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shih-coulda-had-it · 2 years

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Can you do a story where toshinori is out with his friends but sees a civilian needs help carrying foods and decides to help but accidentally ends up scaring the person (he came up behind the civilian) and the civilian ends up hitting toshinori with his/ her age quirk toshi is about 3 - 4 years old. So his firends the next day end up going to UA early (like around the time the teachers have there staff meetings) or around lunch break and give him to Gran Torino or any teacher that they could find at the time they end up explaining the situation saying that the civilian couldn’t control his quirk so toshi would be stuck like that for around 3 days which wasn’t bad - compared to the other times it accidentally happend Obviously nana ends up finding out from recovery girl his firends take him there first to make sure he’s not stuck like that and to make sure he will be ok and that there isn’t anything else wrong with him. Recovery girl calls Torino and nana and they end up explaining the situation again. Dad Torino and mom shimura moments🤩 / nanahiko sorry I’m getting used to writing like this also if you see the other one I made I thought that one disappeared so I made this one! In more detail so in a way im glad I started over 😅 if you see this THANK YOU for reading my long paragraph 😭💖

Anon, I’m gonna give you a ficlet, but I’m also prefacing it with a disclaimer: you have the fic. You’ve given me an outline from start to finish, which means that this could have been a reverse situation where I as a reader, starved of Mom Shimura and Dad Torino Co-Parent Their Summer Child fics, would get to go ‘YEAHHHH’.

I won’t go so far as asking prompters to follow a format, ‘cause that seems deeply limiting to the imagination, but… I was this 👌 close to not manifesting your fic. wc: 1.2k

Nana’s cellphone rang in the middle of the day, right as she was doing a grocery run. Only a few people had her number, and at least three of those people should be occupied at U.A. right now.

She checked the contact name and immediately accepted the call.

“Is this a personal or a business call?” she said, sandwiching the phone between her ear and shoulder. Her hand--the one not occupied with holding the red plastic basket--grabbed for several frozen microwaveable meals.

“It can’t be both?” Chiyo asked dryly. “It’s about your boy.”

Her hand nearly crushed a box. “Toshinori? What happened? Where’s Torino?”

“He’s here, just occupied.” A strange wailing sound came through from Recovery Girl’s side, and Nana cringed instinctively, out of sympathy for the--parent. Because that was the cry of a child, a child much younger than the teenagers that filled U.A.’s halls.

“Give me the phone!” barked Torino.

“Don’t shout, you’re just scaring him more!”

“What on earth,” Nana said, rapidly recalculating how urgent it was to restock her freezer. She replaced the meals and debated on leaving the basket to a store employee altogether. She hadn’t picked up that many items. “Chiyo-chan? Are you still there? I need a report!”

“Relax,” said Chiyo. “Yagi-kun had an incident with some civilian and their Quirk, and now he’s the size of a preschooler, with the memories and mindset of one too.”

“Torino has experience with preschoolers, though, so why is Toshinori crying? Wait. Actually, get me this answer first--why did Gran Torino just find out?”

For Toshinori’s third year, Nana asked Sorahiko if he could clean out the spare bedroom in his apartment and give it to her successor. His apartment was more spacious, and more importantly, wasn’t housing the memory of a small boy running around its walls.

She supposed that would no longer be true.

“When did Toshinori get hit? How long will it last? Why did Gran Torino just find out, Chiyo-chan?” Nana double-checked her basket and found it missing any frozen or refrigerated foods; she set it on a stack of soda cases, made an apologetic face at the nearest employee, and fled the premises to go rescue her partner.

“Torino just found out because the boy’s friends just hauled him to my office, and I called him. There was an early staff meeting, so they didn’t walk to school together. The Quirk is temporary. Depends on his emotional balance, so for the love of God, Torino, stop scowling!”

“I’m heading over,” said Nana. “You can give him the phone and save Toshinori, please.”

“No,” Chiyo responded sourly. “If he’s going to be living with the kid for the next few days, Torino had better learn how to deal with a five year old now.”

“Doesn’t he have classes to teach?”

There was a miffed silence, and then Chiyo heaved a sigh. “You’re only the voice of reason at the worst possible times, Seventh Wonder.”

“You should see my comedy routine with Gran Torino,” she joked.

“I know his sense of humor too well to be tricked into that. Torino, here’s the phone.”

“Shuuzenji, you--!” Sorahiko bit off a curse, probably to spare Toshinori’s ears. Maybe he remembered how Kotarou had a habit of picking up swear words. “Nana, are you there?”

Her eyebrows jumped at the slip in professionalism, and the desperate edge to Sorahiko’s tone, unhidden and panicky. “Go for Nana,” she said.

“Oh, good.” Sorahiko took a deep breath, then expelled it in a huge rush. “He’s tiny. He doesn’t know our names, and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t know about your, uh, gift.”

“I KNOW I’M QUIRKLESS,” a young voice bawled. “I’M SORRY!”

Nana winced as Sorahiko’s first response was to say, “Kid, it’s fine, I told you it doesn’t matter! Nobody is asking you to have one!”

“Torino,” said Nana chidingly. “I’m on my way, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Put your gear on, or he’ll clock you for a social worker.” This last instruction was muttered under his breath, like he was wary of Toshinori being triggered into another sobbing breakdown. She hummed in acknowledgment, said a quick goodbye, and hung up. Shimura Nana would have been stalled at every public transport point; Seventh Wonder had no such boundaries.

Sorahiko let Toshinori sob into his cape’s collar because there was really nothing else to do. His student had gone from a tall, bulky (if airheaded) tank of a teenager to a short, scrawny kid of indeterminate age. He looked younger than Kotarou.

“Everything’s fine,” he soothed, rubbing the space between Toshinori’s shoulder blades. His gloved hand was large enough to cover the whole area. The thick padding blocked Sorahiko’s hand from sensing how hard Toshinori trembled, but he didn’t need the feeling to confirm his very clear view of a crying kid.

“Where am I?” the kid hiccupped. “I thought--I thought Shinra-san liked me--”

He knew neither of Toshinori’s foster parents had the name ‘Shinra’, so clearly, Toshinori’s childhood had him bouncing between more than one home. Sorahiko held his tongue and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Chiyo, gratifyingly, was taking one for the team and talking to Principal Shi about the unexpected leave of absence.

It would only last for the day--substitute teachers, surprise, surprise, weren’t easy to come by for a high school pro-hero program.

“I was being good…”

“Yeah,” said Sorahiko, “I know. You’re a good kid.”

Footsteps. Rubber soles slapping down on linoleum, spaced out to the point where Sorahiko could recognize a subtle use of Float--the nurse’s office door flew open to admit one Seventh Wonder, beaming brightly, as if there was no problem in the world that she couldn’t fix.

The tightness in his spine eased with her appearance.

“Seventh Wonder,” he said.

“Gran Torino!” she answered cheerfully. “I hear we have a new sidekick!” Nana crossed the floor in one, two bounds, before coming to a stop beside Sorahiko. “Hello, Toshinori-shonen, has Gran Torino told you anything about me yet?”

Toshinori’s sniffles came to a bewildered stop. He pulled his face from Sorahiko’s collar (aw, gross, he needed to throw this cape into the wash) and stared at Nana, blinking wet blue eyes. “Who…?”

Nana hesitated, then just--went for it. “I’m Seventh Wonder, Gran Torino’s partner at Sky High Agency. You can call me Shimura-san, though. Pleased to meet you!”

“Pleased to meet you,” the kid echoed, fumbling with his words. “Wh-What’s going to happen to me? I don’t… I don’t have a Quirk, so I can’t be a hero.”

“Not yet,” she corrected. “You’re not big enough to be in the skies with us just yet, but as long you stick with us, Toshinori-shonen, you’ll be the best hero there ever was.”

Sorahiko pulled a face at her. What was the point of promising a temporarily-deaged Toshinori all that? There wasn’t a guarantee that Toshinori’s younger self had been pulled forward, and would retain all this. He rearranged his expression into something neutral when Toshinori whipped back around and chattered, “Torino-san, Torino-san, is that true? Am I really your sidekick?”

From behind Toshinori, Nana narrowed her eyes into a stern glare. Play along, she ordered.

“Yeah,” said Sorahiko. “We’re in charge of you for a long time, kid. You’re staying with us.”

“Oh,” Toshinori uttered, and started weeping again.

#bnha #shimura nana #shuuzenji chiyo #recovery girl #gran torino #torino sorahiko #yagi toshinori #all might #shih.txt #asks #anon #it's only #nanahiko #if you squint and look at it sideways #but i feel like that's par for the course #it'll take a full fledged kid fic to get those two romancing at the end

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themimsyborogove · 2 years

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are you still taking prompts/ideas for your little ficlets?? I may or may not have binged all of your shadowhunter fics in under a day, and I may or may not be slightly obsessed with them 💃

if you're willing, do you think you could do one for Ragnor and Jocelyn?? I remember their relationship being briefly mentioned in the books, and then you emphasizing that a bit within your Ragnor-centric series and I'd honestly love to see how you'd write them. Like maybe after he's officially renounced himself as living, Jocelyn comes along and wants to talk and catch up. I could see him being her favourite teacher while she attended the academy, and we already know that Ragnor's fond of her as well. Or maybe the Frays are celebrating Christmas, and she invites Ragnor as well as some other close friend (Magnus, his boys, the main gang, Tessa and Cat, etc).

oooorrr what if While Ragnor teaches at the academy, he notices something off with Jocelyn, and invites her into his office for tea — a nice chat between friends.

There are so many ways this friendship could go — I absolutely know Jocelyn has an unhinged side (her daughter's Clary for crying out loud 😭) and I could see her and Ragnor working together to prank Magnus for some special occasion. (They'd probably be the last 2 people Magnus would expect to get pranked from)

Thank you, I’m so glad you’ve been enjoying them ❤️

Ragnor and Jocelyn is an interesting dynamic I had some headcanons for but never really got a chance to write.

——

“If we want students to graduate prepared to enter the Scholomance, we need to keep the units on the history of High Warlocks and the hierarchy of the Seelie and Unseelie courts,” Ragnor said, shifting through the pile of lesson plans littering Catarina’s desk in her new office at the soon-to-be-opened Shadowhunter Academy.

“Most of them won’t be on track for the Scholomance,” Catarina reminded him. “Most of them will go straight to hitting demons with sharp objects, and won’t need to know more than that High Warlocks exist and that anything involving faerie politics should be handled by calling the Alliance.“

“They could at least be educated while they hit things with swords and seraph blades,” Ragnor grumbled.

“The time those units would take up would be better spent on reinforcing deescalating strategies when talking to Downworlders,” Catarina argued. “The students who care about the deeper politics can research them as part of their Scholomance entry essays.”

A flash of red ponytail outside of the office door caught his attention. “Clarissa, would you care to weigh in on the debate instead of lurking in the hall?”

The woman stepped hesitantly into view, and Ragnor realized he had been mistaken. “Jocelyn, my apologies,” he said. “Your daughter looks very much like you.”

“I’ve just remembered, I have to check the stock of bandages in the infirmary,” Catarina said suddenly, giving Ragnor a sharp look that told him she expected him to apologize for something, he just had no idea what. “You know how baby Shadowhunters are. Can’t be too prepared for increasingly stupid injuries acquired by showing off.”

Ragnor watched her vanish down the hall, baffled.

