weeks passed, he made sure to remind her that her suspicions were clearly wrong.

Friedrich had never seen such efficiency so well executed in such a short time, which is why he decided to renew her contract.

The months passed, the leaves of the trees fell, the branches came out again, and so on until winter arrived and with it the snowstorms.

Sira was stoking the fire in the living room fireplace when she heard the front door open.

She frowned and slowly looked up to where she had heard the creaking of the wood. Mr. Harding had told her that morning that he was leaving town on a business trip and would not be back for a week, so whoever had entered the house could not be him.

Afraid that it was burglars or something worse, she held the poker in her hands and slowly made her way to the front door. Her steps were slow but firm as she walked towards it, her gaze focused on the darkness that surrounded her.

When she arrived she noticed that the door was closed again, except that there was light in the room next to it, when she had not lit the candle.

She opened the door a crack and saw a figure sitting on the bed with his back to it, a suitcase in front of him. As soon as she recognized him, she tried to hide the poker behind the wide skirt of her dress.

-Sir, I thought you would be on a trip at this time- she murmured, thus announcing her presence-

Friedrich turned quickly with his hand resting on his heart, his blue eyes observing him for a few moments, before speaking.

-My God, you scared me!–he complained, closing the suitcase and placing it under the bed-

-I didn't mean to, sir –she apologized, lowering her head timidly- I… I saw a light in the room and thought there was an unexpected visitor

-I'm certainly unexpected –he said, sketching a half smile- my trip was scheduled for this afternoon, but the roads are flooded by snow –he explained- the horses can't travel normally, and the wheels of the carriage would freeze and slip –he murmured- I didn't want to take unnecessary risks, so I decided that the safest thing would be to go home and wait for the storm to subside

They looked at each other for a few moments, during which Friedrich could see how her cheeks blushed in the light of the candle.

-I'll make some tea - she announced, he nodded slowly-

-That would be very kind of you, Miss Dufresne - he replied kindly-

A few minutes later, Sira came back into the room to leave the cup on the nightstand beside him.

-Be careful, it's freshly made - she warned him not to drink it too quickly-

He nodded and took a soft sip before putting the cup back on the saucer.

-Just what I needed - he smiled - you always know what I need at all times - he added - that's why you've been the best housekeeper I've ever had - he said taking another sip-

-That's very kind of you sir, thank you - she murmured, grateful and embarrassed in equal parts-

He watched her for a moment before speaking.

-Since the snowfall will keep us inside for several days, I would like to ask you several questions, if it is not too bold of me, of course

-It is not, sir - she assured him - I will be happy to answer your questions

-Okay - he smiled kindly - you know you can call me by my name, right?

-Yes, but if I may be so bold, I don't think it's the right thing to do, sir- she repeated, and he looked at her curiously-

-For what reason?

That conversation was beginning to make her nervous.

His eyes shone in the candlelight, and Sira thought that he had never looked so handsome as at that moment.

She forced herself to concentrate and banish all those thoughts about her boss to a deep corner of her mind.

But how could she do that when he was looking at her like that? As if just by looking at her she could discover his darkest thoughts?

-I don't know, a matter of manners, I suppose- she answered, trying to avoid the subject-

-I see -he murmured, taking out his pack of cigarettes from inside his dark brown jacket

-Do you mind if I smoke?

-Not at all, go ahead - she invited, and after offering her one and her refusing it, he lit it-

The flames illuminated his face for a brief moment, before a wisp of white smoke came out from between his lips. He held it between his index and middle finger before speaking again.

-How do you feel about working for me? - he asked, she blinked a couple of times, a little dazed-

-I don't think I fully understand your question, sir - she answered, he took a couple more drags on the cigarette and put it out on the sole of his shoe, leaving it on the table next to his already finished cup of tea-

-I'd like you to tell me what balance you draw from all this - he explained - I'm not sure I'm a good boss

-I'm not continuing to work with you because you're a good boss, which you are - she pointed out - but because above all you're a good man, Friedrich - she finished with great effort-

He smiled before nodding his head in acceptance.

It was the first time she had called him by his name.

The problem was that now he wanted to hear her say it more often, and not in a civilized environment like this one.

No, he wanted to hear her moan his name while he buried himself so deep inside her that he wouldn't know where one ended and the other began.

More than once he had woken up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and with his pajama pants down to his knees, due to the dreams he had about her.

He wanted her so much that it was starting to consume him.

The snowstorm, despite being true, had been the perfect excuse for them to be alone. Friedrich thought it had been a sign from God.

He was the one who had caused the storm so that they could be together.

-I try to be - he answered, fixing his gaze on her delicately - although sometimes certain people don't make it easy for me

-In that case you should put them in their place - she answered, holding his gaze - let them know who is in charge

-Yes, maybe I will - he mused in a low voice-

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

They looked at each other for several minutes that seemed eternal, until he decided to make a move. He slightly opened his legs, and patted her right one gently.

-Come, sit down - he whispered, his voice was dangerously low and hoarse-

He gave her time to decide, but when he saw the gleam that took over her eyes, he knew she had already done so.

Slowly, she stood up and sat on his knee. Not knowing what to do, she just watched him, while he gathered a lock of hair behind her ear.

-You're so beautiful - he whispered, tracing the curve of her cheek with his finger - look at you - he asked, pointing at the mirror in front of them, his hands resting on her hips, making her back tense at the sudden touch - and you're all mine - he murmured, his masculine voice sending shivers throughout her body-

-Friedrich, I… - she paused for a moment, thinking of the right words - I've never…

-Shhh, it's okay, darling, we'll go slowly, I promise - he assured her - I won't do anything you don't want, okay?

