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mrs-gucci · 4 years ago

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Spread ‘Em Wide {Clyde Logan x pregnant!Reader}

author’s notes: hellooo! happy memorial day everyone :) I’m so soft for Clyde and his pregnant girl...but I’m also horny. so, this is the resulting fic lol

**this is part of the Clyde & Pumpkin AU**

warnings: smut. fluff. literally just smut. error: plot not found. pregnancy/belly kink. some breeding kink (v light, though). use of a clit vibrator. a dash of dirty talk.

(possible) tw’s: pregnancy.

“Oh pumpkin, oh honey…” Clyde sighs, kissing your lips as his hands gently hold your hips, pulling you further onto his lap.

You whine softly into his mouth, already feeling your panties soaking. Pregnancy hormones were no joke, you’ve discovered, especially in the second trimester when you began showing.

Luckily, Clyde is always ready and willing to help you out with your sudden feelings of intense horniness.

“Ye look so pretty, so fuckin’ beautiful all swollen like this.” He moans, hips pressing up against you. “Love havin’ ya on top of me, pressin’ yer big belly on me, pumpkin.”

You bite your lip, looking down at your handsome husband with lust-blown eyes. “Yeah? You like seeing me pregnant?”

“Shit, oh god, y-yeah.”

His cock throbs beneath his jeans and he groans, nodding eagerly, beard gently scratching your neck as he kisses and nips your skin.

Your hands run through his hair as he continues his assault on your neck, covering seemingly every inch of it with kisses.

“Wanna put ‘nother one in ye, pumpkin, keep ya swollen ‘s long as I can.” His hips buck up gently as he nips your collarbones. “Love burying my cum in ya.”

You moan softly as he pulls your shirt up over your head, licking his lips when his eyes come in contact with your breasts. You’ve grown two sizes during the pregnancy, and you practically spill out of every bra you own now, even if you buy the correct size.

Clyde loves it, though, and his mouth instantly gets to work on the exposed mounds poking out the top of the cups. “Jesus, I love these tits so fuckin’ much, love seein ‘em spill out of yer bra. So big, so full...fuck.”

“P-Please.” You whine, starting to bounce lightly up and down on him. “I’m ready for you, wanna ride your big fat cock, Clyde.”

He growls, holding your hips still.

“So eager, hm? I think I wanna take ye from behind today, pumpkin, get real far inside ye so that I can put my cum in nice n’ deep.”

The prospect makes you shudder with excitement. “Where do y-you want me?”

His lips curl up into a small smirk and he leans forward, mouthing at your earlobe, breath hot.

“Go on upstairs n’ bend yourself over on the bed. Take these leggin’s off, hold onto the headboard, n’ spread yer legs nice n’ wide for me. Can ye do that, pumpkin?”

You quickly nod and get up off his lap, walking upstairs as fast as was possible with a pregnant belly. Your leggings are all but torn off, with a bit of maneuvering of course, before you take your position on the bed.

Clyde comes up a minute later, groaning softly as he sees you fully naked and bent over just as he’d asked. He quickly sheds his clothes and strokes himself as he walks up beside you, spreading your lips with his prosthetic, extra careful as your glistening folds are exposed.

He suddenly gets an idea, pulling away and walking over to the closet, pulling out one of your favorite clit vibrators. He puts a dot of lube on the toy before turning to the lowest setting, setting it gently on your sensitive nub.

The way you gasp and your hips instinctively roll down against it makes Clyde throb in his palm.

“Yeah, yer pussy loves this lil thing, huh pumpkin?”

You nod, biting your lip as your hips grind roughly and desperately down onto the small toy. You’re sweating with the effort, quickly reaching the edge of orgasm. He couldn’t believe how quickly you’d reached this point.

“G-Gon--gonna fucking c-cum, baby.”

When Clyde senses you’re about to orgasm, he clicks the button, turning it up a setting. Your eyes fly open and you cry out as an intense and sudden climax hits.

“Fuck, oh god, C-Clyde!”

The headboard bangs on the wall as your hips buck and squirm against the vibrations, enjoying the delicious pressure and subtle pain of overstimulation.

As soon as you’re finished, he turns off the toy and tosses it onto his pile of clothes, quickly mounting the mattress behind you. He rubs his cockhead through your slick, moaning softly when he feels how much has come along with your orgasm before lining up with your entrance.

“Ya ready, pumpkin?”

You nod, and he holds your hips as he pushes forward, sheathing himself fully inside you with a long, drawn out growl.

“Lord...j-jesus christ, Y/N.”

Your hands tighten against the beam of the headboard as your body begins rocking back and forth with each snap of your husband’s skilled hips.

“O-Oh, Clyde, baby…”

“Goddamn lil pussy’s gon’ be the d-death o’ me, I s-swear.” He mumbles, fucking you a little faster. “Yer fuckin’ soaked, pumpkin, so wet fer my c-cock.”

The whole bed squeaks and creaks against the hardwood as Clyde fucks you harder, the sound of skin slapping bouncing off the walls.

“Y-Yes, baby, yes!” You cry when he begins stroking that one special spot inside of you. “Right there, oh yeah honey, right f-fucking there!”

Clyde absolutely loves it when you make lots of noise for him, because he knows it’s all genuine. That’s one thing you told him right off the bat when you first met ten years ago, that you’d never, ever fake sexual noises or releases. And you never did.

His strokes speed up and he switches the position of his thrusts a bit so that he’s now coming up a bit underneath you. This allowed him to fully rub against your g-spot while also continuing the deep penetration that comes with the doggy-style position.

You’re seeing stars as you cum for the second time that evening, tears burning in your eyes as you cry out again with orgasm. Your walls grip him tightly and spasm around him, hips jerking randomly as you ride out your climax.

He cums not too long after you, good hand reaching up to grip your shoulder as he ruts his hips erratically, cock buried as deeply inside you as it can while rope after rope of thick seed spurts into your cunt.

“Fuck, p-pumpkin, take it all inside ye. That’s--ohhhh--that’s right, ma g-good girl, ma good lil w-wife.”

It’s already pouring out of you even before Clyde pulls out, dripping down your thighs and even some onto the bedding below. He always has really big loads, which at first he was embarrassed by, but you quickly showed him how much you loved it when he made a mess of you.

Both of you are catching your breath as Clyde slides out of you, then gets up to grab a warm washcloth. He wipes your folds gently, planting a soft kiss on your oversensitive clit before wiping up your thighs, nonchalantly tossing the used cloth aside before laying down. He has a hand on your back the entire time you gently lay down onto the bed, pulling you close once you’re down comfortably.

His textured fingertips lightly trace random patterns on your swollen stomach, laughing softly to himself when the baby starts kicking. You laugh, too, your fingers playing with his raven waves.

“She knows her daddy already.” You say with a smile.

Clyde beams with pride, scooting down so that his face can be nice and close to your stomach.

“Hey there, lil peach. Yer mom ‘n me are real excited to meet ya in a few months, an’ so are yer aunt and uncle. You’re already so loved, peach, yer not gon’ know what to do with all of it when ya finally get here.”

You both laugh softly, and your eyes fill up with tears as you rub the back of Clyde’s head. He kisses your bump, hand still rubbing it, before sliding back up to kiss you on the lips.

“Yer amazin’, ya know that? Givin’ me a daughter, carryin’ her fer me...I’ll never be able to repay ya in this lifetime, but I’ll do my damndest.” He smiles, kissing you again. “I love ya so damn much, Y/N, ma beautiful wife ‘n momma of m’ daughter.”

Tears are beginning to dribble down your cheeks, feeling so overwhelmed with love at this moment. You’re sure that you’ll never get used to Clyde’s love and appreciation for you, but you still treasure it very, very much.

You nuzzle your nose against his, unable to wipe the smile from your expression.

“I love you more, Clyde.”

#adamdriverwriter #adcu author #adcu writer #adam driver #adam driver character #adam driver smut #adam driver fluff #clyde logan #clyde logan x reader #clyde logan x you #clyde logan x reader smut #clyde logan x you smut #tw: pregnancy #cw: pregnancy #clyde logan smut #clyde x reader #clyde logan fluff #clyde & pumpkin au

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widowsofchaos · 5 years ago

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The Wolf, The Widow, & Their Angel

Writing’s Game created by the baddest, Roo! @darkficsyouneveraskedfor *screams like a feral banshee* tHe BaDDesT BiTcH sHE iS!

~my given prompt~

Pairing: dark!BuckyNat x black!Reader

Summary: You start to dissociate looking through windows, and it concerns your captors.

Warnings: ddlg relationship, forced age regression, mentions of spanking, water sports, and kidnapping, eventual Stockholm syndrome. a dash of yandere behavior.

a/n: hiii, so glad im finally into the swing of writing, and I really wanted to dive into this writing challenge made by Roo! Trope: Snowed In // Item/Location: Windows. Seems really fun, and gives a chance for people to explore different kinks and scenarios given to them! So I hope you enjoy! There has been things changed for sake of the story, like cause fuck canon sometimes, right? Muahaha💋

do not repost my works!

Snowflakes hit against the windows, sounding like tiny BB bullets as the bellowing winds harshly beats against the bullet-proof glass.

Ever-growing thick piles of snow surrounded the Avengers compound, as New York City is under attack by one of the worst snow-storms the city has ever endured in years.

Airports are temporarily shut-down, so are local businesses, the streets deserted with no sign of life. Nature’s cold wrath forces citizens to self-quarantine, and celebrate Christmas indoors, snowed in for perhaps a few weeks.

So much for your grand escape.

Six months you have been held captive, and forced to prance around like a living doll. A toy to satiate your captors’ sexual appetites and deep-rooted needs to protect ‘an innocent angel like yourself.’ As you sit here on the cold floor of the living room, battling boredom, and your solemn thoughts, mindlessly chewing on the pink paci in your mouth, you didn’t hear one of your captors and one of their accomplices walk in.

Fidgeting in your white onesie that had multiple crayon drawn rainbows printed on it, as you try to find some comfort - your buttocks still stung from this morning’s spanking. Your coco-brown buttocks peaking from your onesie, your diaper peaking from the edges, deep purple and yellow bruises painting your skin were apparent. That’s the abuse a metal prosthetic can inflict.

Your bronze skin now shiny with lotion to soothe the burgundy raw welts. You can barely sit still, rocking back and forth to relieve some tension. Sniffling trying to zone out in your mind.

Your hair was in two split curly pigtails, each split of massive hair clipped with two pink bows. Your index finger twirling in your chocolate curls, as the other hand was toying with the fabric of your white booties, with tears in your eyes, trying to imagine time spent with your real family.

Are they okay? Do they miss you? Have they been searching for you?

You can still recall the day you were kidnapped, it was a blur, it was so quick,

As the two perpetrators waltz silently towards you, as your back facing them, suddenly one of them playfully pull on your pigtails.You gasp, your eyes wide as saucers, as your mouth opened, your paci fell on your lap. Your day-dreaming shattered, as if you were high in the clouds then held by the calf and dragged right back to reality.

“Hey baby.” A husky velvety voice spoke against your ear, your heart hammering harshly against your chest. It’s him, the former Winter Soldier, his close companions call him Bucky, but you’re forced to call him daddy.

“Uncle Steve told me that you have been sitting here for hours” he brought his thumb to wipe away a tear you didn’t realize began to fall. You glanced over your shoulder to see Steve standing by the door-way smiling adoringly at the sight of a daddy and his baby, leaning against the door frame, with his strong hands stuffed in his jean pockets.

You felt menacing cerulean blue eyes burn a hole in your skull, Bucky couldn’t pull his eyes away from yours even if he tried. To him, you were perfect. You were a gift from God, an angel sent to ease his burdens along side his wife, Natasha. You couldn’t bare looking into his eyes, too intense, too suffocating. A flash of affection beamed across his eyes.

You whined, shuffling as best as you could away from your captor, “Baby, you dropped your paci.” Bucky plucked your pacificer from the floor, bringing towards your chapped lips, “Now it’s dirty, my sweet baby can’t have a dirty paci ...” he trailed off, the rims of your eyes slightly red, glossy from the forthcoming droplets.

He knows why you’ve been crying, he had to punish you this morning. You were trying to act like a big girl, and refused to be bathed, insisting you can clean yourself as an adult.

A smirk slowly crept on Bucky’s bearded face, he noticed you was leaning forward, preventing any bodily pressure to increase on your sore ass. “Is my baby’s cute ass sore?” His nose brushed against your cheek, a guttural moan vibrated in his throat, inhaling your scent; his hot breath fanning over your tear-stained face.

His pink lips hairs away from yours, growing agitated that you didn’t respond, he gripped one of your pigtails with his flesh hand.

You yelped in pain, your button nose scrunched, brows furrowed deeply; the prickly pins and needles sensation scorching throughout your scalp, as Bucky held your hair in a death clutch. “Answer your daddy! Is my baby’s cute ass sore?!” Bucky snarls like a beast.

You choked back a sob, forced to look into his cerulean blue eyes, clouded by grey storm clouds. His pupils dilated, his nose flared, not to further infuriate the former soldier, “Ye-yes, daddy -” your throat tightened in fear, “my butt is sore.” Satisfied that you answered sweetly, Bucky relinquished his hand, kissing away your tears with feathery pecks, “Don’t cry, my angel.” His voice lowered softly.

His stubble tickled you, but you resisted a chuckle in your throat along with your untamed bile, he shushed you, “Don’t cry, baby. Daddy’s sorry he had to get loud.” Bucky cooed, talking to you like you were a toddler.

Your sobs quieted down, now simmering to hiccups, as he pulled you flushed against his broad chest. Even when he cradled you, his physicality reminded you, that you can’t escape.

Bucky is at least, two hundred pounds lean, built into massive biceps, and sculpted abs. You can’t fight him, nor her. Natasha’s physique is slender, but she’s toned.

Enquiped to defeat any enemy, a master in trickery and slealth, able to disappear within thin air like her husband ... many have fallen for sadly mistaken the Russian for beauty over brains ... don’t underestimate the former assassin. You already learned your lesson.

Your delicate fingers gripped his red Henley shirt, the cotton fiber bunching between your brown fingers, as you whimpered, your cheek squished against his frame.

Bucky sported a smug smirk on his stubbled jaw, glancing to his oldest best friend. A chuckle was breathed out of Steve’s nose, knowing the breaking down method was slowly progressing.

Steve knows that this is what Bucky, and Natasha needs in their life. Something innocent to protect, the couple hasn’t had a pure light in their life for years, so it’s understandable that for the first time they encountered you, they had to have you.

It was fate.

Indeed the meticulous harsh punishments was working. No matter how hard you tried to fight back, and resist the urges to succumb to their sexual pleasures, your mind was betraying you.

There has been moments of your compliance, calling everyone by their designated names. Natasha as your mommy, Bucky as your daddy, and the rest of the Avengers as your uncles and aunt. Letting your uncles and aunt baby you, feed you, play with you, and punish you if needed too.

Let’s just say, the punishments were just as equally barbarous. Wall-seats, harsh spanking, knees on raw rice, gas lighting, slight choking, knees resting on raw rice, electrical nipple clamps as your head will be dunked in water, that’s Bucky’s go-to if his patience runs dry.

And a few slaps here and there if you cuss everybody out.

Natasha’s favorite is clit cream, it causes severe itching on your pussy, you would rub your mound on any solid surface to relieve yourself to the point of your vagina being raw, and irritated.

How does the sadistic couple help the itching and burning stop? Take turns squirting their piss directly on your clit.

Shame and humiliation has become your constant demons.

Bucky’s red shirt had a strong but subtle smell of mint, and oak. You rubbed your nose into the shirt, it’s calming your frightened senses, as numerous flashbacks of pain came flooding your shattered mind.

“Awh my baby, loves holding her daddy.” Bucky spoke into your brushed curls, you didn’t realize you were practically clinging to Bucky like a baby kola. Bucky nuzzled his nose into your curls, his eyes closed, relishing in this rare moment.

Bucky’s strong biceps slithered around your petite waist, you involuntarily clutching your arms around his neck for support. His open palms calmly rubbed circles under your thighs, but close to your painful bruises.

You flinch at the close proximity of his fingertips grazing your abused flesh. It was his reminder of how quickly his temper can switch.

Don’t misbehave.

You prefer to seek his approval, to fall on his good graces.

“D-daddy?” you crooked into his now tear-stained shirt, the dampened spots now a deeper shade of red, you sniffled, scared to look him in the eye, “Yes baby?” Bucky’s smirked.

“I wanna look at the windows more. The snowflakes are pretty.” You hated how your voice was trembling, and trailing into little space.

You’re conversing with Bucky as if you were a toddler. One discovery you stumbled on during this ordeal is that deep inside the crevasse of your mind, there’s a little girl.

Sub-space, or little space ... you knew you had it, which in turn, helped you adapt to your new environment from time to time. Catching yourself enjoying being pampered, no longer being burdened by of the problems that come with being an adult. No longer do you work, you hated your office job. You gracefully fall into a space of hazy clouds.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, a bit befuddled, as his eyes pleaded with Steve’s, who in return shook his head, no.

Steve brought this new found habit of yours up to Bucky and Natasha earlier, whenever you were punished, you hide away to look out the windows.

Steve realized that you were probably dissociating. That worried everybody, it means you were suffering from not accepting your new life, clinging onto your old one, and if you’re in pain, Bucky and Natasha are in pain.

You’re more than their little girl, you’re their missing third. Their companion, their angel, and even if you rebuke it, your best friends. Many occurrences, Nat and Bucky has confided to you about their dark pasts, revealing secrets not even their close team mates are aware of.

To gain your trust, and your sympathy, to show despite their cruel punishments, they are broken humans emotionally dependent on you. In any bond between lovers, that’s your best friend.

Out of love — tough love, but love nonetheless.

Bucky’s lip formed into a thin-line, “No, baby. Uncle Steve told me you do this a lot, you know he’s worried about you? So is everybody else, you haven’t even eaten since this morning” Bucky’s voice got stern, but it was contrast to his facial features softening. His brows now slanted in-ward, demonstrating his distress.

It’s the truth, you’re co-dependent on bullet-proof glass. You can observe the outside world. It helps you escape to your imaginary getaway. Whatever your heart desires, your brain creates unabashed scenarios of being surrounded by your family, and friends.

But more recently, you imagine poppy fields, sleeping in high-end stocks of flowers — but soon the demons roam in search of you, and the sky darkens.

“No, baby. No more windows. Ever again.” Bucky’s eyes squinted, you gasped. You were ready to beg, plead to stay on the floor just a little while longer, “Now it’s lunch time. I can hear my little angel’s tummy growling.” Bucky patted your belly gingerly, with no hesitation, he scooped you in his arms lifting you in the air.

Instinctively you locked your legs around his waist, your eyes never wavered from the frosty chilled windows. Your body began shaking, choking back pitiful sobs, as you ducked your head in Bucky’s neck.

“Maybe she needs a nap, she’s been crying all day.” Steve recalls hearing you sniffle since this morning, after getting a spanking. Bucky’s thumb rubbed circles into your shoulder blades, cooing you to settle down.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Bucky kissed your scalp, “she’ll feel better when she wakes up.” As the two soldiers discussed about you as if you weren’t present, you just went limp, your legs dangling. If it wasn’t for Bucky’s inhuman strength, you would’ve fallen.

What’s the point in fighting anymore? Your body is worn, and your brain is fried. There’s no escape, for years you thought so highly of the Avengers, but you learned that they were not so righteous.

Steve noticed your eyes were dull, it’s blank. Steve subtly caressed your cheek, as he walked by Bucky’s side. A small lopsided smile curved at your lips, but Steve was still worried.

Finally reaching Bucky’s apartment, Steve helped open the door as Bucky was pre-occupied holding you, “Steve, can you wash her pacifier for me?” Steve nodded, taking the pacifier from Bucky.

As Steve reached the kitchenette, to wash the paci in the sink, Bucky went to your bedroom. A custom made state of the art bedroom, the walls covered in white wallpaper with multiple printed teddy bears. Fuzzy pink carpeting, stuffies galore spilling out of the bin, toys ranging from blocks, puzzles, coloring books, barbies -- you name it, they spoiled you.

Bucky cooed in your ear sweetly as he laid you down in your custom crib, the plush mattress welcomed your body. You whined a bit, a few tears falling, “Hush, baby, it’s okay. Uncle Stevie is bringing your paci.” Bucky caressed your arms, and face trying to cal, your nerves.

Your eyes were droopy, mental exhaustion overpowering you, but you were resisting sleep. You started rubbing your eyes, as if you were a restless toddler refusing naptime.

Bucky and Natasha also has been popping sleeping pills, bladder weakening pills and birth control pills in your milk. To set your body on schedule, so you can learn to adapt using a diaper. Fall sleep at proper time during the day.

Steve entered the bedroom, to see Bucky trying to stop you from your agitated state. “She’s fussy.”Steve’s tone was laced with concern, he quickly gave Bucky the paci, and you shut your mouth. “It’s okay, baby. It’s your paci, say ah.” Bucky was trying to persuade you, you hated that you were becoming dependent on it.

You pouted, Bucky sighed. Once again, he had to resort doing it the hard way. Bucky pinched your nose shut, preventing any oxygen, after a few seconds, you had no choice, but to open your mouth for air.

You gasped, and Bucky took advantage, quickly popping the paci in your mouth, shutting your mouth with his palms. You whined, as Bucky kissed your forehead. Bucky tucked you in, “I love you, angel.” With that Bucky and Steve started leaving the room, turning the light switch off, and closed the door behind them.