“Catarina told me you would be coming to help with the Academy curriculum today,” Jocelyn said, still standing awkwardly in the doorway, fidgeting with the fraying hem of her paint-stained sweater like a schoolgirl.

It had been a long time since Jocelyn Fairchild had been his student, but he still recognized the signs that something was weighing on her, though he suspected it wasn’t about homework assignments this time.

“Come and sit,” he said, a sweep of one hand making the scattered lesson plans march to the end of the desk and neatly stack themselves, and a flick of the other wrist causing two cups of tea to materialize.

Jocelyn sank down in the chair that Catarina had vacated. “You look well, Ragnor,” she started.

“You didn’t come for small talk, Jocelyn,” Ragnor said, eyeing her over the rim of his tea cup. “Out with it then.”

Jocelyn held her own cup, turning it around in her hands like she needed the warmth, but she didn’t drink it. “Clary told me that you were alive,” she said finally. “A couple of years ago, after she got back from Shanghai. I know it was supposed to be a secret, but we both blamed ourselves for what we thought happened to you.”

“What?” Ragnor said, thrown even farther off balance. Whatever he had expected her to say, it hadn’t been that.

“Did Valentine really have nothing to do with your deat– disappearance?”

The pieces finally clicked into place. The spell he had made for Jocelyn, and Magnus’s reason for asking for the Book of the White when Ragnor had been in the middle of faking his death. Ragnor had trusted Magnus to handle the matter, and hadn’t thought of it again after the chaos his life had turned into. He had nearly forgotten about it entirely.

“No, nothing,” Ragnor said. “Valentine was a convenient cover for my escape, but I was well away before anyone associated with him turned up on my doorstep. All of my troubles came from elsewhere.”

Some of the tension went out of Jocelyn and she finally took a sip of tea.

“Catarina was the one who took care of me in the hospital, when I was under the spell,” she said after a moment. “She hid it well, but I could tell she was furious about something when she and Magnus woke me up. I thought it was because she blamed me and Clary for leading Valentine to you.”

Ragnor shook his head. “No, I’m sure Magnus told her the truth about what I had done before they reversed the spell on you. She was probably angry with me.”

Angry wasn’t a strong enough word. The first time he had seen Catarina after Magnus had rescued him, she had slapped him and shouted at him before finally throwing her arms around him and telling him she was glad to see him.

“Your spell saved me from torture I can’t even begin to imagine,” Jocelyn said. “It probably saved my life too. It’s a relief to know that it didn’t cost you yours.”

Ragnor had learned an unfortunate amount about being tortured recently, the memories of Shinyun still uncomfortably fresh. He was glad to have helped spare Jocelyn from a having a similar experience.

“Even if it had,” he said, meeting Jocelyn’s green eyes, finally realizing what it was that she needed to hear, “it wouldn’t have been your fault. I would not have blamed you. You made your own mistakes in the past, but you’ve done what you can to make up for those sins. Valentine’s sins rest entirely on Valentine.”

Jocelyn closed her eyes and took a breath. Ragnor suspected she wouldn’t ever stop blaming herself for Valentine entirely, but lightening the burden a little at a time would help. “I’m grateful you gave me that second chance, all those years ago,” she said.

“If we stop giving people chances to change, the world will become a truly bleak place,” Ragnor said with a wry smile. Jocelyn wasn’t the only one in the room living by the grace of being given a second chance. “I owe you an apology as well,” he added. “I’m sorry for the pain my disappearance put you through. I didn’t consider how pinning my fake murder on Valentine would look to you when you woke up.”

Jocelyn smiled at him at last, and he caught a glimpse of the little girl she had been, before Valentine, when Ragnor had still been close to the Fairchild family. “I’m glad you’re back. I know you’ll be at the Scholomance more, but I hope we see you around here too.”

Ragnor flicked his wrist again, refilling both of their tea cups. “I’ll see what I can do.”

#ragnor fell #jocelyn fray #catarina loss #tsc #the shadowhunter chronicles #fic prompt

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sparatus · 2 years

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74 for the spotify wrapped ficlet game :)

yesssssss YESSSSSSS

this one's a lot of fun to BELT ngl

the speaker of the song knows they're being lied to by a lover who keeps telling them they'll love them forever, and even though it hurts because they're fully aware of what's coming, they can't help but still love them. adhd thought process bounced around a few times but i kept coming back to my original concept for this so guess what we're going with, lol, hope u like Ierian Sparatus Backstory Content™

ierian is my hc name for cnclr sparatus, herrimius invidas is the ex-boyfriend who clawed his face apart and gave him the facial scars we see in canon :)

spotify wrapped new game+: send me a number 1-101 and i'll write you a ficlet inspired by the corresponding song

Ierian couldn't tell you when the spark died between him and Herrimius. Maybe it had been last month, maybe last year. Maybe it had never really been there at all, and he'd just let himself think it was because Herrimius thought he was hot and it felt good to be desired.

That part of it was still there, at least. If all else failed, Herrimius still thought he was attractive and wanted to fuck him. He wanted to fuck him a lot, really, and that was what made Ierian think. Where his other friends talked about going out to see a simulstim, or eat at a nice restaurant, or mess around at a combat sim, or anything else that might be a fun date, all he and Herrimius seemed to do was fuck and show each other stupid shit they found on the extranet. He would have liked to do those things, of course. They sounded fun, and he wanted to have that same kind of light about him that his friends got when they talked about their dates and partners. But whenever he brought it up, Herrimius would wave him off - "not right now" or "maybe" or "I'm busy," until Ierian stopped bringing it up.

He was never too busy for the things he wanted to do, Ierian also noticed. Everything was about Herrimius's interests, or desires, or ideas. Ierian's got brushed off, and sometimes straight-up ignored. Of course, if he tried to brush Herrimius off, it was the end of the world, and Ierian had to scramble to apologize and make time for him, even if he really couldn't afford to, but then, he was Herrimius's friend, and Herrimius was pretty busy, so it was fine.

"I'm important to you, right?" Ierian asked him one night, when they were lying in bed after another round. It hadn't been much fun, Herrimius had wanted to try something Ierian hadn't been that into, but he'd tried it for Herrimius's sake (and decided it sucked), and he wasn't as tired as usual, so his brain was still rolling ideas around.

"Huh?" Herrimius was tired, as he'd enjoyed himself much more than Ierian had. "'Course, what makes you think you're not?"

"Mm. Just thinking. Late-night existentialism, you know."

Herrimius snorted and rolled over. "You think too much. One of these days, you'll think yourself into trouble, and then what will you do?"

"If I'm a lawyer by then, I'll be fine."

Herrimius didn't respond. After a minute, a whistling snore rose from his side of the bed.

He never seemed to pay much attention when Ierian wanted to talk about the future. About law school, about his anxieties and motivations and all his debates on which branch he wanted to specialize in. He had a plan and everything - he'd go home to Acalin, study at U-TIE there like every generation of his family before him, sign on with the Cavalry to finish out his mandatory service while he was there, pass the bar exam, get a job with the government, live out a mildly interesting but not wholly exciting life in the peaceful anonymity of an imperial prosecutor. He could tell you every obstacle, every leg up, every time frame.

He wasn't even sure Herrimius had an idea of what he'd do with himself.

He supposed he might be able to pencil in room for meeting new people. Children might be nice, at some point, once he had everything stable and comfortable enough to put a nest together. Herrimius didn't want children, but maybe he could be talked around once they were older.

His gizzard grumbled, and he wondered how much longer he could keep lying to himself.

#press conference #equusgirl #ierian's writing #ierian sparatus #sparatus family #ierian's ocs

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jackrrabbit · 4 years

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Runaways /// Dabi x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You were like an older sister to Dabi back when the two of you were teen runaways together; now that he’s found you as an adult, it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him.

A/N: I could write a term paper on all of Dabi’s pathologies in this fic...I forgot how much I love writing smutty angst. Good shit 👌

I was planning on making this a ficlet so it’s kinda structured like that even though it ended up a full-length piece. Also, Dabi says some bullshit about sex work that I absolutely do not agree with or condone so please keep that in mind.

➠ see also: [homeowners association]

Tags/warnings: Dabi victimizes you, noncon/dubcon, light yandere, threats, cheating, NTR kinda?, mentions of past sex work, degradation, rough sex (breath play, impact play, crying), mild violence, very brief mentions of past child abuse in the Todoroki household, sad stuff/angst idk lol, *Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood plays in the background*

Dabi would know you anywhere.

You’re different now, which makes sense. It’s been years. Your old uniform of raggedy denim and hand-me-down leather has been replaced with a prim linen dress, designer label at the collar. You used to dye your hair religiously (it was neon pink when he saw you last) but now it’s styled back to your natural shade, a color he only saw back then when your roots grew out. You smell good, expensive. It does take him a second to recognize you without smudged pencil eyeliner drawn under your eyes like in the old days, but once he catches your gaze the realization is immediate.

It’s you. You. You.

You recognize him too, but your reaction is different—shock, then panic; you tug the arm of the man at your side, urging him to walk faster so you can pass Dabi on the sidewalk. The rejection stings for a second, but he isn’t too surprised. You did abandon him, after all.

Dabi doesn’t let it bother him. You’re not going to get away that easy. He pulls you into conversation, grinning when you reluctantly introduce him to your companion (who is, apparently, your husband) as an old friend from school. You didn’t go to school—Dabi knows that, and you know that, but your husband doesn’t. Which means your husband isn’t aware of your sordid past as a runaway.

This is going to be fun.

Once he knows you’re in town, he doesn’t have much trouble finding you. Your husband is a very wealthy man, well-known in this city now that he’s moved here. So this is what you’ve been up to all these years? Shacking up with some ugly motherfucker who’s at least 20 years your senior because he can afford to dress you up in pretty things and take you on overseas vacations? Dabi has to admit, he wouldn’t have thought it of you. Back when he knew you, you were so sincere, such an idealist, even in your darkest nights.

Then again…you always were willing to get your hands dirty in exchange for a warm meal and a place to sleep. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.

Dabi comes to your house in the middle of the day when your husband’s at work and you’re stuck at home because that’s what you are now, a housewife. From a cocksucking whore to a pretty housewife with a dirty little secret. He’s getting hard just thinking about it as he watches your internal debate on whether to let him in or not. Eventually guilt wins out and you usher him inside, hoping the neighbors didn’t see a known villain lurking on your doorstep.

You make Dabi coffee (and aww, you remember exactly how he likes it). He gets you to talking, and you don’t seen surprised to learn about his current line of work; when he presses you, you admit that you’ve been following him in the news. Your life, in comparison, has been wholly uninteresting: you met a man, he proposed, and you married him. Very little has happened to you since. After a long silence you timidly apologize to Dabi for leaving him behind when you two were teenagers, and he tells you he understands.

He doesn’t forgive you.

Overall, things are good, he tells you. But you know, sometimes he misses the old days. Being on the run with you, stealing food from gas stations, breaking into fancy summer homes and pretending the two of you lived there. Stitching up each other’s cuts, because one of you had always gotten in a fight in the past few days. Sometimes he still has dreams about the smell of the balm you used on his fresh burns…and your cool hands, smoothing gently across the tender skin on his face, but he doesn’t say that.

You look down into your monogrammed coffee mug and tell him you know what he means.

When you turn your head like that, Dabi can see the tiny dots running up the side of your ear where your old piercings have scarred over from lack of use. Do you remember when he gave them to you? You did his first, running a needle through the lonely flame of your lighter (he offered to use his quirk, but it was still hard for him to control then so you declined) and then threading the metal through his ear. You promised it would only hurt for a second, and you were right, so he let you do the others.

