#robert kennedy x reader

[melancholicstation]

summer wine ( and an angel’s kiss in spring ) — bobby f. kennedy

taglist: @remotewatch @bloxholden35 @kennediva @h-l-vlovesvintage @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @absurdlyvintage @chemicalw0rld @fortheloveofjos @kimcrystal123 @astro-vibes-bro @tsloverr-13

summary: during a party hosted in light of senator john f. kennedy’s presidential candidacy announcement, bobby and you sneak away into the background and have about as much fun as a person can have at a political campaign celebration🍷🛌 …

tags: 18+, making love against a secretary desk, religious imagery, hair pulling, oral ( female receiving ), unprotected s*x, desk breaking

words: 1783

Sure, you’ll bite: a campaign celebration soirée for your husband’s older brother’s presidential ticket wasn’t exactly your idea of a rousing saturday evening but when jack tells you to be somewhere, well that’s just where you’re gonna be: at least that’s where bobby would always be.

It’s bordering on 2:00 am and you’ve just about tried as many old fashions and sidecars as you can stomach for the time being so you switch to a vintage choosing of dubonnet cherry wine.

You haven’t talked to bobby much all day which isn’t so out of the ordinary: evidently he was a man very much in demand. You’d just become to miss him as his frame comes into your periphery. A sight just calibrated for your oh so terribly sore eyes!

You smile and beckon him over, not unlike calling over an excitable puppy, he’s quick to start into quick jog. The squeaks of his leather derbies colliding with the teak flooring, but being quickly drowned out to all ears by the booming, assaulting volume of irish ballads playing from the far side of the gathering hall.

“Hey Sugar how’re you doin’? Has Mrs Bridges been hassling you about going that murder-mystery bookclub again I—by god I can see in your face, of course she has. How many times?”

“Three times” you say through breathy laughs as you fuss over the positioning of the shark-type collar he dons, eventually laying it flat against his collarbone littered with blonde baby-hairs like a garden of baby breaths.

“Three times this night or this hour my dear?” He says while responding to my incessant fixing and prodding’s by grabbing the hair from the nape, splitting it into two with hands much larger than yours, arranging them across your shoulders.

“Three times this hour” You move to lay your head across his collarbone but close was never close enough for you as of late, you would nest yourself in his ribs if you could tucked around his sternum. “Oh god, my poor, poor girl. I extend my deepest apologies that I wasn’t there to run interference: though I don’t believe it would’ve stopped her pursuits much” he says in a condescendingly charming fashion.

“Oh you’re really sorry” “Terribly so” “How sorry are you?”

“Well if you join me in the back I can show you just how deep my sympathies truly lie.” He exclaims in a tone that balances the intimacy of such an offer with a boyish-like spin.

The brazenness of his offer makes you giggle profusely, calling the attention to older couples who interact with their partners like they sleep in separate beds: so you don’t pay them much mind, a tell-tale sign that bobby’s one too many of the amortised wines served was his rare streak of promiscuity that would rear its head. Much to your amusement as his wife.

You scurry off little teenagers running to make out under the bleachers, you allow bobby to lead you as he’s more familiar with the event space than you were. He leads you into an abandoned looking secretarial office, with a hand curled around the crevice of your elbow like a devout would hold a beaded rosary, a loving kind of possession.

strawberries cherries and an angel’s kiss in spring…

You both look around the room quite impolitely in sheer curiosity: opening rusty drawers, flicking through empty filing cabinets until you both land on a particular item resting on the wall parallel to the door. A slanted front writing desk in a deep caramel tinted mahogany wood. A brass handle dangles in the breeze from the slightly draft coming in through the door.

Bobby and you both grinning and make eye contact: immediately moving to pull down the handle to woefully find it particularly barren: no secret notes or diary entry’s. Your face mirrors each other’s pout, as you try to test the sturdiness of the writing desk. To your surprise it holds its own under the full weight of your hand. Noticing this Bobby catches on, asking “Do ya’ think it’s sturdy enough?”

“Looks sturdy enough to me” you grin as you slowly back your behind up and onto the desk. Your legs finding balance resting on the lower portion of Bobby’s thigh. Slowly your Mary Jane black pumps start to find perch higher and higher on his thigh, eventually reaching the mound beneath his dress pants. You decide to tease him a bit and start to circle your foot around the mound, to which Bobby moans under his breath, shyly and throws his head back clearly overwhelmed. He lets you toy with him for a few short moments until you’re sure he had had enough, and moves to wrap your legs and thighs around the width of his hips. “Ya sure you want to do this here, y’know I could tell Jack we’ve had an issue with the babysitter and need to get home. I—I just quite feel disrespectful taking you in a place that has about 5 distinguishable moulds living in it. “Not that I don’t want to, cause trust me my girl I do it’s just—“

my summer wine is really made from all these things…

“Hush, I don’t care if there’s mould spors I need you on me this instance Kennedy. Depriving your wife! My I can’t think of a more disrespectful act can you Bobby?” You say in a bullish-yet feminine tone that immediately snaps Bobby out of his overthinking spiral: a good trait in a campaign manager not in a husband. Great for Jack, not so much for you.

“Okay—Okay I’m sorry baby you know how I get” “Oh I do now clear your mind of it this instance”

take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time…

“Totally clear” he says in a self assured tone as he moves to delicately remove his dress pants throwing them over the side of the large ottoman that most definitely has some form of bed bug inhabitants. Leaving him in his torn boxers: that he refuses to throw in the garbage disposal, holes that allow you to see the mountain of hair littered going from his belly button down to his significant mound.

In stark contrast he handles the undressing of yourself with the care and devotion of a man who knows his woman only has eyes for him, and vis versa. He neatly dissembles your outfit: a billowing ruffled crepe blouse paired with a pleated black skirt and flesh coloured tights. In his excavation of your outfit he uncovers the surprise you’d dressed on yourself for him to find.

Once he got you down to just your stockings he could see what you longed for him to find since you slipped them on: a bikini brief with embroidered lettering spelling out “bobby’s girl” on the front in lapis blue.

and i will give to you my summer wine…

Bobby’s face morphs into the face of a man starved: finally finding a dam in a four day trek through an unforgiving desert. The underwear is quickly pulled off and placed hastily into the pocket of his suit jacket, causing his pocket square to be slightly roughened up. To your surprise, but not shock as Bobby was always the kind to give before he ever received himself, got down on his knees and started to lap at your cunt ferociously: talk about a man starved. You’d heard the rumours of Bobby far before you had met him in the flesh, far before you’d married and had children with him: Bobby was thought to have been a ruthless character with the temperament of a caged pit bull.

But that wasn’t the Bobby you saw that day you met him for the first time, and it wasn’t the Bobby you were looking at now. Now he was worshipping, and at his happiest while doing it.

Soon enough you felt the inevitable wave of pleasure wash over you, and in that bliss reached for Bobby always wanting to bask in that with the man who made it all possible. “Did that feel good baby?” “So-so-so-so good Bobby you should have shed that humbleness with me a long time ago” You say as you soothingly ( for the both of you ) try to smooth down tufts of his hair, now severely roughened up, and clear away the luminescent substance absolutely coating the entirety of his chin and a portion of his plush, bottom lip.

But just as you get your wits about you, he starts to line up and invades you in the most decedent way a person could be invaded.

“Harder”

To which Bobby lays flat a hand on your chin, keeping your attention fully locked onto him as he bullies his large mound into your cunt at a solid pace but steadily increasing in fervour. As a cause of this the desk starts to rock. Continually ricocheting rhythmic sounds of the desk hitting the skirting of the wall over, and over, and over again.

“Dear God, you’re as tight as ever. You’re killing me” Bobby continues to praise how soft you are, how good you are to him, and how he can only aspire and yearn to make you feel as good as he does at this moment.

when i woke up the sun was shining in my eyes…

A mounting shudder creeps upon you like a ghost in the night, following behind you Bobby shudders and then finally stills, still sheathed inside you.

You both take a couple minutes to recoup which consists: of lots of handholding, reassuring, and kisses upon naps of necks.

my silver spurs were gone, my head felt twice its size…

It is only when you get up, as Bobby gathers both of your garments, that you identify a large split in the wood spanning from the hinges. You laugh at it half mortified and half impressed with the two of you’s strength and call over Bobby.

my summer wine is really made from all these things.

To which he comes over, observes the large spilt that definitely wasn’t there prior and searches his pockets. In there he finds a letter opener and to your surprise carved into the rich wood:

“Y/n and Bobby forever 1960-01-02”

the end.

[fanficlolsblog]

MY MAIN MASTERLIST

(i write for mainly gxg sorry. i also take requests so let me know if you want anything written.)

female celebrities!

taylor swift

HEADCANONS! here

drunk (non smut version)

summary: you're drunk and your girlfriend, taylor wants to take you home, which you try to resist.

casual (REWRITING!)

summary:

good luck, babe

summary: Y/N is in a complicated relationship with taylor swift, where she wants more than just fun, but taylor isn't ready to commit. after a tough conversation, Y/N decides to end things, realizing they deserve more than casual affection. though it hurts, Y/N feels a sense of freedom and relief after walking away.

the fan

summary: y/n, a dedicated swiftie, runs a popular social media account showcasing her edits and paintings of taylor swift. after being noticed by taylor nation, she’s invited to the eras tour. throughout the concert, y/n repeatedly catches taylor’s eye, leaving her flustered. backstage, taylor compliments y/n’s art and admits she couldn’t stop looking at her during the show. as y/n leaves, taylor runs after her to ask for her phone number, making the night even more surreal.

we don’t talk anymore

summary: falling in love with taylor swift felt like a whirlwind, but when the pressure of fame and her struggle with coming out grew too much, you broke up. as she tried to move on with travis kelce, you both admitted to missing each other, but her jealousy over your friendship with shawn mendes created tension. despite the distance, you both realized that your love story wasn’t over and that there was still hope for a future together.

all too well

summary:

i miss you, i’m sorry

summary:

loathe you

summary:

dress

summary:

all i want for christmas is you (WRITING!)

summary:

jenna ortega

HEADCANONS! here

the co-star

summary: on the set of wednesday, Y/N and jenna ortega, who have an on-screen romance, face tension due to jenna's aversion to Y/N. during a heated kiss scene, jenna’s unexpected passion creates an awkward situation, leading her to avoid Y/N for the rest of the day. Y/N is left embarrassed and uncertain about their strained relationship.

the co-star part 2

summary: the day after a tense kiss scene, Y/N and jenna ortega face awkwardness on set. jenna's avoidance creates discomfort, but a heartfelt conversation helps clarify the situation. jenna reveals she's dealing with personal issues, easing the tension and allowing them to start rebuilding their professional rapport.

yandere!unhealthy obsession (WRITING!)

summary: after a brief encounter with jenna ortega at a meet-and-greet, y/n is surprised to receive a follow request and a message from her. what starts as a seemingly innocent exchange soon spirals into a possessive obsession, with jenna constantly messaging, showing up unannounced, and isolating y/n from friends. as y/n tries to distance themselves, jenna’s behavior grows darker, her obsession tightening like a trap, until y/n realizes that escaping her hold might be impossible.

coachella

summary:

we fight, we break up, we kiss, we make up (WRITING!)

summary:

flawless

summary:

it’s always been you

summary:

strangers

summary:

watching horror movies

summary:

billie eilish

HEADCANONS! here

guess?

summary:

i could eat that girl for lunch

summary:

wasn’t it obvious?

summary:

boyfriend

summary:

lana del rey

HEADCANONS! here

cinnamon girl

summary:

flirt

summary:

will you still love me?

summary:

kiss me on the mouth and love me like a sailor

summary:

gracie abrams

HEADCANONS! here

i love you, i’m sorry

summary:

us

summary:

sabrina carpenter

HEADCANONS! here

taste

summary: your favourite artist, sabrina carpenter asks you to be in her new music video, ‘taste’, which of course you couldn’t refuse…

it’s not christmas without you

summary:

red wine supernova

summary:

we never go out of style

summary: y/n is caught in a complicated relationship with singer sabrina carpenter, who picks her up for a late-night drive. despite knowing their connection often leads to heartbreak, y/n can’t resist sabrina's allure. they share a passionate encounter, but y/n realizes they're stuck in a cycle of returning to each other. after their intense moment, y/n chooses to leave, aware that they will likely reunite again despite the pain.

i’m not perfect

summary: y/n develops an intense obsession with singer sabrina carpenter, feeling both admiration and jealousy. after meeting her at a performance, y/n’s fixation deepens as sabrina acknowledges their presence, making the attraction even harder to ignore. despite sabrina’s kindness, y/n struggles with the emotional pain of unrequited feelings, caught between admiration and the torment of knowing sabrina is out of reach.

demitra kalogera

HEADCANONS! here

sunday kalogera

HEADCANONS! here

the heart wants what it wants (WRITING!)

summary:

jennifer lawernce

HEADCANONS! here

just good friends

summary:

the interviewer

summary:

coffee?

summary:

emma roberts

HEADCANONS!

the babysitter (WRITING!)

summary: Y/N, a 19-year-old college student, gets a job babysitting actress Emma Roberts’ 4-year-old son, Rhodes. As Y/N cares for him, she starts to feel a growing tension between her and Emma. They share small, intense moments, and Emma admits that Y/N feels “different” to her. Though their conversation is interrupted, the unspoken attraction between them is clear, leaving things unresolved.

never too old

summary:

male celebrities!

timothee chalamet

HEADCANONS! here

no strings attached

summary:

i hate you

summary:

matt sturniolo

HEADCANONS! here

again

summary: you and matt have been so called 'friends' for years even though there is something clearly there. matt is sick of being just friends and decides to do something about it…

teachers pet (REWRITING!)

summary: on the first day of school, Y/N encounters Mr. Sturniolo, a young, charismatic new english teacher who draws her attention with his engaging manner and attractive appearance. during a private discussion after class, his intense concern and personal focus create an underlying tension, leaving Y/N both intrigued and unsettled about their evolving relationship.

sick

summary:

the grudge

summary:

cardigan

summary:

chris sturniolo

HEADCANONS! here

idfc

summary: y/n is stuck in a toxic relationship with chris sturniolo, who often disappears and returns drunk. despite knowing he's not truthful or committed, y/n can’t let go. one night, after he comes back, they share an intimate moment, and she asks him to lie and say he loves her, even though she knows it’s fake. unable to break free from her feelings, y/n accepts the lies for the fleeting comfort they bring.

frat boy

summary:

i trusted you

summary:

invisible string

summary:

characters!

wednesday addams

HEADCANONS! here

just a little bite

summary: Y/N, a vampire, returns to wednesday addams' dorm after a day out, sensing her girlfriend's hidden frustration at being apart. as Y/N teases wednesday about her vampire nature, they share playful intimacy through biting. their connection deepens, revealing Wednesday’s vulnerability and desire, ultimately strengthening their bond in the shadows.

smoking

summary: you and wednesday addams, your stoic roommate, share an unspoken romantic tension. one night, she catches you smoking and warns you about the dangers, impulsively throwing your last cigarette out the window. angry, you confront her, but the confrontation reveals deeper feelings between you two, culminating in a tentative kiss that changes everything.

jealous girl (WRITING!)

summary:

mine

summary:

i despise you

summary:

the perfect girl

summary:

ethan landry

HEADCANONS! here

i did this for you, for us (WRITING!)

summary:

that boy is a monster

summary: y/n becomes dangerously infatuated with ethan landry, who hides a dark, monstrous side behind his charm. despite knowing he’s dangerous, y/n can’t resist the pull of his intense gaze and possessive nature. as ethan slowly consumes y/n’s heart and soul, y/n falls deeper into the twisted relationship, unable to escape the hold he has over them. in the end, y/n willingly lets ethan devour their heart, accepting the monster he truly is.

boyfriend

summary:

nerd

summary:

yknow i’ve always had a thing for you

summary:

kiss me

summary:

you belong to me

summary:

jill roberts

HEADCANONS! here

come here dressed in black

summary: Y/N discovers that her girlfriend, jill roberts, is ghostface. despite the horrifying truth, Y/N feels a strong attraction to jill, especially when she reveals herself in the ghostface costume. caught between fear and desire, Y/N struggles to leave the dangerous relationship, unable to resist jill's dark allure.

i won’t hurt you

summary:

you’re mine

summary:

can’t even

summary:

ghostface

HEADCANONS! here

pretty girl (WRITING!)

summary:

billy loomis

HEADCANONS!

nothing yet…

stu macher

HEADCANONS!

nothing yet…

tara carpenter

HEADCANONS!

caught

summary:

let’s ruin the friendship (WRITING!)

summary:

the roommate

summary:

my axe (WRITING!)

summary:

vada cavell

secret

summary:

astrid deetz

just friends

summary: you find yourself caught in a complicated relationship with astrid deetz, who is spending time with another guy named jeremy. as you navigate your feelings of jealousy and confusion, you confront astrid about her intentions, leading to an emotional struggle between love and heartbreak. despite your desire to be together, it becomes clear that the timing may not be right, leaving you to question what you truly mean to each other.

do i wanna know?

summary:

jackie taylor

HEADCANONS!

am i making you feel sick?

summary: y/n alone in the wilderness, applies lipstick to jackie's lifeless body and is visited by jackie's ghost. jackie hints that your true hunger is for her, not just for food. as jackie's spirit fades, y/n is overwhelmed by the realisation of jackie's death and her own deep grief.

katniss everdeen

HEADCANONS!

nothing yet…

finnick odair

HEADCANONS!

nothing yet…

tori vega

HEADCANONS!

nothing yet…

jade west

HEADCANONS!

leaving tonight

summary:

quinn fabray

HEADCANONS!

nothing yet…

rafe cameron

HEADCANONS!

ruin the friendship

summary:

max mayfield

HEADCANONS!

nothing yet…

eleven

HEADCANONS!

first kiss (WRITING!)

summary:

tate langdon

nothing yet…

madison montgomery

i insist

summary:

living dead girl

summary:

brooke thompson

nothing yet…

lee (bones and all)

nothing yet…

michael myers

sick love story

summary:

chop, chop, slide

summary:

leon kennedy

nothing yet…

bela dimitrescu

nothing yet…

lara croft

nothing yet…

rick grimes

nothing yet…

daryl dixon

nothing yet…

vanessa afton

nothing yet…

pyramid head

nothing yet…

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Characters/Ships I write for

If you have a request for a character/ship that isn't here but is a part of the fandoms listed here, send me an ask, and I'll see if I can write it! Masterlist . Rules Requests are Closed

(I do not support jkr, trans women are women)

Criminal Minds: Spencer Reid, Will LaMontagne Jr, Luke Alvez

Divergent: Peter Hayes, Tobias Eaton

Resident Evil: Leon Kennedy, Chris Redfield, Ethan Winters, Carlos Oliveira

Inheritance Games: Jameson Hawthrone, Grayson Hawthorne, Nash Hawthrone

Harry Potter: James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, Newt Scamander, Cedric Diggory

Marvel: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Jack Thompson, Daniel Sousa

Maze Runner: Thomas, Newt, Minho, Aris

Hunger Games: Coriolanus Snow, Finnick Odair, Peeta Mellark

Riordanverse: Luke Castellan, Leo Valdez, Jason Grace, Percy Jackson

The Umbrella Academy: Ben Hargreeves, Five Hargreeves, Viktor Hargreeves

Others: Cardan Greenbriar(Folk of the Air), Jace Wayland(Shadowhunters), The Darkling(Shadow and Bone), Kaz Brekker(Six of Crows), Ravi Singh(AGGGTM), Peter Sutherland(The Night Agent), Donald Ressler(The Blacklist), Master Chief(Halo), Robert Chase(House MD)

I write ships too! These include Jily(james potter x lily evans), Hinny(harry potter x ginny weasley), Larkland(peter sutherland x rose larkin), Steggy(steve rogers x peggy carter), Wolfstar(sirius black x remus lupin), Percabeth(percy jackson x annabeth chase), Ronmione(ron weasley x hermione granger), Willifer(will lamontauge jr x jj), Malina(malyen oretsev x alina starkov), Remadora(remus lupin x andromeda tonks), Cleon(claire redfield x leon kennedy), Valveria(Jill Valentine x Carlos Oliveira), Thearoy(thea queen x roy harper), Newtmas(newt x thomas), SunWings(apollo x icarus)

[h-l-v-kennedy-blog]

Unexpected (how a punch can turn into a meet-cute)

Robert Kennedy x OC

Taglist: @jackiesgirl, @theverystrangegirl27, @fortheloveofjos, @kennediva, @stargiirl27

Trigger Warnings: age gap (around 12 years), no smut (if that's even a warning?), a single punch, harassment, bruised knuckles, swearing.