Darkness and silence looming over you, your eyes drooped shut, drifting into a dreamless slumber.

***

It’s been over an hour of naptime, and finally Natasha returned from training. She entered the apartment to see Bucky sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” He lifted his gaze up, and Nat saw tears in his eyes.

Nat dashed to her husband’s aid, sitting next to him on the couch. “What’s wrong? What happened?” Nat was growing increasingly worried, “Our angel hates me.” Bucky croaked, his voice was hoarse. Natasha pulled Bucky into her arms, Bucky sniffled as he sunk himself into her chest.

“She doesn’t hate you. She’s still learning.”

“You didn’t see the fear in her eyes today. Her eyes looked dull, as if she wasn’t there. Even Steve saw it.” Bucky wailed in Nat’s arms. “It’s okay, she’s not broken. It’s not a quick procedure to get our angel. She will realize this is what’s good for her.”

“I just want her to be happy with us.”

“I know, Bucky. Me too.” Natasha kissed his head.

What Natasha didn’t realize was that you heard their conversation, as you awoke from your nap.

***

Was life with these people really that hard? They spoil you to no end. Yes, their choice of punishments aren’t ordeal, but after punishments they soothed you as if you were the most fragile treasure in the world. Can you learn to love them? Perhaps. Do you feel bad for them hurting? A little, and that’s what scares you.

You care, and it’s been bothering you.

For weeks, your hatred towards the Avengers has been simmering down. You did enjoy no longer having responsibilities, enjoying little space, you were slipping into the headspace more and more.

As thoughts were swirling in your mind like angry bees, the door opened, you quickly closed your eyes again. The light turned on, and their footsteps sounded quiet, not wanting to disturb your sleep, towards your massive crib.

Natasha and Bucky were hovering over you, watching you sleep, as if it’s their favorite view. So obsessed with you, vowing to kill anyone who will try to take you away from them.

Both Nat, and Bucky brought their fingers to your face, caressing your tear-stained cheeks. It was like this for a few moments, until they slowly shook you awake. Tenderly they coaxed you awake, your eyelids fluttered open.

“Hey pretty girl, time to wake up.” Natasha softly ruffled your curly ponytails. You don’t know what snapped in you, maybe your brain has given up, or maybe it’s the way these two are affectionately staring down at you.

Beyond the misty darkness that clouds their eyes, is love. Moments of good moments of playtime with them, or how they touched you giving you cummies, your body coming alive to their touch, or how your heart ached at their sadness flashed in your mind.

Maybe you do love them.

“Mommy. Daddy.” You mumbled against your paci, you made grabby hands outward to them. Natasha’s and Bucky’s eyes widened, their breaths hitched in their throats. At last, their little girl wants them - on her accord.

Natasha quickly took you out of the crib, holding you in her arms in an air tight hug. Bucky engulfed both of you in a bear hug.

At last.

***

It’s been a few weeks of you being the perfect angel, and quite frankly, you were happy. Stress of freedom slipped away, you were taken cared off. Adulthood was hard on you until Natasha and Bucky took you. It was unorthodox at first, slipping into your old apartment in the dead of the night, but it was worth it.

You were sitting on Bucky’s lap, as he sat on the couch watching cartoons with you. Your back against his chest, Bucky hugging you in his arms, your arm reaching behind his head, as your hand played with his hair. Bucky melts every-time you do that. You were sucking on your paci, and Natasha was in the kitchen preparing dinner.

The peaceful atmosphere was soon disrupted, as an urgent news broadcast flashed on the screen. You whined, and Bucky started looking for the remote to change the channel.

The broadcast flashed a picture of you, explaining that you were still declared missing, and your family was looking for you. Bucky’s whole body froze, as your silence was making him nervous. Natasha slowly peaked her head out from the kitchen.

You were unfazed, but you’re not dumb. You knew you had to reassure them, “Daddy, change the channel! I want cartoons.” You bounced a bit on his lap, to show your bratty impatience. Bucky picked up the remote, and put cartoon network on.

Both Nat’s, and Bucky’s heart fluttered, you didn’t care about your old life anymore. You took your paci out for a moment, and kissed your daddy. “I love you, daddy.” You put the paci back in your mouth, and watched the cartoons.

Bucky had tears in his eyes, and so did Natasha.

Their angel didn’t hate them, their angel loves them, and they love you.

Extra A/N: sorry that this was trash. This was beyond trash, I’m so sorry! This was rushed, and I’m bothered by it.

#buckybarnesplumwhore wrote this #buckynat x reader #dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky barnes #dark!natasha #dark!natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #natasha romanoff smut #dark marvel #bucky barnes x black!reader #natasha romanoff x black!reader #one shot

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mimiwrites2000 · 4 years ago

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Legends

Chapter Nine ~

AO3 ~~

Pairings: Armin x Annie/ Eren x Mikasa (other pairings will be added as the story goes on)

Words count: 3157

* spoilers for chapter 127 and up

Summary:

an injury

a miracle

an understanding

and maybe 'everything happens for a reason' holds some truth in it, and all of it leads to that tingle of emotions with unsolvable maze that hypnotize its victims

~a story of broken hearts who are searching for a cure while mending each other’s wounds

“You did what?!” Armin’s eyes widened, he thought he didn’t hear right because there was no way Eren actually-

“I asked her to marry me,” Eren said once again, not turning or moving in the slightest.

“Are you fucking serious?!” Armin paced around, his hands on his head, his eyes flickering to Eren then to the sky then to the ground.

“What were you thinking?” Armin asked, appalled and at the same time grateful that he was the one in this situation; not Jean. Armin took two steps forward, sat beside Eren, more like dropped beside him, and for the first time got a good look of his face.

Eren’s beard was growing out, though uneven; some places on his chin were empty, or did he pluck these hairs out? His hair was growing past his shoulders. He had a poker face on, and that frustrated Armin even more.

“Did you really…” Armin said through his teeth, surprised that his own voice sounded breathy and compressed, “d-did you really think she’d just… she’d just say yes?!”

Eren didn’t respond, but he did fidget for the first time, and Armin could tell that he was getting uncomfortable. Armin wanted Eren to beg the earth to split and swallow him.

“Eren, you’re… you’re…” Armin was trying to look for a suitable word, but his mind went blank, and he couldn’t think of anything to say, so he blurted out: “y-you’re stupid!”

Eren cracked a smirk at that, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Armin noticed that his eyes were blood shot, just like Mikasa’s.

“Okay, uh, w-what else did you say to her?” Armin asked, both his hands on his head, ruffling his hair.

Eren took a few seconds to answer, as if he was having trouble remembering: “I apologized to her.”

“Yeah no shit! You don’t say you actually did that!”

Eren didn’t reply to Armin’s sarcastic comment, instead he watched the stream, a golden fish was thrashing its tail against the flow, fighting versus the undeterred water, flipping on its back countless times.

Armin wanted Eren to look him straight in the eyes and tell him that all of this is a joke, but Eren didn’t, and Armin had no idea what he was supposed to do with him.

“At least… you could’ve at least waited! you can’t just straight up ask her that. God, Eren I know you’re a hopeless romantic, but that’s just… stupid!”

“Well, I don’t really know what to do!” Eren said, exasperation interfering with his monotone voice.

“You could’ve asked for advice, dammit!”

“Advice?”

“I don’t know! Anything! But not straight up proposing!” Armin took a deep breath, “you know Jean is waiting for a chance to kill you, and you just gave him the perfect opening.”

“You think he’s better for Mikasa, don’t you?” Eren asked out of nowhere, chewing on the inside of his cheek, making his cheekbones prominent.

“I…” started Armin, but he didn’t know how to finish his sentence, “I don’t know…”

“We both know that Jean would treat Mikasa better, he’d never hurt her like I did,” Eren hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face between them, he looked small and weak.

Armin’s lips opened the tiniest bit at how Eren’s hunched back reminded him of their days on the streets, before they joined the training corps. Back then, Eren was just a weak kid with anger boiling inside of him.

Chaotic times, but much simpler than these days.

Armin closed his eyes, let out a long sigh, then said: “Jean would never hurt Mikasa in any way, everyone knows that.”

Eren sank more into himself.

“But,” Armin continued, “it’s not about Jean, it’s about Mikasa, she’d never want to be with Jean, because…” Armin rolled his eyes over his own feeble choice of words, “everyone knows… how much she cares for you.”

After a few moments of silence, Eren sighed, the sigh weighted and labored, then he whispered: “I’m not begging for atonement, what I did is… irredeemable, but…” He threw his hands in the air, “Mikasa has nothing to do with it! I-”

Eren stopped, he looked at his hands, those hands that did horrible, atrocious acts. Red moisture oozed from between his fingers, tracking down a path of crimson down his wrist.

Thud, thud…

They dripped on the dirt, puddling into a damp darkened spot.

Eren swallowed and shook his head; this is not real. He lowered them, tilting his head down to his feet, and whispered: “I just want to make it up for her…”

The sounds of the stream accompanied with the wind rustling the leaves, creating a harmony, a tone orchestrated by nature… forming a relatively calming blend.

“Would you forgive me?” Eren asked, his eyes not wavering from the rocks underneath his shoes.

Armin wondered; would he be able to forgive Eren? Can he forget what happened and move forward?

Did he want to forgive Eren?

Armin’s eyes darted to the stream, the golden fish was still fighting the current, writhing in the water, until another golden fish wrestled its way to it, then nudged it with its head several times. Then, both turned and swam together with the stream, further away from Eren and Armin, where the water wasn’t violent, but it was tranquil and undisturbed.

“I’ll try…” Armin finally answered, still watching the trace of the two golden fishes. He confessed these words from the bottom of his heart, no lies, just a naked truth.

“Thanks…” Eren muttered, hugging himself.

Insecurity and uncertainty draped over Eren. Armin gawked at him, dozens of questions swirling in his head about the rumbling, the founder, the past and the future, but at the same time he had the sudden urge to hug Eren and forget all about it. Instead, Armin stretched a hand and patted Eren twice on the back.

“So, uh…” Armin started, the memory he saw also took a considerate space in his mind; the one with himself standing on an altar by the beach, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it, so he dodged his own thoughts and resumed: “did you had a ring?”

Not the best dodge.

Eren snorted, and Armin saw him smiling the first genuine smile in months, if not years.

They spoke with hushed voices, not wanting to disturb the nature around them, and they didn’t get back to the cottage until sunset.

When Armin walked into the cottage with Eren by his side, Jean threw daggers with his eyes at them, Armin rose his eyebrows, gesturing for Jean to not do anything reckless, but he didn’t seem like he planned anything; Mikasa probably told him so.

The next morning, Magath, Hanji and Gabi sat off towards the harbor, leaving the rest with nothing to do but wait.

~~~

Annie had a plenty of time on her hands to observe everyone as much as she wanted.

Connie was remarkably taller; she vividly remembers him being the dwarf of the 104th squad. Jean’s long hair suited him, and he looked older than his age, he looked like the type of guy to live in a fancy apartment and have wine on breakfast on Mondays.

Mikasa seemed… charming, but now it’s more prominent than ever, her hair alone was gorgeous, and Annie wondered how it would look like if it was longer…

Historia was and would always be the goddess.

Annie tried to avoid Levi as much as she could.

Annie talked to Reiner, but they avoided the heavy topics. An inaudible deal was shared between them to never talk about any sensitive matters, to never talk about what happened after she crystalized herself, about Bert’s death…

Eren was completely different too, the eager kid she remembered seems to have never existed. His forests glinting eyes were substituted with dull orbs, dark circles framing them, protruding them, sinking them more into their sockets, however, he seemed to get his spark back the more he spent time with Armin.

And yeah, Armin.

Now the dwarf of the group.

After some time thinking about it, Annie decided, from behind, he looked like a tough man, with broad shoulders, but the moment he’d turn and she laid her eyes on his face, the 15 years old kid with the weakest muscles is all she could see.

Armin’s face never changed, even with his new haircut, his baby face is something that would never change about him.

Armin would catch Annie staring sometimes; when he’d be sitting up the table, Annie would be on the farthest couch tracking each of his movements, and when Armin catches her, he’d smile and continue whatever he was doing.

Annie wondered if he thought of her as a creep.

But one day, Annie was the one to catch Armin staring.

Annie was outside, it was her turn to hang the laundry, and in the middle of it, she turned around and saw Armin standing at the threshold of the cottage, a basket filled with laundry in his hands. Armin’s cheeks immediately flushed red, and he stuttered some intangible words before he thrusted the basket in Annie’s arms and hurried inside.

It seemed that someone else noticed this ‘glances’ contest going on between them.

Mr. Leonhart.

Incontrovertibly, Mr. Leonhart would never be fine with someone he barely knew glancing at his daughter, and what triggered him more is that his daughter was stealing looks at him too.

And that was the same person who ratted his daughter out four years ago.

One evening, Mr. Leonhart followed Armin outside when he left to get wood for the fire.

“Good evening, young man.” Mr. Leonhart greeted.

Armin jumped and the wood he was carrying fell, missing his toes by an inch, he didn’t bend down to pick them up, instead, he stood erected and stuttered out: “O-oh Mr. Leonhart! Good evening t-to you too!”, his voice was a few notches higher.

“I was meaning to talk to you.” Mr. Leonhart said, one hand behind his back, the other clutched around the cane handle.

“Y-yeah sure! Is something wrong?” Armin rubbed his hands together; it was chilly outside.

“No, nothing is wrong… yet,” Mr. Leonhart took a step forward, “I was just thinking that I should inform you that…” He tapped his cane twice on the dirt, “after all of this is over, me and my daughter, Annie, are going back to Marley. We are aiming to compensate all those lost years and live in peace for the rest of our lives.”

Armin didn’t know what Mr. Leonhart expected him to say: “Yeah, sure, I want Annie to be happy-”

“Annie being happy or not has nothing to do with you, or this place.”

Armin’s brain paused, he blinked thrice trying to catch up with what Mr. Leonhart just chucked at him, he wanted to say something but couldn’t risk it, he knew he would stutter and make a fool of himself.

But when Mr. Leonhart turned his back and walked leisurely to the cottage, his chest puffed up despite leaning on his cane for support, the words flew out of Armin’s mouth, as if he had practiced them a million times before: “Annie’s happiness isn’t associated with someone or with a place, her happiness can only come from within herself.”

Mr. Leonhart halted in his steps, turned his head to the side, examining Armin from the corner of his eyes, but he didn’t reply, he merely drew circles with his cane on the dirt, got a better footing for it, and with deliberate steps, headed inside the cottage, leaving Armin standing there, looking down at the wood scattered by his feet.

~~~

Armin kept an eye on Mikasa, and he realized that he was the only one who knew that Eren proposed to her, but everyone was aware that something was up with her; she was distracted all the time. One time, she almost spilled boiling soup all over herself, after it, no one trusted Mikasa with anything that could hurt her.

Jean was the most irritated about this, but each time he tried to talk it out with Mikasa, she’d politely shove him away, and told him that she’s okay.

Jean never believed her.

The way Mikasa would dodge Eren was almost unbearable, she’d sit on the farthest available spot away from him, never look at his direction or acknowledge him in anyway. She would turn around if she crossed paths with him, she would distract herself with the hem of her shirt if the conversation involved Eren.

Until one night…

Just like they got used to; everyone shared the living room as a bedroom. The only two bedrooms were occupied with the two people in need of a bed; Historia and her kid, and Levi.

As always, Mikasa would lay her sleeping bag in the farthest available spot from Eren.

That night, Armin sleeping with Eren on his side, his mind never shut down, his thoughts were buzzing in his head, one time he would be thinking about Mikasa and Eren…

Armin was clueless of what to do with his two childhood friends, a part of him wanted to lock them in a room until they figured it out, but the other part told him to let them be, maybe it was better if he should let them find their way back to each other, even if it would take years.

Another time Armin would think about Annie, he had so many things to tell her, he wanted to sit by her side all day, he wanted to be with her, but some concealed barrier was holding him back.

Something in him told him to stay away.

And what was he supposed to do with her father?

Armin understood where Mr. Leonhart was coming from; Annie is his only daughter whom whereabouts were unknown for nine years. Any father would be protective over his daughter…

But Armin didn’t want any harm to Annie, hell, he would rather hurt himself than see a tear down her cheeks.

Annie went through enough.

She deserved peace.

She deserved happiness.

And if her happiness meant to stay away from Armin, then he would gladly vanish from her life.

Even if it would shatter him…

Armin’s thoughts would jump to Hanji and the rest who still didn’t come back-

Armin heard the shuffling of someone getting up.

Then he saw Mikasa tiptoe carefully across the room, slithering between sleeping bags, and when she got closer to him, he closed his eyes and pretended to be fast asleep.

However, Mikasa didn’t stop by him, she sneaked to the person sleeping next to him.

Eren.

Mikasa slowly lifted Eren’s blanket and slid beside him. Eren stirred, opening his eyes, which widened the moment he saw Mikasa’s eyes right in front of his face, he blinked twice, not sure if he was still dreaming.

“Mikasa…?” Eren whispered, his voice hoarse and thick with sleep, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion, the pupil in his eyes doubling in size, trying to figure out Mikasa’s silhouette in the pitch-black room.

“Yes,” Mikasa said, her voice a little bit louder than Eren’s.

“Yes…?” he asked, then his eyebrows gradually rose up his forehead.

“I mean… if your… proposal… is still up…” Mikasa said, regret seeped into her mind, snickering in a corner, and she started to question if it was too late now to hop back into her sleeping bag.

“Yes!” Eren said, suddenly enthusiastic, shooting up on his elbow, Mikasa put her finger on his mouth, shushing him, then he laid down again and repeated in a lower voice, nodding his head, “yes, yes...”

Eren glanced at Mikasa’s finger on his mouth, and she immediately withdrew it. Her cheeks were heating up with each time her heart pumped blood into her veins, she didn’t know if Eren could see her face, but she was sure he would feel the heat radiating from the embarrassment she inserted herself in.

Eren’s mouth was agape, he couldn’t see Mikasa in the dark, but he saw the unmistakable shiny black orbs of hers. He kept his hands by his sides, his fingers trembling, yearning to run in her hair. Eren wouldn’t want to creep her away, he still didn’t believe if she was by his side or if his desperate desire to hold her close had finally turned him into a lunatic.

“Good,” Mikasa muttered, she sighed and sank deeper into the blankets, Eren only stared at her, and she avoided his eyes because one look at them and she’d really run back to her own sleeping bag.

A moment of silence passed, Eren’s eyes still wide and unbelieving.

After two hesitant failed attempts, Eren wrapped both his arms around Mikasa, and with equal hesitance, she hugged him back, burying her face in his chest, hiding her flaming cheeks.

Armin heard everything, and he was smiling at himself like an idiot, he was using all the power he had to not shoot up and hug both of his childhood friends.

The fog in Armin’s mind cleared up, and slowly the excitement he felt was wearing off, and sleep was taking over him.

That night, Armin slept with a bunch of ‘I love you’s muttered behind his back until they faded out, and everything was tranquil and quiet.

The next morning, it was a shock, to say the least, for everyone to wake up to Eren and Mikasa sleeping on the same pillow, with their bodies pressed together.

It was Historia who found them; she was an early riser and the first to wake up, and when she checked on everyone else, she noticed that Mikasa’s sleeping bag was vacant.

Historia didn’t give it much thought, Mikasa would probably be outside already, working out or something, but when Historia got to where Eren was sleeping, she saw that he seemed… curled on himself, she got concerned if he was in pain, but she couldn’t tell because the covers were over his face.

Historia crouched beside him and slowly lifted the blanket up.

Her squeal woke Armin up.

Armin shot up from his blankets, ready to strike, but froze when he saw Historia peaking at Eren with her eyes even more significant than they already are, her hand covering her mouth.

Historia only motioned between the two heads under the blanket.

A laugh escaped Armin, and it wasn’t at Historia’s childish behavior; he too felt like squealing, but that Eren and Mikasa were in an unstirred sleep to the point where everyone woke up and was staring at them; they didn’t even fidget.

Mikasa wouldn’t look into anyone’s eyes for the next week, probably, Armin thought, folding his blankets.

After the shock wore off, everyone decided that it would be better if they let them sleep some more, they both were undoubtedly sleep deprived for being out of it during all the chaos.