Sira nodded, and he seconded the gesture with a reassuring smile.

-This dress seems too heavy - he whispered, placing his hands behind her back, where the strings of the garment were - May I?

Sira nodded slowly, feeling her cheeks warm up again. With delicacy and patience, Friedrich slowly undid the ties that covered her back, until she was left only with the white stockings and the corset, which pressed her breasts painfully.

They felt heavy and full, a sensation she had never experienced before. His blue eyes looked over her, taking his time, as if he wanted to memorize every part of her, every mole, spot and stretch mark.

She felt naked under his gaze, so she tried to cover herself by hugging herself.

He gently shook his head, before holding her hands in his to place them on either side of her body.

-Don't hide from me -he whispered, and the way he said it made Sira want to burst into tears-

-I… would understand if you didn't want to continue -she murmured, avoiding his gaze -I'm aware that I'm not perfect, and I don't want you to feel sorry for me, or feel obligated to do this…

-Look at me –he whispered kindly, holding her chin between his index finger and thumb- nobody is perfect, Sira –he began looking directly into her eyes- but it is precisely your imperfections that make you beautiful

-Do you really think so? –she asked fearfully-

-Would I be here if I didn't? –he countered, holding her gaze-

-I suppose not

-Your assumptions are correct –he whispered, running his thumb along her lower lip- Have you ever been kissed?

Unable to say it out loud, she shook her head. Friedrich thought how was it possible that she didn't have those experiences.

Whatever the case, he was glad to be her first. The mere thought of another man touching her like he was about to did made anger want to take control of his body.

-Okay - he said, holding her cheek gently - just let yourself go - he whispered, looking down at her lips - you don't know how long I've been wanting to do this

-Yes?

-Yes - he said - ever since I organized that party where you wore a dark purple dress, matching your lips - he said remembering the color she had painted them that night-

-It was the first time I wore makeup - she confessed - I thought I looked ridiculous

-Ridiculously beautiful, you mean - he corrected her - that night I was unable to look away from you, like now - he said bringing them back to the present-

They looked at each other for a moment and the next Harding's lips were on hers.

Sira closed her eyes at the sensation of his mouth moving slowly against hers.

She didn't know how to act, she didn't even know what she had to do, so she did what he had told her: she let herself go.

She moved her lips timidly against his, trying to match his movements. A sound of agreement escaped from between his lips, as she held his cheeks in her hands.

Sira gathered her courage and placed her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the curls at the base of his neck.

Sira felt him gently hold her neck from behind, bringing her closer to him. The coldness of his rings made her shiver.

She noticed how he began to grow beneath her, which drew a broken moan from her.

-Friedrich…-she sighed, totally lost in the sensations he was giving her-

His kisses now moved to her neck, which he tilted to give her more access. When he heard her call him, he pulled away to look at her, his big blue eyes focused intensely on hers.

-What's wrong? Are you okay?–he asked, resting his hands on her hips-

-Yes, it's just that I… -she swallowed hard, her cheeks blushed making him smile- forget it, it's stupid…

-I don't believe it in the least –he whispered, searching her eyes with his gaze- say it, darling

-I need you to touch me –she confessed shyly, Harding's smile grew wider-

-Is that true? –he murmured, outlining with his fingers the curve of her lips while he lowered the skirt of her dress to the bottom- Where do you want me to touch you? –he asked, slowly lifting the skirt until he touched her underwear with his fingers-

Sira clung to his strong arms, feeling him so close to where no man had ever been before.

-I see –he observed, looking directly into her eyes- you are very wet, my love. That's good

-Is it?

-Yes -he said- it will hurt less this way

-Will it hurt?

-Just at first, I promise you- he reassured her connecting his gaze with hers- Do you trust me?

She nodded, at the same time that he got rid of his pants to slowly enter her. A scream escaped from Sira's lips, who dug her nails into Friedrich's shoulders.

He stopped, giving her time to adapt to his size, tears of pain and pleasure in equal parts ran down her cheeks.

-Honey -he whispered wiping them with his thumb- shhh, it's okay -he reassured her fixing his deep clear eyes on her- Are you okay?

-Yes it's just that… it hurts -she complained closing her eyes tightly, feeling it throbbing inside her-

-I know my love -he kissed her forehead- I know -he repeated kissing her lips fleetingly- Can I move? –he asked, she nodded nervously-

Sira felt him gently slide inside her, filling the space that no man had ever filled before. She closed her eyes tightly and threw her head back when he hit a certain spot that made her scream again

-So beautiful… -he murmured- you don't know how long I've wanted this moment to come –he growled, withdrawing to sink into her again- you have no idea… and now here you are, all mine

-Friedrich… -you moaned, tangling the wavy strands of his hair between your fingers, while pulling on them- please…

-Ask me, darling –he murmured, outlining a half-smile- be a good girl, and ask me properly –he ordered-

Sira was not able to form a coherent sentence at that moment, but she managed to say:

-Please Friedrich, sir –she corrected herself, he sketched a half-smile- I need… - a broken moan came out from between her lips when he curved his hips at an angle he hadn't done before- God –she murmured biting her lower lip- please…

-Okay, my love –he whispered- I'll give you what you need

A few seconds later they both unloaded against each other, which led to a string of moans and gasps from both of them.

Afterwards, while she was lying against his chest, she felt his hands holding her hips again, while he left kisses on the area of her neck where her pulse was beating.

