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hottpinkpenguin · 6 months ago

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Letting Someone Go - Part 4

Benny Cross X Female Reader A/n: so incredibly happy by how many ppl are enjoying this series! thank you for supporting me. part 1 is here! part 2 is here! part 3 is here! Word Count: 3569 Warnings: cursing, alcohol and drug use, description of sexual assault **if you want to skip that part, I have highlighted the section to skip in red, so you can still enjoy the story**

Zipco came into the living room with a freshly brewed pot of steaming coffee. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the flimsy curtains he had drawn across the windows that looked out onto the street outside. You were sprawled out across the couch in the same position you’d been in when you landed on it the day before and sunk into a dreamless sleep. There was a blanket slung across your back - courtesy of your host - and a wafer-thin pillow tucked under your chin. You wiped sleep from your eyes and twisted to meet Zipco, who gave you a weary smile.

“Mornin’,” he muttered as he set down a mug for you and filled it with coffee. You accepted it eagerly, relishing the warmth seeping into your palms. The first sip burned your tongue and the roof of your mouth, but it felt good. Took your mind away from-

“You comin’ today?” Zipco’s question caught you off guard. You raised a questioning eyebrow at him as you forced down another scalding sip of coffee.

“Bonfire.”

MC tradition after a member died was to get piss drunk in a field somewhere in front of a huge, roaring bonfire, swapping stories and fighting and racing. Yesterday, the Vandals had been on their best behavior for Brucie’s family. Today would be a different story. Charters from all over would be coming in for the bonfire, including some non-Vandal-charters who wanted to pay their respects. That meant riders, old ladies, kids, friends of the club. It was the kind of gathering that MC’s lived for, the stuff of legends. Brucie being right-hand man to Johnny Davis, founding member and president of the original charter of the Vandals, meant that this would be a once-in-a-lifetime gathering. Against yourself, you knew you wouldn’t miss it. You couldn’t. This lifestyle was in your blood.

You nodded in response to Zipco’s question. “‘Course I am, Zip. Beats sittin’ alone on your shit couch, at any rate.”

He caught the tease in your voice and rolled his eyes. “Too early for your smart ass mouth,” he replied as he stalked off towards the back of the house. A few minutes later you heard the sputter of his showerhead, followed by the slam of his bathroom door.

Alone for the time being, you let your thoughts slide around in your head. You felt ominously still, like the brief hush before a raging storm. Your focus bounced from one thing to the next, like your mind knew that lingering on something too long would bring your fragile composure tumbling down. You sipped your coffee some more and refilled your mug, mulling this surprising emotional state over. You’d expected to be unraveled. Seeing Benny yesterday had certainly started that process, but somewhere between the funeral and crashing on Zipco’s lumpy couch, your passion had been thrown on ice. The emotions were the same - longing, emptiness, uncertainty, humiliation - but they’d lost their intensity. Like a picture that had been drained of its colors until it was almost black and white.

Zipco’s bathroom door opened, hitting the hallway wall with an angry smack. You turned around to see his large frame disappear into the back bedroom, a dingy towel wrapped around his waist.

“Shower free?” you called out. He grunted in response, which was as close to civility as you could expect from Zipco before at least 3pm.

Uncrossing your legs from underneath you, you set your half-full mug on the coffee table and walked off to the bathroom, yearning to wash off the memories of yesterday that clung to you like static. You had an unnerving premonition that you were dancing dangerously close to an edge, and once you tipped over it you had no idea what was below. This bonfire was liable to be an absolute meltdown, full of free booze and bad decisions. Lucky for you, you had the perfect dress. Red and reckless: just like your mood.

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

Benny’s thoughts were sour and getting darker by the moment as he pulled up to the bonfire. Kathy practically leapt off the bike behind him, eager to scurry away from the memory of the fight they’d had earlier that afternoon. Benny didn’t even watch where she went; he swung his long leg over the seat of his Harley, propping up the kickstand and stalked off in the opposite direction. He fumbled with the lighter in his pocket a few times before he gave up, chucking the cigarette hanging from between his lips into the bushes with a curse.

The sky was still stained with sunset, but the woods and fields around the farmhouse where the bonfire was happening were already dark. Fireflies were beginning to dance amongst the shadows. All things considered, a perfect night. And it was pissing Benny off.

Just about everything pissed him off these days. Ever since Brucie got killed, Kathy had been climbing up one side of him and down the other, chirping in his ear day and night about quitting the club, no more riding, me or the club. Benny had never been one for words. How he’d ended up with someone who talked incessantly was beyond him. He’d heard of the idea that opposites attract, but hadn’t anyone ever heard of oil and water? Some elements in nature just weren’t meant to mingle. The longer Benny tried to listen to Kathy, the less he wanted to. He’d heard it all before, and it was never going to change, just like he wasn’t. A war of attrition, he supposed.

And then, there was her. The girl from his past. Strange of her to turn up now, after being gone so long, he thought to himself as he approached the throng of people gathering around the steadily growing fire. He could hear the deep thump of bass emanating from the house, and behind him the soft sound of someone retching against a tree. She’d always had an edge to her, something a little bit dark and a little bit scary, but she’d only gotten harder in the four years since Benny had last seen her. A needle of guilt buried itself deep in his chest as he realized he helped make her that way. He could still see her face the night he’d packed up and left. She’d looked so small, so helpless, sitting there at her kitchen table clinging to that mug like a life vest, begging him with her eyes to say something, say anything. Another prime example of words failing him.

Benny stopped a few paces back from the crowd and scanned the dancers and the drinkers for Johnny, or Zipco, or Cal, or really anyone he recognized. Hell, he’d settle for Funny Sonny at this point. All he saw was a sea of strangers. Lots of dark eyes, club patches, beer bottles tipped up against lips, unkempt beards and long hair. No friendly faces. No one he wanted to talk to.

Must be in the house, he decided. The number of people here was putting him on edge. Johnny had said they were expecting a big crowd - massive, really - in Brucie’s honor. But where the hell did all these people come from? Benny didn’t know Brucie’s past before the club, but he doubted that these strangers with dark eyes knew him. They’d gotten wind of a big shindig and decided to hitch a ride for free beer, drunk women, and rabble-rousing. Ticks on the back of Brucie’s memory, sucking the Vandals dry, fucking freeloaders. Benny kicked a few empty bottles in frustration, ignoring a cry of protest from someone as one of the bottles hit them in the ankle.

He climbed the rickety back steps of the farmhouse, surprising a couple who were pressed up against the peeling paint of the house, half undressed and tangled together. Bonfires like this were usually mayhem, but it was barely dark and Benny could already feel a palpable tension in the crowd. Most of the people he’d seen so far were too drunk and too unfamiliar to make him feel comfortable. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as he opened the screen door and stepped inside. The kitchen was crowded, so full that Benny couldn’t move without bumping into someone. There was a heavy cloud of smoke in the air - Pall Malls, Marlboros, and a healthy dose of weed - and Benny saw that some of the Milwaukee charter boys were sniffing lines of powder off the counter.

“Benny!” Wahoo materialized out of the crowd, his eyes glassy and his speech slurred. Benny hadn’t realized how tight his jaw had been until he unclenched it, relieved to see a familiar face.

Wahoo sidled up to Benny and offered him a half-drunk bottle of Budweiser. “Took ya long enough! We’ve been toastin’ Brucie, you been missin’ it.” Benny smiled as he tried to maneuver Wahoo backwards and out of the kitchen. The smoke and the crowd was grating on his last nerve.

“Wahoo, how you doin’?” he replied softly, his eyes scanning the rest of the house. “You seen Johnny at all?”

“Yea, yea, Johnny’s in there.” Wahoo’s attempt at pointing failed miserably, but Benny caught sight of Zipco and Cal just in time. They were sitting on a couch in another room, laughing and talking gently amongst themselves. Of the people he could see, Benny recognized most everyone in there: Funny Sonny, Greg Tillaman from the Milwaukee Vandals, Cockroach and Corky. Benny squeezed between two backs, muttering apologies as he went. He made a mental note to ask Johnny not to have a ridiculous throwdown like this when his time came.

He caught sight of Kathy, leaned against a wall with a beer in her hand, talking to Johnny’s wife Becky. Kathy caught Benny’s eyes as he stepped into the room, but she quickly looked away with pursed lips, shifting on her feet as if to angle further away from him. Benny scoffed, his patience paper-thin at this point, as he brought Wahoo’s donated beer to his mouth and gulped down a lukewarm mouthful.

Distracted, he bumped into something - someone more like. “Shit, sorry,” he murmured automatically before he registered who it was.

She turned around, fixing him with those big doe eyes. Four years gone by and those eyes still held sway over him. Her eyes had always been the softest part of her, and sometimes Benny saw them in his dreams. But this wasn’t a dream, and those eyes were full of fire.

“Y/n.” Benny couldn’t remember the last time he’d said her name. Although it still felt good. Natural. He felt his shoulders relax an inch as he caught her eyes and held them.

It took him a few moments to really take her in, head to toe. He’d seen her yesterday, at the funeral, but she’d been different then. Like a hawk on a wire, all tight and knotted up in that black dress. But tonight, she looked as calm as a millpond, that little wrinkle between her eyebrows smooth as glass. And that dress. Red and tight. She’d always looked good in red, Benny thought. It was the color of her spirit, cinnamon spice and blood and fire. Based on the way every pair of eyes in the room kept darting over to her, Benny knew he wasn’t the only one who was transfixed by that dress. Like a phoenix rising from ashes, she was captivating. And she knew it.

“‘Ey, there he is!” Grateful for Johnny’s interruption, Benny broke eye contact with her and walked over to his friends who greeted him with a cheer. For the first time since he’d pulled up to this party, Benny’s mood lifted just a bit.

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

“Damn honey, where these Chicago boys been keepin’ you all these years?”

You were too drunk to figure out which of the three guys you were dancing with made the comment. It was difficult enough to hear over the boom of the bass and the din of the crowd. The beers and shots and joints you’d enjoyed earlier weren’t helping, either. You managed to lift your head and flash a sloppy smile, hoping you’d directed it in roughly the right direction. There were hands roaming over your hips, wrapping around your waist and playing with the creases of your dress. Your body felt loose like cooked noodles, thanks to the vodka, so you just swayed and rocked and let it happen. Nothing you couldn’t handle.

Where the hell was Zipco? He’d shuffled off a few minutes prior, promising to come back with fresh beer. In the process, he’d left you with… well, whoever these guys were. Johnny was gone too, and Wahoo and Corky. You’d heard them say something about Cockroach, but you hadn’t caught much of it, what with the loud bass and the alcohol. Benny had skittered off shortly after he’d bumped into you - literally - much to your dismay. You’d decided after that, what the hell, drink up. Seeing Benny, being that close to him again, touching him: it had knocked something loose inside you. Instead of how you’d felt yesterday at just seeing him - like you’d been electrocuted by a live wire - tonight you felt like you’d been submerged under water. You were moving too slow to catch him, just like four years ago. So you just gave yourself over to the current.

You’d lost track of the time a while ago, although you sensed it was late. The crowd had thinned a bit, the less rowdy partygoers calling it a night before the scene turned ugly. You’d already seen two fights, neither one particularly interesting and (thankfully) neither involving the Chicago boys, your boys. You’d had enough to drink to do something reckless - like get yourself into a fistfight - if you saw someone throw a haymaker at Zipco, Cal, Johnny, or any of the other guys. Something primal always came out in people at these types of gatherings. There was mingling and socializing between chapters, but at the end of the night, you looked out for your own. Always.

“Whaddya say we take this somewhere more private?” Whoever was muttering in your ear smelled like an ashtray and badly needed a shave. His stubble was unpleasantly prickly on the shell of your ear, and when he exhaled against your cheek you could all but taste the pack of cigs he must have chainsmoked tonight.

“Nah, I’m good here!” you replied, louder than necessary. Your tongue was starting to get tipsy, knocking into your teeth and tripping over the syllables in your words. You giggled at the sound of your own buzz, and a hiccup escaped; you stifled it with the back of your hand.

Stubble was back, and the hands around your waist were starting to push harder. “C’mon baby. I’ll be good to you.”

You swatted at his hands. “Just wanna dance!” you insisted. You threw your arms up in the air and let them wave around like seagrass in the tide to emphasize your point.

The hands remained around your waist and stopped moving. They’d encircled you, you realized. You looked around, shocked to see that you’d drifted way off to one side of the dancefloor, towards the stairs.

“It’ll be fun.” Stubble was trying to lift you off your feet and get you to climb the stairs, you noticed with a prick of fear. You reached out and grabbed the wall, staunchly planting yourself on the floor.

“I said no.”

“Hear that, boys? She said ‘no’.” Sarcasm. A big man with long black hair and a bushy beard that was even longer was suddenly at your shoulder, laughing at you with Stubble.

“After all that dancing she’s been doin’. All those flirty little glances. All those dirty fuckin’ looks. And that fuckin’ dress.” Someone else was speaking now, someone who’d stepped ahead of you and Stubble and was in the stairwell, looking at you like you were a piece of freshly butchered meat. Who the fuck were these guys anyways? Where was Zipco?

The haze of alcohol and weed was suddenly unwelcome. Somewhere deep inside your mind, there was an alarm bell ringing, but your body was sluggish to respond. You tightened your grip on the wall, willing the faces around you to come into focus.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” you spat, hoping you’d sufficiently conveyed your refusal.

The guy in the stairwell narrowed his eyes and gave you a wolfish grin. You felt Stubble’s arms tighten around you in the same instant that you felt someone grab you under your upper arm. Between the arms at your waist and your armpit, you felt a lurch as they lifted you off your feet.

“What the fuck?” You kicked out, landing a hit on Stairwell Guy. He barely buckled, that feral expression on his face turning to amusement.

“We’ll show you what wearing a fuckin’ dress like that gets you.”

It was at those words that you felt like you’d suddenly woke up.

You don’t know how many times you screamed it. Clawing at the walls, kicking and flailing and trying to make yourself as dead a weight as possible as three grown men tried to pin you down and lift you up the stairs. There was a naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling like a pimple at the top of the stairwell. As that lightbulb grew closer, you felt your panic reach a fever pitch. Two darkened doorways on either side of the lightbulb watched dispassionately as you screeched and shrieked and fought like hell in that stairwell. You called out for someone, anyone, everyone you could think of: Zipco, Johnny, Cal, Wahoo, Cockroach, Sheila, Corky. Benny.

Their names tore out of your throat like a curse. You hurled it at the men trying to force you into one of those dark rooms at the top of the stairs. You bit on whatever piece of soft flesh you could get to and kicked your legs until you felt your muscles burn and weaken. One of the men had managed to tear your dress at the shoulder, exposing your chest and brazier. You twisted, trying to cover yourself, and collided with a hand as it smacked you clean across the face. Your vision went black momentarily as the pain ripped through you like lightning. You tasted the tangy metal of blood and felt it spill out of your nose. The taste turned your stomach, and you felt dangerously close to vomiting.

You felt yourself beginning to fade, your strength waning as booze and terror and pain took over. The men were climbing the stairs faster now, and you heard the ominous clink of someone undoing their belt. You salvaged what remained of your energy and devoted it to screaming. Demands, pleas, bargains, curses, but mostly names. The names of your friends, your family. Where were they?!

“Shit, SHIT!” You felt yourself drop like a sack of bricks in the same instant that Stubble took a face full of Zipco’s fist. Close behind him was Johnny, his eyes murderous as he glanced down at you before roaring up the stairs to deal with the other two. You tucked your legs in, hastily pulling your dress down to cover your rump and up to cover your chest. You watched as Zipco kicked Stubble down the stairs, colliding against the wall at the base of the stairwell with a heavy thud. He’d barely come to a halt before Zipco was on him like a beast, fists moving faster than you ever thought possible for the grumpy Latvian.

Your awareness was fading in and out like a staticky radio station. You heard yourself sobbing and felt yourself wiping the blood off your lips, but you felt detached from your body, as if your mind were floating away and upwards into the quiet of the night sky. You tucked your legs up even tighter, wrapping your arms around your knees and squeezing. Holding yourself together.

A feather light touch on one shoulder caused you to startle so violently you fell down to the step below. Strong hands caught you deftly, arresting your fall further, but then quickly released you. Palms up and backing away, giving you your space.

“Woah, woah, baby. It’s me, it’s Benny. I got you.” And there he was, blue eyes all swimming with care and concern and gut-wrenching beauty. Your guardian angel.

After the initial surge of adrenaline wore off, you collapsed against him as sobs threatened to shred you from the inside out. He carefully wrapped his arms around you, hesitantly at first, but then firm as you grabbed at his jacket, his shirt, anything you could reach. He let you fall apart a bit, and quietly held you together. The sounds of Johnny and Zipco beating whoever those so-called “guests” were to bloody pulps began to fade, the music began to fade, the sound of your own sobs began to fade. After a while, all you could hear was a heartbeat.

“You ready to go?” Benny whispered against your temple. You nodded, exhausted. He nodded, standing up and lifting you in his arms without a word, and carried you out of that godforsaken stairwell. You didn’t bother to ask where you were going, you simply let him set you on his bike, wrap your arms around his waist, and ride off into the darkness…

**read chapter 5 (the end!) here

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#bikeriders #bikeriders imagine #benny cross x y/n #benny cross x reader #benny cross imagine #benny cross #benny cross x you #austin butler x y/n #austin butler x you #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine

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astonmartingf · 6 months ago

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NOT MY FAULT ; FA14

dbf!fernando alonso x ex-red bull engineer! reader . . . if there are many fish in the ocean then fernando alonso is a catch, and it's not your fault if you fell for his hook, line, and sinker.

amgf a lot of appearances from other drivers, an actual plot! allusions to toxic work environment, red bull drama, the math is not mathing but okay. enjoy!!! thank you for still being here pwahaha it's been a while lbh but i hope you enjoy it like always!!!! wchagt update soon along with other wips <3

The only good thing that came out of your mother remarrying was the new found relationship you built with your step father, granted it took a while to get there- you first met him he was twice your age and dating your mother. Growing up you spent your formative years in the Red Bull garage answering math equations with Adrian Newey behind you, Sebastian Vettel laughing as Newey hands you a different worksheet after another.

It was an unusual dynamic, you mother 13 years older than your stepfather, being friends with your stepfather’s rival and teammate, it was unlike any other, but something you wouldn’t replace for the world.

“Is it true you’re leaving Red Bull?” You were greeted with an over enthusiastic Oscar Piastri as you visited the McLaren motorhome using Mark’s pass. Your lip presses into a thin line, brows raised with a shrug from both shoulders leaving the younger groaning in frustration.

“I’m taking your silence as admission, also entering a McLaren motorhome on a race weekend? Seems like they finally fired you, it’s giving jobless.”

You roll your eyes, “This is a motorhome Osc, not your garage, I doubt they’d be hiding any of your data here, not like they’re secrets to me. Also they didn’t fire me, technically I was the one firing them since I will be leaving the team.”

“So you are leaving Red Bull.” Oscar deadpans, while you hiss as your tongue slipped faster than the thoughts in your head. You just promised yourself you won’t tell anything to anyone before you discussed it with your stepfather.

Arms crossed to your chest, you face Oscar with the biggest smirk plastered on his face, proud for taunting you out on revealing your plans for the next seasons. “Well now that you know, I personally would like it if you kept your mouth shut. Mark doesn’t know yet and I plan to tell him before finalizing the contracts.”

Raising his hands with a small nod, Oscar moves leading the way to his quarters where you find your stepfather. “You’re free?” Mark looks up from the files in front of him glancing back and forth from you and Oscar. “Are you two in trouble?”

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes, “No, why do you immediately think that? I for one am responsible, as for Oscar he can handle himself and no, we are not in trouble. I need your help.”

Just hearing the four words leaving from you, Mark closed the folders in front of him grabbing his keys, standing up. “Where do you want to go?”

It’s been known that the team principal has a preference for Daniel Ricciardo, the same can be said for Helmut with Yuki and Max, but for Newey it was you. Everyone in the team was well aware of your relationship, Newey taught you everything you knew about engineering and cars.

News of you leaving Red Bull wasn’t broadcasted on any social platform as you wanted to quit the team quietly, not bound to any long term contacts, yet within the team, your move was associated with Newey’s future whereabouts as whispers of him leaving Red Bull increased as the days went by. “You didn’t tell me you’re leaving Red Bull.”

In front of you sat Newey, bringing forth a cup of coffee and the waffles you ordered prior. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving as well.” You scrunch your nose, whispering touché under your breath before taking a sip of coffee.

“So, I’m assuming you told your father. Why did you leave?” You take a stab of the waffles, mulling over your conversation with Mark last week. “I told him what happened of course. You know why I left, it’s because of him. Well, partially. Everything was just slowly building up you know, they pushed me to the corner, I left. Simple as that. Mine’s boring, tell me yours. Why’d you leave?”

You felt Newey’s heavy stare into yours, “I heard what he told you, after that I left hoping to convince you to leave but you’ve surprised me once again.” Blinking, you put down the forkful of waffles in shock. Studying his demeanor, Newey continued taking bites of his club sandwich as if he didn’t drop the biggest revelation in front of you.

“You know you’re contractually not allowed to poach anyone right?” Newey rubs the crumbs off of his hands glancing at you with an incredulous look on his face. “I thought you knew me better than anyone, people always assumed I put Max in my clause. He’s a big guy who can handle himself, I put your name in. If I were to leave, I could take you from me. You know Horner said something along the lines of that when I ended my contract one year earlier. He asked about you- if you convinced me to leave. I told him you’re smarter than that, then I- are you crying?”

You raise your hand to your cheeks, wiping the tears you didn’t notice were falling off. “I just thought you’d stay there, and of course I would 100 percent support you wherever you went, I didn’t think you’d stick up for me when I left.” Now you were just full on bawling in front of him, early morning in a semi-busy cafe on a Friday morning.

Newey laughs at you, throwing a napkin at your face. “I hope you’re ready to receive love calls for the next few days, we’ll be looking for some new prospects.”

You know time is of the essence, and when Newey advised you to keep an eye out for calls, you didn’t think they’d be calling you in the early mornings. Maybe it’s timezone differentiation but with the calls you’ve been getting for the last months have been more than alarming. A groan leaves your lips, before glancing over a familiar contact photo.

“Are you coming to China?” “It doesn’t seem like I have a choice now does it? Sounds like you want me to go now.” You hear movement from the other side of the line, “Yes, we’re stopping by to pick you up, get ready in 30 minutes.” “30 minutes? Am I not given time to prepare?” “Just bring yourself, if you’re worried you can use my money to buy whatever you need.” You scoff, jumping out of bed. “Just because I’m unemployed doesn’t mean I’m broke.”