They slept until noon.

~~~

uh, are you guys enjoying this?

#aruani #armin arlert #Annie Leonhardt #armin x annie #eremika #Eren Jaeger #Mikasa Ackerman #eren x mikasa #aot #snk #fanfiction

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whyaretheyfictionalcharacters · 4 years ago

Text

Kinktober - Day 5

Ok so, second Sterek instalment. Good stuff.

Originally posted on AO3.

xoxo Lexi

“I don't think anyone is really taking this seriously”, Stiles comments, stepping over a tree trunk with the same grace Derek has just showed. Exactly the same. He flays around his arms a tid bit but apart from that? They could be mistaken for the same person.

Derek twists around and goes to help him. “Are you?”.

“Well, considering who thought about this you're damn right I am”.

The treasure hunt was Lydia's idea, a way to build in-pack relationships and create a more stable net of connections among them. If Stiles thinks her intention was to simply prove again to everyone else who's the smartest in the pack—he's certainly not going to tell anyone, he's not suicidal. And that's exactly the same reason he's taking this (honestly a bit ridiculous) relationship building exercise seriously. Or as seriously as he can take it, anyway.

“Lydia scares you?”.

“Of course she does! Doesn't she scare you?”.

“Oh, I'm terrified of her”, Derek answers with a frown. “And she's tiny”.

Stiles laughs, dried leaves crunching underneath his sneakers. “Don't let her hear you”.

“She's not a werewolf”. A small shrug. “Jackson is the only one around and he's at least a mile away”.

As they walk in silence, the only noise around them being their footsteps thudding on the ground, Stiles finally finds some appreciation for the quietness of the preserve. Being here with Derek, letting their shoulders and fingers brush against each other after the messy few weeks they've had with threats in the supernatural world feels comfortable and surreal. And probably it's his leftover-teenage hormones speaking but he can't wait for this treasure hunt to end so Derek and he can run off to his room and blow off some steam. Or blow off something else. That does sound like a plan.

His dad would not come back until later that night, probably after dinner, and that'd give them – Stiles calculates quickly in his mind – five hours to get funky, to jelly roll. Scrog a bit and schtupp together. To take old one eye to the optometrist. To play hide the salami. To dip Derek's cookie in Stiles glass of milk. Numerous times, if the werewolf's refractory period gives any clue. They could start small; make out on Stiles bed and test the sturdiness of the frame – which they've already done, by the way and sneaking out a broken bed slat out of the Sheriff's home is not as easy as it might sound. Which doesn't sound easy. At all. So one can only imagine the uncomfortable conversation he's had to have with Mrs Wunderby from across the road – and then get rid of their clothes because Stiles is a selfless person and Derek's body is something that needs to be cherished and admired. Keeping it clothed would be like...like clipping wings off of a mighty eagle. Or shut down the Smithsonian. It'd have that much of a cultural backfire. It'd be immoral.

So Stiles would take Derek's clothes off and admire that chest of his, all wide and muscly and warm and furry in a sexy way. He'd dip his hand down to follow the line of hairs to his navel, go over it and open his jeans because if unclothing Derek's chest is a cultural aid for the entire state of California, than the sight of his cock is a spiritual experience.

Derek Hale is big. Not impossibly big – Stiles is sure he doesn't live in one of those ridiculous stories people read with enhanced and horse-sized dicks – but nevertheless he's...gifted. Must have something to do with those werewolf genes of his and if that's the case, dear Mother Nature, wolves are a gift to them all. What turns on Stiles though it's not just the size of his shaft – still has a pretty high place in the list of 'Reasons why Derek Hale is a gift from the gods and Stiles is grateful he's his boyfriend' – it's the utter difference there is between the two of them. And that's not a euphemism about his own cock, Stiles is pretty content with his genitals, no complaints there. No, that's not it at all.

Stiles still remember when he recognised what the issue was and he probably has to thank Erica for that.

“You're such a twink, Stiles”, she had said once during their weekly coffee meetings and Stiles has seen enough gay porn after his surprising epiphany in high school to know what a 'twink' is. He's not oblivious, or his name would've been Scott McCall.

He had tried to deny that in front of his salted caramel frappuccino but as usual Erica had her own arguments. “You are, Stiles. You and Derek are literally the epitome of a bear-twink relationship”.

And God, was she right.

The werewolf might be only slightly taller than him but his presence is mightier, his shoulders wider and his arms definitely bigger. Stiles always feels dwarfed every time he's in close proximity with Derek and he does not complaint about that. Not. One. Bit. Dude can pick him up without breaking a sweat and fuck him against the wall as if he weighted less than a baked potato with bacon sprinkles on top. Jeez, those are good times. Hot times. As in Death Valley hot.

“Stiles”.

Surely they can do something like that today. There are so many options to spend five hours sexing up a werewolf Stiles gets a bit dizzy sometimes: this is literally his teenage dream, with no skinny jeans on and a comfy mattress instead of bedsheets forts in a motel room. Take that Katy Perry.

“Stiles”.

“What? Whassup?”, he asks turning to look at Derek.

Who is currently staring angrily at him. He seems pretty pissed actually, if Stiles has to tell the truth. Unfortunately he thought he had left all those annoyed stares and growled words in the past so this is turning out to be a shocking turn of events. In a not-so-sexy way.

“Uhm...Der? Everything okay?”.

Green eyes seems to struggle to not turn bright blue, flashing dangerously between the two shades. “Where's your head at?”.

Okay, this does seem like a trick question. Lydia taught me about this sort of things. “On my...shoulders?”.

Derek does not seem impressed. “You smell—you're stinking up the place”.

“Oh. Sorry”, he mutters self-consciously.

He thought Derek liked his smell. Sometimes he also finds him with his face deep into his own pillow when he comes back from the bathroom after Derek spends the night; or he would dip his nose along Stiles' neck while they're watching a film on the were's laptop in his apartment. When they're in public and Stiles thinks about sexy-times-ensuring things Derek always can smell him and he gets this intense expression that almost resembles his old…

Oh. Oh.

“Oh”.

“Yeah”, Derek agrees tightly as he steps forward. “Oh”.

“I think—I think my head is not taking this, uh. This treasure hunt as seriously as before, big guy”.

One step forward. “Really now?”.

“Mmh-mm”. Stiles steps back. “I mean. Can you blame me?”.

“I don't know. We were just talking about Jackson”. Another step.

Urgh. “Let's not mention him, deal?”. Last step backwards and Stiles' back hits the thick trunk of a tree. “I really don't wanna think about him and sex together. That's just plain wrong”.

He can see a gleam of amusement and coyness as Derek stops in front of him, face just inches away from Stiles'. “Oh, is that what you were thinking about? Sex?”.

“Uh, duh. I was thinking about, you know, when this stupid treasure hunt is other and we can go back to mine and the fact that my dad is going to be out for at least five hours – I know, I counted them – and we could, you know. Get some stankie on hang down—”.

“God, Stiles”. Derek's face scrunches up horrified. “No”.

“No? You don't like that? Okay, how about I ride your flagpole?”.

“Stiles”.

“Storm the cotton gin”.

“Stiles”.

“Hit a home run”.

“Stiles”.

“Sorry!”, he says with a small smile at Derek's exasperation. “Thought you'd appreciate the baseball reference. But another thing I was thinking was—”.

Derek glares at him. “I swear to God, Stiles. If you say one more—”.

“—you said Jackson is at least a mile away and we're all alone now”. Stiles looks down bashfully and hooks his finger in Derek's waistband. “And who knows when this awful thing is going to end. Might not have time when we get home”. Looking up from under his eyelashes he smirk a bit. “We could save time and...do this. Now. Here”.

He sees a shiver running up Derek's arms just before they're placed on the tree caging his head. “You want to do it here?”.

“Yes”, he whispers.

“Now?”.

“Yeah”. A breath and a whimper.

He has enough time to think about the possibilities when a mouth descends on him and sharp, human teeth bite his lower lip, pulling reverently before nipping it. Stiles gasps when Derek's body presses up against his through the many, too many layers of clothes they're currently wearing. Derek takes that opportunity to slip his tongue between the other's lips, teasing the wet muscle and probing the mouth with deep, hungry movements.

“Lydia's—shit. Lydia's going to be so angry”, Stiles weakly comments before moaning as Derek's hips press against his, trapping him between his warm, strong body and the cold trunk behind him.

“Do you care?”.

“Fuck no”.

He snakes his hands underneath Derek's t-shirt, revelling in the heat of his olive skin, the softness of his hairs and the hardness of his muscles. One of the wolf's thighs gets between his own, providing some blessed friction for Stiles' awakening cock. He rubs himself against Derek, feeling the need to open his legs for him and the sensation of emptiness is starting to get too uncomfortable to be ignored as they're kissing. He's never been an exhibitionist (he thinks, though he's discovering all kinds of kinks in his relationship with Derek) but the idea of having the wolf inside him, right here and now in the middle of the preserve with the afternoon light out still, the terrifying possibility of the pack finding them out—it seems to be exciting in all the wrong ways.

“Derek”, he sighs, lips sensitive from beard burn. “I need—God—I need you to—to fuck me. Like. Yesterday”.

Derek's mouth descends on his neck and at the deep inhale of his arousal Stiles shivers, feeling like the teenager he used to be five years ago. “We don't have anything”.

AH! With a dramatic flourish – probably more ridiculous than dramatic. If only that Sourwolf would stop doing what he was doing with his mouth on his ne—oh. Oh, that's nice – Stiles takes out his phone from his back pocket and slips off the case. “Speak for yourself”. The small packet of KY seems to shine in their eyes, a little lost treasure, their own small miracle. “I think I have a rubber in my wallet as well”.

“Have you always had lube inside your phone case?”, Derek asks with a shocked expression. “And do we need a condom?”.

“Don't want to leak all over my underwear. Especially not around a pack of werewolves, thank you very much”. Stiles takes out a wrapper from his wallet and hands it to Derek before he resumes touching underneath the other's shirt. “And the answer is yes. From the moment we've started dating”.

They kiss, lips open and sharing breath. “Nice to know”.

“We need to—god—”. An aimed thrust sends shivers up his legs. “Derek—we need to move”.

He gets one of his hands down, slipping in the tight fit of Derek's jeans and the hard, big cock he touches through his underwear makes him moan and spread his legs as he leans back to push his hips outward. Stiles has touched it an endless number of times yet every time seems like a new experience, a new discovery.

At Stiles' touch Derek exhales, relieved and aroused. Those lean, slender fingers massage his cock with experienced motions and the grip they use after teasing it into full firmness is heaven for Derek's spurred mind. It doesn't matter if they're in the middle of the woods with a pack of werewolves only a mile away and probably listening in, the Beta can't help but await impatiently to be inside Stiles body and thrust into that heated tightness in abandonment. Maybe there's a part of him – the wild wolf that seems to constantly seek out freedom and nature – that is turned on exactly by that fact; the possibility of being found out while collecting his prize and marking his territory, his mate in the open.

The moment their jeans are undone and their erections brush against each other, Derek grabs Stiles slim hips and turns him quickly but not violently, his cheek now resting on the roughness of the bark and ass pushed back to rub on the wolf's cock. There's only their erratic panting for what feels like ages as Derek rips the lube open and then, “God, Der—Fuck me already”.

“I'm not gonna hurt you, Stiles. Especially not out here”.

“Then shove your fingers in me!”, he cries out turning at an odd angle to plead the wolf with his eyes. “Please, I need you inside. Right now. Please”.

Derek wants that. Oh, he so wants that. And from around that pale, sinewy body he can see Stiles' red dick skim slightly against the trunk of the tree. It can't be comfortable nor pleasurable and even though Stiles seems to have other things in his mind, Derek pulls his hips back a bit more to put more space between the delicate part and the pine husk. He doesn't spend much time warming up the lube and the moment his forefinger touches the puckered hole in front of him he sees Stiles jerk up before quickly settling down again. He prepared him as swiftly and efficiently as standing in the preserve half-naked would allow, Stiles moans and whimpers accompanying each thrust of his fingers.

“Please. Please, just fuck me. Just fuck me, Der”.

Through his lust-fogged mind Stiles hears Derek opening the condom wrapper and sigh deeply as he rolls it on. He wants to reach behind him and touch his shaft, feel the girth of it and its size. Wrap his fingers around it and when noticing he can't fit it all in one hand envelope it with his other one as well. He wants to feel its thickness opening him up, make him almost worry he's gonna split in two.

The first few inches are painful, they always are: Derek might not be overworldly big but he's certainly packing down there and every time he slips inside Stiles needs to relax, bear down and bite his lip until the head is in. It's what happens now, particularly because it's not the most convenient place to have sex despite the packet of lube and the arousal he gets from being so exposed to the elements. After the head is in though...that's when Stiles can remind himself why he craved it so much in the first place. Derek is inside him balls deep and at Stiles' nod he starts to move, thrust in and out. In and out. It's slow at first, careful but they do need to be quick in this situation. The aim is a bit off, the head of the hard cock pounding him simply caresses his prostate in the most heavenly torture sending abortive shivers up from his toes, shocking through his hips and reaching the tip of his own erection like an electric shock. Each thrust, each withdrawal forces moan after moan from his mouth, noises he can't control. Mumbling reaches his ears and with a small sense of amazement he notices it's him.

It's not the best sex they've had but Jesus if it's not the hottest. Derek's hand gripping his hips in a tight hold, his puckered hole contracting around the fat shaft sliding inside and out of him in pure abandonment. Derek slides closer, t-shirt covered chest shaping around Stiles' back, and the slight change of angle causes the wolf to groan in the brunet's ear. It's a sound so primal, so inborn in Derek that Stiles needs to close his eyes not to come right in that moment.

He's so close, though. So close. After getting used to Derek being inside of him without a barrier the rubber desensitises the feeling of being fucked a bit but it's not totally unpleasant; it's smoother and easier. Stiles doesn't know if it's the build-up, the idea of being out here in the forest in broad daylight or Derek's fat, big cock beating into him but he's about to come. He spreads the legs as wide as he can manage with the jeans around his knees and he almost brings his hands back to grab his cheeks and expose himself even further. He doesn't. He needs an anchor and right now the roughness of the bark on his fingertips, under his nails is the thing that keeps him grounded.

“Oh, my God. Der—Derek. Oh, God. Fuck me. Please, fuck me”.

“I am. Shit. You're gripping me so tight”.

“What if—oh, fuck. What if they see us? What if they find us?”.

Stiles senses Derek breath itch next to his ear. “Let them. You're mine. Let them see”.

Oh. My. God. Possessiveness is certainly a kink he didn't know he had. “Say that again”.

“You're mine. Let them see, I don't care. I want them to see. I want them to see you're mine”.

Oh God. Oh God, oh Godohgodohgod.

The orgasm hits him like a blinding light. His back snaps and he arches with the force of it, his cock pulsating and trembling as his cum sprays white on the dark bark. It's seemingly artistic in an erotic way. His insides constrict around Derek and through the condom he can feel his rod vibrate as his thrust become irregular. Slower. Deeper. He misses the sensation of Derek's come hitting his walls but he guesses they still have five hours if they leave now.

“Derek—shit”, Stiles pants out after they both regain their breaths, cheek still against the tree and hips still held by Derek.

“Yeah”.

“Who would've thought? Public sex is hot”.

“What the fuck guys?!”.

They both jump at the disgusted shout from behind them, Isaac currently standing there dumbstruck, hand on his eyes. “I'm gonna need bleach”.

Yeah. Maybe not as hot around a pack of werewolves.

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carryonmywaywardwriters · 5 years ago

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One Day At A Time - Jensen x Reader

A/N: It’s been a while. My days off were spent with writing rather than posting. Now? It’s time to catch up a bit. Have an edited version of a story I’d only just begun getting into before I’d left Tumblr at the beginning of the year. As always, feedback is incredible. And, I hope you all enjoy <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Also, this is NOT hate against Danneel. It’s a piece of fiction using real humans as the base. There will be NO negativity against her, the Ackles family, or anything tolerated here.

Upcoming Warnings: Widower!Jensen. Angst. Death. Grieving process. Upcoming smut. Age Gap. And more. Each chapter will be labeled accordingly.

Word Count: Roughly 3,700

“How's he holding up?” Genevieve Padalecki was an actual goddess as she sat across from you in the sunken living room. A loose, white tee paired with ripped jeans while resting on the navy blue couch. Even as drawn and tired as she appeared in that moment, beneath the LeMay hummingbird art, she was incredible. Somehow held mostly together even with the circumstances in front of her. You yearned for that kinda strength.

“He's been trying to smile... Laugh for the kids.” You answered quietly, not wanting to wake the napping children. Or, the resting widower. As if your voice could carry that far in the massive home. But, it was the first bit of real sleep any of them had gotten since the nightmare had begun. You wouldn't chance it. They needed all the rest that they could muster. “It's falling short...but he's trying.” Your own tired eyes met the red rimmed dark orbs in front of you. “How about you and Jared?” She shook her head, slowly. Her actress's facade crumbling all at once.

“God, I miss her.” The once smooth voice cracked as she fought back the tears. Finally giving into the grief a little. “So...so much...It hasn't even been two weeks, yet, Y/N.” She looked so broken. So defeated. “How am I supposed to survive the rest of my life without my best friend?”

You wanted to give an answer. Wanted to be able to tell her it got better. But, you couldn't. It'd be a lie. Nothing was better in a world without the sunny smile the Mrs. Ackles had bestowed, undoubtedly, every time you turned around.

“I ask myself that question almost every second of everyday.” Jensen's deep voice was ragged as he stood in the hallway. His hair was spiked from the tossing and turning he'd done while he'd tried to escape the reality of his new life. Your heart shattered again at the sight.

“Jens-”

“It's okay,” He was gruff, but not harsh as he cut Genevieve off. Too worn to even begin to try to be angry. His jeans and shirt were wrinkled. Beard untrimmed. Eyes red and glazed with grief. “We're going to be okay. Danneel...she'd want that.” If he said it enough, he might just believe it. “Kids still out?” You could only nod. A lump too large for words to pass rested in your throat.“Good.” His head bobbed with that. As if in a trance. “I'm gonna take a walk...head down to the lake.”

He didn't ask if anyone would watch them. That's what you were there for. His pockets were filled with his beefy hands, and then he was gone as quickly as he'd come.

“I don't know if I can stay here.” You uttered when he was out of hearing range; tossing your hand through your tangled hair. Somehow even more ragged from the brief interaction.

It was all too much. He needed assistance with the twins and J.J. You knew that. But, it was terrifying having to face the grieving process head on. To feel the weight of a love lost residing in the air. Having to stand up to it all while losing your friend in the process. Needing to try and fill the void that was left behind after the accident while holding an entire family together. Anyone would strain under that level of responsibility.

Running would be easier. That was a fact you couldn't seem to escape. It always had been. God knows you'd done it enough in your life. Everything inside of you begged you to take the chance. Flee. And yet...you hadn't quite gathered enough courage to actually try it. Leaving yourself in an odd sort of purgatory.

“He'll understand.” Gen didn't even bother to look back at you. Having latched onto an image of the deceased in the corner. A happy little number showing her and her children.

“Will he?” You didn't believe it. Not even a little. She wasn't there to see the worst of his grief. How alone he was. Your fingers ripped at a hangnail as you pondered over it all.

Jensen had lost his entire future. And with that? He'd lost his focus. The undying optimism he'd once held. His charming dash of humor. Maybe once, he'd have forgiven you walking away. But, not anymore. The kids, his job, and the brewery were overwhelming at the best of times. It was unmanageable even with the help, then. He needed you more than ever.

That's why you'd been hired, initially. To break up the load. Or, so Danneel had claimed. In reality? She'd held everything down just fine with a babysitter on the side. She'd just used it as an excuse to draw you in. Now? It was time to live up to the promise.

You were pulled out of your thoughts with a small sigh, “Even if he doesn't?” Your heart ached at the thought. “You have your own life, Y/N...it's your choice.” Her final words went straight to the point. Injuring you with the bluntness of it. “And if there's anything we learned from all this? Life is too short to fuck around with.”

With that, she took her leave. Needing to find some air. Get back into a head space to handle the other half of the grieving family she was returning to.

You craved the same escape. Instead, the twins appeared. Miniatures of their parents clad in Paw Patrol footie pajamas. Hair mused as they crawled into the comfort you could offer. Solemn, as if their young minds could fully grasp the idea of death. Hours later, JJ walked in the large wooden door. A deep frown etched onto the smooth lines of her face. Her bag dragging the ground as she and Jensen joined. The false cheer emitting from the booming voice only made the tension in the air increase. It was cloaking.

As the night went on, things grew worse. A tight hold on the back of your neck crept forward until your entire skull felt as if it was being crushed. Far from the first time. Zep didn't want the lasagna you'd made. His once ravenous appetite long gone. Justice Jay was trying to step up; telling him how he needed to eat. How her mom would have got him to, and that anyone who couldn't get the boy to wasn't trying hard enough. Arrow sat crying, too distraught to take even a bite.

Jensen had looked so damn lost while sitting in the tan backed kitchen bar-stool that you'd had no choice but to pull out a whistle. Danneel had used it during a girl scouts meeting months before. And then had brought it back around any time the family got to be too chaotic. Another brilliant idea from the lost soul.

Zep settled for a small, microwavable macaroni and cheese that had been reserved for emergencies. J.J was talked down, gently. Not taking away from her grief; simply bringing her back to a softer place. Arrow was able to eat on your lap; settling into the comfort of a woman's touch gladly. The widower watched in a daze. Being the only one in the room you hadn't needed to fix. Until you noticed that he wasn't eating. Leaving you to discard your plate even longer while you coaxed him into following his kids' lead.

Bed time didn't come nearly fast enough. Dishes with two toddlers flinging soapy water across the designer kitchen. Another night of fighting over homework with Justice. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed and never leave.

With a weary sigh, you left the room Arrow occupied to herself. Moving down the stairs as fast as you could to give yourself some distance. Slamming your hand through your hair all the while. Not sure how much longer you could go on, taking care of everyone. You never had time to process. To breathe. God, how you wanted to breathe again.