-Friedrich –she whispered- I'm very tired –she said kindly-

-I know –he murmured separating himself to look at you- sorry, I just can't resist you –he confessed before pulling her back against his chest-

#nosferatu 2024 #aaron taylor johnson #friedrich harding #writters on tumblr #writterscommunity #byvoice

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melancholyfool · 12 days ago

Text

Wits and Wagers

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and the others play a game of wits poker in the country house

a/n: i think the best part about being a (fanfic) writer is being able to make your favourite characters do whatever you want.

The parlour of Francis’ estate was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the grand fireplace crackling with slow-burning embers. Shadows flickered across the dark wood-paneled walls, stretching long and elegant over the antique furniture. The scent of brandy and a faint trace of smoke from Francis’ cigarette lingered in the air, mixing with the autumn breeze that drifted in through the open windows.

The seven of you were gathered around an ornate poker table, an old relic that had undoubtedly seen its fair share of mischief. The deck of cards lay neatly shuffled in the center, a haphazard assortment of poker chips, coins, and various personal wagers scattered around it. There was an easy kind of tension in the air, an unspoken understanding that this game was more than just a game—no one ever played just for fun in your group.

You sat beside Henry, your thigh brushing against his beneath the table, a touch so subtle that no one else would notice, but enough to ground you. His presence, steady and deliberate, was always like that—quietly consuming, like an unspoken weight pressing against your ribs. He had one hand on his cards, the other resting lightly on his knee, fingers occasionally grazing yours in the space between you.

“Now, this is what I call a gentleman’s game,” Bunny declared, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass before taking a triumphant sip. “None of that dreary chess nonsense Henry’s always droning on about.”

Henry, seated rigidly across from him, merely lifted an eyebrow as he shuffled the deck with deliberate ease. “You wouldn’t last five minutes at a chessboard, Bunny.”

“Damn right, I wouldn’t. Too much thinking.” Bunny smirked, tipping his glass in Henry’s direction. “But this? This, I can handle.”

Francis, draped elegantly in his chair with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. “Poker requires thinking, too, you know.”

“Yes, but it also requires a little thing called luck, which, might I remind you, is in my favor tonight.” Bunny tapped his temple, as if to emphasize his supposed good fortune.

Camilla leaned forward, her golden hair catching the firelight. “We’re playing for something better than money,” she said, idly twirling a poker chip between her fingers.

Bunny groaned, setting his glass down with an exaggerated thud. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?”

Richard smirked. “Knowledge.”

Bunny threw his head back dramatically. “God, what fresh hell is this?”

You laughed, the sound drawing Henry’s eyes to you, his gaze softening just slightly.

“The rules are simple,” Camilla explained, placing her own bet—a pearl hairpin—onto the table. “Before you bet, you answer a question. Literature, philosophy, mythology—take your pick.”

“Ah, so a battle of wits,” Francis murmured, exhaling another breath of smoke. “I like it.”

Bunny grumbled, but reluctantly pushed a few coins into the pot. “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Henry dealt the cards, his movements practiced, elegant. You watched his fingers, the way they moved with such quiet precision, and felt the urge to reach out and trace them. Instead, you turned your attention back to the game.

The first round began.

“Alright,” Francis drawled, tapping his cards against the table, “Bunny, since you’re so eager, let’s start with you. Who wrote the Hymn to Aphrodite?”

Bunny squinted, his brow furrowing. “That’s an easy one. Uh… Sappho, right?”

Francis nodded. “Correct. Now, place your bet.”

Bunny slid forward a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, which earned him a scoff from Camilla. “Are we playing for intellectual currency or actual money?” she teased.

“A little of both,” Richard said, tossing in his own bet—a well-worn copy of The Waste Land, edges frayed from use.

The game continued, each question growing more difficult, the bets becoming more personal—Richard’s silver fountain pen, Francis’s first edition of Les Fleurs du mal, Camilla’s delicate lace gloves.

Then, it was Henry’s turn.

You turned to him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Alright,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “your question.”

He met your gaze with that quiet intensity you knew so well. “Go on.”

You smirked. “If you found yourself in the Underworld, which shade would you most like to speak to?”

The others fell into a hush, the fire crackling softly in the background.

Henry was silent for a moment, considering. The candlelight flickered across his sharp features, casting shifting shadows along his cheekbones. He exhaled slowly. “That depends. Do I get to ask them a question?”

“Of course.”

His fingers tapped against the table, thoughtful. “Then I would speak to Orpheus. And I would ask if he ever really thought he could resist looking back.”

A stillness settled over the group. Even Bunny, who had been halfway through another drink, lowered his glass slightly.

Camilla tilted her head, watching Henry curiously. “And what do you think he’d say?”

Henry’s gaze flickered toward you for the briefest moment before he answered. “I think he’d say he knew all along he would turn. That it was never really a question at all.”

You felt a shiver trace its way down your spine.

Francis let out a soft laugh, breaking the silence. “A suitably tragic answer.”

Henry placed his bet—a small, leather-bound book, its title worn away with age. You recognized it instantly—his collection of Catullus poems, the one he carried with him like a talisman, the one he had read to you late at night, his voice soft against your skin. The weight of the gesture settled between you like an unspoken promise.

The game carried on, the hours slipping away into laughter, sharp-witted conversation, and the occasional dramatic outburst from Bunny.

At some point, Henry’s hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers curling around yours in a way that felt effortless, inevitable. You squeezed gently, and though he did not look at you, you felt the smallest press of his thumb against your palm—a silent acknowledgment, a quiet declaration of something unspoken yet entirely understood.