Extra notes: this is an rpf and not based on any fact, just delusional daydreams from this gal.

Synopsis: It was an unexpected turn for Robert when Ethel chose God over him and left their relationship to join a convent. He understood her to some measurement as a Catholic, yet a part of him thought he had found the one. He decided to dedicate himself not to God but help his older brother on his growing political and government career. 

So, in 1949, even with a broken heart he went on with his studies at the University of Virginia. He made a few good friends and befriended Alec Worthing, whose younger sister he ended up meeting in 1958 at a campaign celebration party for Jack after he was re-elected to the Senate after winning against Republican lawyer Vincent J. Celeste. 

1958 - 4th of November, Boston, MA

“Now, Bobby, my kid sister’s a bit of nuisance. She breathes poetry and reads too much. Ignore her enthusiasm, it’s her first campaign party.” Alec said sipping champagne from a plastic cup as he and Bobby watch the celebrations. Jack was dancing with Jackie. “She’s freshly 21 and wants everyone to know it and...” Alec got distracted when a redheaded campaign aid came to them and asked him for a turn on the dance floor. Flushed, Alec nodded and left Bobby behind.  

Bobby leaned on the back wall smoking a cigar and already thinking of having to soon return to the Senate Rackets Committee where he was chief counsel. He was in deep thought while his eyes wandered around the busy and joyful room. His sight then fixed on a young woman who he had never met before and who seemed to be having some issues with a campaign aid in a corner of the large office space were the campaign office was. The male aid stood close to her; he saw her squirm and so Bobby made his way towards her and the man towering over her.  

As he was nearing, he stopped when the woman decked the men and pushed out into the hallway outside the main room. Bobby made a mental note to have that man taken off the management team. 

Was she alright? 

He decided to find out and saw her in the empty hallway and saw her hold her right hand. She hadn’t noticed him. Music and the warm light crept into the dark hallway where only a single window brought in moonlight. The light bounced back on her blonde hair and light blue dress. She heard his footsteps, and her body went frigid. 

Looking at him standing a few feet away from her. “Are you...his friend?” She asked, her voice steadier than Bobby had expected.  

“No.” he said.  

She nodded her head slowly, “How much did you see?” 

“I saw you punch him.” 

She muttered under her breath a soft “shit!” while clutching her right hand. “Did anyone else notice?” 

Bobby shook his head ‘no’. “I don’t think so. Can I come closer?”  

She took a step back. “Why?” 

“To see if your hand's alright.” 

“You won’t try anything?” 

“I don’t want to take my chances. I saw what you did to the last guy.” He tried to joke but saw her expression not change. “I won’t try anything. I promise.” 

She looked at him skeptically but walked towards him. “It doesn’t hurt that much.” She showed him her hand, her knuckles bruised with blue and purple. 

“How hard did you hit him?” He asked gently touching her hand avoiding the bruise. 

She shrugged, “Harder than I thought.” 

“You should get some ice on it. Sit here, I’ll bring you some.” He gestured for her to sit down on one of the benches in the hallway.  

She looked apprehensive. “What if he finds me? Can’t I come with you?” 

Robert nodded and led her to the staff kitchen where there was ice kept in the freezer. He turned on the light and the young woman jumped onto the counter and looked at him as he found a dish towel and wrapped it around a handful of ice.  

He put it onto her knuckles holding it place. “You should hold it on for a while.”  

She nodded and placed her hand on the cloth as he removed his. He put some distance between them. Several beats of silence later. 

The woman broke it: “What’s your name? I’d like to know who to send a thank you card to.” 

“Robert Kennedy.”  He spoke. A look of recognition passed her face. Her eyes widened in a quite almost cartoonish way. 

“Kennedy? I should’ve known.” She said, and for the first time he saw her smile and laugh, “My friends will lose their minds when I tell them Bobby Kennedy put ice on my hand.” Her expression then changed. “You went to UV with my brother, right?” 

Now it was Robert’s turn to look surprised. “You’re Alec’s kid sister?” 

“That’s me. Ava Worthing.” She said before scoffing, “Though I’m not much of kid anymore, I’m senior at Vassar and much more mature than he can give me credit.” 

And so, they talked without noticing the passage of time. It was simple for both, to move from topic to topic. It was strange how easy it was. They hardly knew anything about each other and somehow, they clicked into place. 

She was curious about politics and about what was happening in the courts with the Teamsters. Robert showed his passionate side and found himself enthralled at how she kept up with him. She told him about her own interests and that she wanted to be a writer and to better the world in any way she could. 

End (for now...)

Dividers: @cafekitsune, https://www.tumblr.com/cafekitsune/761910969259655168/moon-line-dividers-001?source=share

[kennedyism]

now this looks like fun giggles

Surfin’ USA.

Bobby Kennedy x reader

Summary: Spending a day on the beach with Bobby? Yes please. (Need that!!!!!)

Warnings: This is all just for fun, no need to take this seriously!

Tag list: @jackiesgirl @quietamericans @obsessedwithjohnjr @fortheloveofjos @melancholicstation @rocker-chick-7 @bleatngheart @joansiesbeloved

author’s note: TELL THE TEACHER WE’RE SURFINNNNN SURFIN USAAAAA

“Gee, Jack, I think your age is catching up to you, you can’t even keep up!”

You watch your fiancé run around with the football in the sand, sunglasses covering your eyes as you stare. It makes you laugh seeing the president trying to keep tabs on his younger, more athletic, younger brother. You’re the only… not Kennedy woman yet, but you get the point, here.

“Hey, Baby!” Bobby shouts, making you snort. He’s so corny, but it’s okay since it’s him. He comes over to you, only in his swim trunks, looking down at you, football in hand. “You oughta come play. Jack’s gettin’ his ass handed to him. You could probably beat him.” He snickers, looking down at your face, then your bikini, not in a sexual way, but just to look at how beautiful you are.

“No, I’m alright… go enjoy yourself.”

Bobby then sits beside you in the sand, pressing a kiss on your cheek which makes you giggle. “Oh, stop… Not here.” You laugh, trying to push him away. but he’s a lot stronger than you, making him lean a bit more next to you, practically pinning you with only sitting next to you.

“Not my fault you’re so pretty.” He flirts, which makes you laugh. Bobby is not normally a flirter. That’s his brother, he’s the more logical one, but you’re not complaining about the sudden change of behavior.

Bobby is very unpredictable. You never know his next move, and that’s what makes him all more lovable and attractive. “Okay, lover boy, that’s enough.” You laugh, gently shoving him off you. You then snicker watching him fall gently in the sand.

The attorney general sits up, brushing the sand off his arms, and then he puts his knees to his chest, the wind blowing in his hair as he stares at you with love in his eyes. He then turns his attention to the Beach Boys song on the radio, then back at you. “Well, you gotta stop saying things that make me wanna kiss the hell outta you.” He sighs out, putting his sunglasses on, and looking at you through the dark plastic.

Those words make you blush, and sputter looking at him. There’s no way he just say that. He seems to be enjoying your reaction, though. You then decide to play along with his games. “Alright… if you wanna kiss me, you gotta catch me.” You say as you stand up, and starting to dart off into the distance.

Bobby is taken back by your actions, and it takes about thirty seconds for it to register and click into his mind, but within that time, he’s onto his feet and chasing after you.

“You forget I played Football!”

“In college!”

“Still played—You callin’ me old?!”

And just as he says that, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace from behind. “Got ya.” He pants, trying to hold you in place, but it’s hard to do so with your squirming and laughter.

“Let go!” You laugh, finally getting out of his grasp, and then you pull Bobby into a kiss, leaving a bright red lipstick mark on his lips, and that makes you burst out laughing, so it makes you do it again. “Oh, wow.” You giggle.

“Are ya done?”

“Not yet…”

You then grab the grab the general’s face, your hands on his cheeks as you place kisses all around his face. You then step back to admire your work. “Now that’s a look.” You say, a hand on your hip, proud of your art work.

“Wow, not gonna let me go out like this, are ya?”

“I gotta let everyone see my work!”

“We can put me in a museum, if you’d like.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

[aliorsboxostuff]

MALE!READER WRITING REQUESTS OPEN!

Come check out my works bellow!

I've seen how devastatingly little male!reader fics are in my big fandoms, and as a gay man i feel like i should provide us with said fics! Which is why I'm opening my ask box for any and all male!readers and gn!readers requests! (Including anon requests!)

RULES:

I WON'T ACCEPT FEMALE!READER FICS REQUESTS. I’m a trans-masc genderfluid, so male!Readers or gn!Readers are the ones that I usually write and am comfortable with. It’s hard looking for male!reader fics, especially in female-dominated fandoms, that's why I'm opening requests for any and all sad and touch-starved dudes out there! If these don't fit your preferences then you are free to leave, and if you're a female user/reader entering my blog, I hope you remain respectful about the fics I write or get requests for, thank you.

NOTE: I NEVER USE ANY FORM OF Y/N IN MY FICS. Please be aware that i write based on my current fixations. Fixations may vary in how much i want to write them so i’ll be ranking from the MOST interested to the LEAST interested but will write. Please be patient in waiting for your fics as i, sadly, have IRL work to worry about too! 

What i will write:

male!reader

gender-neutral reader

Ftm! Reader

Smut 

Platonic or Romantic relationships

Kid!reader (ONLY platonic-parental relationships)

angst

fluff

comfort

headcanons

nsfw alphabets

drabbles

Series

Age gap (CHARACTERS MUST BE OVER THE AGE OF 19)

What I Won't write:

female!reader

underage characters (anyone under 17)

necrophilia

real people

pedophilia

Omorashi

age play

rape/non-con

incest

offensive/harmful things

THE CHARACTER LIST!

Current immediate fixation:

HOUSE MD (Up to s2)

Gregory House 

James Wilson

Robert Chase

Lisa Cuddy

PEDRO PASCAL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE

Ezra (prospect)

Joel Miller

Javi Gutierrez

Javier Peña

Frankie Morales

Whiskey (Kingsman)

MORTAL KOMBAT 1

Johnny Cage

Kenshi Takahashi

Tomas Vrbada

Syzoth

HONKAI STAR RAIL

Boothill

Welt

Sampo

Gallagher

Dr. Ratio

JUJUTSU KAISEN

Satoru Gojo

Nanami Kento

Higuruma Hiromi

Ryoumen Sukuna

Yuuji Itadori (Fluff)

Toge Inumaki (Fluff)

Less interested (but will write) Fixations:

TOP GUN 86’ & TOP GUN: MAVERICK

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

COD MODERN WARFARE II

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

John 'Soap' Mactavish

König

DETROIT: BECOME HUMAN

Connor (RK800)

Nines (RK900)

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Chris Knight (Real Genius)

Hannibal (NBC)

The Corinthian (Netflix Sandman)

Leon S. Kennedy (RE4 Remake)

Luis Serra (RE4 Remake)

Understand that these are all works of fiction; I am perfectly fine with writing for topics including mafias, mobs, murder, organized crime, war, mental illness, abuse, etc.; but please do not romanticize them in any way. Reading it is fine; please don't romanticize them in your head.

If any of this provided information may seem confusing or have any questions, feel free to drop a DM and I will explain further! I will try to post fic requests as regularly and as fast as I can!

For refrence, these are fics i've written and uploaded to my AO3!

Steven Grant/Male Reader fluff

XMEN Family Pride Fic

Steven Grant/Male Reader Smut #1

Steven Grant/Male Reader Smut #2

Deadpool/Male Reader Fluff Confession

Deadpool/Ftm Reader Smut

Robert 'Bob' Floyd/Male Reader Fluff

Robert 'Bob' Floyd/Male Reader sunshine x grumpy

Tangerine/Male Reader Fluff/Angst Mature

Tangerine/Male Reader Mature

Tangerine/Male Reader (Escort Fic) Mature

Tangerine/NB Reader Teen&Up

Tangerine/Gender-Fluid Reader (Coming out fic)

Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Husband Reader

Joel Miller/Ftm Reader & Ellie Fluff

Joel Miller & Kid Reader

Joel Miller/Ftm Reader & Tess Fluff a bit Angst

Miguel O'hara/Male Reader Fluff

Miguel O'hara/Male Reader Spicy Fluff

Miguel O'hara/Male&GN Reader Spicy Fluff

Miguel O'hara/Male&GN Reader Fluff slight Angst

Din Djarin/Boyfriend Reader Smut

And the Short Fics/Drabbles on Tumblr!

Pulse (Tangerine/M!reader)

Deep Dive (Namor/M!reader)

Hold Tight (Tangerine/gn Reader)

Ner Mesh'la (Din Djarin/Male Reader)

Trinkets (Kurt Wagner/Gender-fluid Reader)

"Anythin' you wanna be." (Hobie Brown & Ftm Reader)

Little Nap! (Meows Morales Drabble)

Anyone that starts an argument about me writing exclusively for men and gender neutrals alike will get a very passive-aggressive and sarcastic reply to your request. There is an abundance of female!readers fics and writers who provide them; I am just here for people that takes a whole day searching for good male!reader fics. IF you do start an unnecessary rant about my fics or my writing preferences at a given moment; I’ve been in fandom spaces for the last 7 years of my life and run on pure manic adrenaline, I will throw hands. 

Without further ado, REBLOG TO TELL ALL DUDES! I OPEN MY FLOOD GATES! WELCOME ALL MALE!READER REQUESTS!

[sorchathered]

Let’s do IT for our country

Pairing- President!Robert “Bob” Floyd x reader

Warnings- smut smut and more smut, breeding kink, language, mentions of pregnancy, us politics, I think that’s it?

Summary- Robert Floyd had never wanted to be the president, but here in the Oval Office on inauguration night with his First Lady? He could get used to nights like this.

A/N- It’s that time again! Another IBFFM, but this time with an older version of our sexy WSO. Mr. President is about 45 here, his First Lady is in her mid 30’s.

Also it’s @bobgasm ‘s birthday present!! Happy birthday to my precious Steph, love you so much baby!!

For as long as he could remember, Robert Floyd had been told he would be great.

His family name was synonymous with the likes of Kennedy and Roosevelt, the Floyd’s were some of the most influential in political history, and with that came high expectations. You must go to a prestigious college, you must serve your country (whether that be as a civil servant or military member), and you must marry the right kind of person. They talked about it as if they were breeding horses, and it never made any sense to him, so long as he found someone kind and supportive all of the bullshit that his family expected mattered very little to him. He would tick off whatever boxes they wanted, but it would be on his own terms.

He went to the US Naval Academy after high school, refusing to hop onto the Ivy League lifestyle his grandfather so desperately cherished. Moving on to aviation as a WSO and then becoming one of the top 1% in the country in his field. It was a distinguished career to be sure, but he’d been adamant that he had no interest in pursuing a political career, and certainly not the presidency.

He still wasn’t sure what had brought him to this point, or how he’d somehow managed to bag his dream girl in the process. A feisty junior senator from Delaware, good family, strong morals and drop dead gorgeous to boot, you’d been his match in every way. Sure you had hated his guts, he was the golden boy and you had dealt with his kind your whole life. But after a particularly long day in the senate he’d asked you to dinner, and while you’d had half a mind to tell him no the prospect of a free meal wasn’t worth passing up. So in a dingy dive bar with greasy burgers and cheap beer, you took a chance on him and fell ridiculously in love.

Four years had passed since you’d both sat in the creeky wooden booths of that shitty bar, and it felt simultaneously like yesterday and a lifetime ago. His family had pushed him into politics and while he had been adamant in the beginning that he would never pursue the presidency, the world had changed dramatically since he first refused the mantle. He may have hated the pageantry of it all, but at his core he truly did want to help people, and they certainly took notice. He’d run a clean and honest campaign with his best girl by his side, and won in a landslide. Everything moved very quickly from Election Day to Inauguration Day, it almost felt like he had blinked and he was here, wandering the halls of the west wing after skipping out on the last two of 10 gaudy inaugural balls he’d been forced to attend. He’d been going since sunrise and still couldn’t seem to get the jitters under control so he could rest; he suspected it would be quite a while before that feeling went away. Shaky hands moved to open the door to the Oval Office, completely renovated and designed by his beautiful wife to fit his style and personality, you’d made sure he would want for nothing, he’d be spending so much time in this room and it seemed only logical to make it a calm and safe space for him and his thoughts. It felt so much like his office at home, even down to the worn leather chair and the soft scent of sandalwood and tobacco from the candles you bought because it reminded you of him. You had told him you’d be heading to change and wouldn’t be gone long, he had plans to unwind with a bottle of bourbon and maybe a game or three of checkers, but as you slipped into the spacious and hallowed room belonging to the commander in chief, he nearly jolted out of his skin. There you were, his First Lady, in a skimpy little silk robe, intricate updo long gone in favor of soft curls, and the adorable little fuzzy cat slippers that he’d bought you for Christmas.

“Good evening Mr. President” you said with a smirk as you locked the door and padded over to his desk. You’d chosen well, the beautiful mahogany writing table had belonged to Theodore Roosevelt, and while it hadn’t been used in many a president’s term, you had made sure it was painstakingly restored and ready for his first day. Now that you were here, all he could seem to think of is how much fun it might be to test the sturdiness of the surface, perhaps he did need to blow off a little steam after such a stressful day…

“Sweet girl, you do realize there’s cameras everywhere right?” He said as you pushed his chair back just enough to fit between his thighs, very gently sitting on the edge of the antique escritoire. This desk had seen many a scandal, so many historical events, and you were quite sure she should handle the weight of what you had planned next.

