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shotmrmiller · 8 months ago

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1.8k of what was supposed to be a drabble, oops. same au as this just different situation.

there he is.

the titan the crowd calls Ghost. a creature who seemed to have crawled out of the abyss itself, rage etched into the very marrow of his bones. scars crisscross his arms, chest, and back— souvenirs of battles both won and lost. no one knows much about him. no real name, no past, no future. blank.

a void.

just like his sunken eyes, the only thing anyone can see from behind the midnight black skull balaclava that clings to his face like a second skin. (does he even remember what he looks like underneath?) he stands in front of the club's owner in ragged clothing: a tattered wifebeater that's been stitched, torn, and re-stitched. his pants have strained seams and patched knees. his boots are high cut, made of worn, scuffed leather with laces in the front, pulled tight. functional.

he's terrifying. most here come to fight for glory, for redemption, for escape. not he, though. reverent whispers claim this is all he knows. that he fights like a cornered, wounded beast, with no discipline nor strategy. just primal hunger and unmatched ferocity.

and that's who your idiotic, egotistical boyfriend wants to fight. granted, he's a pretty damn good boxer. not that you'd know much about that, you're simply parroting what you've heard his coach say. but this isn't boxing. no one here wears a padded helmet, with comfortable gloves and silky shorts. the fellow with the mohawk currently fighting isn't even wearing a mouthguard, for fuck's sake.

there are no fucking rules, no referees, no honor, no mercy.

your shoulders rise up to your ears as you tense at a nasty blow the pretty one you've come to learn is named gaz gives mr. mohawk. it splits his lip instantaneously, crimson dribbling down his chin and onto his barrel chest. he should be in pain, but there's only a glint of madness in those bright blue eyes of his. the crazed smile he gives gaz is all blood-stained teeth.

your boyfriend taps you on your shoulder, making you jump. "i'm gonna go talk to mr. price now that he's no longer busy."

what?

"no! you can't be serious!" the metal chair you were seated on screeches as you shoot up and run after him, feet slipping on the mud-slicked floor. "hey! wait!"

he reaches the tall, burly man(broker?) with the antiquated mutton-chop beard before you do. the tailored suit clings to his large frame, molding to his mountainous shoulders and tapered waist. his polished shoes are pristine, unlike the surface he's standing on that's littered with wager slips and sodden with cheap beer.

"don't. be smart, fight smart. you can't possibly— did you see the way the one with the mohawk took a hit to the face without flinching? he's insane! they all are!" you flick your eyes to mr. price. "no offense."

he chuckles low. "none taken, sweetheart. soap's a vigorous man, is all."

soap. gaz. ghost. they've all got bloody fighting nicknames. meanwhile, the only thing your boyfriend's ever been called is dearie by his elderly neighbor.

"your pretty girl's right. i'd steer clear of the pit. this ain't no place for a sheltered bloke such as yourself." his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, yet it felt like a facade. the evenness of his tone had dread crawling up your spine.

"boss." you squeak at the deep voice that comes from beside you— accent thick on his tongue.

mr. price waves a hand dismissively, the rings that adorn his fingers glinting under the dim light of the overhead lamps. "it's nothin' but a couple a'folk placin' their bets."

the look of unfettered stupidity flashes on your boyfriend's face as he turns his head and realizes just who mr. price was talking to. "if it isn't the masked specter himself."

stupid. stupid stupid stupid. god, your boyfriend came in one piece but he's going to leave in bloody pieces if you don't stop him. "stop," you hiss. "this ridiculous stint of yours is over." as is this sorry excuse of a relationship. he'd been a sweet guy at some point, or maybe you were just blinded by his good looks. "sorry for the bother, mr. price. we'll be taking our leave." tugging on your boyfriend's sleeve, you try to lead him away but he stays anchored in place, posturing like a peacock; chest out, shoulders squared and head held high.

he looks at ghost as he challenges him. "name your price. anything, i can meet."

how he can be so blasé in the presence of this bastion is beyond you. ghost stands tall, his shadow engulfing you whole. you can feel the weight of his presence, a crushing force pressing against your sternum. he doesn't speak; and honestly, he doesn't have to. ghost's silence spoke volumes.

"he's not interested, see? let's just go before we're thrown out on our arses."

but your boyfriend doesn't concede. if anything, it only adds fuel to the fire. "not good enough for you? eh? is that it? think yourself untouchable just because you're king of the underbelly?" he goads.

your cheeks are hot, scalding with embarrassment. he's starting to garner attention from the audience that's supposed to be watching the current fight.

and then ghost breaks said silence. "i don't want your money." his rich voice reverberates through bone and marrow; it rattles your very core. "you didn't work hard for it, i can tell. golden spoon runt."

your boyfriend's eyes ignite with anger. for a moment, you thought he was going to swing on the spot, but then, like a wisp of smoke, it dissipated. his fists unclench, his jaw relaxes. "what do you want, then?" he questions.

ghost tips his head your way as he keeps his gaze on your boyfriend. "her. i win, she's mine."

you should've known your now ex would agree. nothing would keep him from accomplishing his goals of 'putting the big dog down' as he so eloquently put it. now you're firmly sat right next to price on the stands (because you will not be calling him john anytime soon, no matter how many times he corrects you) essentially as his hostage.

"nothing personal, sweetheart. i'm a businessman, after all, and the prize walkin' out the front door would be bad for business. hope you understand."

no, you don't. so you tell him as such.

"tha's alright. simon'll take good care of ya, i promise."

"is there any particular reason you're so cocksure of your simon winning?" you manage to ask, your voice fragile.

he takes a thick inhale of his cigar before answering. "unfortunately for you, i've seen it all— the broken bones, shattered dreams, and—" you watch tendrils of smoke unfurl from his mouth, "adversaries who never walked back out."

spectators have already begun to huddle around the cage, puffing on cheap cigarettes. they all look desperate, eyes gleaming with greed. this time the one collecting wagers is a blonde woman, older in age, with her hair in a low bun and a puffer vest. "that your wife?"

he curls a large hand around my shoulder before twisting to look at— "laswell? no. don't swing tha' way." price gives you a gentle squeeze.

oh. you can feel warmth creeping up your neck. "sorry. didn't mean to- er. i didn't know."

"'s'alrigh'. her wife's nice enough. you'll like 'er.'' her wife? the confusion must've shown because he rumbles out a laugh. "no. it'd be me barkin' up the wrong tree. i—" he tightens the grip on your shoulder, "like whatever's pretty to look at." his words from before resounded in your head.

'your pretty girl's right...'

the heat that'd receded now stung the tips of your ears. whatever words you want to say are lodged in your throat but thankfully, you're saved by the bell. literally.

the rusty thing tolls and the crowd hushes their voices and stills their restless shuffling. first walks in your ex (idiot), looking exactly like what ghost had called him earlier— a golden spoon child. his shorts are glossy, even under the flickering, sickly light that falls over the cage. his boxing gloves are a vibrant red, pristine as if right out of the box. (you don't remember soap getting his pretty face broken by hands with gloves, but whatever.) he looks perfect, like something out of a hollywood movie.

and so out of place.

unlike ghost who's just stepped into the ring— who commands the attention of all within the hazy room. he fits right in with the rats who scurry around in the bowels of the city. he moves like the shadows that cling to the dark corners, his steps silent as whispers. a haunted being— one the world above with its neon signs and bustling crowds has long forgotten— has made his home down here.

ghost bumps his mma gloves with your ex's boxing ones, in a show of surprising sportsmanship.

the bell tolls once again, and the fight begins.

and just as quickly as it began, it ended. you blink, momentarily displaced, because there is no way what just happened is real. there hadn't been no real fight. it'd been one devastating blow to the side of your ex's jaw that ended everything. he hadn't stood a chance. it—

"'s done. sorry, love. but simon's headin' this way to claim his prize." price gives you a sympathetic pat to your back. "i swear it on my life he won't harm a hair on your head."

what?

ghost barrels through the roaring crowd and comes to a stop before you. "you're with me, now. best get used to it." shock blurs your vision, or maybe it's the fact that you've been hoisted up and thrown over a shoulder that did it.

it doesn't matter. the one you came here with is currently lying limp on the stained mat, his mouth hanging open a little awkwardly. is he broken? you're put down on a bench in a large dressing room that has only one tall locker in it with a tiny ghost sticker on the front.

"did you... is he dead?" you ask, pulse quickening.

"no. either dislocated or broke tha' jaw of 'is only."

you sputter when metal clinks on the surface of the wooden table he's currently leaning his weight against. dusters? "you used fucking dusters?"

he turns his head and looks at you, piercing and intense. "you and i both know i didn't need anythin' to knock his teeth down his throat, isn't tha' right, pet? eh?"

his knuckles are calloused and heavily scarred, the little finger bent at an angle even when straight. "don't worry 'bout him, you're with me, now." he shrugs on a plain, black jacket and heads for the door. "try to leave and i'll jus' find you again. don't make this any harder than it has to be."

welcome to the rat king's domain, sweetheart.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you

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familyvideostevie · 10 months ago

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you have me, you have me only

joel miller x reader you get (minorly) injured on patrol. joel does his best to patch you up and not worry too much. | jackson!joel, hurt/comfort, wound-patching, some blood, a jesse cameo, joel being joel, all that good stuff. | 4.2k a/n: part of the just and just as verse. not too soft but not too angsty, either. just another day after the end of the world, you know? thank you @mrsmando for your eyes on this! <3

___

"Almost there," you mutter. "Fuck."

The icy winter wind dulls the stinging in your palms to a numbness. The leather gloves you've had for half a decade stay tucked in your pockets. You don't want to ruin their lining with dirt and blood.

"How's the head?"

Jesse pulls up alongside you in a trot. The adrenaline from your patrol-gone-wrong pulses heavy at the top of your spine, your vision sharp and the whole world a little too loud around you as Jackson comes into view at the bottom of the hill. Your head, like the rest of you, throbs.

"I'll live."

He scoffs and his horse snorts as if agreeing with him. In truth, you're more pissed than injured, though it certainly looks like you lost a fight. Jesse's cheekbone will no doubt bloom purple tomorrow and his lip is still bleeding sluggishly. His jeans are splattered with gore, same as yours.

"Thanks for back there," he says.

You shrug and wince when it pulls at the skin of your side where you fell.

"You, too," you tell him with a grimace. "That was quick thinking with the brick."

You like him -- he's good at his job and he's a good friend to Ellie. You know Tommy and Maria are not-so-subtly training him to run this place someday if he wants to. As a patrol partner, you can't ask for much better. He knows all the routes and he's a good shot and his mom knows everything there is to know about everyone in town and sometimes he passes tidbits on to you.

But knowing your shit doesn't mean a damn thing in this world, sometimes. You can still get ambushed by infected on patrol and it can still fuck up your day.

He waves you off. "I just can't believe an elk chose our station to fucking die in."

"Tommy is going to shit himself when you tell him," you laugh. It pulls at your ribs. God, is there any part of you that didn't take a beating?

"He'll just be pissed he wasn't here."

Your horses reach the bottom of the hill and Jesse hesitates, the green scrap of cloth in his hand. The red one indicating an injured party peeks out from his pocket.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the clinic?"

"I'm fine," you say firmly. "I can patch up at home."

He eyes the cut on your forehead and your scraped palms but caves under your glare and waves the green flag.

"Joel makes the same face," he mutters. "Ellie does, too. Freaky."

The gates open and you grunt when you get off your horse, palms back to stinging.

"Joel's two expressions are pissed and annoyed," you say. “Not hard to pick one up.” You press the back of your hand to your forehead and it comes back tacky with blood. "Fuck."

"I don't think you'll need a stitch." Jesse holds his hand out for your patrol rifle and pats the neck of your horse. "I'll debrief and get these guys settled. You go home."

Normally, you'd protest. But you really just want to take a hot shower and sleep for twelve hours, so you nod and shoulder your pack carefully.

"Make sure you tell Tommy about beating a stalker to death with a brick," you call over your shoulder. "He'll be impressed."

Jesse laughs.

Snow crunches under your boots on the way home. Fuck, you're exhausted. The adrenaline fades with each step and the aches become sharp pains. There aren't too many people out today on account of the cold but you nod and wave, ignoring the double takes at the blood on your clothes.

It'll be a pain in the ass if you can't patch the ruined knees of your jeans. Maybe you can convince Joel to carve something for the woman down the street who can sew better than anyone in town. Finding new pants is damn near impossible.

You’re practically dragging your feet by the time you reach your house. The mailbox labeled Miller, the wind chimes gently swaying on the porch, all of it puts you at ease. You made it home.

The porch steps groan as you climb them and the front door opens from the inside as you reach the top. Joel steps out, hand still on the knob when he looks up and sees you. His eyes widen.

He was on patrol today, too. You left at the same time but he had a shorter route and must have gotten back a while ago.

"Are you coming to meet me?" you say with a grin that's genuine despite the way your body pulses with pain. He does this sometimes -- milling around the gate, chatting with people on the wall as he waits for you to return. You never really feel like you're home until you see his face.