Then you offered to let him do yours. Just one on each ear—you already had an impressive collection of piercings, but you wanted to let him return the favor, so he did. You were older and more experienced and had lived on the streets for longer, so when he held the needle in his hand and heard your voice saying you trusted him, it was the first time he ever thought of you as fragile, something delicate, something that he was capable of harming.

He chose twin helix piercings for you, cresting the shell of each ear, silver band rings to match his. When they were done you pulled him to a mirror and asked him what he thought. It hadn’t been long since he got the worst burns on his face (the ones under his eyes, wrapping around his chin and down his neck) and he was still getting used to the knowledge that the ugly, wrinkled scars were never going to heal. “I look like…” he started.

A monster. A freak. A victim.

“A badass,” you said. “You look fucking cool. Any asshole who wants to pick a fight with you will take one look and know you’ve been through worse shit than whatever they can dish out, and that’s something to be proud of.”

Now that Dabi thinks about it, he probably wanted you even then.

…But the longer he reminisces, the more nostalgia’s going to distract him. He came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to have coffee with you and talk about the good old days. What he’s about to take from you—what he’s about to make you give—is long overdue.

You’ve still got a little fight in you. Dabi likes that. But you’ve gone soft, filling out and losing muscle in places where you used to be lean and hard from the constant running and fighting of your old lifestyle. Besides, even if you were as strong as you’d been back then, he’d still be stronger than you—he’s a man now, and it’s incredible how small and weak you seem now that he can look at you as a man.

Were your punches always this light? No way…and your wrists couldn’t have always been this delicate. It’s really no trouble at all for him to wrestle you down to the couch and pin you there so he can tear off your stupid little housewife dress and tug your panties down past your ankles.

Once he’s got you fully naked, though, you pretty much give up trying to fight him off. It’s sad, really—like you’re remembering the past, remembering all the times you let other men hold you and fuck you just so you could have enough money to take yourself and Dabi to McDonalds for a few days. And now look, you’re plenty well-fed, but Dabi’s the one holding you down against your will. Funny how things change like that.

He does appreciate your submission, since it gives him the chance to get a decent look at you. The years have been kind—you look so much healthier than you used to. No more visible ribcage stretching out your skin; no more unhealthy pallor from going outside only at night. Your hands are as soft and manicured as if you’ve never done a day’s work in your life, a far cry from the bitten nails and bloody knuckles of your youth. It’s good to see you like this, and he lingers for a second, drinking in the sight of you and committing you to memory.

Dabi’s pictured this moment for years. He used to think he’d savor it, be sweet with you, slow and gentle to show you what you were missing with the trashy guys you used to hang out with. But now, hey—he’s the trashy one, he’s the one who wants to hurt you and own you and ruin you. May as well act like it.

Your husband doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?

You’re unbelievably tight for a former whore. Dabi can barely hold out when he first pushes into you, licking the tears off your cheeks when apparently it hurts too much for you to keep up a brave face. It takes real effort to fuck himself all the way into you, pushing past the tense squeeze of your muscles while you…well, you’re not exactly wet, but he’ll get you there. As soon as his hips are grinding up against yours, he’s hitching your legs up on his shoulders and pounding you into your stuffy antique couch so deeply that he thinks it might splinter into pieces underneath the two of you.

God, you’re so, so, tight. Dabi feels like a virgin with his cock buried inside you, biting his lip so he doesn’t cum in thirty seconds and thrusting into you with a rhythm that comes from nothing less than pure animal instinct. And you’re getting into it too. Can you tell that your pleading and begging him to get off you is turning into moaning? Can you feel your hips bucking weakly back against his, reverting to the position of the submissive bitch your body remembers even if your mind has tried to forget?

It’s perfect, right and good and perfect, everything Dabi’s been waiting for since he first knew what it was to want someone—no, not just someone. You. It’s always been you. A person never forgets their first love, right? It’s perfect, except—except you won’t look at him, you keep looking off to the side and sniffling, and that’s not going to cut it. So he slows down and wrenches your head back to center and makes you kiss him, sliding his tongue over yours and trying to see if he can feel the place where you used to have a piercing there, too. It’s kind of thrilling, actually—wondering whenever his face dips into yours if you’re going to bite him, if he’ll come back from you with blood in his mouth.

He’s only got to thumb over your clit a couple times before you’re clamping down on him, your body begging to be used and abused. Your husband hasn’t been treating you right, though Dabi doubts the old bastard can even get it up without a blue pill. Sure, you look like a sweet little doll, so darling and delicate and breakable, but Dabi knows you better than that. You’re strong, you can take it. He knows you want it rough, so that’s how he’ll give it to you—and hey, hey, he can feel your cunt quivering around him—you’re cumming, aren’t you? So you like it. You like it.

He knew he wasn’t going to last long before, but when you cum and tighten and squeal so high he thinks you could lose your voice, the tension in his abdomen rises up and he digs his fingers into your hips and—shit, you’re saying something, what are you saying? You’re pleading, begging him not to cum inside—but, ohhhhhh fuck he can’t help it, he can’t, he can’t, he’s cumming all the way deep into your tight little snatch, cockhead jutting up at your cervix, fucking his semen all the way through you until your slit is smeared white from top to bottom.

Stop crying. Dabi’s sick of hearing you cry.

You’re still pretty nimble, even though your current exercise regimen probably doesn’t extend beyond periodic jogs around your neighborhood and weekly pilates with all the other bored trophy wives. He’s kind of surprised when as soon as he lifts himself off of you, you have the strength to roll off the couch and scramble around on the floor for your clothing.

You don’t say anything, which he wasn’t expecting. You don’t scream at him, demand that he leave, or ask him how he could do this to you after everything the two of you went through together. You probably still think of yourself as an older sister when it comes to him.

When you’d first met the scarred kid trying and failing to live off the streets, you knew he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d known pain before, plenty of pain (icy-blue fire roasting the skin off his face—spiral fracture from callused hands twisting his arm behind his back—cold, aching muscles after what he thinks is the fifth hour spent locked in a closet), but he’d never known hunger. Hunger was a different kind of beast, one that would chew the kid up and spit him out and leave him broken if you didn’t take him under your wing, so you did.

It wasn’t like you had much of anything to spare, but you made it work. For a few years. He didn’t talk at first, but he took what you gave him, so you gave him what you could: food, if you had it; a place to sleep at night; the knowledge you’d gathered in your own years as a runaway on how he was supposed to survive in a world that didn’t care whether he lived or rotted away in a gutter. You cared.

Until you didn’t.

‘Going to be traveling alone for a while. Don’t wait for me. I’m sorry,’ your note had read. You left it in his backpack along with $43 in cash—not much, but he knew it was more than you could afford. It was all you had.

And now you have all of this! Don’t you feel lucky? You have the rich husband who barely looks at you, the big house with so many empty unused rooms it makes him sick, more food than you could possibly eat in one lifetime. All of that, and you also have Dabi’s semen leaking out of your cunt. It’s a real rags-to-riches story, he thinks.

Dabi picks a cigarette out of his jacket and you stop fixing up the buttons on your dress to ask him not to light it inside. How will you explain the smell to your husband? Every move you make, every syllable that comes out of your mouth, is weighed down by despair. You look like you’ve been beaten.

He lights the cigarette anyway.

///

Before he had you the first time, Dabi thought once would be enough. Pretty naive, huh?

He makes it his mission to fuck you in every room of your husband’s gluttonously enormous mansion (what with your history Dabi has a hard time thinking of the house as yours, and considering the way you tiptoe around and seem like you’re afraid to move so much as a vase, he suspects you feel the same). There’s a lot of rooms.

When he shows up at your door again you don’t even bother to hear him out, instead just trying to shut it on him, but he forces his way in. You wouldn’t want to make him mad, would you? Not when he’s got such a filthy secret hanging over your head? Will your husband keep paying for your designer shopping trips when he knows you’re a street rat who used to steal everything she wore? Will he still kiss you goodnight when Dabi tells him you used to wrap those pretty lips around strangers’ cocks for money?

If you want Dabi to keep quiet, you’re going to have to convince him the best way you know how. A cockwhore is a cockwhore. That’s not the kind of stain you get to wipe away with time and distance and expensive clothing.

In the kitchen: standing up, your back to his front and your hands barely holding you up on the counter, so hard and rough and deep that the dishes are rattling in the pantry. One of your teacups falls out of the glass china cabinet and shatters into a million fragments in a four foot radius over the tiled floor. Neither of you notice until after. Blunt red lines press themselves into the tops of your thighs where he’s shoving your body into the edge of the counter and there are bruises on your tits from how hard he’s groping you.

In the dining room: sitting on the edge of the table, one of your legs hiked up beside you and the other on a chair while Dabi kneels on the ground in front of you, his head between your thighs and his tongue flicking over your pussy. You start off thinking that you’re going to have to sanitize the entire mahogany surface before you can eat off it again and then he licks his lips and sucks on your throbbing clit and you don’t really think about anything else after that.

In your husband’s study: doggy-style on the floor in front of the fireplace, facedown, his body folded over yours, pressing you so deep into the tacky lion-skin rug that you can taste it. He sighs in your ear—actually, you’re not sure if it’s a sigh or a growl—and his hand comes up to cover yours. You feel the metal stitches and the rough burned skin scraping on your own and it reminds you that it’s him. It’s Dabi.

(A few days after his 13th birthday, the Dabi you used to know told you that he was going to dye his hair—he wanted to be unrecognizable, and you understood, so you found some old scissors and stole hair dye from the pharmacy and you spent three long hours chopping his hair into rough spikes and painting it black. When you washed the dye out of his hair in the sink, your hands were stained inky black too. When he saw, he looked worried and weaved his fingers in with yours and asked if the dye would hurt your skin if it stayed on too long.

And you looked back at this kid—small for his age then, burned by his own quirk, trying so hard to look older and tougher than any 13-year-old should have to be, and you thought to yourself, I would die for you.)

Now you hear Dabi growling out your name and squeezing your hand as he reaches his climax and you think, I would kill you if I could.

///

Dabi saves the master bedroom for last.

Your husband is hosting a party at your house. Dabi knows because you begged him not to come today, looking up at him with those doe-like eyes, offering things you never would have offered if it weren’t important to you that he stay away on this particular evening. But he still comes to crash it. He arrives just minutes before your husband does, and you have barely enough time to tuck him away on the dark bedroom balcony and pull the curtains closed before your husband is opening the door and greeting you.

Dabi settles himself into one of the tasteful Adirondack chairs on the balcony and listens to your voice, or at least what he can hear of it through the sliding glass door. You’re sweeter with your husband than you are with Dabi, and he should’ve known you’d be, but it still makes him hate your husband more than he already did.

On the other hand, there’s something strained and high and nervous in the way you’re speaking. Probably because your husband is standing about twenty feet away from the man you’re cheating on him with.

It takes a while for the two of you to dress for the party, but finally Dabi hears you tell your husband that you’d like to take a little longer to get ready and bid him goodbye. “Love you,” you say to the old man as he leaves the room, so casually Dabi might not have heard it if he wasn’t listening.