“Are you sure you want to pay?”

“Hell no, I thought unemployment meant time for myself, didn’t think I would have to wake up at 4 AM catching flights to the Chinese Grand Prix.” You hear Mark’s laughter from the other side of the phone. “You better start getting ready, I’m on my way.”

“Never thought I’d see you sell me to another team. I thought I was sitting with you in the McLaren garage?” You explain to your stepfather as he walked with you to the Aston Martin garage.

Mark shook his head from your antics, “It’s a favor for a friend, you know to learn and see the company and team… it might make you enthusiastic to join.” You raise your brows listening to him sell the idea. “Are you not poaching me to join McLaren? Or are you worried about nepotism?”

Mark raised his hands to his face, panicking at the mention of nepotism right in front the Aston Martin garage, glancing around before shaking his head in disapproval while you’re giggling as he fusses over you. “I know you’re old enough to do this but please behave yourself, I just want you to see for yourself and not just because my friend asked for a favor, but I hope you enjoy yourself. I doubt McLaren is having any issues but if they wanted you, they would have to talk to you themselves instead of beating around the bush from me.”

You smile to yourself, “What about Aston Martin? What’s so different? And this favor from your friend, you must be really close with them, you’re offering my time so easily.”

“Fernando personally asked me to invite you.” You raise your brows glancing at the mechanic working on his car, “He couldn’t do it himself huh… Okay. I guess he had to go through such lengths seeing as he’s using you to invite me.” You take the ID Mark prepared for you, your name embossed with Fernando Alonso’s Guest below.

Your eyes wander around the green walls of their garage, you envision yourself in a dark green uniform, sitting on one of the pit lane garages looking over data. When Newey told you to prepare for new prospects you began looking around different teams, McLaren first and foremost due to Mark being involved, dabbling in offers from Mercedes and Williams, even from the junior Red Bull team which you immediately turned down, not wanting to be associated with the team any further.

The news of Newey leaving hasn’t left the confines of Red Bull, despite Newey mentioning you as the reason he left, you don’t believe it’s the whole truth. You could be a partial reason, but there are many more underlying reasons behind his leave, especially to him who spent almost 20 years with the team, Newey leaving came as a shocker even to you, but what you’re waiting for is his future plans.

You watch Mark slowly disappear from your sight, leaving you alone and for the first time in the 20 years of your life you felt exactly that. No one would have prepared you for what happened in the last two months of your life all leading to you leaving the first team you joined and spent your childhood in.

Sending a message to the only person you knew who spent his time in both Red Bull and Aston Martin garages, your phone rings as Sebastian calls you instead of answering your message. “Fernando invited you to the Aston Martin garage?” You stand from your seat to a quiet corner in the garage, away from the hustle and bustle, but more for your privacy.

You rather no one listen to you talking about one of their drivers in his garage. “He asked Mark for a favor apparently, I was whisked away from my apartment to come here in China, now I’m in his garage, only for qualifying though so that’s that I guess.” The silence on the other side starts to make you question your own response.

“That's not the reaction I was hoping for. That’s that? That’s it? Where is the energy?” You roll your eyes at his implicating tone.

“It left the moment I got unemployed.” Sebastian laughs on the other side of the line, “Sounds like he’s trying to promote you as an elite employee.”

“Where the fuck are you learning these from? It’s so unlike you, has retirement made you younger?” You shout at your phone appalled by the words you never once thought would leave his mouth. “I kid, I kid. But you know what I think that message was?”

You sigh, trying to ignore the clammy feeling of your palms as you inch the phone higher to your ear, “I think that was a call for help. All those years of denial haven't changed? I’ll say this, green doesn’t look like a good color on you.”

“Fuck you Seb, calling you was a mistake.” Pressing the button furiously, you end the call. It’s funny how Sebastian always knows how to get on your nerves, maybe you were somewhat similar to your stepfather. That, or Sebastian is easily a mischievous prick who you’re unfortunately friends with and one of the only people who knew about your little something with a certain driver in the grid.

Your phone chimes, a reply from Seb, “I hope you get uncomfortable in his garage while you think back to your escapades in Barcelona, in the summer of 2019.”

It’s not your fault that of all the men available on the face of the earth, your eyes linger a little longer on Fernando Alonso, even if he is your step father’s friend he is hot, is he not?

#f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #fernando alonso x reader #fernando alonso imagine #fernando alonso fluff #fernando alonso fic

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pretty-lovely-mar · 4 months ago

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"Charles, please. Stop running away from me. You know that you can always tell me anything," Edwin says, getting up from his place at his desk.

Charles, who had already started to grab his overcoat and walk out the door, paused for a moment. He whirred around, "No, Edwin. You don't get it, do you? I yelled at you! Just now, after this case because I was annoyed and I got all caught up in it. I yelled at you... I don't do that, 'Win"

He seemed to sag under the weight of his words, momentarily losing his resolve to leave.

"It's okay." Edwin walked over to take his coat and hang it back up. He then walked back and put his hand in Charles' "I don't mind. I know you, Charles, and I know that you didn't mean it." He paused for a moment. He seemed to mull over what he was going to say next. Since his confession on the staircase in Hell, Edwin had begun to choose to be honest more and more often.

"In the spirit of honesty, I must say that I'd let you yell at me or more if it meant we were still together here in our afterlives."

Immediately, Edwin could see it was the wrong thing to have said. He still had some trouble reading Charles, especially when he was in a state of being greatly affected by his own trauma from his life. Crystal had always been better at comforting him and being there for him in that regard, but she wasn't here right now. There was no one for Charles to go to when Edwin inevitable seemed to mess it up.

Charles let go of Edwin's hand and clenched his fists at his sides. "Edwin, no. You can't... If I do something to you..." He trailed off, seemingly unable to finish his thought. Thoughts of his father ran through his head, and his mother's face featured right after.

His mother had stayed with his father for so many years, he had endured his father's actions until he died. He wouldn't wish that upon anyone, especially not Edwin. Never Edwin. And as much as he wished he were sure about the opposite, or that he was certain they weren't qualities that he could inherit, Charles always had that itching thought in the back of his head that he'd turn out just like father, even in his death.

Even though he had seemed like he couldn't quite get the words out, Edwin waited patiently for him to flesh out his thoughts. He took a step closer, to remind Charles that he was there for him.

Finally, he said, "If I ever hurt you, even once, never speak to me again. Tell the Night Nurse to let Death take me, start your own agency, do whatever it takes to get away from me. No matter how sorry I say I am, no matter how many promises I make." Then, quietly, almost like he didn't want him to hear, he added, "I never want you to suffer from me like my mum suffered from my dad."

Silence made the air around them feel heavy and still. Charles took an unnecessary shaky breath and looked away from Edwin. In times where he was vulnerable, Charles hated to look Edwin in the eyes.

"Charles. You will never hurt me. You can't! You don't have a single violent bone in your body. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. You are the best person I know, Charles Rowland, and nothing will ever change that." Edwin enveloped Charles into a hug, slowly so that Charles could move away if he wanted.

Instead, he burrowed into Edwin's neck, lips against a non-existent pulse. He stood there, being held in the agency's doorway for what seemed like forever, and he could've stayed there for another eternity.

Eventually, Edwin released him and held him by the shoulders, as Charles often did for him when he felt overwhelmed. "You're too good to be like your dad, Charles, and I will remind you every day if I have to."

And still, Charles seemed to be too overwhelmed to form words, but he nodded his, closing his eyes, and just allowed himself to lean against Edwin for a while.

Because even though Charles may never fully recover, and he'll never forget that fear, Edwin is there to remind him to not be afraid. After all, he's the best person Edwin knows, so he must be pretty great.

@aspiring-wildfire i saw your post abt edwin and charles' worst fears and something abt it just clicked so thanks for the inspiration :)

#sorry if it felt kinda unnatural #my first fic for dbda #i love them so much #edwin payne #charles rowland #dbda #dead boy detective agency #dead boy detectives

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danytherelentless · 1 year ago

Text

A Heartfelt Goodbye

Eddard Stark x fem!reader

summary: after his wife's recent passing, Lord Stark is looking for a governess to raise his children

warnings! smut, cunniligus, p in v, pre-marital sex (big deal in Westeros), asoiaf typical sexism (if you squint)

word count: 3k

note: please forgive me if there are any mistakes or it appears a little disjointed, the editing was shaky at best

It was more than a year after the loss of his wife that he decided to take on a governess for his children.

He had refused marriage so soon after, and did not think he would ever take a wife again, and had not wanted to have a governess raise his children for it felt an insult to Cat, yet Maester Luwin had been advising him that his children would need such guidance in their lives, especially with them all being so young, and Eddard had finally relented.

He mulled over the options of Northern ladies for some time before deciding upon you. He'd never met you before, but he had known your father, brothers and some of your cousins. Your father had been one of his greatest and truest advisors during Robert's Rebellion, your elder brother one of his friends as well, and he remembers hearing much of you then, though you'd been younger at the time. Patient, caring and wise as a child. Surely you remained so as an adult? You were also unmarried which meant you had no other obligations nor children of your own to tend to. So he sent the letter to your Lord father asking if you would be suited and able to fill such a position in his household.

He received response soon enough and it was settled upon that you would be arriving to Winterfell within the next few weeks.

Your smile was the first thing he noticed upon meeting you, a kind and gentle thing which warmed him to you almost immediately.

"My Lord," you greeted with a curtsy after you had dismounted to stand next to your father and brother who had led you here.

"My Lady. I am thankful you have taken upon this position."

"It is a great honour, my lord. One I hope I shall be able to fulfil."

Robb was the most reluctant of his children to you, though that was expected and understandable as the eldest. His youngest three, however, were instantly enamoured with you, even baby Bran. But it was Jon which made him realise you were perfect for the role whom you treated well as any of his other children.

It took some time of course for the new dynamic to settle, for you to become comfortable with his children and vise-versa, but eventually, even Robb warmed to you. Even Ned himself found that he enjoyed your company. You had to ability to always make him feel at ease or give him the perfect advice for whatever situation he was put in.

He began to fall for you, which felt inevitable given how lovely you were. But he could not help the vicious guilt which he felt. It felt wrong, no matter how much time passed since Cat's passing, it still felt like a great insult to her memory, and to your own honour, though he never acted on his own feelings.

At least not until Robert called upon him when Balon Greyjoy rebelled against the crown.

He sat in the Godswood, the night before he would leave in contemplation. Many of his bannerman had gathered already at Winterfell with more on their way straight to White Harbour. He did not want to die so soon, though that was something he expected just as he had during Robert's Rebellion when he rode away from Riverrun, yet this time it felt so much closer to him. He couldn't bare the thought of Robb being made Lord so young, of his grief. Of the struggle and strife which he would face and the deceit he would no doubt face in spite of his youth. The idea of his little lady Sansa, or his wild little she-wolf Arya not remembering his face as they grew. Of baby Bram not having so much as a memory of him to place to his name.

He thought of you, of never seeing you again, of never confessing the feelings held within his heart. Though his guilt remained to an extent not as it once had, the idea of never getting to tell you made his heart ache something fierce. It overwhelmed any guilt he was feeling.

"My lord," your voice snapped him from his glum pondering.

"My lady. The hour is quite late, the air cold," he could barely see you in the darkness, the only light emitting from the lantern in your hand and the one sitting near his feet.

"I was worried for you," you confessed.

It was a normal thing to worry about. He was beneath no assumption that you felt the same as he, but he knew that you viewed him as a friend for you often spent hours drinking, exchanging stories and laughing well into late evenings together. So much so that he’d had to quietly had to expel rumours amongst the staff to the best of his ability, hoping you had not heard of them. He knew that it was a sign of the impropriety of your relationship, but he just couldn’t bring himself to stop.

"I'll be back soon enough," he found himself reassuring you.

He watches as you walk closer to him, "may I sit?"

"Of course," he spoke embarrassingly quickly.

You took your seat on the tangled roots at his side, shivering slightly as you burrowed closer into your cloak.

"You really shouldn't be out here, my lady. You may catch a chill," he voiced his concern.

"And neither should you. What sort of a friend would I be if I allowed you to wallow out here all alone?" there was teasing in your voice. He found a smile growing across his face.

He looked to you then. You looked truly beautiful in the low light of the flickering lanterns, shadows cast across your face. You seemed quite sad, though he could see a longing in your eyes has he stared at you.

He felt something get trapped in his throat, unable to say anything as he looked upon you. There was a vulnerability which always clung to you, in the way you smiled so freely, the way you spoke so kindly and could be so forgiving. He saw that in you now. Something raw. He craved it, craved you, craved you near him, in his arms. He felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach.

He craved you, completely and utterly. Entirely vulnerable, bare flesh beneath him, moaning for him. His name, not his title, he loved it when you said his name. Not Eddard, just Ned. He wanted to hear it. Now.

He kissed you instead, a hand on your cheek pulling you close to him. Regret flooded him immediately.

"I'm so sorry," he apologised, pulling away, yanking his hand from your flesh, suddenly feeling quite sick. Barely a moment of your lips on his, so sweet and true. The taste turned to ash on his tongue, however.

"That was dishonourable of me, my lady. Forgive me please. I lost myself."

"No," you grabbed at his forearm and moved closer, you leg leaning into his own, "I... I don't mind."

He looks to you then, a goddess at his side. Meant to be worshipped. It was fitting you were both sat beneath a Weirwood tree.

He feels your delicate hand upon his bearded jaw and he allows you to pull him to you, eyes closing as your lips are joined with his.

He can tell you're inexperienced, but he relishes in it. It has been so long since he'd had any company, and he wanted this. With the thought of possible death so close, he could hardly deny himself you, especially if you wanted him too.

He part from you, breathless, "I want you."

He hadn't quite meant to just blurt it out so bluntly, but can't bring himself to want to take it back. It is his truth, after all. And in this moment, it would be wrong for him to not tell you.

You seem shocked for a moment.

"I want you too," you admitted.

His heart stops for a split second before he crashes his mouth back on yours, your tongues tangling together in some dance.

He kisses you for what feels like hours before he remembers you are out in the cold, and then he guides you back to the keep and to your chambers. The walk is silent and you bump into no one, though guards trail you both outside the keep and through some of the hallways.

He is about to part ways with you and leave for his own when you grab his wrist.

"Wait. Why don't you join me?"

Your cheeks are beautifully flushed, and he can hardly refuse such a welcome invitation, though his honour is screaming at him to stop. His desires simply win over, he is a weak man for you.

He undresses you slowly, pulling away your cloak, helping you unlace your dress as you exchange kisses. You help him with his own layers, and soon you are both bare as the day you were born. He looks upon your beauty, across your smooth skin, your breasts, the mound of hair between your legs. He feels his mouth water. He would turn you around and simply sit gazing upon your naked flesh for hours, studying you like a tome of history.

He lays you down upon furs and kisses down your neck, sucking a bruise some too dark into the flesh which he may regret some the next day should he notice, yet he cannot help himself as he listens to your sweet sighs and feels were hands caressing his arms then his chest.

His lips continue down your body, sucking and licking at your breasts and listening to the melodic sounds you bless him with, hands pawing at your thighs as he further parts them. He kisses down you stomach, beneath your bellybutton and then your naval, before finding his place between your legs, eyes upon your cunt, so close to him and oh so delectable.

"What are you..." your sentence is broken by a surprised and quiet moan as his tongue parts your folds and tastes your sweetness. He licks and sucks at you observing each reaction from his place which he could. Every twitch which you body made and every sound which left your lips. Ned took one of your thighs in his hold and brought it up over his shoulder. His nose is buried in the mount of hair above your cunt as he sucks on that bundle he knows will have you see stars.

You moan and gasp, legs tensing around his head and fingers tugging at his dark hair. He cannot help but groan into you, grinding down into your sheets to attempt to relieve the ache in his cock. He resists the urge to fist his cock in hand by instead pushing a finger inside of you, curling it upwards to feel that spongy spot. You are tight and warm and so so wet. He savors every moment of it.

He curls a second finger inside of you, listening to you high keening whimpers and stretches you wider, and then a third.

"Ned!" your fingers tighten and tug harshly at his hair, and his eyes roll to the back of his head as he feels your body tensing as you climax on his fingers. He licks some of it up before he finds himself too impatient to see your face again. He hopes he will be able to do this again so that he may taste you for longer.

You are worn, face etched with sweet ecstasy. He kisses you with your own taste on his tongue, an action which should disgust you, yet you answer with fervour, a laziness to your motions. You wrap your arms around his neck pulling him into you, deepening the kiss even further till your tongue is again in his mouth.

One of your arms caresses down his body as your lips part, your eyes hooded, breathing erratic. Your hand trails over his hip before it wraps around his hard cock.

He thrusts forwards as your fist closes around his tip, jerking downwards experimentally. He wraps his own hand over you guiding it up and down as he would his own in the privacy of his own chambers on lonely nights.

He guides himself within your hand to your cunt, nudging it over your nub, toward your sopping hole.

The thought suddenly hit him hard and fast. So suddenly he jerked back slightly from your touch.

"What... what is it?" you looked concerned, eyes wide, braided hair mussed.

"I shouldn't be doing this, it's wrong." It was dishonourable and an insult to such a fine lady as yourself for him to be debasing you so. You weren't married, after all. Not yet, he thought. He could see you at his side as his wife. But you were not his wife now, and you may never be his wife.

"No, no, no! Please, take me," eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed and chest heaving with each breath you take as you tug him down so gently, "if you'll have me?" His chest clenched at such tender words.

With you begging him so sweetly, he could not resist, though there was a part of him still demanding he stop now, for this was wrong. Yet it was drowned by his raging desire which he had harboured for for so long.

He takes his position once more over you, between your thighs, and pushes himself inside of you slowly and carefully. His eyes nearly roll to the back of his skull at feeling such pleasure, and he nearly thrusts into you as a wild man would, but he resists easily enough for he knew it would cause you harm. He listened as you groaned and your face tugged into a discomforted expression, he felt himself stopping then, ready to pull out should you change you mind.

"Just slowly. Be gentle with me, please," your hands grabbed onto his shoulders, you knees farther parting to allow him better access.

He moves his hips so slowly at first, thrusts shallow and experimental, before his lips captured yours in a passionate flurry of movements. You were so warm, so wet. He knew you were most likely a virgin, a lady such as yourself. That thought only made his feel more hungry for you.

His movements continued as a slow and steady pace, before you whined prettily into his mouth and grabbed at his hip.

"You can move more," you spoke, breathless as he parted from you.

He obliged, building up his pace, pulling one of your legs up and around his waist as his thrusts became deeper and faster with each moan that left you mouth.

He could not tear his eyes away from you, from your sweat slick brow, your squeezed shut eyes and 'o' parted lips. He felt his own release build, but wanted you to finish at least once more for him, so he brought one hand between you and felt for you nub and began to rub at it, listening and watching your reaction as to what was best.

You tightened further around him, legs squeezing at his sides as you came for a second time. He could no sooner hold onto himself and buried his face in your neck and lost himself to you, thrusting without abandon as he chased after his own climax.

He came with a low groan, sucking kisses into your neck, filling you with his seed so deeply that for a moment, he prayed it would take, the thought of seeing you with child so tantalising.

He stayed within you for a few moments, perhaps even minutes, catching his breath and listening to yours.

He presses a tender kiss to your brow before pulling his softened cock from you with a wince. He was unable to look away as he sat up and eventually saw some of jus seed dribble out of you. He had to supress a groan.

"I'm sorry," he eventually broke the silence.

"Whatever for?"

He looked back at you, a goddess much to perfect for someone such as himself, worth more than ten of him, "for dishonouring you, my lady. I would have wed you before bedding you, yet I have not."

"I don't expect you to wed me, my lord," you admitted.

"Please don't call me that now. I have no right to any title after the disservice I have given you," for even thinking of getting her with child.

"You haven't. I wanted to be with you, just as much. I hope you don't think any less of me for it."

"No, I do not."

"Then we are simply two friends having a long and heartfelt goodbye," your smile is sad and small, not one of any joy or happiness.

"Is that all you view me as? Your friend?" he found himself speaking before he could stop, pulling on his underclothes.

"No, no. I... I feel for you. In my heart. I..." you paused and he looked at you, "I have come to love you, Ned. For not only the just and honourable Lord which you are, but for the loving father, and kind man. I enjoy the companionship you have offered me in the time which I have known you, and I have desired more of you for some time now."

He found himself dropping his breeches from hand and returning to your bed where you sat looking at him.

"It is fine should you not feel the same--"

"I do," he interrupted, bringing his hand to your cheek, "I love you."

You leaned into him, smile broadening across your face.

"I will wed you upon my return, my lady. I swear it to you."

He kisses you once more, a deep and long kiss filled with his love, before dressing and bidding you goodnight, feeling wrong to leave you after you had shared something so intimate with him.

Despite himself, despite leaving for war and having bedded you, confessed his love and swore to marry you though he may not even live to see you again after tomorrow, he sleeps well and peacefully that night.

He wed you the same day of his return.

comments are looked upon fondly here so don't be a stranger ;)

(please no negativity, my heart can't take it. I am a delicate soul)

#ned stark x reader #ned stark x you #asoiaf x reader #got x reader #got x you #ned stark #eddard stark #got smut #asoiaf smut #smut #house stark #fluff

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junrenjun · 2 months ago

Text

Dissonance

svt ot13 x beta!reader (omega!woozi focus)

genre: angst

wc: 2.5k

warnings: fem reader, woozi does not like reader lol, arguments, jealousy, a/b/o dynamics, swearing

summary: jihoon doesn't want y/n in the pack.

a/n: i am back in the writing groove with (finally) another understand update :)

Jihoon doesn’t understand why everyone likes you so much. To him, you’re just some random beta girl he doesn’t really know. Why Seungcheol and Wonwoo even thought it was a good idea to potentially make you part of the pack is beyond his brain’s comprehension.

The omega can’t fathom what it would be like to have you integrated into the pack. The thought of your scent mingling into the rest of the house makes his nose itch. The thought of you being in the pack nest makes him restless. And the thought of you being anywhere near him in heat, his most vulnerable and emotional times, makes him so nauseous he might throw up right this second.

He just doesn’t understand how you would even fit in. The pack has been established for so long you would be missing so many pieces. You missed the years that it took them to finally get settled into the routine they have today. Now you’re going to be thrown into the equation and it just messes everything up. He knows that if he doesn’t agree with letting you in, the pack won’t do it. But, it has been long enough that attachments are starting to grow.

