#this conversation needs to happen EXACTLY like this though

[doeidawn]

☁︎ — see you next saturday

a night at the bar turns interesting when a masked stranger crosses your path. he's far from approachable, but something about him draws you in until you're coming to the bar every weekend just to see him. he's enigmatic and exciting—exactly what you needed to interrupt the monotony of life. 11.2k

⟢ pairing: ghost x f!reader

⟢ tags: MDNI/18+; author is american and apologizes in advance—this probably isn't how bars in the UK are, sorry; ghost is unnamed for 95% of the fic but it pays off; alcohol consumption (no one gets drunk, it's just some sipping); awkward first meeting; slow-burn??? idk sex doesn't happen til the very end; implied size difference; biker!ghost; semi-public sex; fingering; table sex; praise; unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it); oral sex [m receiving]; facial

Another excited cheer from the table behind you tells you that one of the football teams on screen has scored. Though you couldn’t care less about the game, you catch a glance at the television hung on the wall near the bar to watch the score rise. Aside from sipping on the same drink and watching people filter in and out all night, you didn’t have anything better to do, anyway.

A night out at the bar probably wasn’t the most efficient use of your time, or your money, but after a week of grueling work and the ever-increasing stress of life, it felt nice to ignore everything for a while. As long as you didn’t drink enough to hate yourself the next morning, who were you to deny yourself some fun? Well, as fun as watching drunk people mingle could be. A cheap local bar wouldn’t give way for much excitement.

You were almost thankful for that. The wrong kind of excitement only would’ve added to the weight on your shoulders. Yet, a part of you still yearned for something more than the monotony of asking the bartender for another round while your eyes scanned the crowds. Only two drinks in and already you were practically praying for an interesting face to look your way and add something that resembled anticipation to your life.

You set your glass down on the bartop with a sigh. Another cheer comes from your left, drawing your attention towards the table of patrons with their eyes glued to the television wearing their excited smiles. It’s only a momentary glance, but with your head turned in their direction, you notice the first interesting face you’ve seen all night.

Rather, it was the lack of his face that drew you in. Just a few seats down the bar stood a tall man, dressed head to toe in dark clothing, sliding an empty glass toward the bartender. Perhaps the most notable thing about him is how his hood sits on his head and a mask covers the bottom half of his face. Is that skull print on the fabric?

Whoever he was, he didn’t seem too keen on letting other people know. Part of you was surprised he was even allowed to be served. To say he looked suspicious would be putting it mildly. 

But there was something about him that caught your attention and wouldn’t let go. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the air of mystery that clung to him, or maybe it was your desperate need for excitement. At this point, you couldn’t quite tell what the reason was, but his presence was magnetic. 

His head turns slightly to look up at the television mounted near the bar. For a split second, you thought he had noticed you somehow. You don’t know why it affected you enough to make your heart leap into your throat, but it was enough to make you stop staring out of fear you’d come off rude.

Your leg bounces nervously on the barstool, itching to walk you over to him. But, Christ, you’ve been out of the game for a while, and you have to assume his…unique sense of attire was to wade off any unwanted conversation. What would you even say to a guy like that? Compliments aren’t easy when you can’t see any part of the man’s face. 

Your fingertips run over the edge of your glass and you can’t help but bring your eyes back over to him. Still focused on the game. 

“What’s with the mask?” The words leave your mouth before you can give them a second thought. You regret it almost immediately, hoping that maybe between the music and the surrounding conversations that he couldn’t hear you. 

There’s a slow turn of his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours, but instead of curiosity you find nothing but a piercing gaze that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s hard to tell in the dim light of the bar, but you swear his gaze moves over you before he turns his attention to the bartender.

Bummer. Well, it was worth a shot…even if you think you’ll have to order another drink to prevent yourself from cringing on the memory later. 

You huff another sigh and swirl your drink, watching the liquid move in the glass. If nothing else, at least you got a good night of people-watching and paid enough attention to the game to know what your coworkers will talk about on Monday. The next sip burns your throat as you swallow. 

“Tactical advantage.” A baritone voice—suddenly very close to you—comes from your left and startles you, making you jump in your seat. 

Your eyes dart to the side, wide in panic, meeting a masked face looking down at you. You curse under your breath, unsure whether it’s appropriate to feel relieved.

“Pardon..?”

“You asked about the mask,” the man gestures vaguely towards his fabric-covered face as he moves to sit on the barstool next to you. The old material groans under his weight. “Tactical advantage.” 

You couldn’t help but continue to stare at him. You could tell he was a bigger guy from far away, but, Jesus, he was even bigger up close. Not just tall, but his shoulders were broad and his hands practically dwarfed the glass he was holding. He was, objectively, terrifying.

Yet, you couldn’t help but smile at his simple, concise words. “Yeah? And what advantage is that?”

“To hide my face.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt at comedy. “Well, I coulda guessed that.”

“You asked.” He looks over at you and instead of the piercing gaze from before, there’s something much warmer in his eyes. You wish you could see if he had a smug smile to accompany his words. 

“That I did.” You take another sip of your drink, hoping it’ll continue to keep your nerves settled. “So why d’you wanna hide your face?”

He’s silent for a moment, looking down at the bar as he folds his arms and leans against it. You faintly hear him sigh before he shrugs his shoulders. “No need to show it.”

“Gotta be hard to drink with a mask, no?”

“Not if you lift it up.”

“Or you could just…take it off.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“‘Cause then I’d get to see what you look like.”

His eyes—you make a mental note of the deep brown color they are—narrow at that. “Oh, I dunno if you want that.”

“I think I do.”

The stool beneath him creaks with his weight as he sits up, straightening his back and reminding you just how tall he is. His chest expands against his hoodie in another deep breath. “Determined, aren’t you?”

Another smile creeps its way onto your face. “C’mon, I’m curious.” You want to lean in, to tease him with your proximity, but you withhold yourself.

Those blond eyebrows that peek out from the rim of his balaclava raise slightly. His eyes move over you in a movement he doesn’t seem to bother being subtle about. Though the gesture makes your heart skip a beat, his silence is deafening.

“Alright, alright,” you concede, hands up in defeat. “I get it. No face.” He makes an affirmative sound at that.

“Smart girl.” He says it so fast, a one-off comment that told you to not bother pressing him for any more information, but something about it makes your breath catch in your throat. 

You have to look down at your drink when you feel your cheeks grow warm. Even though it was nearly gone, you certainly didn’t have enough liquid courage to flirt openly. You wanted to ask his name, to ask where he’s from—what if he lived close by?—but if he wasn’t even willing to show you his face at the bar, you knew the chances were slim. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him shift in his seat again. He digs in his pocket, pulls out his phone, and barely looks at it before he starts to stand. Was he leaving already? Why?

“Where you goin’?” You ask before you can really think about why you cared so much.

“M’needed elsewhere.” 

Blunt, simple, and vague. That seemed to be how he operated. 

“Oh, a popular guy, are you?”

“You could say that.” Your eyes follow him as he moves, but he doesn’t look your way when he stands. Christ, he was a big lad. 

“You didn’t even touch your drink.”

“It’s not mine.” He moves the full glass down the bar until it clinks against your own. It’s then you notice it’s the same color as your drink. Same glass, same serving. Did he really buy you a drink?

“Have a nice night.” You look back at him to see his eyes meeting yours. Maybe it was the last drink still swimming in your system, but you weren’t able to form the words to respond. “Get home safe, yeah?”