Joel does not smile back. His eyes rake over you the same way he surveys a room, cataloging all of the important things. The gash on your temple, the rips in your jeans, the way you're favoring your left side. The blood, too -- it's everywhere, you're sure. Palms, knees, collar. Jesse helped you wipe your face before you rode back so that you could see without blood in your eyes, but you must look pretty fucking rough.

"Jesus," he says. His hand twitches like he's going to reach for you. "You okay?"

"I'll be better when I'm not standing out in the cold."

His nostrils flare and he heads back into the house, you on his heels. You dump your pack and sit down heavily on the bench to take off your boots. Joel beats you to it, lowering to one knee with a slight groan, fingers working at your laces.

Normally he'd ask how patrol was, how Jesse did, if you saw anything interesting. Instead, his cheek twitches like he's clenching his jaw so hard it hurts. He unties your double knots with practiced ease and his silence fills the entryway of your house.

In another life, the sight of him on one knee would set your heart aflutter. As it is, you want to run a hand through his hair and smooth the worry lines on his forehead. You know him and this is how he handles it -- he chews on blame that doesn't belong on his shoulders until he can fix it.

"I'm fine," you say softly. You open and close your hands, resting them on your knees. You got most of the gravel out but there's dirt and god knows what else embedded in the tender flesh. Joel pulls off one boot with a firm hand on your calf and then the other before finally looking up at you.

"You wanna explain...this, then?"

His hand waves up in your general direction. There's no tremble in his palm but his brows are furrowed, his shoulders set in that way of his, like he's bracing for bad news. You have a rule about not lying to each other. So if you say you're fine, you're fine. Achey, bloody, and gross, sure. But you made it home in one piece and now you'll let him take care of you and he has to be okay with that.

But you don't mind reassuring him. He worries, and you know the feeling.

You shrug and fail to hide your wince. Joel wraps a hand around your ankle and squeezes lightly.

"I've had worse," you say. "I'll tell you about it if you patch me up."

He softens a little and sighs. It won't do anything to remind him that he can't go back in time and stop you from getting hurt. Joel knows he can't fix everything, can't keep everyone he loves away from harm, can't save the world. Won't, if it comes at the expense of the people in his heart.

But you can give him something to do -- a way to make it better. You could probably bandage your hands and your forehead and the rest on your own but it'll help him just as much as you if he does it.

Life in this world is a constant give and take. You have to be okay with some things, with cuts and bruises and ruined clothes if it means you survived. There's no safety, not anymore.

"Alright, c'mon," he says, standing with a groan. "Upstairs, 'fore you bleed on the furniture."

He holds out a hand for you to stand but you show him your mangled palm. Joel clicks his tongue and grips your forearm gently instead as you rise.

"Gotta clean that," he says.

"That's the plan." You leave your coat and pack behind in a heap and head for the stairs. "A hot shower sounds so fucking good right now."

Joel stops you with a hand on your elbow and you turn on the bottom step. He traces the cut on your forehead with light fingers and you try not to wince.

"Shower," he says. "I'll patch you up after." His tone leaves no room for argument.

You ghost your fingertips along his jaw and smile at him.

"Yes sir, Mr. Miller, sir."

More tension melts from his shoulders and he rolls his eyes at you. You laugh all the way to the bathroom, even though it hurts a little.

It's been a while since one of you returned from patrol with any sort of injury. Winter means the hoards are sluggish and easy to track and tends to keep groups of people from coming to the valley and making trouble. Today was bad luck and could have been much worse.

You both know how quickly all of the good in your lives can be snatched away. Everyone does.

But you just can't dwell on it. Joel knows it, too, and letting him fuss over you in that way of his will remind him. You're home. You're okay.

You leave the bathroom door cracked as you shower under the gentle spray. Your various injuries sting but you manage to clean the scrapes on your knees and hands and wash the blood from your skin and hair, the water rusty brown as it swirls around the drain.

Joel knocks when you're almost done and the hinges groan when he steps into the bathroom.

"Leavin' you clothes," he says, voice raised so you hear over the spray. "You okay?"

"Still alive," you call back. "Almost done."

The water starts to turn lukewarm so you switch off the stream and drag back the curtain. Joel is nowhere to be found but he's left you loose shorts so your knees are exposed and a big, faded graphic t-shirt that you brought home for him as a joke last year as well as fresh underwear and warm socks. You gently pat your skin dry with an old and scratchy towel and do your best with your hair before sliding them on.

Joel knocks again and this time he has the bag with all of your first aid stuff in his hands. The steam from your shower rushes out into your bedroom and you shiver.

He jerks his chin at the counter. "Wanna get up there?"

You haul yourself up with a groan and he stands between your knees, arms crossed and head cocked.

"What're we dealin' with, here?"

You look down at your messy palms and rattle off what hurts.

"Cut on my forehead, bruised rib, probably, fucked up hands and knees, and..." You look up and find Joel running a hand down his face. "That's it."

"You sure?"

You glare at him. He glares back. His eyes drift to your forehead gash.

"Cut could use a stitch."

He's still tense, you can tell, probably will be until he wakes up tomorrow and you're still next to him in bed. Until the wounds turn to scabs turn to scars. Maybe not even then.

"I think I've had enough cuts over the years to know what needs a stitch."

His eyebrows rise just a little bit, turning his expression from interrogative to exasperated, but he knows better than to tell you to do something when you’ve set your mind against it.

"They're offerin' medical degrees on the Creek Trails, now?"

"Joel."

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Fine," he says. "Let me feel your ribs."

You raise your arms a little and he slides his palms under your shirt and up your torso, pressing gently as he goes. Braless as you are, he brushes the underside of your breast, and your breath hitches. His eyes are soft with quiet amusement but he doesn't tease you.

"Your hands are warm," you murmur. He reaches the place on your side that took the brunt of the impact and you hiss.

"Sorry," he says. "Doin' real good. Deep breath for me." You obey and he withdraws, satisfied.

"Nothin' broken," he says.

"Told you."

He hums and pulls out the precious few disinfectant wipes from your first aid kid. You can get Joel to do a lot of things just by asking, but arguing with him about wasting supplies on you never works. He washes his hands in the sink and glares are you like he knows what you’re thinking.

"Forehead first, then hands, then knees," he says. "Okay?'

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. He grips your face with gentle fingertips to keep you still.

"How was your patrol?" you ask him.

He makes a noise low in his throat that's halfway to being a laugh.

"C'mon," he says. "You don't want to hear about mine. I know you're dyin' to tell me what happened."

The alcohol wipe stings as he swabs at your forehead and you tense. Joel's thumb rubs slow circles at the corner of your mouth and you press your knees into his hips.

Funny how you've had broken bones, been stabbed, shot, pretty much everything over the last twenty years but it's the small stuff that hurts the most. Stubbed toes, sliced fingers, alcohol wipes on shallow wounds. Some things just don't change.

"Okay," you say. "Well, you'll never believe it, but a damn elk decided to die in the station where the logbook is."

You tell him how you and Jesse rode up and saw the blood trail immediately and heard the moans and groans. You kept the horses on the other side of the fence and checked the first floor and the overlook, but the elk had weaseled its way under the collapsed staircase.

It smelled like death, rust and decay heavy in the air. The animal must have died just after the last patrol.

But it wasn't the problem. It was the group of Infected it attracted -- two runners and four stalkers. You have no idea where they came from but, since you were on patrol, the priority was eliminating them. The runners were easier, although one of them was responsible for the gash on your forehead when it managed to push you into the wall. You and Jesse cleared them quickly, one bullet each.

You thought you got all of the stalkers. One of them was munching on the carcass and went down fairly easily with your good aim. Jesse helped you clean your forehead so you both could clear the passage to get to the upper level and sign the logbook. The corpses went over the side of the station into the forest below. The Infected had eaten so much of the elk that it wasn't too heavy, though you both were sweating and dirty by the time you finished.

"Lemme guess," Joel says. You open your eyes as he carefully pulls the wound closed with two butterfly bandages before he gestures for your hand. He holds your wrist gently and tilts your palm side to side, looking for dirt. "There were infected inside the station, too."

"Look at you," you tease. His eyes flick to yours for just a second, intense as always. "It's like you were there."

"Smartass," he grumbles. The disinfectant stings on your palm, too, but you keep talking and keep your gaze on his face.

"Jesse climbed the rope up to the control room first but had to fend off a stalker at the top so he didn't see when another one grabbed my ankle and pulled me down mid-climb, which fucked my hands. The fall is how my rib got bruised and I tore up my knees fending it off."

Joel's cheek twitches. He wraps one of your palms in gauze and turns his attention to the other.

"Fuckin' hate those things."

"Me, too. When I got to the top, finally, Jesse was tugging a pipe from the head of a corpse. There was one more -- it jumped out of that supply room on the side, the one where Ellie found a bong, once, I think. I dodged it but my gun jammed and my hands were bleeding."

"Should've been wearing gloves."

You tap his leg with your foot and ignore him. Not taking your bait about the bong means he’s still pissed. "And then Jesse killed it with a brick."

"I taught him that," Joel grumbles.

He ties off your other palm and as soon as he's done you frame his face. Joel allows it, allows you to stare at him for a few seconds like you're memorizing him. You're telling the story like it was a fun adventure -- and it was. You're plenty capable and he knows it, too.

But you were scared. You don't tell him that right now, instead grounding yourself in the man in front of you. His hands are rough and dangerous to most, but tender and careful to you. The broad, firm line of his shoulders, always braced for the next hit.

The gash on the bridge of his nose, the lines at the corners of his eyes. His beard, greyer every year. You swipe your thumbs along his cheekbones and he sighs.

"Lucky me," you say softly.

You lean in to kiss him, just a light press of your lips to his. His wide palms rest on your bare thighs and he kisses back with a kind of desperate firmness, as if he's proving to himself that you're real. That you're here in front of him, under his hands, in his care.

Joel drags his lips along your cheek.

"Knees," he says.

He steps back and releases your thighs with a squeeze. He treats more of your torn skin, a frown back on his face.

"I do want to hear about your patrol, by the way."

He shrugs. "Not much to tell," he says. "Didn't even get to shoot anythin’.”

You swing your foot back and forth, tapping the side of his thigh with every pass.

"But you had the nice route," you whine. "Tell me what the lake looked like."

"Quit distracting me," he grumbles.

"Like you don't have the steadiest hands in all of Jackson," you say softly.

He snorts. "Are you flirtin' with me?"

"I'm always flirting with you, Joel Miller."

You lied to Jesse earlier -- Joel has hundreds of expressions. He just keeps most of them for you. For Ellie, and Tommy, too. You know every one of them by now.

The look on his face now says he's thinking about kissing you again, maybe just to shut you up.

You grin at him. "Tell me about your patrol, now, seriously. Unless talking and using your hands at the same time is too much for you."

He smirks back. "Think we both know that ain't true."

"Now who's flirting?"

Lazy heat curls in your belly but fatigue stops it from turning into anything. Joel must see that in your eyes because he simply taps your chin with a knuckle and starts talking.

You start to slump as his Texas drawl wraps around you. He tells you how the lake was still, how he and Astrid saw bear tracks but no bear. How he found a tape for Ellie that he's going to give her tomorrow, how he wore his gloves today like you've been telling him to.

Some people might say that Joel is a man of few words. You thought he was the quiet type when you first met him, another stoic survivor in a world that demands hardness of everyone. But not shy, never shy. Just...waiting. Watching.

He and Ellie can shoot the shit for hours -- a dynamic they've fallen back into easily enough since they started spending time together again. He's funny, he's clever, he's annoying as shit when he wants to be.

And Joel is quite the storyteller. If you had to guess you'd say it comes from having to entertain Tommy when they were kids, from getting Sarah into bed on his own over and over. Keeping Ellie occupied, keeping her talking when things were scary and hard and fucking awful.

It's just another way he takes care of people.

"Still with me?" he says. You realize your eyes have closed. When you open them you find Joel looking at you with tenderness and a spark of amusement. The tense line of his shoulders is nowhere to be seen. "All done. Tired?"

"And hungry."

He washes his hands and throws away the various wrappers and blood-stained wipes.

"Sure you're awake enough to eat?" he teases.

You roll your eyes at him. He laughs.

"Joel," you say, catching his elbow. "Thank you."

"C'mon, now."

He looks like he wants to argue with you for saying it but reaches for you instead. He traces the cut on your forehead just like he did at the bottom of the stairs, brow drawn again. You can't tell what he's thinking as he drags his thumb down and around your eye, cupping your cheek fully for just a breath before releasing you and stepping towards the door.

"I'll heat some soup."

Dinner is quick and quiet, your energy sapped from you to the point of exhaustion. Everything aches, despite Joel's thorough care. When he suggests turning in early you don't protest.

He takes longer than you to get ready for bed. You slide under the worn duvet and wait, trying very hard to keep your eyes open. Your bruised ribs throb in time with your heartbeat and when Joel finally turns off the light and gets in bed next to you in his threadbare sleep pants he practically hauls you into his embrace.

You go willingly, tangling your legs and laying your head on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You press your palm to his chest, fingers threading in the coarse hair. His heart thuds and it grounds you.