That’s why whenever someone brings you to the den, he shuts himself into their little home studio. And he doesn’t leave until your scent fades or Jeonghan asks him to come out for “proof of life.” Even if he doesn’t have any work to do, your voice is enough motivation to slam the door shut and shove his headphones on. Stupid fucking beta.

One day, after ensuring it had been at least 15 minutes since you had left for the night, Jihoon finally ventured out into the main room. As usual, a good portion of the pack was there. Still chatty about whatever show they had been watching when you were here, he ignored them and steered himself to the kitchen.

The room didn’t offer any reprieve though, because Mingyu was standing there peeling an orange and raising a brow at the omega’s entrance. “You could make it less obvious that you don’t like her, you know?”

Jihoon whipped his head toward the alpha at the sudden attack. “I never said I didn’t like her.”

Mingyu scoffed at him. “Yeah because you totally don’t hide in your studio every time she comes over. She thinks you hate her. Maybe at least try to have a conversation with her?”

The omega pretended like he was mulling over the thought. He really wasn’t, but it seemed to appease the alpha. “I’ll think about it Gyu.”

Mingyu scoffed again. “Think about it? You’re going to think about talking to someone who’s here multiple times a week? You can’t hide from her forever Ji.”

Jihoon went to defend himself, but the alpha cut him off. “If she truly makes you that uncomfortable, then we’ll let her go. But I don’t want to do that if this is just you being too stubborn to try. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. She really does want to get to know you.”

He tries to ignore the pit in his stomach that Mingyu’s words cause. Instead of responding, he chooses to grab a protein bar and turn back to head to his room. His guilty conscience gets the better of him though, because he pauses for a beat in the doorway and calls out to the alpha, “I’ll sit with you guys at movie night next week.” He misses the smile that crosses Mingyu’s face.

When he enters his bedroom, Minghao eyes him, but doesn’t say anything. At least he has the ability to keep to himself about this issue. Maybe because Minghao himself was nervous about Y/N’s integration into the pack too. Maybe it’s just because he knows how to pick and choose his battles. Whatever it is, Jihoon is grateful for the silence.

Once they settle into bed for the night though, Jihoon tosses and turns restlessly. You and the upcoming movie night are fresh in his mind. He shouldn’t have given in to Mingyu. Now he has to face you in front of the rest of the pack. The thoughts continue to keep him up, so he turns toward his roommate’s bed. “Minghao,” he whispers.

A small hum comes from the omega’s mouth, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Jihoon takes this as a cue to continue. “I agreed to sit with y/n and the rest of you guys at movie night next week.”

Now he really has Minghao’s attention. His eyes pop open and a questioning eyebrow shoots up. “Are you sure you want to? No one forced you right?”

Jihoon is appreciative of the omega putting his packmate’s feelings first. “No, no one forced me. But I’m scared. She’s basically a stranger.”

Minghao hums in response, closing his eyes tiredly. “Only a stranger to you, Ji. The rest of us know her now.” And with that, his roommate turns around his bed, a signal that the conversation is over and he should go to sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come to him that night, nor the rest of the following week.

When Jihoon walks into the living room the next Friday, you’re tucked against Wonwoo’s side, chatting happily with Soonyoung, who sits at your feet. There is an apparent lack of scent emanating from you, evident that you’re wearing blockers. Two sticky patches on your neck peek out from under your sweater.

Half of the pack has already gathered in the room, filling up most of the seating. He’s grateful for Jeonghan, who pulls Seungkwan into his lap, clearing up an empty space at the end of the couch furthest from you. He doesn’t hesitate to sit down.

Jeonghan leans over to whisper in his ear. “Thanks for coming tonight. She’s excited you wanted to join us for once.” Jihoon responds with a dismissive wave of his hand. The older omega frowns, but leaves him alone.

Jun has taken control of the remote, scrolling through Netflix in search of something to watch. When he hovers over a movie to watch the preview, Minghao says something to him in Chinese and the two begin bickering. Chan is scrolling through his phone, legs tossed up over Mingyu’s lap, who runs his hand absentmindedly over the bare skin. Joshua and Seungcheol finally enter the room, a large bowl of popcorn in the alpha’s hands. It feels so normal, so domestic, that Jihoon can almost forget your presence.

Almost. Your conversation with Soonyoung has been interrupted, the alpha having gotten up to join Joshua where he sits. Seungcheol takes his place at your feet. Seconds later, the pack alpha’s eyes are on him and yours follow suit not longer after. “Ah, hello Jihoon-ssi,” you call out softly.

You don’t use honorifics with anyone else in the pack, so hearing the title attached to the end of his name makes his heart ache. He’s not quite sure why though. “Hello Y/N-ssi,” he says back, tensely.

That’s all the conversation really amounts to. You send him a hint of a smile, before turning back to the man in front of you. He fixes his gaze back on the TV, hoping to once again forget you are there. Jun and Minghao seemed to have finally settled on a movie, the opening credits of some random rom-com rolling across the screen.

Jihoon allows himself to get absorbed into the movie, tuning out the whispering of those that have yet to start watching. The movie is honestly pretty bad, but he’ll do anything to ignore the way you play with Seungcheol’s hair while Wonwoo’s arm is thrown over your shoulders.

Maybe 15 minutes in, he can hear the whispering pick up again, but he elects to pretend it’s not happening. He’s caught off guard seconds later when your scent starts seeping into the room slowly. His head whips around and he catches Seungcheol carefully peeling off your blocker patches.

Jihoon’s not sure what about this image has him reacting the way it does. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re still a stranger to him. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re being somewhat intimate with his pack alpha. Maybe it’s the fact that the action means Seungcheol is seeking out your scent, instead of someone from his pack. Maybe it’s all of them combined, he’s not sure.

Before he knows it, he’s standing up from his position on the couch and growling. It’s nothing close to an alpha’s growl. But it’s also not a normal, half-hearted, omega growl. It’s loud, it’s high-pitched, and it screams possessiveness. And it’s directed right towards you.

You’re staring at him like a deer in headlights. Honestly, the rest of the pack is too. No one, himself included, was expecting that.

“Jihoon!” Jeonghan scolds from next to him, reaching out to grab his hand. He yanks his arm out of the older omega’s grip before he can be pulled back down onto the couch. Wonwoo moves his body a little bit protectively in front of you and asks if you are alright. Jihoon bares his teeth at the thought.

You glance over to him once before responding. “Maybe I should head out,” you whisper. “I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

The pack responds in an uproar. Jihoon doesn’t care to listen to their protests. All he can hear is the ringing in his ears. “Leave,” he says, “you’re just a useless beta anyways.” He can vaguely hear the pack’s shouts and Seungcheol’s warning growl, but they’re angrily pushed to the back of his mind.

It’s like the insult doesn’t even register in your brain. No tears cloud your eyes. Your lip doesn’t jut out. Your scent doesn’t even sour. You take a breath. “That’s fresh coming from someone who wishes he were one.”

It stings. He hates that you barely know him and yet you read him like a book. Uncovered his wounds from the deepest places in his mind just to throw them out on the table for everyone else to see. He hates you for it.

Another growl leaves his mouth and before he knows it, he’s throwing himself at you. It’s to no avail though, because Wonwoo is shoving his body between you two and someone is tugging him away by the waist. He gives another growl at whoever decided to put their hands on him.

The sound is cut short when the hands move and one proceeds to wrap around the back of his neck. He’s being…scruffed? He glimpses out of the corner of his eye and spots his pack alpha. Seungcheol is scruffing him. He’s livid. Pissed even. But his stupid, cursed omega body goes limp at the touch. Fucking instincts.

Seungcheol turns the omega’s body towards him and spits out, “You’ve done enough here. Go.” His body is shoved toward the hallway. The pack alpha doesn’t have to tell him twice. He turns promptly on his heel and stomps off to the studio.

His footsteps aren’t loud enough to drown everything out though, because he can hear Soonyoung faintly say, “hyung don’t you think that was a bit much?” He can also hear the sound of the front door closing, signaling that you had finally left the den. He doesn’t know why his heart aches at the thought.

It’s at least an hour before anyone interrupts his little pity party in the studio. Surprisingly, it’s Jun who finally enters. He sets down a plate of dinner on the desk wordlessly, before dropping down onto the couch on the opposite wall. Jihoon spins in his chair to face him. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Jun sits there, picking at the rice on his own plate. “Not unless you want me to,” he says without looking up.

Jihoon pushes his food around for a little bit in silence, before finally opting to eat. If he didn’t eat now, Jun would probably tell Jeonghan, who would force him to eat later. Anyways, he didn’t realize how hungry he truly was. The plate is clean within a few minutes.

He sets the plate down on his desk, and when he turns back around, Jun is offering the remnants of his own meal. It’s mainly white rice, unsurprisingly. When Jihoon starts eating again, Jun finally speaks. “Didn’t know you could growl like that.”

He chokes on his rice a little. He clears his throat and mumbles, “I didn’t either.”

The man across from him hums. “I was scared at first too, Ji,” he says, eyes softening. “It’s okay to feel what you are feeling.”

Jihoon is…confused. “I thought you liked her too hyung,” he asks curiously.

“I do,” Jun responds, a faraway look in his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t terrified at the prospect of bringing someone new in. All we have known romantically, intimately, physically for the past few years is each other. The thought of getting to know another person like that is scary. We aren’t mad at you for feeling normal feelings. That wouldn’t be fair.”

There’s a pause as he lets Jihoon take in his words, before continuing. “What isn’t fair though, is you taking it out on her. It’s scary for her too. We only have to get acquainted with one new person. She’s learning about all thirteen of us. That’s overwhelming.”

Another pause. Longer, like he’s debating what to say. “I’m not asking you to love her. But I am asking you to give her a chance, because the Jihoon I know wouldn’t call someone useless after exchanging three words with them.”

Jihoon is silent. Jun takes his lack of response as his cue to leave. He collects their empty plates wordlessly and heads toward the door. But before he can turn the handle, Jihoon stops him. “She’s right.”

Jun whips his head around. “What?”

“She’s right,” he repeats. “About me wishing I was a beta. I think I’m…I…I don’t know,” he says, burying his face in his hands. “I think I’m jealous of her,” he finally says.

The alpha stares back at him with wide eyes. “Oh,” he says, tentatively. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I…” Jihoon starts, raising his head from his palms. “I think I’m jealous of the way she gets to interact with us without having these weird instincts. She doesn’t have to worry about us seeing her in her most vulnerable, helpless state, because she doesn’t go through heats or ruts. She doesn’t have to worry about keeping her pheromones at bay when your body all of a sudden decides it’s horny or it’s angry or it’s stressed. She doesn’t have to worry about the innate desire to submit or to dominate. All that stupid biology stuff that shouldn’t even matter anymore. She doesn’t have to deal with that because she’s a beta and I wish I could be like that.”

Jun simply raises an eyebrow at him. “I think your idea of a beta is a little off from what she actually experiences, Ji. She feels all that stuff too, it’s just a little different…maybe not as intense. You would know if you would actually hear her out,” his words are firm, but his tone is soft.

Jihoon looks down at the floor. “Yeah. Yeah you’re right.”

“Alright,” the alpha finally says after a beat. “You’re going to give her a chance then?”

“Yeah. I’ll give her a chance.”

#lu writes #understand series #svt #svt x reader #svt ot13 x reader #woozi #lee jihoon #woozi x reader #a/b/o dynamics #lee jihoon x reader #svt imagine #poly!svt

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portraitofalinkonfyre · 3 months ago

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Burning Love

Chapter 5

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The rest of the chain was outside by the time you managed to waddle downstairs, huddled around a cooking pot with Wild at the helm for breakfast.

"(Y/n)!" Wind greeted, waving you over with his bandaged arm, drawing the other's attention. You waved groggily, plopping down next to the youngest hero on a nearby log. "Is Four okay, we haven't seen him yet."

"You say that like we haven't been hearing him," Legend muttered with a scowl. You were too tired to defend Four's honor, so you just waved off the pantless hero with a scowl of your own.

"Well, he's alive."

"Goodie."

"Legend, I swear to Hylia—"

"OKay!" Warriors cut off your impending insult with a loud clap of his hands. "We'll continue this when everyone's had coffee, yeah?"

"Great plan," you shot him a thumbs up while Legend muttered something ineligible in the background. Wild materialized behind you with a cup of steaming goodness, handing it over wordlessly. "You're the man, Wild."

"I'm the man," he parroted, returning your high-five with the speed of a shooting arrow.

"So," Twilight interjected and the seriousness of the conversation instantly increased. "He's cleared for travel?"

"More or less," you sipped your coffee and felt a bit more Hylian than you did a minute ago. "I still haven't figured out what's going on with him," you paused, an idea hitting you harder than Wind's windhammer. "Time, didn't you mention a library being here?"

"The Town Archive," the oldest hero intoned, expression contemplative as he mulled over your idea. "I've visited it once before, but it's certainly old enough to have some information."

"It sounds like the best place to start," Sky joined the conversation with a hum. "We don't know how dangerous his ailment is, or even what it is, for that matter."

"I agree," said Hyrule, turning his curious gaze to Time. "How many books do you think it holds?"

"Hundreds, I'm sure," Time answered, tone curiously wistful, and if you weren't drooling at the thought of all that literature, you sure were when Wild passed you a bowl of egg-fried rice. He looked up with a resigned expression. "Four, how kind of you to join us."

You glanced back quick enough to watch Four half-stumble down the stairs, shuffling over in a distinct rendition of Wind's impression of a 'penguin'. "Good morning to you too, old man," he plopped down beside you and accepted Wild's procured bowl of rice with a grateful hum. "Where's my coffee?"

"You're too young to be drinking that," Legend replied, taking a very loud, very obnoxious sip of his own.

Four cocked his head, puzzled. "I'm am?"

"And I'm the Queen of Lorule."

"...You're not?"

"No."

"That's... unfortunate."

"Sigh."

"Anyways, what were we talking about?"

"You, short stack," said Warriors. "We were about to ask if you wanted to stay behind and recuperate?"

"Why would I?"

Warriors deadpanned. "You're not exactly at one-hundred percent, and someone's got to protect (Y/n)—"

"Um, rude," you crossed your arms over your chest, your spoon sticking out of your mouth like a pipe. "Bold of you to assume I'm not coming with."

Silence.

"Jeez, tough crowd..."

"You're tough," you retorted before realizing that wasn't the insult you'd been hoping for. "Anyways, the library might be our only shot at helping you, Four," you said, bumping shoulders and ignoring the withering gaze Twilight sent the shorter hero. "And! Books!"

"Can't miss out on that," the blacksmith responded with a grin.

"It seems we've come to an agreement," Time observed. "We leave in ten," he paused at Wind's puppy dog eyes, sighed, and somehow managed to look five years older. "...or when Wind has finished his breakfast."

Everyone cheered as Wind brought his spoon to his mouth in slow motion.

The town archive was unlike anything you'd seen before. Tall and imposing, its shadows towered way over your approaching group. Four's side was warm against your bare arm as you led him forward, not for lack of trust, but after seeing him wobble down the inn stairs, you were taking no chances.

"Woah," Four breathed. "It's bigger than my old forge."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

"Are you sure? You're not pulling my leg?"

"I think you'd know if I was pulling your leg."

"I hate you both," muttered Legend, and you didn't need to see his face to feel his undoubtedly dark glare burning holes into your back.

"Aw, let them be," Wind came to your rescue. He looked at you and winked. "He's just upset because he had to listen to some couple flirt last night."

"Wind."

"Sorry, we," he amended sassily. "had to listen to some couple flirt last night."

"...Was it good?" You asked with mounting terror.

"Not at all, but we're not allowed to talk about that."

"For good reason," Legend hissed. "It was the worst thing I've had the displeasure of hearing, and I've listened to Wind snoring."

"Hey!"

"We're here," Time announced, and you'd never been more grateful for a subject change.

The heavy wooden doors creaked open, the rusty metal plaque on the right one glinting softly in the sunlight. Squinting with all your might, you managed to make the scrawled lettering out to be "Town Archive", which was about as accurate as you could get here.

The group shuffled in, and you were instantaneously impressed at the impossibly large bookshelves lining every veritable wall, closing in on the lectern in the center in ordered rows. "Wow," you said in awe, deftly release of Four to peruse the massive directory on said lecture. Your hands glided the leather cover of the colossal book, only pausing to sneeze when you opened it and a cloud of dust shot forth. Most of the boys had begun to scatter, chatting individually about what they hoped to find—though you were sorely tempted to scream that libraries didn't have Lizalfo talons when you heard Wild make that particular quip—but Twilight, Time, and Four remained silently by the entrance.

"How many trees you reckon it takes to make a book that big?" Twilight asked in a hushed tone.

"More than one," was Four's response. "A big one... or four small ones."

Your eye twitched at the nonsensical exchange, but you forced yourself to refocus on the directory.

"...Why are you like this?" Time sounded as exasperated as you felt.

Your pointer finger traced down the 'D' list, eyes scanning over every title with fading interest. You had already searched over ten pages, and not a single thing had stood out among the dizzying selection. It was beginning to seem that you would never find an answer to the conundrum, which was as painful as it was maddening. As a medic, it was your sworn duty to help the sick, even more when the sick person in question was your dear friend, and you were determined to not add to your list of regrets.

Until you flipped to a random page, seconds from burying your head in your hands, and something finally caught your eye.

"I found it!"

"Found what?" Four appeared at your side almost instantaneously, flanked by Time and Twilight.

You tapped the scrawled title with a blossoming grin. "'The Complete Guide To Hyrule's Races'!"

"That sounds promising," Time's expression was curious. "Do you think you can find it?"

"I can try," you shut the book, the pages thudding together with a thud of finality. "The directory said it should be on the second shelf in one of the back rows, so I'll start there."

The heroes bade you good luck as you headed off in search of your prize. Twilight grunted softly as soon as your cape fluttered from view. "Ya know yer only diggin' yourself into a bigger hole, right?"

"Huh?" Four's face was the picture of confusion, but Twilight knew it was all a ruse.

"Don't play dumb," he chided. "Ya haven't given it any thought?"

Four's gaze flicked between the two heroes, and Time, who looked as though he had seen enough, motioned them to one of the quieter corners of the library. "Now," the older hero's gaze felt like a piercing beam. "What's this all about?"

Twilight snorted, tossing his head in Four's direction. "Wouldn't be about nothin' if he would man up already."

Time stared at the smaller hero, clearly demanding an answer with the sheer force of his mind alone. Too bad that Four didn't feel like passing out details of his (nonexistent) sex life like they were candy.

"It's no one's business, old man," he crossed his arms over his chest, expression a nigh-perfect recreation of Legend's resting-bitch face. "And that's final."

"It's only goin' to get worse," Twilight ran a hand down his face, eyes turned to the ceiling in a plea for divine intervention. "An' it's that medic's business, too."

"What about (Y/n)?" Time's gaze hardened protectively; the old man cared for you and it showed clearer than day on his scarred face. "Four."

"Don't," the smithy fixed him with an unusually harsh glare. Time's working eye narrowed; something was amiss and he was determined to find it. "You're not part of this, none of you are."

"So ya admit it's a problem?" Twilight interjected.

"No!" Four snapped. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I need more time, you can't expect me to..."

"We aren't expecting you to do anything," Time said slowly, looking equal parts ready to throttle someone and offer one of them a hug, just as Twilight muttered under his breath: "'cept what's right for ya and that medic."

Four bristled. "It's not like that."

"It could be."

"I can't— you have no idea about any of this," the smithy's face was growing redder and redder, irises flashing blue, as he growled. "S-So stay out of it!"

"Oh, we have some idea," Twilight shot back. "Don't tell me ya've forgotten our conversation?"

Four's expression twisted in discomfort, but it was quickly replaced by annoyance. "How could I forget?" he snarked. "You know they're not—"

A memory of last night flashed in his mind's eye, but Four dismissed it; there was no way you saw him... like that, he wanted to scream. You were just too nice for your own good. He tried not to think of the way your gaze roved his body when he undressed, chalking it up to misplaced curiosity. How could you want him when there were so many other options, as much as it pained him to think it?

"—it's fine, I'm going outside."

Twilight opened his mouth to fire back, only pausing when Time laid a hand on the rancher's shoulder, shaking his head with a somewhat defeated expression. Twilight huffed, but held his tongue.

Until cheery footsteps broke through the silence and your head peeked around a nearby bookshelf. You grinning vibrantly when you caught sight of them, and it was the most beautiful thing Four had seen in his life. "There you are, I can't believe you all disappeared on me like that!"

"Sorry," Four said rather sheepishly. His gaze snapped to the crumpled sheet of paper in your right hand. "What's that?"

You shrugged, holding it out for him to examine. Twilight shifted closer, subtly sniffing with a look of barely disguised interest. "I thought notes from a scholar would be more useful than a textbook, is all."

"It was a textbook?" Time questioned, and you made a face.

"Unfortunately," you grimaced harder. "I've seen enough of those things to last a few lifetimes."

"We can tell," Twilight observed, tipping his head to the barely legible symbols covering the page. Four wrinkled his nose, slightly miffed at the unfamiliar language. "Can ya read it?"

"A bit," you answered. "It's written in ancient Hylian."

"Ancient, huh?" Twilight leveled a knowing look in Four's direction. The shorter hero growled and shoved at his chest, and the rancher surrendered with a guffaw. "Ah'right, ah'right!"

"Do I even want to know?" you deadpanned.

Crash!

"Fuck!" came Wild's distinct screech, and you nearly tripped over yourself rushing to the source of the noise. Four moved to follow, but halted when Time's hand sealed around his wrist.

"Four."

"Let me go."

"What is it, exactly, that you are afraid of?"

Four's eyes narrowed. "I'm not afraid."

"Ya are," Twilight joined the fray with a jaded frown.

Four tried yanking his arm away, but Time's grip held true. "What do you know? It's not like you—"

"Wrong," the rancher interrupted tersely. "'M trying to help ya because I am the only one."

Four froze. Surely he couldn't be implying...

"Don't give me that look," Twilight drew closer, towering over the smithy with a distinct wildness in his usually calm eyes. "Ya never thought ta' question why I leave fer a week every six months, or why I don't go off alone with yer little medic?"

"Y-You don't like (Y/n)?" Four was at a complete loss for words as the realization hit him harder than one of Wild's bombs. "How—"

"This ain't about me," Twilight's tone took on a distinct snarl that had Four wondering how he hadn't connected the dots in the first place. "It's about you and yer problem with makin' things easy on yerself. Ya think distance will make everythin' fine an' dandy? I can promise ya, it won't."