And with a nod of your head, he weaved his way through the room until he was out of your line of sight. Despite his size, he was easy to lose in the crowd. You turn back to the bartop and stare at the two glasses. The one on the left—the one he’d bought for you—was invitingly full.

You reach out, fingertips skimming the rim before you bring the glass to your lips. It was the same drink you always ordered when you went out—your favorite. Only somehow it tastes sweeter on your tongue this time.

You’ve never made it a habit to go out and drink. As stressful as life could get, it just wasn’t an outlet you ever turned towards. It was expensive as hell, and you weren’t stupid enough to ignore how much it sucked to be hungover. 

But despite that, you found yourself back in that same barstool when the weekend came around. And for the first time, it wasn’t because of the overpriced liquor.

Only a few sips into your first drink of the night and you were already looking around in hopes that you’d find a skull-patterned mask looking back at you. Desperately you tried to tune out the chatter of people around you, hoping you’d be able to pick out his voice. Maybe it was stupid. It was definitely wishful thinking. 

For all you knew, he wasn’t even in town anymore; you figured he probably wasn’t the type of guy to stick around one place for very long. And, hell, he left so abruptly last time, who’s to say he’d even want to see you again? You hated the tightness that built in your chest at the thought of that. 

Well, you might as well enjoy your drink since you’re here. You tried to pay attention to whatever sport was on the television this time, tried scrolling on your phone, but nothing held your attention. Every sip of your drink tempted you to house the entire bar. But you didn’t figure yourself that pathetic. Still, you were pathetic enough to keep looking over at the entrance, hoping you’d see that tall figure slinking through groups of people.

But you never do.

Fuck. It was stupid to hope anyway. You curse yourself under your breath, rubbing at your temples like it’ll help clear your head. With a huff and a sigh, you finish the last of your drink. It doesn’t taste as sweet as it did last time. You’re more disappointed than you wanted to allow yourself to be.

You decided rather quickly that you’d rather mope and feel sorry for yourself in the comfort of your own home. It wasn’t worth wasting money on another lonely drink.

There’s a chill breeze outside that cuts through you, making you shiver as soon as you walk out the door. You cross your arms, trying to preserve some body heat, as you make your way down the pavement. A still-lingering part of you doesn’t want to leave but your legs don’t stop carrying you further away.

You eventually come to a stop, leaning against a light post as you dig out your phone. Even though you’re supposed to be looking up the rideshare to get you back home, you can’t help but look around last time. You think yourself too desperate for your own good until you see a tall figure just a few steps away.

Standing next to a motorcycle that you can only assume is his, the hooded figure drops a cigarette to the ground, his boot grinding against the pavement to stomp it out. You thought it might be too good to be true, but then he turns just enough for you to see him pull that skull-patterned balaclava back over his mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice you—a fact you quickly want to remedy.

“Hey, big guy,” you call out to him, the nickname a subconscious one you immediately cringe at yourself for. Fucking ‘big guy’? Yeah, that’s not gonna go over well.

But it certainly gets his attention. His head turns in your direction, if only barely. He does a double-take before stopping in his tracks and staring back at you. You have to hope and pray that he doesn’t think you’re crazy as you walk over to him. Luckily, he didn’t move away from your advances. Instead, he turns towards you as if to welcome your approach, dark eyes raking over you in that same conspicuous motion.

It’s when you’re face-to-face with him—well, more like mask-to-face—that you realize you didn’t quite know what to say. You were too sober to be making a fool of yourself like this. After an awkward beat of silence of you taking in once more just how tall he was compared to you, you finally manage to conjure up something.

“I just wanted to say…thank you for buying me a drink the other night. I…I appreciated that.”

“Course.” You’d almost forgotten the gruff sound of his baritone voice. “You leavin’ already?”

You hesitate for a moment, a lie stewing on the tip of your tongue. No, no, I was just hanging out in the cold, what a coincidence, right? How much you wanted to spend time with a man you barely knew was almost pathetic. You resign the thought with a sigh. “Sorry, you’re too late. I already had all my fun.”

“What, waitin’ f’me?” 

You didn’t know if he was just confident or if he somehow truly knew that was what you were doing. Either way, it made you feel like he could see right through you, like he knew you found him interesting. “Maybe I was hopin’ you’d come by.” You bite your lip, gaze hitting the ground before looking back up at him. “You were the most entertaining thing at that bar.”

He takes in a deep breath at that. “M’sorry I missed it.” Yeah, me too. “Can you get yourself home?”

“Yeah. Well, a rideshare can.”

“How ‘bout I take you home?”

The suggestion makes your heart skip a beat, staring up at him, frozen and probably looking half-crazed. The rational part of your brain was sounding every possible alarm. Why would you ever trust a man you met in a bar who never takes off his mask to take you home unless you had a death wish? And yet the winning part of your brain was the one that was extremely curious about his implication.

“Ah, take a bloke I barely know back home? How drunk d’you think I am?”

He looks over you again in a beat of silence. “You aren’t. That’s why I’m askin’.” Knowing he didn’t want to take advantage of you eased some of the lingering anxiety in the back of your mind. But, as if he could sense that anxiety, he continued, “You don’t gotta let me in, I jus’ wanna make sure you’re safe. I’m cheaper than a rideshare, anyway.”

“Well, can’t beat that, I suppose.” You move around him to approach his parked motorcycle. You didn’t have to know much about bikes to realize it was a nice one. Sleek, but not flashy. Your fingers glide over the leather of the seat as you eye the streetlights reflecting off of the shiny black body. “I’ve never been on a bike. People say they’re dangerous.”

“They can be, if you don’t know what you’re doin’.” You hadn’t noticed how close he was—moving as silent as ever—hovering just behind you as he grabs the helmet strapped securely to the bike. Holding it out towards you, he gives you a nudge. “Here.”

You take the helmet, holding it carefully like you’re afraid to leave your fingerprints all over it. You could already tell it’d be too big, but the consideration was nice. “I trust you know what you’re doin’, then?”

“Most of the time.”

Well, wasn’t he quite the comedian.

You slot the helmet over your head with a roll of your eyes. As you guessed, it was certainly too big, tilting forward over your brow and obscuring your view. A bitterly sweet smell floods your senses as you clasp it in place; you can only assume it’s his sweat, mixed with a faint air of tobacco, embedded into the foam lining.

A heavy hand rests on the side of the helmet, holding it steady while he slides the visor up. His head tilts as those dark eyes of his greet you. “Bit big on you, innit?”

“Yeah, just a li’l.”

“How far we goin’?” You should have been a little hesitant before telling him your address, but you don’t even stutter. He spoke like he had to know, like ordering people around was what he did for a living. An affirmative hum comes from behind his mask as he slides the visor back down. “You’ll be alright.”

You struggle to balance both yourself and the helmet long enough to swing your leg over the seat. You were thankful that the helmet obscured your face to shield some of the embarrassment, at least. Then you feel that same heavy palm on the small of your back, trying to keep you steady, only to make your body tense up. The helmet swings lazily on your head as you finally straddle the seat.

Once you’re situated, after asking if you’re comfortable, he slides his hand off of you. He has no problem getting himself sat, taking up the front half of the seat as he slots in the space before you. He turns his head and, though you have to lift your head awkwardly to see him through the visor, you hear his voice say, “Hold on tight. Can’t have you fallin’ off.”