Then you’re opening the door and ushering him inside and telling him anxiously that he has to get out before anyone sees him. But, oh, you look nice like this, dolled up in your evening gown and makeup and diamonds, trying to pull him to the door even though you must know by now that he’s not going to leave it there. Instead of following, he backs you up onto the bed and peels down the straps of your dress and slides his hands up under the skirt, and all the while he can’t stop thinking about what you said to your husband.

You used to say that to Dabi.

The first time it was an accident—you’d mentioned it off-hand during a night when it was snowing and his unnaturally high body temperature was the only thing keeping the two of you alive. “God, I love you,” you’d said, draping your arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to share his heat.

It had stunned him and you could probably tell. Maybe the next few times were just you taking pity on a kid who had never been told so casually and so simply that he was loved. But eventually you meant it, the little love you’s before you went to sleep or when one of you went off to do something alone for a few days—a familial love borne of mutual reliance. For the years Dabi was a runaway with you, you were the only person he could trust, and he knows the feeling was mutual.

Now he wants you to tell him you love him again.

It would be hot, wouldn’t it? You telling Dabi you love him while he forces you into a mating press on the bed you share with your husband. Isn’t that hot? You’re never going to be able to sleep on these sheets again without remembering his hands on your body, his tongue in your mouth, his cock filling you in ways you haven’t been filled since you were 19.

How are you gonna lay next to your husband in this sad cold bed? ‘Cause that old fuck isn’t touching you, Dabi knows that much—if he was, he’d’ve noticed by now that you’re always covered in bite marks and hickeys that he didn’t give you. How are you gonna sleep at night knowing what a nasty slut you are, telling another man you love him?

So say it. Say you love him.

Oh, you’re going to be like that, aren’t you? What did he tell you about being a fucking brat when he’s talking to you? See if you’re still so defiant when he’s got his hand stroking the length of that pretty throat and then sealing down on it, squeezing gently on the veins running up the sides of your neck, not too hard, but enough that you’re probably getting a little dizzy while he continues to fuck into you. Does it hurt? Your face is turning pink. Uh-uh-uh, don’t try to pull his hand off, or he’ll show you just how good he is with his quirk these days.

You’re trying to choke out the words but you can’t quite make them make sense. There’s something endearing about the way your whimpers vibrate through the skin of Dabi’s palm, how he can hear you as well as feeling you. Oh—could you say his name too? He knows you’re feeling all fucked-out and wet and sloppy, every moan rising and falling in time with his cock stretching your pussy open, but can’t you give it a little more effort? He’s sure you can get his name out if you really try.

And if you’re not going to cooperate, Dabi may as well just dig the heel of his knuckle into your windpipe, because you really do tighten up so deliciously when you cough and sputter like that. Fuck, if you keep doing that, he’s going to cum, gonna cum right here in your syrupy pussy and spill it all over your marriage bed—but no, he wants to hear you say it first, so when you’re gagging and turning red and your eyes are watering he finally stops choking you, loosening his grip just enough that his hand is resting on your neck in a lover’s touch. It takes you a second and your voice is so hoarse he can barely hear it, but then you’re speaking and something jumps in his chest—

“I…I love—love y-you, Touya!” you sob. “I love you! I—love you, Touya—Touya—Touya—!”

And ah fuck it’s almost exactly right, your voice saying you love him, saying his real name, a name he hasn’t heard for years because you’re the only one who really knows it anymore—but you’re crying, real heavy sobs while you gulp in frantic lungfuls of oxygen. Your ribcage is heaving underneath him and—god, fuck—your guts are clenching, sucking down on every inch of his cock, every vein—

—oh shit fuck fuck he’s cumming, and he presses his face into your neck, into your hair, kissing you and thinking I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—

—please stay, forever.

///

When he’s done, he goes for another round just to make sure you’re going to have cum dripping down your thighs when you go back to the party. No panties, unless you want him to walk through the grand foyer with all the other guests on his way out.

You don’t look at him as you fix your dress and your hair and wipe at your smeared makeup. With your eyeliner rubbed down to the bottom of your eyes, Dabi’s reminded a little of how you used to look—and the reminder is doubled when you slide your legs across the side of the bed and limp over to your vanity, walking hesitantly, your hips rocking from side to side. Damn, did he fuck you that hard?

Reminds him of the old days, you shuffling back to the hideout with that same awkward pain in your gait, purple marks around your neck, and a dim smile decorating your face—for his sake. Oh, and cash in your pockets. You’d tell him that the two of you were going out to eat that night and refuse to let him look at the injuries. God, it made him angry, it still makes him angry just thinking about it—angry at the men who bought you for treating you like that, angry at you for letting them. Angry at himself for not being old enough or strong enough or rich enough to stop them.

Anger, yes…and other things too. There had been a sick, insidious part of him that wanted to be in their position. He’d hated himself for it back then, until you left and the desire to punish you for abandoning him got twisted up with the desire to own you and keep you his. Maybe if he let himself think about it, he’d still hate himself for what he’s doing to you.

By now, you’re too good at covering up the bruises. A sweep of foundation and powder passes over each hickey he left on your throat and it’s like he never touched you. You have to push him off the bed so you can strip the sheets and replace them. When you’re done, you tell him to wait a few minutes after you leave to sneak out the back and he makes another half-joke about joining the party and introducing himself to your old man—

—and you shove him up against the wall with all the strength left in you, wrap your hand around his neck, and dig your fingernails under the line of piercings in his cheek. If he even looks at your husband, if he even thinks about it, you’ll rip his goddamn face open, you tell him in a low snarl.

It’s an empty threat (you and he both know who would win in a physical altercation) but there’s real hatred behind it. Dabi hasn’t seen that kind of fire in your eyes since he found out you became a trophy wife. It makes him want to have you again so he does, pulling your arms away from his face, standing and holding you up against the door to your bedroom, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him to keep from falling.

He’s lubed up by his own cum, and the wet squelching of your pussy just reminds him what a mess you’re going to be when you return to high society tonight. Maybe your husband will be able to smell it on you—the cum, the sex, the other man who’s been keeping his darling wife warm while he’s at work.

Well, probably not. If that stupid fucking cuckold hasn’t figured it out by now, there’s not much of a chance he’ll get it on his own. As Dabi sinks into your tight, gummy cunt again, he decides that he might just have to help the process along. A man deserves to know if his wife is being unfaithful, right?

///

Your husband’s office phone number is written on a post-it note that’s tacked to the desk of his study. It takes Dabi 40 minutes and $30 to buy a burner cell phone, leave a message on the man’s voicemail, and toss the burner in the kitchen trash at your house while you’re in the shower.

The message is short and straightforward. Dabi introduces himself as ‘the man who’s sleeping with your wife’, describes the floor plan of your husband’s house and what position he fucked you in for each room, and finally finishes it off with the evidence—the precise size and location of every hickey he’s left on your body that will still be visible by the time your husband returns from work.

Dabi almost wishes your husband had picked up the call—he’d’ve had a good time explaining in pornographic detail the way your tits look under those too-formal dresses, the way you moan when you cum in his mouth, the way you told him you loved him while he choked you out—with your husband in the house, no less. But this is fine too.

Besides, it’ll be so fucking funny if someone else at your husband’s company hears the message before he does.

///

Whore. Your husband called you a whore.

You’ve been called a whore a lot, actually. More than most people. You should be used to it by now. But it’s different when your husband says it. Your husband, the man who rescued you from a life of poverty and starvation, the man who has given you everything you own, the man who slid a ring onto your finger under a wedding arch and promised to love you in good times and in bad. The man you’ve almost convinced yourself you love back.

He called you a whore and slapped you when you tried to explain yourself and shoved you out the door and locked it. You can still hear his voice telling you the only place he wants to see your face again is in a casket.

So that’s why when Dabi comes to collect you, you’re hugging your knees to your chest on your front porch in your shiny lace-edged slip nightdress, hair in a mess around your head and your lip bleeding onto your chin. Your feet are so cold—your husband didn’t even give you time to put shoes on before he threw you out.

The night is cool and dark but the porch light buzzes on for half a minute when Dabi climbs up the steps to come crouch next to you on the doorstep. You try not to look at him, but he tilts your face toward his, electric-blue eyes skimming over the red mark and blue-black discoloration blossoming across your cheekbone; the blood drying on your split lip.

Dabi asks calmly if your husband hit you, and you nod.

Good, he tells you, and his body lights up blue in a roiling cloud of flames. He’s been waiting for an excuse to kill that old fuck.

The fire is like lightning, bright and ghostly in the darkness. The crackling of the flame eats away at the heavy silence of the night and you crawl back from the dry heat of it, sure you can feel your eyebrows singeing from being near. Dabi looks different backed by the inferno—bigger, crueler. Frightening. He reaches at the door but you shout at him to stop.

Why? Don’t you think he should suffer, after what he did to you?

But your fists clench by your sides and you set your teeth and you tell Dabi that if he’s going to kill your husband, he may as well set himself on fire too, because it’s his fault in the first place. And he’s done a lot worse to you than one slap.

Dabi waits a moment, searching your alarmed expression for something, but whatever he’s hoping for you don’t give him and the flames go out. The air smells like smoke and his hands are hot—not burning, but uncomfortably hot—when he kneels in front of you and rubs a thumb over your bruised cheek.

“(Y/N)—” Dabi starts, and then he can’t find a way to finish. So he just gathers you up in his arms and carries you bridal-style down into the lawn and to the driveway, where he’s got a car waiting to take you guys back to his place. You don’t resist, which surprises him again. He thought you’d push away at him, scream, get angry—he thought he’d have to convince you. Or force you, like he usually does. But you just let him deposit you in the seat next to the driver’s.

Before he gets in, he asks you if you need anything from your house. He can go get it for you. See if any balding motherfucker in his forties can stop him. But you just shake your head.

“There’s nothing,” you say blankly. “I have nothing. I…have nothing.”

Just like back then.

“Not nothing,” Dabi tells you, turning forward to the road so you can’t see the look on his face. “You have me.”

///

In the end, he does understand. He understood it the second he held that goodbye note in his hands and knew you were lost to him.

You were 17 when you met him and 19 when you left—hardly older than a child yourself. You barely had enough to provide for your own needs, much less a teenage boy’s. By the time you left, Dabi was more than capable of surviving on his own and already falling into ugly crowds, gangs and syndicates who saw money in his quirk, people you’d sacrificed a lot to keep him away from. He no longer needed you, and it was time for you two to go your separate ways. Dabi understands that.

But now you need him. Just like you needed him when you were fucking strangers for food money; like you needed him when you ran away; like you needed him when you got trapped in this mundane, sparkling-clean life, a life that was never going to fit you. Only this time—this time, Dabi’s old enough for you. He’s not a kid anymore, he’s a man. He’s got an apartment and a good job (well, kind of) and he’s got money. He can provide for you the way you’ve always needed him to.

Dabi’s going to take care of you, and you’re never, ever going to leave.

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viscountessevie · 3 years

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Beckett Begins

Masterlist | My AO3 A/N: Hello, everyone! I know it's been a minute since I've written for this blog and truth is I got burnt out with school but now I'm back with a piece that is incredibly close to my heart. This ficlet is centred on Sophie and a love letter for those discovering themselves and who they are outside of the usual societal norms with a side of Benophie fluff. I won't say more because I don't want to spoil the surprise.

Also shoutout to @sharmasandcorgis and @missfairygodmother for hearing out my ideas and it was so fun bouncing ideas off each other! And @pensbridgrton for getting me on board the Theo/Ben train and the Trans!Sophie agenda which inspired me to make Trans!Theo an old boyfriend of Ben's.