“Already got that covered, Phoenix is on surveillance right now, you can go ahead and go dark Nat!” You said in the general direction of where they’d mentioned cameras were placed, a notification on your phone let you know she’d confirmed that the two of you had thirty minutes all to yourselves and you broke out in a blinding grin as you leaned forward to press a kiss to Bob’s jawline. The sharp intake of breath and his hands immediately going to your hips let you know he’d need this just as much as you, it had been embarrassingly long since the two of you had been together, and you filed away the notion that you would need to make sure you had the right security in play to make quickies like this a regular occurrence, policy be damned.

You’d drawn his lips to yours as you untied his tie and began unbuttoning the front of his dress shirt, his hands had drifted to palming your ass as he licked the seam of your mouth, a gasp from you was all he needed to slide his tongue against yours, squeezing you a little more roughly and all but pulling you into the plush office chair.

“Fuck I missed you,” he breathed into your mouth, you’d nearly gotten his dress shirt removed when he slotted his knee between your legs, large hands gripping the back of your thighs as he placed you back on the desk, this time swiping whatever loose papers off the top and sending them cascading across the plush carpet that held the presidential seal. You squealed and giggled, watching with rapt attention as he removed his dress shirt and exposed the defined freckled skin of his arms, pulling his undershirt off with less finesse as it joined the pile of papers on the floor. “I’ve never found a president to be sexy until just this moment, I have to admit, you look damn good in this office, sir” you said as you leaned back on your palms and ogled him, heat crept up his cheeks and chest at your praise, but his eyes had darkened at the honorific, you knew exactly what you were doing to him, and he could feel his dress slacks getting uncomfortably tight as you ran your bare feet up and down the back of his legs.

“You wanna be a good girl for me Madame First Lady? Let me lay you out and devour you where anyone could walk in?” His voice grew impossibly deeper and you let out a whimper in response, shifting to try and get some relief. You did want that, you wanted it so badly you could scream, it was the very thought of being dirty and unladylike for the man you loved that had you so hot and bothered, and he trailed one long finger down your sternum to remove your robe, fire in his eyes as he opened the sash and found you completely bare for him.

“Goddamn it, should have known you’d do this, you know exactly how to wind me up don’t ya? Whole world wants to know how to bring me to my knees and all they’d have to do is weaponize you and this perfect pussy.” He was completely fixated on your arousal glistening between your legs, and while normally you’d let him take his time, you knew it wouldn’t be long before some aid or agent came by to make sure he had everything he needed for the evening. If they only knew.

“Bobby, please? Don’t have a lot of time baby” you said as you squirmed on the polished wood and searched for some kind of relief. He seemed to snap out of his haze as lust clouded eyes fixed on yours, letting his index finger trail down your stomach and through your folds, watching your head fall back and chest heave at his teasing.

“Need to hear you say it sweet girl, you know what I want.” You blushed in earnest, he loved how dirty you could get, but that had always been behind closed doors in the comfort of your own home, you’d be mortified if anyone heard some of the things you’d said in the throes of pleasure; but it was his big day after all. If he wanted it, you’d give him the moon.

“Need your mouth on me Daddy, want you to make me cum and then fuck me with your big dick. Please? Please give it to me, ‘s been too long, fuck - I-“ you babbled at him as he continued to rub that one long finger up and down, it was maddening and had you choking on your words, thankfully he didn’t make you wait, spreading you open and pressing two fingers into you as he leaned forward and wrapped his lips around your clit. The relief was immediate, you moaned out into the empty room as he went to work on your aching pussy, drawing tight circles with this tongue as he scissored his fingers inside you. It had been weeks and he knew he’d need to get you ready, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was going insane over the little noises you made and the iron grip you had on his hair, tugging at his scalp as you bucked up into his pretty face to search for your release.

It was startling how fast he got you there, you were certain you were dripping down onto the desk now, wet smacks and moans coming from between your thighs as you peeked down to look at his deep cerulean eyes. He was too damn good at this and he knew it, had the audacity to wink at you as he nibbled on your clit and with a gasp you came all over his face, watching as he wiped his mouth with his arm and smirking like the cocky bastard he was. He controlled the entire free world now, but he would still consider it his greatest accomplishment that he could render his pretty wife to a babbling needy mess with his tongue. Disheveled looked good on you, blush spread across your cheeks and chest, hair a mess, and your release all over your thighs from what he intended to be one of at least three mind blowing orgasms.

You looped your heavy arms around his neck and kissed him languidly, you didn’t seem to be as worried about the time anymore and for that he was thankful. He wanted to take his time, and if somebody walked in they would find out very quickly to knock, he couldn’t give a shit about anything other than getting his cock inside you.

You knew the rule all too well; no visible marks. It had been that way from the very beginning, which was unfortunate because you wanted so badly to mark his pretty neck up and make sure everyone knew he was yours, but the compromise was that you could leave them anywhere below the collarbone, so as he fished for the condom he’d stashed in his pocket (hoping to end the night just like this), you licked down his neck and began nibbling on the flesh of his pecks, sucking a nipple into your mouth and looking up at him as his jaw went slack. “Oh Christ, you gotta stop that baby or we’ll be finished before we even get started” he panted out and tried not to buck up into you, the hand gripping your thigh was sure to leave a mark but you couldn’t give a shit, there was something so powerful in being able to bring the most powerful man on earth to his knees, and even better knowing that he was insatiable for you.

“Then fuck me Mr. President, and you don’t need that condom either. I think you should put a baby in me, fill me up so good that I’m dripping with you all day tomorrow.” You grinned at him but he looked completely debauched, he ran a hand through his graying sandy locks and blinked down at you, almost at a loss for words.

“You little minx, you’ve been just waiting all day to drop that on me haven’t you? Need me to cum in that pretty pussy and get you good and knocked up? Fuck you’d think it was my birthday or something, I don’t know how I got it so good.” He said as he spread you out and ran his hands all over you, you were whimpering and grinding into him and he was sure he’d pass out if he was any harder, slipping himself out of his briefs and sliding his length through your slick. You were trying hard to be quiet, sure it was late but there was bound to be someone on watch, Bob gripped your chin as he slid into you and kissed you sloppily, all teeth and tongue and moans, shallow thrusts to get you ready turned rough when you sucked his bottom lip and pushed your hips up to take him to the hilt. You gripped the front of the desk behind your head and let him pound you into it, the need for quiet long forgotten as you alternated between crying out and calling him daddy.

It didn’t take him long before he was close, the aftershocks of your second orgasm seemed to keep him gripped so tight that he could barely think straight, he was furiously rubbing your clit to get you there again as he watched tears drip down your flushed cheeks, he’d never forget tonight for the rest of his life. Not all the fanfare, not even the immense weight of the mantle he was about to take, but this moment right here, wrapped up in his gorgeous wife as he fucked her silly in the Oval Office. You wailed out “I’m cumming” as you gripped him tight with your pulsing heat and he tumbled over the edge right along with you, warming you from the inside out as he filled you up.

You cradled his sweaty form in your arms as you both came down from your high, giggles erupting from him as it really set in what you two had done.

“Ah shit, well everyone’s gonna know that we can’t keep our hands to ourselves after this, I imagine the press will have a field day.” He kissed your nose as you grinned at him, both of you still joined together but neither of you ready to separate.

A loud ring came from his phone and it sent a jolt through both of you, wide eyes trained on his as he leaned forward and grabbed it off the hook. His eyes were full of mirth as he nodded his head once, twice and bid them goodnight, pinching your cheek with his free hand before hanging up.

“What was that all about?” You said, trying to push him up so you could get decent and off his desk.

“That was Nat, she said we need to hurry the hell up before me going MIA causes a national emergency.” He was joking of course, but the secret service agents at the door couldn’t look either of you in the eye as you shuffled down the hallway with Bob’s hand in yours, and it was no surprise to anyone when you turned up pregnant by the state of the union.

Tagging- @bobgasm @attapullman @bobfloydsbabe @floydsglasses @sebsxphia @roosterforme @sunsetsimpsblog @seitmai @auroralightsthesky @withahappyrefrain @hangmanapologist

[literary-motif]

Primal

Asirel Cain x Reader

Asirel's sister gets kidnapped.

Warnings: kidnapping, anxiety/panic attack

Asirel glanced at you, lounging on the couch in his study with some papers in your hand. They looked suspiciously like the files he had been searching for last night, but he chose not to comment on it. Yet. The tentative peace — and the silence you so readily broke in your boredom — made concentrating easier, and he still needed to finish revising the pages Isaac had sent him. 

The telephone rang, and he groaned, torn out of the words on the page once more. He picked it up without looking at the caller ID, keeping his eyes on the page before him and scribbling a question to clarify later with Isaac on the margin. “Yes?”

“Mr. Cain, how generous of you to pick up,” the deep voice cooed, Asirel tensing immediately as he recognized it to belong to William Kennedy, a rather unimportant player in the real estate business — unlike his father had been — and one he was entirely ready to forget after he had run the company to the ground. 

Markets shifted. It was not entirely Asirel’s fault, but he knew better than to think his father had not warned William, telling him to keep an eye out about the Collective — or perhaps Asirel, specifically — meddling in their affairs. William had seemed just arrogant enough to blame it all on him, and Asirel liked to keep tabs on his enemies. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” he said drily, putting down the pencil to give him his undivided attention. “How can I help you?”

William chuckled, making Asirel frown. Something about the sound made him weary, drawing his guard up further as he clicked through the security footage, a little voice warning him to tread carefully. 

“It’s not so much about helping me, as it is about helping yourself,” he said cryptically, and Asirel had to suppress a scoff despite the looming threat of something unspoken between them. 

“I don’t follow.”

“Let me put it this way,” William said. Shuffling came from the other end of the line, a low groan that made Asirel’s blood freeze. “Want to say hello to your brother, dear?” 

“Fuck you.” His sister’s unmistakable snarl cut through his heart like a shard of glass. His eyes widened, and despite his best efforts, his hands began to shake. 

You smelled his surge of fear, glancing up from some intricate real estate business to look at Asirel. His heart rate was elevated, and you clicked your tongue in distaste at the scent of his blinding panic. 

“So, Mr. Cain. What are we going to do about this little predicament, hm?”

Asirel fought hard to keep his voice steady, cold, and devoid of the emotion curling in his chest. Anyone else, he would have no problem keeping his cool. Anyone else, he would have informed his trusted circle to clean up this mess with as much damage as they saw fit, but this was family. The matter was personal, and he could not help trembling at the thought that his sister was in danger. “What do you want?”

“Ever the businessman, I see. Straight to the point. My father told me you were someone not to mess with after the whole business with Incessant Inc. Do you remember Robert Kennedy? He talked highly of you before you ran us into the ground.”

His voice sounded like it came from underwater, and Asirel blinked unseeing as his mind conjured up images of his sister, tied to a chair, chained to a wall, scared, terrified while she put up a brave facade and counted on him to get her out of this mess. “Yes.”

“Anyway. How about this: you pull a few strings and get us back to the market value of roughly a year ago, and I’ll send you back this little viper without a scratch? It sounds more than fair to me, Asirel.”

The agreement was on his tongue, but he bit his lip at the last second. Desperate. It would give him the upper hand. It would reveal just how scared he was. How could he not be? It felt like someone had cut open his ribcage, and held his fearfully beating heart in their hand — ready to crush it. 

“Don’t take too long to decide. It’s awfully boring here, you know. I get bored quite easily, and when I do, all I can assure you is that she will be in one piece. Unharmed, well. We shall see about that.”

“Fine,” Asirel bit out, pouring as much venom and disdain into the word as he could, despite the pleading tone wanting to crawl up his throat and beg him not to hurt her. “Fine. Agreed. I need the rest of the week.”

“You have until tonight,” William said, his tone leaving no room to argue as the line went dead. 

Asirel did not notice you get up from your place on the couch. He could not hear anything outside of the blood rushing in his ears, his heart hammering painfully hard in his chest while reality twisted into a cruel, dangerous nightmare. He knew he needed to act, needed to do something but sit here and panic. 

He could not move, the telephone tumbling from his grip as his body felt heavy and airily light at the same time. Gravity seemed to pull him under, crush him into the ground while he was suspended in water, weightlessly drifting away as waves of fear and guilt tore at him. 

He needed to snap out of it. He needed to snap out of it. 

There were pills in the top drawer, the anxiety medication he ignored for the better part of the year always stocked in case he needed it. His hand flailed around, dragging open the drawer gracelessly as he rummaged through it for the little bottle with hands shaking annoyingly hard. 

His chest burned, and for the life of him he could not figure out why his heart was burning so much until it spasmed painfully, and he realized his breath had lodged in his throat. He squeezed the bottle tighter, uselessly trying to pry it open. 

You took it from his unsteady hands, opening it effortlessly and shaking out two pills he dry-swallowed immediately. He held onto the desk with a white-knuckled grip, taking a deep breath. “My sister—” he began.

“I heard.”

“I have to—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

His gaze snapped up to look at you, impressively sharp for someone whose mind was clouded with panic not a minute ago. “There is— is no room for mistakes here. I’ll send a— a team with you.”

“I work alone.”

“No, no,” he breathed, shaking his head while his hand reached for the telephone. “Not this time, I can’t—”

You took hold of his wrist, stopping his movement while you glared at him. “You want her to be safe?” you asked, not missing how his heart rate picked up at the reminder of the peril his beloved sister was in. “Let me do what I do best, howI do it best. You know what I’m capable of.”

He considered this for a long moment, and you could see in the quiet resignation of his eyes that he agreed with you. “Fine,” he said finally, and you released his hand with a triumphant grin. “I’m coming with you.”

The disbelieving laugh tearing out of your throat made him shoot you a dark glance. “No, you won’t. You’ll drag me down.”

“I will, end of discussion,” he said, rising to his feet unsteadily. 

You suppressed a snarl. “End of discussion, yeah?” you asked, raising your shoulders in a shrug, mocking apathy as you walked over to the couch again. “Good luck fetching her by yourself, then. I go alone, or I don’t go at all.”

“Pet!” he said, his voice rough with anger. His fists were clenched at his sides, shaking in rage and fear. “This is not the time for your games. Now, come on. I command you—!”

“Oh, commanding me, are you?” you teased, flopping onto the couch again, nuzzling into the pillows as you lazily picked up the papers. “Good luck with that.”

Asirel’s eyes widened, distraught at your stubbornness. “Please,” he said, and you had to blink a few times to keep your head from spinning. He was all over the place, angry for an instant before his voice shook on the verge of tears. It was surprisingly easy to dissolve him. A few prods, a kidnapped sister and he stumbled over himself, entirely useless as he scurried around lost, like a helpless bird caught in a cage. “Don’t do this to me now, please.”

How hard you thought your heart might be, it melted at his anguished look, and you silently cursed yourself for allowing him to have this sway on you. “Fine, fine,” you said, getting up from the couch and tossing the papers aside carelessly. 

He perked up immediately, blinking away the tears in his vision. 

“I go alone,” you said. “I’m getting her back unscratched, trust me. Just sit tight, and we’ll be back before you know it.”

You saw he wanted to argue, but he bit his lip instead, giving a stiff nod. You were out the door the next second, and as the minutes ticked by and he sat uselessly in his office chair, checking security footage all around the city, the thought struck him that by all means, you should not even know where the hell it was they were keeping her. 

He did not doubt your abilities for a moment — could not allow himself to, else the panic curling in his chest like a sleeping beast would be awakened again full force — so he chose to trust you instead. Minutes ticked by, crawling into half an hour. 

Another handful of minutes, and you were gone for less than an hour that felt much too close to eternity to his restless mind, before the security cameras picked you up, strolling casually down the street with his sister on your arm, talking amicably. 

She did not look hurt. On the contrary, she seemed quite content, throwing her head back in laughter every once in a while at whatever it was you told her. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his mouth. She was safe. She was safe. 

Asirel leaned back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. The tension headache hit him like a train, and he winced as he massaged his temples. 

“I can’t believe he said that!” his sister’s amused laugh tore him out of his thoughts, and he rose from his seat again, opening the door into the hallway where your hand was poised, ready to knock. 

She was beside you, cheeks tainted a little red from laughter, and he let instinct take over, enveloping her in a crushing hug and squeezing her so tightly against him that he feared anyone seeing the scene would find his weakness spelled out painfully clear. 

“She’s charming,” you said, giving her a cheeky grin as she chuckled in amusement. 

Asirel only held her tighter. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice muffled against her shoulder. “Did they hurt you? Did—?”

“Asirel, relax,” she said, a hand reaching up to settle between his shoulder blades. “I’m fine. Nothing happened. It was a bit annoying — the guy sat me down on this hideous couch and would not shut up about some bartender disrespecting him. I wanted to punch him, but honestly, he didn’t seem worth it.”

“I tore out his heart if you’re wondering,” you said absentmindedly, frowning at the droplets of blood on your sleeves. 

“Yeah. That was metal of you. Not very demure.”

You raised an eyebrow at her, not missing Asirel’s quiet ‘thank you’ as he continued cradling her to his chest, assuring himself — and his racing heart — that she was safe, perfectly alright, and alive. 

[ellieslaces]

CAN’T CATCH ME NOW. three

presenting: umbrella’s hunger games

featuring: leon kennedy x fem!reader

synopsis: after spending your first few days drowning in Capitol grandeur, the training for the games begins. as you begin to prepare for the fight of your life in the arena, you realize that maybe the fight isn’t just for your life, but your dignity. the introduction to the other tributes makes you realize the reality of having to fight them, and possibly kill them. for what is the point of winning and living at the cost of others’ lives?

content warnings: harsh language; strong violence; slight misogyny; class discrimination; slight sexualization; heavy violence themes in this chapter

notes: this chapter contains heavy themes of violence; there are themes of sexualization of the reader by other Tributes and Capitol citizens; some more misogynistic themes; also, I am so sorry this took so long, life has been insane lately

chloe talks: um… hi. wow, it’s been a second. but, yeah, reader and Leon finally meet! the games start next chapter and so does the drama! enjoy! <3

word count: 4.91k

now playing: hypnotic ; zella day

can’t catch me now playlist

previous chapter ; next chapter

There was something overly malicious about this year’s pool of Tributes. The way even the youngest and smallest of the twenty four carried themselves emitted an energy that radiated that they wanted - no, needed - to win. Something about them all made you uneasy — even ones you knew stood absolutely no chance of winning.

And you wished you’d stayed in bed that morning as you stood beside Piers in the entryway of the Training Center. Despite the fact that everyone was just standing around due to the training not having officially begun yet, they all had a violent aura about them.

Your eyes scanned the room, gauging each Tribute. Trying to find ones who were set on being your opponent. However, you knew the other Career Tributes — such as the ones from Two and Three — would want to team up with you. And then betray you at the final moment. Your mind weighed your options as you and Piers walked toward where the group was standing. Until your eyes landed on the Tributes from Twelve.

This was the first time you’d seen either one of them in person. Things at the Tribute Parade had been far too hectic for you to try and see Leon Kennedy or his fellow female Tribute. But here they were. His blond hair stood out in the crowd — despite not being the only blond in the room. There was a certain feeling that seemed to emit from him. Not fear but more apprehension. And it drew you in like a magnet.

“Hey,” Piers mumbled to you as you’d paused in your tracks, eyes wide and set on Leon and Helena. “C’mon.”