What, did he plan on speeding out of here? Hesitantly, your hands find purchase on his waist. It was gentle, barely enough pressure to feel his hoodie under your fingertips, let alone his body underneath.

You think you hear him scoff. “I’m sure you’re stronger than that.” His fingers wrap around your wrists, guiding your hands forward until they rest on his chest. The movement shortens the gap of space between your bodies as your arms hover awkwardly around him. “I promise you won’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re afraid of. C’mon, tighter than that.” You strengthen your hold, closing the distance between your chest and his back, practically hugging him. “Atta girl.”

Your face heats up at that, and you were thankful the helmet obscured the sheepish smile that had painted itself on your face. 

The engine suddenly roars to life, loud enough to surprise you. The power behind it vibrates through the leather seat and seeps easily through the padding of the helmet. Though his takeoff was as smooth as it could’ve been, it didn’t stop you from tightening your hold around his body. 

The cityscape passes by in a blur of vibrant lights and towering buildings. The hum of the motorcycle’s engine overpowers the surrounding cars, echoing off of the asphalt and thrumming a rhythmic hum during the ride. The already-cool night air bites at your skin as it whips past. 

Though you have no reason to, you find yourself gripping him tighter on every take-off after a stop. And despite the chill on your skin, you felt the heat rise to your face as you realized you could feel how rigid and tough he was under that hoodie. 

There was a thrill, you realized, that ran through you and made your heart race. Not only because you were on a bike for the first time, but because of how close you were to the man in front of you. Holding on tight to a stranger whose name you didn’t know so he could bring you home safely sounded like something out of a novel. The smell of him embedded in his helmet and filling your senses, your body close to absorb some of his heat, the pure generosity of even offering to drive you home: everything made you want to abandon all self-respect and invite him in when you arrived.

The internal battle you fought over that distracted you for the rest of the ride.

You could barely see out of the helmet without cocking your head awkwardly, but you could tell when the trip was nearing its end. A pit formed in your stomach—a part of you unwilling to let the ride end just yet. It wasn’t until he slowed down enough to pick out your building that you realized how difficult it was to see over his broad shoulders. With a point and a nudge in the right direction, you guided him to your stop.

He pulls the bike up to the pavement before parking it. The sounds of the neighborhood replace the monotonous hum of the engine as he turns it off. Your movements are hesitant as your hands slide off his body, something you quickly regret and hope he hadn’t noticed. He helps you off the bike just as he had helped you on, reminding you of his gentle touch, thankful yet again for the helmet obscuring your shy smile.

You don’t ignore the sense of disappointment you feel knowing that he has to leave. Just taking off the helmet was enough to make you miss him and ache for something more, even when he stood right by you on the pavement. You knew it was strange to feel close to a man you barely knew, but he gave you more comfort than most. He made you feel intrigued in a way no one else did. 

“So,” you start, dreading the awkward silence, “do I get to know the name of my chauffeur?”

He pauses for a moment of consideration. Your heart beats faster, something akin to excitement making you hope for an answer. Finally, he looks up from the pavement. “Maybe next time.”

Initially, you felt more disappointed than you wanted to allow yourself to be. Surely his name was the one thing he could give up? But then you find yourself clinging on to that phrase. Maybe next time…Did he expect a ‘next time’? Should you expect a ‘next time’?

As you walked up to your door, he didn’t follow, staying true to his words from earlier. He kept a respectable distance to not crowd you, as if he didn’t want to make you nervous. If only he knew everything about him made you overthink your every move.

There’s a beat of silence when you grab your keys. An invite inside sits on the tip of your tongue, fighting with the rational part of your brain, consequences be damned. But his voice beats you to the punch as he breaks another long and empty silence.

“So d’you go and drink every Saturday?”

Your fingers toy with the keys in your hand as you debate your answer. “No, I don’t,” you admit after a beat of silence.

He hums a deep sound that you can’t quite identify the emotion behind. “So just a coincidence, then?”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, while fighting your sheepish smile, you look back at him. 

“Thanks for takin’ me home.”

“‘Course.”

“Maybe next time you should drink with me.”

Your heart pounds in your chest when the words leave your mouth. Eagerness didn’t seem like such a shameful thing anymore. Not when you were sharing body heat with him just a few minutes ago. Not when he knew where you lived because he cared enough to make sure you were safe. Maybe it was too hopeful to expect him to want to see you again, but when your eyes meet his under the streetlight, you’re confident the hope isn’t unfounded.

His eyes rake over you in a slow one-over as he nods. His voice is low in that same charming gruff timbre when he responds, “I’ll see you next Saturday, then?”

Fighting off an over-excited smile proves to be the most difficult thing you’ve done in a while. You sigh, calming your racing heart. “If you’re on time.”

“It’s a date.”

It wasn’t actually a date.

Surely he couldn’t have meant it literally. Still, it was enough to have you barely managing a flustered goodbye before fumbling with your keys at the door. Even after you were in the comfort of your home your face felt hot, your body practically vibrating from adrenaline. All from a stranger. The faint sound of the revving engine of his motorcycle moments later only served to remind you of his voice, the warmth of his body, and—hopefully—the promise in his words. 

You had to remind yourself constantly, every time your mind wandered throughout the week, that you were hoping for too much. You were daydreaming about a face you hadn’t seen yet from a man whose name you didn’t even know. And, God, that made you feel more pathetic than ever.

It was just a night out, spending time together over a drink, nothing more. Maybe you could learn his name if he was feeling generous enough. But to hope for anything more—a follow-up or anything deeper than friendliness—was foolish. Still, your mind kept wandering back to his words. It’s a date. 

No, this wasn’t a date, you scold yourself in the mirror, shaking your head as if it’ll dismiss the thought faster. That was just a throwaway line, something to draw you in to make sure he’d see you tonight. Nothing more, nothing implied, nothing to hope for. You knew that by now, practically drilled it into your own head. 

So why did you spend way too long looking at yourself in the mirror, obsessing over every little detail you could nitpick? Why did you drudge through your entire closet to make sure you picked the “right outfit”? Why did you stress about what perfume to wear and what drink to order? It wasn’t a date after all. 

Right?

It was too late to fight yourself on it once your rideshare pulled up. The implication of his words was irrelevant at this point; your heart seems to beat quicker with every turn of the wheels that brings you closer to the bar. Despite the cool air making you regret choosing to wear a skirt, you felt hot and stuffy—just downright nervous. Christ, you nearly felt like you could throw up when you saw a familiar tall silhouette outside the bar. 

He was on time. And he was waiting for you.

Every insecurity you nitpicked before comes to the front of your mind the moment you step onto the pavement. You force the thoughts away with a sigh and, for the first time in your life, your steps towards the bar are hesitant. His eyes meet yours as you approach and you almost wish you could see his reaction under that mask. But the more you thought about it, maybe you were better off not knowing.

He straightens up, pushing himself off of the wall, looking down at you with a face obscured by shadows and fabric. “I was startin’ to think I came too early.”

It was a huge relief to see him here, waiting and willing to see you again. You couldn’t hide your smile if you tried. “Well, lucky for you, I like an eager man.”

His steps are confident as he makes his way towards the entrance. “That’s definitely one way to describe me.” You barely hear the sentence when he utters it, which only makes your heart beat faster. He pulls the door open, holding it for you to make your way in. 

The bar is as crowded as it is every Saturday. Plenty of people scattered around, watching whatever team was on the television this weekend, drunkenly shouting overtop of the music. It never fails to overwhelm you when you walk through the entrance. A hand rests on your back, grounding you and making you all too aware of your posture, slipping to your waist before guiding you through the bustle of people.