Your back pressed against the wall after you hit the main floor. Utter relief filling your veins at the lack of noise. Slouching, you turned to look out at the darkened lake. Hoping the peace of it would trail to you. Only to shoot straight up seconds later as footsteps lumbered down the stairs.

“Thanks,” Jensen appeared, looking worse for the wear. Before you could even think to start, he continued, “Seriously, thanks. I don't...I don't know what I'd do...” His throat worked as emotion threatened to spill over. “I know we're a lot.” That was the understatement of the century.

“Jensen-”

“Don't try n' down play it, Y/N.” He kept going. As if he had no choice. Almost as if he could feel your desperation to run, and was trying to stop it. “We're a wreck, right now. But, you? You make...make it a little less chaotic.” His eyes were watery as he talked. The dam threatening to spill over. Guilt snaked through you at the words. And then he pulled out the last batch of words you wanted to hear. “You're a lot like her. You know that?”

“I don't want to...to take her place,” Your words were garbled as you swallowed the emotion. Terrified that you'd be trapped into the empty space she left behind. Breaking all the while. “I don't...I don't want to just step into the role.” Your own eyes watered as you aired your fears. Gasping for some kind of air. “I don't know how...how to play mom full time. Or step in as the pretend wife of a TV star. I can't even take care of myself. That's why she brought me here.” The emotional fall had been doomed to show up, eventually. You simply hadn't expected it to be so soon. Or so in his face. But, that didn't stop the tirade of emotion leaving your lips. “I want her back, too. I want her to walk...walk back through the door, like every time she's left. To thank me for looking out for you guys... T..tell me how strong I was for holding down the fort... until she got back.”

Because that's the kind of woman she was. She'd loved her family. Her friends. Her careers. And most of all, life. She'd built everyone up. Having her gone had tore them all down.

A tear trailed down your face as you realized Jensen was openly crying. Silent as the water ran down both cheeks. Drop after drop as he fought back a sob. You comprehended then, the enormity of what you'd done.

“Y/N-”

“I'm sorry!” Cutting him off, you tried to find something to say. Anything else. But, words escaped you again. A gasp left your lips when he brought his hands up to your arms, but you didn't have a chance to pull away. He tugged you close. Breaking you further. His arms encompassed you as you both cried deeply. Letting out everything you'd held back since you'd gotten the call about the accident. “I'm...I'm s...so...s...sorry.” You hiccuped into his chest. No longer feeling the need to be strong. His own body shook as he tried to settle back down. “I'm...I'm such a...such a bitch.”

“You're a good friend.” He breathed out in a broken sigh when he could finally gain enough composure to take a step back. But, he didn't break the contact. Needing the sense of closeness as his world spun. “She would have been...she would have proud of you, you know.” You lost it again at that one. Thinking back to the day that had wrecked all of your lives.

Danneel had been going to the brewery. Just as she had everyday. She should have come back. She should have never have been found on the side of the road. A hit and run. The bastard who was guilty had yet to be found.

“I'm sorry,” You pulled away from his grasp completely that time. Wiping at your face clumsily. Snot plugged up your nose. Your cheeks were stained from the tears. “What I said...I didn't mean it.”

“You did.” Jensen stated easily, falling back onto the closest couch. His head resting in his hands. “That's okay, though.”

“It's not.” Your eyes landed on the image from the wedding that rested on the coffee table as you dropped beside him. It was the closest you two had been in the entire time you'd known each other. Picking it up, you looked closer. Basking in the bit of joy that still resided inside the walls of the home. “She was beautiful.” Your thumb stroked over the image. “And, funny. Smart as a whip.” You'd thought you were all dried out, but another piece of water made its way down your face. “It was hard to not fall in love with the energy she put out there.” Gen had said Danneel had been her best friend. She'd been yours, too. Even though you'd only held her in your life a short time. “She saved me from myself...did you know that?”

“Kinda,” He answered carefully. His own eyes drawn to the ten year old image. “She never gave me the full details.” He leaned in closer, the pad of his finger brushing away the small piece of dust that gathered in the corner. “She just told me that you needed help...and to pretend that she did.”

“That sounds like her,” You whispered, your lips tugging up in a lopsided smile. Thankful to the ghost in the room. “I'd been kicked out of my boyfriend's place. He got bored, or something. I really haven't figured out the 'why' if I'm being honest with myself. Can't even remember why I was with him.” Your hand came back up to wipe against your face as your mind trailed back. You'd lived down the road. Only for a week or two. A perfect stranger. Your bag had hit the grass as she walked by with the twins. A daily stroll turned into more. She'd watched as you stared at the door in disbelief after it slammed shut. “She asked me if I was okay. I lied and said I was...she didn't believe me.”

“She's...She was good at that.” He caught himself trying to keep her in the present. You didn't bring attention to it. Didn't want to hurt him anymore than you already had.

“Dee didn't think twice. Packed me up and took me to a motel. Took my phone number to check in...” If you tried hard enough, you could still remember her holding out her phone. A simple smile on her face as she waited for you to do as told. Knowing you'd cave. You hadn't expected her to really call. Had been oddly relieved when she had. “I had trouble finding work, so she offered a place at the brewery. I didn't know how to take that kind of an offer.”

“Now that you mention it...” His head dropped to the back of the couch as he got more comfortable. Eyes closed as he traveled back in time mentally. “I remember that,” He looked a little lighter as he thought back to his wife. The frustrated call he'd received while on set about the woman who 'needed to come to terms' with Danneel's assistance. “The more you resisted, the more sure she was that she was going to help you out.”

“She used the twins.” Not that you'd complained. They were great. You'd spent hours making faces, drawing pictures, and the works with two of the sweetest children you'd ever met. “She was working on handling the paperwork, and asked me to play with them for a bit. Reeled me in like a fish.”

It had started with one day, with food as your payment. Then, it was for a few hours daily for food and some cash. Next thing you knew, you were in a small guesthouse they'd added to property. It had been the beginning of the best six months of your life. Helping with the kids, the brewery, and animals. You'd gotten a side job, but your notice had gone in as soon as you'd been able to. Jensen had needed all the help he could get with Danneel gone.

“Do you regret it?”

“She gave me a whole new life,” You sighed out, not quite answering the question. Looking at the animated face that rested in the frame. “And instead of being able to hold up? I break in half of a month...” Shame coursed through you.

“To be fair,” His voice was scratchy, “we're all a bit broken right now, Y/N...” No truer words had been spoken.

“What do we do, Jensen?” Your head rested against the back of the couch as he took the frame. Wishing like hell he could travel back to the day encased in ink, you were sure.

“We take it one day at a time,” It's all he knew how to do. Nothing else made sense. It was all too unpredictable. “It's hiatus...We don't have to worry about the show, for a few months. For now?” He tapped the glass, “For now, I'm going to take care of her babies.” The determined, pained note in his voice made your chest ache. “I know that I haven't been helping much-”

“Don't...” Letting him tear himself down wasn't something you could stand. “You're doing better than anyone would dream.” Your hand reached over and squeezed his. Offering a bit of comfort. Not knowing how else to handle it all. “Take care of yourself, too...Eat. Try to sleep. Take your time to clear your head.”

“You could stand to do that, yourself, Y/N...” He swallowed tightly. His own guilt raising its head. He'd been so stuck inside his own mind that he'd missed all the warning signs. How slow you moved. Raw pain lining your features. All of it amplified by how long it had been ignored. “Go... get some sleep. We can start looking for someone else to take over, tomorrow...if that's what you really want.”

With that, he led himself to his room. Leaving you to rest on the couch. Trying to decide if that's what you really needed.

–

“Morning, sleepy,” You whisked the batter. Working to get it as smooth as you could. Zeppelin rubbed his eyes deeply. The green dinosaur pajamas seemed shorter than they'd been the night before. He was growing fast. He'd need more soon. “Blueberries in your pancakes?” A tired nod was your answer as Arrow trailed behind in her favorite Elsa covered nightgown. “Chocolate chips?” Another sleepy, head bob followed. Justice Jay wasn't quite as easy. She was filled with seven year old independence. Ignoring the clothes you'd set out the night before in a way that only a strong headed child could. Instead, donning herself in a purple top with yellow leggings. Her hair, all but the back, brushed neatly. “Strawberries?”

“I can do it,” Her eyes turned up to look into yours. Demanding independence. After all, she was woman of the house, now.

You simply nodded, handing over a bowl of batter and the strawberries she wanted. They were pre-cut. All she had to do is mix the two together. You even let her flip them; feeling more than generous. It was the weekend, after all. And she needed to feel in control of something. Her mood increased slowly, but surely. Maybe I'm onto something...

“Smells good,” Jensen's lips smacked as he walked into the room, as you served up the first round of food.

His casual clothes were less wrinkled than the day before. He seemed more alert. Less like a bottle waiting to explode. The crying, despite how much everyone hated it, was good at clearing some of the pain. At least, enough to make everyone semi-functional.

“Good,” You gestured as you poured a bit of batter from each bowl onto the griddle. “Eat.”

“What about you?” His brows snapped together.

Gone was the mess he'd witnessed the night before. Mostly. The bags still rested beneath your eyes- something he hadn't noticed until tears had caught on them. However, he couldn't help but to zero in on every detail.

“I'll eat in a minute. I'm almost done.” The spatula waved his way. Killing any hope of him taking over. “Now, you eat.”

“Yes, ma'am,” He grumbled, sitting down with his children. Muttering about you being a bully to earn little giggles.

Slowly their personalities began emerging for what felt like the first time in forever. Zep was making zooming noises as he splashed his plane shaped- or as close to it as you could replicate- pancake into his syrup. Arrow was humming to herself, kicking her feet. Spreading more than enough butter across her crown shaped breaded breakfast- princesses were her current favorite thing. Dark hair bouncing on her head as she moved. Little J. Bird was telling her daddy about the animals they'd seen on their school outing the day before. And Jensen? He was enthralled. Giving her every bit of the attention she needed.

Your lips tugged up as you pictured Danneel watching over her family in the back. Her little content smile resting on her face as she looked at all of those she loved. She'd be leaning against the counter, ankles crossed with a headband holding back the hair that escaped her bun. Happy as a lark.

With a deep breath, you walked over to the table with the second plate to ensure that everyone got their helpings. When Jensen's eyes met yours again, he mouthed 'thank you'. You sent back a 'you're welcome' quietly before turning back to Zeppelin as he let out a mini roar, seeking the attention on him. In that moment, you understood. You weren't going anywhere...

Part Two

@winchester-ofthe-lord

Dean/Jensen: @akshi8278

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon @supernaturalginger @lilulo-12 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce

#supernatural #SPN #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #Supernatural angst #spn angst #jensen #jensen ackles #jensen fanfiction #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x reader #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen ackles x you #jensen x y/n #jensen x you

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hazzasgayvodka · 5 years ago

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mister long term booty call chapter two “If I bust my ass, I’m gonna bust yours”

August 21st, 2011

Despite asking your new friend Jacob in your class for directions, you can’t seem to find your way around anywhere. You look down the row of classrooms and once again don’t see the room number you’re looking for. You huff in frustration before turning back the way you came and trying the other hallway, maybe you’ve just got it backwards, again. It’s hard enough starting middle school and being sorted into nearly all eighth-grade classes but doing so alone after moving to a new city was something else entirely.

You’re just about to duck into the nearest classroom and ask for some directions when suddenly two boys come barreling down the hallway. You try to dodge them against the wall but end up smacking straight into one of them, dropping all of your books to the ground in front of you and scraping your knees against the pavement. You look up to meet the face of the boy who nearly trampled you, expecting him to help you up and maybe even gather your books like in the movies.

“Dude, watch it.” He laughs, standing up and brushing himself off before taking back off after his friend down the hall.

You roll your eyes as you stack your books back up and pull yourself to your feet, wincing a little as you stand on your ankle. The teacher from the room in front of you steps out for a minute to ask if you’re okay and you have to withdraw from making a snide remark about how you’re doing just fucking peachy, instead electing to ask for directions so you can just get to your class already.

After walking back down the rest of the hall and taking the first right as instructed, your eyes finally land on the room you’ve been looking for. You take a deep breath as you twist the handle of room D-145, preparing yourself to stalk to the back and pray no one notices you.

“Oh, tardy on the first day, are we?” Ms. Barger asks as soon as you step in the room.

“I um, couldn’t find the room, I’m new.” You say quietly, wishing you could crawl into a hole.

“Ah, you must be the sixth grader,” She nods, “Why don’t you go take a seat behind Harry.”

You look in the direction of her pointing finger and see none other than the unruly haired boy that knocked you to the ground in the hallway earlier. He’s giving you a giant lopsided grin now, pointing at the seat behind him. You inwardly groan, dragging your feet over to the empty desk and dropping your books at your feet. You slide into your seat and he immediately turns around as Ms. Barger goes on to take role.

“Hey, what’s your name?” He asks, fully leaning on your desk.

You don’t answer him, trying to wrap your head around why the hell he’s interested in talking to you now when he couldn’t even help you up off the pavement earlier.

“Alright nameless girl,” He sighs, visibly annoyed, “Do you play Pokémon?”

“Styles?” Ms. Barger asks, cutting him off with a certain tone to her voice.

“Yes, Winona?” He grins, clearly pleased with himself and you have to bite your lip to conceal your laugh.

“What have I said about calling me by my first name?” Ms. Barger scolds, “Do you really want to start off this school year with detention?”

“Personally, I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate the coming of a new year of bullshit in this ward.” He smirks, kicking his feet up on his desk in front of him to which Ms. Barger rolls her eyes and turns to the board to start teaching.

“So, as I was saying,” He grins, turning back around and taking out a deck of cards, “You play Pokémon?”

Present Day

“Harry, Harry! I’m falling!”

“You’re not falling, Jesus Christ,” He laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you in place, “Besides you’re on a skateboard a few inches off the ground, not plummeting to your death.”

“Why did I allow you to put me on this death trap again?” You groan, wobbling slightly as he pulls you along by your hips.

“Because it’s a trade, we do something I want to do and then we do something you want to do.” He explains, helping you off the board.

As soon as your feet touch solid ground again you puff out a breath of relief. He laughs as he easily flips the board upside down and flips it back over with his feet, landing right on top of it and skating back around you in circle.

“Show off.” You scoff, trying to shove him off but he grabs your hands and pulls you on instead.

“What were you saying?” He smirks, hopping off the board and leaving you standing on it once again, holding onto his hand for dear life.

“Wait, Harry-“

“You got this,” He laughs, squeezing your hand and walking beside you, “Just try pushing off with your right foot.”

You give him a glare and he grins, reaching up to take his hat off and brush his hair out of his face before putting it back on backwards. He’s totally in his element here in his ridiculously skinny jeans and giant oversized t-shirt. You look back up to meet his face and he’s got his eyebrows raised waiting for you to push off by yourself.

“If I bust my ass, I’m gonna bust yours.” You say definitively, pointing your finger into his chest.

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” He laughs, “Now come on, just try.”

You bite your lip as you transfer all your weight to your left foot and lean over, pushing off on your right foot. He nearly trips to catch up with you as you push off and skate a good distance.

“See!” He grins, grabbing both your hands to stop you, “You did just fine.”

“Okay, okay,” You breathe, trying to catch your breath after holding it the whole time you were skating, “Let’s do it again.”

“Yeah?” He asks eagerly, positioning himself on your left side again, “Whenever you’re ready.”

You do it again, grabbing his right hand in a death grip as you push off and skate even further with him jogging beside you to keep up. You do it a couple more times, getting even more adventurous each time and skating even further across the pavement.

“Okay, now this time, when you get to the end of the pavement, don’t stop, try to turn.” He instructs.

“Try to turn?” You scoff, “How?”

“Here, hop off,” He says, getting on the board himself and pushing off with ease, skating to the end of the pavement, and then leaning on his back foot and jutting the board to the left before pushing off again and skating back over to you, “Did you see it?”

“Kinda?” You say but it comes out sounding more like a question.

“Come on, you got this.” He nods, getting back off the board and rolling it over to you.

You roll your eyes as you grab his hand again and carefully step back on the board. He’s holding your hand nice and tight as you lean over and push off once again, skating towards the end of the pavement.

“See you’ve got it down,” He chuckles, “Now just lean back on your right foot and turn.”

You try to do what you watched him do but the board beneath you is rocking side to side under your wobbly legs and suddenly you’re stumbling right off it and into his arms. He’s laughing his ass off as you nearly trip over your own feet and the board but grabs you in his arms, stabilizing you anyways. You finally allow yourself to laugh with him when you look up and see the giant grin on his face as you lean back in his arms.

“Wanna take a break?” He laughs, letting you go and snapping his board back up into his hand.

“Yeah, besides, it’s my turn.” You smirk, grabbing his hand and tugging him behind you.

In a matter of an hour before you’re both back at your apartment after he showed off a bit more around the skate park hitting the rails. You have no idea how he’s able to grind the board down the slope of the rail without hitting the pavement face first but he’s certainly good at it and likes to remind you of that.

“Y/N, it’s burning, is it supposed to be burning?” He winces, attempting to crane his neck to see his face in the mirror.

“Stop moving,” You giggle, grabbing him by the jaw and turning his face back to yours as he wiggles around on the lid of the toilet seat, “I’m almost done, and the burning means it’s working.”

“What is it supposed to be doing? Melting off my top layer of skin?” He groans as you scoop out more of the purple shimmery face mask and paint it on his chin.

“Yes, exactly.” You nod and the horrified look on his face makes you laugh so hard you bury your face in his chest before standing back up to admire your work.

His hair is pushed back off his forehead with a zebra print headband that perfectly matches the santa cruz t-shirt on his shoulders and his entire face is painted a bright shimmery purple to match my own. He finally stands up off the toilet lid when you tell him you’re finished, and he nearly jumps when he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror.

“Holy shit I look like a fucking alien,” He chuckles, leaning closer to the mirror, “How long till I can wash this shit off?”

“You don’t wash it off,” You explain, swatting his hands away from his face, “You peel it off in like twenty minutes.”

“Peel it?” He scoffs, turning around to face you, “I can’t peel it off! It’s gonna rip out my stubble!”

“What stubble,” You laugh, shoving him out of the way to walk back to the kitchen, “You have the facial hair of a prepubescent twelve-year-old.”

“Do not,” He huffs, following you to the pantry and grabbing the bag of chips right over your head, “I could totally grow a beard if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure.” You mock sarcastically, following him over to the couch and immediately shoving your feet in his lap.

“I could!” He huffs through a mouthful of chips, “This shit isn’t going to like dye my face purple is it; I’ve got to get to work in like an hour.”

“You work tonight?” You groan, leaning back against the couch and folding your arms over your chest.

“Five to ten,” He shrugs, cautiously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to not smear purple everywhere, “Why? You wanna do something?”

“No, just thought we were hanging out tonight since you’re here.” You say nonchalantly, masking your disappointment.

He opens his mouth to speak just as his phone starts ringing in his pocket and he sits up quickly, digging it out of his jeans. He rolls his eyes when they land on the caller ID but he answers it anyways and presses his phone to his ear.

“What’s up?” He asks, sounding less than enthused, “Yeah, yeah I can, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He ends the call and you perk up a bit, waiting for him to fill you in but suddenly he’s shoving your feet off of him and jogging over to the door to slide on his Vans.

“Who was that?” You ask.

“Work,” He groans, “Austin never came in so now I have to go in early to cover him.”

“Oh no, whatever shall Zumiez do with one less salesperson on the floor.” You sigh dramatically to which he gives you a pointed look.

“Hey, I’ll have you know I happen to be the top salesperson on that floor.” He smirks, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

“I’m sure you’re their pride and joy, H,” You laugh, pointing to the purple face mask smeared all over his face, “But aren’t you forgetting something.”

“Oh shit! Yeah, get it off.” He says, leaning down so his face is level with yours.

You lift up the mask around his mouth and he winces all the while as you drag it off his skin little by little. You can’t help but laugh as he sucks in a breath when you rip the last bit off his tiny bit of mustache.

“Jesus Y/N, just do it like a Band-Aid this shit hurts.” He whines and you roll your eyes as you do as he requested and peel the rest off in one swift motion.

He scrunches his face up as you do so, gasping as you rip the last bit off his nose and toss the discarded mask in the trash. He opens his eyes once again and runs a hand over his face feeling his skin.

“Am I purple?” He laughs.

“You’re absolutely glowing.” You tease as he leans down and grabs his skateboard.

“Awesome, I’m never doing that shit again,” He jokes, “I gotta go, I’ll text you.”

You’re surprised when he opens the door and just before walking through it turns back around and lands a quick peck to your lips. You hardly have any time to react before he’s pulling away, dropping his board onto the sidewalk, and skating off.

You close the door almost hesitantly, waiting for him to look back over his shoulder or something but you know he’s not going to. What the hell was that? A kiss goodbye? Whatever it was for some reason it managed to make your knees weak.

You pull yourself away from leaning your back against the door and into the confines of your bedroom, plopping yourself right down at your desk. It’s about an hour later that you’re still mind-numbingly reading through your calculus book and imagining where that goodbye kiss could have headed if he didn’t have to go to work when your phone buzzes beside you and you’re surprised to see his name pop up on your screen.

H: wyd

Y/N: calc reading

H: rough

Y/N: tell me about it

H: finals coming up yeah?