You knew Piers was only trying to help you, trying to keep anyone from noticing your immediate attraction to the Tributes from Twelve. It could land you — and Piers — in deep shit in the arena. So, you snapped yourself out of your trance and followed him, standing at his side and trying not to look at Leon or Helena.

This proved difficult however, not giving your attention to memorize each minute detail of him because he was a manner of feet away from you. But, Piers was right. Focus was necessary and essential right now if you wanted to succeed.

The training leader — a man named Robert Kendo who was rumored to be a somewhat guarded and melancholic man who was harsh on Tributes since a few years ago a Victor had lost their mind and murdered his daughter — stepped forward, his eyes dark and set on everyone in the room.

“In a matter of weeks, twenty-three of you will be dead. One of you will be alive.” He started with a gruff voice, the rawness of his statement causing you to grimace. “All of that depends on how well you pay attention over the next three days, particularly to what I am about to say.”

Your brows pulled together at the roughness and seemingly overly honest tone of Kendo’s voice. He had no sympathy, no kindness. But, a part of you appreciated that, he wasn’t one to sugarcoat, and there wasn’t any way to make these events seem less than they were.

“First, no fighting with the other Tributes, you’ll have plenty of time for that in the arena.” Kendo announced, his voice droning as if he was used to seeing people breaking this rule. “There are four compulsory exercises, the rest will be individual training.”

Individual training — something not many Tributes took enough of an advantage of, according to Claire. It was a chance to be trained in private by your mentor, they would give advice and teach you techniques of how to survive once in the arena. It was something you planned to take full advantage of.

“My advice is, don’t ignore the survival skills.” Kendo instructed, his voice becoming harder as he said this, as if it were a warning. “Everybody wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die of natural causes.”

Your eyes tracked over to Piers, seeing a grimace on his face. This wasn’t something you were expecting to be told. Yes, you knew it was true that most Tributes died of natural causes or their own stupidity in the arena. But, to have Kendo warn you, it made it more of a real threat.

“Ten percent from infection, twenty percent from dehydration. Exposure can kill as easily as a knife.” His voice was warning, and the gruffness of his words made your eyes scan over through the faces of each Tribute.

Most of the careers didn’t care enough to pay attention to this bit of Kendo’s lecture, but you saw the wide eyes of a few of the kids from lesser Districts. This was the harsh reality of the games — not only the brutality and bloodlust of each Tribute fighting to get out alive, but the fact that the gamemakers craft each arena to be a killer as well.

But what Kendo hadn’t mentioned — and it was likely purposeful that he hadn’t — was the percentage of Tributes which would die by this year’s Mutts crafted for the arena. Every year, around ten percent of the Tributes died via Umbrella’s newest and gruesome creation of Mutts. There was no telling what they would be this year, just as the arena was a mystery.

While the entire prospect of the games, the arena in which you’d be dropped into, and the other Tribute’s you’d be pinned against scared you, the Mutts terrified you more. There was always something about the Mutts Umbrella created, something otherworldly, something gruesome and terrifying that made your skin crawl to simply think about them.

What horrors would you be subjected to? What creatures would chase you through the arena whilst you fought for your life against twenty-three other children, as fought off infection, and dehydration, and starvation? Why would it be fair to present such monsters to make the children who were already terrified more at risk for their life? It wasn’t, and that was what scared you more than twenty-three bloodthirsty people.

“Look at them, they’re itching to get their hands on weapons.” You mumbled as you stood at a screen, testing your knowledge of poisonous plants with Piers beside you.

“Weapons protect you.” He shrugged, watching with wonder as you got each prompt correct, never missing a plant that could kill despite a no lethal one looking the same.

“Knowledge protects as well as a sword, Piers.” You rolled your eyes, tapping the last plant with your finger and the program presented a picture of a S. You’d passed, all thanks to Claire’s training in wisdom.

“I know it’s tempting to use your combat in here,” you started, folding your arms over your chest as you turned to face Piers. “But, you need to brush up on your survival skills too. We don’t know what arena we’ll be put in.”

Piers let out a sigh, his eyes rolling as he stepped forward to the screen as you stepped back, motioning for his turn. His strong suit was far from survival skills. But, he acknowledged that he needed to know these things.

You gave a soft smile, seeing Piers get a few right before he got one wrong. “Just practice. I’ll see you at the apartment.”

Piers let out a grunt of acknowledgment as you smiled a bit before you walked away, leaving him fully concentrated on the task at hand. Your eyes scanned the training center, gauging where to go next. You knew you had an upper hand in this situation, you’d spent the better part of your life being trained by Chris and Claire. But, that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything for you to become better at.

Until you spotted the knife stand and the dummies. You smiled a bit — knives were your specialty. You didn’t know why, but you were best at knives versus any other weapon. Swords were too heavy, lances too long, axes too much work. Knives were small, easy, better for close encounters. Some could be thrown at a distance, and they were silent.

However, your smile dropped as you approached the knife stand, seeing a mop of dirty blond hair studying the knives. It did not take much for you to recognize who this was exactly. Your heart launched up into your throat, eyes going wide as you froze and frowned.

Oh this poor boy, he had no chance. At least, not with the way he was handling the knife in his hand and haphazardly swinging it at one of the dummies. You stood back for a moment before you walked over to the display of combat knives — really there were so many, combat knives, throwing knives, really any type you could even imagine — and picked one of a style you favored before your eyes tracked to the boy again.

“Your stance is wrong,” you spoke suddenly before you could even stop yourself.

The boy turned, the blue of his eyes causing a shock to run through you for a moment before his confused frown brought you back to the present. You stepped forward.

“Your feet are too close together. Someone could easily come at you and you’d fall backward.” You explained, coming to stand closer to him.

“More like this,” you pressed on, showing him how to properly stand with your own feet. Knees bent, feet a little more than shoulder width apart. “See?”

“Like this?” He finally spoke, mimicking your stance. His eyes found yours again, searching for encouragement or some sign that he’d done it right.

“Like that,” you nodded, raising your arms to guard yourself. “Your arm position is important too. Keep your right arm close to your side, and your left up to protect your face and chest.”

Leon slowly nodded, eyes tracking your stance before copying it himself. You stifled a smile as he did it wrong. You straightened, walking over and setting your own knife aside.

“Mm, more like this,” you mumbled, hands gently on his wrist as you guided his right arm closer to his side and then his left slightly more up. “Then sort of hunch your shoulders and lean forward. Good, that’s good.”

Leon’s eyes lit up a bit as you encouraged him. You took a step back, hands at your sides as you looked at him. His eyes followed your movement, brows pulled together. “Why’re you helping me?”

You shrugged, picking your own knife back up and resuming your stance in front of a dummy. “‘Cause you were gonna get yourself killed standing like that.”

“No, I mean why help me. We’re going to fight each other in the arena.” He reiterated, starting to stand straight.

“You deserve a chance.” You offered, before you shot him a look from the corner of your eye and he stopped moving, going back into the stance again. “You have a hammer grip on your knife right now, it’s best for blocking and chopping. It’s a strong grip.”

Leon frowned again, his eyes darting to how he was holding his own knife. It did not go amiss to you how his eyes - icy blue, yet holding a modem of warmth that made your soul want to melt - tracked over your every movement. Hell, it really was all you could think about, all you wanted to focus on.

"If you flip it over," you continued, flipping the knife in your hand in a quick, precise, and well practiced movement. "You have a reverse knife grip. Edge in or out, they both have advantages."

Leon's eyes lingered on your grip on the knife, flicking between it and his own to flip his knife over and mimic your grip. You nodded in encouragement. "Good, like that." Your eyes ticked to the dummy in front of you before you nodded back at Leon, motioning for him to step back. "Stand back a second."

He obeyed, straightening and taking a long stride backward. His eyes left your figure for only a moment to check behind him before latching onto you again. This was when you did something stupid. With your stance corrected and eyes narrowed on the dummy, you rolled out your neck before pressing the button on the stand beside you, the dummy on the stand jerking to life.

Mechanic dummies - costly and overly showy, but useful in training. This one was more ferocious than the ones you used in District One, its arm swinging at you with a blunt knife. You leaned back, dodging before leaping forward in a swift motion, slicing the edge of your knife against the mechanic arm.

The back and forth between you and the dummy did not last long, your moves instinctual and well practiced until the dummy shut down with your boot connecting to its side, as well as your knife lodged into its chest. You yanked out the knife with a grunt, standing straight. Your eyes went wide as you realized multiple of the Tributes had taken notice of your very stupid display of talent. You brushed it off though, remaining blase as you turned around to look at Leon.

The look on his face, the amazement in his eyes, it snatched the breath from your lungs. He made no effort to hide his shock - he looked absolutely mesmerized by the show you'd just put on. Social cues had never been your strong suit, so you just stood there, staring back at him.

"That was," Leon trailed off, almost as if he was unsure of whether or not he wanted to say the words that rested on the tip of his tongue. "Where'd you learn that?"

"My mentor." You shrugged, the words spilling out casually before you could stop them. Heat coursed through your cheeks as you saw the look on Leon's face. You knew you had advantages, being Chris and Claire's charge, having grown up being trained in things Leon only had a matter of days to learn.

"I could, um, teach you." You offered lamely, your words meek and awkward as you said it. Not the wisest offer, but you didn't really know what else to say. Leon shook his head.

"You don't have to do that." He responded, the words sounding harsher to you than he'd probably meant them. The warmth in your cheeks grew, from rejection and embarrassment now. You knew he was saying that because it was true, a nicer way of phrasing the harsh reality - you really didn't have anything to offer him. No amount of training from you or his mentor could save him. Could give him a better chance of survival.

“I don’t mind,” you pushed gently, your shoulders shrugging up as you tried to reassure the boy that it was not as big of a deal to you. But really, it was. Allies were made in the arena in haste. Allies were a falsehood here. No one actually cared about anyone else. In the end, it was an ally who betrayed, not an enemy.

“I know, I just,” Leon hesitated, his body langue taking back that guarded sort of look as he looked away from you. His voice was soft, hesitant, like he didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Or make an enemy of you by pissing you off. “My mentor probably wouldn’t like that.”

Right. His mentor — Krauser. He really got the bad draw here. It was said Jack Krauser was ruthless as he was damaged. Both increasingly so. He’d experienced horrors in the games no one quite knew what to make of. In a way, you pitied Leon’s mentor. On the other hand, you hated him because he had a reputation for overexerting and overwhelming his Tributes to the breaking point.

You looked at the boy, studying his face for a moment as a sadness and sting of rejection seeped into your chest. It didn’t show though. No weaknesses, just as Claire taught you. “That is probably true. We are enemies, huh?”

Voice light and playful, you smiled at Leon. Your way of letting him know his rejection hadn’t angered you. It saddened you, however he didn’t need to know that. You placed the knife in your hand back on the stand, head tilted as you turned to smile at him again.

“Yeah, yeah we are.” Leon nodded, recovering startlingly fast with his own playful smile on his lips. A peace offering, a silent and mutual understanding of each other. You decided you liked his smile. Warm and friendly and it made your chest feel fuzzy. Your eyes dropped, hands folded behind your back.

“Good luck, twelve.” You mused, eyes looking back up at Leon with one last smile. The heel of your boot spun on the training floor, your footsteps thumping away from the knife stand. Leaving the boy of your greatest weakness and desires behind.

“Fuck, Chris! Ow!” You screeched, your brows pulled together as you twisted around suddenly, eyes narrowed and hot on your mentor as he walked into the apartment. His hand clapped on your shoulder harshly, a grin on his lips.

“Show off, aren’t we?” Chris grinned, his voice lilting as he came to sit across from you at the dinner table in the apartment. Claire shook her head — but her face betrayed her as she smiled as well. So, someone had spilled about your impromptu lesson to a certain Tribute.

Your eyes cut to Piers who sat to your left, his gaze avoiding yours. Little shit. You shook your head, fork moving around the delicate food on your plate. You offered a one shouldered shrug.

“I didn’t show off, I was just training.” You offered weakly, unbelievingly as you took a bite of the small pasta pearls on your plate. Your eyes tracked over the siblings who sat across from you. They shared a glance. Fucking Piers. Oh you’d kick his little tattle tale ass later.

“Sure thing, kiddo.” Chris nodded, playfully agreeing with your claim as he cut into the meat on his plate. Capitol food was too much for you, too delicate and gourmet. You liked Claire’s simple, home cooking. Your mentor’s eyes looked up at you again, brows raised. “Any particular reason you showed off to one of Krauser’s Tributes?”

“No,” you answered a little too quickly. Great job, good way to hide it. You shrunk into yourself ever so slightly, but it was extremely noticeable to the pair of siblings who raised you. They shared yet another glance. That made you feel as if you needed to defend yourself further. “I just saw him. He was gonna get himself killed if he went into the arena with what he knew.”

“That’s the point.” Claire said, brows raised as her voice was soft, but holding a certain modicum of a reprimanding tone. It made you want to crawl into yourself.

“No, the point is an equal fight to the death. Not sending in someone who can’t hold their own to die execution style.” You retorted, though you kept your words casual with a shrug as if you didn’t feel as passionately as you did for the subject. For Leon Kennedy.

“Actually, sunshine, it is.” Chris rebutted, not without gentle display though. You bristled slightly at the nickname he’d bestowed on you when you were young. He sighed, setting his fork and knife down on the edge of the porcelain plates of which the Capitol chose to serve their extravagant food on.

“The whole point of the Games aren’t a reminder anymore. It’s not a power play, it’s not a political statement anymore. It’s entertainment.” Chris explained, his words cutting through the air and hitting you where it hurt with the weight of their truth. “And sending kids like the ones from Twelve in against kids like you and Piers, it’s just more entertaining that way.”

“I know,” you grumbled, slinking lower into the velvet cushioned dining chair you sat in, dominant hand using your fork to push around the food on your plate. All appetite was lost on you. You’d rather starve than consume the food provided by the people who plotted your death.

And the thing that really hurt about Chris’s words — he was right. He was fucking right. Kids like Leon Kennedy and Helena Harper didn’t stand a chance in that arena. No matter how much preparation, how much optimism. Even the training you offered, nothing gave them a chance. They either had to be very lucky, smart, or have help. And help was unlikely. Very few bet on kids from lesser Districts.

But, as you studied the food on your plate and conversation quickly faded from your dramatic display of kindness in the training room to talk of upcoming interviews, you realized something. Maybe kids like Leon didn’t need external betting on their side. You couldn’t bet, you were a tribute. Mentors and stylists couldn’t bet because it was an unfair advantage. But, you could bet in other ways. You could rig the Games from the inside.

And that fact was more dangerous than any weapon you could wield in that arena.

Despite what you had previously believed, individual training had not been what you woke up and craved for every morning prior to the Games. You loved your one-on-one time with Chris and Claire, yes. It was not just for bettering your skills and knowledge to survive the arena, but a way to see them and spend time with them before your possible demise.

However, it was not what you looked forward to most. It was the group training. Going to the Tribute Center every morning from ten to dinner at five in the evening. Every morning you’d find yourself waking up just after sunrise, tossing and turning until you got tired and bored of laying in the plush bed and would sit up. You’d scroll on the screen on the wall, looking through all the different scenery options, music lists, short films on the history of Panem and the Umbrella Corporation, highlight clips from past Games.

That is, until you’d actually get up and dressed at nine and trudge out into the main apartment. You’d join Chris, Claire, and Piers at the dining table and have breakfast. Something small but nutritious. Enough to keep you going until break at noon in the Tribute Center for a small lunch. Three meals a day — not something most Tributes were used to. Even you some days.

But, for some reason, you adored the group training. Going to the Tribute Center and taking your pick of what to focus on. The options were endless — programs to test your survival skills, crafting stations, gymnastic training, video lectors on hunting and gathering. And of course the all favored and overused weapon choices. There were plenty of weapons to use. Some even you were unfamiliar with.

There were many different types of swords, knives of a wide and endless variety, axes, machetes, spears, tridents, scythes, maces, clubs, sickles, pikes, and even melee’s you couldn’t name. Of course there were no guns. Firearms were one of the few banned subjects and weapons. There were no set rules save for the presence of firearms. And the possibility of cannibalism. Not a subject the Capitol favored. Or anyone really for that matter.

Maybe it was the fact that you could size up each member of your competition that made you love group training so much. Or the ability to spar with live dummies. Or just the simple fact that you got to observe the Tributes from Twelve from afar. Or up close, in your stupider moments.

Piers had taken to endlessly and mercilessly teasing you. He proclaimed the morning of your second training that you must be in love with Leon Kennedy. He claimed that you had heart shaped pupils any time Leon entered your field of vision. A rather dramatic take on things.

You didn’t think what you harbored for Leon was love. No, it couldn’t be because you didn’t know him. You’d exchanged a few words with him, one knife combat demonstration, and an awkward goodbye. Glances were shared across training mats, or smile exchanged at the end of the day. But that was as far as your interactions with him went. So, in your mind, Piers was dramatic.

Except he wasn’t. Claire saw it, the observant cunt. She noticed everything. Even though she wasn’t present for group training, she just knew. She had to be fucking telepathic or something. Anytime District Twelve, its Mentor, or its Tributes were mentioned and you were in earshot, your eyes lit up. You perked up in a way that only meant obsession and adoration. She picked up on your cues, the way you paid extra attention for any breadcrumb of information on the Tributes from the poorest District in the country. And it reached a boiling point the night before the Games.

In private training, you worked not only on combat and survival knowledge, but on how to ace the Tribute Interviews set to air the night before the Games. Your final day in the Capitol was spent with a three hour group training, a lunch break, and working one-on-one with Mentors until the interviews. Which meant upwards of five hours practicing interview questions of a personal variety.

You spent a few hours doing some final knife and combat training with Chris before he sat you down to talk about your strong social points. Something you didn’t think you possessed.

“You’re witty, sunshine. Play on it.” Chris encouraged over a small dinner. It was two hours before the interview. Your stylist team was almost ready to start picking at you until you were a glittery piece of meat.

“No m’not. Claire says my wit is mean.” You said, rebutting Chris’s claims around a mouthful of stew.

Thank God Claire wasn’t there to see the offensively dramatic eye roll Chris gave in response to your claim. “No, it’s not. It’s charming. Just, don’t call the interviewer a pompous asshole and you’ll be fine.”

Easier said than done. That had been the extent of Chris’s advice. Claire’s however, was much more detailed and bossy.

“Smile, a lot. They fucking love it when you smile. Act like this is the biggest opportunity of your life.” Claire instructed, sitting at the edge of your temporary bed, watching as you stood on a pedestal, arms wide out as your stylist team dressed you.

You were done up in another one of Ingrid’s designs. She really liked to play on the peacock theme. This time, it was a long, trailing gown composed of jewels and peacock feathers. It looked more like stained glass in the color palette of a peacock. You actually kind of liked it. Except for the obvious avant garde of it all.

“I don’t wanna smile. Smiling is supposed to be happy.” You bit back, your brows pulled together in a deep frown. For the thousandth time that hour, one of your stylists pressed a thumb between your brows, making you stop frowning and smoothing out the wrinkle. You sighed, they cared too damn much about creased makeup.

“Okay, I know. I know.” Claire nodded, doing damage control, hands held up in a calming manner. She stood, walking over and wordlessly shooing away the team. They all took a step back.