Your date—it still felt weird to call him that—guides you towards the bar, towards the backend where fewer people crowded the space. His presence was comforting despite his silence. Not to mention how perfectly his hand slotted against your waist, a thought that had you too nervous to bring attention to his sudden touchiness.

The stools squeak and groan as the two of you settle into your seats. The bar is anything but quiet, yet an awkward silence hangs in the air between you. Something told you he wasn’t the type to care about the awkwardness, but you were far too sober to not overthink every thought that popped into your head.

You clear your throat, hoping it’ll boost your confidence to speak. “I wasn’t actually sure you’d show,” you admit. “But I’m glad you did.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You weren’t sure how to respond. He raised a good point, one that spit in the face of your insecurities and anxiety. “I dunno…guess I worried I wasn’t exciting enough for you.”

“Well, you’re no mask-wearin’ bike rider.” He leans in your direction and nudges you with his elbow. “But I think you’re plenty excitin’.” You look up at his eyes just fast enough to catch his wink.

Flustered, you avert your eyes to the bartop as you laugh. “You don’t know me well enough, clearly.”

“I’d like to. That’s why I’m here.”

That brings your eyes back to his. You may not have been able to see his face, but those eyes told you everything about his sincerity. There shouldn’t have been any doubt left in your mind after that. The man admitted to having an interest in you—in getting to know you—and it surely set your heart on fire. 

“Well, that and to drink, I’m sure.” Your smile is an attempt to distract from the way you stare at him. It was like you had yourself convinced you could make out his features if you just studied him long enough. 

“Ah, that’s just a bonus.” He gestures for the bartender with a simple wave of his hand before fishing in his pocket for his wallet. 

“So what’s the drink of choice for a bloke like you?”

“Bourbon.”

You aren’t sure why that admission surprises you; of course a big guy like him would drink whiskey. Something about that fact makes you feel warm inside. You request one for yourself, an excuse to have something in common with him. 

Your eyes follow the bartender as they move, but your mind is far from the alcohol. Everything was going well—probably the best it could’ve gone meeting someone who could still classify as a stranger for the third time. But there was still something gnawing at the back of your mind, festering insecurity and uncertainty.

“Can I ask you something?” You almost surprise yourself with the lack of hesitance with which the question leaves your mouth.

“Shoot.”

“That night we met, when we spoke for the first time, you left awfully quick.” Your fingers tap against the bartop in an anxious rhythm. “What was that about?”

From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was work. It asks a lot of me sometimes.” Work calling at such a late hour was hard to believe, but the way he said it—a layer of exhaustion sullying his words—had you convinced. “Trust me, I would’ve preferred staying to talk to you.”

You believed that, too. 

“What do you do for work?”

He pauses, taking in a deep breath, like he’s thinking about how to phrase his response. You’ve started to learn how deliberate he was with his words. “A lot of dangerous shit.”

That definitely piques your attention. You hear the two glasses clink against the bartop, but you were more concerned with him than the alcohol. “Yeah? What kind of shit is that?” You didn’t have a lot of hope that he’d open up any more than that, but the curiosity ate at you. 

He reaches for one of the glasses, sighing as he moves. “The kind of shit that makes you want to drink to forget it.” He lifts the glass in your direction. “So let’s drink, yeah?”

Even if he didn’t completely open up, it was a sentiment you could sympathize with. You may not know exactly what he spent his time doing but you knew enough to hope he saw your company as comforting. You reach for the other glass and lift it until it clinks against his own. “Just don’t drink enough to forget me.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be forgettin’ you anytime soon.”

You smile at his sentiment, taking a sip of whiskey to wash away the anxiety-borne tension in your throat.

It’s done in a split second before you notice it, but he lifts the bottom of his balaclava over his mouth, resting the hem on his nose. It gives you a view of the blond scruff that dusts the sharp angle of his jaw, of those peach lips that look surprisingly soft as he raises his glass to take a drink. The way his mask sits makes you aware of the crook in the bridge of his nose—a sign of cartilage broken multiple times over. He’s rugged and rough underneath the soft cloth, far more attractive than anything you could’ve conjured up in your own mind. And that was without seeing his entire face. They were features that any other man could have, but he hid those features from the world for reasons you couldn’t fathom. Maybe that was what made him so alluring.

“You’re starin’.”

It takes a moment for his words to register in your head. You only realized he was speaking because you could actually see his mouth move. You scoff, brows furrowing as you finally blink for the first time in a while. “I wasn’t starin’.”

He grunts in response. You didn’t have to hear him speak to know he doesn’t believe you. Hell, you didn’t believe yourself. You roll your eyes at the sound, taking a sip of your drink and averting his intense gaze by catching a glimpse of the television behind the bar. You didn’t care one bit about the scores on the screen.

Especially when you suddenly felt the warmth of his hand on your thigh. There was no way he didn’t notice the way your muscles tense, flinching at the sudden contact. It’s indescribable the way it makes you feel. His rough and calloused touch barely underneath the hem of your skirt to feel the smooth and tender flesh of your thigh sends a jolt down your spine, a heat coursing through you that you haven’t felt in a while.

“You’re a terrible liar.” It isn’t lost on you the way his voice deepens when he whispers to you, leaning in close and quiet so he can make sure you hear him.

Your mouth suddenly goes dry, your face hot and your heart racing. “Piss off. The…bourbon’s just strong.” You force the words out in a half-hearted tumble as you bring the glass to your lips. 

His grip tightens ever-so-slightly, gently squeezing your thigh. Something about it tells you he doesn’t buy that lie either. “Ah, s’that what it is?” 

The sarcasm in his voice makes the whiskey burn as it slides down your throat. You take in a breath to try and combat the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. Squirming in the stool, you press your thighs together to quell some of the heat pulsing through your veins. Nerves and excitement battle for control over your body. 

“I didn’t take you for a touchy lad.” Your own voice quietens to a whisper, almost too nervous to acknowledge his bold move.

“Usually m’not.”

Setting your glass down, you’re almost disappointed to find the mask is settled back over his face when you finally make eye contact again. “Mm. You must like me, then?”

The question wasn’t really meant to have an answer, but he didn’t hesitate to give you one. “Was that not obvious before?”

“The confirmation is nice.” You force the words out before you can think too hard about his reply. 

He liked you. One of the most enigmatic, confusing, intriguing people you’ve ever met—who should’ve made you feel scared—actually liked you. It was relieving and exciting and terrifying all at once.

You look down to see his hand on your thigh. The sight is enough to turn excitement into something much stronger that pools in your core. You run your fingertips over his knuckles, the discolored skin telling you they’ve been wounded multiple times over. You didn’t have the guts to ask. The contact makes his grip tighten slightly, his thumb slowly brushing gentle strokes against your skin.

The whole thing had your mind running wild. You certainly didn’t have enough to drink to excuse the images that flashed in your mind. But seeing his hand on you—feeling his touch—in a way you could only describe as intimate had desire pumping through you. You don’t know how good a job you’re doing at hiding it, either, but you’re certain he can feel when you squeeze your thighs tightly together.

“So,” you start, clearing your throat as if to excuse the rampant thoughts in your head, “do I get to know your name yet?”

You look over to see his eyes lingering absentmindedly on the television. “Depends on how this night goes.”

Well, it wasn’t a ‘no’.