"But—"

"You can only deny yer nature for so long," there was a distinct sliver of regret in the older hero's tone that made Four wonder what exactly the rancher had experienced to look that way. "An' once it's gone, you're never going to get it back."

"Guys!"

All heads turned to you, and Four felt the inexplicable urge to gather you in his arms and never let go. Until he noticed your panicked expression and lack of paper. "Come on," you urged hurriedly. "We've got to get the hell out of here."

"What happened?" asked Time, beating Four by a millisecond.

Your expression turned grave. "Lizalfos,"

"In the library?!"

Sigh. He'll get it eventually. ALSO Twi, you dog!

Just as a disclaimer, I've never played OOT so I have no idea if the term 'town archive' even exists in their world, but I'm going to pretend it does for the sake of the smut.

#linked universe #linked universe x reader #the chain x reader #link x reader smut #lu x reader #lu four x reader #lu fic #lu four #loz #loz fanfic

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ninjadeathblade · 1 year ago

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Nachos (a Nimona fanfic)

Summary: Nimona tags along on Ballister's nacho date with Ambrosius (set post-movie)

Warnings: A couple swears and that's about it

Word count: 1,050

Fluff with a tiny bit of angst

Author notes: Thanks you to @skating-is-cool for scheming with me on my other post about this. I didn't put loads of effort into this if I'm honest but I let the boys finally have their nachos together.

"You promise to behave?" Ballister asked nervously, refusing to go inside until Nimona agreed. The shapeshifter had been begging to come along with him to his date with Ambrosius. Ballister had reluctantly agreed, knowing that if he'd told her no she would've snuck along anyway. Nimona shrugged, rocking back and forth on her heels.

"I dunno. Maybe." She shot him a grin full of fangs, almost falling over before catching her balance again and leaning forward onto her tiptoes.

"Nimona, please," Ballister sighed, exasperation clawing at the inside of his skull as he brought a hand to his face to rub across his eyes. "This is the first time since…everything that me and Ambrosius have actually been able to go on a date." Ballister struggled to articulate it to her. Mentally, he understood that Nimona was over a thousand years old and had probably seen many people be in love. But he also had latched onto her as some kind of younger sibling or daughter to him, which meant he had to explain everything. "Because we've left the army now, I don't have to hide who I am as much. You should understand that."

"Yeah, I suppose so," Nimona replied, flashing him another smile. "C'mon then, let's go see your boyfriend." Ballister made to grab her shoulder before she headed into the bar but she weaved away from him, slipping through the door into the bar. Ballister gritted his teeth before following Nimona, a certain air of anxiety around him. He knew that Ambrosius still loved him, that hadn't changed. But would it be awkward? The last time they were here Ambrosius was trying to convince him to kill Nimona. Ballister mulled over his thoughts as he followed Nimona through the bar, not paying much attention to his surroundings.

"Hey handsome." Ballister jerked out of his thoughts at Ambrosius' voice, looking down at his lover. Ambrosius smiled softly up at him, moving over in the booth seat to make room for him. Ballister shot him a shy smile in return, sitting down beside him while Nimona took the seat across from him.

"You're sure you don't mind she's here?" Ballister whispered, resting his head on Ambrosius' shoulder.

"She's family, it's not like she wouldn't be here," Ambrosius responded, pressing a light kiss to the top of Ballister's head. Ballister closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling of safety. It hadn't been long since the queen had died but it felt like years of being on edge constantly.

"You know I can hear you two, right?" Nimona butted into the conversation and Ballister opened his eyes again, regarding her with a deadpan stare.

"You know you could let us be romantic together every now and then?" He retorted, earning a snort of laughter from Ambrosius. Nimona stuck her tongue out at him before turning her attention to something over his shoulder. She transformed into a mouse, scuttling across the table.

"Be back soon." Ballister sighed with relief, visibly sagging in his seat. As much as he loved Nimona, it did feel more than a little weird having her third-wheeling on his date. After all, she was like a daughter to him. And although he wanted to spend time with her, it felt strange to have her on his date with Ambrosius.

"May I get you anything sirs?" A waitress appeared almost out of thin air beside them.

"Nachos," the two of them said in unison.

"No olives. He's allergic," Ballister added, jerking a thumb at Ambrosius. The waitress nodded, walking away.

"You always have to specify, don't you?" Ambrosius teased, playfully poking Ballister in the side. Ballister laughed quietly, wrapping his prosthetic arm around Ambrosius' waist.

"I can't have you dying. Who would continue the Gloreth bloodline?" Ballister joked with a gentle squeeze to Ambrosius' hip. Ambrosius practically doubled over with laughter, banging his fist on the table a couple of times.

"Shit, Bal, you think I'd actually continue the bloodline?" Ambrosius questioned, eyes slightly teary from laughter as he looked up at Ballister. "The closest thing to a child that anyone is getting from me is Nimona. We are adopting her, right? I mean, I get she's technically older than us but she's still a child, you know?" Ballister placed a gentle kiss against Ambrosius' cheek.

"Yeah, if she's fine with it. I haven't asked her yet," Ballister told him, withdrawing his hand from its position around his lover, fidgeting with his hands under the table. The two of them fell into silence, something that had rarely happened in the time they'd known one another. The waitress returned, placing their bowls of nachos on the table and Ballister didn't know what to do.

"I'm sorry." Ambrosius broke the silence. Ballister glanced towards him, noticing the tear tracks down his cheeks. He was honestly unsure if they were from laughter or not. "I'm so sorry I didn't trust you. Or Nimona." Ballister placed his hand over Ambrosius', the dark metal contrasting against his light skin. "I didn't even try to listen to you when you explained."

"It's not your fault," Ballister assured him.

"But it is. If I'd listened, if I'd tried to help then maybe it wouldn't have turned out this way." Ambrosius skimmed his thumb across the back of Ballister's hand. "If I could then I'd change it all." Ballister brushed the tears away from Ambrosius' eyes, turning in his seat to face him.

"But if that happened then we wouldn't have our family," Ballister pointed out, pulling Ambrosius into a hug. The two of them sat there in the booth for a while, feeling grateful that despite everything they still had one another.

"These nachos are delicious, I see why you both keep coming back here." Ballister pulled away from Ambrosius slightly, glaring at Nimona. She was lying slightly across the other side of the booth, a bowl of nachos in her hands as she ate some of them.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Ballister swore. "Can you not see we're having a moment?"

"Yes. And I'm having nachos," Nimona replied, biting into another one. Ambrosius pressed a kiss against Ballister's temple.

"Leave her be. It's fine," Ambrosius said. Ballister smiled softly, pulling the second bowl of nachos towards him and his love.

"Yeah. It couldn't be better."

#nimona #nimona movie #nimona film #netflix nimona #nimona netflix #ballister boldheart #goldenheart #ballister x ambrosius #ambrosius goldenloin #ambrosius x ballister #ballister #nd stevenson #nimona fanfic #nimona 2023 #nachos

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qveerthe0ry · 2 months ago

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The D-Files

Summary: Something weird happens when Dieter tries to post his X-Files fanfiction Word Count: 14,941 Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Fox Mulder x Dana Scully Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: threesome, oral (m & f receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected PIV, rimming, d/s undertones, poor explanation of time travel and quantum physics, it's a little cracky tbh Beta: the one and only @for-a-longlongtime obviously A/N: listen. I have ten episodes left of the whole series so if something is totally off and not accurate to x files canon just ignore me :) Also I'm absolutely aware of how completely ridiculous this fic is but I heard the voice of Dieter Bravo speak to me and could not ignore it Ao3 link

Curled up under at least three blankets, in just his underwear, stoned out of his mind (just weed— he’s California sober now) Dieter watches Mulder and Scully shake hands for the first time.

The first time for them.

He’s had to have seen this episode at least a thousand times by now.

He’s in one of those funks again. His therapist calls it a depressive episode, but that’s so dramatic. He’s just a little bit down in the dumps thinking about how worthless he is and how no one’s ever really loved him before, not even his own parents, and how he hates himself so much he’s not sure if he would ever get rid of the guilt of letting someone else love him because he knows he’d just be a waste of their time.

It’s no big deal. Nothing an X-Files rewatch, weed, and a footlong Subway sandwich can’t fix.

Except this time, the way Scully and Mulder instantly mesh so well kind of makes him feel like he smoked too much pot. His stomach’s a little queasy as he watches him give her his undivided attention, and fuck, maybe this is a job above these FBI agents’ pay grade.

He eyes that stupid notebook on his nightstand, still wrapped in plastic from the Amazon order.

His therapist told him to start writing his thoughts down in a journal. He doesn’t like writing. It’s not what he does. He can’t stand those actors who think just because they’ve starred in a few movies means they should start writing them, or scrawling down some convoluted, conceited novel. Just fucking act, y’know?

But as Scully throws herself into Mulder’s arms after knowing him for only a few days, and they both look so comfortable, Dieter rips open the packaging and swallows down the bile threatening his esophagus.

—

I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing here. What should I even write down in this thing? How lonely I am? Get in line, right? I’m not the only one. Even though sometimes it feels like I am.

Maybe it feels so bad because I know I did this to myself. Everyone always told me I’d always be a piece of shit. Even when I was young. And I just let their narrative take over and now here I am. The biggest piece of shit.

It’s like Mulder. Everyone always called him Spooky and said he was too ‘out there’ and he ended up in the basement chasing Bigfoot.

Except I don’t have a hot redhead in my life to balance me out or slowly fall in love with me.

And I’m not a tall, boyishly handsome, charming FBI agent.

I’m just a washed-up actor, and a slob, and a drug addict. That’s probably why.

Golly gee, doc, this sure made me feel better.

—

He writes in his journal a bit here and there. He also slowly rots away in his bed, takes far too little showers and far too many THC gummies. He talks to his therapist two weeks later and tells her he’s been writing down his thoughts and her impressed hum and “That’s very good, Dieter” has him riding a high the rest of the afternoon.

So he keeps it up.

He doesn’t leave the house much, and when he does, he just wants to get back into his permanently affixed blanket fort to watch more X-Files and get high.

He writes a little about his day, about what he’s mulling over in his mind. But as he reaches the end of season two, he’s out of his funk enough to start feeling horny again.

Who wouldn’t, watching the world’s hottest FBI agents on a near constant loop?

So who can blame him when his journal thoughts get a little spicy?

—

God, Mulder’s such an idiot sometimes. So is Scully. They waste so much time getting on each others’ nerves. This entire show is just years-long foreplay. I swear they get off on irritating each other.

I irritate so many people, why aren’t any of them ever turned on about it?

They should have just let them kiss in the first season. There could have been so much sex. All the motel rooms these two wasted! On the government’s dime, too!

Rental car sex, alleyway sex, OFFICE sex. The Sex Files. That’s what this show should have been.

I wonder if Mulder’s better at eating ass or pussy. I just know he’s freaky with all the porn and phone sex hotlines. And the auto erotic asphyxiation thing, can’t forget about that. I’d choke the shit out of him if he wanted that. With my hand or my cock, his choice.

I wonder if Scully is freaky, too? I think she’d deny it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she was filthy kinky. She always has to be in control. I wonder if she’d be like that in bed, too? I wonder if she’d get off on torturing me and making me beg. Or maybe she’s always so in control that she wants to relinquish all of it when she’s in bed.

—

Dieter remembers that fanfiction exists shortly after that.

His dick is raw and he hasn’t even made it through half of the explicit entries on archive of our own. But everything’s so… Vanilla.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s a total sucker for tender, missionary love-making. But where’s the experimentation? Where’s the creativity? And why the hell does everyone think Fox Mulder is such a dom?

Just look at him.

He’s pathetic. Scully could have him begging on his knees with nothing but the snap of her finger and one of her sexy, stern glances. Maybe he’s projecting a little bit, but not much.

He gripes to his therapist about this while he avoids the topic of his greatest fear being dying without ever having a meaningful relationship in his whole life.

“Have you ever thought about writing your own fanfiction?”

And no, he truly never has. It seems like something so far away from appropriate given his profession. But then again, when has he ever been totally professional?

So he starts writing. At first he finds himself falling into the popular tropes— love confessions and sweet, romantic first times. Just little blurbs in his journal he ends up scrawling out with his pen. There’s enough of that already. He needs to explore the fun stuff with these two.

One night/early morning, he finally grabs his laptop from his rarely-used office. He snuggles up under all the blankets he can find, turns on The X-Files, and gets down to business.

—

“I’m sorry Scully—”

“Don’t.”

Her icy blue stare pins Mulder in place. His pouty lips close and his sharp jaw clenches as he looks down at his feet.

“You almost got us killed!”

“I wouldn’t have let you get hurt, you know that.”

Scully doesn’t know what comes over her, but she crosses what little distance is between them to grab the back of Mulder’s hair and tug.

His jaw drops and as hard as he tries, he can’t stifle the whimper that slips from his lip.

“You were reckless with your own life. You can’t— Do you know what I would do if anything ever happened to you?”

Scully’s sharp gaze softens. Tears prickle at Mulder’s eyes, partly from Scully’s death grip and partly because of the way her voice wavers.

“Scully—”

“Get on your knees.”

——

Dieter fights the heavy, sharp arousal in his gut as he writes Mulder on his knees for Scully. He just knows he’d eat pussy like a champ, what with those sunflower seeds he’s always got between those pillowy lips. He’d be great at sucking cock, too. Dieter thinks they would look so fucking pretty around his own dick.

Or Scully’s strap.

Perfect.

He stays awake for way too long, writing about Scully trapping Mulder between her thighs for hours, and then making him choke or her strap, and then making him beg and whimper and cry for it as she teases his prostate with her fingers.

Scully’s so dainty, but the idea of her fucking into her big, tall partner with fury has Dieter leaking into his boxers as he types away. It takes all of Dieter’s willpower to write the sweet aftercare scene. Scully gently cleans up his cum and sweat and tears, telling him what a good boy he was as she pets his hair and kisses his face.

As soon as Dieter writes the last words, he’s fumbling for his lube and dildo in the bedside drawer. He’s too worked up to prepare properly, and it burns, and he hears Scully’s disappointed tuts in his head as he fucks himself into a mess.

He whines her name, and Mulder’s name, as filthy images of the two fill his head.

He comes without even touching his dick. He makes an absolute mess of his sheets and just grinds into the puddle beneath him as he fucks himself through the aftershocks.

And if he cries a little bit at the thought of two beautiful FBI agents telling him how good he was as they stroke his sweaty skin, that’s between him and his open laptop.

—

“Do you think I should post my fanfiction?”

His therapist’s perfectly shaped eyebrows perk up.

“Do you think you should post it?”

“I dunno. Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“Wouldn’t it be a little weird? An actor writing fanfiction about characters his peers portrayed?”

His therapist hums. He knows that’s his cue to keep talking, but they just sit in silence for a bit.

“Do you want to post it?” She asks.

He huffs.

“I don’t know. What if everyone hates it?”

She shrugs and nods at him to continue.

“I’m afraid no one’s gonna read it. Or if they do, they’ll hate it. And leave mean comments.”

“Would that bother you?”

“Well yeah, duh.”

She hums again. Dieter rolls his eyes, half at her but half at himself.

“I know, I know,” he sighs, “I’m a walking contradiction. I crave praise but I’m too afraid to put myself out there to receive any.”

“That’s not necessarily true. You’re an actor. It’s your job to put yourself out there and be consumed and reviewed.”

“Yeah but that’s not me, it’s just the guy they tell me to play.”

His therapist smiles.

Shit.

“I think you know what you need to do, Dieter.”

He does leave that therapy session crying, thirty minutes later. If he had a tail, it would be between his legs.

It takes him six days to work up enough courage to even make an account. And then another two days to pour over every single word he wrote, change it, change it back, wash rinse and repeat.

When he finally works up the nerve to post it, his laptop dies just as he’s about to press the publish button.

You gotta be kidding me, he thinks, maybe this is a sign.

But then he thinks about what his therapist would say, that things that are worth it rarely come easy, and that he should probably stop assuming everything is a sign, and so he plugs his laptop in and waits for it to charge enough to come back to life.

It’s the longest four minutes of his life.

He stares at the black screen in silence. He blinks at his reflection as he listens to the storm brewing outside his window, only flinching slightly as lightning illuminates his dark room.

His heart leaps up into his throat when the screen lights up again. Everything’s right where he left it. All he has to do is press that little button.

He takes one, two, three deep breaths with his finger on the trigger and then—

CRACK

—

Everything hurts. Like, bad.

Dieter groans and tries to blink his eyes open. It’s bright. He’s no stranger to waking up in an unfamiliar place with a terrible headache and no recollection of how or why he’s there. However, he hasn’t touched a party drug in a year and a half, and hasn’t even been to a party for even longer than that.

He finally blinks away the sleep in his eyes. He’s on the cold ground. The grass is plush and dewy under him. When he sits up, the world spins around him for a few moments and he just barely keeps his stomach from emptying.

He checks his pockets. At least he has his phone on him. No wallet, though. And he’s in his pajamas, which is fine, not unusual attire for most of his outings.

He goes to unlock his phone but of course it’s dead.

Shit.

He looks around a bit more and all this scenery does not look like Los Angeles. There are hills in the distance that are much more rolling than the jagged peaks in California. The smell of campfire fills the air and it’s humid, he realizes. Stiflingly so.

He stands up. His joints ache even more than they usually do, stiff and popping. When he runs his hand through his hair he’s got wicked bed head.

At least he can make out a dirt path amongst the grass and trees around him. He follows it for a while, and just as he thinks he might be wandering to his own death out in the boonies he sees a little shack in the clearing just by what seems to be a lake.

It looks… Strangely familiar, despite the fact that he’s certain he’s never been here before. There’s a sign that reads “Bait & Tackle” that’s seen better days and a big giant inflatable… something tied down to the roof.

He scratches his head as he stares. He has the feeling of something being on the tip of his tongue, but it’s on the tip of his brain instead.

As he approaches, a high-pitched growl startles him out of his daze. His eyes frantically search for the source, and as he walks closer he spots it.

A tiny little yappy Pomeranian, tan and fluffy.

It hits him all at once.

He gasps and moves toward the fiesty little thing as his heart pounds. There’s no way…

It snarls and yaps at him as he crouches down to greet it— him.

Once he starts giving the dog butt pats and head scratches, it warms up to him pretty quickly. He searches for the dog tag hiding under all that fur and gasps as he reads it.

QUEEQUEG

“Oh my god, Queequeg, I thought I’d never see you again, buddy.”

The pup wags his tail at the sound of his name and Dieter goes down on his knees to accept him into his lap.

“How are you real? What’s happening?”

Tears well at Dieter’s eyes as he holds this fictional dog in his arms, who’s been dead since season 3. Sue him, he’s very confused and vulnerable and it was the most devastating death of the series by far.

As he pets the derpy little thing, he tries to wrap his head around everything that’s going on. Last he remembers, he was holding his breath and clicking the mouse pad and now he’s here, in the middle of nowhere Georgia if he remembers his X-Files trivia correctly.

Which means this sweet little pup is going to die in this… episode? And if he’s in the episode, that means—

“Hey! What are you doing? That’s my dog!”

Dieter’s heart pounds, heavy and fast, like he’s done way too much coke. He looks up with wide eyes and it’s unmistakable, her bright red hair and sexy scowl and the lanky handsome man attached to her hip.

“Scully?”

Dieter watches her face twist up in confusion, and watches Mulder’s eyebrows raise with a smirk on his face as he looks between him and his partner.

“You know this guy, Scully?”

She squints at Dieter as they walk closer. He feels very warm under her gaze. He pets Queequeg’s head for comfort.

“No, I don’t. What’s your name?”

Dieter clears his throat.

“You don’t recognize me?”

Mulder presses his lips together, trying to hide his amused smile as he nudges Scully’s side.

“Should I?”

“Wait… what year is it?”

Scully’s face turns from annoyed to concerned. She kneels down in front of Dieter and looks into his eyes, and her gaze is too heavy, it spears right through him.

“It’s 1995. Are you concussed?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean— Maybe. Probably, to be honest. It’s 1995?”

“Has been for five months, now,” Mulder supplies.

Dieter nods.

“Do you know where you are?”

“I think so… listen. You guys aren’t gonna believe this— well, Mulder might believe it— But I’m from the future.”

Scully’s concerned gaze turns right back to annoyed very quickly, and she stands back up to cross her arms.

Mulder just chuckles.

“How do you know our names?” He asks.

Dieter feels a little weird on the ground while they’re staring down at him, in a horny way, so he gently places Queequeg back on the gravel to stand up himself.

“Would you believe it if I said I’m from an alternate reality where you guys are the main characters in a cult classic sci-fi television series?”

Mulder blinks at him. Dieter shrugs with a sheepish grin.

“Honestly? That’s more believable than the time travel.”

Dieter smirks.

“That’s such a Scully thing to say.”

“That is such a Scully thing to say,” Mulder agrees.

“Oh my god.”

“I can prove it! I swear. C’mon, let’s get this little guy safe and sound in your cabin and I’ll prove everything.”

Mulder shrugs, and gives Scully one of his looks, the c’mon, let’s see where this goes look that Dieter’s so used to seeing.

She just scoffs.

“Mulder, we don’t have time for this. People are dying left and right, you’re on a wild sea-monster chase, and half the town is—”

“Wait, Scully, look at this guy. He’s going to tell you another body’s been found in the lake. Well— half of a body.”

They all turn to the man running up from the docks, and sure enough, it plays out almost exactly how Dieter remembers from the episode. Scully’s very focused on the legs floating in the lake, but Mulder keeps eyeing him in a way that makes him wish he was wearing something more than just flimsy pajama pants.

“Scully…” Mulder mumbles as they walk back toward their car, “I think we should hear him out.”

“Hear him out!? We should be shoving him in handcuffs, he’s the only suspect we have that isn’t mythical.”

“I’d be into that, actually,” Dieter says, holding his hands out toward them, wrists pressed together.

Scully grimaces and Mulder smirks but he drapes an arm around her shoulder in a way that seems suspiciously protective.

“There’s not enough evidence to cuff him, but we can at least keep him close and see what else we can get out of him.”

“Mulder—”

“If anything, he can just dogsit for us.”

The way they’re talking about him like he’s not even there makes the tips of his ears burn.

“I’d love to dogsit! I miss Queequeg.”

“What do you mean you miss him? He’s right here.”

Dieter winces.

“Actually that’s a big plot point in this episode,” Dieter whispers.

They stop at the car and Scully glares at him, and Mulder looks a little bit like he’s just brought a stray dog home without her permission. Dieter kinda likes it.