“It not fun, I know. But, act happy. You need sponsors. You need all the help you can get. These kids, they’re vicious this year. I need you to try.” Claire said, voice taking on a softer tone. So, it was dawning on her.

In less than twelve hours, you would be in an arena full of twenty three blood thirsty kids. All out to kill you and take the Victor’s Crown. All merciless. You’d be dropped into God knows what kind of place, filled with horrors you couldn’t even imagine. And it seemed Claire was finally realizing it.

“Just… smile. Be your witty self and fucking dazzle ‘em. Chris and I believe in you.” She smiled softly, her eyes tracking over your face. Her hand came up to cup your cheek. Claire, your ever-mothering Mentor. Your older sister for all intents and purposes. She loved you. And you loved her.

“Dazzle ‘em.” You nodded, smiling at her. You were quick to hug her, arms wrapping around her shoulders and her head tucked under your chin due to the height difference of your shoes and the platform you stood on.

For her, you’d try and dazzle them. Make them love you. Get sponsors. You’d survive. And you’d play your game right. You’d make sure the one who deserved to win would. At any cost.

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[esmestarz]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ INTRO ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

about me ─ ★

she/her

infp

bisexual

i can play on the electric guitar and piano !!

i used to do ballet but now i do belly dancing

i love listening to music esp rap, metal (any type tbfr) and rock, my fav animal is a cat and I'm pretty sure that's it

stuff ─ ★

if you want me to write for a character that isn't on the list feel free to ask me and I'll write for them if possible <3

i will write smut, fem reader, gn reader, platonic and romantic relationships

i will not write rape, incest, gore, gang bang, male reader, gn reader, character x character, character x oc, poly relationships, specified race reader, trans reader since idk how to portray them

what and who i write for ─ 𐙚⋅˚₊‧

MOVIES ─ ★

black swan

- nina sayers

- lily

harry potter

- hermione granger

- harry potter

- draco malfoy

- luna lovegod

- ron weasley

- theodore nott

- tom riddle

scream

- tatum riley

- sidney prescott

- billy loomis

- stu marcher

- samantha carpenter

- tara carpenter

- amber freeman

- anika kayko

- ethan landry

- gale weathers

- jill roberts

- kirby reed

- chad meeks-martin

- mindy meeks-martin

SERIES ─ ★

pretty little liars

- emily fields

- alison dilaurentis

- hanna marin

- spencer hastings

outerbanks

- rafe cameron

- sarah cameron

- jj maybanks

- kiara carrera

- pope heyward

- john b routledge

the babysitters club

- sam thomas

- kristy thomas

- stacey mcgill

- claudia kishi

- dawn schafer

malcolm in the middle

- malcolm wilkerson

- reese wilkerson

- francis wilkerson

KDRAMA ─ ★

all of us are dead

- choi nam-ra

- lee su-hyeok

- lee cheong-san

- lee na-yeon

- nam on-jo

sweet home

- yoon ji-su

- lee eun-yoo

- cha hyun-soo

KPOP ─ ★

aespa

- karina

- winter

- ningning

- giselle

twice

- nayeon

- chaeyoung

- momo

- mina

- sana

- jihyo

- dahyun

- jeongyeon

- tzuyu

le sserafim

- sakura

- yunjin

- chaewon

- kazuha

- eunchae

gidle

- soyeon

- minnie

- shuhua

- miyeon

- yuqi

nmixx

- sullyoon

- lily

- kyujin

- haewon

- jiwoo

- bae

new jeans

- danielle

- haerin

- minji

- hyein

- hanni

GAMES ─ ★

the last of us

- ellie williams

fatal frame

- yuri kozukata

- rui kagamiya

cry of fear

- simon henriksson

resident evil

- leon s kennedy

- jill valentine

- ada wong

- claire redfield

- bela dimitrescu

genshin impact

- kinich

- xiao

- aether

- kazuha

- scaramouche

- cyno

- heizou

- thoma

honkai star rail

- argenti

- aventurine

- blade

- dan heng

- gepard

- sunday

ANIME ─ ★

jujutsu kaisen

- megumi fushiguro

- gojo satoru

- yuji itadori

- ryomen sukuna

- inumaki toge

- yuuta okkotsu

- choso kamo

[melancholicstation]

god & monsters — bobby f. kennedy

taglist: @jackiesgirl @callmeaftersupper @astro-vibes-bro @lamperry4ever @darcyspirits @absurdlyvintage @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @fortheloveofjos @superzealouscollectordetective @remotewatch @bleatngheart @starsprangledgirl @hisamericanmuse @kimcrystal123

summary: On an October eventide, you are invited to an ordinary Halloween eve soirée. You contract a horrible affliction, a yearning of the heart to end all those before it. All because of your serendipitous meeting with a certain camel haired mortal named Robert “bobby” Kennedy in the grass. For the only the birds and the bees bore witness to what lecherous things you both did with each other on the mead….

tags: 18+ but warning will be given ahead, tiny bit of blasphème sorryyy, rough s*x, fucking in the grasslands, cheating, explicit language, bee sting as repentance, infidelity, you are married but bobby is not.

words: 4,142

my linking should not serve as how you have to imagine this story/world if you do not wish to, these are simply just where I draw personal inspiration.

October 30th 1966

The solitary confines of the seventeen-century estate, all its Provençal grace stood tall unbothered by the many people going in and out of the homestead. Like a glamour queen it seemed entirely unfazed by the many important people within its walls: senators, governors, princesses of niche European constitutional monarchies just to name a few. Now you may be thinking what do all these people have in common? well each got the most coveted invitation to a halloween party hosted by America's very own royal family, or at least that's what The Life Magazine said in their glossy spreads, more specifically the forgotten american prince: Robert F. Kennedy.

And that's exactly how you got here as well. A short week ago you received that same invitation and shared it with your husband: Charles. Charles your husband has been, for years now, vehemently set on a career in politics. Though the farthest had gotten in terms of that had been holding a temporary assistant position at a republican running for state senate. But, turns out grab-handing and meandering around your fair-share of important people eventually you see the benefits. This invite, in Charles head was looking like a decadent, chocolate-covered benefit.

You cringe inside at the thought of chocolate, you've seemed to have a direct affliction to chocolate after a particular 1964 family Christmas in which your husband had had the marvellous idea of bringing his mistress, Kamila, over for Christmas Eve desert. Not like a total unmannered slob, as you would've much preferred, Kamila brought a milk chocolate and toasted hazelnuts bar engraved with a sentence "wishing wealth and prosperity". How gouge. Since then the mere thought of chocolate, or toasted hazelnuts for that matter has utterly repulsed you.

To you this invite was another hellish routine of domestic purgatory. In which you'd smile while dodging questions on why you and Charles hadn't started a family yet with a persistent yearning gnawing, clawing, burrowing in your chest.

"in the land of gods and monsters...

Now parties like the one stamped on the worn card stock weren't all bad. Once you'd met a particularly enticing couple looking to shake up their sex lives with a third. Quite a modern idea you'd thought for the sixties but hey it was eleven pm and the champagne was flowing, and more importantly free.

For the past few days you've been passively doing once, twice-overs on your closet trying to drum up what costume you could make out of the items you already had. High society halloweens were strange in a way. On one hand you would be looked down upon for not dressing up: with people assuming you think yourself to good for such things, on the other if you dressed up in a way unbeffiting of the status you'd be quietly heckled from across the ballroom. You inspected the address on the card more closely, surely there's no ballroom in—you squint your eyes—Château d'Estoublon. Okay, maybe it did have a ballroom if anything was to be indicated from the name. Château d'Estoublon was the creme da le creme of prime-time property in Massachusetts so you were passively excited to gawk at the beautiful exterior.

You decided on recreating Empress Elisabeth of Austria's, or as she'd began to be commonly called 'Empress Sissi', court wedding gown when she married Emperor Franz Joseph. In your eyes it fit the bill, the costume was still playful in its callback to a glamorous Hungarian empress but not so out there that you would look out of place in a billowing cream gown. No doubt many would overshadow you with their elaborate gowns but you didn't mind going understated for the night, you never really felt comfortable 'peak-cocking' like the rest of high society woman did. Though sometimes you wish you did.

,i was an angel looking to get fucked hard...

As you placed the delicate undergarments over your body: a white chiffon one piece - with knickers, linked by satin ribbons and floating chiffon back panels, a gift from a quite eager French man in the fifties. You used to be so encumbered by sexual need and carnal desire, catching the eyes of many: you missed that feeling and you desperately wanted it back. Cutting through the bullshit and to be quite frank you hadn't been truly screwed in about 7 years. Initially the desires of you and Charles had been unendingly compatible, but that compatibility had wavered after marriage and deteriorated like a good piece of cashmere out in the hay bales. Now up until 1964 Christmas you were under the impression that Charles was going through a dry spell and that you would come together soon enough. What you didn't realise was that in fact your husband was not going through a dry spell, no, no quite the opposite. It seemed he was drowning in the orgasmic sap of any woman he could find on his office floor.

If someone had asked you questions on the topic of infidently 10 years ago you might've said some sanctimonious crap on its moral qualms. But now after being routinely cheated on, you finally started to play his game, not often, but play his game all the same when you did.

,like a groupie incognito, posing as a real singer...

Looking at yourself in the baroque gold mirror, an audacious housewarming gift from Charles older brother, you surveyed yourself from the top. Your skin was perfection: slightly unnervingly pore less like those haunted 18th century dolls, your under eyes amazingly betrayed no defining clue that you barely get fours hours of sleep a day. Moving to your décolletage: it was well nourished after a sebum upper body mask wrap last week, beautifully reflecting the breastplate Galliano necklace. Speaking of spa's, funnily enough as a last-ditch effort you had booked a couple spa appointment for you and Charles. Unsurprisingly he didn't show but as fate would have it, another young woman of the name Catherine had done the same with her husband and he hadn't shown either. Incidentally you both wanted to make the most of it and decided to step in for each others husband's. By the strange hand of luck, Kit and her husband had to been invited to the Kennedy Halloween party. Hey, at least you'd have an ally. Moving down your body you'd picked an ivory, red, and gold embellished haute Dior gown as the base of your dress, and billowed it out using a tiered satin padded chemise to mimic Sissi's grand wedding gown. Matched with simple white pumps passed down from your mother.

Despite your pitiful nagging for him to dress as Franz Joseph I so you'd match, Charles decided not to and instead dressed in the polite yet deeply boring combination of a: twill bow tie, vest, backstrap trousers and wool tipping jacket. With a swift look up to you, nothing but a polite smile and a hand on the small of your back, you were both out of the door and into the car.

The first hour of the party proved to be exactly how you expected... pretty boring, vainly you caught the sight of your reflection in the many mirror of the chateau just to keep yourself occupied. You applied a thin, balmy layer of pink blush via a colour stick and applied a hint of lilac hue across the span of your fluttering eyelids, combing your brows back into submission with a pencil. Counting the creeping in wrinkles and frown lines, despite you only being 31, maybe it was all in your head. You looked down at your costume, how sadly fitting. You'd chosen this costume based on a book you'd read on the empresses life during her marriage to Joseph, you'd read her undying battle with an obsession with beauty. And in that way you related to her, in a dying marriage you grapple with anything to have control over. As said as it was you looked forward to the beauty regimes you scheduled and the sacred-rituals you performed on your hair, because it was something entirely your own.

,Life imitates art...

Just as you were about to entire a self pitying comparison between you: an upper-class sixties socialite and the empress of Austria, you see a saving grace in the form of a face. Catherine, finally you thought, what was taking her so long?

Catherine, a woman of striking features and long black-hole like dark hair, "Hey Stranger" she says while brushing an unruly curl from the perimeter of my face with a motherlike tenderness. Speaking of mothers, Catherine brought her 9 month old baby along to the halloween festivities, whom I already known was coming as she'd been complaining to me about how hard it was to find a babysitter to stay after 6pm!

After fussing over Catherine's beautiful velvet tea-length gown and her impossibly adorable babe with wiggling feet and grabby, powdered limbs who had throughly enjoyed your 5 minute game of hide and seek with your manicured fingers in Chanel's shade phénix. Surely enough the guests, including you and Catherine, were all herded like a cattle of sheep into the expansive dining room, suffocated by eighteenth-century French tapestries covering each wall.

First, pisanelli served over friselle crisp bread. Then, a cabbage soup and chou farci. Canned fish and tomato for a side. For desert, pavlova with strawberries, créme anglais and fig-leaf whipped cream. As you took in the delicious aromas, checking in Catherine's baby only to see the bottom of her face beaming with a smile and absolutely covered in the fig-leaf whipped cream.

I don't really wanna know what's good for me...

What was odd however, was not the delicious food, but the absence of the host of the halloween party, Robert F. Kennedy. You had seen some of this family members around, seen Teddy and even the mysterious Jacqueline Kennedy.

Though maybe he was a recluse, hosting parties to keep up the Kennedy name. You didn't pay much mind to it and continued to eat your food.

Hours later, moonlight had descended over the chateau and you, Catherine and her babe had moved under an outside pergola. It was due for the babes feed and Catherine, justifiably, felt uncomfortable revealing herself to a bunch of snobby strangers so the outside it was. In camaraderie you had chosen to forgo the alcoholic beverages on offer and instead bode for a glass of non-alcoholic punch. But looking back down at the punch, after a long chat with your friend, the cup had been drained.

"I'm gonna go over and fill me up another one of these, do you too want anything while I'm up?" gesturing to the smiling mother and babe.

Catherine politely declines and fakes her babe waving to me as I depart the table by waving the sweetlings tiny arms back and fro, to which you childishly giggle in return.

As you traipse through the beautiful grasslands of the estate you come across a large set of oak tables, reminiscent of old-school desks. But instead of notebooks and pens, the tables were now used to display freshly baked breads with individual ribbons on them. A parting gift for the evening no doubt.

God's dead, I said, "Baby, that's alright with me"...

Rounding a stone arch you see a man shrowed in the most beautiful darkness. A kind of darkness that makes you swear of light and go nocturnal simply to marvel at his beauty. His beauty rivalled that of the Gods. His beauty shall live forevermore. His movements are strange until you realise the purpose behind his actions. His large hands peeling open a tuna can, and patiently beckoning a black cat his way. A cat that seemed to be very familiar with the figure as it immediately came and sat at the feet of the man: sapping up the canned tuna.

Though the man has his back to you, you faintly recognised the puffs of smoke coming from his delicate fingertips, could be a hand model this guy! you joke with yourself to starve off the reflex to call out to the mysterious figure. You stare for a creepy amount of time, fitting for the date you guess.

"Sissi right? Empress of Austria" the man calls out in the dark, now his body has turned to your direct attention. And to your surprise it's not just another Harvard graduate with a good back profile, it's the host of the evening: Robert fucking Kennedy.

You stammer out a "Yes-yes, well I've gotta make use of these dresses somehow." An awkward silence grows, as Bobby looks to the moon-cast sky as if he's pondering what to say next

"Sorry I'm very, very rude to not have introduced myself--I'm Robert Kennedy"

"Oh I know who you are"

"You do?"

"Yes sir, quite intimately if reading the New York Times is any metric of intimacy" you halfheartedly chuckle.

"Funny girl. Now funny girl can I get your name perhaps?"

"Y/n"

When you talk, it's like a movie...

"Ravishing" he says in a tone that you can only comprehend as a little teasing but yet kind.

Moments pass as you chit chat about the nights festivities, with him asking you how you felt about the 3-course meal provided, and ask about why Kennedy as a devout catholic decides to throw a halloween party. You politely compliment his choices--

"Oh I didn't choose them. It's all my secretary she's the real brains of this party anyway--she should be here somewhere" bobby states as he looks towards the periphery of the garden.

"Well she has lovely taste, speaking do you know where I could find a bottle of coke? Y'know I saw them about in one those iced buckets but it's location has completely passed me by."

And you're making me crazy...

"I know exactly what your talking about follow me Mon bébé"

The French term of endearment makes your heart flutter, but you simply assume that for these Kennedy men endearment is given out dime a dozen.

You follow him like an obedient cattle dog, catching the stare of bobby as he turns his head to look at you every few moments to make sure you're still there. Some would find that creepy, that you're sure of, but to you it seemed be an unconscious thing for Robert--seemingly not believing in himself to make someone stay.

On the walk you began to become curious on how Robert got your costume so lightening quick "You read up about Emperors and Empresses of Austria or what? How'd you get it so fast"

'Cause life imitates art...

Robert chuckles, looking down slightly "No--Nah, I-I did some reading on them during the Vienna summit. Y'know cause jack wouldn't let me into the meeting, he thought I'd embarrass him or something, so I just had to wait outside. And I don't really like waiting all that much so I went down to the local bookstore and rented a few, took them back in the morning."

You nod and feel slightly taken aback at the mention of his brother, he discussed his brother with nearly no one. No one in the press at least. The last time you could remember bobby talking about his brother directly was that Democratic National Convention in 1964, looking like a wounded deer.

You aren't able to sit in that stupor for too long because you've come to arrive at the coke's, all the bottles laid beautifully in a bucket of decadent, some would say over the top amounts of crushed ice.

While Robert grabs the drinks, you fumble inside the pockets of your dress to find your compact, opening it to inspect the state of affairs on your face.

Robert grabs two: one for you and one for him, you don't miss that he grabs yours before ever thinking of himself.

If I get a little prettier, can I be your baby?...

"Shoot!" you say under you're breath: you'd just realised in that moment that you would one hundred percent smudge your lipstick if you drank that coke, and then you'd have to continue the party looking like an absolute idiot because you'd forgotten to pack the lipstick in your clutch.

"What's the matter?" Robert says with a father figure-like concern, despite not having any children: at least to your knowledge.

"Oh it's nothing really I just realised I can't drink this 'cause of my lipstick"

"O-oh okay" Robert stumbles out as he looks up at the sky again, seemingly deep in thought. He does that a lot you think.

Bobby bumbles out "Well if it wouldn't make you to-to uncomfortable. I could Y'know feed you the drink so you don't mess up your lipstick--if you want of course"

You tell me, "Life isn't that hard"...

Taken aback slightly, due to the intimacy of the offer, you freeze for a few seconds but ultimately agree to his proposition. You trust him, a man you've just met today and formally only seen on the news stands, for some bovine reason.

Before you knew it he delicately placed curling, like a willow tree in the string, finger and cupped your chin: pouring the kola nut coloured drink down your oesophagus. Despite the strangeness of the position you two were in it felt right. It felt like what you'd imagined married life to be: the person you love more than anything filling you, and you filling them in return, both metaphorically and literally.

18+ AFTER THIS POINT

There was a certain erotic substance of being feed you'd learned in these past moments. I felt thirsty for him, for his hands, for this chest barely concealed by the Japanese cotton sweater he donned, for his musk that was like if tuberose had been carried on by the sea breeze, for anything and everything you'd be so lucky to receive from him.

I had someone who was hungry for me. I could see it in his eyes, robin's egg blue coloured eyes, as he feed me the coke.

And I was equally, if not more, much more hungry for him. Starved.

He paused the flow of the drink, in order to stop me from completely choking: at least one of us had kept our whits about us.