Happy reading everyone! I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it!!

Ships: Benophie, Past!Grenville/Benedict, Past!Theo/Benedict

[FCs: Elliott Page as Trans!Theo and Ian Alexander as Sophie]

Benedict wasn't picky when it comes to dating - he has dated them all since he was 16. Men, women and everyone in between. However there's only three times Benedict would ever say he was in love - or at least thought so for the first two times. #1: It's debatable whether this person would be his first love considering the original power dynamics. As a junior in college, Benedict applied to be a Art History TA for one Professor Henry Grenville. Professor Grenville served as Benedict's mentor all the way to graduation. A couple of years later, once Benedict was settled into the postgraduate program, did they reconnect. It was a whirlwind romance that all the summer romance songs could be written about. As we all know, winds merely breeze through for a period of time and eventually dies down. As did their romance. ~~~ #2: In his mid twenties, Benedict was able to secure a day job as a museum curator to get his foot in into the art world and potentially get exposure for his own art works down the line. That's when he met Theo Sharpe, a graphic designer and the Musuem's Head of Marketing. Or rather re-met him. Benedict had known Theo under a different name and gender. Theo had quite the laugh when it finally registered to Benedict they had been acquaintances in high school. Eventually, they realised they had different priorities in life and parted ways amicably. They still are friends today.

~~~ #3: She might be the third person he's fallen for but in his heart, Sophie Beckett will always be first. His great forever love. Anyone who knows them knows how they met. Sophie was new to town and was searching for temp jobs in the local newspaper when she saw an ad for an au pair placed by one Mrs. Kate Bridgerton-Sharma. After the first interview and meeting the children who loved her, Sophie quickly became a part of the Bridgerton-Sharma family unit. Benedict met her a few weeks later when visiting his nephews and nieces. The rest as they say is history. We all know that story, this isn't that story. Benedict has known all his life he would date anyone regardless of gender so he didn't bat an eye when the love of his life came out to him as non-binary. ~~~ Sophie Beckett never really thought about their gender. They have always felt like they had followed society's expectations for what it meant to be a woman or a feminine person. Not to mention they were too busy trying to find a way out of their stepmother's guardianship, to even think about who they were. But now after all these years, they were happy and healthy. Safe with Benedict and were able to explore themselves. They remember the moment it dawned on them that they realised they didn't quite align with being a woman. They were watching a couple of YouTube videos and one of their favourite content creator was talking about how they realized they were non-binary. In that moment, it clicked for them. Hearing another non-binary person talking about their experience contextualised their own experience. They hated how Araminta would have to force them into dresses when they preferred something more neutral. Or how they were shamed by Posy for wanting their hair just a little too short and 'boyish' at times. Every choice they ever wanted to make with their appearance was shamed and their femininity felt so performative and exhausting. They wanted to exist without labels and binaries. They were too busy trying to get out of their situation with Araminta that it never occurred them that they could fall outside of the binary scale. Until now. And the next step was telling Benedict. For some reason, they were nervous. Fiddling with their fingers, their voice was shaky. They knew Benedict was bi, but still was unsure how he would take it. "Ben, I think I might be non-binary." He looked up casually from his painting, "That's great, love. What are your pronouns?" "Can we try out they/them? I've always just felt neutral and indifferent to she/he." "Sure. How do you like the sound of this; Sophie is the best person ever. They are the love of my life." He declares it proudly. It was amazing to them how one change of pronouns could do wonders to affirm their gender. Although Sophie...it didn't quite fit anymore. It was lovely name but just wasn't theirs any no longer. It felt like a relic of the unhappy times in their life before the Bridgertons. He catches them frowning and raises any eyebrow, "What's wrong, love?" "Sophie...it doesn't feel like me. There's a lot of pain attached to it." "Maybe we can find you a new one?" He pulls out his phone and starts tapping away. He sets down his painting and crosses the room to go sit next to them. The two of them spend the afternoon scrolling through names and testing them out. They mentioned wanting to keep an S name, just a little small part of their old self. So they looked through the S section of gender neutral names. "Sabin? Sy? Sydnee?" "I like them but they aren't quite fitting." "Maybe another initial letter?" Benedict ponders out loud. They consider it. They took a few days to ponder on it. They looked through their memory box of various momentos they managed to save before leaving her stepfamily behind. While shifting through the things, they found a picture of their mother. Running their fingers across the photo, they are struck by how much they looked like their mother. No wonder Father never acknowledged them. Then just like that, it came to them. Beckett. Their only connection to a mother they

never knew but still missed and loved. They immediately went to call Benedict. "Benny, I think I've found it!" He knew what exactly what they were talking about. "Ooh, pray tell what is it, dear?" "Beck."

#Bridgerton #Bridgerton fanfiction #Benophie #Sophie Beckett #Or should I say Beck #Beck Bridgerton #Benedict Bridgerton #Theo Sharpe #Trans!Theo Sharpe #Henry Grenville #Bridgerton Modern AU #Non Binary!Sophie #NB!Sophie

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babbushka · 4 years

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Because we’ve been talking about it and because it’s a favorite mood, how about some agressive, possessive, scary Flip busting the heads of some deserving creeps for sinday? If you feel like it of course! Angry/winding down smut is always fun if you’re in the mood too! 💗

Anonymous said: Omg from the kink list can you please write something with Flip and the following kinks? Or any of them? Possessive. Marking. Size kink. Public sex. I’m excited for sinday! Thank you for hosting it! 🖤

(2.3k, Young!Flip & his girl and just dating in this ficlet! cw: mentioned harassment, graphic descriptions of violence. NSFW: possessive behavior, marking, PIV)

Rain pours down hard and heavy on the roof of the CSPD, as Flip and Jimmy hang around the station late at night. They’re rookies, so they get the worst fuckin’ shifts, but at the very least things aren’t too busy at an hour like this. Their shift is just about over as a matter of fact, they even changed out of their uniforms and are about to walk out of the station when the phone rings.

Officially off duty, Flip and Jimmy play around for a couple seconds debating between the two of them who is going to pick up, and on the fourth ring, Flip answers it with a tired, “Officer Zimmerman speaking.”

He isn’t too sure what he’s expecting, but hearing the cold shiver of your voice shuddering through the phone sure as shit isn’t it.

��Flip? Honey it’s me – can you come get me?” You sound terrified, and cold, and scared – and Flip’s blood freezes in his veins.

Jimmy can sense something is wrong too, just from the way Flip goes deathly still, listening to the surroundings and trying to make out where you’re calling him from. The rain sounds so loud, he knows you’re not at home.

“What’s the matter? Where are you?” He demands, suddenly frantic, rushing around to grab everything he needs to get the fuck out of there and get over to you.

“At the payphone on the corner of Johnson and 8th. Please can you just come get me?” You sniffle, and Flip sees spots, rage blinding him.

“Stay right there, you hear me? Don’t leave, Jimmy is going to stay on the line with you.” He doesn’t say anything to his friend, just shoves the phone into his hand and races to his car.

It takes less than five minutes for him to speed through the nearly empty streets, holding his breath along the way. His thumbs rap against the steering wheel anxiously, conjuring up all sorts of horrifying things that could’ve happened to you. When he pulls to the curb on the corner of Johnson and 8th, and sees you cold and alone in that little payphone, he tries his best not to scream.

You race to the side of his car and get settled in the passenger seat, letting out a breath that you had been holding too as you cry a little into your hands.

“What happened?” Flip asks, voice moving too quick, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay I – ”

“Who did what to you?” He demands, making sure you’re buckled in sweetly and kissing you on the cheek, cranking the heat so the cold doesn’t settle into your wet clothes.

Flip peals out onto the pavement again, practically flooring it, not even really knowing where he’s taking you, just wanting to take you somewhere safe.

“You know the fella that lives across the street? Tommy? The nice fella who always helped cut the lawn?” You hiccup.

“Yeah?” Flip’s jaw is clenched so tight he’s sure it’s going to snap, white-knuckle grip on the wheel.

“I was walking home from the store and he pulled up and asked if I wanted a ride, because it’s late and was about to rain.” Your voice wobbles around the story, and somewhere in the back of his head, Flip is relieved that you’re yourself enough to tell a whole story. You never did get straight to the point, it’s one of the things he loved about you.

“Yeah?” He encourages anyway, letting the sound of your voice, wobbly though it may be, soothe his frazzled nerves.

“So I said yes but then he started to touch me and I said to stop, he didn’t stop, he grabbed me so I hit him and he hit me back and then he pushed me out of the car.” Your voice cracks on that, and there go Flip’s nerves.

Like he’s gunning for the coca-cola 500, Flip tears through the streets and blows through every red light, keeping one hand in yours the whole time. It isn’t long before he pulls up to your neighborhood, your house just a few blocks away from his own. The porchlight is off, meaning your parents aren’t home yet.

Across the street, Tommy’s porchlight is on.

“Ketsl why don’t you go inside, wash those tears off your face.” Flip says, his voice dangerously calm.

“’Kay. Love you.” You kiss his cheek, the tears mostly stopped.

“Love you too, I’ll be right in.” He taps the underside of your chin with his finger, and waits for you to get all the way inside your house, door closed behind you, before he gets out of his car.

Hidden in the glove-compartment is a small pistol, not one that’s issued by the CSPD or anything, just a small something that he bought a couple years ago just in case of an emergency. He doesn’t think twice about taking it and sticking it in the waistband of his trousers, and walks across the street in the pouring rain, to Tommy’s house.

Flip had been dating you for a couple months now, and he’s picked you up and dropped you off more times than he could count. He recognizes Tommy’s car in the driveway, and is glad that it’s the only one there, as he cracks the joints in his neck and rings the doorbell.

A moment or two goes by before the shitbag himself answers, his perfectly parted blonde hair backlit by the overhead light behind him. Flip also happens to notice the black-eye he’s sporting, and knows that must have been from you.

Tommy eyes Flip up and down, recognizing him too.

“What the fuck do you want – ow! Hey! Fuck!” Tommy doesn’t get very far before Flip has pulled out the gun from his waist, and cracks him across the face with it.

On the first hit, Tommy crumples to the ground, hands up, defensive, trying to shield his face, but Flip doesn’t let up. He pistol whips this sonofabitch again and again and again, until his blood is spraying all across Flip’s knuckles, until his nose crunches under the force of Flip’s beating.

The sound of metal hitting skull and rain hitting pavement fills Flip’s ears, and he gives Tommy a harsh kick to the gut for good measure. The man’s perfectly parted hair is now soaked with water from the front step, water that washes away his blood.

Flip grabs him by the shirt collar and holds him level with his own face, looking him straight in the eye and threatening – no, promising, “I swear on my fucking mother if you ever touch her again you’re dead.”

With that, he drops Tommy, and the man scrambles back inside, shutting the door to nurse his wounds in private. Flip licks across his teeth, and lets out a deep breath, feeling good. Flip walks across the street once again, back to your house.

You’re waiting there, at the door, just on the other side of the screen, moonlight reflecting in your eyes.

“Can I come in?” Flip asks softly, “Or do you want to be alone?”