“You never told us your name,” Scully grills.

“Dieter. Dieter Bravo.”

Mulder huffs.

“What kind of name is Dieter Bravo? Do you do adult films?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Fox?”

The way the giggle bubbles up out of Scully’s chest makes him preen.

“Alright. Where do you live, Dieter?”

He winces and scratches the back of his neck.

“Los Angeles.”

“Oh brother,” Scully grumbles.

“How did you get here then?”

“Y’know, it’s the weirdest thing. I was writing a fanfiction about the two of you and when I went to post it, I think lightning struck my house and sent me here.”

The two agents stare at him in silence for so long that Dieter has the time to question every single moment that has led up to this. He determines that this is all his therapist’s fault when Mulder finally clears his throat.

“You can bunk with me until we get everything sorted out, alright?”

Dieter straightens up and salutes him.

“Yes, sir, Agent Mulder.”

Scully rolls her eyes and turns to open the car door for him, but Mulder smirks.

“I think I kinda like this guy, Scully.”

——

Mulder’s nice enough to let him shower and lend him spare clothes that aren’t caked in mud and grass stains, once they’re back at the cabin. He cleans up in silence trying to wrap his head around this entire pickle he’s in, and how to go about making them believe him.

He’s got his work cut out with Scully, he knows this. But he works over every bit of information he can remember from each season, each episode, to remember something that couldn’t be denied.

They’re doing their Scully and Mulder thing when he comes out with damp hair and Mulder’s clothes on. (He definitely had to will away a half-chub at the thought of being wrapped in his things.)

They sit around the small living room with photos and paperwork all sprawled out and Dieter feels like geeking out a little bit. This is like the world’s greatest and most interactive X-Files museum.

“Okay. I’m going to try to do this in the best way I know how. Just— Bear with me.”

They sit back in their seats, and Dieter lifts Queequeg onto his lap to take his place on the couch. He waits for them to give him a go-ahead, but neither of them are responsive. He tries not to feel so aroused by their focused gazes. Maybe he should have jerked off in the shower, as a precaution.

“Okay then… let’s see… this is Season 3, Episode… 22? So. You guys just went through the whole Skinner thing, right? With his— his bad dreams lady killing that prostitute?”

“How do you know Skinner?”

“I told you, it’s a TV show. Skinner’s always busting your balls. Big tough assistant director business. He’s actually just a softy though, I think.”

Scully looks disinterested and a little annoyed, but Mulder’s starting to shift forward in his seat.

“What’s the show called?”

“The X-Files.”

Scully snorts.

“How creative.”

“Okay, okay, I know. It sounds whacky. But I’ve seen the show a billion times over, I’ve been unknowingly preparing for this moment since the pilot aired.”

He takes a moment to determine what to say and how to word it before he continues.

“Okay… Well… Your first case together was that weird kid in Oregon that kept helping aliens abduct his classmates. Scully conveniently missed the UFO though. Ever the skeptic. Then… let’s see… Deep Throat turns up in the next episode. Scully, he ended up dying in your arms and his last words were trust no one.”

“Mulder, we’ve been bugged for 90 percent of the time we’ve known each other, this doesn’t mean anything.”

Dieter huffs and Mulder shrugs.

“Keep going. Give us a deep cut, man. You gotta try harder than that.”

“When did you become the skeptic, Mulder?”

The agent shrugs and raises his eyebrows to urge him to continue.

“Okay… Scully, when you were at your god son’s birthday party, you told your friend that Mulder is a jerk.”

“Hey, what the hell, Scully?”

“No, I said he was just—”

“Obsessed with his work, yeah. After you called him a jerk though.”

Dieter hates to see the way Mulder’s eyebrows draw up in the middle. It’s kind of funny to see Scully so embarrassed, though. He figures he’ll keep what else she said to himself, about him being cute, because it looks like she’s praying that he doesn’t blab about it.

“You wound me, Scully.”

“Oh, yeah, and there’s the time you shot Mulder in the shoulder.”

“You’re kind of a bully, y’know?”

Scully shoves at his shoulder to prove their point, and Mulder just laughs and leans into it.

“Do you want to know what happens in the future? Wait, if I affect the future will the show be different? I dunno how I feel about that… new X-Files episodes in 2024 would be incredible. But what if the new episodes suck, though?”

“2024? That’s what year you’re going with?”

Dieter nods.

“It kinda sucks. We have smartphones and streaming services and stuff but also, you wouldn’t believe who the last president was if I told you. Also there was a global pandemic. Still kinda is one, but everyone’s just ignoring it. Actually, come to think of it, you guys would thrive in 2024.”

“Do we die before then?”

“Oh, no, no, the show just finished. And then came back and then— it’s a whole thing. But neither of you die.”

“Hmm.”

Mulder hums, and Dieter knows exactly what he’s thinking. Scully too, by the faraway look on her face. Total idiots. Why couldn’t he have landed at least after the first kiss. Or even the almost-kiss?

“Well, I’m tired, and this case isn’t going to solve itself. And Queequeg needs to go potty, so, I think we’re done here.”

Dieter’s whole body feels hot, like the time he was stabbed in the chest with that epi-pen. He shoots up off the couch so fast that Queequeg yelps and hops down to cower behind Scully’s ankles.

“Wait! It’s an alligator. Literally. It’s just an ordinary alligator killing these people. And if you let Queequeg walk into the woods he’s going to get eaten and if there’s one single thing you believe me about it has to be this, okay? For Queequeg’s sake.”

Dieter’s got his hands clasped in front of him, pleading. Scully looks startled and Mulder looks awed, but he’s desperate to drive this point home.

“…Okay. I’ll keep him close. Thank you.”

They think he’s crazy. Scully does, at least. Mulder’s just quiet, uncharacteristically so.

“Thank you.”

“Alright,” she sighs, grabbing Queequeg’s leash and hooking him up, “goodnight guys.”

“Goodnight Scully.”

Dieter sighs and sits back down.

“She thinks I’m insane, doesn’t she?”

“Welcome to the club.”

Dieter chuckles and looks to Mulder. He’s still got that pensive look on his face. It suits him, all brooding with that fucking jawline and those plush lips and sad eyes. He wants to kiss him so bad. He almost says it out loud, so used to his horny musings while watching this guy on TV that his filter is a little out of whack.

Dieter doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Mulder tilts his head at him, confused. He opens his mouth and takes a breath but the door ripping open cuts him off.

“Mulder, there’s something in the woods; Dieter was right. I think we should check it out.”

Mulder jumps up at her beck and call and seeing it in person is even more overwhelming, how he follows her without question and trusts her, so eagerly.

“Queequeg?”

“He’s here, can you watch him?”

Dieter nods.

“Me? Yeah, yes ma’am, Agent Scully.”

He doesn’t miss the amused look on her face just before the door slams shut behind them.

He lies on the couch with Queequeg on his chest, enjoying the silence after the… everythingness of his day. He really wishes he could smoke some pot, but even if he could get his hands on some, he’s sure it would be weak as hell. And there’s the FBI agent thing.

Dieter’s not sure how long he’s been staring at nothing and snuggling Queequeg when the cabin door finally opens again.

“Did you catch the alligator?”

The eerie silence he’s met with makes him whip his head around. Scully and Mulder are staring at him. He’s pretty sure 80 percent of his X-Files fantasies have started exactly like this.

“… We did. We caught it just in time to save Ted Bertram.”

“That’s the guy with the lake monster feet, right?”

They both nod slowly.

Queequeg hops down from his perch on Dieter’s chest, so he sits up.

“I told you. You guys believe me now?”

He watches as Mulder nods his head yes and Scully shakes her head no. All he can do is shrug and start wondering what’s next for him, in the year of 1995.

“Hey, do you guys need an assistant? I could tell you how to solve the next case! I think it’s the one with the mind control cable. Mulder, are you really red-green color blind? I think that was a major plot hole. How do you tell the difference between human blood and alien blood if one is red and one is green, then?”

“Mulder’s not colorblind,” Scully says.

“Uhh… Actually, yeah. I am.”

“What? How did you pass the color vision test?”

“I’m colorblind, not an idiot. I can still tell them apart, they just look different to me than they would to you.”

“I— I can’t believe you’ve been colorblind this entire time.”

Mulder shrugs. Then his brow quirks up.

“Why does that matter?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you. It might mess with the space-time continuum and— quantum physics, you know?”

Scully’s clearly had enough. She sighs and finally kicks off her shoes.

“I’m grabbing a shower and clearing my head,” she says, “don’t— don’t let him out of your sight for now, Mulder.”

Mulder nods and half smiles at her. They both look pretty tired. He wants to remind them that he’s the one who traveled 29 years into the past today, but it seems like a pretty sore subject.

They stand still and silent in the living room until Scully closes her bedroom door behind her, Queequeg in tow.

“You heard the woman. There’s a TV in my room.”

Mulder nods toward the other bedroom door and Dieter follows dutifully.

“Does it get the good channels?”

He hears Mulder chuckle and watches from behind as he sheds his jacket. He admires all those lean muscles in his back, now that he’s not wearing one of those god awful baggy suits. Maybe he should suggest a tailor, he thinks, and wonders if the later seasons would be filled with more eye candy if he did.

“You know about that?”

“All the video tapes that aren’t yours? And the hotline lady that leaves messages on your answering machine? Yeah. You wouldn’t believe what porn is like in thirty years. You’re gonna love it.”

Dieter’s torn between looking away and staring shamelessly while Mulder unbuttons his fly. He settles for nonchalant, hoping his eyes don’t pop out of their sockets like a cartoon character when he notices the outline of Little Mulder. This is even better than the gray sweatpants in the Humbug episode.

“I was hoping to kick the habit in thirty years’ time, actually.”

Dieter shrugs and his staring contest with Mulder’s crotch ends abruptly as he slides into a pair of pajama pants. Which is weird, because usually Mulder sleeps in his underwear. Must be the fact that he’s sharing a cabin with Scully.

Mulder throws Dieter the remote and settles onto the bed. There’s no couch in here, not even a cuck chair, so Dieter settles next to him. His whole body burns. God, if 20-year-old Dieter could see himself now, he’d ruin the pants he was wearing.

The silence feels a little awkward, so he turns the TV on. Nineties TV is so simple. It’s easy to settle on a channel playing Invasion of the Body Snatchers and sink into the mattress under him.

It only takes a few moments before he realizes Mulder’s staring holes into the side of his face.

“What’s up?” Dieter asks.

There’s so little room between them it’s making Dieter’s entire body throb along with his pulse.

“You’re telling the truth.”

Dieter nods and tries to give him a reassuring smile. Mulder sighs and throws his head back onto the pillow. His eyes close and his brows furrow and his jaw does that sexy clenching thing again. It’s all Dieter can do to not bite at it and soothe the sting with his tongue.

“What happens to us?”

Dieter clears his throat.

“I mean— I know, you shouldn’t affect the future, yadda yadda. I just…”

Fuck it, Dieter thinks, if I’ve already solved the case way before the episode is supposed to end, I’ve thrown everything off anyway.

“You end up together.”

Mulder lets out a big, long breath. His face instantly relaxes. His hands flex by his sides and Dieter goes out on a big giant limb and grabs one of them.

Mulder starts at the touch, but lets it happen.

“When?”

“Way later than you should have shacked up, in my opinion.”

He grumbles.

“My opinion, too.”

“You should make a move, then. I’m pretty sure at this point she’s only waiting for you to make a move.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Oh, it’s a whole thing involving a shapeshifting guy with a tail. Trust me. She’s got it just as bad.”

They’re still holding hands. Mulder hasn’t moved a muscle. An idea so bright pops into Dieter’s head that he’s certain there’s a lightbulb floating above him.

“You know when you met Bambi on that cockroach case?”

Mulder nods.

“She was so jealous. Didn’t you pick up on that?”

“I— I thought so. But I also thought she was just annoyed with me, y’know, how she usually is.”

Dieter squeezes his hand.

“She was annoyed because she’s into you, dude. It was envy. Very, very clearly.”

He hums.

“So? What now? Do I apologize for something that happened months ago? You apparently know Scully as well as I do, how do you think that’ll blow over? ‘Hey, sorry I made you jealous because you have a big fat crush on me.’ She’d deck me.”

Dieter shakes his head.

“No, man. You need to make her jealous. So jealous she can’t deny why she’s upset with you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and I mean, why not just start right now, y’know? Get a head start on the whole thing. I mean, you’re here, I’m here, there’s only one bed…”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were coming onto me.”

“I would love to come on you, actually.”

Mulder laughs, and Dieter deflates a little at the sound. But when he goes to pull his hand away, Mulder cinches it in his own.

“Dieter…”

“Mulder.”

“We’re doing this, then?”

Dieter nods like an overexcited puppy wagging its tail. Oh my god. Oh my god. Fox Mulder in his prime, how fucking lucky can one guy be?

Mulder glances at the door to make sure it’s open. The faint sound of running water can be heard from Scully’s room, and he thinks he smells her shampoo wafting out with the steam.

Like two nervous teenagers, they shift to face one another. Dieter brings their joined hands together on his own hip. Mulder’s palm is warm on his skin where his shirt rides high, and it makes Dieter’s breath hitch.

Slowly, Dieter urges him to keep his hand still with a squeeze before mirroring Mulder’s, creeping his hand under his shirt and feeling his solid, trim waist.

Mulder hums into his touch and Dieter realizes this man is possibly just as touch-starved as he is. He starts swirling circles into his skin with his thumb and inches forward, but those beautiful hazel eyes hold apprehension in their timid gaze.

“What if this blows up in my face?” Mulder whispers.

“It won’t. I guarantee it. I’ll make sure of it. Trust me?”

A soft grin tugs at Mulder’s lips and he nods, and it’s all the permission Dieter needs.

Christ, his lips are soft. Soft and plush and exactly how Dieter imagined only a million times better. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good, not on any drug, and they’re just kissing.

It’s chaste until he feels Mulder’s tongue prod at the seam of his lips and then it’s filthy. As soon as Dieter opens his mouth to him, Mulder takes it with a grunt. His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh at Dieter’s hip as he traces the arch of his bottom teeth. Dieter tries to keep up, but his brain constantly shorts out at the thought of who’s tongue is poking and prodding around in his mouth.

He’s a great fucking kisser. His tongue tickles the roof of Dieter’s mouth and it makes him shiver, makes his cock swell against his borrowed sweatpants, against Mulder.

He doesn’t seem deterred. Quite the opposite actually. He tugs Dieter by the hip and presses his own solid prick right up against Dieter’s, and they both groan into the sloppy kiss.

“It’s been quite a while,” Mulder says.

Dieter can’t tell if the huffed little laugh is directed toward the eager way he chases Mulder’s lips, or toward himself for being out of practice. He likes the thought of either.

“For me, too,” Dieter mumbles.

Mulder hums and rolls his hips. As their dicks press together and twitch, Dieter decides they are not naked enough by any means.

He presses his hand up, up, bringing Mulder’s shirt with it and grabbing a handful of his sturdy pec, admiring how stiff it feels under his palm when his lungs inflate. He gets with the program, and Dieter pulls his own shirt over his head, then promptly salivates over all the lean muscles and wiry hair and pale skin in front of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

It’s not until Mulder’s breath hitches does he realize he might actually be into this, not just their plan, but being here in bed with Dieter. His pretty hazel eyes are dark now, pupils blown out, and his chest is heaving, and the tent in his pajama pants is far too enticing to resist.

Dieter reaches down to cup him through the flannel material and Mulder gasps and falls flat onto his back. His eyes close and his jaw hangs open like an invitation. Dieter wiggles and shifts to press up against the length of his side and to finally press his face into the crook of his neck.

The hint of aftershave that’s been teasing him all day is now overwhelming his senses, sharp and spicy. Dieter is delighted to know that his skin tastes just as delicious as it smells, salty and heady under his tongue. Mulder’s prick throbs in his grasp and Dieter’s torn between wanting to tease him over his pants and feel the hot skin of his cock in his palm.

“Feels good,” Mulder whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

Dieter nips at his racing pulse first, then down to his jaw and the impressive five o’clock shadow he’s always been jealous and in awe of. The prickly hairs there tickle his tongue and lips, and he grinds into the outside of Mulder’s thigh for a bit of relief.

“You think about Scully doing this?”

The way Mulder’s dick jolts in his grasp is answer enough, but he speaks up anyway.

“Yes.”

The admission is so hot it makes Dieter’s brain spin. He himself has thought of it many times before, Scully torturing him with teasing touches, her little sharp canines digging into his flesh, but the thought of Mulder thinking of it too…

All those heated glances Dieter’s mulled over, he wonders how many of those were fueled by Mulder’s dirty thoughts about her. Wonders how many times he’s seen a flash of something in Mulder’s gaze and it’s been him fantasizing about getting Scully in bed.

Dieter huffs against the heated skin of Mulder’s neck before he pulls back. His head his thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and he’s fucking gorgeous. He lightens his touch, teases the underside of his cock with one fingertip, and delights in the pleasure scrawled across Mulder’s face.

“How often?”

Mulder’s gravelly chuckle is cut off by a low groan when Dieter presses against his sac over his pajamas.

“All the time,” he confesses, “every time.”

“In the office?”

Mulder whimpers and nods his head.

“On the job, in the field?”

“God yes.”

Dieter hums, squeezes his balls to goad him into continuing.

“When she— when she’s so serious, it’s hot. She’s so smart, it turns me on.”

Dieter smirks. He completely sympathizes.

“You like it when she debunks you?”

Mulder whines and nods his head again. Dieter tries his hardest not to react to the sound of the water shutting off across the cabin, or Scully’s door creaking open. Instead, he shoves his hand down Mulder’s pants and hopes to god he keeps his eyes closed, hopes Scully’s ever present need to call out his name is tampered down when she inevitably hears him talking.

Mulder gasps and raises his hips into the circle of Dieter’s hand, and his brows furrow as he shuts his eyes even tighter.

“Why?”

Mulder moans.

“Because she— she balances me out. Makes me feel even. Whole.”

Dieter chuckles.

“Aww, does she complete you, Foxy?”

He scoffs but bites his lip when Dieter thumbs at his head and spreads his slick, sticky pre-cum all around.

“Tell me what you think about, Mulder.”

His breathing is so ragged that Dieter thinks he should maybe be concerned. But he can tell things are about to come to a head, can hear Scully’s little footsteps inching closer to their room, pointedly quiet.

“Her, I think about her body against mine. And touching her.”

As if on cue, fiery red hair peeks through the door frame. Dieter’s got his free hand up and a finger at his lips before Scully’s face can even twist up in concern and shock. He gives her a pleading look as she stands stock-still and wide-eyed.

“Where would you touch Scully, if she was here?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere she wants me to. I just wanna make her feel good.”

Dieter turns his head back to Mulder to confirm that his eyes are still closed. They are, positively scrunched shut as sweat threatens to penetrate his brows and slip into his eyes.

“Do you wanna taste her?”

Mulder’s breath hitches and his cock pulses and dribbles more against Dieter’s hand.

“Yes, yes, so bad. I think about it every time I— every time I touch myself.”

Dieter turns back to Scully. Her hair is damp and her silky pajama top is unbuttoned more than it was just a moment ago. It just barely hides her heaving chest and he has a hard time not giving her away when he realizes his plan is working. Her lips are parted and wet, like she’s licked them, and god he really fucking hopes they don’t kick him out once this all comes to a head.

“You do?”

“Mm-hmm,” Mulder nods, “I could spend the rest of my life down there and die happy.”

Dieter chuckles then, and Mulder does too, but he opens his eyes. It takes him just a second to blink and adjust but, ever the vigilant one, his eyes jolt toward the now closed bedroom door and Scully standing in front of it. His body goes stiff and still, aside from his prick, which twitches wildly in Dieter’s grasp.

Mulder’s voice cracks amusingly around Scully’s name. She crosses her arms and lifts one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows as she shuffles to the foot of the bed.

“Boys.”

Dieter smiles sheepishly at her. Mulder’s staring and gaping like a fish out of water, all tense now, one elbow on the bed so he can prop himself up. Dieter doesn’t miss the way Scully’s eyes trace over his naked torso or the activity going on at the front of Mulder’s pajamas.

“Is it true, Mulder?”

He’s nodding his head before she can even finish the question.

“Yeah, Scully. I—”

He cuts himself off when Dieter squeezes and strokes him, and Scully’s gaze is locked on the movement.

“It certainly feels like the truth,” Dieter supplies.

Mulder whimpers under him and Dieter swears he sees Scully’s ears perk up at the sound, like some kind of predator.

“Mulder, c’mere.”

God, the way he follows so readily, like he always does, it warms Dieter’s heart just as much as it makes his dick throb. He kneels on the edge of the bed right in front of her. His cock is protruding obscenely out in front of him, but Scully doesn’t seem to care about that.

No, she’s focused on his face instead where it’s settled gently between her dainty hands. God, the way they look at each other is so fucking intoxicating. Dieter’s bound by it, physically stuck on the mattress as he watches.

Her brows furrow slightly as she looks at him, but Mulder’s face is slack, almost dazed as he meets her eyes.

“What did he tell you, Mulder?”

Mulder shifts awkwardly from knee to knee. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and she giggles under her breath.

“You’re not in trouble.”

Dieter laughs, and god, it’s so fucking weird. It’s like he’s watching a director’s cut.

Mulder sighs, though.

“We end up together, Scully. You and me. And I— I believe it. I believed it long before this guy showed up, and it… Out of everything I believe, everything I’ve been working toward… it might be the only belief I have that keeps me going.”

Scully’s gaze grows soft as his confession, and Dieter refrains from squealing in delight at how sweet Mulder sounds and how Mulder it all is.

“Why now, then?”

Mulder huffs and tries to turn away, but she keeps his face tight in her grasp. His cheeks are so pink.

“Just worked up the guts, I guess.”

Dieter doesn’t miss the quick flicker of Scully’s eyes down to his lips. His fingers twitch with the urge to smash their faces together.

She sighs and brushes some errant strands of hair from Mulder’s forehead.

“Well,” she says, and her voice wavers with a heavy breath, “I’m glad one of us did.”

Mulder visibly melts. His shoulders slump and he leans forward into her touch. His face loses all of that tension from earlier, and his lips look loose when Scully’s own finally brushes against them.

He’s so gentle with her, in a way he definitely wasn’t with Dieter. His hands are nearly hovering over her with how lightly he places them on her waist. His lips stay slack and still as he lets her control the kiss. The only thing giving him away is the comical bobbing of his prick disrupting the front of his pajamas, and there’s no way Dieter can blame him for that.