Y/N: next week, super stressed

H: you know there’s a pretty easy way to destress

H: only requires like two fingers

Y/N: omg shut up

H: just stating some facts

Y/N: didn’t ask for your “facts”

H: fine but don’t say I didn’t try to help

H: brb gotta work

You set your phone back down and sigh, inadvertently clenching your thighs together as your mind goes to the last place you want it to. If he wants to make jokes about you getting off maybe he should have offered to help while he was here. You huff in frustration as you get up out of your chair and retreat to your bathroom instead, turning the water on as cold as you think you can take it and stepping in behind the curtain. You try to clear your head as you stand under the freezing water and suds yourself up with vanilla scented body wash. You rinse yourself off one more time before escaping the cold and wrapping up in a warm towel before walking back into your bedroom to hear your phone buzzing on your desk.

H: I’m back

H: wow love it when you don’t text back

H: it turns me on

H: ignore me harder

Y/N: well if you insist

H: kidding

H: come back

Y/N: that’s what I thought

H: where did you go

Y/N: shower

H: ah someone took my advice

Y/N: no dipshit, someone took a shower

H: oh good

H: I was worried you only lasted fifteen minutes

Y/N: oh shut up

H: you shut up

Y/N: make me loser

H: I definitely can

H: but you might moan a little

Y/N: HARRY

H: see, told you

Y/N: the only moaning you’re getting out of me is in sheer annoyance dumbass

H: there we go

H: who needs flirting and affection when you can just have blind hatred

Y/N: you’re such an idiot

H: mmmmm say it again

Y/N: oh shut up

H: are we really going down that road again

Y/N: I don’t know

Y/N: I quite liked where we were headed before

H: you did?

Y/N: are you really going to make me spell it out for you?

H: fucking hell

H: I’m at work woman

Y/N: and now that’s an issue?

Y/N: you were talking pretty big game there Styles

H: okay fine

H: you have exactly three minutes to be naked on your bed while I get to the storage closet

H: and don’t you dare start without me

Your heart is absolutely hammering in your chest when your eyes read over the words as they pop up on your screen. Are you really doing this? While he’s at work? What the hell are you thinking? You know you should stop this right here before things get carried away but something else has already come over you and before you can think straight, you’re stripped of all your clothing, lying back against your headboard. The cold air oscillating from your ceiling fan has you covered in goosebumps nearly instantly, every hair on your body standing up and your jittering hands reaching for your phone to see if he’s texted back just as it starts to ring in your hand.

“Shit, shit, shit,” You swear under your breath, staring at your ceiling as your phone rings in your hand and you try to force yourself to answer it, “Fuck it.”

You answer the call and immediately want to slap yourself for doing so, trying to regulate your breathing as your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

“You naked, sweetheart?” He breathes through the phone, instantly making your thighs clench together.

“Maybe.” You say, your voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, come on,” He laughs, “Don’t start with that shy shit now, Y/N.”

“Who said I’m being shy?” You smirk, trying to be just as equally witty as he always is, “Perhaps I’m teasing.”

“And we all know just how good you are at that.” He chuckles, trying to break through the awkward tension between the two of you.

What is it about talking dirty to each other over the phone rather than in person that makes it so much harder?

“Surely I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You sigh sarcastically, adjusting the pillows underneath you to get comfortable.

“This innocent act isn’t gonna last sweetheart.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” You giggle, “What makes you so sure?”

“Well we could start with the soaking spot I’m sure you have in your underwear,” He says and you picture the proud smirk on his face when you let your eyes flutter closed, “And end with the fact that you’re on your bed naked for me right now if you’d like.”

“Now come on Styles,” You muse, sounding a lot braver than you feel, “I think we both know I’m the one running the show here, I’ve got you in a supply closet after all.”

“That you do babygirl,” He laughs, and you just know he’s shaking his head at you, “Now sit up against your headboard and spread your legs for me.”

“Way ahead of you.” You smirk, balancing the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you let your fingers lightly circle your opening, making your thighs clench.

“Fuck, of course you are,” He breathes, and you hear the clink of his belt buckle as he undoes it, “Do you have music playing?”

“Mhm,” You hum, “Brockhampton.”

“Jesus,” He pants, “I wanna fuck you to so many songs.”

“Oh yeah?” You hum once again, trying to not let your moans sound too pornstar as you slip your fingers past your entrance, “Like what?”

“I’ll tell you later, promise,” He grunts, “But right now I need you to move your hips as sinfully as you can and imagine it’s my face you’re riding instead of your fingers.”

“Ahead of you again,” You grin, trying to keep your panting in check as your fingers speed up, “You have really got to learn to catch up, H.”

“Fuck off.” He chuckles.

“Tell me what you want to do to me.” You breathe, shocking yourself as the words fall past your lips.

“Christ,” He hisses, and you can picture him biting his lip purple, “I want to tie you down and make you beg, fuck you till you can’t walk straight,” He pants, moans spilling out of his mouth in between every word, “Fuck, please tell me you’re touching yourself cause god knows I am.”

“Way past touching, Harry.” You laugh, your left hand reaching to your chest to tweak your nipples.

“What are you thinking about right now?” He asks.

“You.”

“What about me?” He inquires further.

“Riding you,” You gasp, nearly choking on the end of the word as you hit that perfect spot, “Pushing you down against my bed and climbing on top of you, sliding onto you, marking up your neck with my mouth.”

“Holy fuck,” He groans in the back of his throat, “I want to bend you over my bed and smack your ass so hard you can’t sit for two days.”

“But you’ll handcuff me first of course,” You tease, trying to get a rise out of him, “Right, Harry?”

“Fuck, I’ll chain you to the bed if you want.” He chuckles.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” You bait him, whimpering as your left hand moves from your nipples back to your clit.

“Sweetheart, it can be whatever the hell you want it to be.”

Your stomach does a series of backflips when the words come out of his mouth in that deep gravelly tone and you find yourself beaming ear to ear as your head relaxes against the pillow behind you.

“You still stressed about calculus?” He teases.

“Funny,” You pant, “Can’t say calculus is necessarily in the forefront of my mind at the current moment, no.”

“Then I’d say I’m doing a pretty good job, huh?”

“Do you think you could get over here and put your mouth to better use than patting yourself on the back?” You suggest, biting your lip as you await his response.

“Don’t tease a weak man, Y/N,” He groans, a small chuckle escaping his mouth, “I don’t get off for another three hours.”

“It’ll be a lot sooner than that if I have anything to do with it.” You grin, an idea coming to fruition in your head.

“What? Y/N?”

You don’t answer any of his questions or respond to your name. Instead, you hang up hastily and climb off your bed, shimmying your underwear back up your legs followed by a pair of jeans and his plain yellow hoodie hanging in your closet.

You slip your phone in your back pocket as you shove your feet into a pair of sneakers and grab your keys, rushing out your bedroom door and nearly coming face to face with your roommate Matt. He has an all assuming smirk on his face as he takes a sip of the can of mountain dew in his hand, eyeing your haphazard outfit and messy hair.

“Heading out?” He laughs.

“Something like that,” You say quickly, heading for the front door, “How long have you uh, been home exactly?”

“Not long,” He shrugs, taking a seat on the couch as you open the door, “Of course it was long enough to hear you screaming, Oh Harry! Harry!”

You turn around with a start, shooting daggers at him as he moans obnoxiously loud, mocking the sounds you were undoubtedly making only minutes ago.

“Fuck off!” You shout, your face burning as you close the door behind you and collapse in the front seat of your car.

You start your car, swearing under your breath as you back out of your parking spot, your hands shaking nervously as you reluctantly make good on your promise, he’ll surely be getting off in a lot sooner than three hours.

HARRY

The call drops and he’s swearing under his breath as he fumbles with his phone trying to call you back, but it just rings over and over, angering him further. What kind of game are you trying to play? Getting him this worked up at work and then vanishing right when he’s at the edge.

He takes out his earbuds and tosses his phone back in his pocket with a huff of frustration, rubbing the back of his hand over his now sweaty forehead and lifting his damp hair out of his eyes. He grabs himself in his other hand once again, pumping his hand over his throbbing cock but without your breathy moans surrounding him through his headphones he just ends up frustrating himself even further.

“Fucking hell.” He pants under his breath, finally giving up and leaning against the storage room wall behind him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine your picture perfect chest right in front of him, your eyes rolled back in your head as you bounce on him, biting your lip to stifle your moans before he grabs your jaw and reminds you to be loud for him. The images running through his head are tantalizing for sure, but they’re nothing compared to the whimpers and mewls and filthy words you were spewing straight into his ears only a few minutes ago.

“Fuck it.” He huffs, standing back up straight and stuffing himself in his boxers.

When he buttons his jeans and does up his zipper, he’s thankful for the baggy t-shirt he decided to wear today. He adjusts himself another three times trying to get comfortable with his rock-hard cock straining against the confines of his clothes but once again he gives up and decides to just try and get through the rest of his shift already.

He unlocks the storage room door and emerges quietly, hoping he doesn’t raise any red flags with his other associate considering he was in there at least twenty minutes.

“Oh, there you are man,” Cody laughs, straightening the shirts on the front table, “Thought you might have went to get some food or something.”

“Nope,” He chuckles nervously, “Just uh, straightening all the shoes back there, it was a mess.” He explains, mentally slapping himself when he realizes he’s actually going to have to do that later now.

Cody goes on to complain about some other aspect of the store that’s equally messy but Harry doesn’t hear a word he says as his gaze lands on none other than Y/N, walking hurriedly down the aisle of stores and making a b-line for him as soon as they lock eyes.

“Hey um,” Harry speaks up, cutting Cody off, “Did you want to get out of here early tonight? I can close up myself, we’ve had like three people all night.”

“Serious dude?” Cody grins, “That would be awesome.”

“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” He shrugs, sending you a very pointed look warning you to stay outside, “Grab your stuff and clock out.”

“Thanks, Harry.” He smiles, patting him on the back as he passes him to the back room.

Harry beckons you over quickly, shushing you when you start to speak and nearly dragging you over to the door to the small storage closet.

“Stay in here and don’t make a fucking sound,” He says, his voice pure gravel, “You better be ready for me when I get back.”

Your legs clench on their own accord at the needy tone of his voice before he opens the door and shoves you inside, closing it once again. His head is a clouded, fuzzy mess as he drags his feet back over to the computer at the register and manually clocks Cody out so he can fucking get out of here already.

“Alright, I’m out of here man-“

“Already clocked you out, you’re all good dude.” Harry grins nearly painfully, leaning back against the counter.

“Oh, awesome, thanks,” Cody nods, hiking his skateboard up under his arm and walking towards the front of the store, “See you later.”

Harry lets out the biggest sigh of relief when Cody finally turns the corner and he runs to the entrance of the store, jumping up to grab the gate and pull it down to the floor, kicking the lock closed and nearly running back to the storage room where you’re waiting for him.

He throws the door open roughly and instantly grabs your face in his hands, smashing his lips onto yours as you reach out to grab the door handle and yank it closed. Your hands immediately reach for his belt buckle under his t-shirt, followed by the button and the zipper on his pants. You start to sink down to your knees, but he grabs your arms and stands you back up, lifting his hoodie up off you and biting back a moan as your full chest he was trying to picture earlier is now right in front of him.

“Wanna fuck you,” He grinds out, undoing your jeans as well, “Not gonna last if you try to blow me.”

You try not to laugh at how needy he is, already teetering on the edge. He sucks in a breath as you untuck him from his boxers, just barely pumping your hand over him while his cup your chest, making you whimper.

“You’re not gonna last either, huh?” He smirks proudly, giving your right nipple a pinch and making your knees wobble.

“Well I’m assuming we should be rather quick about this,” You breathe, stepping out of your jeans, “Can’t hide in here all night.”

“Fucking wish we could,” He pants, pressing his thumb against your center, “Lot more fun than folding t-shirts.”

You’re nearly doubling over in pleasure as he rubs his thumb against your clit over your soaking panties. He’s got that cocky smirk on his face as he eases them out of your slit and eases a finger inside you, making you gasp. He circles your clit, spreading your arousal before delving back inside you and making you lean against the wall behind you.

“Harry,” You breathe, “I could have fingered myself at home.”

You let your eyes flutter back open to catch the look on his face as he gives you a teasing glare, withdrawing his fingers from you once again and pushing them past his lips instead, hollowing his cheeks and sucking them clean.

“As you wish, princess.” He mocks, grabbing you in his arms roughly and pressing you against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist.

You don’t even have time to worry about if you’re too heavy for him to be holding you up like this before he’s sliding into you and filling you to the hilt. You both gasp at the sudden contact, his head instantly falling to your shoulder, his lips messily sponging kisses down your jaw.

“Fuck how are you always,” He pants, pulling out and rutting into you again, “So tight.”

You can’t even comprehend the words coming out of his mouth as your hands thread through his hair, your head leaning back against the wall behind you as your back arches further with every thrust. He’s already so close, desperately thrusting into you at a punishing pace that has you moaning carelessly, nearly screaming his name despite the two of you being locked in a thin-walled closet.

“Please tell me you’re close.” He begs, his nails threatening to dig into the underside of your thighs as he grips you even tighter.

“So close, H,” You pant, grabbing desperately at his back and hardly noticing as you rake your nails across his skin, “Fuck, so close.”

“Cum with me then,” He groans, his moans purely guttural, “Come on Y/N, cum with me babygirl.”

His words are just enough to push you over the edge, squeezing your walls around him as your head rolls back against the wall behind you. Your eyes threaten to flutter closed as your orgasm washes over you, but you force yourself to watch him, relishing in the way his swollen pink lips part perfectly, his eyes screwing shut, and a colorful string of swears falling past his trembling lips. You feel him release inside you, making you clench around him again earning you a gravelly moan from the back of his throat.

He carefully sets you back on the ground, pulling out of you and the empty aching feeling between your thighs returns. He lifts up his t-shirt to wipe his forehead and you want to slap yourself when you feel your thighs still clenching together when you get a quick look at his hardened stomach, his jutting hips and very visible v-line making your mouth water. He pulls his shirt back down, snapping you out of your daze as he pulls his jeans back up and you stumble over yourself as you realize you should be doing the same.

“So, what are your plans for the rest of tonight?” He asks, running a hand through his thoroughly fucked out hair.

“Um,” You think aloud, “Not sure, might have a date with my couch and the ice cream in my freezer.”

“You want to organize some shoes instead?” He laughs, gesturing to the wall of shoe boxes beside you, “After I’ll take you out for all the ice cream you can eat.”

#harry #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry smut #harry styles au #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles writing #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #mltbc #fuckboyrry

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ask-slenderverse · 5 years ago

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Mod B already introduced his slenderverse oc to ya'll so I will go ahead and do the same since we both agree in putting 2 ocs on this blog, one from him and other from me.

_____________

Name: Joshua Adams

Status: Alive (on this blog, he gets killed at some point of his life)

Age: 26 years old

Gender: Male

Eye color: Blue

Hair/Beard color: Dark brown

Clothing color: Red shoes, black t-shirt, black and red hoodie, dark blue jeans, black belt

Story: Joshua Adams was born in Canada on a simple family as a single child. His parents were not very rich but Joshua had the basic stuff to be a happy child and have a good enough childhood. His parents got involved in the 'slenderman sickeness' but they never told Joshua. In fact, they tried to keep him away from everything and all problems. His life was going well till his 16 years old, his parents died in a car crash while coming back home from work. They lost control over their car by something that distracted them, probably the Slenderman.

Joshua was sent to adoption due to being underage and not having any family to take care of him. His parents death was a big impact on his life, taking away his happiness. Due to being a sad kid and 16 years old he didn't got adopted. Once he turned 18 he was allowed to leave. He even got a job for 2 years but he was fired when we went missing for 2 weeks. We had woken up in the middle of the forest without knowing what happened, he just knew he was being stalked by slenderman, the same creature that was after his parents, but he didn't knew that. When he tried to get his job back no one believed his story. He never got the chance of having another job due to always missing it for days which got him without any money to keep paying for the rent of his house. He got kicked out and turned to be homeless, trying to live by himself while turning insane and depressed from the Slenderman stalking him. He even got attacked a few times, getting some scars. But one of the attacks was bad to the point of losing his right eye. He never killed someone, but there was always that voice in the back of his mind telling him to do it, to feed a poor soul to the Slenderman and save himself. To avoid giving in to that ideas he started to avoid people, passing a lot of his times in the woods eating berries and just going back to the town to try his luck on getting some "food". This is the life of Joshua Adams, the homeless, nervous, tired guy trying his best to survive.

Additional info: Joshua died during one of the attacks of the Slenderman when he was 37 years old. This information is not relevant to this blog because he will always be alive around here :D

Note: He can be part of any slenderverse.

#Mod T #My art #oc #original character #slenderverse

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olly-hl-blog · 6 years ago

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SILHOUETTE

Part 2:

Three Days Before,

He was walking down the streets with a fast pace, wearing a thin jacket and an old jean. She feared to lose him at that base.

Simon was her first love, her favorite human, and certainly the best guy she could ever date in her life. She had to make her decision about their relationship the moment she got accepted in University Of Maryland-College Park, Cyber Security field.

She was ambitious, and he had to go to Kansas anyways. They kept contact the first few months but Lisa ended it at last. They weren’t the typical couple who fights and breaks up, they pretty much remained friends, but nothing was for life.

Vision has started to get blurry before Lisa out of the sudden, hearing sever ringing in her ears and feeling dizzy for couple seconds made her lose balance and stumble on people next to her. Quickly recovering from her vertigo, apologizing to people, she made it to the nearest drugstore she could find on the way.

She grabbed the handle with force fearing she would pass out, and then barged in, slowly approaching the counter. Standing in front of her, was a middle aged man wearing a white blouse, putting his hands on the counter before him and smiling to her. He had black hair with white in it on the sides, with a light white beard and frameless round glasses.

“Hi, how can I help you?” said the pharmacist with a gentle voice.

“Yeah, hi, umm...,” swallowing her saliva. “I have problems sleeping at night for few days now, and I usually feel tired and dizzy all the time, I was wondering if you can give me some sleeping pills.”

“Well any fever?” asked the pharmacist, Lisa shook her head. “Vomiting?” Lisa shook her head again. “Using the toilet frequently?” Lisa shook her head and said “No, I don’t.”

“I see,” mumbled the pharmacist. “Any loss of appetite, or lapses in attention, or anything else?”

“Yes, umm, it happens very often to me,” answered Lisa.

“Are you using any current medicine?”

She heard the sound of the bell on the door behind her announcing that someone was entering the store. Heavy footsteps were making their way toward the counter, stopping right next to her.

“Hello Simon, How are you doing?” said the pharmacist abruptly with a wide smile covering his face.

“Hi Mr. Ronan,”

She turned to see who the guy was. The voice perfectly matching the name, no doubt, the man standing in front of her was the Simon she knows. She stared at him taken by the fact that they were standing this close to each others. They were so close yet she felt like miles and miles away are separating her from her love one.

He turned to face her, putting on a small smile, that she herself replied by one eventually. She turned to Mr. Ronan who was looking at her waiting for her reply to the question that he had asked her.

“Umm, I actually have migraine,”

“Understood,” he said while checking something on the pc in front of him. “Alright let me check our inventory.” And then he turned towards Simon and said, “What do you need?”

“Do you still have that Tylenol you sold me the other time?’ resting his elbows on the counter in front of him, only inches apart from Lisa. “I might use some of it.”

“Careful on that young man, you might get yourself hurt this way,” said Mr. Ronan.

“No worries,” said Simon putting on a smile.

And for few moments, they were by themselves. The awkward atmosphere was hovering around the place making Lisa uncomfortable and anxious. She wanted to steel some glances at his well shaped face and fill her eyes with his gorgeous look. As she did, his eyes caught hers, making her heart pound faster than ever. Awkwardly, she smiled quickly and tried to hide her face fearing her eyes would expose her feelings.

Mr. Ronan returned back with two boxes of medicine in his hand, one was hers and the other was Simon’s.

“Young lady, I would highly recommend this new medicine for you case, twice a day, but you need to force some food into your stomach. Your case is due to a high amount of stress and overwork, so you might want to get some rest and probably take some days off.”

“Well it’s almost over,” said Lisa abruptly confusing the old man. “Work, I mean.”

With a smile, he handed them the medicine. While Lisa reached for her bag to pay the guy, Simon quickly paid for his share and the one of Lisa.

“I got this,” said Simon addressing to Lisa.

“Oh no, I’m good,” said Lisa with a surprise.

“Please I insist,” He said with a warm look on his eyes. Turning to Mr. Ronan he continued, “Later old man.”

That got her chuckle. He used to use the same expression whenever he was leaving. It was funny to see him still using it until this moment. His warm look slid into her heart like smooth liquor sliding down to her tummy.

The bell on the door ringed as he opened the doorway leaving the store. She watched as he turned his back and went outside. A goofy smile was printed on her face as she was thinking of what he did. She was unsure but it made her feel good. Did he recognize her?

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D-Day,

“Honey I’m home,” a voice said.

Simon, unable to react properly, wiped his tears with his palms and turned around to face his fiance. Standing up from the chair, folding his arms across his chest firmly, he said, “Welcome home.”