You scoff, feigning annoyance. “What, y’gonna wait until I’m too drunk to remember it?” Your hand moves to your glass, raising it in his direction before taking a sip.

“Oh, I’m not gonna let you get drunk.” He says it so matter-of-factly that you couldn’t argue if you wanted to. Then, his hand moves carefully, readjusting his grip until the plush fat on the inside of your thigh is squished between his fingers. “Can’t have any fun if you get yourself plastered.”

At least now you knew you had no chance of embarrassing yourself in a drunken stupor. But your mind was far more preoccupied with that word—fun. Sure, he could have meant it literally; maybe he planned on taking you somewhere more exciting than a cheap bar after this. You silently scolded yourself for being disappointed with that reality. 

“I suppose you’re right…” The words came out breathlessly into your glass. You didn’t know if he heard you, but it didn’t really matter. He seemed like the type of man to be dead set on whatever he was determined to do. You just hoped the ‘fun’ he had in mind was the same type that had your heart pounding whenever you thought about it.

His hand slides off you and—God help you—you almost whimper at the loss of contact. Your eyes follow his movement, watching him slide his mask up enough to take another drink. You didn’t think you could ever forget what he looked like. It was a sight you swore you could spend the whole night staring at, but you looked away before he had the chance to tease you about it.

“Y’know,” he says with a voice quiet enough that only you could hear, “if you need somethin’, you can just ask.”

Your eyes dart over to him with an unconscious, wide-eyed look of guilt and confusion. There was no doubt in your mind that you needed something from him, but you hadn’t intended that to be obvious. A bewildered “what?” is all you manage to force out while you try to convince your rapid heart to slow.

“If you need somethin’ from me, you can just ask me for it.” He speaks slowly this time, looking in your direction with brown eyes so dark it was like his pupils had blown wide. Fuck, did you look like that too? He sets his glass down with a sigh when you don’t respond with anything more than a confused scoff. He leans in close, so close you could feel his breath on your ear and a whiff of tobacco and musk in your nostrils. “You were practically humpin’ my hand.” You swear he growls the words. “That makes me think you need somethin’.”

That immediately shot down any hope you had that you were doing great at hiding your wandering thoughts. Excuse after excuse ran through your mind, trying to justify why his touch made you squirm. But…was there really any point in denying something he so clearly had picked up on? He read you like a goddamn book—not that you were difficult to read—and something about that only made the desire heavier. And, most importantly in your mind, there was no sign that he disliked it.

Your lips quiver as they part, hesitation making your mouth run dry. “Maybe…maybe I do need somethin’...” It feels like your heart has jumped in your throat. But it wasn’t nerves that made your skin run hot. “Are you…offerin’ me somethin’?”

He straightens in his seat and pulls the balaclava back over the lower half of his face. From the corner of your eye, you watch him tap his fingers against his glass. Just before you think he’s going to end the conversation there, you hear the rumble of his voice from behind the skull-patterned fabric. “There’s a storage room in the back hall, last door on the right. Hardly anyone goes back there.” His tone is almost conspiratorial. “If we go one at a time, less chance of being noticed. We could have some privacy there.” There’s a pause before he looks in your direction, not bothering to be subtle when his eyes move over you. “That’s what I’m offerin’.”

Holy shit.

There was no reason to think he was joking, but you still couldn’t believe it. You also couldn’t believe that you were so desperate that turning him down didn’t even cross your mind. “You’re serious? Here? In the bar?”

He shrugs like the thought is obvious. “Well, you said it yourself: can’t take a bloke you barely know back home.” He leans in again, eyes boring through you. “I promise I’m worth all the hassle.”

Somehow, you didn’t doubt him one bit. You play off the disbelief and hesitation with a scoff, shaking your head. “Yeah, you better be.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you for a moment. You wish you could hear his thoughts or see his face, get some inkling of an idea of what was running through his mind. 

Then he sits up straight, cocking his head in the direction of the back hallway. “Go on, then.”

Truthfully, his impatience had you relieved; at least now you wouldn’t have to be the one to initiate. But that didn’t mean you wanted to be the first to get caught sneaking around the back of the building. “Why am I goin’ first?”

“So I can make sure no one follows.”

“Is that your specialty?”

“Somethin’ like that.” You weren’t sure how to feel about that confession. Just how much sneaking around was a guy like him doing? “Go on.”

You’d marinate the thought later. With a sigh, you slide off of the barstool. Looking at him you find his eyes on the television screen once more. With no reassuring glance or even a flirtatious wink, you set your sights on the hallway in the back of the bar.

You’re relieved to find that no one was waiting in a line outside the bathrooms. At least that would make the sneaking around part a lot easier. You felt ridiculous, like a teenager trying to avoid their parents when they snuck out. But the promise of what could’ve been awaiting you was enough to will you to walk down the dim hallway.

There was a door towards the end of the hall, on the right side, just past the bathrooms. Just like he had said. You didn’t have time to wonder how he knew it was here, or how he knew it was a storage room. But sure enough, after slinking past the bathrooms and quickly pushing the door open, you were greeted with a room full of boxes, cleaning supplies, and old furniture. The smell of mildew made your nose crinkle as you stepped further inside.

It was then you realized he didn’t tell you how long to wait. Your thoughts spiraled from there; What if he flakes? What if an employee comes back here? Each second felt like an hour, your anxiety mounting with every moment you were alone in the stuffy room. You move to an old table shoved in the back corner. A thin layer of dust coats your finger when you run it along the trim.

Your heart jumps when you hear the door click. You were prepared to play the part of a drunken fool looking for the bathroom in case it was an employee, but you’re relieved to see the large figure you’d come to recognize slink through.

“Hey,” you call out to him, casually greeting him like you hadn’t snuck in here under the implications of sex.

His steps are slow as he moves towards you. “Hey.” That gruffness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. The room feels smaller with every step he takes in your direction.

“So,” you sigh, “do you take all your dates to storage rooms?”

“Only the lucky ones.”

He stops just in front of you, closer than he’s ever stood before, making your breath catch in your throat as you look up at him. “Suppose I should feel lucky, then.” You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you weren’t too concerned with appearing composed.

“I’d hope so.”

“I will if you take off that mask.”

You think you hear something resembling a laugh from beneath that skull-patterned fabric. He tugs at the mask and, for a moment, you think he’s actually going to remove it. But the hem only moves to the bridge of his nose, taunting you by not revealing any part of himself he hadn’t already. You must look expectant, or disappointed, because he gives you an incredulous look in return. 

“What? You seemed plenty happy with this earlier,” he gestures towards the lower half of his face, earning an eye roll from you. He scoffs, leaning in and tilting his head to follow your gaze. “If I remember, you couldn’t stop starin’ at me.”

“Fuck off. I liked what I saw.” His teasing made your cheeks feel hot. That same heat thumps in your veins when your eyes meet his again. “...Still do.”

You barely feel the warmth of his fingertips as they graze your skin, tracing your jaw. He was gentle, exploratory, like he was waiting for your approval. When all he got from you was a sharp intake of breath, his thumb ran gently over your bottom lip. 

“So do I.”

You’d chastise yourself for leaning in if you were any more self-conscious. You’d blame the eagerness on the alcohol, or the way he seemed to pull you closer with his hand, but there was no denying the want stirring in the pit of your stomach. Nothing else mattered except making your lips meet. And when they do, all you find is gentle hesitance and the taste of whiskey. 