Later, when the others had retired to their wine-laced conversations and Francis had stretched himself out on the chaise with a cigarette and a book of Rimbaud’s poetry, you and Henry remained at the table, the embers of the fire casting a golden glow over his face.

“You knew all along, didn’t you?” you murmured, running your fingers along the worn edge of his book.

He regarded you carefully, his expression unreadable. “Knew what?”

“That you would turn.”

His lips quirked slightly at the corners, though it was not quite a smile. “I suppose I did.”

You traced the leather spine, your voice softer now. “And if I was Eurydice?”

Henry exhaled, his gaze steady. “Then I would have turned the moment I stepped foot in the Underworld.”

#henry winter #henry winter x reader #henry marchbanks winter #the secret history #tsh fanfic #donna tartt #melancholyfool #francis abernathy #bunny corcoran #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #richard papen

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theflyingfeeling · 1 month ago

Text

conversations

just a plotless little Olli/Allu something I wanted to get out of my head because it's been keeping me up for several nights now. similar in style to this weird little fic, but not necessarily in the same universe (unless you want it to be)

[by the fire]

The crack of the wood burning in front of them. The remains of a friends’ get-together, empty cans and half-finished bowls of crisps on the coffee table. A guitar resting in the corner because Tommi told them to call it a day already. Olli’s quiet breathing and his unreadable eyes, fixed on the fire, reflecting its warmth (or perhaps it was the other way around).

“Do you ever…” Olli shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

Olli’s eyes close and open again, his lips part and close, the fire swallowing whatever he’s going to say, it seems. Aleksi wants to grab the poker and prod it down to mere embers.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were… different.”

Aleksi dares not to guess what it and things were.

(He fears he’s wrong, and what might happen if he isn’t.)

“You know, if you had made different decisions. Or if you had… met someone at a different time.”

Olli’s voice is hardly louder than the wintery silence around them, but Aleksi clings on to every word.

Drowns in them.

(Wishes they’d mean what he needs them to mean.)

Dark eyelashes rest on rosy cheeks. A hand moves closer to Aleksi’s on the downy rug. Almost rests over it, hesitates, then does it anyway.

Aleksi’s walls cave in and it’s hard to breathe when wet eyes find his own.

“Do you know what I’m trying to tell you at all?”

Can I say no but still expect you to see through my lies? That’s all you seem to do these days.

Can I say yes and still have you hold my hand in yours like this? I might crumble if you let go.

“Maybe.”

They hold hands as the fire burns out. They hold hands and the silence mocks their cowardice. They hold hands and Olli’s t-shirt is soft against Aleksi’s cheek, his chin quivering on top of Aleksi’s head.

(From the cold that has fallen into the room, Aleksi decides.)

ii.

[in the tourbus]

A drummer snoring in the bottom bunk. Someone tossing and turning and grunting in their sheets. A thick curtain staring back at Aleksi on the other side of the narrow aisle.

His phone buzzing.

I miss you.

Aleksi glances at the curtain. It’s motionless, expectant.

I’m right here?

There’s a barely audible sigh.

No, you’re not. Been absent all day and I miss you.

Aleksi could beg to differ, but he’d have nothing to defend himself with (knowing Olli is right). He could agree, but what if Olli asked him why (knowing he can’t tell him why)?

A compromise, Aleksi later convinces himself, to choke off the sound of his guilt and shame screaming slander at him for not knowing better.

Aleksi does know better, but acts against such wisdom nevertheless.

Come over here then.

A quiet whoosh of a curtain being pulled aside, then another, then something warm and soft crawls to him in the dark and wraps around him.

A comforting scent steals all the air from Aleksi’s lungs (how could he smell so good even when living off truckstop showers?).

A nose roaming over Aleksi’s neck brings pathetic whimpers to Aleksi’s mouth (does he not remember where they are?).

Fidgeting fingers at the hem of Aleksi’s shirt make him tremble until they settle on his waist (and melt into the skin there like butter even though they’re ice cold there are shivers running along Aleksi’s spine).

Lips tracing unspoken words on Aleksi’s skin where his collar bones meet (the shivers pass).

Want you, Aleksi reads from the lips (in comes the ache in his chest).

You can’t, Aleksi writes on Olli’s hairline, above his temple (his favourite spot).

But I do, is the soundless response. And you do too.

(And Aleksi did too.)

iii.

[in the studio]

A forgotten project on a laptop screen. A finished bottle of merlot. A joke that was a little too funny (or not at all funny) for them to forget themselves like that.

A nose to a nose, a pair of lips almost touching another.

Olli’s eyes are unfocused, drifting between Aleksi’s eyes and mouth.

“Should we… go back upstairs soon?”

I shall make my speciality, she had promised them. The twinge of remorse is not enough to move Aleksi from the couch.

“We should,” he says just in case, so that later he can fool his conscience and say had tried.

A scented candle flickering by the laptop, yet all Aleksi can smell is Olli’s cologne. All that wine, yet Aleksi is drunk on something else entirely. It’s shameful, and Aleksi does feel ashamed for it, does beat himself up for it, but when Olli is right there on his couch and softening his brain like booze, Aleksi drops all his weapons to fight against it.

There is no sound judgement in what they’re doing, nor even an ounce of self-preservation by this point. The further they go each time, the closer they come to being caught red-handed, and in a way, maybe that’s what they’re both waiting for.

For a bandmate to walk in and beat the shit out of them, so that they’d maybe come back to their senses.

For a girlfriend to suspect something, anything, and force the truth out of them, so that they can put an end to it all, either for good or for worse.