Judging by his expression, Jane figured he wasn’t in a good mood. She started to approach him heavily.

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” she asked.

“You tell me,” he said and turned around the screen of his laptop showing her a video. “Can you explain this?”

Jane’s face turned pale and she frowned. Unable to hold herself up any longer, she let herself sit in the nearest chair she had found.

“Where did you find that?” she asked.

“Does it really matter?” he said with a faint voice. After a moment of silence, he initiated again, “You’re banging your boss now?”

The video that he had shown her was playing a strong proof of her having an affair with her boss. A video that he received not long ago, together with a pile of other documents, from an anonymous source, indicating the amount of evidence he can use to bring justice back on the field.

“I can explain,” she said with a weak voice while standing up from the chair. “That’s not what happened, I promise I promise....”

“Cut the bullshit!” He interrupted her yelling. “Stop lying you pathetic bitch.”

Jane burst into hot tears, covering her mouth with her fingers and sobbing hard.

“You lied to me,” said Simon.

“No, please don’t say that” her voice cracking with emotions.

“Do you have any idea about what you’ve done to me? You crushed me, killed me, you humiliated me you psycho. I had to spend a night in jail because of you.” He sobbed, “And for what? To get more sex? Is it worth it?”

He paused for a little, watching her barely uttering her words as hot tears streamed down her face.

“He wants me to pay for what he did, you know that. And you fell for it,” he said.

“I don’t know about anything, he only asked me to put the phone in the apartment. I had no idea....” she said muttering.

“Oh shut up,” he interrupted looking straight at her face. “Shut up I’m done with your lies.”

Jane burst into tears. Unable to believe her, he felt kind of sorry to see her that way, but he was so angry at her that he pushed these feelings away.

“Matthew Buckman was the only suspect of the death of Anne Kyle, and I was the only witness. At the day that she was murdered, I saw Buckman leaving the house. The house was on flame, the vision was not that clear but I saw him. It was him.”

He paused a little and the said, “He wanted to get rid of me, and he used you as bait. Anne was just like you, someone beautiful, smart. He wanted to have fun with her, and when he wanted it to end and she didn’t, he killed her, and burned down the house to destroy any evidence of their relationship. But I was the only one standing in his way, and he had to get rid of me. He couldn’t afford killing another person so he decided he should frame me instead. Turning the witness into the suspect, boom, the perfect plan.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jane with a weak voice.

“Anne was your friend, and I your fiance.” said Simon. “You have lost us both.”

“No,”

“Get out,”

“Please,”

“Leave,” he shouted.

Jane left, leaving Simon behind torn by his pain. He kept looking at the screen of his laptop, and then picked up his phone and rung a number.

“911 what’s your emergency?” a voice said.

“My name is Simon Walsh, and I have evidence concerning the murder of Jane Kyle,” he said.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lisa shut her laptop’s screen down. She grabbed a bowl of ice-cream in her hands and started to eat. Looking from her room’s window to the empty road ahead, she whispered to herself and said.

“Now let the fun begin.”

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unbefuckinglieveable · 6 years ago

Text

Remember Me Pt 9

The Traitor sighed softly after he finally left the Zen Garden, he'd weighed the positives and negatives to the situation and deemed to accept the condition. So he left the restroom and walked silently to the darkened living room. It was almost time to wake Connor. He wanted to get the deviation over with before his elder woke. The machine hadn't even sorted the clothes for himself and Connor. He wannted quietly into the living room, he didn't need to turn on the lights, the android was more than capable of seeing in the dark living room.

Richard gently touched The leader’s arm shaking him lightly. Markus opened his eyes to the darkness, and grabbed Richard's arm by the shoulder and elbow flipping him onto his back Richard starred up at the ceiling, “Markus, it's me, Richard, you told me to wake you when I got an affirmative from Amanda.” The machine said in a bored manner, not reacting because he understood the reflex.

“ Turn on the light next time, I could have killed you! I don't have night vision and didn't know it was you touching me!”

“I doubt you would have killed me.”

Markus rubbed his face with his hand, “Just turn on the light.”

Richard stood slowly and walked to the light switching it on casually. “It is 5:33 a.m. and I received the permission.”

“I don't have any idea how you pulled that off, but give me your arm” The older model said with a sigh as he reached out his arm, Richard took the arm for only a moment.

He felt a weight lifted from his shoulders, then he felt the leaders hand connect with his face causing him to recoil. “ What was that for?” Richard questioned looking at the leader who stood up. His face looked angered, like he had just lost his revolution.

“That is for agreeing to her condition! For a detective model, you are so- You know what - I gotta go. Tell Connor to call me later.” Without warning he walked out the front door slamming the door and the screen door on his way out. Richard took a moment to look back on his agreement, from a machine point of view it looked great, as a deviant though? He knew he deserved the slap, and so much more.

Richard wouldn't go back on his word now, not when he knew how much Connor was suffering. He opted for his initial justification:

It may help Hank remember.

Casually he picked up the bags from the previous night and walked into Connor’s room setting the bags down. He walked to the light switch and turned it on so to not scare him like he scared Markus. Connor was curled up in a small ball in the middle of the bed. The big dog by his side, Sumo. Richard set out two outfits for himself and Connor . Connor could not abandon dress shirts and slacks he also got a tie ( for one of his ensembles) , and Richard took a light fabric turtleneck and a sport coat with blue jeans. He layed the outfits out taking the tags off.

The Traitor knelt by Connor and shook him lightly the older model jolted upright looking at Richard and sighed softly. “ I thought I heard you.. for a moment in the mind palace.”

“In the Zen Garden, where Amanda is we are connected so she can compare reports, simultaneously give us orders and aid in missions. She paused your function when she heard me enter. “

“Since when could she do that?”

“They updated her permissions with my addition to the Zen Garden. She can pause our function, and basically admin for us while we are there.”

“What about the-”

“It is still there, Kamski hid that very well in our code, they'd have to deactivate us to reach it. The likelihood of us being able to reach it is just lower. Not without a lot of effort.” Richard explained with a sigh as he moved to get dressed. “ Go clean yourself, Hank will worry if he sees you like this. You are wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

What that said to Connor was that he hadn't changed since the morning before the incident. He stood sighing softly pinching the bridge of his nose as he gathered his outfit and stalked to the restroom to bathe. He knew what was important, keeping Hank happy and keeping Hank from worrying. He was just glad the pause in his function allowed for his stress levels to go down.

While Connor got clean, The Traitor got dressed, left a note for Connor, and took Sumo for a walk reflecting on the decision he'd just made. Amanda had played dirty, she used the calculating side of him as a machine to let him make a decision. Yeah it would help Hank remember and cover for verbal slip ups at the office. Not to mention it would serve against the purpose introducing someone entirely new. He did not take in Connor’s fragile state of being. In fact he didn’t consider the older model at all.

The walk continued while he thought, how mad Cole will be. Then he thought more into it, how mad will Hank be when he snaps out of it? Cole had lied to him, and made Hank inclined to live the glory days only for it to be eventually ripped from under him. ‘Connor, his name is Connor’

‘it may as well be Cole.’ Amanda laughed in his min d, richard shook his head with a sigh.

“Stay out of my head. I didn't earn it by your standards. Until I do. Get out.”

‘Very well, I'll see you later, Richard.’

The sun had come up before he knew it, his internal clock told him it was 6:45 in the morning, he had walked for nearly an hour. He started back to the house not in a rush. He didn't want to go see the Lieutenant, but he had promised Col-Connor he would.

Even Sumo was hoping to get home already, he didn't want to be gone so long, what if Hank came home? The beloved boy walked in haste his four paws moving quickly on the ground tugging the traitor along faster and faster. Maybe today would be the day. Maybe, just maybe his dad would be there waiting for him, with steak. Maybe, hopefully his other best friend would stop leaking that liquid from his eyes while hugging him at night, shaking. None of Sumo’s whimpers, or nudging had comforted him. And he refused to put dad's bottle in the trash, luckily that little girl from the day before had. It had made the house smell better with it gone.

Richard didn't understand why Sumo was dragging him. Didn't he know that it didn't matter? It won't for a long time. It might never be the same again. Never. The same. Again. That was what he had gathered from Connor anyway, it had only been three days since the incident. In three days, the older model android had turned from the goal focused detective to… whatever he even was now. Quiet, sulking, tense,and even bitter were good words for it.

And now Richard had to make it worse, or he'd be in the same condition, and that hardly help anything.

Connor sat upon the porch of Hank's house with a dull expression the door open so Sumo could go right in, Sumo pulled free from Richard's hand and ran to Connor wagging his tail as he nudged the other’s hand hopefully. Connor sighed and pet the dogs head, he looked around the yard, the WB200 had done a good job. ”He isn't here Sumo, we gotta go to work. Be a good boy, okay?”The family pet whined, bowing his head. He gently took Connor’s hand and tugged towards the door. He wanted Connor to stay. “Sumo. I can't. I need to go to work. Please.” Sumo released the hand and barked demandingly.

“Sumo, just get in the damn house.”Connor sighed standing slowly, Sumo bowed his head and stalked into the house with a little growl. Connor locked everything up and started walking Richard stayed close but the walk on its own was as quiet as church, and just as solemn. This was it, the walk to the hospital to see Hank. Connor didn't speak and it left a sense of unease in Richard.

‘It is void, nothing, there is nothing.’ The thought bounced in Connor’s head, it stuck. And Connor realized he was already dead. If Connor hadn't waited, if only he'd taken a moment and gone to Jimmy's to apologize. Everything would have been fine.

Angelo sat with his head on his desk sweating lightly. It felt hot in the lobby. Connor distracted him, a story untold. Connor's knuckles knocked chastly on the counter bringing Angelo back to reality, immediately he pulled two visitors badges and set them on the counter. Connor picked it up and handing one to the traitor who was silent behind him. And no words needed to be said. Connor was not okay.

Richard felt like this march to his death was moving too fast. Any respect he had with Connor was about to go out the window. The click of two pairs of shoes in perfect synchronization as they walked to the elevator. Connor still didn't speak. The silence was maddening to Richard. He hoped that the older would lighten up, in the elevator he watched as Connor forced himself to smile and perk up. “Connor why not just tell him the truth? This is clearly damaging to your mental stability.”

“I made a promise and I will keep it. That is my primary objective, and you will not interfere with my mission, am I clear?” Connor said turning to Richard and walking towards him in a manner that backed the traitor into the back wall of the elevator. Richard understood his objective and wasted no time saying so.

When the elevator stopped, Connor smiled.“Good, now I hope you remember that my name is Cole Anderson. Okay?”

Richard nods gently and followed Connor to Hank's room his held high even though he wanted to hide. He paused his simulated respiration waiting to hear Cole shatter when Hank failed to recognize him for the third time in a row.

“Hi dad, how are you today?” Cole asked with a gently smile as he entered the pale walled room. Hank wasn't in bed. Connor’s eyes darted around the room wildly until a raspy voice called from the bathroom.

“I'm good,shaving the shit off my face, i don't know why I let it grow so long. You on your way to work?” Hank said stepping out of the restroom.

His beard shaved away and his hair brushed back into a nubby ponytail. His face clean, he looked… healthy….and happy. Cole swallowed the pang of anger that welled within himself as he watched his hank start to disappear.

“Yeah I wanted you to meet our new partner, and let you know his girlfriend kicked him out, so he stayed with me last night. He might need to stay a few days.” Cole said gently looking at his dad a smiled on his artificial lips.

“I hear ya, I hear ya, he is welcome to stay as long as he needs. What is your name kid?” Hank questioned with a smile offering a handshake to Richard who gave a carefully firm shake.

“My name is Connor, it is a pleasure to meet you Hank.” Richard said with a smile pulling his hand away, and not daring to look at Connor.

“Of Course your name is fucking Connor! I mean that is what Fowler put on your badge right?” Cole shouted before reigning himself in to play it off as teasing in the second half.

“Cole stop swearing, it doesn't sound right. And there is nothing wrong with his name, I like the name Connor, sounds… pleasant.” Hank smiled at Richard who looked at the floor. Not looking at Cole, who’s glare was felt on the side of his face. And then it stopped. Richard looked up to see Cole hugging his father and crying.

“ I'm sorry, I won't do it again. Please don't be mad. It has been so stressful with you gone. I didn't mean to snap like that.” The older model said softly trying to keep himself under control at the feeling of agony he felt.

Pure agony.

“It is okay son, relax, just relax. You know what you can do?” Hank said rubbing circles into his son's back. Connor mumbled a what into his shoulder. “Go to work, catch the plastic asshole who put me here, you'll feel better. In fact don't visit for a couple days, this is hard for you I can tell, I'll see you when you pick me up. You have my keys, right? “

“Yeah. I do.” Cole whispered pulling away wiping the tears away.

“ Good use it till I get back, you know I don't like letting it sit. Get goin. I love you, don't hurt yourself by coming here.” Hank said with a smile.

The real Connor nods softly. “Okay, I love you too, take it easy dad.” He said walking to the door Richard on his heals.

“Hey Connor!” The Lieutenant called out Richard and Connor stopped looking back. “Take care of my son.”

“Yes sir.” He said before leaving with the real Connor who walked towards the elevator briskly. Richard didn't not want to get into the elevator but he did.

The doors shut and Connor grabbed The Traitor by the throat and slammed him against the far wall denting it as the white under Richard's synthetic skin was exposed by force.

“The only thing keeping me from dismantling you is that it'd break continuity. Am I clear?” The older model said with a cold voice.

“Yes. “ Richard said looking away not fighting Connor, after all dick deserved it.

// can't fit everyone in tags so @prettyboysjello @softgreysweatersbutwithfanfic @therealhmmlingle @pyrsrcool @my-crow-nest @vampirzyca13

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soy-em · 6 years ago

Text

day 6: undercover models Part 2

Hello! Sorry for the late submission again, but I hope you enjoy it! I’ll be sending in the third part of the fic later for the last day of WLW :D

**************

"I still can’t believe I got stuck with ‘Chad,“ Sam complains as they’re on their way to

Armel’s

modeling studio a couple of days later.

The turnaround on them being hired by Armel’s for such an apparently competitive catalog shoot is a lot quicker than Dean initially assumed it would be and while he likes to think that it’s because the casting department took one look at him and decided he was the most handsome son of a bitch they’ve even had the privilege to look at (and Sam’s okay too, he generously allows), he knows that it’s most likely because Bobby’s modeling agency pal was able to spin some kind of bullshit about their non-existent modeling experience when they contacted the studio. It probably didn’t hurt that they were left short handed and scrambling due to the fact that several of their models had either been hospitalized or, you know, died. Things weren’t exactly shaking out too well for them.

"You’re the one who let me fill out the applications,” Dean points out with a smirk, ignoring the way Sam’s eyes narrow at him. “And technically, your full name is Chadwick Hilton. You just prefer to go by Chad.” Dean himself had gone for the name Theodore Vanderbilt, claiming that it’s just the right kind of name for a snooty model. Sam claims that it’s more like the kind of name that a rich guy who gets caught embezzling from his company so he can pay off the mothers of his many illegitimate children would have. There’s a reason why Dean occasionally likes to screw with his brother.

“You couldn’t have picked literally anything else?"

"Dude, with that mop of hair and your collection of polo shirts, you’re totally a Chad. Didn’t you even used to be in a fraternity?"

"I have maybe fourpolos,” Sam corrects with a sour expression on his face. “…and I only pledged the fraternity for like two days. I seriously regret telling you about that."

"You should.” Dean laughs at him and takes another bite of the breakfast burrito he’s trying to finish stuffing into his face before they arrive at the studio. He even decided to forgo ordering it with extra bacon this time; gotta stay model thin, after all.

Sam continues to glare at him and quietly reaches over to hit the eject button on the Metallica tape that’s blaring in the car, just out of sheer pettiness and Dean berates him for it through a mouthful of scrambled eggs and tortilla.

Just business as usual.

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

Dean never thought he could ever be this unhappy while in a studio filled with some of the hottest women that New York had to offer, but it turns out that being a catalog model is really fucking boring half of the time and just plain irritating the other half. He’s currently being shoved into a hair and makeup chair for the third time that day and forces himself to stay still as the stylist, a mousy woman named Sophie, fusses over him and chastises him because he apparently doesn’t use the right kind of shampoo for his hair type. He didn’t even know there was a wrong kind of shampoo for him to use. Who does she think he is, Sam?

Speaking of which, if there’s one thing he can be grateful for, it’s the fact that Sam’s getting it even worse right now than he is. The guy has not one but two people surrounding him and putting various products in his hair and arguing over how it should be styled. Judging by the way that Sam is digging his fingers into the armrest of his chair, he’s clearly struggling not to jump out of it. Dean takes some comfort in the fact that they’re mutually suffering.

Sophie is actually a fairly pleasant and chatty woman when she isn’t berating him about his hair or trying to coerce him into adding some seventy dollar face moisturizer to his skin-care regimen (he can’t imagine she would take it well if he mentions the fact that he doesn’t even have one to begin with), and Dean feels like he’s had his first stroke of luck all day when he realizes that Sophie is also a huge gossip. On the occasions when they’re not impersonating law enforcement, it’s a bit more difficult for them to ask questions related to the case in a way that’s not overly invasive, so gossips are generally their bread and butter since it doesn’t take very much at all to grease the wheels.

For the most part, Sophie spends the better part of half an hour giving Dean every salacious detail about the catalog shoot so far, although it mostly has to do with which models are fucking each other (all of them) and which ones are doing drugs between photo sessions (a lot of them). When she leans down to whisper in a conspiratorial tone about the fact that she was sure that at least a couple of the recent hospitalizations were due to the said drug consumption, Dean jumps on the chance to try and wheedle some information out of her about Sophie before she breezes on to another topic.

“That’s horrible. Didn’t a model even die a few days ago? I thought I heard people here talking about it earlier in the cafeteria,” Dean says, playing dumb. He isn’t actually sure what people in the cafeteria were doing earlier. It sure as Hell wasn’t eating, he knew that much.

Sophie is standing behind him, but when Dean looks at the mirror, he can see her expression fall a little. “Oh,” she says sadly, “that was Laura. It’s hard to believe that she was sitting in my chair just a few days ago. They said that her heart just gave out suddenly, poor girl."

"That’s so crazy,” Dean says, schooling his face in a disbelieving expression. “How does something like that even happen?”

Sophie glances around as if making sure that no one else is able to hear her. “If you ask me, Laura was practically worked to death,” she says lowly. “The director of the shoot insists on doing an insane number of pieces each day because he wants the catalog to be absolutely perfect. A lot of people have been looking a bit worn down because of it, but Laura didn’t seem like she was dealing with with the stress well. She was such a sweet girl…"

*************

After a few more hours of being posed like a doll and getting yelled at whenever he fails to wear the right expression on his face for whatever product or clothing he’s supposed to be showing off (how the Hell is he supposed look "reserved and excited at the same time” about a pair of one thousand dollar cuff links? ) he’s beginning to understand how someone could be worked to death on a modeling shoot. Nothing ever seems to be quite good enough for the photographers, especially not to the director, Renaldo Toscani. With his dark, well groomed beard and immaculate clothing, he would probably be considered a handsome man to most but Dean can’t get past the smug look on his face and the fact that he doesn’t seem to have any sense of decency. To Dean’s best estimate, the man has caused at least three models to break down in tears on set so far that day due to how gruelingly he runs the shoot. Dean’s pretty sure he isn’t going to cry, but he’s definitely having a hard time not hauling off and punching the douchebag right in his face.

Weirdly enough, for someone who can be so awkward, Sam actually appears to be thriving on the set pretty well and seems to be correctly interpreting whatever bizarre directives are yelled at him because he doesn’t get criticized nearly as much as Dean. Right now, they have Sam staring sultrily at the camera while wearing low slung jeans and a partly open button down shirt as a fan points at him and blows through his ridiculous hair. The scene should be goofy and mock-worthy but instead, Dean has to admit that Sam makes it work. Really work, in fact, and the thought is one that Dean tries desperately not to think too closely about. Apparently, Toscani agrees with him because it might be the first time that Dean’s heard the man actually praise someone on set, and he can hear him and that dumb (probably fake) Italian accent of his from across the room go on and on about how Sam’s apparently the only one on set that day who’s capable of properly executing his impeccable vision for the shoot and blah, blah, blah.

Normally, he would be amused by the embarrassed expression on Sam’s face, but the way that Toscani stands a little too close and keeps his hand clasped on Sam’s shoulder the entire time raises Dean’s hackles, and he finds himself fighting the urge to to go over there and make the guy back the hell off. Instead, he lets himself get dragged away from his violent imaginings by another photographer so he can wear a pair of artfully torn, expensive as hell jeans while looking “bold, but also very mysterious."

Fucking modeling.

By the end of the day, all Dean wants to do is find Sam and go back to the motel so they can call it a night. He’s exhausted, hungry, and a little pissed off that he’s made hardly any progression in the case at all, aside from finding out that Toscani is an asshole. But at this point it’s impossible to tell whether he’s the one literally sucking the life out of people or if he’s just metaphorically doing so by treating all of the models like trash.

Well, he thinks as he finally finds Sam standing in the lobby with a strained smile on his face as Toscani says something to him, maybe not all of the models.

”–very nice of you to offer, but I actually have plans with someone tonight,“ he hears Sam say when he manages to get a little closer. To anyone else, the words would sound polite, but Dean knows Sam well enough to hear the tension beneath them.