The hand on your chin never leaves, it lingers and lingers and lingers. My god you are such a fool for a man you've didn't know 12 hours ago.

He catches your eye, looking ever so pensive.

"Do you wanna go messin' around with me, cause I can take you back it's no pressure. I assure you there's no need to give the host any favours" he says in a timid tone expecting, almost wanting to be proven right: that'd you leave. That you'd desert.

"I think we should fuck. Do you think we should fuck?" you say in an incredulous tone, you'd never assumed this kind of attitude but his being had brought it out in you. This carnal, caged animal, woman scorned desire bubbling inside you like a pot of Turkish tea over the stove.

"Yes-yes well I think it's a great idea to fuck actually. It seems like a very good idea in my opinion. Y'know as a U.S senator." his slight arrogance, drunk with power disposition could've scared you. But it really didn't at all, in fact it enticed you to him even more.

All of a sudden, he grabs the skin of your neck and kisses you almost punishably: trying to communicate where have you been hiding for all these years? why didn't we find each other sooner? why have you left me alone?

Messy top lip kisses turn into feverish French and soon you're traipsing further into the countryside of the chateau. He seems to know his way around here: you don't even want to think of the rendezvous he probably has had here.

He leads you to a short alcove in the forrest with tree stumps and a billowing willow tree shielding it from the cruelness of the outside world. A cocoon of sorts.

"Is that a bee's nest"

"No, it used to be but it's been barren after they migrated in the summer. Relax, no one with be able to see not even the bee's. Promise."

You get situated on the ground when Robert drops a bombshell question out of complete left field

"You married?"

"No, are you?"

"No--well not in the real sense, not how marriage is supposed to" Hey maybe that was a bend of the truth but it wasn't a lie, I mean really was it?

From that assurance he immediately pounces on you like a Burmese tiger. His wandering, yearning hands scour your body looking for something you're not quite sure of yourself.

He seemed to like to assume a more dominant position so you let him have his way with you, for so long you had had to hard-shelled around men. But with Robert he had this aroma that just made you want to show your soft underbelly to him, wanted him to care for it like he cared for you.

He manoeuvred both himself and you to be on your sides, your back to his chest. And slowly dipped it in. At first it was only the start, almost knocking at your door: begging to be let in, to get at whatever was inside. And so you welcomed him in the only way you knew how. He wasn't aborally big but he fit like those perfect pair of white tennis shoes that have been worn out just the right amount. His being felt like a return.

"Fuck yeah, give it to me you braves mädchen (good girl in German)"

"I'm giving it. Want to give everything to you, take it from me. Robert, take it all from me now."

His hips moved at a pace that showed a man who aimed to please. A man who aimed to please you, beyond the confines your physical existence.

"This is heaven. This is what they meant" I finally got what made people so devout. They found something to believe in, and in that moment I had to. In that fallen angel taking the form of Robert Kennedy.

Just before his climax, Robert switched positions hoisting your body to now be facing him. A sweetness to the fact that he wanted to share this moment with you, to make sure you didn't feel alone. As he climaxed he reached pitifully at you, pawing but with the determination that he wasn't done until you had gone over that wonderful edge as well.

Soon came your time, and went it came it was the epitome of that beautiful fall from grace. In your bliss you hadn't noticed that Bobby did not share the look he donned just a minute ago. He looked quite concerned, gazing upon the valley of your breasts.

God he's such a man, you thought. But once you looked down you saw a pretty nasty wasp bite right between your two breasts. You weren't all too bothered as you'd experienced stings before: Bobby however looked abjectly terrified. Fumbling through the pockets of the little clothes he kept on to see if he could aid the pain of the sting.

"Bobby It's just a wasp sting. Don't mind it"

"Well I should mind it, You're hurt. Plus now i'm gonna have to explain to the John Jr's night nurse why in the hell I need bee sting supplies at 12pm"

"It's fine, it'll pass" your face betrays that it's not quite fine in the moment. As your post-orgasmic bliss fades and the pain pentrates you.

"No-no, that just won't do. Tell you what we're going to do: we're going to go hop in my car and drive to the clinic and see what they say. It looks pretty nasty honig." (honey in German)

"There's that German again when did you learn that?"

"About five or six, truth be told I stole the language books from Eunice room. She never used them anyway."

Bobbys moves to gather his things and looks at you expectantly.

"Y'know it's kind of funny. Those bee's haven't been seen for months around the likes of here."

"Maybe they wanted to punish me"

"Now what would a girl like you ever do that needs punishing, huh?"

"Nothing" you say innocently. Bending the truth be damned.

"Damn straight." Bobby says with a killer smirk, responding to your held up hands by hoist up and over his shoulder. Crassly patting the flesh of your bum.

"Hey shouldn't the host stay till the end of the party?"

"Nuh-uh. Not tonight they shouldn't." bobby says still carrying you upside down.

The blood rushes to your head. You've never felt so alive in your life.

It's innocence lost Innocence lost

the end.

[bombsquad9]

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝗼 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞

Hello! I am Ro, and I am 18-21 year old trans man. I write for many fandoms (which shall be listed below). This is indeed my second account, I deleted my last one because I needed to refresh everything (feed, posts, etc). I will try to post frequently, and if I do not then please be patient with me, because it probably means burn out or poor mental health. I also have a new Wattpad account, which the username is also bombsquad09 (it will also be linked below, along with a tag list). Every fandom and character within will be in alphabetical order. Some of the fandoms I do write for will not be listed, and that is due to me not taking requests for those specific fandoms. Thank you!

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐝𝗼𝗺𝐬:

✞Apex Legends

—> Character(s): Catalyst, Caustic, Fuse, Horizon, Loba, Mirage, Octane, Revenant, Seer, Valkyrie, Wattson.

✞Call of Duty

—> Character(s): John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, John Price, König, Nikto, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.

✞Fallout 4

—> Character(s): Cait, Codsworth, Deacon, John Hancock, Nick Valentine, Porter Gage, Preston Garvey, Robert MacCready.

✞House of Ashes

—> Character(s): Eric King, Jason Kolchek, Joey Gomez, Nick Kay, Rachel King, Salim Othman.

✞Just Ignore Them

—> Character(s): Brea, Mark, The Sheriff.

✞Mortal Kombat

—> Character(s): Johnny Cage, Kung Lao, Liu Kang, Noob Saibot.

✞Outlast

—> Character(s): Chris Walker, Eddie Gluskin, Jeremy Blaire, Miles Upshur, Richard Trager.

✞Resident Evil

—> Character(s): Ada Wong, Alcina Dimitrescu, Albert Wesker, Ashley Graham, Carlos Oliveira, Chris Redfield, Claire Redfield, Ethan Winters, Finn Macauley, Jack Krauser, Jake Muller, Jill Valentine, Leon Kennedy, Lucas Baker, Luis Sera, Nikolai Zinoviev, Piers Nivans, Sherry Birkin.

✞Subnautica

—> Character(s): AL-AN.

✞The Quarry

—> Character(s): Abigail Blyg, Dylan Lenivy, Emma Mountebank, Jacob Custos, Kaitlyn Ka, Max Brinly, Nick Furcillo, Ryan Erzahler.

✞Tomb Raider

—> Character(s): Lara Croft

✞Until Dawn

—> Character(s): Ashley Brown, Christopher Hartley, Emily Davis, Jessica Riley, Joshua Washington, Matthew Taylor, Michael Monroe, Samantha Giddings.

𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬:

✞Transphobia, Homophobia, Racism, Sexism, Fetishizing, etc will not be tolerated. If you do anything related to any of those topics you will be blocked from my account.

✞Do NOT request things such as pedophilia, rape, zoophilia, etc . If anything you are requesting is like that you will be blocked from my account.

✞If you send hate in my anonymous inbox then you shall be ignored, and your message will be deleted. If you're going to be hatefully, don't be a pussy and hide behind an anon.

✞Minor shall interact with anything that is not labeled 18+/MDNI/smut. I can't stop you, nor am I going to carry out an investigation to find out if you're 18+. If you're a minor and you interact and see something you don't like; THATS NOT MY FAULT.

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝗺:

⚠︎︎Requests are currently open⚠︎︎

✞If you are requesting please be specific about what you want. This includes characters, setting, whether it's ship/xreader/headcanons, and other criteria you want. I can't make it what you want if you don't tell me.

✞I will write smut, fluff, and angst. Headcanons, ships, x readers, preferences, etc are all acceptable within reason.

—> When it comes to smut I will write quite a bit, even somewhat darker themes (Again; I draw the line at things like rape). I may not be good due to having lack of practice from where I didn't write for awhile, my apologies.

—> When it comes to angst, I will write almost anything. I will write (TW) suicide, alcoholism and other addictions, etc. Though, I won't write EDs or self-harm. Similarly to smut, it may not be good due to lack of practice, my apologies.

—> Anything out of reason would be minor x adult in a pedophilic/romantic way, human x animal (no, this does not include monsters) in a zoophilic/romantic way, etc.

✞Be patient, I will want to take my time on requests for various reasons. Sometimes I need breaks, sometimes I don't have any ideas, sometimes I will have writing sprees. It depends on the minute, so again, be patient. If you complain about how long it takes your request will be deleted and ignored.

✞If you want to be tagged for any specific character(s), then put your username in an orderly fashion on the Google doc that I will have linked below.

✞I will mostly write m!reader (AMAB and AFAB), but if you do want f!reader or gn!reader just let me know in your request, and I will do. If you do not specify I will either do m!reader or gn!reader by default. The only exception to this is if it is a lesbian/sapphic character.

✞ Any requested content will be Tumblr exclusives! Anything that is requested on my Wattpad will be Wattpad exclusive. (Excluding alphabets)

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭/𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭/𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝:

✞ Wattpad

✞ Masterlists

✞ Tag List

✞ Upcoming Works

⚠︎︎This post was last updated: 12/1/24⚠︎︎

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Yes I have plenty to write- But I want moreee. Send me requests pleaseeeeeeeee

Of course read the rules for asks first!

Anddd look at the character I write for!(pstt you can even ask for ships ive listed)

Here's my Masterlist. It's not plentiful(minus the wolfstar-) but thats why im asking for requests so :3

So yeah. Think about it :]

[h-l-v-kennedy-blog]

Unthinkable (how hard it is to call someone?)

Robert Kennedy x Ava Worthing (OC)

Synopsis: A phone number, from a girl he likes, but Bobby can't make the call. However, fate has a way of bringing people together, like at a wedding.

Trigger Warnings: obsessive thoughts and/or overthinking, otherwise none as far as I know

Word count: 1,279

Notes: here it is, the second part, enjoy!

Winter, 1958 - Spring, 1959 

After that night in November, a thank you-card did turn up at Bobby’s apartment in Georgetown. With a telephone number. But he was hesitant. What was she aiming for with the number? Did she...was she... 

A million thoughts rolled around in Bobby’s head, even when he was in Teamster hearings, having back-and-forth's with Sam Giancana, Jimmy Hoffa or David Beck.  

Afterhours, he questioned the meaning of those 10 digits. 8913588122. Written in a sleek and refined cursive, that the pad of his pointer finger had traced over too many times.  

So, he didn’t call. For months. He told himself it was because he needed to focus on the Senate investigations and planning for Jack’s campaign in ‘60. That he didn’t have time to explore what it would be like to talk to someone with who it was easy. It had been easy with Ethel...but she wasn’t Ethel. Ava was blonde, shorter than him, but the similarities ended quite quickly. She was twelve years younger than him, still in college, and the sister of his friend. There were too many variables. His parents' approval, her growing bored of him. Not including the fact, he felt he didn’t deserve it (a possible relationship with a woman? He wasn’t quite sure what ‘it’ was, either), or that he was scared out of his mind. He was detail-oriented, and he had the capacity to overthink. 

How could one singular interaction (and a hand-written thank-you card) throw his whole world off balance? Bobby had no idea. But he knew he was going to see her again, call or no call. Alec was getting married in June and undoubtably Ava would be present at her brother’s wedding. Would she even remember their conversation in that staff kitchen, had she thought about him, had she waited for him to call her? The slightly obsessive nature of his thoughts annoyed him. 

-- 

June 8th, 1959, Newport, RI. 

Under a large white tent in the back garden of the Worthing summer home in Newport, was where the wedding reception for Alec Worthing and the new Mrs. Alec Worthing (former-Vogue model, Lydia Kay). Bobby was one of Alec’s ushers. But after giving his best wishes to the very happy (and slightly frisky couple), Bobby’s pale blue eyes searched for another carrying the Worthing last name. First name beginning with the first letter of the alphabet. Ava. Ava, Ava, Ava...every time he repeated her name in his head it sounded fresh. Like the air after a rainstorm or newly mowed grass. Ava. A palindrome.  

He saw her, talking with some girls her age, fellow bridesmaids he guessed, by the way they were dressed. Her bridesmaid dress was a deep emerald green, with a full skirt and an off- the shoulder neckline. The slight bareness of her shoulders extenuated the curve of her neck. And her face, looking better in the sunlight than under artificial staff kitchen lights. Her hair was curved at the ends, shining like gold. Bobby swallowed as he tried to tear his eyes from her. 

Then they’re eyes met. For a single moment he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes. Bobby couldn’t stand it, his eyes falling to the floor. He didn’t know how long he stared at a single blade of green grass. 

Her voice made him jump. “You didn’t call.” 

“I...I...um...” He stuttered, still not meeting her gaze. How could he stare down Jimmy Hoffa, but not a girl who he hadn’t called. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. 

“I thought I was being quite plain. And Alec told me that you liked people being direct with you.” 

Bobby’s Adam's apple bobbed slightly as he slowly met her grey eyes. His throat felt dry. 

Ava was still talking. “...maybe I just misread our interaction. My hand was hurting quite bit, but I thought you liked talking with me. Though maybe you just were pitying me.” 

Bobby found his voice again. “I... I do. Like you.” Damn, why was he reduced to a nervous schoolboy with her confronting words. He was 33 years old, a counsel for a Senate committee who spent his days in hearings with men more dangerous than this college graduate. And yet, he did feel guilty. “And I wasn’t pitying you. I genuinely enjoyed talking with you.”  

“So, what was stopping you from calling me these past seven months?” 

“I...” He didn’t want to answer. The truth would make him look pathetic and weak-willed. And a Kennedy was never either of those.  

“I know you’ve got the Teamster hearings, but you don’t have even the guts for one phone call to tell me you’re not interested? To tell me not to bother, that I was either too young or too forward. Rejection would have been easier than complete radio silence.” She sighed, running a quick hand through the ends of her hair, slightly mussing her hair up. “That’s all I wanted to say to you. Now that I’ve got it off my chest you can enjoy the party, and I won’t wait around for any sub-par explanations from you.”  

Turning on her heel to return to her friends, Bobby said. “I was scared.” His voice was small and meek, and Ava almost couldn’t hear it in the buzz of the reception. “The last time I liked a woman, she left me.”  

Ava froze. “Oh...” 

“Yes, so, um, I was stupidly scared that it would happen again, and I was foolish enough to think so after one conversation that history would repeat itself and I didn’t want to risk making a complete laughingstock of myself. So, I-” He spoke at a rapid and almost desperate pace, as if worried his time would run out to say what he meant. 

“So, you didn’t call.” She finished for him.  

“I didn’t call.” He nodded. “And I’ve regretted it, because I can’t get you out of my head. Or your number.” He chuckled sheepishly, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I memorized it actually.” 

“For the phone call you weren’t going to make?” She said, a small...something pulling on her lips. 

He nodded, noticing her growing amused expression, mirroring it. “Yeah. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?” 

“No, but I’m not blameless. I should’ve made a more direct move-” 

“No, no, this is not your fault. You made a very *direct* move, and I was just...an idiot.” He looked down at the ground and then back up at her face. “Can you forgive me for that?” 

She waved him off. “Nothing to forgive, you told me your side of things and I understand better now.” She turned her head as she heard her sister-in-law call for her. “I should go, the bride’s demands must be met.” 

A look of disappointment faintly crossed his expression, showing best in his eyes with a silent “Must you?” passing to her.  

“Save me a dance?” She asked.  

“I’m not much of a dancer.” 

“Doesn’t matter. No one here is. Except maybe my parents or Lydia...” She shook her head. “I’m rambling, anyway, if you don’t want to-” 

“No, I do. I just don’t want to step on your toes.” 

“Don’t worry about that. Now, I’ll see you on the dance floor.” She said and went to help her new sister-in-law with whatever she needed. 

Bobby was struck in his spot, running over what just happened. She wasn’t mad at him, and he was going to dance with her later. How quickly the conversation had turned. 

Later...a picture of Bobby and Ava was taken while they danced inside the large white tent. The first picture of them together, but not the last. 

---

The full part is now up, hope it was worth the wait. Now, I've got to start plotting my Jackie fic, and I'll do a poll on a jfk fic that's been on my mind for the past few days.

Taglist: @jackiesgirl, @theverystrangegirl27, @fortheloveofjos, @kennediva, @stargiirl27, @melancholicstation , @bleatngheart , @rocker-chick-7 , @kimcrystal123

Dividers: @cafekitsune

[bluebirdsboi]

9-1-1/9-1-1 Lone Star Masterlist | Last Updated: 11/26/23

Key

Fluff = 🥰 | Angst = 😢 | Smut = 🥵| Hurt Comfort = 🩹 Platonic = 🤝 Headcanons = 📝 | ABC Headcanons = 👩‍🏫 | Oneshot = 📘 | Series = 📚 AU = 🌎 | Songfic = 🎵 Male Reader = 💙 | Gender Neutral Reader = 💜 | Female x Female = 💖 Story on hold = ✋ | Character on hold = 🔒

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

Carlos Reyes (Rafale Silva)

Coming soon...

Edmundo "Eddie" Diaz (Ryan Guzman)

Coming soon...

Evan "Buck" Buckley (Oliver Stark)

Coming soon...

Howard "Chimney" Han (Kenneth Choi)

Coming soon...

Judson "Judd" Ryder (Jim Parrack)

Coming soon...

Mateo Chávez (Julian Works)

Coming soon...

Ravi Panikkar (Anirudh Pisharody)

Coming soon...

Robert "Bobby" Nash (Peter Krause)

Coming soon...

Tommy Kinard (Lou Ferrigno Jr.)

Coming soon...

Tyler Kennedy "TK" Strand (Ronen Rubinstein)

Coming soon...

[delopsia]

Don't tell me your secrets (cause I can't imagine what you'll think of mine) | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 8,500  Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes:  18+, Unnamed AU involving undercover cops and the vaguest street gang of all time; I may or may not be considering expanding on this universe 💃Mentions & indications of murder, food, and alcohol. Gun usage; some characters go by callsigns rather than their names, and, as usual, ✨ unprotected sex✨ Title inspired by Secrets, from Monsta X's album, The Dreaming 

"What?" You don't mean for it to come off your tongue as sharp as it does, "think you'd never run into me again?"

"No." Liar. 

Robert Floyd may have had the past eleven years to work on himself, but he's still shit at concealing his emotions. Because while his voice is solid, unwavering, his eyes have gone wide, pale in the face, as if he's seen a ghost. 