A ping sounding from Aleksi’s phone informing them of dinner is all they get instead. It’s enough to startle them, but not enough to completely lead them away from temptation.

iv.

[in the studio, scene 2]

[[inside him]]

The wall feels cold and harsh against Aleksi’s back, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He can still taste his girlfriend’s praised curry off Olli’s lips, but even that’s not going to stop him from pushing Olli towards the couch.

Olli below him is nothing like the cold and harsh floor, but instead velvety and radiating such heat that goes right through Aleksi’s bones. The taste of Olli is nothing like the spicy dish they had upstairs, but sweet and soothing, yet it leaves Aleksi hungrier than he was before dinner.

They don’t talk. They don’t need to, not out loud. Instead, they have an entire conversation without ever making a sound, without speaking a word.

Do you want this as much as I do? Aleksi’s fingers ask at the waistband of Olli’s trousers.

Yes, Olli’s hips answer as they lift off the couch so Aleksi can take the trousers off.

Am I hurting you? Aleksi’s thumb on Olli’s cheek asks.

No, Olli’s tongue inside Aleksi’s mouth replies.

Like this? Aleksi’s hardness moving inside Olli asks.

Yes, like that, Olli’s entire body responds, arching, glowing, trembling.

They still don’t bother breaking the silence that fells in the room afterwards, when they’re all done and spent, lying in their own sweat and cum.

What are we going to do? Aleksi’s eyes ask.

What are we doing to do? Olli’s dark gaze echoes his question.

Aleksi wishes he knew.

Aleksi wishes he could find the answer in Olli’s mouth.

[under a birch tree]

The sky was white and blue and pink, and the last band of the day just got on the stage. Olli’s finger is still bleeding from when he scratched it on something during Balboa. It leaves a stain on Aleksi’s hand when Olli grabs it. Olli is drunk, but somehow his steps are anything but unsteady as he leads them behind the village of blue Bajamaja stalls. Maybe Aleksi is tipsy enough himself to not notice or care.

“Olli, what–” and then he’s being pressed against a white tree trunk, deprived of his right to speak with his bottom lip in between Olli’s teeth. His teeth sunk in too deep, so that they’re both bleeding now.

Drowsy eyes stare up at him. Olli is drunk, but not in a tipsy way that makes him giggly and stupid, nor in the trashy way that has him scream-singing along to a song he doesn’t know in one moment and throwing up on Tommi’s shoes the next. He’s drunk in a gloomy way instead, one that sometimes had him sob against anyone’s shoulder, for no reason and for all the reasons at the same time.

“Stay at mine tonight,” Olli begs him, his lips never leaving Aleksi’s, his eyeliner running down his cheeks. ‘Mine’ (‘yours and hers’) is just some five kilometres away, and Aleksi’s hotel purposely on the opposite side of the city.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

As if any of it had ever been.

“She’s not home.”

As if that somehow makes it any less wrong (but it does explain the regretful frown that’s been stuck on Olli’s face the whole day).

“Still.”

“Then I’ll take you here.”

The foolishness of it would make Aleksi laugh if he was sober enough to think that rationally, and if he didn’t feel as if they were running out of time, and if it wasn’t Olli.

“You can’t.”

The shakiness of his own voice would not have convinced himself either.

“Aleksi, I want you.” A wet mouth is leaving its tracks all over Aleksi’s neck.

“We’re in public,” Aleksi almost sobs and hates how the alternative to do it in private will tarnish yet another home.

“Aleksi, mua panettaa.”

The worst thing is…

…Aleksi knew from the start he was gonna give in.

vi.

[in the studio, scene 3]

[[alone]]

A poorly-working radiator. Bottles of Pepsi that have been keeping him awake (and company) all evening. A pillow and a duvet on the couch in crumpled Moomin sheets, brought down from upstairs.

Gonna be late ‘til I finish the project. Wouldn’t want to wake you up when I come back, he had explained.

Do as you please, she had said, never once lifting her gaze. Neither would Aleksi, if he was her.

He could barely look at himself in the mirror these days.

The radiator and the woolly socks he had found wrapped up under the Christmas tree were nowhere near enough to keep his blood circulating, nowhere near enough to comfort him so that he could fall asleep.

He grabs the phone and hopes he’s not the only one still awake.

Olli picks up within seconds.

“Why aren’t you sleeping yet?” Olli asks him. He’s wearing a black hoodie and an ever blacker expression.

“Why aren’t you?”

Olli looks down to hide whatever emotion he was almost about to reveal.

“I was gonna call you. I wanted to ask you something.”

Aleksi waits.

“Do you… do you remember that one time in… I can’t remember actually. Somewhere in the Midwest maybe. That one time it was thundering real loud.

And you woke me up to listen to it with you?

“Yeah, I think I do remember.”

“Do you remember how the rain was coming down in buckets?”

Yes, and your eyes were as dark as they are now.

“And do you remember that one morning in Colorado? When it had snowed overnight and the bus was freezing.”

And you crawled in my bed again, slid your hands under my shirt again.

“And that one freaky hotel in… was it Amsterdam? Where they had that strange shower thing.”

And where you fucked me for the first time (yes, even in that strange shower).

“And… and do you remember when we were in Tokyo. It was so beautiful there.”

I only remember the early mornings and you biting my thighs to wake me up, and you riding me when we couldn’t sleep, and you showing me that vibrator you had bought.

I only remember how shy you looked all of a sudden, and how the shade of your cheeks matched the shade of that toy when I pushed it in.

“I wish we could go back.”