It was soft and careful, yet completely consuming. His lips were as soft as they looked and moved perfectly against your own. You couldn’t stop yourself from sighing into his mouth and inching your body closer, bringing your hand to his chest and feeling the soft fabric of his hoodie go taut as you curl your fingers into a fist. Afraid he’d move away if you didn’t, you kept your grasp firm and pulled him closer. 

He was the one to close the gap between your bodies. It was like he was waiting for that confirmation that you wanted this. His hands move to your waist as his groan vibrates against your lips. Gentle kisses slowly turn more desperate as both of you breathe heavily. The taste of cigarettes and alcohol is sickeningly sweet on your tongue.

Strong hands move down your body and over your hips. You half expected him to grope you and leave it at that. And while you would’ve been fine with it, you’re surprised when you feel his hands move down to your thighs to lift you off the ground. The sudden movement makes you yelp and gasp into his mouth, fingers clawing at his hoodie to keep you balanced while he haphazardly sets you on the edge of the dusty, wobbling table. 

It’s brash and hurried but it’s exciting. The type of exciting that makes you forget about the dust on the tabletop and the possibility someone could walk in. Nothing else mattered when his mouth was on you, trailing over your jaw with hot and wet kisses that took your breath away. 

“You’ll tell me if I’m too much, yeah?” The rough sound of his voice surprises you, grounding you amidst the overwhelming sensations. 

You nod, running your hands over his shoulders to try and feel the rigidity under his clothes. “Y-yeah, course.”

“Good girl.”

A small kiss is planted on your neck before he pulls back enough to look you over. As your hands fall from his shoulders, he hastily rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie. Not only does the sight of sinewy muscle hidden underneath make your blood pound in your veins, but the intricate sleeve of tattoos on his left arm catches your attention. In any other scenario you’d ask him question after question about each line and symbol. But right now his hands are running up your thighs and under your skirt, the muscles in his arms flexing as he kneads the fat between his fingers. 

The way he groans at your softness makes you throb. He nudges your legs further apart—a movement you would have done on your own volition—and pushes your skirt up as he moves to hold your hips. You lean back on your hands and watch mesmerized as his eyes lock onto the sight between your legs. 

“Pretty pair,” he mutters as his thumbs rub circles against your hips. It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about your panties. “Makes me think you were hopin’ I’d see ‘em.”

Seems like it paid off to overthink every part of your outfit. “Maybe I was.”

“Yeah? Hopin’ I’d see how soppin’ wet they are?” His thumb moves inwards, running over your slit through the wet fabric. The fabric clings to your sensitive skin, proving his point, as does the way you whimper and buck your hips.

“Yeah, that too.”

His fingers hook into the strip of fabric covering your cunt, pulling the garment to the side with a forceful tug. And you swear, even in the dim light, his pupils dilate at the sight. “Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Two fingers drag through your slit, through that slick that told him just how much you wanted him. His fingertips are rough but his touch is gentle. You gasp when he finds your clit and toys with the swollen bud by circling it teasingly. His lips find yours again with bruising kisses that swallow your sounds as you pant into his mouth. His fingers spread you open, gliding over your cunt and teasing every inch, gathering your slick as he circles your entrance.

Even though he moves slowly, the stretch of his thick fingers is certainly more than you were expecting. You whine as they curl and pump in and out in a rhythm that makes your cunt flutter and squelch with each push. Your head falls back with a moan when he hits something deep inside that sends shockwaves through you. 

His mouth moves down to your now-exposed neck, marking your skin with wet and sloppy kisses. “So fuckin’ wet for me,” his voice vibrates against you. “This is what you needed, isn’t it?”

You hum a broken “mm-hmm”, unable to focus long enough to form a proper response. But it’s that confirmation that has him moving faster and harder until your hips are jerking forward to meet his movements. 

“Yeah, y’couldn’t sit still ‘cause you were achin’ for it.” His free hand cups your face, gently squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. His eyes are dark with desire and something desperate that bores into you. “Just needed your pretty pussy fucked, huh?”

Your cunt flutters around his fingers at the praise, heat building in the pit of the stomach. Your pants turn into a moan as your breath catches in your throat. “Yes, I need it. I need it so fucking bad.”

His hand picks up speed as he coos a soft “I know, baby,” against your lips. His fingers curl and push just right, hitting every soft spot that makes your toes curl and your cunt tighten. One of your hands flies to his chest to claw at his hoodie as your body begins to tremble.

“Fuck,” you groan, barely able to get the words out, “d-don’t stop…”

“I won’t, love. Not ‘til you cum for me.”

For him. He wanted to see you fall apart under his touch and cling to him like he was the only thing in the world. You’ll care more about the sweetness of the thought when you aren’t stuffed full and moaning in the back of a bar. 

Whether it’s that thought or his touch or the heady mix of both, it’s not long before the muscles in your thighs go taut. Your breathing turns heavier as your moans and whines grow louder on each exhale. If it wasn’t for your subconscious fear of being caught and his need to feel your lips against his own you’re sure you would’ve screamed until the sound echoed off the walls. 

But even if your sounds were restrained, the sensations surely weren’t. That heat stirring in your core spilled over and your cunt clenched around his fingers until all you could hear was soft squelching as he pushed your slick cum back inside. Your thighs trembled and your chest heaved with the effort to catch your breath. It wasn’t until you could see straight against that you noticed the sweat along your brow and the ache in your back.

His fingers slid out, their girth just enough to leave you feeling loose. Before he could even take his hand off of you, his mouth was latching onto your neck for another set of rough and wet kisses.

“Turn around,” you barely hear his gruff instruction over the sound of your own breaths, “bend over.”

Still, you aren’t one to disappoint. You land on shaky legs after sliding off the table, using his sturdy form to balance yourself as you turn around. Your forearms rest against the table as you bend over the wobbling piece of furniture. 

You feel your skirt flip up, the fabric resting along your waist, before his large palms run over the swell of your ass. They’re warm and heavy and you can feel each callous as he kneads the fat in his grasp. He’s not rough, but it’s like he wants to savor the softness he finds.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum.” That was enough to make you twitch, but then he runs a finger over the cum-slick fabric of your panties. “Think you can do it again for me?”

You barely muster a nod and an “mm-hmm” before his fingers hook into your panties and pull them down to your knees. His impatience was only riling you up, especially when you felt him spread you apart and groan at the sight. 

“Christ, look at you…” you hear him mutter, the sound accompanied by the jangle of a belt buckle coming undone. 

You could practically feel his stare boring into you, branding your skin with his gaze. You think you hear him spit before a hand rests on your ass to knead your skin again. That hand moves to your hip, holding you firmly in place while the head of his cock glides along your slit and stops at your entrance. He isn’t even attempting to push in and it already has you whimpering. You can feel it—thick and warm and heavy—waiting to split you open. 

“Breathe for me, baby. Just relax.” His voice is soothing, deep and soaked in desire, and it makes your body obey without thought. 

A few deep breaths later and your mouth is falling open in a loud gasp as he pushes in. He moves slow, pausing every time you whine to mutter soft encouragement through clenched teeth. And while his voice was soothing, it didn’t exactly ease the stretch that had your cunt pulsing around him. Nothing had made you feel so full before.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way he groans when he’s fully seated inside you. Both of his hands hold your hips tight as he mutters a curse under his breath. Slowly, he starts to move, pulling back only to push in deep. You swear he hits deeper every time, every push forcing the air out of your lungs in a desperate moan. 