The sleazy grin on Toscani’s face falters for just a second before he plasters it back on and leans in more closely, nearly backing Sam into the wall they were standing in front of. "Are you sure?,” he needles, “I’d love the opportunity to take an exquisite and hard-working young man such as yourself out to dinner so I can give you some…suggestions about all the ways in which you can advance your career. Who could you have plans with that would be more important than that?”

Dean isn’t entirely sure what suggestions someone like Toscani wants to give Sam that would advance his (non-existent) modeling career, but he’s pretty sure he can take a wild guess, and the picture that his imagination paints has him seeing red. As he stomps towards the pair, Sam finally spots him and Dean can see relief flash across his face for a second as he realizes that he’s about to be extracted from his awkward encounter.

“Me,” he says, answering the question for Sam. “And we’re nearly late, so we should probably be heading out soon, S– Chad.” He tries to aim for a tone that doesn’t sound as openly hostile as he feels (getting fired from the studio by the shoot’s director on the first day wouldn’t exactly be conducive towards solving their case). Judging by the sneer on Toscani’s face, he isn’t quite sure that he succeeds in doing so.

“I see,” he says to Dean coldly before turning his attentions back towards Sam. “Well, if you ever change your mind, my offer remains. I’m sure we’ll be able to find time for it sooner or later."

Not if Dean has anything to say about it.

********************

"Christ, that guy really pisses me off,” Dean complains when they’re driving back to the motel. “He thinks he can just do whatever the hell he wants."

Or whoever, apparently.

"Yeah, he’s pretty…intense,” Sam admits.

“Intense? He looked like he wanted to freakin’ devour you or something."

"I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration."

"Whatever you say, Sammy,” Dean says incredulously. “Look, I’m just saying that if this guy ever tries to lure you to a windowless van so he can conduct a 'private photo shoot,’ then you should walk the other way."

Sam’s face turns an interesting shade of red and he suddenly finds picking lent off of his jeans to be particularly fascinating.

"Did you make any headway on the case?” he asks, clearly trying to change the subject as quickly as possible, and Dean lets him.

Dean grunts. “Not much. Mostly just things we already knew in the first place: Laura was well liked on set, didn’t seem to be caught up in drugs or anything like that like some of the other models, and she had been looking noticeably worn down before she died. What about you?"

"I didn’t have much luck either. I managed to talk to a couple of models who were friends with some of the people who were hospitalized but, as far as I know, they don’t seem to have much of a connection with each other aside from the fact that they were all working for the same studio,” Sam explains, shaking his head ruefully. “As far as I could tell, they all seemed tended to mostly work with different photographers and weren’t even in any of the same shots. Maybe if we could just find a solid link between them…"

"I guess we’ll just have to try even harder tomorrow then,” Dean says, not remotely looking forward to going back to the studio.

“Right."

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

Things are still creeping along the next afternoon and Dean groans he sees a tall, blonde woman wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard making a beeline towards him. That’s never good.

"You,” she says, pointing at him as if Dean doesn’t understand what the word 'you’ implies. “Are you between pieces right now?"

"Uh…yeah?” He has the sinking feeling that whatever she’s about to ask him to do will involve him doing work that isn’t already on his schedule for that day and he’s pretty sure that she isn’t about to take 'no’ for an answer.

“Great,” she says, scribbling something on her clipboard. “We need someone to shoot a cologne ad and you look like you’ll complement the other actor we’ve already got on the set pretty well. Get to wardrobe and be at Stage C in twenty.” Before Dean can have a chance to respond, the woman turns on her heel and walks away, clearly not needing Dean’s input on the matter.

He grumbles all the down to wardrobe and throws on the silver pinstriped black suit they give him with little gusto, although when he admires himself in the floor length mirror, he has to admit that he looks damn fine in it. He’s not looking forward to doing a shoot with another person in it though; he’s done several over the past two days and they always seem to be the most awkward.

When he gets to the stage and sees his brother waiting on it (wearing a similar suit, except with an inverted color scheme, that makes his already ridiculous legs look even longer and hugs his body in all the right places), he realizes that the shoot is either going to be a lot less awkward than he anticipated since it’s a familiar person or infinitely more, depending on the positions they’re about to be finagled into. Cologne ads are usually entire platonic, aren’t they?

“What’s the name of this cologne again?” He asks a nearby assistant before she can bustle past him to go to another stage.

“Let’s see,” she says, flipping through the pages on her clipboard. “Ah, right, this one’s called Forbidden Desire.”

Of course it is.

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

“Are you sure we need to stand so close together?” Dean asks, looking imploringly at their photographer. For the shot, he’s supposed to be pressing Sam up against the wall with one hand grasping his suit jacket and pulling him forward slightly while the other hand is tangled in his hair, their faces tilted closely towards each other to suggest that they’re about to kiss. But for obvious reasons, Dean’s having some trouble actually doing it, and his movements are stiff as he makes only the barest physical contact with Sam.

The photographer sighs dramatically. “Theodore, my dear, it’s important to me that you understand that we’re trying to sell a product called Forbidden Desire, not Awkward Encounter With a Former College Roommate Who Hasn’t Been Seen in Ten Years. We’re looking for something a bit…provocative. Are you saying that you can’t muster enough passion for poor Chad over there?"

He might be starting to muster up too much of it is the problem.

Knowing that there doesn’t seem to be a way out of it, he inches a bit closer to Sam but still stands at as much of distances that he thinks he could possibly get away with. He can tell that Sam is as uncomfortable as he is, and neither of them can meet each other’s eyes.

"Oh God’s sake,” he hears off stage in an accented voice that he, unfortunately, immediately recognizes. “Are you truly so incompetent?”

When he gets on the stage, he moves Dean bodily away from Sam and takes the position he was in. “I would be happy to provide a demonstration that you can follow so that you can cease wasting the studio’s time with your dithering."

Yeah, Dean’s completely sure that it isn’t at all because he wants to get up close and personal with Sam like a creep. Right.

Toscani presses himself against Sam’s body, manhandling him into position as he does so, and Dean can see that Sam is biting his lip and clenching his fists at his side, probably trying to resist letting his temper get the best of him; Dean, for one, would love to see him deck Toscani. Hell, he would probably make Christmas cards out of it if the moment was caught on camera.

He also knows that Sam wouldn’t jeopardize the case by doing such a thing and, sure enough, Sam forces himself to relax and let Toscani maneuver him. But when Sam visibly flinches as the man’s fingers tangle in his hair and yank him downward, far too roughly by Dean’s estimate, Dean has enough.

"I get the idea,” he growls out. Toscani smirks at him before stepping away, and Dean takes his place. Sam looks a little shaken up from having his personal space invaded, and Dean vows to just get it right the first time so Toscani has no reason to interfere again. He’s so close to Sam that he can feel the heat of his body against his own, and he’s pleased when Sam’s previously stiff body begins to relax against his own; when he gently grabs the front of his jacket, he can feel Sam’s heartbeat thump against his palm and Dean can’t decide if the frantic beats are due to excitement or nervousness. When he carefully weaves his fingers through Sam’s hair and tugs him down, Sam leans forward a little more until their mouths are almost touching and Dean nearly ruins the position when he hears the photographer speak, having almost forgotten that they have an audience.

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere. Now just hold that exact position; don’t you move an inch."

Dean hears the sound of a camera flashing and he should be relieved by the fact that the shoot is going to be over soon, but he isn’t sure that he wants it to be. In fact, even though he knows he he isn’t supposed to move, he finds himself wondering what would happen if he brought his lips forward just the barest amount of distance so that they touched Sam’s own. Would Sam kiss him back? Would–

He’s jarred from his thoughts suddenly and flails away from his position as he hears the loud resounding thud of someone falling to the ground, followed by a woman’s startled scream. When someone calls out to the room demanding for an ambulance to be called, he shares a grim look with Sam.

It looks like they need to step up their game.

This is amazing! I’m loving it so much and can’t wait for the finale! Poor Sammy getting stuck with Chad, but I bet he looks just wonderful as a model. No wonder Dean can’t cope...! Sorry for posting this late today, been a busy one, but I really love it!

#wincest love week #Fic #wincest #amazing #submission

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lytefoot · 6 years ago

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Deleted Scene

Okay, so this is a deleted scene from my Big Fic I’ll Never Finish, which is essentially about what a mess Slytherin house is during and after the second war and what a mess that makes in society. (Is it ultimately about late-stage capitalism and the death throes of empire? Maybe. Isn’t everything?)

This scene isn’t relevant to the plot and is an inappropriate jaunt into Harry’s point of view, but I couldn’t not write it, and now I’m shouting it into the void.

Harry was eyeballs deep in a field report about an investigation that involved way too many details of the American Muggle financial system for his liking. His secretary’s face at his office door came as a welcome interruption. “Inspector Potter?” she asked, politely, and he nodded, sat up straighter, setting aside the report with an unconcealed sigh of relief. “This came for you. By private owl.” She offered him a thick, ivory calling card, her eyebrows raised.

The name on the card, in ink so black it looked like a hole in the card, the calligraphy elegant, was just Zabini, with the address of one of the discrete offices at the Gringotts end of Diagon Alley beneath it. Harry raised his eyebrows in turn. That wasn’t a name that had come up in several years; the mother had passed not too long after the turn of the century, which had led to the reluctant closing of a half-dozen case files. The writing on the back of the card was as flawless as that on the front, if a shade less stylized, written in poison green ink—poison was a word that was hard not to think in conjunction with that name, if you’d spent any time among Auror case files. But it just read, “Potter, we should catch up. Join me for lunch at the Londinium Club at 2. Bring Granger, as well.”

Two possible afternoons stretched before Harry at that moment. One of them involved several more hours of staring at financial records. He hoped Hermione hadn’t eaten yet, was prepared to indulge his curiosity.

There had been just time to stop home and change into something appropriate for polite Wizarding society, a black silk shirt and the sleek black jeans that were still a political statement twenty-odd years after the war, but a dress robe made for open wear over top, nothing frayed anywhere, change into a pair of boots that Mira, the house-elf, appeared to have polished recently. Harry met Hermione at the Ministry floos. She was wearing her hair loose, had done something to it that made it form a fine brown cloud around her head, and she was wearing the heliotrope muggle skirt-suit and heels she favored for making an impression, under a matching open dress-robe. Hermione had not been home to change. Harry reflected on the benefits of not actually being a politician as she straightened his collar for him, checked him over.

“So you don’t know what this is about?” she asked him, as they turned back to the floo.

“No idea,” he agreed. “Which is why I’m curious enough to be going into the Londinium club.”

Hermione laughed at him, and then he led the way into the floo.

The atrium at the Londinium club was subdued, green and black and dark wood the dominant themes in the decor. The maitre d’ was a tall, sleek wizard in formal dress robes, wearing a long, thin beard. He examined Harry and Hermione closely, showing no more than a faint twist of his lip. “Welcome to the Londinium.” There was a hint of France in his accent. “Have you an invitation?”

Harry offered him Zabini’s calling card, and he looked over the two of them, raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. “Ah. I had been expecting you. Inspector Potter. Madame Granger. If you would follow me, Mr. Zabini is awaiting you.”

Blaise Zabini was sitting with his back to the wall in a small alcove, reclining comfortably in an upholstered bench behind a small table, legs crossed with one ankle on the opposite knee, holding a large half-full glass of red wine lightly in his left hand. If Harry had done that, it would have been a carefully orchestrated scene that he would have cocked up in some way, but it looked entirely natural on Zabini, like he sat there like this all day. Harry remembered Ginny mentioning that she’d considered shagging him at one point, decided he was just a little too aware of how good looking he was, and Ginny had a point in both thoughts. Even nudging toward forty, Blaise Zabini was a remarkably attractive man, long, lean face, precisely shaped jaw, smooth mahogany skin a few shades darker than Hermione’s. His hands were long, too, graceful; in another life, Harry probably wouldn’t have been opposed to shagging Zabini, either. “Join me,” he said, with a wide, welcoming smile that didn’t touch his calm black eyes. And that was why it would have had to be another life; even at school, Zabini had always been cold, distant, calculating. The last twenty-odd years hadn’t done anything to improve him. There were two places laid across from him, each with its own broad wine glass. They were empty. Zabini refilled his own glass from the bottle and took a long swallow before setting it between the two empty glasses. As if he was aware of how closely the word poison was associated with his name.

“Your invitation came as something of a surprise,” Hermione observed, taking one of the seats, saving Harry from having to come up with polite conversational gambits, which left him free to observe the rest of the room. It was largely empty at this hour, but Harry didn’t care for sitting with the entire club at his back. “Do what do we owe the pleasure?”

Zabini chuckled. It was a rich sound, but like the smile, it didn’t touch his eyes. “It’s been a long time,” he said. “I understand McLaggen and Lovegood are doing well.” The last time Harry had spent a substantial amount of time in Zabini’s company had been at Slughorn’s Christmas party, back in sixth year, he supposed. What kind of person remembered who relative strangers took as a date to a teacher’s Christmas party a quarter-century later? Well, Harry supposed, the kind of person who had bloody calling cards, seemed like a reasonable answer. “Although, I must say, the two of you disappointed Mother very much. Don’t you know you’re supposed to marry for the prestige and shag your Weasleys on the side? Rather than the other way around. Merlin, both of you.”

That would have stung, once, but Harry had been reading the Prophet for a long time now. “Don’t tell me you believe the things that come off Rita Skeeter’s pen, do you?” he asked. “You always struck me as intelligent.”

“No, you really aren’t, are you. Interesting.” He looked Harry over closely, then Hermione, then sighed, his expression shifting a little, even if it was still largely unreadable. “So. I understand you’re going to be Minister,” he told Hermione. “It’s a scandal, of course.”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed, a faint trace of amusement in her voice. “I don’t think there have ever been two Ministers of Magic in a row that can find their arse with both hands and a road map. The halls of politics are in turmoil.”

Harry looked at her sharply; she shrugged. Harry wasn’t the only one here who wanted to cut to the chase. Zabini’s chuckle at that sounded almost like it might be natural. “Well,” he said. He shifted, leaned forward, looked over at Harry for a moment, appraisingly. “I’m prepared to make it rather less of a scandal for you, if you’d like.”

“What are you suggesting?” Harry asked, because Hermione looked momentarily at a loss for words.

“You need funding, don’t you? For your campaign? And you need your face seen.” He took another delicate sip of the wine. “Perhaps a dinner. A hundred galleons a plate. The candidate herself as guest of honor. I could arrange a guest list and a venue. There are plenty of people who wouldn’t turn down my invitation.”

It was, in fact, a big offer. Enormous. There were a lot of doors in pureblood society that Hermione Granger’s name and face and bloodline slammed shut. Places where the lines Bellatrix Lestrange had carved into the side of her neck weren’t a badge of honor. There was a long silence. Then, “What do you want?” Hermione asked.

Zabini shook his head, looked at Harry. “Your son did my daughter a favor,” he said. “I’d like to return it. And I’m reasonably certain that if there was anyone you wanted dead, you would have arranged it yourself.”

“I am Head Auror, you realize,” Harry pointed out. That had come remarkably close to confirmation of rather a large number of rumors about the Zabinis, mother and son.

“Which is why I imagine you can arrange your own murders,” Zabini agreed, affably. “Do relax, Potter. I assure you that the only way Mother ever killed any of them was over-stimulation.”

Hermione was looking at both of them. Harry could see how uncertain she was, but he’d been her friend for thirty years; to a stranger, she looked merely speculative. “Let’s order lunch,” she suggested. “And you can tell me about this dinner.”

Albus Severus Potter, what the hell are you involved in? Do you know who Blaise Zabini is? Whatever you’re involved in with his daughter, watch yourself. Which is not to say your Aunt Hermione doesn’t appreciate his impeccably fashionable endorsement, but your mother and I don’t want you involved in anything shady. Behave yourself. Love, dad.

#deleted scene #from an unfinished fic #harry potter #hermione granger #blaise zabini #albus severus potter #non-cc albus potter #not cc compliant #nothing against the cursed child #but this fic's outline predates it by several years #slytherin #awkward blocking is awkward

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toxoiddiamond · 6 years ago

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T H E B A S I C S

Given Name: Jaxon Elliot Weaver

Nicknames: Jax, J.E. Weaver (the name used on all his published works)

Age: 37

Birthday: June 1st

Zodiac Sign: Gemini

Birthplace: Houston, Texas

Current Location: Venfolk, North Carolina

Speaks: English

Dominant Hand: Right

Education: He has a Masters in English Literature

Occupation: He's the author of several best-selling novels, and sometimes teaches literature and creative writing classes at Nash Community College. He has a recognizable name, but people don't usually know his face, so he doesn't get stopped on the street or anything.

Vehicle: Red 2016 Volkswagen Golf. He picked it out because it's nice looking, while still being a good family car, and also being very safe.

Worldly Possessions: A nice laptop, dozens of notebooks filled with ideas and story outlines, and an old typewriter he never uses but which his father gave to him as a gift. He also has a few photo albums/scrapbooks his wife put together, with lots of pictures of their family/their kids, but he hasn't been able to look at them since she passed away.

Pet(s): None at the moment, but his kids have been begging for a puppy or kitten, and he's on the verge of giving in.

A P P E A R A N C E

Height: 6'0"

Hair: Since his wife died, he hasn't kept his hair as neatly trimmed as he used to, and it's gotten a bit long and unruly. It's a sandy brown sort of color, with some gray mixed in.

Facial Hair: Again, he used to keep his beard neatly trimmed, but he's stopped caring about it as much and now he kinda has a mountain man look going on, and there is a lot of gray in his beard, which his kids sometimes tease him about.

Eye Colour: A very striking, crystal-clear blue. He gots quite a lot of comments about his eyes.

Skin Tone: He tries to go out in the sun at least occasionally, especially with his kids. So he's not pasty, but he is a bit on the pale side.

Clothing: He dresses like a grandpa. Cardigans, khakis/jeans, soft t-shirts and lots of plaid. He wears slippers around the house, which his daughter gives him a really hard time about.

Distinguishing Marks: He has a small tattoo on his wrist of three different dates-- his wedding day, and the birthdates of both of his children. His wife had a matching one on her wrist. He also has a tattoo over his heart of a red carnation surrounded by forget-me-nots, which he got a few weeks after his wife passed away.

Face Claim: Chris Pine

H E A L T H

Physical Health: Not too bad. He could probably take better care of himself, but he gets a decent amount of exercise, doesn't eat too terribly, and is mostly healthy. Most of his physical issues stem from his mental issues (particularly his extreme fatigue and his frequent migraines), and once he's able to deal with said issues, he'll be okay.

Physical Abilities/Limitations: His eyesight is not so good, probably due to sitting in front of a computer screen for hours on end/reading in dim light when he really shouldn't. He has glasses, which he should wear all the time, but he insists he doesn't need them unless he's reading/writing.

Addictions: None, except maybe caffeine. It's hard for him to fully wake up unless he has a cup of coffee or an energy shot.

Allergies: No allergies, lucky for him.

Mental Health: Right now, it's not great. He's hanging in there, but his wife's death hit him really hard and he hasn't been able to get past it. It's been almost two years, but he's still very depressed over it, unable to let go. The only thing that's kept him going is his kids. He loves them more than anything, and has done his best to make sure they're taken care of, make sure they've been able to deal with the death of their mother (including ongoing therapy for both of them), be involved with their lives, etc. If he would show himself the same attention and care/if he went to therapy himself, then he would be much better off than he is now.

H I S T O R Y

Job History: His first job was at Blockbuster Video, as a teenager. He did a couple of internships during his college years, and published his first novel shortly before he graduated, which turned out to be a bestseller, much to his surprise. He spent a while doing book signing tours, before settling down, finding a job teaching creative writing at a community college, and buckling down to work on his next novel.

Fondest Memories: His wedding day. The birth of their daughter. The day they adopted their son and brought him home. All the family trips they took together. Countless little happy moments with his wife and his children.

Worst Experiences: By far, the worst experience of his life was finding out his wife, Hazel, had stage four breast cancer. Her treatment, watching her condition get worse and worse, and eventually losing her, absolutely devastated him.

C O M M U N I C A T I O N

Speech Pace/Style: Jax is very easygoing and laid back when he talks, never really raises his voice or anything. I wouldn't necessarily say he's a smooth-talker, but he doesn't often stumble over his words or anything.

Accent: He used to have a southern accent, but he actively worked to get rid of it during high school. Now it only comes out if he's really, really tired or if he has a few drinks. No one would guess he's from Texas just by listening to him, though.

Favorite Phrases or Words: Whenever he sends his kids off to school (or anywhere else) he always tells them to "be good, and be safe." They say it along with him now and kinda roll their eyes, but he still says it anyway~

Usual Curse Words: As much as he's tried to take curse words out of his regular vocabulary, he can't help but let the f-word slip out sometimes.

P E R S O N A L I T Y, M I N D S E T, A N D B E L I E F S

Personality Type: INFP-T

Sense of Humor: Honestly, he is just full of dad jokes. He loves making horrible puns and saying things that make his daughter groan and his son laugh~ So basically, he has a terrible sense of humor.

Habits: He bites his nails like crazy, but has been trying to stop because he knows it's an awful habit. He talks to himself a lot, especially when he's trying to think up ideas or work out the kinks in a description or a line of dialogue.