"I need just a few more minutes on your order, sweetie," Ms. Garcia has practically disappeared in the sea of men taking up her lobby, but her words cut through the air with perfect clarity. 

You step to the left, straining to get a good look behind the counter, into the kitchen, "is Warlock still out sick?"

"Doc approved him to come back starting Monday!" Finally, you manage to catch glimpse of the little woman emerging from the kitchen with a fury in her step. Disappears right into the sea of idling men, two distinctive, familiar yelps breaking out. Not a word spoken as she drags Mickey and Reuben away from her counter. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Mickey squeaks, pawing at his ear; not even the foot-and-a-half height difference can save him from her iron grasp. 

As soon as she lets them go, they scatter, backing off to the far corner of the restaurant, where they should have been this whole time. You've no idea what that fiery glance entails, but you can feel the blood drain from your face, even though you're not who she's upset with. 

Even after all this time, Bob shrinks under her gaze the exact same way, slinking away like a frightened dog, tail between his legs and all. He no longer trips over his own two feet as he slips behind Jake, that natural clumsiness now filed down into a calculated sharpness that you didn't know he was capable of. 

...strange. 

Actually, now that you glance up at Yale's missing poster...this whole situation is nothing but strange. 

If Bradley or Jake have noticed it, they're pretty damn good at concealing their suspicions. Bradley still offers Bob a beer fresh out of the mini-fridge, laughs it off when he inevitably gets declined. Jake still swoops in with his favorite "looks like 'nother one for me" line. The can open and lifted to his lips before he can finish his sentence. 

Bob showing up out of the blue a week after Yale got caught for being a rat? Yeah, you're not buying it. Shame, you'd hate to see another childhood friend get dragged kicking and screaming to that island just outside of Kennedy Town. 

The dainty bell above the front door rings, its shrill tone jack-knifing through the restaurant. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Bradley emerging into the front, stiff as a board. Expensive cologne greets your nose, carried in on the breeze that floats through the open door. There is only one man in this god-forsaken city who wears cologne that costs as much as your rent. 

Maverick.

He doesn't even see you standing by the counter; eyes fixated on the group that's collected in the back corner. Hondo idles at his side, offers you the briefest smile before he goes back to looking at the menu overhead. 

"Here you are!" Ms. Garcia shatters you from your thoughts, holding out a big, brown paper bag. The top folded over once, stapled in the middle, just like always.

You've almost forgotten why you were here, to begin with. The bag is heavy in your hands, nearly slips from your grasp when you're still chirping your 'thank you.' Even through the thin paper, you can already smell Natasha's order; it's going to torment you the entire drive back.

And it seems there's a line of things waiting to torment you because Maverick doesn't move out of the doorway. The only door leading out of this establishment.

"Mav," Hondo's hiss falls on deaf ears. Doesn't even evoke a twitch. 

"What do you want, Pete?" Bradley croaks, eerily calm. At least he hasn't started the conversation off by yelling this time. 

Maverick's jaw clenches. Never has been thrilled that Bradley refuses to call him by his chosen name. "I just want to talk."

Yeah, the array of cars pulling up outside really screams, 'I want to have a civil conversation with you.' Three cars, four, five, six, all donning the same shade of navy blue, custom painted by the shop down the street. Only the vehicles in Maverick's crew can be painted that color. 

"Maybe I don't want to," you had a feeling Bradley might say that.

"Can you heathens take it out back, for Christ's sake?" Ms. Garcia barks, and all of a sudden, she had might as well be the biggest person in the room. "Good lord," briefly, she delves into unintelligible murmurings, slipping in and out of Spanish, "if you're not here to place an order, get out of my damn restaurant."

Maverick's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. Opens his mouth.

Ms. Garcia isn't done talking, "Robert, will you be decent and walk the lady to her car?" 

You don't remember Bob looking as big as he does when he emerges from behind Mickey and Jake, shoulders impossibly square, stone-cold in expression; that doe-eyed gaze he once carried is nothing more than a memory now. This isn't the same Robert Floyd who boarded a plane eleven years ago and subsequently vanished from your life without notice. 

Maverick's not budging, even as Bob comes to stand directly in front of him. You'd say they're nose to nose, but that wouldn't be fair to Maverick, who has to look straight up in order to meet Bob's eye. Funny, the last time you saw Bob, he was a few inches shorter than Maverick.

From the back, Jake takes two steps forward. 

Maverick cracks. 

Doesn't look happy about moving two feet to the left, but regardless, he's out of your way. 

On a normal day, you'd be bothered by how Bob opens the door for you and lingers on your flank once you've stepped outside. Even now, you're biting back a comment about how you don't need his useless protection; if Maverick decided he wanted you dead, nothing on this Earth would stop someone from executing that order. 

But you don't recognize those men stepping out of their vehicles, your skin prickling as you catch prying eyes raking up and down your form, a pack of starving wolves looking at a fresh piece of meat. 

"D'you still drive that ol' car?" What a way to make small talk, Bob. 

"Nah," you haven't thought about that old car in forever, some beat-up sedan with its peeling paint and barely functioning radio, "the transmission blew the day after you hopped on that plane."

The way he jumps forward to try and match your quicker pace is too familiar for your liking; he's nine inches taller, eleven years older, has had so, so much time to forget those old habits. Yet here he is, struggling to match your pace like he always has. It's as if no time has passed at all. 

You hate it. 

Bob's mouth opens, and you already know what words currently rest on his tongue. "Wish I could've been there to fix—"

"Please don't start with that," you can't even begin to think about those dreamy what-ifs. Not anymore. Not after all of this time.

Your car is parked on the corner, blending in with the sea of vehicles taking up this side of the street. There's no reason for Bob to keep walking with you, he can easily stop here on the sidewalk and wait until you get in the car, but his foot hits the street at the same time yours does. 

Bob's hair bounces as he tries to beat your pace, rounding the side of the car before you do. Ah, right. Balancing the bag of food in one arm, you reach into your pocket, mashing the button to unlock your car.

It's not until a big hand shoots out and opens the door that you realize what you've just done. 

"I'm surprised you haven't started asking me to text you when I get home safe," and you're surprised that your fingers are itching to type that message, too. 

His shoulders shake with his chuckle, deeper than you remember it being, but the sound still dances around your ears like it used to, "I was just thinkin' about that."

The bag is big enough that you have to buckle it into your passenger seat; it's hard to get over ten miles an hour in this city, but you'd rather not have to scrub spilled food off your seat again. There's still a faint stain if you squint, but you're pretending not to see it.

Bob's still holding your door, eyes fixated on his boots; you don't expect for him to look up and catch you staring. His mouth opens, shuts just as quickly, then does it again. Trying to say something that he doesn't know how to phrase. Even now, those thin, pink lips look so soft. You wonder if they'd still meld with—

"I'll uh," blinking rapidly, "I'll see you 'round." In the split second, it takes for him to shut the door for you, his sweatshirt rises up, and something shiny tucked in his jeans catches your eye. 

"I told you he was back!" Gee, how did you guess that Javy would say that? "And you didn't believe me!"

You don't know where Fritz emerged from, but all of a sudden, he's hovering on your left, fumbling with the staple on the bag. "Have you ever considered that they didn't want to believe it?"

"Eleven years is a lot of time to go without talking to somebody," Natasha's appeared on your right. Must have come from the same place as Fritz, "I wonder what drug his sorry ass back to the city."

Deep in your belly, an icy hand reaches up, twisting and clawing at your gut. You know what you saw. That outline was unmistakable, too distinct to be chalked off as anything else.

A hand waves in front of your face; the dainty diamond ring tells you it belongs to Natasha, "you still with us?"

"Yeah," your voice is barely there, "just thinking about some things."

Fritz has already split up the orders, the only one who can be trusted with such a tremendous task. But now that your food is sitting on the bar in front of you, it's anything but appetizing. Your stomach is churning just looking at it.

Natasha bumps your shoulder with hers. "Spit it out." 

"How would someone get a gun in this city?" Dumb question; you already know the answer. 

"I know that smugglers brought a lot in after they outlawed 'em," Javy pauses to shovel another bite of fried rice into his mouth, "but most of the time, they're only carried by cops." 

Ms. Garcia's piled your styrofoam container to the brim with food, to the point that some of it spills out onto the table when you lift the styrofoam lid. Always has been one to sneak in extras, but this is a lot more than usual. The one day you feel nauseous.

"Who had the gun?" A part of you had hoped Natasha wouldn't ask you that question.

Shrugging your shoulders, "one of Mav's guys."

At least, that's what you wish was the case.

Fridays have always been the worst days to work at the Hard Deck Club. 

Especially on the first Friday after the local college has concluded its latest semester, setting loose a sea of exhausted, brain-fried students looking to drown their stresses in alcohol and flashing neon lights. You can't blame them, not when these particular nights bring in enough revenue to pay the bills for the next month, but damn, would it be nice if they quit dropping glass bottles on the floor. 

Now, where the hell did you shove that dustpan?

"I think it may be in the side closet again," Natasha chirps, sliding a shot glass across the bar.

"Who keeps putting it back in the closet?" Groaning, you place the broom against the side of the bar; will Fritz trip over it again? Only God himself knows. But carrying it into that bustling crowd risks it getting snatched up by someone bigger and stronger than you, intoxicated to the point of losing their impulse control. 

Maybe Fritz will see it this time.

Leaving him and Natasha to tend to the seemingly rabid crowd of frat boys that've just stumbled in the front door, you step out into the crowd. The closet is hidden in the farthest corner of the room, next to the emergency exit. Not a long distance during slower hours, but during peak, it might as well be a journey to the end of the Earth.

"Good luck, soldier!" Natasha yells, barely audible over the thumping music. 

Making yourself as small as possible as you duck into every opening you're presented with. Around a giggling group of girls that yell about a guy named Harvard. Behind a monster of a man that's nursing a bubbly can of lemonade seltzer. Between a couple that sounds one wrong word away from a breakup.

Your hand finds the cold knob, surprised to find that the door is already partially ajar. Pulling it open reveals a pair of lithe bodies pressed together as close as physically possible; you don't know who looks more surprised, the girl with her bra on the floor or the guy with his pants halfway down.

"Out!" Is all you have to say before they scramble out of the closet like roaches. You hate that you recognize them; couples like these are the sole reason you're asking Javy to install a proper lock on the door. 

Would it kill them to at least take it to a bathroom stall?

The dustpan sits on the floor, trampled by their inconsiderate, heavy feet. The handle is broken, leaving you with nothing more than a jagged edge to hang onto. 

As you step out of the closet, cool air licks at your heels, blowing in from the now wide-open emergency exit. One of these days, the planets will align, and the alarm will go off for once. Until then, you're stuck closing the door for people who can't even be bothered to shut it themselves.

"Wait!" Is that...?

"Don't shut that door!" You recognize that voice.

It's hard to tell with the rain coming down like it is, sheet upon sheet of water, battering the flurry of figures barreling toward you. Jake is the first one you can identify; he's always run a little strange compared to the others, and chances are, that's Bradley bouncing alongside him.

So who's the third guy?

"Are you too uncivilized to go in through the front?" But you step aside all the same, allowing all three of them to stumble inside. Carrying with them enough rainwater to fill an Olympic swimming pool. 

Ugh, wait, you recognize their tagalong now.

"Cops," is all Bradley can get out in between his desperate gasps for air.

"Came into Ms. Garcia's restaurant lookin' for one of us," the only sign Bob's been running is the pink that's gathered in his cheeks, "slipped out the back before we found out who."

"So you ran the nine blocks to hide out in the Hard Deck?" Your question is met with varying yesses. All Jake can do is nod; Bradley offers a thumbs up; Bob's the only one to offer you a proper yes.

You know why they're here, but that doesn't mean you're happy about it. Outside, Javy has a remote that controls every single LED in this club; if the police are trying to come in, he sets the lights to red. Your fault for letting it slip to Mickey and Reuben; now you're the hotspot for the entire gang's hideouts. So much for creating a system for your safety.  

If Natasha weren't engaged to one of these morons, you'd kick them back out in a heartbeat. 

Alas, you've got no choice but to motion toward the frail coat rack that resides next to the exit door, "do me a favor and leave your wet coats by the door, will ya?"

When their backs are turned, you allow yourself to finally step back and vanish into the bustling crowd. There are more than enough people here for you to brush off your absence as merely being concealed by the multitude of bodies on your main floor. 

Definitely just busy helping customers all night. 

Definitely not avoiding Robert Fucking Floyd. 

"Did you get lost?" Natasha's hands are a blur as she multitasks between filling her orders, moving so methodically that it's mesmerizing. 

Your mouth opens, but it's not your voice that rings out.

"Couple of losers popped in the side door," Bradley's voice washes overtop yours like a tidal wave, drowning you out so completely that you wonder if you even spoke at all.

Natasha's face brightens, eyes a fraction softer, smile just a little bigger. Just like that, you know that you've been booted out of your own conversation. Seems to be a recurring theme with these two, but you haven't the energy to complain.

The broken dustpan disappears from your grasp, plucked away by an unseen face.

"I've got it," Fritz. Off doing side tasks when he should be tending to the bar. The one thing you pay him to do. At least that explains the surge of people waiting on a now semi-distracted Natasha. 

Stepping behind the bar, you head over to Fritz's now unoccupied side. It's been a while since the last time you've done this, but it's easy to fall back into the old rhythm of mindlessly filling orders. Beer. Beer. Draft beer. Cocktail. Beer. Round of shots. Beer. Beer. More Beer. Another round of shots. A lot more beer. 

If you did the math, you're pretty sure that beer would make up for eighty percent of your sales.

You're in the middle of dry-shaking a Whiskey Sour when a new face settles into the seat on the far end of your section. Large hands folded, resting atop the white marble of your bar, patient as ever. Not flagging you down by waving his hands in the air or barking his order at you. Simply waiting. But that's not what initially caught your eye, though.

It's the dragon tattoo that eats up the length of his arm.

It's barely visible in the dark lighting of the bar, washed out by the vivid, neon hues of pink and blue that bathe his pale skin. The dragon's tail rests at the top of his wrist, working its way upward, spanning across a thick, meaty bicep that can give Jake a run for his money. Up, up, up, until it reaches his upper chest, the dragon's head barely concealed by a white tank top. Cut just low enough for you to catch a glimpse of what muscles lie below the thin material.

Had it been cut any lower, your eyes would have never wandered up and realized who this body is attached to.

"I thought you said you'd never drink," it's far too easy to fall into your old teasings, and you don't know why.

But Bob shakes his head, the faintest of smiles gracing his lips as he looks down at his hands, "I don't."

Usually, you try your best to make it a habit of paying attention to only one person at a time; offer a little one-on-one, even if it's for the briefest of moments, but your hand is already wandering toward the cooler. Don't even have to look to know when you've grabbed hold of a water bottle, sliding it towards him without a second thought.

But now that you're planning to overly invest yourself in filling drink orders, it seems nobody wants a drink now. Here you are, in a club full of people, and you're stuck with the one person you don't want to be stuck with.

Even after all the sunshine-filled fantasies of Bob suddenly appearing, having him here feels off. It's the same face, the same old, quiet personality, so familiar that he might as well have left last week.

But...

"You don't seem too thrilled to see me," you don't remember the Bob of your memories being so forward.

"Are you expecting me to jump for joy after you don't contact me for eleven years?" It shoots out of your mouth before you can stop it, "roll out the red carpet and pray you don't turn around and ghost me for a second time?"

"That's not—"

"Not what, Bob?" Slamming your hand on the bar, "huh? Did you think I'd forget that you ran away while I was left here to deal with what happened?"

His jaw tightens, "it wasn't my choice," voice deeper than before, harder, "you know that."

"Was avoiding me for a decade not your choice either?" You can feel heads starting to turn, prying eyes and perking ears scavenging for every ounce of drama they can gather. They can blast this on National news for all you fucking care. "Or was that something mommy and daddy made you do, too?"

"Maybe I avoided you because I knew you'd blow up on me the moment I reached out!" Surging to his feet.

"I wouldn't be blowing up on you if you weren't pretending it never happened!" Noses bump together. What distance this marble countertop is putting between you isn't enough. 

For the briefest of moments, you're fifteen again. 

Drenched by the pouring rain. Sitting on concrete scraped knees. Throat tore apart by hiccuped sobs as familiar hands cup your cheeks. Nose cold as it bumps into that of another, warmed by false promises of, I'll come back for you.

But the hands that settle on your shoulders aren't ones that you recognize; aren't the same hands of the childhood flame that should have burnt out the day he walked away. You aren't sure who they belong to, don't quite care who it is that you jab your elbow into, squirming free of their hold.

You're going home for the night.

"What was that all about?" Bradley.

"Finally, get it out of your system?" Natasha.

You're sure Jake would have some input if he wasn't shotgunning a can of Budweiser.

This is the only night where you wish your apartment wasn't directly above this establishment. Right now sounds like a better time than ever to play heavy music and scream in the privacy of your vehicle. Get it out of your system before you get home.

The damn broom closet door is open again.

You can hardly recall your feet hitting the ground. All you're aware of is that you're suddenly standing in front of the offending door, the knob so cold in your hand that it stuns you out of your stupor. Did you forget to shut this door, or did another couple sneak in here while you weren't looking?

The lights turn red.

"Shit." And it's not just you who says it; it's nearly everyone in the room.

Someone clocks you right in the shoulder in their rush to get to the emergency exit. One, two, three, four, fuck, how many people in here are running from the police? There goes, Jake. And what looks like Fritz right behind him. Nat's yelling something intelligible. Another shoulder nails your side, shoving you in their fight to squeeze through the tiny door. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Pale blue flannels are flooding in through the entrance, four, five, too many for Javy to hold off. Not enough time to scramble upstairs to your apartment. Nor enough to dive into the hidden crawlspace behind the bar. 

"Why's everyone runnin'?" God, fucking—

Reaching out, you snatch Bob's flimsy shirt collar, yanking him into the closet with you, "red lights mean a cop is here, moron."

It's as if the closet shrinks the moment you shut the door. Walls closing in, cramming you up against each other. Not an inch of space left between your bodies. 

"I know why I'm hidin'," Bob whispers. Of all places, why does his mouth have to be next to your ear? "But why are you hidin'?"

If only you had the space to deck him square in the nose. "Now isn't the time." 

There's a noise just outside the door. Your pounding heart tries to crawl right up your throat. It sounds, again, the dull thump of something heavy hitting the wall next to you. Metal clinking together, maybe handcuffs. A voice is protesting, but you don't recognize it.

Bob shifts his weight, unintentionally bumping his chest into you. "Well, it seemed to be a few minutes ago."

"I will kick you out of this closet."

"And what if it's another 'leven years before we see each other?" 

It's so quiet that you could hear a pin drop on the other side of the building. Like the world has completely frozen, not a sound to be heard. You have to turn your head just to make sure you still can.

The only light in this closet comes from the thin slivers of light that squeeze in through the gaps in the doorframe. Tiny streaks of red, barely capable of lighting this dark closet at all. And yet, when you look up, the light is just bright enough to allow you a glimpse of watery eyes. Soft, puppy-like, exactly how you remember them looking. 

"Listen, I—" his head drops, but you've already seen what he's trying to hide, "I'm sorry."