“That’s it, you can take it.” His voice was somewhere between gruff and breathless, tense beneath clenched teeth and restrained moans. Your back arches and your hips push back to meet his movements halfway to encourage him to speed up his steady rhythm. “Oh, good fucking girl.”

All you can manage is broken strings of curses and moans. Between his constant praise and the fullness of his cock, you couldn’t think straight long enough to focus on anything except the pleasure shooting through your veins. If your nails were any sharper, you might’ve left claw marks on the table beneath you as you held on.

“Fuck me. H-Harder.” You knew you were being greedy, aching for more every time you accustomed to his pace. But you were still so sensitive from your recent climax; you knew it wouldn’t take much more to hit that high again, especially when his cock kissed that spot deep inside that made your eyes roll back.

“Yeah, you need it harder, baby?” He put up no argument as he moved his hands to your waist for a better grip. He pounded into you with a force that made your legs shake, his hips meeting your ass with an obnoxiously loud sound that you couldn’t care less if anyone heard. “Goddamn, this cunt’s perfect.”

Underneath your squeals and whines are his own moans and growls, each one making you clench around him just to draw another one out of him. Knowing he was as lost in pleasure as you were filled you with pride. 

His hands move up your body, snaking under your shirt, feeling you tense and tremble underneath him. Strong palms find and grope your chest, kneading you eagerly while he bends over you. His thrusts don’t cease even as his lips find your neck.

Soft bites and hot kisses only add to the sensations wracking pleasure on your body. You almost don’t hear him when he mutters against your skin, “Simon.”

“...Huh?”

“Simon.” He repeats, moving his mouth to your ear so there’s no doubt you’ll hear him. “Say it.”

“Si—fuck…Simon…” The name comes out in a moan, something he seems to enjoy judging by the receiving growl in your ear. 

“Atta girl. Now you know what to scream when you cum for me again.”

Your panting lips curl into something resembling a smile. Simon. You were too far gone to recognize the implication of trust behind his sudden openness, but you did know how sweet his name felt in your mouth. And, evidently, it wouldn’t take long for you to mutter it incoherently as your body begins to tense.

Heat and pleasure and everything warm builds in your core with each hit of his cock. He—Simon—mirrors your heavy breaths with his own. He must feel the way you tighten; his fingers dig into your skin so tight it’d probably hurt if your mind was less hazy.

“M’gonna cum—shit, you’re gonna make me cum, Simon.” Your eyes flutter shut, all your focus narrowed to the pleasure between your legs. 

“I know, love. Cum for me, let me feel you.”

His rough and steady pace makes the build-up all the more sweet. When your climax hits, it hits hard. White-hot pleasure shoots through you, making your hips twitch and your legs shake, a breathless cry that you try (and fail) to hold back ripping through the room. Your cunt pulses around his cock, sucking him deeper while he fucks you through the high with much gentler strokes. The obscenely wet sound is accompanied by his groans on every push. 

“Fuck, y’gonna make me cum squeezin’ me like that…”

That was enough to snap you out of your haze. Perhaps a much less restrained version of yourself would’ve let him finish inside you right then and there, but you’ll entertain the thought another time. Still trembling and panting, you force yourself to sit up. “Wait, wait. Pull out, hold on,” you urge, pushing him back with your hand.

He follows your movements, his hands sliding off of your body as he leans back. The emptiness that follows as his cock slips out of you leaves you feeling gaped in the best way possible. Your body aches, sore from the rough treatment and the wobbling table underneath you, as you stumble to your knees in front of Simon. Your eyes immediately land on his cock, a dumbfounded grin you’re sure looks ridiculous painting itself on your lips.

Fuckin’ hell…that was inside you?

It was every bit as impressive as it felt. Thick and heavy and so damn hard you could practically feel it throbbing with the need to cum. No wonder he needed to prep you, and no wonder you felt so stretched regardless. 

“Enjoyin’ the view?” Simon’s voice startles you, bringing your mind back to reality.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it to your mouth as you lean in. Licking a slow, wet stripe along the underside makes him hiss and twitch against your tongue. You could taste yourself on him, your cum mixed with his musk, and the heady combination made your head spin.

Your eyes flicker up at him, at that mask still obscuring half of his face. “Dunno if I can take all of you,” you admit as your hand glides up and down his cock. “You’re a big lad.”

Simon curses and you watch his jaw tighten as his cock twitches in your hand. “Don’t worry about it. After the way you felt around me, I’m not gonna last long anyway.”

You flash him a smile—a cheeky one that, no doubt, showed how proud that made you feel—before closing your lips around the head of his cock. His musk hits your tongue and fills your nostrils and you can’t help but groan at the taste. The rest of his cock fits in your hand, throbbing under your palm while you stroke. 

“Christ, that’s good, sweetheart.” One of his hands lands on the back of your head. He doesn’t push you down or force more into your mouth, he just rests it there, watching you through heavy eyes. “Real fuckin’ nice…”

You swallow around him, taking more of him into your mouth. His hips buck involuntarily in a movement that makes you gag when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat. He mutters an apology that you ignore, groaning around him as your head bobs and your tongue swirls.

“Fuck, I can’t…” Simon’s other hand flies down to his cock, replacing your grip as he wraps it around the base. “M’gonna cum, baby.”

The way he growls the words makes you hum, the sound vibrating through him. You give one last firm suck as your mouth slides off of him. “Cum on my face,” you utter before you can even catch your breath.

“Y-you sure? Your makeup—”

“M’not askin’, Simon.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” He can barely get the words out as he strokes himself, fisting his cock with a lewdly wet sound thanks to your spit and cum coating his sensitive flesh.

You can hear his breath grow heavy, slowly turning to moans as his body tenses. All you can focus on is his face—what parts you can see—watching his mouth as he pants and seeing his brows furrow in pleasure. You think you’d give just about anything to see him like this without that mask on.

His hand stills on his cock just before he mutters a curse and spills onto your face. His cum lands in thick, warm globs across your skin, and you’re thankful he seems to have enough awareness to avoid your eyes. He taps his cock against your lips, spreading his cum just to revel in the sight. 

Simon’s growling breaths steady out as he comes down from the high. “You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he sighs, peach lips curling into a smile.

Your tongue darts out to clean your lips, tasting the unique saltiness that painted them. “You’re not too bad yourself. Simon.”

He offers you a hand and pulls you up to your feet. His thumb brushes against your cheek, collecting some of his spend before bringing it to your mouth. You gladly accept his digit into your mouth, moaning around it as you suck it clean. With a growl and a curse, he pulls you into a rough kiss.

“Next time,” he starts, still panting as his breathing steadies, “how about we go to your place? Then we can have a proper go at it.”

Your heart skips a beat. ‘Next time’…he wanted a ‘next time’... 

“As long as you’re a gentleman and drive me there.” You pat his chest before pulling back enough to readjust your clothing. There wasn’t much you could do about the smeared makeup and tousled hair, but you weren’t the only person in the bar who looked a little worse for wear. 

“Deal.” You can hear the shuffle as he refits his own clothes. Thankfully, the mask doesn’t come back down. “You fancy another drink?”

“Uh…m’not sure, why?”

“‘Cause if you don’t, I can take you home right now if you’d like.” You meet his eyes and he matches your smile with one of his own.

“Deal.”

[livesworthlivingau]

Lives Worth Living Chapter 26-28

ISAT/Two Hats Spoilers below! CW: Outbursts, Mentions of stabbing/killing, unhealthy obsessing.