"I didn't get any good gossip off Jesse," you whisper. "On account of the whole surprise-infected thing."

He yawns. "S'pose it's a good excuse."

"Can I tell you something else?" you whisper. "A secret?"

Joel hums, lips brushing your temple as his hand snakes up your sleep shirt to press against your lower back.

Even though you know each other down to the bones, some things remain inexplicable. Parts of your pasts that linger in the darkest parts of you, the parts that stay shrouded until the moments like this. You don't have to be brave in the quiet hours of the night, entwined with him as you are. It's the safest place you'll ever be. Safe enough that you can crack open and let Joel in, let those steady and worn hands keep you together.

"I was scared today," you say into his neck. "When the stalker dragged me off the rope. I panicked, I --"

You don't tell him how your initial thought when you hit the ground was of him, how you closed your eyes tight and thought of your name from his mouth, of his smile when you come through the door. The stalker had its bony fingers digging into your ankle and you wondered if you'd ever feel Joel's hands on you again.

Death will come for you sooner or later and when it does it'll be Joel's face that you hold in your mind before it all ends.

But today, you kicked death until its stupid fucking mushroom skull caved in.

Joel presses his lips to your temple. You can feel his heart beating faster, as fast as yours. It's the only thing that betrays his own fear.

Wounds in this life often go deeper than the skin. When Joel comes home with bloody knuckles and shuttered eyes it's one thing to stop the bleeding, to bandage him and get him to eat something. It's another to hold him, to coax out the story, the fear. To follow him downstairs when he has a nightmare, to look for him in every room. It's all part of what you do as partners, as lovers, as people in this world. You take care of each other.

Neither of you can fix a lot of things. But you can ensure the scars heal into something light, something you can barely see.

You can hold each other in the dark.

"Scared me, too," he rasps. A secret for a secret. "Lotta damn blood."

You kiss the underside of his jaw. "Can't get rid of me that easy."

Joel pulls you closer, somehow, mindful of your side.

"Rest, now," he says. "You ain’t goin' anywhere."

It's a command, a promise. You hum your agreement and let sleep drag you under.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #just and just as

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happy74827 · 5 months ago

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Forced to Listen

[Dean Winchester x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Dean hated it when you hunted him down for advice, and he also hated that you knew exactly how to bait him into listening.

WC: 1082

Category: Fluff, Ranter!Reader, Mentions of Cheating, Sam being absolutely useless (iconic).

Can you believe that it’s been TWO WHOLE YEARS since I last wrote of him?? I’m so angry at myself 😭😭

『••✎••』

Dean could sense what was coming when he watched you stomp towards him with nothing but a small bottle of beer. The look on your face was one he had come to recognize over the years.

It was the one that said that you were about to coerce him into listening to your woes, and he had no other choice but to do it. The heat outside was unbearable, the kind that made Dean strip off his flannel and ditch the leather jacket, leaving him in his sweat-covered shirt.

But as he stood under the hood of the Impala, trying to get her to start, that bottle of beer was calling his name. The promise of the cool, carbonated drink sliding down his throat, relieving him from the dryness that had settled in his mouth, was something he desperately craved. And you knew that. That's why you were headed straight for him.

"Hey, Dean," you said innocently, the small bottle of beer dangling from your hand.

Dean sighed, his gloved hands pausing as he glanced up at you. He really wasn’t in the mood to listen to you whine about what was going on in your life, but that bottle of beer was too tempting to pass up. It was his favorite brand, too.

Goddamn it, you really were a temptress.

"Two minutes,” he grunted out, holding his hand out for the beer. "I'll give you two minutes."

You grinned, placing the bottle of beer in his open hand. In a matter of seconds, half the liquid was gone, and you were waiting impatiently for him to give you the sign to begin.

After another second, a sigh of content slipped from his mouth, and he nodded, signaling you to start.

You didn’t waste any time. "Do you think I'm a bitch?"

"I think you're a pain in my ass," Dean retorted, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. It didn’t make much difference since his hand was already covered in dirt and grease, but it made him feel a little better. "Don’t tell me you came over here just to ask me that?"

"No, I'm serious, Dean," you insisted. "Do you actually think I'm a bitch?"

You were staring up at him now, the look on your face completely unreadable. You were waiting for an answer, but he had a feeling that no matter what answer he gave, it wouldn't make a difference.

So, he just raised his eyebrows, silently telling you to go on while he took another sip of his beer.

"Dating's hard, Dean," you started, and he already felt a groan coming on. He did not want to have this conversation. "I just don't get it. Why am I not good enough for them? Why do I keep getting cheated on?"

You were pacing around the car as you spoke, and Dean kept his eyes on the beer. As you went on about everything that was bothering you, the more he regretted his decision to drink that damn thing.

"Am I not attractive? Am I not smart enough? What is it, Dean?" You looked at him, hoping for an answer. But when you realized he wasn't paying that much attention to what you were saying, you let out a scoff. "Great, so I'm not even good enough for you to listen to me? God, Dean, you are such a douche."

Dean rolled his eyes and finally looked up at you, the annoyance clearly visible. "Can I get back to fixing up my baby, now?"

"Would you date me?" You asked, suddenly, a hint of desperation in your voice. "Am I worth dating?"

God, you were killing him. He’d rather get heatstroke than continue this conversation, and he was sure Sammy would agree on his behalf.

He could actually see his baby brother from where he stood. He was a few yards away, sitting in the shade. A book in his hand, but his eyes were on the two of you.

Was he…? Oh hell no.

He was laughing.

Sammy was having a good time watching him squirm under your gaze, doing absolutely nothing despite avoiding the work Bobby needed help with.

Oh, was Dean pissed off. He’d get his payback soon, hopefully. It would be whenever he actually gets away from you and fixes up his car. Baby always comes first.

"I mean, c'mon, Dean," you pressed on. "Just give me some advice. You were with so many women, and they were all beautiful and perfect, so what's wrong with me?"

You were pouting, and Dean felt like throwing his beer bottle on the ground and stomping on it. This was the worst two minutes of his life.

"There’s nothing wrong with you,” he finally said, looking you in the eye. "You could be a pain in the ass, but unfortunately, I’m apparently the only one who has to deal with it, so... yeah. You're fine."

"Fine? I'm fine?"

"Yup," Dean replied. He turned back to the Impala, taking the last swig of his beer and tossing the empty bottle into your hands. "Thanks for the beer. Is that all?”

"I just feel… I don't know. I feel like I'm not good enough, ya know?" You said a sad look on your face. "Like there's something wrong with me. Something that's making everyone leave me."

"Listen," Dean started. He looked at you again, but all of his annoyance was gone. The two minutes were definitely up; he could quite literally kick you out of sight, but with the look you had on your face, he just couldn’t do it.

So, despite Sam’s utter lack of help, he was going to do his best to try to make you feel better.

"It's not you, alright?" He assured. "There's nothing wrong with you. If a guy can't see that, then he doesn't deserve you, okay? Trust me, you will have no problem finding someone else."

The corners of your lips twitched, turning into a small smile. "Yeah?"

Dean nodded, giving you a smirk. "If you want, I could always give out the ole hunter's special with your past one. Bobby could use a new rug for his living room."

A loud snort slipped past your mouth, and Dean was satisfied.

"Okay, Winchester," you said. "This is my sign to get the hell out of here."

And so you did, but before you could get even slightly close to the house, he called out to you.

"Oh, and by the way," he said, a small smile forming on his face. If you thought it was going to be wholesome, then you were sorely mistaken.

"Next time you come to me to talk about your feelings, at least have a damn pie."

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vivwritesfics · 6 months ago

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Sleepless

She's struggling to sleep, and it's all Bucky's fault

warnings: violence, choking, nightmares, angst

Her hands clawed at his wrist, trying to pry his metal hand away from her neck. As desperate as she was to suck in deep breaths, air wasn't reaching her lungs. Oh God, she was so damn dizzy.

There he stood before her, mask covering his mouth. His dark hair hung limp around his face and his blue eyes stared at her, furious. Metal fingers wrapped around her neck, his grip bruising. He was gonna kill her, and he didn't even care.

"Please," she gasped as she dropped her hands away from his wrist. But she just couldn't hold on anymore.

"Bucky!"

His head whipped to the left. A second later he dropped her, body falling as he released her neck. Even as she hit the ground she was sucking in desperate gasps of air as her attacker ran.

She awoke with a gasp, desperately trying to suck in deep breaths. Her hand was against her chest but, every time she shut her eyes, she saw her attacker.

"Doll?" Her husband asked, voice groggy as he reached towards her. But the moment his metal fingers brushed against the skin of her thigh, she was flinching away.

Bucky sat up at that. He couldn't hide the flash of hurt in his eyes, but he couldn't exactly blame her.

He didn't remember what he'd done, didn't remember who or what he was during that stage of his life. He wasn't Bucky. He was some mindless beast who killed whoever got between him and his mission.

They met again a good few years after this. He was a different person when they met again. He was Bucky Barnes, a war hero (several times over), a soldier, and a man who had celebrated his one hundred and something birthday.

The bruises had long since faded from her neck when she met him again. She hadn't forgotten the man that had choked her, but she hadn't seen enough of his face to pick him out in the crowd. But still, she'd never forget the way his hair fell around his face, just how angry his eyes were.

She didn't recognise him and Bucky didn't recognise her, even once he'd helped clean the coffee that he'd spilled on her. (Now, you might be thinking, how didn't she see his arm and freak? It wasn't something Bucky liked to just have out and about as he walked around. No, he wore long sleeves and had a single, leather glove covering his hand. His hair was cut and his eyes were so sweet). He asked her on a date and the rest was, well, history.

Even on the date, Bucky wore long sleeves and that glove. He saw her gaze lingering on his hand, but she didn't ask. And Bucky wasn't ready to tell.

She didn't find out until the first time she took him back to her apartment. Her legs were wrapped around him as he stumbled back into her couch, sitting down and placing her on his lap. Groans left his lips as she kissed down his neck.

But then he stopped her, gently pulled her away. "Doll," he said as his flesh hand cradled her head. "I need to show you something."

It was early in the relationship, but it was something Bucky couldn't hide anymore. He picked her up from his lap and sat her down beside him.

His leg bounced and he dug his nails into his thighs. "Before I show you, I need to explain," he said. He tried to being his sentence a couple of times over, but it wasn't happening. Giving up, he let out a sigh, head dropping forward. "Have you ever heard of the Winter Soldier?"

A dry laugh left her lips. "Are you kidding me, Buck? That psycho tried to kill me," she said as she looked at him, head falling against the back of the sofa.

He swallowed, mouth dry. But he had to keep going.

Slowly, Bucky began peeling off his gloves off of his fingers. "The Winter Soldier is an ordinary man," Bucky began, unable to meet her eye. "The ordinary side of him doesn't know what the Winter Soldier side of him has done. He doesn't know the people he's hurt, doesn't know the ways in which he's hurt them."

He slipped his shoulder down and a gasp left her lips. "No," she gasped, backing away from him.

"Doll, I swear I've never hurt you. I'm not the Winter Soldier," he said quickly. But he didn't reach towards her. "It's.. hard to explain. But I'm not the Winter Soldier. I need you to know that it wasn't me."

It took a lot of time, but Bucky explained it to her. They had to start things again. So early in their relationship and they had to start everything again. But Bucky was willing. As long as she had him, he was gonna do whatever he could to keep it that way.

Here they were a year later.

Clarity overcame her features as she looked down at Bucky. "Fuck," she hissed and wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry, Buck. I-I had a nightmare."

He sat up slightly. His arms were open, allowing her to crawl inside of them and rest against him if she wanted to. "I know, Doll," he said. Her eyes moved to his metal hand as he own hand reached forwards her throat, feeling for the phantom bruises that had disappeared so long ago.

For a moment she just sat there, knees tucked up to her chest and her cheek resting against her knee. The sight broke Bucky's heart.

What were you meant to do when you were the person that terrified the love of your life more than anything? Bucky wiped his hand over his face and climbed out of the bed. He pulled shorts up his legs to cover himself up and headed out to the kitchen.

She watched him go and her heart dropped. She was fucking everything, and she knew it. Fuck, she loved this man so much. Everything was fine while she was awake, but the moment she shut her eyes, she was terrified.

"Shit," she groaned and wiped her eyes again. She climbed out of bed and grabbed a hold of Bucky's shirt. Pulling it over her head, she pulled it up to her nose and breathed in.

And then she set off, bare feet padding against the floor as she headed to the kitchen. "Buck," she called as she walked down the hall and into the kitchen.

There Bucky was, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of coffee. "It's the middle of the night," she muttered as she walked over and pulled the cup away from him. "You're not gonna be able to sleep."

He looked at her, but his expression was unreadable. "Bucky," she tried as she stepped into his arms. He didn't move to wrap his arms around her, and her heart leapt into her throat. "I-I love you. You know that, right?"

He gave a nod. "I know, Doll," he mumbled and stood up. "Want me to get you some water?"

Her hand reached up to cup his jaw. "I want you to tell me you love me," she said, head cocked to the side.