It's a bandaid on a broken bone. Sorry fixes nothing.

"Did you know that I believed you when you said you'd come back?" Your voice wavers, featherlight, "because when you told me that you would come back every Friday night to visit me, I thought you meant it."

He reaches up to remove his glasses, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Sniffles but doesn't say anything. So you keep talking. 

"I sat on the corner of Third street and waited for you," too heavy a confession for your tongue to lift, your hushed whisper now nothing but a faint murmur, "every Friday night for three and a half years."

You're not strong enough to confess the rest of the story. How your heart jumped every time you saw a beat-up pickup that resembled his. How you'd convince yourself that this time, this time, he'd be there. Can't admit that you looked for him everywhere you went. Expected him to miraculously appear after your biggest accomplishment. Thought he would surprise you on every holiday and birthday. 

Those words might just die with you. 

Cautious arms wind around your waist, slow, and all of a sudden, you are really, truly back in your fifteen-year-old body. Trembling as he gathers you up into his warm body, squeezing you into his chest, his head dropping down to bury into your shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," he utters again, but this time, nothing can conceal the break in his voice. There's no attempt to stop you from feeling the drops of water that fall upon the crook of your neck. 

Sorry doesn't fix it. 

But it's a start. 

Looping your arms around his shoulders feels strange; you don't recall them ever being this broad or solid in your grasp, but they only make it easier for you to settle into this impromptu hug. There's so much more of him to fall into, to lose yourself in. 

He squeezes you a little tighter. "Were ya always this tiny?" 

Your sigh is loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door. Bob just laughs.

It's been so long that you've forgotten what it sounds like. The one that forces a smile so big that his eyes wrinkle, pearly teeth digging into his bottom lip as he tries to stifle it. His nose is cold as it bumps into your cheek, seems to leave little bits of ice in its wake.

Likewise, it's been a long time since you were face-to-face like this. So close that you can feel his breath against your lips. Neither of you should be this close; you don't know if he's got a partner keeping his bed warm or not. For crying out loud, this is only the second time that you've seen him since he came back. 

His eyes tell you that he's having the same thought. 

But thoughts mean less than actions. Thoughts can't stop the way your lips bump together on their own accord, too timid to move on their own at first. Someone has to make the first move, and someone does, but you can't tell which of you leaned closer and closed the gap.

And you can't be bothered to try and decipher it because you're too busy figuring out why his lips feel like heaven against yours. Unintentionally leaning in the same direction as the other, can't quite figure out how to avoid crushing your noses together, but then you do. 

In your wistful daydreams, you would have described this feeling as stars colliding, a tremendous explosion that dissolves into a plume of sparkling stardust. But this, this doesn't feel like that at all. Kissing him feels like coming home from war; it's been so long since the last time these lips molded with yours that you've forgotten the feeling, but it's so familiar. 

One of his hands still rises to curl around your jaw, bigger than it was when you were teenagers. He still breaks away from you, then noses his way back because he can't have only one kiss. But it's you who hungrily leans up into it, you who twists his short hair between your fingers and pulls him against you, revealing just how starved you truly are. 

He leans forward, and it's hard to tell if the way his thigh forces its way between your legs is intentional or not. This hadn't even remotely been on your mind, but now that his knee is rubbing against your core, it's suddenly everything you want. More, you want more.

A little tug on his hair earns you an equally little gasp, and then, quietly, "we're still in a closet, sweetie."

This time, when your eyes flutter open, it's neon shades of pink and blue that peer into this dingy little hideaway. And this time, you know exactly what you're about to say. "My apartments upstairs"

Walking back out into the club feels like walking directly into the sun; lights too bright for your unprepared eyes, music a touch too loud. But even so, you don't catch glimpse of a single cop as you head around the corner. Bob's coat is the second to last one on the rack; it's grabbed during your blind scramble towards the stairs, leaving Bradley's to dry on its lonesome.

Hidden along the opposite side of the club, next to the bathrooms, there's an employees-only door that opens up to a small hallway. Tucked away on your left is the break room and walk-in cooler, but on your right is another inconspicuous, tiny door. 

"I thought you were kiddin'," Bob breathes, squeezing your hand in his as you type in the code to unlock the door. Nothing but darkness lies ahead. Seems you've forgotten to turn the stair lights on again.

"No point in renting when there's a perfectly good apartment in the building you own," your feet already know exactly where to land on each narrow stair. Bob trips over the first stair, narrowly manages to catch himself on the railing. 

At the very top is your actual door, sitting atop a small landing. City lights pour in through the window on your right, illuminating the room just enough for you to see what you're doing and where you need to slide your house key.

Soft lips find the side of your neck, sucking softly on a vein that's risen. It's barely there, and yet, it makes your vision blur. Your key misses

"Bob," gasping, writhing as hands come to rest on your hips, kneading into your flesh. Blindly, you poke the key around the lock, struggling to get the damn thing into the microscopic slot.

You find it, and the both of you practically fall into your apartment. 

It's dark enough that he can't see the disarray that your living room is currently in. This floor was never originally designed to be a living space at all, but you've turned it into one, and now you're going through the seven stages of grief trying to settle on a decor style. Not Pinterest-level yet, but you're getting there.

You've just barely turned the lock back into place before those damn lips are on your neck again, working their way up, unable to keep away from you for longer than a half second at a time. Only manage to reach the meet of your jaw before you turn and catch those offending lips with your own.

It's different than the ones shared in the broom closet. Proximity no longer forced; your hands are now freely able to crawl up and down his defined back, feet stumbling backward as you clumsily lead your intertwined bodies toward your bedroom. Past the kitchen, past the thrifted dresser littered with picture frames, both new and old. Too many pictures of your and Bob's childhood adventures. 

You manage to kick one shoe off next to the bathroom; the other goes flying down the hallway for you to trip over later. Bob surges forward, pressing you up against the wall of the hallway, does it so easily that it's dizzying. Effortlessly trapping you between his burning hot frame and the cool drywall, short tongue brushing against your bottom lip, asking even though your mouth is already open. 

He must still mindlessly suck on lemon-flavored candies because you can vaguely taste them on him. The artificial citrus a pleasant shock to your senses as your tongues meet for the first time in over a decade, lacing together clumsily. Both trying to go in the same direction, each unfamiliar with the rhythm of the other.

Hands toy with the hem of your shirt; you take the initiative, breaking away just long enough to lift the garment from your body. There's no way Bob can see very well without his glasses on, but you can practically feel him eating up every single detail.

A few more steps and you're standing in your bedroom; a simple thing, the bed faces a big open window, granting you a jaw-dropping view of the city in all of its chaotic glory. The lights never really go together, and yet it somehow manages to look picture-perfect, flaws and all. 

You hadn't noticed that Bob was still carrying his jacket until he's dropping it to the floor. Something metal clattered against your hardwood floor. 

Even in the dark, you know exactly what it is. That shield-shaped hunk of gold-painted metal is unmistakable. 

And even in the dark, you can see Bob go stiff as a board. "I can explain—"

"Don't tell me," your voice wavers, but it's there, "because I don't wanna know."

He steps closer, just enough so that you can take him by the hands and pull him down onto the bed with you. You hardly expect him to comply, but he does so anyway, running his big hands up your sides as your back hits the mattress. Settles between your open legs, leaning down just far enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

"Are you sure you don't want me to tell you?" Lips bumping against yours as he speaks. Your answer comes in the form of surging up and locking your lips with his once more, arms wrapping around his neck. 

It's hard to imagine Robert Floyd as a cop, likely an undercover one at that. That must be where he's been all this time, on the other side of the law, for once. The gun hiding beneath his sweatshirt flickers through your mind; you don't want to know why it was there. 

All it takes is one needy tug on his shirt, and he's breaking away to tug it off, muscles rippling with the movement, visible even in the dark. His chest gently sculpted, bears years of careful building, all amounting to something worth carving into marble and displaying in a museum. You can't resist running your hands down it, feeling the faint indentations of his rib cage.

A peck on your lips, and then he's working his way down your neck, leaving behind a wet trail of kisses and licks that have you squirming beneath him. It's been so long since the last time someone's paid attention to your body like this, overly sensitive. 

As he reaches your bra, he pauses, darkened eyes flickering up to your face, "why don't you want me to tell you?" 

This mundane conversation doesn't stop him from sliding his hands behind your back, seamlessly unhitching the restrictive elastic. He's seen you like this before, and yet, as he slides the material off of your body, he's transfixed. Unable to look away from what lies beneath him. 

It takes you a moment to find your voice. "Because," words broken by a gasp, brought on by the tongue swirling around your nipple, "I don't want to know your secrets."

Reaching out, you tangle your fingers in the short hair resting at the nape of his neck. You can't imagine what he'd think of yours. 

It's an unfinished conversation, and the unspoken fragment of your sentence hangs in the open air like an off-the-rails train dangling along the edge of a bridge. Glaringly obvious, and yet, Bob doesn't press you any further, preferring to tease your hardening nipple with his teeth. One of his hands massages your neglected breast, thumb swiping over your nipple in tune with his tongue. 

On their own, your hips twitch upward, seeking contact that you can't yet receive. Not in this position. Taking the hint in stride, Bob starts to work his way down even further, licking down your navel as his nails stroke up and down your sensitive sides.

"So pretty," he whispers into your skin, "I didn't think it was possible for you to look any better than you already did."

Thick fingers hook into your waistband, eyes flicker up to gauge your reaction. Timid, you lift your hips; he pulls both your pants and your panties down all in one go, leaving you in nothing but your mismatched socks. 

You hate that you recognize the way his hands trail down your open thighs, that you know exactly what he's going to do when his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. Collapsing onto his forearms, Bob presses a kiss to your left thigh, then another to his right one.

And then he drags his broad, flat tongue right up your slit.

Your hips rise with it, knew it was coming but somehow still surprised by the sensation. That, that, you haven't felt in a while. A fat tongue swirls around your rapidly swelling clit, burning saliva dripping down into you, creating a horrifically wet noise that bounces off the walls.

That scorching muscle works its way back down to trace the delicate rim of your entrance, the tip of his nose rubbing against your clit as his tongue experimentally dips inside of you. Once, twice, three times, until it can find a slow, smooth rhythm. Gently fucking you with his short, menacing tongue. 

"Robby," your thighs clamp down around his head, but your hands attempt to push him away, "n-not—"

Even your fragmented statement is enough to have him drawing back, lips shining in the dark room, "not what you were wantin'?"

Shaking your head, "want more than your mouth."

His eyebrows raise, but now that you've said it, he's on the same page as you; zipper absurdly loud as he pulls it down. While he fumbles, you reach up into the bedside drawer, seeking out that barely used bottle of lubricant. Bob's pants land on the floor in a messy heap, right alongside that shining badge, standing proud against your new hardwood. 

"Jesus." You breathe.

Bob blinks, confused by your comment. "What?"

But you don't follow up with a reply. Can't. Either your memory is fooling you, or he's grown a bit in this department too. Cock curved off to the left, menacing as he drizzles himself with the lubricant. A pair of well-intentioned fingers push inside of you, but you don't need it. May or may not have had a little fun with a new toy this morning.

Are you sure you don't want his tongue?

"You alright?" He chirps, smacking his dripping cockhead against your clit; both of you hiss.

"Yeah," you're squirming, but he just keeps paying attention to your poor clit, tiny, wet slaps that send volts of electricity up your spine. "Didn't expect for a monster to be in my bedroom, is all."

It takes him a second, but then, his eyes roll so hard that you hope they get stuck in the back of his head. "Very funny."

Right as he says it, he tilts himself downward, teasing your entrance. The real deal feels nothing like the clearance toy you ordered off the internet; it's not this warm, doesn't require you to reach down and manually work it. 

Slowly, slowly, he presses into you. A faint pressure gradually begins to grow the more he opens you up, muscles stretching to accommodate the intrusion. That's—that's...

"Thick," grumbling under your breath.

His free hand finds your knee, thumb stroking the skin there as he pushes that blunt head into you. It almost seems to pop in, the pressure growing until all of a sudden, it's gone. The rest of the glide inside is easy, overwhelming in the way he manages to fill spaces that you didn't know were there. All you know is that Bob's hips are finally colliding with yours and that he's coming down to press a kiss into your cheek like it's something he's done every day for years, 

"Y'alright?" He murmurs against your skin, and until now, you hadn't realized that you've started panting.

Nodding, "yeah." It's hard to relax when you're so fucking full. "You can move."

A part of you worries he misheard you because he pulls all the way back until you're left with nothing but his thick head. Then, just as slowly as the first time, he pushes back in, cock just big enough to make you feel small. He does it again, ever so slightly quicker this time, working up a slow, deep rhythm that makes you feel every fucking inch of him.

"Fuck," whimpering; something has changed about his angle, because all of a sudden, his cock head is kissing that sensitive bundle of nerves, "there, there."

"Yeah?" You can't see it, but you can feel the way the corner of his lip twitches upward, "is that the spot, baby?" 

All you can do is nod, curling your legs around his hips. Involuntarily fluttering as he targets that poor little spot hidden within those gooey walls that clench and unclench around his cock. Each inward push seems to shove the air from your lungs and never seems to let you catch your breath. Your hands are struggling to find something to hold onto, fleeting between the sheets, his biceps, and his shoulders. Too many places to grab, none of them able to ground you.

This. This is a story you've never heard before. A story told with your bodies rather than your words. The way he holds you tells you that he's afraid to hurt you and treats you like glass even now. Your incessant need to touch him whispers your well-kept secrets, the fears that if you let go, he'll fade away into nothing. It's familiar, and it's unsure; both hurt a thousand times over the course of this past decade.

But maybe, maybe, this can be different. 

"Feel so good 'round me," Bob purrs directly into your ear, teeth nipping your lobe, "can feel ya clenchin', Princess."

Then, he's leaning back onto his haunches, broad chest on display as he greedily drinks in the sight of you beneath him. Split open around his cock, clinging to him like a vice; the moment his eyes catch a glimpse of the sinful sight between your legs, he can't look away. 

What a sight this is; Robert Floyd, muscles swelling as he fucks you, biceps bulging. Once perfectly combed hair now a mess atop his head, the longest strands curling into his pale face. Through the window behind him, the city melds into the perfect backdrop, their vibrant lights dancing across his perfect skin. Your daydreams have never even come close to creating such a picture-perfect sight.

"God," the closest he'll get to swearing, "clenchin' 'round me like a damn vice."

Surely, there has to be a way to get him to swear. It's only fair because here you are, sprawled out on your mattress as his dick plows into your poor, stretched pussy, swearing to high heaven beneath your whimpered breaths. His shuttered breaths are growing louder, hips moving a little quicker, striking your sensitive g-spot over and over and over.

What if you...

Digging your heels into the mattress, you focus on your muscles. How they clench and unclench in perfect tune with his thrusts, how if you really, really think about it, you can gather control over them. One experimental clench of muscles earns you a surprised grunt, Bob's eyes fluttering open. Too wrapped in the moment to be suspicious.

One.

Two.

Before you can internally count to three, you clench down around him the best you can. 

His hips screech to such a sudden halt that you can almost hear the metaphorical tires squealing, "fuck!" 

Heat pools inside of you, his cock twitching inside of you, over and over. But that heat just keeps on coming, and it hits you what's just happened. 

"Proud of yourself?" He grumbles, prying one eye open. 

Giggling, you nod. Two birds with one stone. But now he's sliding all the way out of you, and your proud grin is vanishing within the blink of an eye.

His hands find your hips, seemingly effortlessly flipping your body around. One second, you're looking up at him; the next, you're face down in the mattress as he guides you up to your knees. A hand between your shoulder blades keeps your upper body down, pinning you against the bed as he pushes his cock back inside. Cum sloshes around as he slides home once more; you can feel some of it squishing out of you. 

"I'm trying to be sweet with you," leaning down, his mouth against your ear once more, "and meanwhile, you're trying to get a rise out of me."

"I wanted to see if you'd swear," it's hard to be smug when he pulls out, only to plow right back into you, "you cumming was just collateral damage."

Bob has no comeback, doesn't need one. Because all of a sudden, he's working up a rhythm that puts the former one to shame, hard thrusts that you've got no choice but to shiver and take. Heavy balls slapping against your cunt with every fucking motion. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's reaching down to toy with your clit, too, using his cum as a lubricant to stimulate the poor little bud.

You can't keep your mouth shut, whimpering into the sheets as you squirm, "should've—ah!" The bastard hits you with a particularly hard plunge and holds it there, grinding into your drooling pussy, "maybe I should've done that sooner."

Nothing can conceal his laugh, amused. 

Too soon, it's dissolving into overstimulated little whines of his own, swearing under his breath. Oversensitive head bullying your swollen sweet spots as he works your clit a bit faster. Makes you futter around him like a butterfly, involuntarily spasming as a familiar heat begins to build between your legs and in your lower belly. You can't tell if it's you or him who is whispering expletives into the cool bedroom air.

"Is that what you wanted, sweetie?" There's no malice as he coos into your ear, only something warm that you cannot yet name, "just wanted to hear me cuss like a goddamn sailor while I fuck your dainty lil' pussy?" 

The room is beginning to spin, your lungs starving for a proper breath as that coil in your belly grows tighter and tighter. Wound up more and more by his every thrust, by every spiral of his thick fingers on your pulsating clit.

"C'mon, beautiful," those teeth graze your shoulder, "cum on my cock like a good girl."

And that is it. 

With a strangled squeal, you bite down into your comforter and cum around his still-moving cock. One, two, three more motions before his hips once again stall, spasming inside of you as your head practically floats off your shoulders. You can't fucking breathe; spots cloud your vision as involuntary shocks ripple through your exhausted body. 

"Y'still with me?" 

You hardly recall closing your eyes, but all of a sudden, you're opening them. And there's Bob, resting next to you as he strokes his hand up and down your naked body, doing nothing more than map out your form. Your eyes meet, and he smiles.

Nodding, you release the breath you were holding, "I think so."

Dully, you can feel something warm leaking out of your puffy entrance, dripping all over your poor thighs. It's going to get on the comforter and leave a stain, but you haven't the energy to move, never mind clean up.

"I'll carry you to the shower," kissing your nose, Bob continues, "if you tell me where it is."

That you can do.

Bob is still the same quiet sleeper you remember him being. Curled around your back like he belongs there, nose buried into the space between your shoulder blades. Being wrapped in his arms feels like being wrapped up in the very definition of home. There isn't a doubt in your exhausted mind that, here, right now, he'd take on the entire world if it meant keeping you safe.

Isn't a doubt in your mind that he's done some things he's not proud of, probably doesn't have the strength to voice it. But then again, so have you.

Maybe you should leave these thoughts here, just for the night. Overthinking will only lead you to more problems, problems that you can't solve at two in the morning. Peering over your shoulder, you wait to see if Bob's eyes open. Flutter, even.

They don't.

Slow, you reach over into a drawer in the bedside table, feeling blindly for the cold metal you know you will find. It's hidden beneath a coverless book and inside a felt pouch, but it's there, solid as ever. Pulling it out reveals its faint but unmistakable shape.

The vibrant city lights illuminate a shield-shaped hunk of gold-painted metal. On the bottom, inscribed in tiny little letters, is your full name.