“Please stay with me.” Your answer is immediate, and it fills Flip with relief. He doesn’t ever want to do anything that would scare you or make you uncomfortable, and he’s just now realizing that this is the first time he’s ever gotten into a fight in front of you. He doesn’t know how you’ll react, and he’s worried, worried that you might think he’s no good for you now.

You open the door wider for him, and he slips inside where it’s nice and warm, the familiar surroundings of your living room calming him down.

“Did you see…?” He gestures with his thumb behind him.

“I saw.” You nod, standing in the living room with your arms wrapped around yourself.

“Are you angry?” Flip tries not to sound too afraid of the idea, but still, the fear is there.

“Are you kidding?” You frown, shaking your head at once, and then letting out a bit of an unexpected laugh, “To tell you the truth…seeing you so strong and protective like that? It turned me on.”

Oh…oh! Flip hadn’t thought of that as a possibility until you say it, and suddenly all his fears have vanished. He looks at you, and you look at him, and then you’re smiling real wide, despite it all.

“Yeah?” Flip takes a step towards you, and then another step, until you meet him and close the distance between your bodies with your arms thrown around his neck, your mouth crashing onto his.

Immediately, Flip shucks off his jacket and begins trying to peel you out of your clothing, which is real fucking difficult because everything is so wet. You kiss him, tongues sliding against one another, lips sucking and biting at one another as you pant pant pant, lust and love and possessive desire curling around in Flip’s bones.

“Take me to your room?” Flip asks, and you nod, half dressed and leading him up the stairs.

By the time you get up there, you’re naked and Flip’s not too far behind. You bring him to the bed eagerly, desperately, falling backwards onto the mattress with a big smile, the kind of smile that makes Flip just have to kiss you – so he does.

“Fuck me,” You moan, shuffling underneath him and spreading your legs for him, Flip fitting perfectly in the space between them, “Please?”

He’d never say no to you, not to his girl, so he pushes a few fingers into your pussy to see if you’re stretched enough to take him, and though it’ll be a tight fit, he doesn’t want to waste any more time. So, slowly, he pushes the head of his cock through your folds and feels your body swallow him down, cunt clenching and fluttering as he rocks himself deeper deeper deeper into you.

“Shit,” Flip groans, the hot tight wet clutch of your cunt making him almost drool, as he begins to build up a thrusting rhythm, “Shit you’re so good.”

You laugh at that, one of your legs winding around his hips, the ball of your foot digging into his lower back and keeping him there. You kiss him as he fucks you, something sturdy and steady – just like him.

Flip sucks marks into your flesh, all across your shoulders, your chest, even one onto your neck. He marks you up, a possessive clingy sort of desperate energy. The world is going to know you’re cared for, taken care of, and that he’s the man that’s doing the best fucking job at it. It makes Flip’s blood fucking boil thinking about creeps like Tommy, creeps who think they can push you around or ignore your wishes, disrespecting you. Flip stakes his claim on you, but only because you’ve told him he can. You told him, and he wants the world to know it.

“A little faster? Just a – yes! Yes just like that!” You encourage him, “God that’s good Flip, you fuck me so well.”

The praise goes straight to his cock, throbbing and aching inside of you. Flip continues to carry his markings down onto your chest, licking and sucking at your nipples, burying his face in the cleavage there to bite and kiss at your skin. He breathes you in and fucks you deep, his hips pushing you up up up the mattress with the effort, the strength of it.

“Can I come in you?” Flip asks, panting and groaning and grunting against your lips, watching as bruises begin to bloom under your flesh.

“Yes!” You shout, eager and so in love, and that’s what does it for him.

“Shit – ” He groans low in his throat as he crosses over the edge, orgasm washing over him as he comes and comes inside the heat of your cunt.

You’re not far behind, because Flip doesn’t let up even though he’s come, he wants to take you there too.

A moment or two later you’re following after him, yoru body tensing up before melting beneath him, your leg sliding off from around his hip, a big moaning sigh pouring out of your mouth.

“I’m proud of you, you know.” Flip says afterwards, clutching you to his chest. He’s got a cigarette lit and is smoking it to calm himself down, but he takes it out from between his lips for a little while to press kisses to the top of your head.

“What for?” You’re tired, orgasm lulling you into a post-glow sleep, which is probably for the best considering the clock is about to chime two.

“For hitting him. I saw the shiner you gave him.” He rubs a soothing hand up and down your arm, and you snuggle further against him with a little sigh.

“Are you going to get in trouble with work?” You whisper nervously, something that Flip hadn’t even thought about until just that moment.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. All that matters now is that you’re safe.” He dismisses that fear, and you just nod.

He thinks you’ve gone to sleep, and shuts his eyes against the dark too. He lets out a sigh of his own, pinches out the cigarette and tugs the covers up over your shoulder so you don’t get cold.

“Flip?” You mumble, voice small from being so tired.

“Yeah honey-bunny?” Flip whispers, hugging you to his chest.

“Thank you.” You whisper back, pressing a kiss to the strong pec you’re not using as a pillow, and he smiles, reassuring you now and always that he’d do:

“Anything for my girl.”

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

Taggin some friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @mousemakingjam @materialisthicc @slut-for-harri @littleevilme13 @erys-targaryen @leillaa @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @miabelay11

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman/reader #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman/you #flip zimmerman smut #flip zimmerman imagine #flip zimmerman fanfic #adam driver fanfic #adcu #my writing

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aethersea · 4 years

Note

May I request 41 - First Kiss and 94 - Hair Brushing/Braiding for the Leverage OT3, please? (Also extra bonus points if you give Eliot beads in his hair like in The Ice Man Job, because we didn't get NEARLY enough of that in the show) Thank you!

I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing out and then never published it. I’m so sorry, it’s been at least twenty-four years since you sent in this ask, please accept my humble apologies and also this ficlet.

However, this prompt is just pure fluff, and I hate to tell you this but I am not a fluff writer. I just can’t pull off that unadulterated sweetness. I am in this fandom for the shenanigans, first, last and foremost! So this fic is now a 5+1 of Eliot and Parker trying to seduce Hardison.

1. Parker thinks they need to give him gifts, so she goes through her stash and picks out the largest, fanciest jewel she’s ever stolen. Then she realizes: Hardison likes stories. He spends hours giving their aliases histories and pets and allergies and favorite foods, he can get a whole sordid history of jealousy and betrayal from a single corporate email chain, and Parker knows for a cold fact that he writes little stories with his online friends about being wizards together.

She goes through her stash again and picks out the most cursed thing she’s ever stolen.

It’s a jeweled statuette, almost as tall as her forearm, made of gold and studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mysterious deaths have befallen five separate owners of this thing. Its base is dented from the time it was used to bludgeon Owner Number Three to death. The tiny rubies it has for eyes follow you across the room.

Parker puts a bow on it and leaves it in Hardison’s room while he’s sleeping. He wakes up to this horrible little statue watching him from his bedside table.

He texts the group chat, Hey did anyone put an evil little gold guy in my bedroom last night? But Parker chickens out and says nothing (drunkenly betting Eliot that she can seduce Hardison is one thing, but admitting that she likes him is something else altogether). Everyone else texts back variations on “nope.” (Except Sophie, who just sends back a string of heart eyes emojis and a wikipedia link. She loves cursed artifacts.) So Hardison puts the statue away in a closet somewhere and figures he’ll deal with it later.

Parker is mildly offended that he put her gift in a closet. She goes into his room the next night and puts it back on the bedside table, where it clearly belongs.

This goes on for a week. Hardison puts the statue in a desk drawer, then in one of the cabinets in the office downstairs, then in the dumpster down the street. Every day he wakes up to those glittering red eyes watching him sleep. He’s asked his internet buddies if anyone knows a good exorcist. Hardison doesn’t really believe in curses, but also? What the fuck. What the fuck.

2. Eliot assumes the drunken bet will be forgotten by morning. What kind of world would it be if people always followed through on promises they made while they could barely stay vertical? So he spends the morning nursing his hangover and cleaning his knives. Cleaning guns is no good while hungover—all the snaps and clicks of popping things in and out of place sound like actual gunfire when you’re hungover, it’s a nightmare—but knives are quiet and have no moving parts. Buffing and polishing them is soothingly repetitive work, and every once in a while he can throw one at one of the dartboards on the walls and reassure himself that his reflexes are still sound even after that much tequila.

It’s only when he gets Hardison’s text about the golden statuette that magically appeared in his room overnight that Eliot realizes Parker’s actually going for it. After some internal debate about whether he’s going to stoop to this or not, Eliot decides what the hell and starts making plans.

Eliot agrees that gifts are the way to go, but not stolen gifts. Not things. Anyone can give a thing. Proper wooing is about giving experiences.

Eliot plans for three days. On the fourth day, he and Hardison have their irregularly scheduled monthly coffee date, and Eliot texts him beforehand to say he wants to do it at the brewpub this time. Hardison arrives to find a deceptively simple meal: basic country fare perfected through years of experimentation, made with the best ingredients Eliot can get his hands on. And Eliot, after all, is still a retrieval specialist. There’s very little in the world he can’t get his hands on.

And yet the night ends and somehow he has not gotten his hands on Hardison.

This is just not right. Eliot knows how to deploy a smolder, okay, Tangled reference aside he is damn good at flirting and he knows the looks he’s giving Hardison are clear as day. It’d be one thing if Hardison had turned him down, or if he’d been uneasily unwilling, or even if his eyes had widened slightly in suppressed panic and he’d abruptly found a reason to leave. Eliot can take rejection, bet or no, and he’d have bowed out graciously without a fuss. But this was much, much worse.

Hardison didn’t even notice he was flirting.

He’s going to have to up his game.

3. “How do you seduce people?” Parker asks bluntly, turning up at Sophie’s door just past midnight.

Sophie, despite the hour, is utterly delighted by the question.

This goes as well as you would expect.

4. Eliot’s taken a lot of dates to sports games. Hardison may prefer sparkly elves with purple lightning magic to a decent MMA fight, but baseball is the American pastime. Eliot gets them perfect seats, hot dogs from the best vendor in the stadium, even chilled beer that he smuggles in without letting it get warm. It’s going to be a perfect game.

And it is. At first. Hardison, it turns out, has a lot of opinions about baseball. What he does not have is an understanding of the rules. They’re not even into the second inning by the time Eliot finally snaps and starts arguing with him about it.

They make it all the way to the fifth inning before Eliot realizes that Hardison’s basing his complaints off the rules of a game from a Star Wars novel.

They’re at the bottom of the eighth before Eliot will speak to him again.

5. Eliot and Parker are drunk again. This is not intentional. They didn’t even mean to come to this bar, but the smoothie place with the fried oreos that Eliot had brought Parker here to try was playing such incredibly bad music that they’d ordered the oreos to go and fled. The bar was just the coziest looking place on the block, and of course they’d ordered drinks to avoid being rude––Eliot had entertained himself for a few minutes scouring the menu for something that would pair well with fried oreos and popcorn chicken.

And now they’re drunk. The conversation has, perhaps inevitably, turned to the ongoing bet.

“I tried everything!” Parker wails. “I laughed at every joke, I touched my hair constantly, I got him talking about things he likes.” She thunks her forehead on the bar. “All that happened is now I know the complete history of orcs in western literature.”