Bucky brought his flesh hand up to rest over her own. "I love you, Doll." He to a pause to suck in a breath. "I just wish it wasn't me that you're scared of."

"Buck, I know I'm scared of him, not you. I know you're not him."

She reached down to take his metal hand in her own. Bringing it up to her lips, she kissed his thumb. "You're my everything, Buck," she whispered and dropped his hand. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. This time, Bucky let his arms wrap around her.

No man had ever looked at her with so much love in his eyes. He dropped his forehead against her own. "I can sleep on the couch tonight," he offered.

"Don't you fucking dare."

A small grin split across his face. "Yes ma'am."

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu imagine #mcu x reader #avengers #avengers imagine #avengers x reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan x reader #james buchanan barnes

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fizzigigsimmer · 2 months ago

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The group dynamics of Steve, Nancy, Jonathan and Billy in a better season 2, with the addition of Robin and Heather in season 3... y'all just don't understand how my soul mourns for this.

Billy would be the "leather jacket" guy of the group. The semi reformed bully whose still 'too cool for any of you', but since there are monsters to slay point me at em. But Robin would clock his desperate cries for Steve's attention so quick, and Heather would be the first to see past the facade and like truly give a shit about him.

Imagine Heather and Billy bonding over smokes in the locker room at the pool, and her warning him away from Karen because she knows all about the desperate housewives of Hawkins, and if he's looking to get creeped on by a woman old enough to be his mother he can just come to her house for dinner friday night. Her mom's a great cook and it will get her dad off her back about dating for awhile.

Imagine Billy and Nancy competing over grades and kinda just barely tolerating each other at first, but she is so confused because he and Jonathan seem to have found common ground and he's like low key the biggest champion of their relationship.

Imagine Eddie is the one who gets flayed and it's the teens who figure it out because Billy's obsessed over the fact that the only dealer in town just up and quit, and is acting like he had a full personality transplant. Yeah Eddie was a dork, but he had good weed okay and Billy needs his hits god damn it if he's supposed to keep his shit together about monsters and the end of the world with Neil breathing down his neck.

Imagine Steve Harrington's very first gay kiss being when he's taunting his rival/maybe friend, sometimes monster hunting partner Billy Hargrove with a joint he found stashed in his glove compartment and Billy shot guns him like it's nothing.

Imagine Nancy on her "I don't know, maybe it was Steve all along" bullshit in season 4, and Jonathan self sabotaging with everything he's got. And they're like in the upside down and Nancy is doing her thing making gooey eyes at Steve, wrapping his wounds and Billy just pops off out of nowhere, "Make sure she wraps those tight. You're topping tonight no excuses. Oh and stop being such a pussy Byers. Communicate with your girl."

Everyone's just like gobsmacked, bamboozeled, and Steve is just so embaressed, exasperated, but kinda happy too.

"Is this you communicating?"

Billy all sly, "We understand each other don't we?"

#billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #harringrove #I'm just saying the dynamics of this group would have been amazing and so fun to watch #They could have carried the show with their interpersonal dramas alone

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myers-meadow · 1 year ago

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Lucius Malfoy x fem! reader: That which isn't taught in books

Title: That which isn't taught in books

Pairing: Lucius Malfoy x female librarian reader

Summary: Draco complains about you, the Hogwarts librarian, to his father. This results in the beautiful Lucius Malfoy paying you an unexpected visit. He is rather taken with you, and he shows you things you can't simply learn from books: your place.

Warnings: smut, blowjob, cum, spit, vaginal fingering, degradation, rough kissing, use of 'slut', praise, gloves, Lucius is Lucius and a that's a warning on it's own, consent isn't discussed but reader is into it, manhandling, (suspected) cheating, hair pulling (assumed reader has hair that can be pulled).

Wordcount: 3699

Dividers by by animated-glitter-graphics-n-more and delishlydelightfuldividers.

“Miss __, you must to lend me this book. I need it for class.” Draco Malfoy ordered, pointing to the book on top of the stack on your right. Third years aren’t typically allowed to borrow advanced books on dark magic, so it wasn’t on the shelves for him to take with a reason.

“No,” you simply replied, removing book from the stack and sending it to the topmost shelf with a wave of your wand. “That’s a restricted book and you need a permission slip from the headmaster before borrowing it.”

Draco scoffed. “I know you let Granger use the library outside the allowed hours.”

How could the damned kid know about that? What a menace.

“The book is still restricted.”

“Do you know who my family is?” Draco said, tapping the desk impatiently.

“Yes, I know your parents quite well. We are old friends, in fact,” you said, which was a lie. The Malfoys are well-known, and you’ve run into them before. Unpleasant was the best word for it, and you were glad the moment you didn’t have to deal with them anymore. Narcissa was alright, perfectly poised and therefore polite – but still raised rich and pureblood. Lucius, on the other hand, gave you nightmares that night. Even worse that you woke up wet between your thighs.

Draco scoffed, sending you a nasty look. “We will see about that, miss __.”

You sighed as he turned around and marched away.

It was later that week that the Hogwarts library had a surprise visit from a tall, white-haired man that reminded you so very much of the pest that was Draco Malfoy.

“So this is where the students are expected to borrow their books from,” said the cold voice, heavy with poorly veiled contempt. “Hogwarts seems to spend their funds… otherwise.”

��Good evening, sir,” you started, tone flat. “Have you come here to take a look around? I assure you our collection is larger than it seems here at the front desk.”

He raised an eyebrow, only now looking at you. “Miss __,” and even that alone sounds like he chastised you, “I’ve come here because of what my son told me of your behaviour. You pick on him and single him out, while the rest of the students are allowed to break school rules at will.”

Your shoulders tensed. So he was really here because of that small ordeal. And above all, it pissed you off that he didn’t even feel the need to introduce himself properly. Of course you knew who he was, but that he expected you to still remember him was infuriating.

“I see. Then you should be pleased to know that I don’t allow any student to break the rules, which includes your son. I do not play favourites.”

An amused smile played at the corner of his lip. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.” Your tone remained flat. Despite that, it was difficult not to let your eyes wander. Gods, did he dress up this fancy just to give you a stern talking to? He was delicious. With the snake tie pin mirroring the glittering of his cold gaze, the full three piece suit that wouldn’t look out of place at a funeral, and the leather gloves he wore even though he had to cross half the castle to get here.

You continued, taking a deep breath to steel yourself – he noticed, his gaze flickering to your chest. “You may be under the impression, Mr. Malfoy, that professors of this school are easily pressured by empty threats, to give your son a leniency that I refuse to show him. This visit won’t change that, so I’d suggest you save yourself the time.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking down at you past his nose. You were glad for the library desk separating the two of you, or you’d back away from him like a scared animal.

“I do not appreciate your tone,” he said, each word perfectly measured, low and menacing. Your adrenaline spiked, and your knees trembled. He leaned forward, and you fought the urge to take a step back. Even just that thought, of backing of, of yielding to him, he must’ve seen it cross your face, and smirked in response, clearly enjoying the hold he had on you.

A group of Hufflepuffs entered the library, giggling to themselves, until they saw the standoff you were in. “Let’s just come again later,” one suggested, and they left quickly, whispering to each other. You nodded at them, and moved your gaze back to the imposing man in front of you. From this close, you could smell the perfume he wore. Something warm like sandalwood mixed with citrus. Fuck, he was insanely attractive. Touching him would feel like the most luxurious velvet.

“I suggest,” he leaned in even closer over the desk, you felt the warmth of his breath fan your face, “that from now on, you make sure you assist in Draco’s education and let him borrow whatever books he wants.”

“If he has the right permission slip from the headmaster, Draco can borrow any book he likes. Without it, he can’t.” You could barely focus on his words with how close he was. “If you knew the book in question, you’d agree with my approach and be glad that I didn’t have a conversation about Draco’s interest of late.”

“And what book may that be, miss?”

“Forbidden hexes and curses. And he’s practiced some too, already. One may think he’s… a bit too interested in the Dark Arts.” You clacked your tongue and pushed yourself off of the desk, trying to clear your head. “It wasn’t a beginner’s book either.”

Lucius quirked an eyebrow and looked you up and down. “Perhaps we should discuss this matter somewhere more… private.”

His velvety voice made your insides flip in nervous anticipation, which you attempted to calm with little success. So, that approached worked. The value purebloods place on image was such an easy win, but it felt good to hear his tone soften.

“My office is there.”

He moved around the desk and went first, waiting for you to move around him and open the door for him. Once inside, he shut and locked the door, and with a quick wave of his wand, the blinds shut themselves. His small smirk as he looked at you then was nothing short of predatory.

“Draco told me so much about you,” his voice was even more hypnotising than before, and he knew the effect he had on you as you breathed in sharply. He walked around you slowly, taking you in completely. Surely this was another intimidation technique of his, so you force yourself to stand your ground.

“He has?” you echo, not seeing the point of it, but wanting to delay the threats and the fight – and that deliciously wrong feeling of anticipation was building steadily inside your lower belly.

“The librarian,” his voice was smooth as silk, “who is so attractive that it keeps the students from their studies. A Slytherin, but surprisingly, you don’t know who or what is good for you.”

It sounds like he’s insulting you again. He stood still right in front of you, a finger coming to rest on your cheek. The contempt has returned to his expression, along with something else.

“You dress… well. Draco said you looked inappropriate, but he is just a boy. He gets silly ideas too quickly.” Lucius’ voice has softened considerably. The way you looked up at him made you feel like a deer caught in the headlights, not knowing whether to fight, flight or fawn – and the result is that you did nothing.

“Your concern for my appearance is noted, sir,” you managed to say. “Is that why you really came all this way? To make sure your son’s librarian dresses appropriately?”

A small chuckle broke the silence. “I must admit, you are more alluring than he said you were. Perhaps we can solve this disagreement in a more pleasurable manner. If you can learn your place, that is.”

You stared at him. The gloved finger tapping your cheek moved to your lips, slipping between them. The smell of the leather was strong and made your head swim.

“Or should I make it clearer for you? On your knees.” His condescending tone was unlike anything you’ve heard before: alluring, yet cruel. The velvet softness of his voice contrasted with the way he looked down at you past his nose. Such a regal face…

When you didn’t immediately obey, he pushed you down by your shoulders. The floor was cold even through the fabric of your skirt. The tip of his cane tapped your cheek lightly, but it was threat enough.

You gulped. Looking up at him from this angle was a sight to see, his amused expression, the smell of him, the texture of his glove in your hair were as intimidating as they were arousing.

“What’s the matter? I’m sure a big girl like you knows what to do.” His leather clad hand tugged open his belt and ripped open the buttons without a second of hesitation. His eyes glinted darkly with lust. Only when he tugged his cock free from his underwear, did you look away from his eyes. He was gorgeous, pulsing, rigid, the head flushed with blood, with just one teardrop of precum at the slit. Doubting your actions, you reached a hand up to grip him. Warm. Thick, too.

“Are you just going to sit there? Open.”

You obeyed, instinctively, and he groaned lowly as he slid his cock in your waiting mouth. Wetting the underside of his cock with your tongue, you teased the bit of skin just under the head, making it bounce against the roof of your mouth. His breaths came sharply, slowly turning to soft sounds of pleasure. He slid in and out as you sucked him, moving your lips along his shaft. Clearly he held back in showing just how good you made him feel – and your determination grew. You teased the head with vigour, and before you could settle on a rhythm, he forced himself in deep. Gagging and trying to swallow around him, he groaned, and the sound went straight to your core. Shifting your thighs together to relieve the throbbing ache wasn’t close to enough. Lucius set a punishing pace for himself, deep and fast. In and out, and his length grew wetter and wetter with saliva and precum.

“What a pretty girl you are,” praised Lucius, in between hissed breaths and stifled groans. He held your head back by the hair then, and pulled your lips from his cock.

“You were made for this. Know just how to please your superior.”

A cruel gleam shone in his eye as he looked down on you, and he rubbed his cock over your face, coating it in your spit. His words rang true in a way that made you whimper pathetically. The humiliation burned. You broke out in a heated sweat, but the terrible empty throbbing of your cunt was enough for you to stay put. He pulls your head back on his cock, immediately pushing into your throat again.

“Just like that, sweetheart,” he groans. The satisfied sadism in his expression has you dripping. “What great things even you can accomplish if you receive the right guidance.”

His ‘guidance’ came in the form of an insistent hand fisted in your hair as he fucked your face, without any care for your comfort. Now that his length was wet and slimy, it went in easier, but it still made you gag. You tried your best to hollow your cheeks, wanting to prove to him how good you could be. A small part of you, at the back of your mind, was disgusted by your actions and more so by how easily Lucius exploited your submissive streak. Yet, when you glanced up and saw the pleasure etched into his face, that voice quieted down. He looked sinfully good from this angle, and you enjoyed it through tearful eyes as he pushed at your gag reflex once again. In, out, slower, feeling the drag of your tongue on the underside of his cock, and moaning filth behind clenched teeth. Then, having enough of your tongue, his pace increased, pushing into your deeper and without mercy.