One of Scully’s hands tangles in Mulder’s hair and produces a beautiful, high pitched sound that Dieter and Scully both react to.

She pulls away. Mulder chases her lips, but her grip on his hair tightens. He curses under his breath with a face more flushed than Dieter’s ever seen on him.

Her eyes flicker over to Dieter and he feels like a deer in headlights. Why is he still here? Is this weird, is he being a creep for staying?

“C’mere,” she mumbles, tipping her head to urge him to kneel right beside Mulder on the bed.

He does, of course he does. He wants to be good for her, for them.

He kneels, shoulder to shoulder with the man panting beside him. He grasps his hands behind his back and waits patiently as she looks the both of them over.

“What did I walk in on, Dieter?”

The way his name sounds coming from her low, rasping voice makes his spine tingle.

“It was my idea, Agent Scully. I was trying to make you jealous. I’m sorry.”

She clicks her tongue and the noise makes his cock throb.

“And you went along with this plan?”

She looks back to Mulder and Dieter shivers. He instantly misses the warmth of her gaze.

“I— yeah. I did... It worked, didn’t it?”

Scully’s eyes narrow, and Dieter can’t tell if Mulder’s an idiot or a genius for riling her up. He should have known Fox Mulder would be a brat. He thinks if he plays his cards right, maybe Scully will forget the whole plot and he can be her good boy while Mulder gets punished for his smart mouth.

A whimper falling from Mulder’s parted lips knocks him out of his daze and he notices Scully’s grip all tight in his floppy hair.

Fuck, he wishes that were him. Maybe he should mouth off too, maybe then he’ll get the attention that he craves.

“Get on your knees, Mulder.”

“I am on my knees.”

Dieter gasps as Scully tugs on his hair and leaves him no choice but to scramble off of the edge of the bed, lest she rip all that perfectly coiffed hair out of his head. His shoulders rise and fall with baited breath when he’s finally sunken his knees on the gaudy rug on the hardwood floors. Dieter whimpers and no one’s even touching him.

“You too, time bandit.”

Dieter gets whiplash with how quickly he gets on his knees for her. He breathes out a labored ‘yes ma’am’ and Mulder throws him a look of disbelief. He shrugs, what can I say?

They’re both rock hard for her, on the floor, staring up at her. She looks like an angel, or the devil, or maybe like God herself. Her breathing is suspiciously calm compared to their own, even though her nipples create tantalizing nubs at the front of her silk pajamas.

“Keep your eyes forward, both of you.”

Dieter nods at her commanding voice. He wants to look to Mulder for— direction? Comfort? Some kind of trauma bonding? But he doesn’t. He wants to be good.

He hears Scully behind them, bed creaking under her weight, sheets ruffling underneath her. There’s a pregnant pause where all of their heavy breathing can be heard and the anticipation is so much Dieter might explode on the spot.

“Strip.”

Twin breaths release from both Dieter and Mulder and he swears he hears her giggle behind them. He’s quick to comply, tugging at the drawstring of Mulder’s sweats he’s borrowed and awkwardly shuffling them off while he tries to stay kneeling.

He notices Mulder still motionless beside him.

“Scully…”

Idiot, Dieter thinks.

“Good boy, Dieter, doing exactly what I say.”

He can’t help the satisfied smirk that twists his lips up, or the way the back of his neck burns at the praise. In his peripheral, Mulder hastily shucks his pajama pants.

He has a pretty cock. Dieter knew he would. Everything else about him is pretty. It’s long and lean, just like he is, and the upward curve of it makes him jealous. It’s going to feel so good for Scully, if she lets him fuck her.

There’s more shuffling behind them, and he flinches when a pair of satin pajama pants land on the floor in front of both of them. He has to dig his nails into his thighs to resist the urge to turn around. Something nudges his arm. He doesn’t dare move his head, but from the corner of his eye he sees a pale, smooth leg and his breath catches in his chest.

He hears Mulder curse under his breath and can nearly feel the tension in him vibrating out energy into this rickety old cabin. Dieter feels a gentle hand in the short curls at the back of his neck just a moment later, her nails scraping his scalp just right, and his leg may just start shaking like a dog’s.

“You want to taste me, Mulder?”

“Fuck yes, Scully, please.”

She hums. Her hand in Dieter’s hair stills.

“Go on, then.”

A lightning flash of movement stirs beside him, but Dieter keeps dutifully still. He’s twitching in anticipation but he doesn’t dare turn to look.

Scully sighs, all breathy and high-pitched, and Dieter’s never heard a more beautiful sound. Then Mulder whimpers, and it’s muffled by Scully’s thighs, and there’s a wet smacking noise and Dieter thinks this obscene music could be a platinum album.

Scully gasps, and Mulder groans, and Dieter aches. He can smell her, a sharp and tangy scent of arousal underneath the flowery soap and shampoo. Her hand is still in his hair and it hasn’t moved since Mulder got down to business and he feels forgotten about but in the best way.

“Dieter, honey, you can watch.”

He breathes out with relief and shifts to get a good look of the action. She’s perfect, gorgeous, breathtaking. Her silky pajama top hangs open on her pointy shoulders and her perky breasts rise and fall with her breathing. Her nipples are a brownish pink that stand erect in a way that makes his mouth water like a leaky faucet.

Her toned, porcelain legs spread wide enough to accommodate Mulder’s shoulders. The man is greedy, and Dieter can’t see a thing aside from the triangle of copper curls on her mound. He wants to nuzzle them so bad, he wants to feel them tickle his nose, smell the arousal that catches there.

“You taste so good.”

Mulder’s words are squished against her center. Dieter whimpers at the thought of her flavor. Her hand soothes through his hair. He wants to touch his cock so badly, but Scully hasn’t told him that he’s allowed. Instead, he balls his hands into fists and bites his lip.

Scully moans, and Dieter watches her face fall slack with pleasure.

“Feels good, just like that.”

Dieter can’t help the sounds that eke out of him, desperate and a little pained. He’s so hard that he’s lightheaded, but Scully’s firm grip on his hair grounds him just enough.

“Don’t be selfish, Mulder.”

He makes a questioning noise between her legs. He looks up at her with wide eyes, mouth open, tongue out and flat against her slit.

“Give him a taste.”

“Oh fuck, please.”

Dieter can see the reluctance in Mulder’s motions, like he’s struggling to break free from her orbit. He looks so fucking hot, absolutely wrecked. His plush lips are red and shiny and his chin is dripping and his pupils completely usurp his irises. Drunk, drugged off of Scully.

He leans away from Dieter to make room between her legs but she tugs his hair. Then she tugs Dieter’s hair, and their noses are bumping together before either man can put two and two together.

He can smell her on his breath. It’s so intoxicating that he loses any crumb of decorum he may have had left. He licks a broad swipe from Mulder’s chin to his Cupid’s bow and groans at all the slick he’s able to lap up.

Mulder’s mouth opens up to him, and he chases the taste of her off of his tongue, his teeth, his gums, anywhere. They’re both panting into each other's mouths, exchanging breath. Dieter feels a big, strong hand on his jaw and neck, and the contrast to Scully’s smaller, gentler touch has him leaking all over the rug underneath him. He feels like he’s drowning, and he just wants to go even deeper, like even death won’t be enough.

He waits for Scully to say anything about Mulder touching him. When she doesn’t, he takes it as permission to reach up and find purchase in his hair. His fingers tingle when they find Scully’s still there, and his whole body shudders and twitches when she links her fingers with his.

“You want more?”

It’s depraved, the way they both pull away from the kiss so fast. Dieter’s nodding and looking toward her, her glistening cunt, her smooth skin and her mischievous gaze.

“Please, Scully,” Mulder mumbles.

His head lolls back against Scully’s thigh so he can look up at her. He looks like he’s just run a marathon, the way sweat is beading at his forehead and his chest is heaving.

“Yes, please, Agent Scully.”

She chuckles. The sound is torture and it’s bliss. She ruffles Dieter’s hair and he hums and leans into it. Mulder whimpers at the lack of attention, so she ruffles his too.

And then she spreads her thighs even wider, like, gymnast levels of flexibility, and both of their eyes are drawn to the way her lips spread open in invitation, puffy red, her clit all swollen while she drips onto the old comforter under her.

“Think you can share?”

Dieter curses. Mulder whimpers against her thigh.

“Play nice, boys.”

Mulder looks at him with a heated gaze that makes him a little bit scared but really really horny.

“Yes ma’am,” Dieter says, but he’s staring at Mulder.

Be good, he’s trying to tell him through telepathy, we’ll get rewarded if you’re just good.

Mulder glances up at her, bats his pretty little eyes, and licks his slick lips.

“Yes ma’am.”

It sounds more teasing than anything, but Dieter doesn’t miss the way she squirms when Mulder says it. He just has that effect, doesn’t he? Such a charming little shit.

He and Dieter look at each other, assessing, when Mulder finally goes low. It’s a little bit awkward, at first. Dieter’s jaw prods at Mulder’s sharp cheekbone as they find a good position.

He traces around her clit with a pointed tongue, delicately, so eager to work her up. He can hear Mulder’s tongue fucking in and out of her, a wet cacophony of sounds that make his ears ring. So much so that he nearly doesn’t catch the sounds of Scully’s breath hitching, her soft little mewls as her hips cant up into their faces.

He’s hyper focused on her pleasure, so lost in it that he doesn’t even recognize how turned on he is until a heavy, warm hand wraps around his cock and he nearly blows his load. His tongue presses broadly against Scully’s clit when he groans. She curses and her hand tightens in his hair and it’s so much.

He reaches out for anything, really, but Mulder’s cock is there, hard and proud and twitching when he wraps his hand around him. He finds solace in the fact that he’s leaking just as much as Dieter is, sticky and slick all the way down the underside of his shaft. His noises get breathier, and his tongue seeks higher ground just as Dieter’s travels lower. They lap at her folds together, briefly, trapping them between their tongues, trading their tastes as she whines above them. Dieter doesn’t even realize his free hand has grasped Scully’s slender hip until she squirms against it.

All of a sudden, Dieter feels her go stiff under his grasp. Her hand tightens in his hair just shy of enough to make him lose it. She lets out stuttered little sounds and Mulder hums below him.

“You like that, Scully?”

“Oh my god, Mulder.”

He groans and shifts and she begs and Dieter’s aroused haze clears enough to make him realize that he’s eating her ass.

He makes a pained sound himself and sucks Scully’s throbbing clit into his mouth. She shakes, and her stiff body loosens just enough for her to roll her hips into them.

“Don’t— don’t stop, I’m so close. I’m gonna come.”

Neither of them would dream of stopping, not for anything. Dieter works his tongue in pulses against her clit as he suckles, and he feels Mulder slip a finger in between them just as she cries out, loud, and falls apart against their tongues.

Dieter drinks up the way her clit jerks and pulses between his lips. He drinks up her gasps and breathy noises. He drinks up the way Mulder’s cock mirrors his own, twitching with pure arousal at the way she’s coming just for them.

They’re both humming satisfied sounds as they work her through it. Their hands on each other’s cocks have stilled completely, just a loose grasp as they coax every last bit of pleasure out of her until she’s lax and shying away from them.

Dieter pulls away first. He watches with a sticky feeling in his chest at the way Mulder kisses her holes gently, and the skin around them, nuzzling between her thighs so tenderly. Both his hands free, now, Mulder soothes them up the outside of her thighs as they tremble in her aftershocks.

Mulder’s babbling, Dieter realizes, once the ringing in his ears finally subsides. Just under his breath, a chant, over and over.

“So perfect, Scully, thank you, thank you, Jesus Christ, Scully…”

Dieter settles back on his heels to keep gazing at them. Scully’s hands both pet through his hair as he leaves wet kisses that make her pale thighs glisten in the dim cabin lighting. He’s panting harder than she is, and his prick dribbles and twitches, and he looks up at her through misty eyes.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs.

She bends down at the same time he arches up and their lips meet in a kiss so blindingly passionate that Dieter debates whether or not he should look away. Only for a split second though. Because Scully moans into his mouth and licks herself out of it and Dieter grabs his throbbing dick at the base to chill himself out.

Mulder’s fingers run through her damp hair so gently, but his jaw works and his mouth takes from her in stark contrast. They look so goddamn good together, it’s insane. He’s torn between holding off to see how this plays out, or coming all over himself in three strokes or less as he watches them together.

“Come up here, Mulder.”

Her voice is intoxicating, it sounds so fucked out and blissful. She shuffles up the bed some and Mulder chases her, always touching at some point, until she’s lying back and he’s covering her body with his own.

He dwarfs her. It’s cute, in the show, the way she’s always looking up at him with a craned neck. Now, it’s just filthy, how Mulder’s cock looks so fucking huge lying hard against her small frame. The way he has to scrunch himself up to kiss her so his prick doesn’t go anywhere it’s not supposed to, yet. The way her tiny feet rub up and down Mulder’s calves, only half their size.

The way his hand eclipses her face when he cradles it and pulls away. How his thumb sweeps so easily from her lips to her cheekbone as he sighs.

“Scully…”

She hums and closes her eyes and smiles, a sated and relieved grin that makes her look so serenely beautiful.

“I know, Mulder,” she sighs, “me too.”

Dieter huffs. Chris Carter himself couldn’t have created a more Mulder and Scully-esque love confession. It’s precious. He might cry.

Unfortunately, the sound makes them both look over. Scully’s all relaxed but Mulder’s hackles are all raised, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Dieter slowly moves his hand away from his leaking cock and feels himself blush from his face down to his nipples.

He’s caught in their crosshairs, stuck, eerily still and silent. Should he offer to leave? He really doesn’t want to leave. Maybe he can just peek through the keyhole of the door and leave them to it.

“You too, Dieter,” Scully says, “get up here.”

Relief floods through him and makes his limbs all tingly. He’s nervous as he stands, gently making his way to the side of the bed and settling one knee on, then the other. Mulder shifts to the opposite side of Scully, their legs still tangled, as he watches Dieter with emotion he can’t quite put a name to.

Dieter practically purrs when he slides right into their space. His cock drags a sticky design onto Scully’s smooth thigh and he apologizes, but she just chuckles and gently scratches her nails along his scalp.

“Are you both going to be good for me?”

The tone of her voice makes them both shiver. Mulder huffs out a laugh but Dieter gasps as she tugs a little at his messy, sweaty curls.

“Yes ma’am, Agent Scully.”

Dieter’s voice completely betrays him. He’s so turned on. There’s so much blood pumping to his cock that there’s a real and serious threat of him passing out. He hides his face in her shoulder and tries to even out his breathing and not hump her leg like an unruly dog.

“I’ll be good for you, Scully.”

Mulder sounds a lot more in control. His deep, syrupy voice is just shy of even, only cracking on the second syllable of her name. Dieter feels the way she starts giggling before he hears it, her shoulders jostling with it.

“You’re going to play by the rules, Mulder?”

He chuckles and it sounds dark, and Dieter opens his eyes to watch him smirk that irresistible smirk.

“Hell, Scully, I’d write the rules over and over on the chalkboard to keep this going.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but she’s still grinning. His eyes flicker to her lips and there’s no hesitation this time when they kiss again. It’s tame and loose, until Scully wraps her dainty hand around his cock and he groans. Dieter matches his sound, and he just can’t help it, he rolls his hips into Scully’s thigh as he watches Mulder melt into a puddle against her. She bites at his plush bottom lip before she pulls back.

“Fuck me, then.”

“Jesus,” they both say in unison.

Scully bites her lip to keep in her giggles and it’s cute and debauched and insane. She’s insane. She’s going to kill them both, and Dieter’s going to return to his reality with 8 less seasons of The X-Files, and a season finale where Scully gets locked up for double homicide.

Mulder shuffles to straddle her. Dieter watches his heavy eyelids flutter and his jaw hang open and knows he likely looks the same. His cock twitches heavily where it hangs below him, and Scully teases the underside of it with her fingertips. He shivers, and so does Dieter, where he rocks his hips gently into Scully’s smooth skin.

“You’re sure, Scully?”

Dieter turns away and hides his heated face in the duvet. It’s too tender and raw and he doesn’t deserve to watch them love each other like this.

“Positive, Mulder.”

He hears them kissing, wet, smacking sounds that give Dieter goosebumps. And then a whimper, a huff, muffled into Scully’s mouth and he drags his face away from its hiding spot.

Mulder’s inching inside of her slowly, so slowly, with patience Dieter couldn’t even dream of. He cranes his neck to watch her take him, inch by inch. She looks so tight, and he bets she is, if the way Mulder’s eyes are squeezed shut is any indication.

Scully’s head tips back and breaks their kiss. Her eyes roll into the back of her head before she closes them. Her chest is heaving now with shallow breaths, her nipples taut and inviting.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

Mulder’s hips stay flush once he’s all the way in and he pants too. It looks like it takes all the strength he has to just flutter his eyes open and look down at her. His brows furrow and he licks his lips and gasps.

“Scully,” he whines.

She smirks, and christ, Dieter knows she’s clenching around him like a menace. Poor Mulder. He’s got the restraint of a god, he thinks, Dieter wouldn’t have made it even halfway inside of her.

She soothes him by brushing the hair from his forehead, all damp with sweat. She does the same to Dieter and he hums as her fingertips massage his scalp.

Mulder pulls out just as slowly as he entered her. She‘s soaked. He can hear it so well in the stilted silence of the room. When he pushes back in, she sighs and tightens her fist in Dieter’s hair and he needs something. He rocks against her again, and again, and the steady friction makes him gasp.

Her hand slides down to the back of his neck and guides him to her breast. His cock throbs, deliciously trapped between his stomach and her silky skin. His tongue tests the waters, swirling around the pronounced peak of her nipple. When she sighs and arches into it, he takes it into his mouth and sucks.

The noises she’s making are perfect. High pitched, breathy, needy. She’s letting herself go to Dieter and Mulder and it’s gorgeous. He presses his cock against her even harder and closes his eyes and whines around the bud in his mouth.

Mulder’s starting to pick up the pace. Dieter can tell by the way her breast is jiggling just slightly under his mouth. And the sounds, god, the filthy slick sounds coming from her cunt. He’s leaking all over her just thinking about what it must feel like, how snugly Mulder must fit inside of her, how warm it is.

As if Mulder could read his mind, he gasps out and his hips stutter against her.

“It’s so good, Scully.”

Scully arches her back to grind down onto him and moans his name and tells him she needs more and Dieter bites down on her tender skin.

She jolts and tugs his hair and curses and he looks up at her as he soothes it with his tongue.

She’s the poster girl of pleasure. Her face is twisted with it, every beautiful feature dripping with tension. The length of her neck is so apparent with her head thrown back, and her skin is pink and looks hot to the touch. She begins to bounce when Mulder fucks her faster and harder. Dieter wants to do something, anything to make her feel good.

He replaces his mouth with his hand, squeezing her flesh and teasing her nipple with his fingertips. He trails kisses up her chest, little love bites and suction until he reaches just below her ear. Her pulse is fluttering rapidly under his tongue, and she keens just as she turns her head and presses their lips together.

They’re kissing. He’s kissing Scully. Oh god, her lips are so fucking soft against his. Her tongue ripples in his mouth and it tastes so good, minty with a hint of her arousal straight from Mulder’s lips. He whines and rolls his hips against her like he’s in heat, and he’s so close, and he wonders if she’d be mad if he came all over her warm, smooth, freshly showered skin.

She jolts against him, against them, and bites down on Dieter’s lip with an almost pained noise. She turns away from Dieter and they both look to Mulder, who’s circling her puffy clit with his thumb as he fucks her.

He’s looking to her for direction with a glazed expression. He looks like he’s hanging by a thread.

“Here,” she whispers, and takes two of her fingers into her own mouth.

Christ. The way her lips look wrapped around her two digits is sinful and debauched. Mulder must think the same, because he grabs her wrist and makes her stop.

Dieter holds his breath as he waits for his next move. Is he going to pin her arms to the bed? Is he going to stretch them over her head and make her squirm on his cock, make her beg?

It’s sweeter than that. Of course it is, with these two. Mulder brings her hand to his lips and kisses her palm, and then her knuckles. She sighs his name, and watches Mulder smile.

That soft, dopey smile gets an edge to it.

“Let me, please,” he whispers.

Dieter only gets the chance to be confused for half a second when he slips those two fingers into his own mouth.

Scully gasps and moans and wiggles against him. Fuck, it’s beautiful. Mulder’s full lips take her all the way to the last knuckle and he hollows his cheeks as he sucks them. Scully’s hips squirm and rock and the way she moves against him is a sight. Mulder groans when Scully begins to thrust her fingers in and out, just a little, not enough to choke him but enough to make him close his eyes and sigh and start slowly fucking her again.

They leave his mouth all wet and shiny. Mulder’s tongue tries to follow them and it makes Scully huff out a weak laugh.

“You’re too good at that, Mulder.”

He hums, tries to hide his sheepish smile by ducking his head. But Scully grips his chin with her wet fingers to prevent it. His eyes struggle to focus on her, Dieter notices. He can’t blame him, it’s like staring into the sun.

“Why don’t you show off to your little time traveler, huh?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His eyes dart nervously from Scully to Dieter.

“I— what?”

“Don’t be dense. Make him come. Make me come. You can multitask, can’t you?”

Dieter lies as still as the dead, afraid that if he moves maybe Mulder will snap out of this horny daze and tell him to get lost. He wouldn’t blame him one bit, either, but god he really wants to see this man’s lips wrapped around his cock.

Scully chuckles at Mulder’s frozen stature. Or maybe she’s chuckling at the way Dieter’s heartbeat is pulsing through his dick against her thigh, dribbling all over it.

“I bet you’re so good at it,” she continues to tease him, “with these pretty lips?”

Mulder huffs and squirms when she rubs the pads of her wet fingers against his mouth. His tongue peeks out to taste them, coax them back inside him, but she doesn’t let him.

“For me, Mulder?”

And Dieter can’t help but grin, because he’s never seen such a visceral loss of resolve so clearly before. Mulder closes his eyes and whines and nods his head.

Scully makes a satisfied little noise, and her free hand sneaks down to squeeze Dieter’s slick cock, and he has to bite his own lip really hard to keep from losing it before the fun even begins.

Then there’s some awkward repositioning and shuffling, mostly on his end. He kneels just above Scully’s head, and when he looks down she’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat from under his cock. He has to reach down to collect some of the pre-cum oozing out of him to keep it from dripping onto her gorgeous face, but she grabs his wrist and licks it from his fingers anyway.