“Hardison wouldn’t know flirting if it pinched him on the ass,” Eliot grumbles.

Parker slaps his arm. “No pinching Hardison!”

“I’m not going to—I don’t pinch people!”

Parker’s ignoring him. Eliot pouts and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not entirely sure what this one is––it’s blue and kind of fizzy, that’s all he can say for sure. Parker took over the drinks menu several glasses ago, and she’s been picking them based on what has the most fun name to say. Eliot’s pretty sure the alcohol content’s been doubling with each order.

“Eliot,” Parker slurs, “we need to work together.”

“What?”

Parker lifts her head from the bar and frowns at him, the way she does when she’s figured out the obvious solution and is just waiting for everyone else to get on the same page. It’s adorable. It’s always adorable, but right now her eyes are wide and slightly unfocused from the alcohol and she’s listing sideways a little, almost as if she’s unbalanced, and it is the most adorable thing Eliot has ever seen. Parker’s never unbalanced, but some part of Eliot’s fuzzy brain thinks she’s about to fall on top of him and cannot wait to catch her.

“You can’t seduce Hardison,” Parker points out. Eliot is drunk enough to get offended by this, but too drunk to get out a complaint before she continues, “I can’t seduce Hardison. But if we work together, the two of us can definitely seduce Hardison. Together.”

Eliot stares at her. Then he takes another sip of his fizzy blue drink. Later, when questioned, he will blame his next words on that drink.

“Worth a shot.”

They take Hardison to a movie. They research for three weeks beforehand. They find the best movie theater in town, with the nicest seats, the biggest screens, and concession snacks that Hardison likes, and they buy tickets for the midnight premiere of the superhero movie that Hardison hasn’t shut up about for the past month. Parker even hacks into the theater’s computers in a last-minute fit of nerves and cross-references the credit cards with drivers’ licenses to make sure the people sitting in front of them won’t be too tall.

Parker witnesses a kidnapping in the parking lot while the boys are getting popcorn. They don’t even stay long enough to catch the commercials.

+ 1. “Hey Eliot,” Hardison says during movie night, a little over a week later. “Remember the Ice Man Job?”

Eliot groans. “I try not to.”

Hardison throws a piece of popcorn at his face. “Shut up. Remember how you did your hair for that one? With the little—those little beads on, like, a braid?”

Eliot shoots Hardison a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Teach me how to do that.”

Eliot shoots Hardison another, more deliberate look, this one pointedly directed at Hardison’s complete lack of braidable locks.

Hardison rolls his eyes as if that’s a silly detail to get hung up on and leans forward to dig around in one of the boxes he has under his coffee table. He emerges with a ziplock bag of plastic beads in no time flat and hands it triumphantly to Eliot. Then he yanks a few cushions out from behind Parker, who’s sitting on his other side, and puts them on the floor in front of him. “Sit here?” he asks Parker, patting the cushion pile.

Parker takes a moment to consider being offended at having her cushions stolen, but curiosity gets the better of her and she just plops down between Hardison’s legs, grabbing the bowl of popcorn as she goes, and waits.

Hardison lifts her hair with sudden gentleness, drawing it over her shoulders and letting it fall down her back in a golden wave. His fingers brush against her neck. Parker shivers. Eliot is distantly aware that he’s gone perfectly still, focused with a hunter’s intensity on Hardison’s dark, graceful fingers carding through Parker’s hair.

Hardison leans back, hands on his knees, and Eliot breathes again. “Well?” Hardison looks over at Eliot, a tiny smirk of challenge on his lips. “Show me how it’s done.”

Eliot is suddenly, brutally aware of how close they are. Hardison’s couch is obscenely comfortable, which is half the reason movie nights are at Hardison’s in the first place, but it is not large. Their thighs are touching. Hardison leans away, to give Eliot access to Parker’s hair, and he’s still so close that Eliot would barely have to reach out a hand to—

Eliot ruthlessly shoves that thought down into the dark where it belongs. He dealt with this, he dealt with this years ago, and accepting Parker’s stupid bet doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the way Hardison and Parker look at each other. It just means he doesn’t mind losing for a good cause.

So he keeps his tone steady and his fingers brisk as he shows Hardison how to braid the clunky plastic beads into Parker’s hair, and if he flushes with heat when their hands brush each other, well, nobody has to know. He’s been trained to withstand eight different schools of torture. It won’t show on his face. His voice never once falters.

Parker has had no such training. Her lips have parted, and her breathing is shallow. She’s staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Hardison can’t see her face, sitting behind her, but Eliot watches her carefully, worried that they need to call this off. Parker’s not used to intimacy, to closeness that means something, and for all the three of them have spent half their movie nights literally on top of each other, this is something else. This has weight.

Eliot puts a hand on her shoulder, pressing down just enough that Parker startles and cants a glance over at him. Eliot raises his eyebrows in question, and Parker glares back: don’t you fucking dare. Eliot backs off. Hardison, frowning in concentration as he threads a wisp of Parker’s hair through a green bead, graciously pretends he didn’t see the exchange.

Hardison gets the hang of the beading fairly quickly, and Eliot shows him a few different techniques. He’s almost managed to convince himself that nothing is actually happening when Hardison says, conversationally, “You two are really bad at this.”

Eliot glowers his confusion. “At movie night? You started this, if you wanted to actually watch Alien then you shouldn’t have—”

Hardison’s smile is soft, but Eliot decides for his own safety to focus on the laughter at its edge. “No, at this.” And then he slides his hand onto Parker’s neck, caresses her cheek, and isn’t the slightest bit surprised when she gasps.

Parker whips around, and there’s hurt on her face but it dies in the glow of Hardison’s gentle, unteasing smile. Hardison pulls her up with the lightest of touches, and she goes, eyes fixed on his like salvation.

They kiss sweet and slow, and Eliot’s heart twists in his chest and he can’t breathe. He needs to leave now before he shatters in half, but if he moves then they will look at him, and he would rather never breathe again than meet their eyes right now.

Hardison breaks off the kiss, gazing at Parker with something just this side of wonder, and then he does look at Eliot. Eliot flinches. He opens his mouth to…say something, make some joke or hasty excuse and scramble out the door, but Hardison raises a hand to Eliot’s face, slides his long fingers to cup Eliot’s neck, and pulls him forward, as gently as he did Parker.

It’s a chaste kiss, no more than a soft press of lips, because Eliot is too stunned to respond and Hardison doesn’t push. It lasts a long time. A whole era of change happens in the span of that kiss, as everything Eliot thought he knew tears out of place and then settles, gingerly, into a new understanding.

Hardison pulls away, his hand still warm on the back of Eliot’s neck. His smile is pure sunshine. Eliot finds himself smiling back, helpless.

Hardison’s grin turns smug. “And that,” he says, looking between Eliot and Parker, “is how you do it. Y’all are disasters, honestly, I can’t believe two master criminals working together couldn’t manage a single real date—”

Eliot heaves a deep sigh and drags Hardison into a headlock, pinning his arms when he flails. Parker surges to her knees and starts tickling him mercilessly.

They don’t finish the movie.

#finx writes #I didn't quite get Eliot's hair in there but I hope this works anyway #leverage #leverage fic #leverage ot3

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gothamsglam · 4 years

Text

Can I have Your Name? (a SamBucky ficlet)

for @samshield hope you enjoy 😘

(also on ao3 under @/the_fifth_marauder101)

---

“Thanks, can I have your name?” asked Bucky with a charming smile on his face, pulling out a sharpie. However, instead of writing on an empty class as the poor customer thought, he scribbled down “Tony” on one of those ‘Hello, my name is…’ stickers.

“That’s a wonderful name by the way,” Bucky compliments, because fck you Steve, he can be polite.

He fcking told Steve going into customer service was a great idea. Idiot wanted to continue doing door to door shit, or, even worse, mope around forests for wandering travelers. He told him it wasn’t the 1400s anymore, and to grow up. Damn the supernatural council and their ‘hunt in pairs’ rule, he will go rouge and leave Stevie, he will do it.

“I’m this close,” Bucky had hissed, holding his fingers in the air so Stevie could see,

“Your fingers are touching,” Steve deadpanned.

“Exactly.”

The man doesn’t look up from his flurry of typing, “Thank you, it’s a family name.”

“Sure,” Bucky replies quietly “Alright, your order will be right out,” Bucky grinned, replacing his name tag with the new one without looking away from the brown-haired customer. The second the tag sticks to his shirt, he feels a refreshing rush of energy. Kind of like what he imagines those ‘caffeine/sugar rush’ those damn teens keep harping about.

“Thank y—” The customer—Tony—looks up from his phone to flash him a grin, only to have it fall from his face when he sees the name tag.

This was the fun part. Bucky didn’t break eye contact, maintaining it with the same smile, only now he could tell it felt eerie to the human. Like something wasn’t right.

The man’s brown eyes flitted up and down between Bucky’s face and the name tag, before he surged forward, “What di—”

“Have a good day,” Bucky bit out, still keeping the smile and cheery customer service tone. His eyes were blank, he made sure of it. Honestly, this whole song and dance was unnecessary. Stevie usually just wrote the name tags, and then stuck them on as he was making the drinks. Their shop was typically slow enough that there wouldn’t be people behind to question why the tender had a new name. But Bucky loved to fck with humans. What the hell else was he supposed to do? He’s been alive for 70 generations, let him have his fun.

However, today was a bit different. Another two walked into the shop, Bucky didn’t see it as much as he felt it. Bucky kept his back turned, hollering “Welcome to Stars and Stripes, I’ll be with you in just a moment,” over his shoulder as he made the three drinks. What asshole ordered three drinks?

Bucky’s question was answered when he saw the two men walk over to Tony’s table. One of them kissed Tony on the cheek and the other just faux-gagged before giving Tony a hug as well. Bucky called out the order, eyes tracking the way Tony mumbled something to the two men and both reacted oddly, as they probably should. Bucky would expect no less.

Apparently, he jinxed himself, because the man who hugged Tony came to pick up the drinks.

“Nice name,” said the man.

“Thanks,” Bucky flashed his uncanny valley smile and offered nothing else. The man winked and then walked back to the table.

Bucky did not look at his ass, he didn’t.

---

The next day, the man comes in. Not Tony, but other guy. The cute one.

“Hi my name’s Jacob, how may I help you today?” Bucky asks politely.

The man, to his credit, didn’t bat an eyelash, “Hi I’ll have three—” And he rattled off the same order that Tony had. Bucky resisted the urge to frown, maybe it was just a two-time thing? This group has only come into their shop once before, what are the odds of it happening again, for a third time?

“Perfect,” Bucky slid the receipt across the counter, “Can I have your name?” Bucky asked, as he reached for a pen.

“Nope,” the man replied.

Bucky froze in his moments, “What?”

The man shrugged, face showing nothing but politeness, “I’m the only person in this store, you’ll be able to find me.”

Bucky was stunned as he watched him walk back to the spot the trio was in the other day. As he sat down, the man gave a nod of acknowledgment to Bucky, who was still staring.

His brown—almost hazelnut with the light of the sun—eyes stared into Bucky’s own, and in them all he saw was mischief.

Fck.

---

For the next two days, Bucky kept a—subtle, he wasn’t obsessed or anything—watch out for Tony or The Man. And for those two days, he didn’t see hide or hair of them. Bucky figured they must have been college students from nearby campuses, wandering in when Starbucks was too full, which happens often enough. Then on the third day, he returned.

“Hey, Jacob” greeted The Man, his smile so bright—so bright that Nat would have burned like she does under the sun and threaten to bite the man in the jugular. Bucky, who was too gobsmacked to even deliver his customer service opening, stared at him.