Eventually he let out a satisfied groan, and he pulled out from your mouth, drool spilling onto your blouse, and he stroked himself to completion, groaning harshly as he came. Hot, sticky ropes of cum painted your face. You gasped at how unexpected of and end it was, face burning at how degrading it was to sit there and take it, stunned at the audacity of this man. It may be true that you craved this from the moment you first met him, but that didn’t change that it made you feel both disgusting and desired like nothing else could.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, filthy girl?” His gloved hand twisted in your hair, angling your face so he could admire you. “You will leave this as it is. Merlin, you enjoy this, don’t you? Made such a mess of yourself. Filthy fucking slut.”

His words came through gritted teeth, and you feel the strength he’s holding back as he forced you to stand by your hair. You yelped. The cum left a nasty pulling sensation on the skin as it started to dry. You felt used, so used, and his disgust showed clearly on his face. Nevertheless, he pulled you close, forcing your head to his and he kissed you, with open mouth against your cum covered lips. Without a care that his cum smeared his face as well as yours, and the bitter aftertaste that it left in his mouth, he devoured you hungrily.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, voice rough. You obeyed. The moan he let out as he pressed his lips to yours again was the most lewd sound you’d ever heard. Your tongues entwined, the taste of his seed mingling with saliva. It was gross, but in the best way. You made him like this, was the thought that shot through your mind, you made him gross and lose control. And you did all of that just by being you.

Teeth clashed and you winced, but he barely seemed to notice. He was so rough, so uncoordinated, yet it was the hottest thing you ever felt. Spirals and sparks of heat radiated in your belly. The hand in your hair let go, to great relief, and wrapped around your throat instead. The kiss grew fiercer still. He consumed you. All of you. His teeth tugged at your lips, nipping harshly enough for small stings of pain, but they were soothed over with the warmth of his tongue. His nose pressed against your face with how far he leant into you, how harshly he pulled your face against his.

This hunger was a world away from his earlier disgust.

When he let go, his pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, passionate and heated. He wiped the cum from his nose and lips, and licked it from his gloved fingers. Your eyes fluttered just at the sight of him. And it was you who caused this, who brought out this side of him, all dishevelled, messy, stained… All for you.

“It seems you do know your place well, dear librarian. How about a reward, then? Do you think you deserve one?”

All you could do was nod.

He pushed you back until your ass hit your desk, and he lifted you up until you were seated. “Legs wide. Good girl.” He spread your thighs as he stood between them. His gloved fingers dragged over the sensitive skin of your innermost thigh. You were positively throbbing. Have you ever felt arousal this strong while completely untouched? You hated him for it.

“Please, Mr. Malfoy,” you whimpered, already growing impatient.

Tugging at the cotton of your panties, he said, not a question, but an order: “Why don’t you take those off for me.”

You stumbled to comply. Before you could say anything, he silenced you by sliding two fingers in your mouth, and you wet them without being prompted to. The leather tasted like his cum, bitter. The texture was pleasant on your tongue. He hummed, pleased, as he slid his fingers out.

“Who knew you’d be such a quick student? But then again, they do say librarians have a wide variety of knowledge.” And his finger found your clit. “How’s that?”

You whined sharply as he increased the pressure, but didn’t move his fingers, still depriving me of the friction I craved.

“Or rather here?” and he slid his fingers to your slit, dipping in, before moving back up, bringing the slick with them. “Aren’t you a wet little slut.”

His middle finger slid in to the knuckle, with embarrassing ease. You moaned softly, brow furrowing. It felt right. So right. So perfect. This is what you were made for, for such a feeling, of being filled, of being used by a man as beautiful as Lucius Malfoy. Your eyes locked and your heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his stare.

“What a sensitive young woman you are,” he said, voice soft, yet with a darkness to it. “No one’s touched you this good before. And no one will, after.”

He pulled his finger almost out, then pushed it back in, setting himself a slow and deep rhythm, curling it deep inside. Each time he hit that spot inside, your gasps and moans became a little higher, a little more desperate. You clung onto his shoulders, and he leaned so close your noses touched.

“You look quite beautiful like this… Who knew it would be this fun to put a librarian in her place?” it almost seemed he talked to himself moreso than to you. One finger became two, but his pace remained the same. Steady, in, out, in, curling, out. The drag of his gloves made it even better, and when you looked down, they were wet and creamy from how wet you were. You whimpered as he followed your line of sight, and slammed back in harder. And harder. Now that his pace was steadily increasing, so were the sensations, growing hotter quick. He tipped you over the edge and you nearly screeched – but he kept going, the orgasm prolonging itself until you reached a second high, so high it was painful - and he moaned along with you, slowing but not pulling out. When he finally stilled, both of your breaths were sharp, as though you’d just ran up five flights of stairs. He kissed you again, messily, as he pumped in and out just a few more times, enjoying the twitches of your aftershocks.

“What a good girl,” he purred, and he pulled out. The feeling of emptiness was jarring and you clenched around nothing. His fingers slipped past your lips, and you sucked them clean obediently. “What a good girl,” he repeated, with emphasis and a fond undertone. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

Even after coming down from the orgasm, the hazy feeling stayed, making your head swim as you looked at the man in front of you. He kissed you again, and it was borderline uncomfortable with the drying cum still on your face. He was softer, a wet kiss, he was savouring you.

“I dearly hope this isn’t the last I’ll see of you, my sweet librarian,” he said, and before he left, with a wave of his wand, he grabbed your panties and left with a last, lingering look over his shoulder. “Although I expect you to behave from now on.”

Before you went to sleep that night, you replayed what happened over and over again, and despite the unsatisfiable desire, there was also anger. This man has a wife! You were livid. How could he do this? Not even the degradation – but that you let yourself be treated like that by a man who has a wife!

The next day, during your lunchbreak, the largest bouquet of roses you had ever seen was delivered to the library. There must’ve been more flowers in it than in the entire flower shop in Hogsmeade. The ridiculous arrangement sat on the desk, crowding over all the books. The delivery witch had you sign for them, but refused to tell you who they were from. You shook your head, as you sank down on your chair, staring at them. You didn’t have a vase big enough.

While you were preparing and cutting the stems, you found a note. ‘L. M.’ Was all it said and it filled you with annoyance.

Lucius. Your eyes shot fire at the mention of his name. How dare he play this off in this way. What a condescending gesture, to buy you roses just to stake some sort of claim on you. To remind you of what the two of you did the day before, to keep you in line. Resolutely, you throw the note in the paper bin. Perhaps you should send him a note too, and tell him to save those roses for his wife.

Now what? This many wouldn’t even fit in any garbage bin - not without attracting a horrible amount of attention. Perfectly pristine flowers thrown away would cause enough drama, more than keeping them would. So you, sigh, and continue trimming the stems, getting your anger out with each snip. There was enough to set a few flowers in small vases, or mugs, when those ran out, on each table in the library. The anger had faded by the time it was done, and you looked out over the suddenly very colourful library. Who will water them each morning? You’d never get around to your actual job like this.

What was left of the encounter, was that nagging feeling, of being special. Special enough to have watched such a powerful man as Lucius Malfoy become undone. You smiled softly as you stacked several returned books in your arms. Perhaps this wasn’t over yet.

#lucius malfoy #lucius malfoy x reader #lucius malfoy smut #lucius malfoy fanfic #lucius malfoy fanfiction #lucius malfoy x you #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #lucius malfoy imagine #harry potter #death eaters #lucius malfoy x female reader

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dragonss-in-the-north · 4 months ago

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The year is 1965. You’re George Crawley’s son. You’ve been caught kissing boys at Eton. Your father is taking you back to Downton for a few days. He doesn’t seem angry. You are so, so frightened that he’s angry. At home, your father sends a letter with the evening post. Two days later, he talks on the phone in a hushed voice for quite a while. You worry he’s called for a priest, or a doctor, or even Grandmamma, a terrifying, black-clad figure from hazily remembered trips to the south of France.

Instead the elderly man who turns up speaks with a Mancunian accent and wears a funny, leather glove on his left hand. You both sit in the garden. After he’s lit his cigarette, the stranger hands you an orange. You don’t like oranges, particularly. He tells you that Papa isn’t disappointed; no one’s disappointed who’s worth a damn. You don’t have to marry if you’d rather not, he says. You don’t have to do anything you’d rather not. It’s the twentieth century, for God’s sake.

Orange peel comes away in uneven patches. Segments of flesh leave your fingers sticky with juice. You eat the whole of it. Not so bad, after all.

#downton abbey #thomas barrow #george crawley #fanfiction #mine

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strawberryforks · 10 months ago

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concussed // adrien agreste x reader

summary: falling in love with your best friend in and out of the suit goes a little like this…

warnings: head injury, akumas

word count: 1126

a/n: requests/asks are open & encouraged!

you’re not supposed to fall in love with you best friend—it’s a universal rule. sure, sometimes you hear about the success stories. childhood friends to lovers is a trope and a popular one. books are written, movies are made, and who doesn’t love them? the problem is: it’s fiction. it’s all just fiction. in reality—your reality at least—you fall in love with your best friend and you’re screwed. it becomes the world’s best kept secret because you’re not the only one crushing on your best friend, adrien agrest, model and son of the designer gabriel agreste and you’ll be damned if you ruin the friendship.

something you never expected was that your best friend felt the same. and because you didn’t expect it, you couldn’t accept it. anything remotely romantic adrien did, you rationalized.

his leg brushed up against yours? coincidence.

he brought you chocolates? he was your best friend, he knew you liked chocolate.

one night, he changed strategies. although it was unconsciously...

mid-akuma battle chat noir was injured. it was bad enough he couldn’t keep doing his job. he wasn’t helping ladybug, only endangering her further and he couldn’t bare it. with his heartbeat feeling like it was in his head; like a drum smashing against his skull loudly and painfully, he barely managed to perch (he would’ve said purrch had he not been so dizzy) on your windowsill. chat noir tapped on the window pane. it was late but you couldn’t sleep. dark, but you cradled your phone, watching for updates on the latest akuma attacks. when something knocked against your window you jumped up. you grabbed the baseball bat propped up against your closet door and hesitantly approached the window. when you opened it a body fell at your feet. you raised the bat above you head and then you saw a tail… “chat noir!?”

“hey… y/n. sorry for dropping in i think i used a few of my nine lives.”

“how do you know my—you know what, that doesn’t matter! are you okay? what happened?” you asked but before he could answer, you continued rambling. “well i saw the footage on the ladyblog but! just stay here, i’ll… i’ll go get the ice.”

the leather clad hero rolled over, gloved hand over his eyes as he groaned. “oh god, no. here,” you help him up onto your bed and gently push him back into the pile of pillows. “stay here. i’ll be right back.”

“sure thing purrincess,”

“i was hoping you were so concussed you’d forget the puns.” you say on your way out.

your mom asks you what’s going on, and you tug down your pant-leg, revealing a bruise on your knee from the day before yesterday when you fell up the stairs. “just grabbing some ice and then i’m heading to bed.”

“alright hun. sleep well.”

you go to leave and she stops you. “tomorrow you and adrien are meeting up for icecream and i’m assuming you’ll be coming back here to game for awhile. that’s fine, just remember to leave your door open.”

you smile, nod, and head back to your room. you’ve got a large ice pack that you pass to him and after opening your drawer, you pass him two ibuprofen. “i don’t know if those work for superheroes, but here’s hoping.”

“thank you.”

“you don’t have to thank me, chat. you’re the hero here. you owe the citizens of paris nothing and we owe you everything. i won’t lie, i’m pretty confused about how you know my name and well… where i live but… i won’t push.”

“lb’s always saying how important our identities are but you’re my friend and—“

you press your hand over his lips, mind working at a million miles a minute. you shush the feline hero and move some of the blonde hair out of his eyes. his green eyes. “get some rest, i’m going to use the bathroom!”

you all but sprint to the washroom. hands braces on the counter you breathe deeply and splash water into your face. you weren’t ready for this kind of relevation—that adrien, your adrien, was chat noir. the chat noir. part of paris's hero duo.

its fine. it’s okay. it’s perfect, actually. you’re freaking out a bit but he’s still the same person. your panic ceases when you realize this is a good thing. him being in danger constantly is terrifying but him having a way to avoid his father that doesn’t involve you being his one and only saving grace lifts a weight off of your shoulders.

with your composure back, you go out there. thank every ethereal force there is, because he’s fast asleep.

you debate taking the floor but it’s adrien. it’s adrien, and you two have shared a bed before, is what you remind yourself when you crawl in next to him and hike the comforter up to your neck.

when you wake up your alone in your bed and your window is open just a crack.

that night, chat stops by again. he brings you “thank you” flowers and some cookies ladybug—who’s a strangely awesome baker—made, to share with you.

“adrien! hey! i missed you.” you didn’t miss him that much, you’d seen him yesterday. you just missed being able to know him, talk about any and everything, and see all of his face. not the mask wasn’t flattering, you best believe it was, just you loved being able to see all of him. to adrien, knowing you knew all of him too? the pieces of him that made him chat noir too. it would be everything. you know how much it’d mean to him and knew that keeping tbis secret must’ve been killing him. you were a big ladybug fan, but a bigger chat noir fan (bigger your-best-friend fan) and if ladybug was the one who was making him keep this secret? well, it’s not like you could do much but unsubribe from the ladyblog. and if adrien was the one wanting to keep his identity secret? you don’t know what you’d do—whatever reveal you go with will suddenly suck.