The tear-choked confession brings Aleksi back to the present.

“Back where?”

Olli shrugs. “Anywhere. Tokyo, maybe.”

Kissing under an out-of-bloom cherry tree.

“Me too,” Aleksi says.

Maybe that’s what it would be like.

If things were different.

authors note: the Finnish word panettaa is not the easiest to translate but it means that one is feeling horny. a more direct translation would be something along the lines of "I feel like fucking" or "I want/need to fuck"

#blind channel rpf #blind channel fanfiction #random tumblr ficlets by theflyingfeeling #ollixallu #i'll spare you from my self-criticism towards this. because growth or whatever ugh #anywayyyyyy lmk what you think i'd really appreciate that 🥺#also! thank you anyone who's been reading my work so far you are the best people i know

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bluestar22x · 6 months ago

Text

The Shot Not Taken

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (Nickname "Sunny")

Summary: It was one last night in a cabin after a case; it wasn't supposed to end this way

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 3,400(ish)

Warnings: Sexual tension, yearning, violence, fairly graphic mentions of blood, angst, tragedy - Might be AUish since I don't know what time of year Marcus actually moved to D.C.

Author's Note: I wrote this for @almostfoxglove 's Angst Challenge, and I almost made myself cry, so prepare yourselves. (Moodboard was made by them)

xxx

"You wanna quit while you're ahead, Pike?" you questioned, a smirk on your face. "Before I take what's left of your cash?"

"You're bluffing," he said warily, his dark eyes peering over his hand of cards to where you sat across the table. "There's no way you're that lucky. You've already won five rounds tonight."

"Don't get mad at me when you can't afford breakfast tomorrow."

He flashed you a wicked smile as he placed his hand on the table. "Somehow I doubt that'll be the case." He nodded at his cards. "Four of a kind."

You glanced down to see that he indeed had four aces. You chuckled, surprising him. "Weak."

You dropped your cards on the table revealing that you had the ultimate hand. "Royal flush."

He groaned. "What the hell, Sunny?"

"If it makes you feel better, I'll share my breakfast with you tomorrow," you promised. "Now hand over the money."

A thin smile broke through his look of disbelief. "You should've been nicknamed Lucky instead of Sunny. I'm never playing poker with you again."

"Aw, but you just paid my rent for the month," you teased.

"Exactly."

He reached for his bottle of beer and took a sip before throwing the cash he owed you onto the center of the kitchen table. "I'm bailing before I can't afford my rent."

You pretended to pout but couldn't keep up the act for long. You were nicknamed Sunny for a reason. You hardly ever were in a bad mood. There wasn't much that could keep your spirits down. Which was a good thing, considering your job as an FBI agent for the art crimes department in Washington D.C. involved some very long hours and carried plenty of risk when out in the field.

"Chicken," you declared as you pushed your chair away from the table. "Fine. I wanted to go for a walk before it got too dark outside anyway."

Pike nodded at you as you sprung to your feet. "I'll pick up the cabin while you're out."

"How chivalrous of you, Agent Pike," you sang out. "I'll be back by sunset the latest. Send the hounds if I'm not."

It was a joke, but unsurprisingly the lines over your partner's brows etched in a little deeper. Worried at just the idea of you not coming back. It was sweet, considering you'd only been partners for four months. He'd just moved to the capital on a promotion.

Maybe that meant you were friends.

When he'd first been paired up with you Marcus Pike had been reserved around you, almost like he was afraid to become friends with you.

You'd been secretly hurt by it because he was fine with almost everyone else. His cheerfulness almost rivaling your own at times. He was one of the most good-natured agents you'd ever met, but he was quiet around you. Not necessarily cold, but strictly professional.

You'd wondered if someone had hurt him and if you reminded him of them somehow. He seldom mentioned his final months in Texas to anyone.

You'd thought you were reaching before Marcus came around, because he seemed as married to his work as you were, but your superior had revealed to you at a work party that Marcus had requested for his ex fiancée to have a job at the capital too but she'd never shown up. Marcus had simply told him they'd broken up.

"I doubt you'll need to," you assured him. "Last I checked the case is closed so no stolen art dealers should be stalking these woods. We cuffed our guy last night. Only possible danger out there now is bigfoot."

Marcus huffed. "I have a feeling you're more likely to run into a black bear. Not as many bigfoot sightings in upper New York as there are in the northwest."

You grinned. "Good thing I'm good at intimating anything bigger than me." You patted the holster on your hip. "And my gun's right here for backup."

You fled the cabin you'd been stuck in for most of the past month while you were working on your latest case and headed out on the dirt trail alongside the lake that bordered the back of the property.

There were trees on either side of the path, but you were close enough to the lake's border to be able to see the water the whole time you strolled along it.

It didn't take you long to settle into the peace that nature often brought you. You loved the city life, all the things you could do instead of being bored, but every once in a while it was nice to get away.

You couldn't really count one evening before your flight back to D.C. as a "get away" but you'd take what you could get before your next assignment.

It was autumn, after all, your favorite season. The air was crisp but not quite yet cold enough for you to bother with a jacket, and most of the trees were at the height of flaunting their bright, colorful leaves. In less than a month most of them would fall away, their remains scattered by the wind, leaving the branches bare, exposed, until the trees resurrected in the spring.

Though it wasn't quite yet jacket weather, there was enough of a breeze to compel you to slip on the sweater that you'd tied around your waist on the way out along with the fingerless gloves that had been stuffed into its only pocket.