And then there’s Mulder, who’s slowly thrusting in and out of his partner like it’s second-nature, like auto-pilot, as he surveys the scene in front of him.

“Mulder,” Scully mumbles.

The deep, breathy, commanding tone of her voice makes Dieter shiver.

“Yeah, Scully?”

“Make us come. Then you can.”

He groans, and his hips stutter then slam into her. Dieter’s torn between looking at the blissed-out look on Mulder’s face or the mischievous look in Scully’s eyes.

“Are you— are you sure?” Dieter asks.

Like an idiot, looking a gift horse in the mouth. But how can he not? They’re so perfect, so made for each other, and he’s just some weird fucking guy.

But then Mulder’s expression turns into something darker, determined, and he nods with glassy eyes.

“C’mon, McFly.”

And that’s all the encouragement Dieter needs, really. He widens his knees to line his cock up with those shiny, plush lips. Mulder gives Scully one last glance before he’s craning his neck forward and closing his eyes.

Scully and Dieter gasp at precisely the same time, just as Mulder’s tongue swipes at his frenulum. Dieter’s eyes lose focus as he watches Mulder open his mouth wider, then looks past to see Scully’s icy blue gaze fixated on everything going on above her. It’s like an erotic kaleidoscope, the way they’re all blending together in pleasure.

He suckles on Dieter’s head, a little too hard, but he thinks it might be on purpose. He hisses and grabs Mulder’s hair in one clammy, shaking hand. His tongue works the underside of his cock as he fits more into his mouth, and Scully was right, he is way too good at this.

Scully curses under them, and only then does Dieter notice she’s touching herself as Mulder keeps pumping into her with a shaky, stilted rhythm.

“So good, Mulder.”

His responding moan turns into a whimper as Dieter’s prick slides across the back of his tongue and hits his throat.

“Fuck, yeah, so good,” Dieter agrees.

It’s more than good. It’s incredible, unbelievable. He watches Mulder’s shiny, puffy lips wrapped around him, so in awe of how gorgeous he is. His pretty eyes are closed, half concentration and half bliss as he slides in and out of Scully’s dripping cunt.

It takes him a while to find a rhythm that works, but when he finds his groove he fucking finds it. Of course he’d be good at this, too. He fucks in and out of Scully once, twice, and then sinks his mouth down as far as he can on Dieter’s cock (all the fucking way— Jesus christ) and holds there while he pumps in and out of her some more.

And Dieter’s so, so torn. He wants to be good for Scully, wants to challenge Mulder for her and keep up the show. He wants to hang on so she can crumble as she watches her partner taking and receiving so perfectly at the same time.

But he wants to be good for Mulder too. He wants to come in his mouth and give him the satisfaction of satisfying. He wants to let Mulder prove to Scully how good he is, let him make them both come and writhe under his skill and rapt attention.

And it’s like Scully can sense it. With her free hand, she reaches up and cups his balls. It makes his fucking toes curl, makes him cry out her name and slam his eyes shut to stave it off. He’s being tagged teamed by the objects of some of his earliest sexual fantasies and it takes him biting his lip so hard he draws blood to keep it together.

He realizes the noises he’s making are borderline embarrassing. He’s mewling and gasping and whimpering as she squeezes and strokes, as her fingers meet Mulder’s lips every time he takes him deep. He’s shaking with the effort it takes to not fuck Mulder’s mouth. And he’s sweating, and he hopes to god it doesn’t start to trickle down and land on Scully’s blissed-out face.

And then it doesn’t much matter, because those dainty fingers and well-kept nails travel back, across his taint, and press.

“I can’t— I can’t, oh my god.”

Mulder hums around his cock in an echo of the noise Scully makes under him. He’s teetering on the edge, tensed up, out of his mind as Scully massages that spot and Mulder swirls his tongue around the head of his cock.

And in sync, like they always are, in a way that takes him completely off guard but should be absolutely predictable, they unravel him.

Mulder takes him down his throat and swallows, and the pad of one of Scully’s fingers taps his entrance, and he’s done.

He might scream, if he’s being honest. There was never any hope for a warning, the way they ganged up to play him like a fucking fiddle. Mulder groans as the first explosive spurt of Dieter’s cum shoots down his throat. He pulls back as Dieter continues to spill with each spasm of his muscles, as he tries but fails to suck Scully’s finger up inside him. He writhes and curses and clenches Mulder’s hair a little too tight as he works through his orgasm.

Mulder dutifully collects every last drop, extremely intent on keeping it from spilling down across Scully’s face. He is such a good boy for her. Mulder whimpers when she tells him so in her breathy, sexy way she does. His hips stutter inside of her just as Dieter slips from his swollen lips.

He doesn’t get reprieve yet, though. Mulder’s long, lean body arches up, and his arm reaches to grab a fist full of Dieter’s hair and tug and oh, god, he might just come again.

Their lips crash together, and before Dieter can think of how metallic the taste is, Mulder’s pushing his own load into his mouth forcefully. Dieter takes it all, sucks it down and swallows as he pants against Mulder’s mouth.

Then he thanks him, and he thanks Scully, over and over with baited breath until he collapses to the side of them, completely spent and overstimulated.

“You did so good,” he hears Scully say.

Only she’s not talking to him.

She’s got both her hands on Mulder’s face. Her lips just brushing against his own as she whispers. He watches her hike her legs up to wrap around Mulder’s waist, watches Mulder sag into her so he’s plastered against her front.

“Scully,” Mulder whines.

“Harder, Mulder. Make me come.”

He kisses her one last time before he buries his face in her neck and obeys, pulling nearly all the way out of her before driving back in. She’s really vocal now, now that she has Mulder’s undivided attention, now that he can focus on fucking her steadily and deep and fast.

Her head is thrown back and she looks so fucking beautiful. Mulder should be looking at her, shouldn’t miss a moment of the way she looks as he’s making her fall apart. But Dieter can’t blame him, or the concentrated, almost pained look he has on his face that’s just peeking out under her chin.

It’s crazy how she seems to be fucking him from under all his weight, but she’s doing exactly that. Her toned legs pull him into her, her hips arching to meet his, so frantic and hot. One of her hands is leaving red marks down his back and the other one is petting through his hair, scraping his scalp and pulling so many gorgeous noises from him.

Dieter couldn’t look away if he tried. His spent cock is twitching, trying it’s damndest to steal what little blood is left in his brain. He wants to help them along, maybe take Scully’s nipple into his mouth, but they’re both crushed under Mulder’s body in a way Dieter’s extremely jealous of. He could touch Mulder, could grab his pert little asscheek and squeeze. But he resigns to the sidelines instead, lets them share this intimate moment with only the intrusion of his eyes and heavy breathing.

It’s over pretty quickly, anyway. Mulder starts babbling again, a great fucking look on him, there where he’s hidden in the pale crook of her neck.

“Please, Scully. Come for me— I wanna make you come. I wanna be good, let me make you feel good.”

And she’s grinding her hips up as her back arches off the bed, no doubt catching her swollen clit on that enticing patch of wiry curls above his prick. She’s panting and gasping and then she’s shouting.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, Mulder, oh my god! So good, good boy— I’m gonna come—”

And she does. Beautifully. She tenses up and then she shakes, convulsing under him, around him. She moans and mumbles through it, with her eyes shut tight and her cute little nose all scrunched and her mouth hanging open.

It’s so beautiful that she outshines Mulder. Dieter barely even catches his groans, the curses under his breath as his hips stutter and grind into her. They both ride it out for a while, it’s like it’s never going to end. They writhe against each other and Mulder’s panting into her mouth as she tries her best to kiss his open lips. Their rhythm takes forever to slow, and even longer to come to a stop.

It’s better than anything Dieter ever could have imagined. He’s already half hard again, just watching them be together, and that fact only makes him want to leave, disappear, let them play this out without some stranger in their bed.

But christ he wants to stay and watch just as bad.

Their eyes flutter open at the same time, and the smiles on their faces are as nauseating as they are precious. Scully looks like the cat that got the cream, and Mulder has the audacity to look sheepish.

“I uh—” Mulder’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat, “I didn’t pull out.”

Scully giggles.

“I noticed.”

He huffs, and she smooths his sweaty hair from his forehead.

“I’m on the pill.”

Mulder sighs.

“That’s— that’s good.”

Idiots, Dieter thinks. The situational irony is off the charts. His huff alerts them both, snaps them out of their little bubble to look over at him.

He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes to mind. Scully gives him an amused little smirk and reaches over to pet his hair.

“You were so good,” she muses.

He shivers at her words and her fucked-out gaze.

Mulder shifts on top of her, and they both gasp a little noise when he slips out of her, but they’re both focused on him.

Mulder looks him up and down and for a moment he isn’t sure if he’s about to kick him out of bed or kiss him within an inch of his life.

He does neither, it turns out. Instead he holds the side of Dieter’s face in his big, sweaty palm and it’s so soothing that he closes his eyes and leans into it. His thumb strokes Dieter’s cheek while Scully plays with his hair and he could die happy here.

“Yeah man, thank you. That was good— you were good.”

Dieter’s eyes open wide at that. They’re both looking at him with fondness— appreciation. His chest swells with a heavy feeling just as his eyes begin to sting.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

He just barely catches the confused looks on their faces before he hides his own, rolling over into his stomach to let his pitiful tears fall into the blanket below him. Scully ruffles his hair with a sympathetic coo and Mulder pats him on the back of his heated neck before he hears rustling and feels the bed shift.

“Oh my god.”

Scully’s voice sounds horrified. For a quick moment, his tiny little pea brain thinks of Queequeg— is he alright, did he get out while they were occupied?

“What the hell?”

Mulder’s voice sounds much more amused.

Confused, Dieter wipes his wet eyes in what he hopes is an inconspicuous move before he looks over his shoulder at them.

Scully and Mulder are both standing at the foot of the bed, looking equal parts mortified and puzzled. And they’re staring at Dieter’s bare ass.

His bare ass that he now remembers is tattooed. Tattooed with Mulder and Scully’s face on each cheek, respectively.

“Oh, ha— yeah. Maybe that could have proved it faster?”

His face feels hot. He’s had these asscheek tattoos for so long he sometimes forgets about them. He was young and drunk and high when he got them, but they still hold up. Full color portraits of his favorite FBI agents.

“What do the words say?” Scully asks.

Mulder takes one for the team and leans in closer to Dieter’s ass, and he wonders if his blush goes all the way to his buttcheeks.

“Mine says the truth is out there, and yours says I want to believe.”

Dieter lets out a nervous chuckle and shifts, a little scrutinized, a little embarrassed, a little bit turned on at the way Mulder’s gaze settles over his body.

“When did you get these?”

“1998, right after the movie came out.”

“There’s a movie?”

“Two, actually.”

Scully shakes her head and looks from Mulder to Dieter’s butt, back and forth a few times.

“I’ll give you this one, Mulder. Only because there’s no lake monster for you to boast about.”

Mulder preens, a satisfied smirk settling on his handsome face.

“Finally,” he and Dieter say at the exact same time.

She rolls her eyes.

“Brag about it in the morning. I’m tired— and my bed’s clean,” she throws her voice over her shoulder as she leaves the room.

Dieter stays put. His ankles roll around in an attempt to hide his hesitation. He stares at the empty doorway and avoids Mulder’s lanky form.

“You coming, Doc Brown?”

He’d be stupid not to follow like an eager pup.

They all nestle into Scully’s bed. She’s in the middle, wrapped up in blankets, and the guys take either side of her. Dieter rests his head on her naked breast as she kisses Mulder goodnight, as Mulder’s fingers intertwine with his own over her smooth stomach. Their pillow talk lulls him to sleep and he goes to bed happy for the first time in years.

He wakes up alone, on his couch, in his own clothes, with his face smashed against his open laptop.

A dream. It must have all been a crazy, weed and hormone induced dream. Best dream he’s ever had. He sighs, scratches his head and takes in his surroundings.

Everything’s normal, exactly how he left it. Except, when he moves to his bedroom to mourn the loss of the day he never had, he sees a red and white trucker’s hat on his nightstand.

Show us your bobbers

#pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #the x files #mulder x scully #dieter bravo #mulder x scully x dieter bravo #the x files fanfic #the x files smut #mulder x scully smut #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfic

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the-dumpster-fire-of-life · 1 year ago

Text

The bond Of A Dragon

Aemond Targaryen sat in front of the burning fire, eyes tracing the flames as the wood cracked in the dark. He refused to leave this spot, knowing it wouldn't change anything but still he stayed.

Probably waiting for something.

Or someone.

“You finally came.”

Aemonda words echoed in the room, listening to the light breeze of the newly opened window and the scratch of nails against the floor only to be replaced by the soft padding of feet against stone.

You stayed quiet, knowing you had revealed yourself.

You said nothing, not even knowing what to make of it. You felt pity, you felt ashamed, you felt like it was your fault.

You couldn't bear to look at Aemond, the one time you were supposed to protect the moment after he found you, claimed you and discovered who you were.

He never meant to, thinking you were a normal dragon, a smaller one that grew much, much bigger over time.

He then discovered you were, in fact, not. Very obvious the moment he had slipped and fallen, only to be caught in the arms of a girl around his age in the place of his dragon.

Everything went down from there the moment he left.

“Ashamed of looking at me?” Aemonda broke your thinking and you could hear the emotion in his voice he desperately tried to mask.

You heard it, saw it, and couldn't stop it. You held his head and covered his gaping gash from Lucerys Velaryon the moment it happened, but we're pushed away and thought to be some servant girl.

You couldn't protect him even if you tried.

“Don't worry, you won't be the first.” Aemonda scoffed, and finally you stepped forward to his chair, holding the top of it as you appeared around the side and he could not finally see you.

“I am not ashamed of you…but of myself.” You muttered, looking down at him but the moment he looked up at you in confusion, you averted your eyes.

“Why yourself?” Aemond could almost scoff at the thought.

“It is my duty to ensure you are safe, I failed.” you stated, moving to the floor in front of his chair at his feet, looking into the fire as you held your legs to yourself and into your chest.

Aemond studies you from behind, able to brush the hair from the side of your face as he toyed with the strands and mulled over your words.

“...I may have lost my eye, but I gained a dragon.”

His hand grazed over the top of your hair as you sat at his legs, leaning against them.

“I am not worth what you have lost.” you objected, trying to move away from his hand as if you didn't deserve the comfort.

“I can argue that.” Aemond bickered back.

“How?”

“I waited for you my whole life. I prayed to many gods like a pathetic babe I would gain a dragon, that I would finally be worthy. And here you are.”

Aemonda states, speaking the truth which you would learn to love later in life. But not now. Because you didn't think it was true.

“We both know you are lying.” you shook your head adamantly.

“Mull over it as long as you like, I speak what I believe is true.” Aemond shrugged, leaning back into his chair and back into the fire.

You kept your eyes down, knees to your chest and back against his legs as you did mull over it.

You mulled over what has happened, how you could have prevented it but you couldn't go back in time.

So you bowed to make it right. To give him something in return.

“Would you like his eye?” you seemingly perked up as you thought of the perfect gift, looking over your shoulder at your rider with seemingly gleaming eyes.

“...his eye?” Aemonda raised a brow, not fully digesting the lengths you would go.

You tilted your own, turning your body to rest your chin atop his knee, gazing up at him with a look that he knew was serious, yet delivered innocently like nothing.

“Would that not please you?” you raised a brow questioningly.

“How will you get his eye? My mother couldn't even get my…father to get it.” Aemond shook off the thought with the wave of his hand.

“I am of the dragon.” You said, as if it was not obvious. You grabbed his hand as he waved it, intertwining it with your own.

“As am I.” Aemond said with his own raised brow as he studied your intertwined fingers. It felt right to him.

“Are you? Care to take a flight beside me?”

Aemond now saw the amusement in your eye, rolling his own singular one now as he recognized your jest.

He tried to take back his hand, but soon realized it was merely impossible with your grip on it.

“You're insufferable.” He muttered, gazing back into the fire but taking into account the grin that graces your lips as a small hum mixed with a giggle poured out.

“You will grow to love it.” you simply stated, flicking the specks of lint of the fabric of his knee.

“And if I don't?” Aemond asked, like a jab but mainly out of curiosity of the limit he could push a dragon, and a dragon like you at that.

You flickered your eyes back up to his, seeing the way he wanted to look at you but refused. You took into account the growing scar, the faint shadow of the fire crossing his face in the dark room.

You said nothing as of yet, but with calculated movements Aemond would grow to admire, with the grace of a dragon you stood up, perching yourself on the armrest of his chair and making yourself comfortable at his side.

You basked in the warmth, leaning your body back and head onto his as you closed your eyes.

“...we are bound until your dying breath. Your dying breath will not come soon, so you better.”

Aemond listened to your muttered words in high valyrian, wanting to look and take your hand that said so closely to his, but he couldn't.

He listened, but he couldn't. He felt like it would taint you, he was tainted but he wouldn't taint you.

But as you spoke your form of reassurance, even in your own way,

He would indulge in leaning into your side, into your warmth by the fire, something new, something that would be his familiar all too soon

#hotd x reader #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #got x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones x you #game of thrones x y/n

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iwasntstable · 2 months ago

Text

𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ)

Series Summary: You knew the decision to follow your father into the so-called 'most dangerous Ward' was a dangerous one, but you had to do anything and everything possible to keep him alive. He's the only family you have left. Growing evermore reckless after the death of your mother and blinded by his lust for retribution, this decision is one that will alter the course of your life forever. And the life of a half-ghoul half-human who never thought he'd find himself entangled with the daughter of a former CCG Investigator.

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

Chapter Content Tags: Graphic depictions of gore including: treatment of wounds, administration of stitches, blood, mentions of bruising, mentions of an attack. Depictions of anxiety.

Word Count: 6k.

Note: please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. it will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

➔read on AO3➔➔ PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

CREDIT › image — 'Tokyo Ghoul:re - Chapter 54' - 石田スイ (Sui Ishida). › number divider — @saradika-graphics. › image edit — @iwasntstable (me). › star divider — @saradika-graphics. › short grey divider — @saradika-graphics. › Tokyo Ghoul — created by 石田スイ (Sui Ishida).

“We just keep running into each other,” he smiles that same smile that made your heart skip a beat in the café, but instead of giving you butterflies, this time it fills you with dread.

You say nothing, words failing you entirely. All you can do is stare. His wide brown eyes inspect you back just as closely. How could it be him? The kind man from the bookstore café that encouraged you and asked your name—the same man who was now stained with blood and tried to kill your father twice. Noah.

His eyes flit to your arm, then back to your face. “You’re injured,” he states calmly. The reminder of the wound causing it to sting and throb under your clothes. You press your hand to it defensively, a weak spot you wanted to defend. “Let me help?” He offers, hands raised with palms facing you.

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Once again, you’re lost for words. The answer to that question was so glaringly obvious, you almost couldn’t believe he asked it. “Look, I’ll call a friend here who’s better at stitching wounds than I am, and then you can leave. But in exchange, I’d like you to answer some of my questions.”

“Leave? You’re not… keeping me here?”

Confusion crosses his features. “What? No. I’m not kidnapping you or anything. You can leave whenever you want,” his expression softens. “You’re injured. I wasn’t just going to leave you bleeding in the street. I want to help, and I want to talk.”

You mull over your options in your mind. There’s no way you could run, not with your current injuries, and fighting your way out without a weapon is out of the question too. He said you could leave, but you’re not sure if you believe that. What could a ghoul possibly stand to gain from letting a human live?

Noah notices your hesitation, opens the front door, and steps aside. “Go. This isn’t a trick. I’m not going to chase you down. I only want to help and ask you my questions. I’m sure you must have questions for me too.”

He was right. A million questions raced in your mind—so many you didn’t even know which to prioritise. And you didn’t know how much longer you could stay on your feet before your legs buckled again. “Okay,” you concede.

Noah nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to text my friend, okay? He’ll be able to take a look at your arm. His name is Nick.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, no idea how it survived the skirmish in the alley. You eye it cautiously, that uneasy feeling in your bruised stomach telling you this was still some kind of trap. “Just one person,” Noah reassures. “Nobody else.”

You nod, though you have no way of knowing you could trust him, and he types out a message, slipping his phone away again once he’d hit send. He closes the front door again, leaving it unlocked, then crosses the room towards the couch with wide strides, pulling the plastic sheet from the furniture and screwing it into a ball to toss it into the corner. “Sit, if you’d like.”

You didn’t trust him, but you had to take your weight off your feet. You allow yourself to hold onto the back of the couch for support as you move around the couch, lowering yourself carefully, every fibre of your body protesting every miniscule movement. With the strain finally off your body, you feel immediate relief, but though you were sitting, your breath still felt laboured. Fatigue moved in like a dense fog.

“There’s no food here, but can I get you some water?” Noah asks, standing several paces away from you. You nod, too tired to speak and knowing refusing his offer would only serve to worsen your condition.

He moves to the kitchen, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, those tattooed arms you’d noticed in the café on full display in his t-shirt. He opens a couple of cupboards before finally finding one with a glass inside. The kitchen was just as empty as the front room, a basic wooden table with two chairs, and a couple of appliances on the counters. He rinses the glass in the sink, then brings it full of water over to you, handing it over carefully. You try to stifle the tremor in your hand when you reach out to take it.

“Do you mind if I sit too?” He asked as you took a large mouthful.

His politeness confused you. Why was a creature so violent and dangerous being so courteous and respectful? You didn’t understand his motivations; what could he possibly stand to gain? Despite your doubts, you nod again, gesturing to the space beside you.

He takes the spot next to you, angled to face you. “Can I see your arm?” He asks.

With nothing to lose—except probably your life—you take another sip of the water, place the glass on the ground, and pop the buttons of your jacket with your good hand, shrugging the garment off and cautiously pulling it down your injured arm. As the fabric descends, it reveals your entire arm is stained red with blood right down to your fingertips. You’d assumed that was from the wounds on your hands.

The cut itself was long; you couldn’t see exactly how long from the angle, but it appeared to be around four inches in length, starting towards the front of your bicep and twisting downwards around the side towards your elbow. The deepest part was definitely at the centre of the wound; your arm did nothing to block the path of the ukaku ghouls’s shards as it sliced right through you like a hot knife to butter.

“It’s quite deep,” Noah said as he peered closer without touching. “I’d say I’m surprised you’re not more injured, but I’ve seen you fight,” he said, looking up, and his eyes met yours, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You ask, dumbfounded.

“Something like that,” he chuckled to himself, lowering his head. When he looks back up, his gaze lingers on your neck. “I’m sorry I let that guy grab you. I didn’t think he had anything left in him. That was my mistake.” He reaches out like he’s going to brush your hair away from your shoulder and get a closer look, but hesitates before he can touch you, pulling his hand back to his lap.