“thank you natalie,” you say when she opens the gate and lets adrien out without forcing his bodyguard to tag along.

you get your icecream and when you’re given a cone thats black with green icecream and a paw print and he receives an icecream that matches you perfectly. adrien’s hand falls to the back of his neck “well this is awkward…”

you grin, “is it really?”

“what do you mean?”

“well—you uh, hit your head pretty hard, that’s all. and uhm, said some stuff. basicallyiknowyou’rechatnoirandit’sokaybecauseiloveyou.”

“you love me?” he echoes.

“i do, and have for awhile. i love all of you.”

“i love you too. but that doesn’t mean i’ll go easy on you when we play ultimate mecha strike 3!”

“wouldn’t dream of it!”

#mircaulous ladybug #chat noir #adrien agreste #adrien agreste x reader #chat noir x reader #x reader #akuma #adrien agreste x y/n #chat noir x y/n

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a-leg-without-fear · 3 months ago

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Entre, Rouge🩸🔥

this is very silly

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 666

Warnings: story is told from Wade's perspective. need i say more?

Phew!

Okay, that last Wolverine didn’t quite work out. Several stab wounds in the shape of adamantium kebabs aside, I just wasn’t a fan of his vibe. The puffy hair, the leather ensemble, and the missing hand? No thank you. I’d like an intact Wolverine with access to a shower and a hairbrush to help repair my universe.

I sat on the log I once shared with the extremely-departed Logan. Lots of blood and guts spilled everywhere, pieces of TVA agents and metal bones strewn about the snow, thick snowflakes falling through the naked trees and onto my illustrious red suit.

Oh, I should probably introduce myself.

The name’s Wilson.

Wade Wilson.

Wade Winston Wilson.

Doctor… Esquire.

Also known as the ever sexy and permanently alive Deadpool. Sure, I look like the gum-covered underside of a highschool desk, but it doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop in my quest to fix my universe and save my friends. Like Lancelot and his Holy Grail, I’m going to find a Logan and shove him into my timeline until he fits. Or do whatever happens in that story.

The little dimension doohickey I nabbed from discount Mr.Darcy sat in my gloved hand. Lots of retro graphics and shiny buttons made it look like a flip phone, but fancier. I was scrolling through universes to try and find my next target.

“420? No, I don’t think I want pothead Logan. 69? Now that’s just too obvious,” I muttered with a laugh while flipping through universes. The numbers scrolled by like etch-a-sketched fruit in a slot machine. Except without the pants-tightening excitement of winning a jackpot.

My yearning for walking through rows of old geezers sitting in their own piss puddles while mindlessly playing the slots was overtaken by a fascination in the universe that filled the screen. Confetti exploded in my head like an edged bottom who’d held out as long as he could.

“Bingo!” I said, jumping up from my spot on the crumbling log. My fabulous boots made a nice crunching sound as I walked through blood-stained snow.

Earth-80085.

The Legiverse.

A universe filled to the brim with horror, trauma, copious sex scenes, and hyperfixations switching faster than Nosferatu fiddling with his light switch. You know the one.

I jammed the “go” button on the doohickey and a huge portal appeared in front of me. Orange, glowey, translucent, door shaped. Kinda looked like jello if you squinted.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked myself, naïvely, “I’ll get burst like a blood-filled water balloon by Leg’s OC of the week? Nah, she wouldn’t do me like that.”

Taking in one last chilly breath of determination, I skipped through the portal.

What I was not expecting to step into was a bedroom.

Pale green curtains blocking out any sunlight, wooden walls with cutesy pictures, cat towers and toys scattered on the carpeted floor. And…

Is that… moaning?

My head whipped in the direction of that delicious sound. Rumpled and soaked sheets, wooden headboard slamming into the wall behind it, bed creaking under the rapid movement.

And there, tangled together in the way God definitely didn’t intend, were you and Logan. Him driving into you, toned abs flexing with each thrust and fluffy hair bouncing, with you squirming and moaning beneath him. Logan’s rough hands felt along your lucky hips.

“Damn,” I whispered. Why did you get to have all the fun? Can’t I get a little Lo-Lo action?

I hung my head, disappointed, as I pressed the “leave” button on the doohickey. It wasn’t fair! Readers get to fuck whoever they want, however they want, whenever they want. They even fuck me on a regular basis! And where does that leave poor Deadpool? Either in another fanfiction or taking care of myself the ol’ fashioned way.

Ignoring the growing discomfort in my rather-flattering pants, I stepped back through the stupid doorway to continue my search.

Why are all the good ones fucking, crucified, killing me, or Henry Cavill?

i got drunk and watched the third "night at the museum." this popped in my head while watching hugh be a silly man

Want to be on the taglist? Fill out this form!

#wolverine #logan howlett #hugh jackman #deadpool #wade wilson #ryan reynolds #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool fanfic #wade wilson fanfic #wolverine fanfic #logan howlett fanfic #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #the legiverse #this is STUPID i hope you enjoy it

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sabohime · 11 months ago

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♡ 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐦𝐚𝐬!

sabo x fem!reader

♡ . what happens when you take my favorite holiday and my favorite kink and put them together? this!

♡ . tw. breeding kink, pregnancy kink, tummy bulge, being tied up, gloved vaginal fingering, plenty of pet names ‘princess’, ‘doll’, ‘mama’ etc, slight orgasm denial, uh wow this really got away from me!

♡ . zoro. luffy. sanji.

Sabo had returned home in one of his moods.

After months away doing Revolutionary work, he hadn’t seen you, his darling girlfriend, in far too long. Meaning, the only release he’d had for almost a year was his fist. Which did not compare to your pussy. At all.

Now you were tied to the headboard, his leather belt rubbing your wrists red. Your blond god of a boyfriend had one gloved hand on your knee, keeping your legs spread perfectly wide for him.

His other hand, however, was busy pumping two thick fingers into your dripping cunt.

“You like that, doll? Bein’ stretched out like this?” His fingers curved, hitting that special spot inside of you. You were so close to that high. Tears rolled down your cheeks, his fingers working you up only to slow just as you nearly reach climax.

“Ah ah,” he tuts, removing his fingers and licking the drippings off of his glove. “Good girls cum on cocks, sweetheart.”

He positions himself above you, leaning down to kiss away your tears. He chases the droplets with his tongue, kissing down your neck and collarbones. Sabo licks at the numerous marks left on your pretty skin. He bites down hard, right above your nipple. You cry in pleasure, longing to grab his hair and pull. But Sabo doesn’t untie your hands.

He leans closer, tongue swirling around the hardened bud of your nipple. With his hand, still gloved, he pinches your other nipple and palms your breast.

“Look at these, darling,” Sabo says, his hot breath fanning against your nipple, which is wet with his spit. He cups your tits in his hands. “Imagine how they’d swell with milk when I knock you up.”

Your breath hitches. You feel slick gush from your pussy just from his words. He chuckles.

“You like that, Y/n? The idea of getting knocked up?”

Sabo’s face is barely a centimeter from yours. His heavy cock rests on your belly as he leans in. The blond captures you in a needy kiss, and the feeling is so euphoric you don’t notice that Sabo had undone the belt keeping your hands tied.

“Sabo!” you yell, throwing your arms around his neck to connect his lips with yours again. You grind your hips upward.

“So needy for me, princess. Want my cock that bad?”

“Bo, stop teasing!” you whine. Sabo grins.

“Don’t whine, mama. I think I know how to satiate you.”

In a swift motion, Sabo picks you up and flips you around so you’re on your hands and knees. His cock prods at your entrance, thick head parting your sweet lips. The rough leather of his gloves graze your nipples as he squeezes them harshly. One of his hands moves down to your stomach.

“Isn’t this nice? Soon there’ll be a hot, potent load right here. Right in my Y/n-chan’s womb.” He pushes the tip in. You moan at the intrusion.

“Do you think it’ll take right away?” he pushes another inch inside you. “Or will I have to keep breeding you and breeding you?” another inch.

“Your cunt is so greedy, princess,” he hisses. “Suckin’ me in so well. Damn, I think it’ll take right away.” He bullies the rest of his cock into you, his fat tip brushing against your cervix. But he doesn’t move. He presses kisses to your shoulder and rubs the bump in your tummy from his cock. Suddenly he removes himself until just his tip remains inside you.

“So, what do you think, Y/n?” he grunts in your ear. “That I’ll stuff you with twins?” he bottoms out inside you and you scream. You can practically feel his cock inside your womb. “Triplets, even?”

The visual almost brings you to orgasm: waiting patiently for your Revolutionary husband to return— in his absence you’d grown completely gravid with his kids, stomach round and swollen all because of a single night. How your tits weep with milk, how your hips and ass had grown even wider. How your pussy practically controls your day to day, needing to stop and beg your husband to fuck you.

With that fantasy, you close your eyes tight and scream Sabo’s name, your walls fluttering and clenching around him. He comes with you, shooting a load deep into your womb. Once you both catch your breaths, Sabo laughs.

“Sorry, princess. I got a little carried away.” He nuzzles your cheek, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“S’okay,” you mumble, still blissed out. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Y/n,” he responds, kissing your head.

#♡ sabohime.writes #one piece smut #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #sabo x female reader #sabo the revolutionary x reader #sabo x you #sabo x reader #sabo x y/n #tw breeding kink #tw pregnancy kink

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lovesickeros · 1 year ago

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☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 3 ]

{☆} characters neuvillette, wriothesley, furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.9k {☆} previous [ 1 ] [ 2 ]

Wriothesley was not a man of superstition. He did not kneel at the altars until his knees bled, he did not pray until his voice gave out– he did not, contrary to popular belief, suffer divine punishment for his apparent lack of respect.

After all, what Divine would look so deep beneath the waves just for a glimpse of the sinners that inhabit it?

Not them, evidently.

He hadn't slept in the past four days, though. There was a heavy air of something where ever he walked– it followed him like a thick fog, lingering and choking him until it dragged him to his knees like a chain. His thoughts inevitably linger on the striking, extravagant letter so conveniently adorning his desk at the fortress– the broken wax seal, the letter tucked into his pocket.

He'd recognize the seal of the Iudex any day. Wasn't often he spoke to him– but the shaky, distorted words hastily etched into the paper made him pause. Neuvillette always had a steady hand– elegant, flowing script that him of flowing water.

It had kept him up for days.

The implications were..haunting. He'd poured over the letter for hours, illuminated only by faint light of his desk lamp. Yet no matter how many times he tries to see what must be hidden beneath the ink, the paper itself even, he finds nothing but the shaky script of a request that sends a bolt of pure frost through his veins.

He noticed, of course, the odd goings on of Fontaine. He'd heard vague whispers of the Divine's hunt for the imposter– he'd heard, too, of the ceaseless rain pelting Fontaine until even he wondered if the nation would finally sink beneath the waves.

It didn't, though. And that only made it all the more odd. Days of constant rain, just for it to stop suddenly..he tugged his coat tighter around him, throwing up the hood of the cloak clasped even tighter over it with a grunt as he leaned around the corner of the alleyway.

He didn't believe in superstition, but this was too hard to ignore as a simple weather anomaly.

Maybe that was why he ignored his gut– he knew that this was probably a trap, at the very least it was suspicious. But damn it, he couldn't ignore the instinct to follow the only lead he had.

His boots clicked against the rain stricken streets as he stalked through the shadows, mindful of the clinking of machine patrols just a few streets away. Yet every step felt heavier then the last as he took a long, good look at the Palais Mermonia. He almost considered bringing out his gauntlets, but he thought better of it– if it came down to it, he needed information. And he would need whoever was waiting for him alive for that– the dead don't speak and all that.

The letter's directions led him in a..rather roundabout entrance to a secluded room, evidently, as he lifted his hand and quietly knocked against the door. Two rapid knocks, pause, another knock, pause, four knocks. It doesn't take long until he hears the latch of the door unlock.

The leather of his gloves creaks as he clenches his fists, adjusting his stance. He's ready for a fight, if he must, but as the door quietly slides open he feel the weight on his shoulders relax slightly– the familiar, sharp features of Neuvillette meets him. He almost reflexively smiles at the way his pupils turn into thin slits, a momentary surprise that he quickly hides well behind a cough and the creak of the door as he pulls it open fully.

"Wriothesley. I see my letter has found you well. Please, come in." Polite as ever, Neuvillette steps aside to let him in, but he can see the exhaustion lining his features– the bags under his eyes aren't as well hidden as he thinks, at least to him. "Bit odd to be inviting me all the way out here in the middle of the night, don't you think?"

His tone is smooth as he steps into the room, brushing down his hood and glancing at Neuvillette over his shoulder, watching as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

"I apologize for the..less then ideal circumstances, but I'm certain you will understand when you see for yourself." He wants to retort, but the Iudex beats him to it, vaguely motioning to the room behind him. An invitation– but he wonders if it's worth taking.