It's perfectly pleasant out with the extra layer on, and you enjoy every second of the rest of your time in the woods. The loss of light from the setting sun was the only real reason you eventually wanted to turn back. After a raven startled you with its call you decided it was time to return to the cabin before your paranoia got the better of you.

You'd never liked being in the woods at night.

You didn't immediately go back inside the cabin though. Instead you chose to plop yourself down on a massive rock by the edge of the lake and watch the sun as it set.

It was so calming to observe that you zoned out and didn't hear Marcus approaching until he was already sliding onto the rock with you.

He offered you a green mug that clearly contained coffee, its smell filling your nostrils almost as soon as you'd spotted it in his massive hands.

"Decafe, milk only?" you asked. You hated drinking caffeine after six o'clock. You always tossed and turned in bed after.

"Of course."

You accepted the mug from him and tested it. It wasn't bad for cheap home brewed coffee from the local gas station and Marcus had got the ratio of milk right.

He was good with details even outside work.

"It's quiet out here," he noted, pleased.

"A little too quiet at this time of day," you told him. "The day animals are going to sleep and the night ones are just starting to get up. We're in the between."

"Spending time out here has got me thinking," he confessed. "I think I'm going to search for a cabin in Virginia when I get back. It would give me a place to unwind, a place where I don't hear an engine roaring and tires screeching every minute of the day. Would be good for the kids too when I have some someday."

You glanced at him, stunned by his casual mention of wanting to start a family someday. He'd never mentioned it before, but there he was beside you, a wistful look in his eyes, probably imagining his hypothetical future children playing in a lake similar to the one in front of you, splashing each other relentlessly or something as he watched them from the shoreline.

You couldn't help but shake your head at that. It wasn't meant for his eyes, but he noticed anyway.

"What?"

"Nothing," you mumbled, adverting your gaze from his handsome face.

"Tell me."

You shook your head. "It's nothing you'll want to hear. I don't want to ruin your night. Besides, it's none of my business."

"Tell me anyway," he insisted.

You sighed, not wanting to give in but knowing you were going to anyway. "It's just...we're both on the border of forty and we're on the wrong end of a gun at least once a month. The picket fence with the spouse and the two-point-five kids? That's not for us. We're not normal. This isn't normal. This isn't the way normal people live, Marcus."

"Plenty of other agents have families," he pointed out.

"And their families wait with baited breath every day until they come home," you reminded him. "And sometimes there's no relief. Sometimes their spouse, their parent, never comes back home."

It was Marcus' turn to sigh. "This is about your dad."

Your father had been an FBI agent too, in the National Security branch. You'd been only eleven years old when he was shot to death with twelve rounds by the suspect he'd been chasing down in the middle of the city.

"It's not fair to do that to anyone Marcus," you told him. "That's why I'm still single. Why I refuse to get married. It was that or get a desk job, and that's not me. But maybe, if you really want a family, a desk job is what you need. If you have a family, you should commit to them fully."

You were sure he'd be upset with you for everything you'd just said, but instead of getting defensive he scratched the top of his left arm and nodded.

"I've actually been thinking about that lately. The promotion's already given me more of a taste of what it would be like being in the office more often than not, and it doesn't disagree with me. Honestly, I think I'm over my risk taking days."

"What's stopping you then?" you questioned.

"Lately, you," he answered without really thinking.

You startled and stared at him. You noticed he was looking at you in a completely new way, or maybe you were waking up to something in his expression that had always been there. "What?"

"I didn't want to make our partnership a problem, but I also don't want to transfer without you knowing," he continued.

"Knowing what?" You were in complete disbelief. You already knew what he was going to say.

"I care about you, Sunny." He said your nickname so softly. "I want you. Have since we met. Tell me you feel the same."

They were bold words but you found yourself drawn towards him anyway, your lips crashing into his.

You had been yearning for him too. He was your friend, the best partner you'd had in a long time, and he was pretty to boot. You may have already had several dreams about kissing him like this...and more.

Despite all that, you pushed him away when he tried to deepen the kiss, as he cupped your jaw. "The picket fence isn't my ending, Marcus. I don't ever want a desk job. I don't want kids. You deserve someone who shares your dreams. I'm one night stand material, nothing more."

"That's alright," he said so surely the words made your stomach flutter.

You knew him better than that though. "No, it's not," you refuted. "You're not one night stand material, Pike, or else you'd be a lot more relaxed than you are lately. Have you ever slept with a woman you didn't love before? No matter how briefly you'd known each other?"

He stayed silent, answering your question.

You hopped off the rock for his sake, not wanting to be another of his relationships that ended in disappointment, and headed for the cabin to get in some extra hours of sleep.

There was nothing left to say. You couldn't be who Marcus needed you to be and you'd both get hurt if you gave into your lustful desires.

You dreamed of him in vivid detail that night.

The next morning Marcus stirred to the sound of slamming doors through the kitchen window, which he guessed you must've cracked open while going through your morning routine as you usually did during warmer weather.

You were the one making the ruckus, already packing your belongings into the black government issued SUV you'd been assigned while on the case.

After a bathroom break Marcus smoothed down his sleep mussed hair and headed for the kitchen where you'd left out a cup of caffeinated coffee you'd brewed for him after pouring yourself one. His lips quirked upward as he thought about your kindness and he snatched the cup up so he could take a sip. The coffee was on the cooler side of hot, but that was exactly how he preferred it.

You had gotten to know each other quite well during the few months you'd known each other, much more than just your coffee preferences. But he'd caught feelings for you early on, before that, despite not wanting to. Realizing he liked you had been a painful revelation. The last thing he'd wanted was another workplace romance, not even a month after his last had ended poorly.