He seemed almost shy. A far cry from the monster that tore a man’s throat out with his teeth right in front of your eyes. You couldn’t deny the urge to trust him was growing. His tousled brown hair and respectful demeanour brought you right back to when you served him in the café, his soft laugh when you thanked him for ordering an easy coffee—the kind of person you’d be happy spending time with, someone you wanted to get to know better. But that image in your mind was swiftly replaced by the figure from your nightmare. His silhouette looming over you before he chooses whether you live or die. Despite his mask, he was still covered in blood.

A rapid knock on the door breaks your train of thought. Turning to look over your shoulder, a man with long, wavy, dark hair carrying a duffle bag steps into the apartment. Noah stands, approaching the man and patting him on the shoulder in a half embrace. “This is Nick. You have both met before,” Noah introduces his friend, stepping behind him to close the door.

“I don’t think I could forget,” he laughed. “You really carved me up on the bridge. I was limping all the way back.” The bikaku ghoul.

You followed him with your eyes as he walked further into the room, rounding the couch to sit next to you in the place Noah was, resting the bag between his feet. “That looks nasty... Ukaku, yeah?” he remarks as he gets a look at the laceration. You nod while he inspects the area. “Deep too. Any other injuries?” He asks as he leans down to unzip the bag.

“No,” you say quietly as he rummages, pulling out a pristine white case and several packages of gauze pads, resting them on his knees.

“I can stitch this for you. Luckily, it’s a clean cut. It should heal well if you look after it,” he says, meeting your intense gaze with softness, offering a smile. You couldn’t understand how this was the same man that struck you in the middle and sent you skidding across the bridge.

“Why would you help me?” you ask, unable to contain the disbelief.

“Because you need it. Or, can you stitch this yourself?” He smirks with a joking tone. You laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Two ghouls that want to help you and not kill you. With a shake of your head, you hold your arm out for Nick to work on. “Okay,” he pats the objects on his lap. “I’ll wash my hands, sterilise the area, then get started. I have some pain relief medication that might make it easier.” You shake your head ‘no’, still not trusting the pair and definitely not trusting any medication they claim would help.

“Consider it,” Noah says from the kitchen, where he was crouched down rummaging through the cupboards. “You did get pretty beat up last night too.”

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Nick says, pushing his hair out of his face as he stands and heads for the sink. “What are you looking for?” He asks Noah, scraping his hair all the way back and securing it into a bun.

“I swear we had coffee in this place. Did Folio take it again?”

“It’s right there by the microwave,” Nick nods in the direction from the sink, and Noah takes the tin, grasping it firmly in hand with a wide smile on his face.

“What would I do without you?” He claps Nick on the shoulder as he passes him in the small space to retrieve a saucepan, filling it with water after Nick steps away from the sink to come back to you. Through the tear in the bottom of Noah’s shirt made by his kagune, you notice a hint of ink on his lower back too.

“That packet there, can you tear it open?” he asks, nodding again towards his bag, hands dripping water on his knees. The package was a sterile towel. You rip the plastic, careful not to touch the cloth with your bloodied and dirtied hands, and hold it out for Nick to take and dry his hands with. Once dry, he reaches into the bag and pulls out a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping them on securely. “Alright, I’ll clean the area a little first. It’s gonna sting,” he warns, the conversation ringing eerily similar to the one you had with your father when he crashed in through the front door two nights ago. He unscrews the cap on the bottle and soaks a gauze pad with the brown liquid. “Let us know if you change your mind about the meds,” he says before dabbing the pad lightly onto the wound.

He was right; the sting was bad. Gritting your teeth against the burn, you try not to move or flinch away from the pain. As a welcome distraction, the warm aroma of coffee fills the air. You look over to Noah in the kitchen, pouring the water boiled from the stove into three mugs. He brings them over carefully and sets them down on the empty floor, sitting cross-legged opposite the couch.

“So, what are your questions?” You ask him, anxious to get this over with.

His eyes move from where Nick is working on your wound to your face. He takes one of the mugs, leaning forward to place it by Nick’s feet, then takes the third and holds it out, the handle facing you. You hesitate for a moment, but decide against your better judgement. The fatigue was worsening, and you needed to try to stay as alert as possible.

“Why is the CCG moving in on this area?” He asks when he settles back down, taking his own cup and resting it in his lap.

You blink rapidly in confusion, “I didn’t know they were.”

“You’ve been assigned to this area, though?”

“No,” you clarify. “I don’t work for the CCG, and neither does my dad. Not anymore at least.” You take a sip of the black coffee, relishing in the way the liquid warms your aching insides. The flavourful bitterness is a welcome taste on your tongue.

“How do you have quinque weapons if you’re not Investigators?” A crease was prominent in his brow.

“My dad stole them. One is his, the other was my mother’s.”

The sting intensified in your arm as Nick cleaned the deepest part of the wound. You shifted uncomfortably in an attempt to distract yourself.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Almost done with this part.”

“What was the medication you had?” You ask as you scrunch your face up in pain. Maybe it would be a good idea to accept pain relief. Maybe it would work to soothe the rest of your body too.

“It’s just standard over-the-counter stuff from the pharmacy, right?” Noah asks Nick, kneeling forward to rummage through the bag.

“Yeah. Front pocket,” he replies without looking up.

Fishing through the material, Noah retrieves a familiar branded package of painkillers. He holds it up and nods towards you, asking silently if you wanted to take it. You nod and place the mug of coffee momentarily between your knees as Noah pulls a blister strip from the box. He pops two from the packaging and hands them over into your open palm.

“Your hands got fucked up too,” he mentions while you throw the pills into your mouth. Chasing them down with a sip of coffee.

“That happened yesterday,” you say, holding out your palm in front of you to inspect the damage. The reopened small abrasions were visible under a layer of dirt and blood.

“I can clean those up for you too after this,” Nick says, putting a gauze pad aside to click open the white case. He takes out a sterile needle from its packaging and threads it with the suture wire with ease. Nothing like your shaky hands. “Okay. Ready?” He asks. You nod, taking another mouthful of coffee, really wishing it were laced with a shot of something stronger.

The pull of the needle through your skin wasn’t as bad as you expected it to be. A slight scratchy-burning sensation as he weaved the needle in and out of your flesh, looping the thread around itself and pulling firmly to secure the two sides of the wound closed.

“How did your dad steal three quinques from the CCG?” Noah continued his line of questioning. You had to be honest; it was a welcome distraction. Even if the subject matter wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“He worked there for a decade. When my mother died and they forced him into retirement, he took a bunch of files along with the quinques. I think everyone respected him too much to argue with a grieving man.”

Noah nodded, deep in thought. He sipped his coffee before continuing. “Why are you here?”

“My father is looking for someone,” you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Who?”

“A ghoul.”

“Who?” Noah persists. You sigh, closing your eyes. How much information was too much information? “Look, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. We, my friends and I, keep track of all the ghouls in the 13th Ward and all the Doves. "When two doves move in, we want to know why, for the safety of everyone here.”

“Why?” Was your turn to ask. Was this guy some kind of mafia boss? You don’t miss the glance Nick takes from your arm towards Noah.

He takes another sip of coffee. “Innocents get hurt when the wrong people, or the wrong ghouls, are in charge.”

“And you’re the right people? Or, the right ghouls?” You question.

“I’d like to think we are.”

You nod thoughtfully, bringing your mug to your lips.

“Answer me this, at least,” he poses, “are we the ghouls your father is after?”

You shake your head; that face reappears in your mind. “No.”

The room falls silent, a surprisingly comfortable silence as Nick works diligently at your wound. He was almost halfway done now.

“So, what is this place anyway?” You ask, looking around the almost empty room.

“One of our safehouses. We have a lot spread out over the Ward,” Noah clarifies simply.

“One of? How many do you have?” Maybe this guy was a mafia boss after all...

He chuckles under his breath and fiddles with the mug in his hands. “A few. We let ghouls that have nowhere else to go live in them mostly. Or use them ourselves.”

“So, you’re housing the homeless when you’re not ripping people’s throats out with your teeth?” You question sarcastically.

“Did you really do that, dude?” Nick’s hands pause, and he looks up at Noah, amused disgust on his face.

“What was I supposed to do?” He gestures with one hand, eyebrows raised in defence, “just let that ghoul eat you? He wasn’t even supposed to be in this area, anyway.”

Nick shakes his head, a small piece of hair falling free from his bun by the side of his head, and continues stitching your arm. “Who was it?”

“The guy we caught like, four months ago, I think. Shame he didn’t take us up on our offer,” he sighs, sipping his coffee again.

“What offer?” You look between the two.

“We explained we’d be more than happy to get him the food he needs to survive, but in exchange, he couldn’t hunt around here anymore. He wasn’t a fan,” Noah explains.

“Yeah, flipped our table and smashed a window on the way out. Fuck that guy.”

“So housing and feeding the homeless, you’re real philanthropists,” you laugh, sipping from your mug. Until the realisation hits you exactly what kind of food these guys were talking about. This wasn’t a group of good samaritans cooking extra meals in their kitchens to hand out on the streets to those in need. They were feeding ghouls. They were ghouls. You had to remember where you were; remember not to get lulled into a false sense of security, no matter how easy and casual the conversation may be.

“So,” Noah breaks your train of thought, “if you don’t mind me asking, if it’s your father that’s looking for a ghoul here, why did you come too?”

You lower your eyes to your lap and pick at the rim of the ceramic mug. That’s a question you've been asking yourself a lot these past few days. “He’s my dad,” you say quietly with a shrug, regretting it when the cut in your arm stings. “I can’t just leave him alone. He’s all I have.”

Noah nods. “I understand that.”

“Last three, then this is done.” You look down at your arm, and in place of the gaping wound was a neat line of stitches, way neater than anything you’d ever done on your father and definitely neater than what you could’ve done on yourself.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick smiles up at you as he ties off the final stitch. “Noah, can you get out some more gauze pads so I can fix her hands?"

He wordlessly places his mug down and kneels in front of the bag, rummaging through to find what Nick needs. “These ones?” He asks, holding up some packages.

“Yeah, and can you get- Can I see your hands for a sec?” He asks as he takes a pair of scissors from the white case and snips the suture. You turn your hands over and get a good look at the state of your palms. Nick takes them gently and angles them this way and that. "Yeah, it’s just scrapes, not too bad. We can just clean and bandage them. Can you get the roll of white gauze, the bigger brown roll, and the tape? Oh, and a large plaster.”

Noah rummages for the items, tearing open the packages and setting them in the white case within arms reach for Nick. "Thanks, dude,” he says, reaching down for his mug of coffee that must be lukewarm by now. Regardless, he takes three big gulps, then sets it back on the floor. First, he applies the plaster over the freshly stitched wound, then he rips open a gauze pad, soaks it with antiseptic, and meets your eyes. “Ready?”

“Go for it,” you reply. He’ll probably do a better job cleaning the scrapes than you did in the shower earlier. The sting of the antiseptic makes your eyes water, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Noah hadn’t moved from where he shuffled closer. Watching attentively as the dirt and blood are cleaned away. You can’t help but look at his tattoos now that he was so close. A red and black, Japanese traditional-style sleeve on one arm, waves and something that appeared to be a fish, and black and grey work on the other. From this angle, you could see a bird with arrows through it and leaves, all part of another larger sleeve that you couldn’t see because of his shirt. Then there were the ones you saw when you first met him—the intricate patterns on his hands and the snake on his neck. You realise the piece on his throat is a scene from Genesis. A hand reaching for the apple with the serpent coiled around. They were all beautiful, you thought, and they suited him well.

“How many of you are there?” You ask almost absentmindedly.

His eyes locked onto yours for a moment, his gaze making your heart race, and you desperately wished it would stop. He was a ghoul; he could probably hear it. “Four of us, mainly. There are others, but most of the work is us four.”

You nod at his answer—the four of them on the bridge. It made sense. You wondered if the others were just as friendly as these two. Or, if this was all still an act.

“You were limping before. Is your leg injured?” Noah asked, something that appeared to be genuine concern etched onto his features.

“Oh,” you say, looking down at the hip in question. “That happened last night too. It’s just bruised. It’s fine.” His concern was almost endearing, despite his group being responsible for the injuries. “Wait,” you frown, looking up at him. “When did you see me limping?”

“Followed you,” he says plainly, throwing back the last of his coffee. You stare at him with wide eyes, Nick continuing to clean up your hands. Apparently you’re the only one in the room that finds being followed weird. “What?” He says, equally shocked. “I thought you were a CCG Investigator on a mission to kill us all! Can you blame me?”

You shake your head in disbelief. You can’t blame him, really. If your dad could get out of bed, he’d probably be following some random ghouls around the Ward right now.

Nick tossed the gauze pad off to the side and wiped off his hands on the towel, then took a fresh pad and pressed it against your palm, tore off pieces of tape, and pressed them on securely to hold it tight to the wounded area. He takes the roll of white gauze and wraps it securely around the gauze pad, up your wrist and down towards your fingers, then does the same with the thicker brown dressing, wrapping it tight to protect the whole thing from the outside and keep it sterile. You flex your fingers when he’s done, finding your range of movement fine.

“Ready for the next one?” He asks. You simply nod and twist towards him in your seat to hold your other palm out.

“How is your father? If you don’t mind me asking,” Noah says softly.

“He’s alive,” you study his face, and he seems to genuinely care. “He’s pretty beat up, but I think he’ll be fine. If he gives himself time to heal, which I’m not sure he will.”

“He’s a hell of a fighter,” Nick comments.

“He’s retired. He should be on a beach somewhere drinking too much liquor.”

Noah chuckles under his breath and collects his cup, then looks at yours. “Do you want another?”

“No, I’m good, thank you,” you hold out the mug for him to take. He stands from the floor with ease and heads off into the kitchen to rinse them out in the sink. You can’t stop staring. A ghoul doing the washing up.

“We really are just trying to protect what we have here, you know,” Nick says as he wraps your hand. “We don’t usually go around picking fights.”

You turn your face to look at him. A ghoul tending to the wounds of a human. “Unlike my father,” you sigh. A moment of silence fills the room, filled only by the sound of running water and the occasional clinking of ceramic. “I’m sorry that he’s causing so much trouble. I keep trying to tell him, but he doesn’t listen. It’s like I can’t get through to him.”

“He’ll listen,” Nick reassures, taping down the last of the bandage. “You’re his daughter.”

You pull your hand back to your lap when he’s finished as he snaps off the latex gloves, flexing both hands and finding they immediately feel better.

Noah comes back into the front room, wiping his hands on his legs to dry them. “Are you sure you don’t have any other injuries? Anything else we can do to help?”

“No. No, I'm sure. I need to go back anyway. Check on my dad.”

“Of course. I’ll walk you there,” Noah says.

You stand on still shaky legs from the couch. “No, you don’t need to do that-”

“It’s late,” he interjects. “I know you might not believe it, but there are worse things out there than us.”

“Don’t forget this,” Nick says, standing to cross the room, opening the door, and picking up a plastic bag from the other side.

“Is that- my groceries?” You ask. Nick just smiles and hands the bag to Noah, who holds it out to you with an outstretched arm. Your hand twitches by your sides, but the movement hesitates; ever present in the back of your mind is the true nature of these men.

"Look, I know I look scary, but I wouldn't hurt a fly. You don't have to worry," Noah reassures.

Nick leans over with a whisper, "you literally killed a man like, an hour ago."

"I didn't say anything about hurting men. I said I wouldn't hurt a fly... That much is true."

“You almost killed me on the bridge,” you counter.

“But I didn’t,” he says with a cheeky smile. You couldn’t wrap your head around how this casual conversation was happening right now.

Nick looks between you and Noah and claps his hands. “Well, I’m gonna go! It was nice meeting you properly. You know, not trying to kill each other.” He collects the trash in a plastic bag, ties it off, and throws it into the duffle, along with the white case full of first aid supplies. Slinging it over his shoulder, he pats Noah on the shoulder and says, “See you later, dude.”

“Yeah, see you.”

“Thank you again,” you say quickly. “And it was nice to properly meet you too.”

He smiles, and with a wave, he was gone through the front door. Noah was right; it wasn’t a trap. They really did want to help. You take your jacket from the couch and cautiously slip it on, careful not to twist your arm in a way that would pull the fresh stitches.

“I’ll carry this for you,” Noah says, holding up the bag. “So you don’t mess up your hands.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, trying to hide the heat you could feel creeping up on your cheeks.

The air was significantly colder when you stepped outside. Wrapping your arms tight around you, you couldn’t help but glance around at your surroundings. The streets were just as empty as earlier, and you could feel the anxiety creeping up on you again at the idea of being completely alone with a ghoul.

“You ready?” Noah asks, standing a couple of paces ahead of you. You nod silently and catch up to him. You fall into step beside him as you walk; the only sound was the wind whistling through the streets and the grocery bag rustling by Noah’s side.

Your mind wouldn’t stop racing; one question that you didn’t ask him was bouncing around in your brain until you just had to speak. “You let us live. On the bridge.”

“I did.”

“Why?” You ask.

“We don’t kill innocent people.”

“But you kill humans.”

“Out of necessity. And only people that deserve it. There’s no shortage of bad types here.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Your words echo those of the ghoul’s from earlier in the night.

“So the man who was following you home with a knife in his pocket should’ve lived?”

“The- What?”

Noah stops in his tracks and takes a deep breath. “I recognised you at the bookstore cafe. I saw you move in and recognised your father’s scent on you from when he trespassed into our territory. So, I waited for you to leave after your shift. I intended on following you home that night to gather information on your father,” he speaks clearly and plainly. “Like I said before, I keep track of all the Doves in the Ward, and I wanted to know his intentions. Turns out someone else had the same idea. You didn’t even see him behind you, but he pulled a knife out of his pocket and picked up his pace when you reached the outskirts of town. And I stopped him.”

The crash down the alley. You thought it was cats. “You killed him.”

“I did.”

“You saved me.”

“I did.”

“Why would you save me?” The wind whipped around you both, causing you to shiver and wrap your arms around yourself tighter. You realised that Noah never put his own coat back on but showed no signs of being bothered by the cold. “If you recognised me then, you knew I had connections to a CCG Investigator, why would you save me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, deep in thought, before answering, “I don’t know,” then continuing to walk.

You’re both quiet for a while. The silence is comfortable despite the heavy subject matter. “Thank you,” you say quietly. He looks down at you expectantly. “Thank you for saving me. And thank you for letting us live on the bridge.”

Noah nods in understanding.

He’s helped you so far, hasn’t judged you or belittled you. Maybe you really could trust him. “My father, he’s… tracking the ghoul that killed my mother. He thinks he’s here, in the 13th.” You’re silent for a moment as you continue to walk. “I don’t know if he’s right.” You run a hand over your face. “I don’t know if it even matters to him. He’s hellbent on killing every ghoul he can get his weapon on.”

“What do you want?” Noah asks.

“I want my dad back,” you sigh.

You continue to walk. Passing quickly by the alleyway that you almost died in mere hours ago, the only evidence of the fight was the pool of blood left in the street and the mangled dumpster in the mouth of the alley.

“What does he have so far? On the ghoul that killed your mother,” Noah breaks the silence.

“A physical description. He was there, he watched it happen. He has sketches all over his fucking wall,” you spit with a bitter laugh.

“Can you get one for me?” He asks. You cock your head to the side, wondering why he would want an image of the ghoul your father was tracking. “I keep track of every ghoul in the Ward, remember? If he’s local, I’ll know him.”

“What, do you- do you want to help?”

“Maybe if we can find the right guy, let your father get his revenge, he’ll come to his senses again?”

“I don’t know,” you say with a weary sigh. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough for him.” The apartment building was in view, and from the street, you could see no lights were on on your floor. “I’ll get you a sketch. Wait here,” you say as you approach the front door.

Noah nods, hands over the plastic grocery bag, and waits several paces away from the front door.

When you shove the door open and get inside, the first thing you see in the darkness were the covers you’d given your father from your bed to keep him warm enough in the night, left in a heap on the end of the couch. Immediately you’re irritated. He couldn’t even put them back in your room, the room next door to his.

You squeeze past the couch, leave the groceries on the couch, and crack open his bedroom door, finding him, still breathing, asleep on his side with his back to the door. An empty tin of soup sat on his bedside table. Most likely eaten unheated and straight out of the tin. You close your eyes and sigh deeply, shaking your head and closing the door on the way out.

Stopping off in his office, you stare at his investigation board. Articles and scrawled notes connected with red string pulled straight from the mind of a madman. You find a sketch of that face tacked off to the side and hope he won’t notice its absence. Squeezing past the couch on the way out and pulling the door closed again on its wonky hinges.

Noah is exactly where you left him, though he was standing with his back to the apartment entrance, looking out into the dimly lit empty streets.

“You’ve had dealings with him before, I think. I read a news report on my dad’s desk. Something about him trespassing into your area,” you take one last look at the grotesque face before handing the sketch over to Noah. “This is what he looks like.”

His brown eyes scan the paper before speaking, his tone laced with disdain. “Yeah. We know this guy.”

“Is he here then?”

“Yeah,” Noah nods. “We’ve had some leads on where he’s operating out of. We were going there tomorrow actually, to scope the place out,” he scans the page one more time before looking back at you. “Come with us.”

“Wait, You- Why would you want me there?”

“If you see him for yourself, you’ll know we aren’t lying,” he says sincerely. You hesitate, mulling over the idea of spending more time with this man- this ghoul. “We’ll just be watching from a distance. Besides, the sooner we track him down and deal with him, the sooner you can take your dad back home, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” you concede.

“You don’t have to come, but think about it. I’ll come by tomorrow around 10pm, and we can talk more then.”

“Okay,” you nod. Maybe you could get these ghouls to kill Malice; maybe then your father would decide to go back to the 2nd Ward.

Noah nods and turns, hands in his pockets, calling, “See you tomorrow,” over his shoulder.

“Noah!” You call after him as he walks away. “Do you really think you can kill this guy?”

“It doesn’t matter if your father kills him or I do. The ghoul that killed your mother is going to die.”

PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

Ending Notes: I realised my taglist link was wrong so you might wanna check you've liked the correct post (linked at the top) if you want to be updated! 🖤 A glossary has also been added explaining terms if you need it!

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (34) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨��𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @dethroneackerman

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye ‣ @minah2020 ‣ @rumoured-whispers

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖪𝖮𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @1crushed1 ‣ @thewrstinme ‣ @theskyislonely

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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