Fears/Phobias: Anything happening to either of his children-- that would just really destroy him. Or anything happening to him, and his children being left without both their parents. Although there is a plan in place for them if that should ever happen, it still makes him sick to think of it.

Strengths: Jax is a very responsible person-- he didn't used to be, but ever since he got married and had children, he worked hard to stay on top of things, especially anything relating to his kids' wellbeing. He never forgets to pay bills, sign permission slips, etc. He is also involved with both his kids' lives, always encouraging them to pursue their interests, signing them up for activities they may be interested, and always attending any performance/recital/presentation they're part of. He spends as much time with them as possible-- they have a family day every weekend, even if it's just staying in and watching a movie. He is, of course, a gifted writer, and has quite a way with words. He used to write love letters for his wife that made her swoon, and any future partner of his (Ren~~) can expect similar expressions of love.

Flaws: Although he is a responsible person, and takes great care of his kids, Jax has a tendency to forget to take care of himself. He forgets to eat a lot, especially when he's working, and he never gets enough sleep. He puts everyone else in his life before himself, though he really should put himself first on occasion and do something for his own enjoyment. Whenever he's depressed, or even if he just gets really absorbed in something he's working on, Jax will shut other people out. Even his kids know when something's up, because even though he's physically there for them, he's emotionally unavailable and closed off. He doesn't mean to be that way, and often doesn't realize he's doing it. But it's not unusual for him to disappear from his friends/loved ones lives for days or even a week or two while he works his shit out.

Hopes/Desires: He wants his kids to grow up happy and healthy, and to have good lives, whatever that may mean for them. He wants to be able to support them financially through their college/young adult years and give them security and peace of mind, that no matter what, he'll always be there to help them if they need it. He also really wants to be able to find someone to share his life with, though it's still hard for him to imagine that and he feels guilty whenever he thinks of being with someone else.

Self-Esteem: All things considered, it's not bad. He doubts himself a lot, especially when it comes to being a parent now that his wife isn't there to help him make decisions. But he's aware that he's not doing too badly, and tries not to be too hard on himself. When it comes to his writing/work, he's aware that he's good at what he does, but he's very humble about it and never brags about his success.

Religion: He used to believe in some kind of higher power. Now, he's not so sure.

R A N D O M

Sleeping Position: On his side, usually hugging a pillow to his chest.

Boxers or Briefs?: Boxers.

Day or Night?: Day. He much prefers going out, spending time with his kids, finding various distractions, as opposed to sleepless nights and nightmares.

Top or Bottom?: Either, really? I think he'd just wanna switch it up a lot, or do whatever his partner wants.

Partying or Relaxing?: He does okay at parties, but doesn't love them. Unless, of course, they're birthday parties for his kids, he loves those~ But generally, he prefers to relax.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

Closest Friend: Besides his brothers, his closest friend is his coworker from the community college, Shaun. They've been close for several years, and are close enough that their kids each refer to each other as "Uncle Shaun/Uncle Jax."

Relationship History: Jax dated around a lot in high school and during his first couple years of college, but was never very serious with anyone until he met Hazel. Things just seemed to click between them, and he fell for her fast and hard, before he even realized what was happening. They got married as soon as he got back from his first book tour, and settled down together.

Sexual Partners: Not a whole lot, maybe five or six. He was never the type to sleep around a lot or have one night stands.

Thoughts About Sex: He thinks sex is pretty great. He went through some confusion about his sexuality during his college years, during the time he was dating Hazel, as he started to realize/accept the fact that he was attracted to both men and women. Hazel was very supportive in helping him figure himself out, and Jax now identifies as pansexual, though he sometimes forgets that he's not straight, after thinking he was straight for most of his life~

P A R E N T S

Name(s): Deacon and Charlotte Weaver

Age(s): 63 and 62

Occupation(s): His father is an attorney, and his mother was a nurse but she's retired now. His father also intends to retire in a couple of years.

Religion: They're Christian, but not fanatics. They believe in god and think Jesus was pretty great, and they only go to church on Easter and Christmas.

Quality of Relationship With Their Children: Very good. They love their children and are proud of all of them. When Jax came out to them, they were very loving and accepting (though they were also quite surprised), and though they do occasionally say offensive things, they're always quick to apologize if Jax calls them out on it.

Living/Deceased: Both living.

S I B L I N G S

Name(s): Sterling Weaver, Casey Weaver

Age(s): 39 and 31

Occupation(s): Sterling is the head chef at a very successful restaurant in New Jersey. Casey spent a few years teaching English in Japan, and now he's a Japanese teacher at Texas State University.

Religion: Both are still religious, but like their parents, they're not fanatical.

Quality of Relationship With Their Family: Very good. They all talk on a regular basis, and after Hazel died, both of Jax's brothers came to see him and stayed with him for a couple of weeks. They all pay each other visits whenever they can, and they all go to see their parents on Easter and Christmas (they take turns having their parents over for Thanksgiving).

W I F E

Name(s): Hazel Weaver

Age: She was nearly 35 when she passed away.

Occupation: She was the stage director for the Imperial Centre for the Arts and Sciences, over in Rocky Mount. She absolutely loved her job, and Jax went to every single production/play to support her.

Religion: She believed in god, but wasn't particularly religious.

Quality of Relationship With Her Family: It was fantastic. They were a sickeningly adorable family, and they all loved each other.

Living/Deceased: She died of breast cancer; by the time she was diagnosed, it was already advanced and had begun to spread. She only lived for about a year after her diagnosis.

C H I L D R E N

Name(s): Paige and Liam Weaver

Age(s): 12 and 7

Interests: Paige is very into science, and likes doing experiments and reading about anything that catches her interest. She also likes to write poetry, though she doesn't often show it to anyone. Jax and Hazel signed her up for karate when she was five, and she still does it and likes it, though her life doesn't revolve around it. Liam is still discovering what his interests are, but one thing is certain-- he likes to be the center of attention. He loves drawing and showing off whatever he draws, and he's been in a couple of school plays and had a great time. He also takes karate lessons because he wanted to do what Paige was doing, though he's kind of been losing interest in it.

D A I L Y L I F E

Living Arrangements: He owns a nice, modest, two-story house in the suburbs of Venfolk. Each of his children has their own room, and he has a small study where he writes, though he hasn't done much writing since Hazel died. The house has a very lived-in, cozy vibe, with lots of cushy furniture, and though everything is clean, it's not too clean.

#character: jaxon weaver #character sheet #ship: rex

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crystallinecrimsonmoth · 4 years ago

Text

Future Serial Killer [ongoing]

Chapter 10

‘I’m gay.’

Carl said it blankly as he lay back on his bed, feeling both Ada and Daniel’s eyes on him as he stretched out, fingers touching the back of his neck where Negan’s hand had been earlier in the night.

The shiver it had sent through him was so vivid in his mind, the feeling of his rough fingertips on his smooth skin making his head scramble. He didn’t understand the feeling. Surely it was wrong to react like that to a man older than his father had been, Negan had grey in his beard for fuck’s sake, it was wrong.

He was far too old…

‘Carl!’

‘Fuck, sorry, what did you say?’ He groaned when he heard Ada yell, turning on his side to see his friends staring with disbelief at him.

Daniel’s notepad was in his hands.

‘You were practically having a wet dream in front of us- I was not!’ Carl argued, sitting up and re-tying his hair so it was neater.

Daniel rolled his eyes and sat on Ada’s bed again, writing something else down while she spoke instead.

‘We were only a couple for a week, Carl, I really don’t care if you’re gay. We want to know who you’re thinking about though, who brought on the epiphany?’ Ada laughed and Carl managed a small smile, leaning his forearms on the bed railing.

He thought about her question, wondering what did spark his realisation. He really did think it was not being attracted to the idea of sex with Ada… but Negan’s touch…

Carl groaned, hiding his face in his hands as it went red with embarrassment.

‘I think it was Negan.’ He muttered, waiting for the laughs.

Instead, he got yells.

‘He’s fifty years old! He’s got grey hair! Jesus, Carl, the man killed your entire family-’

‘Well, maybe they deserved it!’ Carl was surprised when that sentence came out of his mouth, but he didn’t retract it, letting it sink into Ada and Daniel’s minds who both stared at him with wide eyes.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you? Is this Negan talking? Has he gotten inside your head that much?’ Ada asked in disbelief, her eyes widened somewhat.

Carl huffed to himself, rubbing his eye and touching his neck where Negan’s fingers had been again. It made him shiver, remembering the scent of cinnamon and ginger and death that he smelled on his skin. He wanted more of it, but he didn’t know why.

‘Carl, seriously, you’ve gone quiet twice now.’

‘Sorry, I’m just…’

‘Thinking about him.’

Carl rolled his eyes, ignoring her in favour of lying back on the bed, stretching out his limbs with a little groan.

‘I’m going to sleep, leave me alone.’ He insisted, snuggling into the mattress, and pressing his nose into the shirt he’d been wearing when Negan hugged him, drowning in the scent of the man despite his apprehension about being attracted to him.

Slowly, he fell asleep, falling into a dream about blood and ginger and cinnamon.

Carl woke up the morning after lying on his front, his hair-tie lying forgotten on the mattress beside his head. His hair was fanned out on the pillow, haloing his scarred face to make him look like an angel as he slept.

Stretching out on the bed, he groaned, then his eyes opened wide and shocked.

‘Can you ask your sugar daddy for some earplugs that we can use? I don’t want to hear that shit ever again.’ Ada complained from across the room, buttoning her shirt and weaving her hair into a halo braid.

Carl glanced down at his boxers and his face burned, seeing the wet patch on the front of them.

‘Shit.’ He groaned, throwing his head back on the pillow.

‘Exactly. Go and make noise with Negan rather than yourself.’ Ada criticised but Carl looked over to see a slight smile on her face.

‘You’re happy?’

‘I’m happy for you, or I will be if Negan likes you back.’ She replied before waving and leaving for work.

Carl crawled out of bed to discover Daniel already gone, assuming he was on breakfast duty, so busied himself with getting ready, pulling on a fresh shirt from the selection of fifteen that Negan had offered him when he first started staying at the Sanctuary.

He was grateful for the variety, a change from the few shirts and the one pair of jeans he’d had at Alexandria. It didn’t hurt him as much to think of Alexandria now, his mind numbed by his new friendship with Negan.

Everyone in the Sanctuary that he had spoken to believed Negan was a true Saviour, and they all hated his father. He’d learned about deaths of children and loved ones, so many fathers killed at the hand of his own and by the proxy of the rest of his old group. It had been so easy to blame Negan and his men for everything back then, but now it felt more like unnecessary murder on his dad’s part.

He hated the idea of dad being a killer, but he started the war. It was all his fault.

Lacing up his sneakers, Carl headed out and up into the community hub, nodding to the people he passed who waved at him.

‘Morning, sunshine.’

‘Hey, Denise.’

Denise was the old lady in charge of the kitchens, Daniel’s new boss. A kind woman with grey hair tied into a bun every time he saw her, bright blue eyes full of wisdom looking at him kindly, she had become one of his favourite Saviours. She was nice to him every day, snuck him some extra rice when she thought he looked too skinny, gave him a cookie if he helped her take food to his guard colleagues. Denise was his mother in the Sanctuary.

‘You look like you slept well. Get lost in a good dream?’

Carl froze, looking up from the apple he was taking to see Denise smirking. His face burned red.

‘Daniel told you about that, huh?’

‘He was tired, so I asked him why and he told me the truth. Negan said to give this to you by the way. Says he got it made special when you moved in.’ The smirk was still there as she produced a box from under her workstation, simple brown cardboard with a black ribbon tied around the lid to keep it shut.

Carl turned it over in his hands, nodding to himself and then smiling at Denise, tucking the box under his arm.

‘Thanks, D. See you at lunch.’ He smiled a little and then wandered off with his apple and water to get to work.

‘Thank fuck.’ Carl muttered to himself when he walked out of the Sanctuary to discover the sun shining down on the gate.

A low wind was swaying the trees under a blue sky full of white clouds as he sauntered over to his guard post with the speed of one who didn’t have a care in the world.

He wasn’t afraid for his life here. There was no fear grating on his nerves that someone would break into his home and shoot him in his sleep. He felt safe for once in his life, even as he walked on open ground to his position.

Carl was the only one with the key to his particular weapon, given to him by Arat when he started the job. There was a machine gun at every post, ready to wipe out any of the dead that got too close and threaten anyone with a working brain stem who decided to force their way through the gates. A much better security system if you asked him.

Settling into the same position he took up every day, Carl swung his legs back and forth under the grate. He untied the bow of Negan’s gift slowly, still wary of the fact that it could be something dangerous, and lifted the lid.

Inside, placed in amongst some scrunched-up tissue paper, was a black leather eyepatch. Carl lifted it out with care, a smile lighting up his face as he traced the blood-red stitching and thick head strap.

‘You like it then?’

Carl nearly fell forward off the grate when he heard Negan’s voice, saved only by the gloved hand grabbing his shirt.

‘I almost died, shitface! What the fuck?’ He growled immediately when he was safe again, punching Negan’s arm and glaring when he just laughed.

‘I’ll take this.’ The man plucked the eyepatch from Carl’s hands, making a blush rise on his face when their hands brushed briefly.

Negan didn’t seem affected by it, however, as he unbuckled the clasp and positioned the patch over his socket, securing it on his head with the strap. Carl looked up at him once it was on properly, blue eye narrowed.

‘Why’d you make me this?’

A deep chuckle escaped the man as he sat down beside the teen, resting his right arm on his shoulder.

‘A thank you would be appreciated, but I know those words probably aren’t in your vocabulary.’ He grinned and Carl huffed, turning away, and biting into his apple.

‘Whatever.’

‘Just for days when you’re feeling ugly, though you shouldn’t. I know your eye bothers you, kid, you just don’t say it.’ Negan smiled at him and Carl’s face turned a darker shade of red.

He touched his fingers to the patch, letting a small smile spread on his face, then he felt Negan move his arm to lean on the grate between them. Curious about his feelings, Carl moved his hand silently, putting it over Negan’s.

His heart leapt when the man didn’t immediately move away, and he tucked his hand into Negan’s, linking their fingers together. It lasted a few seconds, quiet air surrounding them. Carl looked up into Negan’s eyes to find the man looking back and held his breath, not sure what to say or do.

He couldn’t help but lean in closer, his lips centimetres from the older man’s.

‘Kid-’

‘I’m not a kid.’

‘Carl.’ Negan insisted, using his name but Carl just stared back at him, too much pent up teenage arousal in him to back down.

‘Negan.’ He replied in the same tone, leaning in again and catching the man’s lips.

He kissed him slowly, hesitant still that Negan would slap him, before he felt him start to kiss back, a gloved hand slipping to the back of his neck to keep him in place.

Carl drowned in the scent of the man, cinnamon and ginger stronger after just being applied. The hand on his nape kept a tight grip, rough lips moving on his in a kiss full of desperate emotion. Carl let himself fall into the feeling.

Then a gunshot fired.

#cegan #future serial killer #chapter 10 #carl x negan #carl/negan #negan x carl

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freyalor · 7 years ago

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Can I request another 3 sentence prompt?:D Trevilieu, Spanish prison AU or alive!Armand S3AU(Regent Treville and First Minister Richelieu) I'm possessed with the desire to read your version of those AU!

Oh Hello Naggie!

I filled your prompt at last !This one was complicated to me. Really. I felt lost in front of all the absurdity I had to deal with, blending my history nerd standards with REGENT TREVILLE, mostly because nothing can make me watch Musketeers S3, not even thatn but also because.

First, the Regency starts in 1643. That makes Richelieu hella old, but well, let’s say he’s not.

Second. it makes Treville and Richelieu face the Fronde instead of Anne and it changes EVERYTHING. It feels wrong. I am lost.

Third. NO MAZARINI (>__

BUT ! It’s you, so I had to do it, because I love you.

So l took The Circle of Traitors as canon, except that Treville rescues Richelieu while he’s already Regent, because if Richelieu was alive, and a Regent had to be named (and it’s not THE FUCKING QUEEN BECAUSE OF FUCKS), it would have been Armand 10/10.

It may not be my highest piece, really. I did my best.

-« Cardinal,Vendôme is a nuisance.”

-“That’swhy I told you to have him executed!”

-“Murder doesn’t solve everything!”

He slammedhis fist upon his desk. Again.

His lipsnow turn to a thin white line of sheer anger, and I lift my chin, defiant.

Outside, athick curtain of rain is hiding the skyline of Paris from the windows of theLouvres. Lost servants and frowning clerks run through the courtyard, hopingtheir cloak will shield them from the Flood. Night will fall soon enough, withno promise of any clearer skies. Inside, candelabras are shining high, and thehearth gives a delicate warmth to the wide rooms. Firelight is turningeverything into faint gold, and Regent Treville is pale with fury.

Again.

It happensevery week. It happens every day.

May it beabout war to the Hapsburgs, may it be for the Royal Guard’s new uniform. May itbe for the number of guests at a ball, the hiring of a cook.

May it befor a Kingdom or a fork.

This ishim. This is me.

This time,anger wears the crest of De Bourbon-Vendôme, duke of Beaufort. Five years ago,he led a small, ridiculous rebellion against the Crown, judging thefreshly-named Regent too weak to stand the dangers of his position, no doubt.His plot, botched and plain, limping with a ridiculous lack of wits andpreparation, failed miserably, and all Vendôme’s accomplices were discovered bymy informants in less than one day.

But as Imade my report to His Highness Regent, rightfully asking for death sentence to allof them, he declared he’d show mercy and choose exile.

Ha! Exile.

I walked incircles, I spoke for hours. The Regency had just been declared and plots weregoing to bloom like daisies in springtime if an example wasn’t made quickly. Allthose men were nobodies, expendables, they were a prefect occasion to make astatement of force, to nip any other rebellion in the bud. Kingdoms weren’tbuilt upon mercy.

‘Maybe it’stime to start’, he told me, unmoved, and he smiled.

Regent ornot, His Highness or not, for all I care, I shouted.

I shouted,because this is me. This is him.

But if theRegency was quite new, so was the glorious, reckless and magnificent rescueplan Treville devised to snatch me out of the dungeon cell I was rotting in.The second of wonder when that cursed door opened for his pale, worried facewas still glued to my skin. The minute he knelt next to me holding me into hisarms, encircling me with safety and warmth, was still engraved in every dream Ihad since I walked back into the Louvres.

Though Isnapped back into my old habits just as quickly as I put back my red robes,there was still, at this time, a lingering feeling of devotion to him in mybones. I owed him my life. I owed him everything.

I shouted,he cupped my face. I cursed, he kissed my neck.

Regent ornot, for all I care. But this is him.He breathed my name against my mouth, and I wrote the letters of exile myself.

The onlyvictory I could claim mine, still dizzy with warmth, still crazed with love, hasbeen a prison sentence for Vendôme, ten years in Vincennes.

If angerwears his name tonight, it’s because he escaped after five.

And thismorning, of course, I have received a note informing me that Vendôme has beenseen in Chenonceau with a few members of the Fronde. He didn’t lose time,idiotic fool.

He keepshis jaw clenched tight, but his grip on those letters he picked up isn’t steadyenough to confirm. He knows he has made a mistake.

I keep myhead held high, but I take a few steps back, retreating to the nearest chairand slumping into it. Triumph does taste sweet, but not today. Not on him.

Silencefalls, just like the rain. Heavy, invasive, almost brutal.

I watchwith a bitter smile the way salt and snow has covered his hair and beard thosedays. The way his eyes, sometimes, seem too tired to speak. They used to shout,once.

They usedto scream.

I have beenso sure, up there in that prison, that all I had to do was sit down and letmyself die. It was just like all agonies are. It was torture, but it wassimple. He opened that door, and sunlight came in. He ran towards me, and life returnedto my veins. He brought me home, he never once let go of my hand.

“Thank you,Captain” I whispered to his neck once, as the carriage he hid me in passedthrough the gate I thought I wouldn’t see again.

“I am not aCaptain anymore” he said with a faint smile, and I didn’t understand.

Then heopened the carriage door and they all rushed to him. Guards, servants,courtiers.They called him “Your Highness”, and I didn’t understand.

Agony wasgone, sure as daylight, but nothing, nothingwas simple anymore.

I snappedback into my old habits just as quickly as I put back my red robes, our arguingand fighting simply unable to end, no matter the titles, no matter the place.

This is stillhim, and this is still me.

Regent ornot, for all I care.

But as soonas anyone else is watching, he is the embodiment of Royalty, and I have to bow,I have to look down, nod my assent and yield.

The sight,I know, makes us both cringe all the same. I have lost an equal, and so did he.

At the endof it all, he is “His Highness”, now.

Jean ismy King.

I let out asmall, disbelieving huff, and he reads my though as clear as day. He frowns,tired, a bit lost, maybe, in the absurdity of all odds.

-“Whatshould we do?” he breathes, circling around his desk to walk close to me.

I shrug, I suppose,gesturing towards the outside with a vagueness that doesn’t look like me.

-“We sendMusketeers to search and arrest him.” I sigh. “If we find him, you’ll do me thepleasure of cutting his neck. If we don’t, well, the Fronde is likely to raisean army and march on Paris soon enough, so let’s hope he gets a bullet in theface and solve our small issue with that.”

He pondersfor a while, tense and worried. Then nods.

-“I’ll signhis execution order.” He concedes. “When he’s found, he’ll be -

-“Not onlyhis” I cut in. “All of them.”

He rollshis eyes, mouthing “not again” in furious hisses.

-“Cardinal.”He growls, menacing.

-“Yourhighness” I hiss all the same.

And Ibreathe in for another argument.

But if Iend up not speaking at all, if I end up looking down.

If I end upin confused warmth and dizzy need, bowing slightly, nodding my assent.

This is notbecause they decided to place this burden of a title on his shoulders. This isnot for his position, his name, the golden rims around his coat.

If I remainsilent, once more, it is because of his rugged hand into my hair. if I submit to him, I swear, this has nothing to do with “His Highness”.

It isbecause of the corner of his lips, breathing my name against my mouth.

This is me,after all. This is us.

Regent ornot, for all I care.

Jean has always been my King.

#cardinal richelieu #team trevilieu #regent treville #prompt fill #3 sentences my ass #i will never write 3 sentences #let it be clear

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