He had tried to keep you at an arm's length at first, but that hadn't worked out. You'd seemed hurt by it, and that had eventually broken his resolve.

He'd tried to be satisfied with your friendship, but as soon as he could call you a friend, he'd started dreaming at night about you being more than that.

He'd thought maybe, just maybe sleeping with you would've been enough, but you were also right. He wasn't one night stand material. He'd never had casual sex in his life. There were always feelings attached to it.

And you wanted different lives. Like his last girlfriend, you were simply just not meant to be his.

That hadn't stopped him from restlessly tossing and turning in his bed the night before. Thinking about that kiss. How needy your response to his confession had been. How soft your lips had felt against his.

The memory began to make him aroused and he had to shift in his spot by the kitchen sink to get more comfortable.

Think of anything else, Pike.

He focused on the view through the window, a fog carpeting the rocky shores of the lake that cool, sunny morning. He was a city guy at heart, but he'd meant what he'd said the night before. It would be nice to get a cabin and spend some time in nature once in a while. It would be therapeutic.

He'd lost himself in the sight before him when two overlapping gunshots broke the peaceful morning.

Marcus jumped into action, scrambling for his work appointed glock and charging outside to the driveway with little thought for his own safety.

He froze when he turned the corner to the back of the cabin and his eyes found you slumped against the back end of the SUV, the trunk still raised, open.

You were wide-eyed, gasping for air, shaking, and you were holding your left hand over a dark patch of blood that was expanding alarmingly fast over your white tank top on the mid-left side of your chest. Your right hand still had a white-knuckled grip on your gun.

Marcus' heart nearly stopped at the sight. He barely noticed the body of the man laying only a few feet in front of you as he raced to your side to help you.

"Shit, Sunny," he hissed as he added pressure to your bullet wound with one of his own hands.

You coughed, and when you responded you sounded weak and pained. "It's bad." You looked scared.

Marcus brushed your cheek with the back of his hand comfortingly. "Shhh...save your strength."

He slipped his hand into the front right pocket of your jeans where he knew you always kept your cell phone and dialed 911. He later wouldn't be able to recall exactly what he'd told the emergency operator, only that he'd given them enough details to get the paramedics there fast.

"Hang on, Sunny," he murmured when he got off the phone. "They're on their way."

He was in complete denial of what was happening in front of him. If he hadn't been he'd have written you off as already dead. Because you basically were. You'd lost far too much blood. The bullet had most likely nicked a part of your heart. You were fading fast. Your eyes already falling.

"Marcus," you somehow managed to croak out. "Promise me you won't give up. You keep...looking for someone...to share that cabin with."

He shook his head at you, feeling desperate. "No."

"Please," you begged.

"Fine," he said, "But you're gonna have to be my wing woman. Keep me from moving too quick."

You almost managed a chuckle before the last of your strength slipped from you and you stopped breathing altogether. It was that abrupt.

Panic soared in Marcus. He carefully laid you out on your back in the dirt and pressed two fingers to your neck, searching for a pulse. Finding none he could palpate, he knelt over you and started to do chest compressions.

"Damn it, Sunny! Come on! Stay with me!"

Any civilian watching would've been horrified by the sight of your blood squirting out of your wound onto his hands and gray sleep shirt as he worked. It was a futile effort, keeping your heart going when there wasn't enough blood to pump anymore, but it wasn't until he heard the ambulance sirens that Marcus became aware of that.

The tears welled up then, his chest tightening as he went blind.

"Sunny, oh god," he sobbed out, taking in the gruesome sight before him. It seemed like the blood was everywhere.

He pulled your upper body off the ground and cradled it in his arms, pressing his forehead against your own, his lips grazing your closed right eye.

"Damn it, Sunny," he whimpered out before the full bulk of his grief hit him.

He nuzzled his face against your cooling one and finally wept.

Marcus wasn't sure how he'd managed to pull himself together enough to be the one to inform your sister of your passing, but he had.

He'd insisted on it. It was only right he be the one to tell her since he'd been your partner and had been there for your dying breath.

He'd promised your sister that it had been quick and that you hadn't died alone. And even though that made her cry harder, she'd promised him that it made a difference and thanked him for doing everything he could for you in the moment.

He hoped she had family to lean on the day of your funeral. He wasn't there when they put you in the hole. He'd been busy on another case, having buried himself in work to distract himself from his own pain, despite his superior begging him to take some time off to properly mourn you.

Witnessing the funeral would've made it too final. He hadn't been ready yet.

It wasn't until he finally met the one, someone who made him smile again, for real, who shared his dreams for the future, that his heart truly began to mend from your loss.

It wasn't until he had the wedding band, the cabin, and the kids that he completely stopped having the nightmares.

There were still nights though, usually around the anniversary of your death, when he'd lie awake wondering what would have happened if he had stopped you from leaving the rock by yourself that night.

Would you have woken up late, tangled in the sheets with him instead of being outside to face the secret partner of the illegal art dealer alone? Would he have harmlessly stolen back the painting hidden under the rear seat of the SUV instead of stealing your life?

Even though he was sure now that you were never meant to be his, he still couldn't help but wonder if he'd made a mistake letting you go back to the cabin without him. If you should've been his exception.

You would always be his biggest regret.

The shot not taken.

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed

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#Marcus Pike #The Mentalist #almostfoxgloveangstchallenge #Marcus Pike Fanfic #Mentalist Fanfic #Pedro Pascal Character Fanfic #X Reader #Fanfiction #Mine #Queue Me

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