His gut says no, but he's feeling a little risky today, he supposes.

He turns back slowly, barely able to make out the two figures he'd missed on the first glance on the other side of the room– though it's hard to mistake the flourish of the Hydro Archon, even in the dark. It's the other figure that makes the breath hitch in his throat, though.

Or maybe, more accurately, it freezes. So does his blood, his whole body even, locked in stasis for a long, tense moment– he can't see them clearly, but his instincts are going haywire. He can feel his vision almost rattle where it rests against his left shoulder, cold leaking through the layers of clothes and into his skin until he has to fight to suppress a shiver.

He'd always fancied himself the hunter– he was the one who dealt with unsavory folks, in the end. But he felt like a rabbit pinned beneath the crosshairs of a gun this time. He could almost feel the teeth of the bear trap snapping shut around him, crushing bone and flesh beneath cold metal.

For a long moment he thinks he feels fear.

And with a sharp click and a burst of light, it's gone and he takes a raspy, choked breath as he blinks away the blurriness in his vision, taking in the room illuminated by the lamp.

He's not sure what he sees is better, though.

Because his body knows that their Divinity is as real as the blood running through his veins.

So why do they remind him so much of himself? Why does he see the look of the boy who died in a pool of blood not his own in them?

It is a sick, cruel kind of familiar.

Wriothesley didn't believe in superstition– but that was born of the unknown. He knew, now. He could reach out and touch the truth with his own two hands.

The throne of the world was a lie.

The thing sitting on it bled red. And if it bled, it could die.

He clenched his fists tighter– and released, letting his shoulders slump with a huff and a half hearted chuckle. "I wasn't expecting you to be in possession of a wanted criminal when you sent me that letter." He could see the gears whirring in their heads, the subtle dampness in the air reminding him just how delicate a situation it truly was.

He wasn't particularly inclined to getting blasted by a jet of water today.

"Relax, I'm not going to spill to anyone else. Seriously– don't get my jacket wet. It's expensive and a nightmare to dry." His lips quirk into a half smile, but it twists into something almost genuine at the laugh covered up by a cough he hears from the Divine. Bingo.

"It's fine, Neuvillette. Let him go." Their voice is like honey dripping from their lips, and he has to close his jaw with his hand before they can see the way it dropped in his surprise. "Of course, most Divine. My apologies." He relaxes at the sharp click of his heels as he joins them on the bed, his posture far more relaxed then he's ever seen. The Hydro Archon, much to his confusion and amusement, is far too invested in playing with their hair to pay much attention to him now that things have calmed, evidently.

Huh.

They seemed pretty cozy about it, he noted. He guesses they three of them had some time to get acquainted.

"So..who's going to explain what the hell is going on?" He probed, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the three carefully– they all looked tired, but even through the exhaustion neither seemed inclined to stray too far from the Divine. "And what exactly your plan is? You can't keep hiding them here forever. Someone will sniff them out sooner or later."

"We are aware," Neuvillette interjects, lips pursed into a thin line and his thin brows furrowed. "But as I'm sure you've noticed, the hunt for the..forgive me, most Divine, but the hunt for the alleged imposter is still at it's peak."

He grumbles in acknowledgment, hanging up his cloak by the door and sliding out of his heavy coat, resting it over the back of a nearby chair. "Hm. Suppose that's why the patrols are so common now a days."

"I'm afraid so. As you can imagine, we cannot simply ask them to..stop the search. It would draw unwanted attention and suspicion. The Divine would be found immediately if we tried to bring them out of the city at the moment." Neuvillette added, looking proper and elegant, despite the circumstances– even in the face of the Divine and the Archon turning on him and tugging his hair into intricate braids. "So I hope you understand that it was a great risk to send you that letter."

He rubs his chin, huffing in amusement– a solid plan, maybe, but his power didn't extend too far out of the Fortress. He had his connections, sure, but what use were they when he had to get the, uh, "imposter" out of Fontaine? Smuggling them out wouldn't be easy, and then there's the point of where to take them they'd have to contend with.

"Yeah, yeah– I get it. But it's not like I can just smuggle them out or keep them in the fortress. Even if we got them out of the city, we'd have to find somewhere to bunker down, and if someone spots any of us lingering there.." Archons, what a mess he'd gotten himself into. He was really looking forward to the next time he could kick his feet up with a cup of tea.

"I understand. I have already made plans, in fact." Neuvillette hesitates, and he can feel the temperature drops a few degrees. "I..cannot share them in full at the moment, but it is not for a lack of trust." Neuvillette reasoned, hands folded neatly in his lap– not that it hid the way they shook slightly. He wanted to ask, but he thought better of it.

"Eh, I don't hold it against you. The walls have ears, even up here." He deflected, running a hand through his hair. He really hoped Sigewinne wouldn't ask too much when he gets back. "I trust your judgment." He hesitates for a long moment, pulling out a simple, neatly folded letter of his own.

"Memorize the code words, then burn it. I'll be waiting for your next letter." He murmurs, plucking his coat and cloak and tugging them back on one after another, shuffling back over to the latched door. He hesitates again, his hand lingering on the door.

"I just hope your plan is worth the risk, Neuvillette."

He leaves before he can respond, the harsh click of the door ringing in his ears even as he steps back into the shadows of the night.

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #imposter au #genshin cult au #genshin impact cult au #furina #neuvillette #wriothesley #furina in the back just awkwardly sitting there bc she aint fighting wrio KHSDKHFKHJ #she was there for his trial when he killed two adults as a CHILD shes not fighting the adult version no ty #also writing reader to be as lowkey eldritch horror as possible. they r just playing nice rn but :)#reader collecting fontaine chars like pokemon cards #anyway wow i wonder what his plan is...wonder who it is he's involved besides wrio.......haha #cough cough #:]#looks at my other fics. haha.........ha....#anyway #slowly bringing in the key players one by one but it's probably gonna be in multiples now #if u guess correctly who neuvi is making plans w u get a lopsided gold star sticker that says “good job!” :]#i promise the lore will make sense soon (it wont im making it up as i go along)#if u see any typos no u didnt #zzzzzzzzzzzz gn #fic tag

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ink-n-shadow · 1 year ago

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Omg I am so head over heels for your bodyguard!simon AU ;w;

Nah because with my sensitive ass the “M’ not touching you again” would instantly make me sad like SO fast :’3

so, how would he react if she got all pouty because he said that? Because in all actuality she definitely wants him to touch her more often, yknow? Like it ain’t even gotta be sexual…probably-

🍋-

i like the way you think, anon🍋 >:) this one's not sexual (unfortunately) BUT it is cute and a bit angsty so enjoy

CRYBABY

𝜗𝜚 the one where you're drunk and bodyguard!ghost has to comfort you

𝜗𝜚 pairing: bodyguard!Simon "Ghost" Riley x rockstar!reader (link to all works in this au) 𝜗𝜚 cw: mean!ghost at first, then soft!ghost, crying for something small, drunk!reader

"what did i say when you were on vacation last month, hmm?" ghost grumbled as he lead you through the lobby of your apartment building, keeping a grip on your upper arm. "m'not. fucking. touching you like that."

you had gone out with the rest of your bandmates, having a few drinks (way more than you needed) to celebrate the upcoming release of your first album. you weren't completely wasted, but you were damn close—your face flushed, steps a bit wobbly, eyes bleary.

ghost kept as much distance between you two as he could, but he knew he had to help you walk. so he gripped your upper arm to steady your steps, walking slow enough to help you keep pace with him. he glared down at you, but when he noticed the pout on your face and the tears beginning to form in your eyes, his eyes softened.

it wasn't the usual bratty pout you'd use—no, this one appeared legitimately sad.

"y-you're so mean, ghost. i just—" your sentence paused in the middle as a hiccuped sob shook your chest, your free hand coming up to wipe at the tears and smearing some mascara down your cheek. "i just wanna hold your hand. but y-you don't like me. why don't you like me?"

ghost let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head a bit as he approached the elevator and pushed the call button. he moved to stand in front of you, his grip on your arm falling away. "dove, c'mon—you're ruinin' that pretty makeup on y'face." he thumbed at the mascara on your cheek, frowning under his mask as the black only smeared more.

you tried to push his hand away, but the amount of alcohol in your veins made your movements slow and uncoordinated. "i don't care, ghost. just like you don't care about me."

"god—would you stop that?" ghost grumbled out in frustration as he ran a hand over his mask, trying to regain his composure before looking back down at your teary face. he lifted a hand up to grip your chin, forcing your eyes on him. "i obviously fuckin' like you. i wouldn't be walkin' you home from the bloody club if i didn't, 'kay? you're just drunk right now—and you get a bit emotional when you're drunk."

you sniffled up the tears lodged in the back of your throat as your unsteady eyes met ghost's, skin warming at the way his gloved fingers trapped your chin in his grip. "t-then why won't you just hold my hand? i-it's not like i'm asking you to kiss me or date me or somethin'. it'll make me feel better."

ghost let out a scoffed breath as he turned away from you, shaking his head and grumbling something under his breath before you felt his leather-covered fingers lace with yours. the elevator dinged and pulled open with a hiss, and ghost gently tugged you inside with a squeeze to your hand. "there—happy now? gonna stop being a little crybaby about it?"

as soon as you felt ghost's hand in yours, a drunken smile smeared across your lips, warmth coating your skin as you stumbled into the elevator behind him. "you have big hands."

"jesus." ghost muttered with a shake of his hand, using his free hand to punch the button for your floor and watching the elevator doors close in front of you two. "don't get used to this, 'kay? m'only doing this because you're bloody cryin' over it."

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

#iNs requests ⭒#bodyguard!ghost ✰#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley headcanons #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod mwii #ghost headcanons #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost mw2 #call of duty #simon ghost riley headcanon #iNs Simon “Ghost” Riley 💀

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padfootagain · 1 month ago

Text

Love in Verses (XIX)

Chapter 19: ‘I knew winter cold like the nuzzle of fjords at my thighs’

Hi! Here is new chapter! Today's chapter contains... an update on Saoirse and Sean, a man a little controlling in the kitchen, poetry, and our best boy Elwood!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3119

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Bog Queen

I lay waiting between turf-face and demesne wall, between heathery levels and glass-toothed stone. My body was braille for the creeping influences: dawn suns groped over my head and cooled at my feet, through my fabrics and skins the seeps of winter digested me, the illiterate roots pondered and died in the cavings of stomach and socket. I lay waiting on the gravel bottom, my brain darkening, a jar of spawn fermenting underground dreams of Baltic amber. Bruised berries under my nails, the vital hoard reducing in the crock of the pelvis. My diadem grew carious, gemstones dropped in the peat floe like the bearings of history. My sash was a black glacier wrinkling, dyed weaves and phoenician stitchwork retted on my breasts' soft moraines. I knew winter cold like the nuzzle of fjords at my thighs– the soaked fledge, the heavy swaddle of hides. My skull hibernated in the west nest of my hair.

Which they robbed. I was barbered and stripped by a turfcutter’s spade

who veiled me again and packed coomb softly between the stone jambs at my head and my feet.

Till a peer’s wife bribed hil. The plait of my hair, a slimy birth-cord of bog, had been cut

and I rose from the dark, hacked bone, skull-ware, frayed stitches, tufts, small gleams on the bank.

Seamus Heaney, North, 1975

Saoirse reckoned that at this stage, there was more caffeine in her organism than blood, or water, or any other normal component of her body. She was made of cheap coffee, her brain buzzing with chemicals and lack of sleep. At this point, her entire body was trembling…

By her side, Sean wasn’t much better. He had been procrastinating, and now he was paying the price with too much to be done in too little time.

Damn, exam season was something else… A new kind of hell, no doubt…

The library was about to close, that was how late it was. They gathered their stuff five minutes before closing time, and headed for the night. The cold burned Saoirse’s cheeks, although for once it wasn’t raining. It was snowing, instead… how great… she could get frozen and wet…

“Christ’s sake, don’t tell me it’s fucking raining again,” Sean complained behind her.

“It’s snowing.”

“No better. God, my feet are gonna be soaked.”

She looked down at his old boots, the leather visibly tired.

He heaved a sigh.

“Want to eat something before we go to our dorms?”

“A burger. Something that will give me diabetes and cholesterol just by looking at it.”

“Fuck yeah… extra fries too.”

“Of course!”

She almost slipped as they climbed down the few steps leading to the library, and Sean held her hand to steady her. They were both wearing gloves, and yet she felt warmth spread through her fingers as he held her. At the bottom of the steps, they didn’t let go, merely walked across the campus in silence, their feet making the thin layer of white snow crack under each of their steps. It was late, barely anyone was around anymore. Streetlights were tainting the snow a yellowish white, and the world was quieter than usual. It was a special power of the snow to make the world slow down, to make everything quiet. Saoirse was thinking about her exams though, about the book she had to finish for your class, about the notes she had to read again about Yeat’s poetry, and there was this essay she had to finish…

Both of them looked up when a voice rose over the stillness of the night.