“Not Jacob,” Bucky said, his voice strangled.

The Man chuckled, his eyes sparkling with the same look from the first day he ordered, “Ok ‘Not Jacob’, may I have—” And repeated the same order from the last two times.

“Um, right, uh” Bucky stammered, face growing hot as The Man raised an eyebrow at him smugly, “Can I have your name?”

“Put Redwing,” The Man said, shrugging. The corner of his lips pulled upwards into a happy smirk—how can a person have a fcking happy smirk?—, not that Bucky was only looking at his lips or anything.

“Redwing?” Bucky asked, stupidly. Because why ask, idiot, why ask for clarification? He read somewhere that the psyche is powerful enough to make the body do things, like fake pregnancies. Whether that’s something only reserved to humans is up for debate, but maybe, if Bucky doesn’t ask and lives in blissful ignorance, he can feed off of a fake name. But no, because he’s a bloody fool, he asked.

“It’s my pet’s name,” The Man answered, then looked tilted his head, giving a sheepish smile, “Or at least, that’s what I want to name a pet, I don’t have one.”

“Right,” Said Bucky, suddenly feeling empty in ways that have nothing to do with hunger, “Your order will be right out.”

Their conversation was longer than normal, so when the man went to sit down, the couple came in moments afterward. All three sat in the same place as before.

‘Oh no,’ Bucky thought in dawning horror, ‘Regulars.’

---

“Falcon,” grins The Man, now foregoing any attempts to be subtle and simply being a little shit.

Bucky looked at him, face void of any amusement. At this point, he’s shucked the polite customer service voice and snarked back and forth with the regular like there’s no tomorrow—only in this situation, there is a tomorrow, there always is tomorrow.

Their staring contest probably goes on for a bit too long, judging by the way Tony and his boyfriend—Bucky can feel comfortable calling the two a couple, based on how disgustingly affectionate the two get in the cafe—walk in.

The Man flashed a smile and turned away to greet the couple. An audible ‘Rhodey!’ reached Bucky’s ears. Now, finally, he has a name for one of the dark-skinned men, the one who kissed Tony’s cheek and was currently walking in with said Tony, arm around his shoulders. Only Bucky doesn’t feel that familiar warmth pool in his gut, refreshing his energy levels.

‘Oh,’ Bucky thinks, and watches as the man—his regular—laughs with his friends but also how his eyes flit back to peek at Bucky as names are spoken. ‘oh, loopholes.’

Bucky is so screwed.

---

The names his regular gives become increasingly goofy, and Steve teases him about how flirty they get—Bucky absolutely didn’t have a favorite, and it absolutely wasn’t Angel. But Bucky only believed Stevie when he got a number instead of a random moniker.

“What?” Bucky short-circuited.

The man just sighed, “Come on, I gave you my number, work with me here.”

“You finally did it, huh, Sam?” Tony called out from where he was typing away on his computer, which rested on Rhodey’s legs. Rhodey, who was sprawled out in one of their chairs, nudged Tony with his foot, “Shush, let them have this.”

‘Sam,’ Bucky thinks, and all he can come up with in his blue screened mind is, ‘Perfect’.

In his phone, the name Sam’s contact is under is ‘Angel’.

Steve heckles.

---

“How did you know, Angel?”

Sam looks at Bucky, and Bucky’s struck into silence, The whole world falls around them in muted sounds and lights fade into balls of blurry color, because as they lock gazes all Bucky can notice is Sam’s eyes. Sam’s eyes—his wonderful, soul-deep eyes that shine with mischief and laughter, that glow so bright and rival the heavens when the sunlight reflects off it just so—are sad.

“My friend,” Sam says quietly, “Riley. He was one of yours.”

Bucky nods, and reaches out with his metal hand—an injury from decades ago and a gift from a shapeshifter who hissed that his debt was repaired before slithering off into the night—pulling Sam closer to him. They watch the sun go down from the top of the roof, the stars revealed one by one, twinkling against the darkness of the dusk.

---

(One day, Bucky will ask for Sam’s name again, specifically his last name. Only then, will Sam reply honestly.)

---

AN: This is a more bastardized version of faeries/fae, I just made up my own creature for what Bucky and Steve are. Simply because I just wanted to write a little ficlet about SamBucky and didn’t do much research. Don’t think too hard about it :)

(and the link to the Tik Tok I saw on tumblr that inspired this is also linked on my ao3 fic)

Hope you enjoyed!

-vix

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thisbluespirit · 3 years

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Fic Writer Tag Game

I was tagged to do this by @allegoriesinmediasres but it had already gone round Dreamwidth this last week, so I did it there. I’ll try and c+p it over here, too!

1) How many works do you have on AO3? 620 (but I've been writing a lot of short things since around 2006-7, and there might even still be a couple of the 1994-98 fic from the newsgroups up). 2) What’s your total AO3 word count? 1,476,147 (but this does include about 300,000 words of origfic for RaTs and rainbowfic that are collected into three works, so it doesn't affect the works no too much, but it does affect the wordcount.) 3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? Too many to list here! A lot. *nods* 4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos? People, it's still Miss Marple. Maybe one day it won't be Miss Marple, but today is not that day. (ETA: whenever i do my top AO3 fic on these memes, it’s disproportionately Miss Marple. I am bemused.) Miss Marple: The Spirit of St Mary Mead So We Meet at Last Not Miss Marple: it's the rain that will strengthen your soul (SW Prequels) Five Times the Doctor Got in the Way of Captain Janeway (and One Time They Got Along Just Fine) (DW/ST) By the Book (Origfic) (Oh, wow, By the Book keeps moving up. It must get recced sometimes, somewhere, mustn't it? 0_o ♥) 5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not? Yes. Fanfic is a lot my way of being social, which is why I don't get along with the new push-button web much. Like, kudos is fine, ok, but I just wanted to talk to people, and via fic always seems to be one of the nicest ways to do it. 6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? Oh, I don't know. I like being bleak sometimes when I feel like it. It might be the EatD one with the two Generals, but honestly there were a few in my mid-illness old bleak telly watching years, and the Level 7 one or the one from Children of the Damned might be even more so? Or some S&S stuff, too? I mean, I wrote S&S plane crash fic and weird drabbles. (I blame my fandoms! It's not my fault! *innocent*) Also I keep doing Clara splinter fic, so I keep killing Clara and it's always sadder than I expect when I get there. You'd think I'd learn by now, or just not kill this splinter, but, nooo, hey, how about MORE Clara splinter death, self? /o\ Oh, no, wait: it's probably Spooks! Spooks is also bleak and how about my tiny ficlet of death, Litany of the Fallen? Oh, actually, if I listen to people who aren't me, it's that B7 Avon/Servalan one, which I was always a bit: BUT I WROTE ONE WHERE THEY WON about it and everyone else was all THIS IS THE WORST in the comments. Sorry? The Quality of Mercy (Is Most Definitely Strained) (I still think the ending of Compendium is more angsty! It has double death!) (Ok, it's me. I like being bleak and angsty when I'm doing it. I'm less sure when someone else is doing it at me, of course. ;-p) 7) What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? I honestly don't know. I'm usually kind of gen and happy and sometimes even humorous, and keep canon's tone, and DW is fairly light most of the time. I tried searching on Happy, but I have never tagged anything as happy. But probably it is an AAL! thing, because AAL! is happiness in b&w TV form basically. Maybe of Of Human Bondage (or Five Times Adam and His Friends Found Themselves All Tied Up)? But I like all the AAL! ones I wrote for Yuletide, because they were the ones where I tried to be closest to an episode, and that makes them the most fun to re-read. 8) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written? I have a crossover in my top 5, so yes. I'm a DW fan; crossovers are just far too obvious a temptation when you've got a TARDIS. What DW fic writer hasn't managed at least one once somewhere? And I might have, um, written a lot of them. (AO3 says 126). I did once, way back in newsnet times, when we were having a debate over what you could and couldn't cross DW over with (and I was on Team You Can Cross It With Anything You Cowards), write a DW/Rainbow drabble. But I don't think I put that on AO3. I think it might be on Teaspoon. In AO3 works, I think by far the silliest is the Baldrick/Steed one, which AstroGirl said I couldn't write. (It was an Unconventional Courtship summary, not that they randomly dared me to write Baldrick/Steed. I mean, some of my flist totally would have done if they'd thought of it, but not in this case.) 9) Have you ever received hate on a fic? Not really. I've had some weird comments, but the nearest I've come to hate was one of the comments that time I tried to write Swan Queen fic and it wasn't happy enough for people. (I wrote a happy one after, but the ifrst one was set quite early, Regina was still kind of evil!) 10) Do you write smut? If so what kind? Alas, no. Although, ish, if we count my experimental elemental shipping phase, which included The Cornfield (Silver/Steel/(Sapphire)), which is the only time anyone called any of my fic sexy. I would totally have that comment made into a medal or something. 11) Have you ever had a fic stolen? Other than the random scraping things that have gone round over the years, no. 12) Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! Several people have been kind enough to do this, usually into Russian, and usually (but not always!) Miss Marple. 13) Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes, and no - in adwc days we all co-authored round robins, which were a blast and highly frustrating. I think it'd be fun, but barring the odd bit of drabble tennis with various flisters back in the day, it's not really something that's worked out. (I'm thinking, I could have all the ideas, they could do all the writing, I could criticise?? XD) 14) What’s your all time favorite ship? My Relationships count is very misleading here, because I think it actually is (including in terms of things written for it), Sapphire/Silver/Steel, but it's a weird thing, so sometimes I tag it platonically, and sometimes I don't necessarily tag it at all for that reason, and also I think it puts people off unnecessarily. (But it's a Lie when I don't tag it. All my Sapphire & Silver & Steel is inherently OT3 even if no one else can see it.) 15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? None. I have unposted WIPs, but I do hope to finish those, and the only posted WIP is a very old one only on Teaspoon that was begun before I was ill and I can't even really say at this point that I would want to finish it. 16) What are your writing strengths? Character/dialogue, I think? I am actually not that bad at plot, but currently I lack the stamina for long things. I like to think I can be quite funny when I'm in the mood. 17) What are your writing weaknesses? Description, action. Argh. Yes, let's just talk some more, okay? 18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I was going to say I would never, but actually I did! I wrote Y Gwyll | Hinterland fic, and it wouldn't be right not to have some Welsh in that. However, while I may be a 1/4 Welsh and know some Welsh words, I don't actually speak it, so I had to turn to Llywela who was very kind and translated the sentences I needed. (I added the English translation in the footnote.) This was the fic, but basically language is important in canon (ironically maybe even more so in the Eng-lang version I watched than the original Welsh), and so it was also important in the fic. So, probably if it was a canon where it was required, then I would do what I could to get help to get it right? The good thing about the internet is that you can usually find someone, although usefully for me, I already knew someone. 19) What was the first fandom you wrote for? Doctor Who! 20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? I'm going to wimp out on this along with everyone else. Although... if any of you have a fave fic of mine, that would be very cool to hear! (But I don't expect anyone to.) Sometimes I'm pleased enough with the latest to feel it's that, but that's not always the case, and it isn't currently. (No, offence, Latest Works! I like you, it just only happens once in a while, usually when I've managed something I've wanted to do for years.)

I won’t tag anyone, because I know lots of people also did this on Dreamwidth, but it’s always VERY cool to see people’s answers to these things and memes are for stealing.

#fanfic #writing #memes #writing meme #ao3 #fannish nonsense #long post #rambling about fic #replies #allegoriesinmediasres #the c+p worked even with the links!#\o/

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