“ANDY! LOOK! IT’S FUCKING SNOWING!”

Saoirse recognised you instantly, you were hurrying out of a building, arms spread open and face up to meet the falling snowflakes. You were laughing.

And then another silhouette came out of the same building as you, so tall it was easy to recognise Pr. H-B. He was laughing too, watching you enjoy the snow, his deep voice rumbling through the night.

“I see that,” he nodded, readjusting his man bun under his beanie.

“I hope it won’t melt too fast,” you pouted, looking at the white that covered the grounds, the leaves of the bushes, the empty branches of the trees, the wooden benches. “I want to make a snowman. And a proper one!”

“I want to send a snowball right into your face.”

You exploded with laughter, and he broke into a teasing grin.

“And I thought you were a peaceful lad!” you teased, reaching up to pinch his side, which made him giggle more like a boy than a grown man.

“Never said that I was!”

“You softy…”

You shook your head at him, let the snow fall on your cheeks and your closed eyelids again. Nor you nor Andrew seemed to have noticed Saoirse and Sean though, as they slowly kept on walking across the grounds, looking at their professors’ silly behaviour from afar.

“Christ, I’m freezing… let’s go! I’m starving.”

“So, you’re really going to cook for me tonight?”

“Yeah, I can make you something decent,” Andrew nodded, already turning in the direction of the carpark.

He groaned.

“God, I have to take Elwood for a walk. Fuck…”

“We can go together! It’ll be fun!”

“It’ll be fun to freeze our arses outside? Don’t worry, I’ll do it. You’ll catch your death.”

Saoirse saw you bending over a bench to gather snow in your hand. Not much, but a handful. You crept behind Andrew, went on your tiptoes before pulling on his scarf and pressing the snow against the back of his neck. He yelped, jumping in surprise and cursing like a sailor while he wiggled to get as much snow out of his scarf as he could, while you laughed so hard you were bending over and losing your balance.

“Fuck you!” he groaned, and yet there was a breathy laughter in his voice. “I’ll pay you back for that…”

He hurried towards the nearest bench, gathered some snow as well, but you were running off already, laughing. He ran after you, laughing as well, and managed to throw his snow ball to hit the back of your head. You yelped and doubled with laughter at the contact, but then you slipped, were falling on the icy ground.

Saoirse and Sean both gasped as they saw you falling, but heaved a relieved sigh when Andrew bent down and managed to catch you before you would hit the ground.

“Christ! You’re okay?” he asked with genuine worry, and you looked up at him as he pulled you upright again.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” you mumbled as you found back your footing. “That was a nice shot, by the way.”

“One of my many talents, I’m a killer in snowball fights.”

“Your tall arse also must make for a very good target.”

“Depends, I can easily disappear. I just pretend to be a scarecrow, nobody notices me.”

You laughed at that, and so he smiled.

“Let’s go home,” he spoke in a softer tone.

Saoirse noticed that he was still holding onto your arms, she noticed the longing that appeared across his features for a moment when you pulled away, the way he stared at you as you started walking again, babbling about dinner and hoping he wouldn’t poison you. And then he blinked, seemed to find back the use of his muscles, and followed you.

Saoirse stared at the pair of you walking away, a smile forming on her lips.

“What are you thinking about?” Sean asked, noticing mischief in her eyes.

“He likes her.”

“What?”

“H-B. He has a crush on Y/L/N.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you seen what just happened? The longing?!”

But Sean blinked, and she heaved a sigh as she pulled him further across the grounds, aiming for the large portal and the busy street of Dublin.

“Men…” she mumbled, shaking her head.

“ELWOOD!”

You had barely passed the door that you knelt to greet Andrew’s dog, generously petting him and complimenting him for no other reason than the fact that he was an incredibly good boy.

You didn’t see the grin on Andrew’s features as he looked at you, the warmth that made his cheeks turn a brighter shade of pink.

“Yes! I’m so happy to see you too! It’s been weeks! I’ve missed you!” you cooed, scratching him behind his ears, and Elwood happily wiggled his tail.

He excitedly licked your hands and cheeks, making you laugh.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Andrew chuckled, bending to scratch his dog’s head as well, diverting his attention so you could stand again.

You made a mental note to buy Elwood a toy, next time you would come over. He was too adorable, deserved all the treats and gifts…

“Alright, I’ll go cook us something.”

“What have you planned?”

“Erm… I can do a decent pasta dish if you want. Like… with a sauce and everything.”

“Hmm… sounds nice!”

You followed him inside, but he stopped as you were ready to enter his kitchen, and turned to you with a serious look on his face.

“I have a rule though. You stay away from the kitchen.”

“What?”

“I don’t like it when people cook with me.”

“Oh… so you are a control freak,” you teased, but he seemed more offended than you had anticipated.

“Of course, not… just… don’t cook with me.”

“So, you’re a control freak, but specifically in the kitchen, then…”

He rolled his eyes, but yielded.

“Alright, maybe I’m a little controlling in the kitchen. I just… like things to be done a certain way. Or maybe I simply have terrible friends when it comes to cooking. You should see the look of those poor vegetables after Alex had ‘cut them’. An outrage, really.”

“I have a special skill though. It’s my superpower.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“I can cut fruits and vegetables in perfectly even pieces.”

“What?”

“Like… if I cut an apple in half, it’s almost perfect!”

“So… your superpower is decently chopping fruits and veggies?”

“It is,” you nodded with fake pride, making him laugh.

“I mean… at least, it’s a useful skill!”

“What’s your hidden skill?”

He looked at you for a moment. You could see that he was hesitating, you gave him an encouraging nod. He blushed as he spoke again, his voice growing quiet.

“I can sing.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I already know that! I know you used to write music, I know you still like it. You’ve told me you used to sing in a choir too.”

“I sang at Trinity. Anúna.”

“Really? That’s high-level stuff!”

“I still play gigs sometimes.”

Your eyes widened. You couldn’t control your brain as you imagined Andrew standing on stage, singing, looking hot…

You pushed the thought away. Reminded yourself that you were colleagues, friends, and nothing more and this was out of line…

“That’s awesome!”

“Hmm… yeah… I’m playing a gig on Saint Patrick’s day, in fact,” he added, growing increasingly nervous as he went on, he actually turned away from you and started picking up plates and knifes and vegetables throughout his kitchen. “With Alex and the old gang. Erm… and it’s also my birthday, so we’re having a little party about that, nothing fancy, just… a barbecue if the weather allows. You… you could come, if you want to.”

Your heart felt warm at his words, at the thought that he wanted to share this passion of his with you, that he wanted to spend his birthday with you too. You tried to hide how excited you truly were, refusing to look too much like some kind of creep…

“I’d love to come!”

He froze, threw you a side glance, but there was a hopeful smile tugging at his lips.

“Really?” he asked, voice almost a whisper.

“Of course! Sounds like a way to get free beer and get hammered at your expense. Sign me up!”

He laughed at that, but the grateful look he gave you let you know that he wasn’t fooled by your joke.

“Also… are we going to mention that you were born on Saint Patrick’s Day? Like… that is disgustingly patriotic of you,” you teased, leaning your back against the sink so you could stand next to Andrew and look at him.

“Hey, it’s not that bad! Always a day off work, everybody is available, and if they’re not, then they’re just lying gobshites,” he beamed up as you laughed. “Also, my dad pretended the parades were for my birthday as a child.”

“Ha… that explains the size of your current ego…”

He laughed at that, washing tomatoes and stepping closer to you to do so. You didn’t budge though. You tried to ignore that you kind of longed for that sudden proximity…

“Right… I bet I’m insufferable.”

“I mean… you are… just not because of an ego problem,” you smiled at him.

“Because of what kind of problem then?”

You noticed a shift in his tone, and you hated it. You knew he was kind of serious now, that he was growing anxious. You saw it in the way his shoulders bent, how he tried to look smaller than he truly was. You gave him a mischievous grin, made sure he knew you were still joking around.

“You won’t let me show you my unbelievable skill!” you answered, dissolving any trace of stress that was left in the room.

He laughed, standing straighter again, before handing you a knife.

“Alright, show me.”

You made a show at placing the knife on the nearest tomato, and Andrew stared at you with glee, highly entertained by your antics.

“AND…”

You cut the tomato in two fairly even pieces, and Andrew dramatically inspected the fruit. You tried hard not to laugh, but quickly failed.

“Not too bad,” he admitted, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

You threw your fist in the air in victory.

“So… does that mean that I can cook…?”

“Nope!”

You laughed at him, finished cutting the tomato you were still holding. Andrew eyed you for a moment, before sliding some vegetables your way.

You gave him a cheeky grin in return, one that coloured his cheeks with red.

Andrew shooed you out of the kitchen after all the ingredients had been cut though, claiming that you didn’t have a special skill in cooking, but only in cutting, and you yielded after some further teasing; you set up the table, then aimed for his living room while he busied himself with his food, claiming it was almost done. You played with Elwood for a bit, then busied yourself with a meticulous inspection of Andrew’s bookshelves.

A tender smile formed on your lips at his extensive collection of Heaney’s poetry. You picked up North, the collection you had been reading lately. You were not surprised to find traces of many reads on its cover and alongside the pages, with sticky notes here and there. You were not surprised to find the extensive notes slipped between the pages enclosing ‘Come to the Bower’ all through to ‘Strange Fruit’.

“It’s ready!” Andrew called after you, stepping into his living room to bring you back to reality while your eyes travelled through the first verses of the ‘Bog Queen’.

You looked up at him while he approached, tilting his head to the side. There was no animosity in his voice when he spoke, it was soft and warm, on the contrary.

“It’s impolite to snoop around.”

“I’m only assessing your taste.”

“And? Your conclusion?”

You smiled up at him.

“Not too bad.”

He chuckled, but there was something tender in his gaze. Something that made your heart skip a beat.

He bent a little to see what book you were still holding, he hummed as he nodded.

“I do love Heaney a lot,” he admitted.

“I know. I’ve started reading his poetry again, you know?”

“Really? What made you pick it up again?”

“You.”

His relaxed smile faltered, and for a moment, you cursed yourself, thinking you had been too direct, that you had spoiled everything. But then you noticed that he was blinking, saw his eyes shining a little while he averted his gaze.

When he spoke, his voice was so soft you could barely hear it, deeper than usual too, it made your heart beat faster, shook your frame with a shiver.

“That’s… that’s really fucking nice, Y/N. That… that you did that.”

“I saw the books sitting on my shelf the other day, and I know how much you love these poems. It made me think of you. So… I’ve started reading them again.”

Slowly, Andrew nodded, before he would clear his throat.

“Thank you,” he repeated, although you weren’t too sure of what he was thanking you for. It seemed natural to you.

“I see you have a lot to say about bog bodies, and I am not surprised,” you added, showing the pieces of paper tugged safely between the pages.

Andrew chuckled, rubbing at his neck as he grew a little uncomfortable.

“Right… yeah… I do love those an awful lot.”

“Hmmm… I had guessed. Actually… we should discuss them! That would be fun!”

It was your time to avert your eyes now, though, to grow uncomfortable. Fun? To you, perhaps, but Frank had showed you time and time again that nobody else was interested in talking about these things…

“God! Yes! What do you want to talk about? Like… the macabre aspect of it? The political side? The mythical side?”

When you looked up at Andrew, he was grinning, excited like a little child in a candy store. His hand was slightly shaking when he pushed his glasses up his nose again.

“Oh, and… you know, I’ve bought the Divine Comedy too!”

“What?” you asked, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

“Yeah, I just… I… saw it at the bookstore the other day, and you love it, so I wanted to give it another try, and we have so many points to discuss! I’m almost done, not quite though, but there are so many elements that I want to go through with you… Like…”

He stopped his rambling as you blinked up at him. You must have looked stupid, while you tried to register what Andrew meant.

He had bought that book to read it… because you loved it. Just so he could… talk about it with you… without you recommending it to him or lending him the book, he just… He saw it. Thought of you. Bought it simply because of you. Read it because of you. And now he wanted to discuss it with you…

You blinked tears away. It was ridiculously simple and yet… no one had ever done that. Frank had definitely never done that for you…

“I… I’d love to talk about that with you,” you spoke in a softer voice, a grin slowly forming across your lips.

You were staring at each other for a moment, your hands still holding one of his favourite books, his eyes fixed on yours. God, his eyes… the green that dominated the brown tonight, like leaves on a summer afternoon, vivid and bathed with gold… you couldn’t look at anything else in the room, in the world, in your life…

You noticed that the space between your faces was slowly diminishing. You noticed that Andrew wasn’t that tall anymore, or rather, that he was bending closer. Closer. Closer…

You felt something bump hard into your leg, making you lose your balance for a second, although you recovered almost instantly. When you looked down, Elwood was staring up at you, waiting for your attention.

You laughed, scratching his head.

“The food is going to get cold,” Andrew mumbled under his breath, and you tried to ignore how much he was blushing now. You carried the book in the kitchen as you followed him, Elwood in toe.

God, had you dreamt this? Had Andrew tried to kiss you? Were you… were you ready to let him?

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