"So how you holding up Sif?" (You suddenly snap back to reality and look over to Isa, now left alone as the other three had left for the market.)

"What do you mean?" (You ask, confused by the sudden question.)

"You looked a little zoned out there, and getting to see Vale again, and Nille, it's just a lot right now, even if it's good stuff. So... Just wanted to check in with you!" (He gives his trademark bright smile, and you can't help but smile back.)

"It is a lot... but it's good, the family's back together again, even L-Vale now... I just... I really hope it works out this time."

"This time?" (CRAB!!)

"Y-You know! Like, having them around... I want them to fit in is all!" (A more serious look appears on his face. There's no way he bought that...)

"Sif... You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"I do! I know! I... I'm sorry, but it involves them a lot too, and I can't talk about it without them." (Your voice falters a bit, the topic making you uncomfortable as you start to scratch absentmindedly at your arms. His large, gentle hand meet yours after a moment, trying to calm you down.)

"Hey, it's okay, I understand. I just worry, y'know? But if you're sure it's okay for now then I can wait!" (He smiles at you again. You place your head on his shoulder, closing your eye with a relieved sigh.)

"I love you Isa."

"I love you too Sif."

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

"Excuse me for a moment, I need to use the restroom~." (Vale explains before leaving the table and conversation. They seemed especially uneasy since Nille left to help Bonbon in the kitchen a few minutes ago, probably still struggling being around everyone else...)

"Siffrin, is there, uhm… Is Vale uncomfortable around us?" (Mira asks, it seems you weren't the only one to notice.)

"They're… just shy, you know? Not used to new people! That's all!" (You try to smile convincingly.)

"Right…" (Crab.)

"They just need some time to warm up is all!" (Isa to the rescue, as always. Thank the stars.)

"They were stuck in the loops too afterall! Sif was the only one they really interacted with, right?"

"No wonder they're so on edge." (Odile chimes in with a little tease, not even looking up from her book.)

"H-Hey!?" (Mira and Isa can't help but snort and snicker at your expense. It WAS a pretty good joke you guess…)

"Though we should discuss what our next course of action is, now that Nille has found us. I assume we'll still head to Bambouche for their sakes, then continue our little reunion tour? I imagine you'd like to return to Jouvente at some point Isabeau?" (Odile begins to plan aloud to get us all on the same page.)

"Eventually, sure, I'm in no rush! But what about you, M'dame? Don't you want to go back to Ka Bue too?" (Odile pauses for a moment, glancing over at you. You must have been making some kind of face considering how she raises a brow at you.)

"I believe our little time traveler here already knows the answer to that question." (You look away nervously.)

"It's uhh... complicated? I don't think Odile cares about returning anytime soon." (You try to keep it vague, to which she nods. Her eyes casually return to her book before she speaks up again.)

"Very astute of you, Siffrin. If I do happen to return, it will likely be out of obligation more than anything else. I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to, like the fact you're still looping."

"I wouldn't exactly call that pressing..."

"Th-This isn't something you should just put off Siffrin! What if it just keeps getting out on the back burner and suddenly you're right back where you started again?!" (Mira chimes in in a panic.)

"I'm not saying we just ignore it forever! Just... we have some time at least, and Odile stopped me from looping once already! If anyone's gonna know what to do, it'll be her, right?"

"I stopped it in the moment, preventing you from looping ever again is a whole ordeal in and of itself. It will take a lot of research on a subject that no one knows anything about, and another that is purely theoretical. I may be good at what I do but I'm not a miracle worker."

"You might not think so." (You chuckle a bit. No matter how many times it happens, she still managed to surprise you over the years with new breakthroughs and theories on craft, sadnesses, and otherwise. She smirks a bit as her eyes remain on her book.)

"While your confidence in my is flattering, I'd still like to tackle this subject sooner rather than later."

"Alright, we'll get to Bambouche and go from there, okay? For now I'm just glad we're all together again..." (Your expression falls to a bittersweet one. You feel Isa's hand on your shoulder, giving a light squeeze and smiling brightly at you. You lay your head against his side and close your eye, savoring the embrace.)

"Dinner'll be ready in a few!... Hey, where'd Vale go?" (Nille asks, stepping back in from the kitchen.)

"Oh! They went to the restroom! B-But it's been a while, hasn't it? should someone check on them?"

"I better do it, y'all sit tight!" (Nille quickly takes the offer to ensure no one else would, heading off to find them.)

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

"Before I explain this, it's not their fault, please don't blame them, they were going through a lot and I didn't notice how it was affecting them and I told their secret an-" (You start to explain at a million miles a minute, too frantic to be processed properly even as Nille lightly grabs your shoulders to snap you out of it.)

"Hey, easy, just start at the beginning okay?" (She tries to comfort you, to which you nod and take a deep breath.)

"... When I first looped back all those years, I was... frozen? I was panicking, stuck in my head, I thought it must be a dream or something, there's no way this was really happening, right?... And then I heard their voice... and all of that just went away." (You glance over at Vale. They look... confused? Shocked maybe? You guess you never got the chance to tell them this part.)

"I ran to find them right after, as fast as I could, and... I was just so happy to see them, I didn't think about how they were feeling... forced to be back, I'd been through so much and they were just left behind... and then I dragged them along back here to force them into a family they didn't want any part in."

"Stardust... That's..."

"It's true Vale, and I'm sorry. I really don't blame you for what happened." (Vale just looks away, clearly not agreeing, but they can tell they won't change your mind. Nille still looks very confused, waiting for the story to continue.)

"So things seemed fine for a little while, but then Odile noticed I was doing a little too well, and I told her about everything... including their secret, which they made me promise not to tell." (You really were hamming up how awful you had been, even if you didn't realize it. It was your fault after all, Vale can't be punished for that.)

"Vale found out what I did, they were already on the verge of snapping and that pushed them over the edge, so... they had to go back, before I dragged them to the party... They had to make us all loop back..." (Nille takes a second to process all of this, before her eyes widen, realizing what you were implying.)

"Frin, tell me what happened, please." (She asks, her eyes looking almost desperate, as if asking you to assure her it's not what she thinks.)

"Vale... They..."

"I STABBED HIM! I SHOVED HIS OWN DAGGER INTO HIS HEART AND FORCED HIM BACK, OKAY?! I'M A MONSTER AND A MURDERER!!!" (You jump back as they suddenly start screaming out. You look back to the door, thankful no one else was there at the moment. Nille pulls herself away from their outburst. Looking scared, confused, conflicted.)

"N-No! You're not Vale, you knew I'd be fine! You knew I'd loop!"

"And what if you didn't?!?! What if it all ended right there?!? How could I do such a thing?! How could I take that risk?! How could I hurt you like that?!" (Their eyes were wide and crazed, they gripped their hair painfully tight. They looked ready to snap again. Before you could try to comfort them, Nille was already holding their face to try and snap their out of it.)

"Hey hey hey! Vale, Calm down please." (They stopped suddenly, tears flowing from their eyes and staring back at Nille, surprised they weren't being treated like the monster they thought they were.)

"You made a mistake... a big one, sure, but a mistake none the less. Frin's okay now, right?"

"B-But... I killed them... H-how could anyone forgive me for that?..."

"Well, Frin did, and that's the most important person to do so I'd say... It's a lot to take in alright, still not really sure how I feel about it right now... but I'm not just gonna hate you for it, especially after everything." (Vale stares up at her, they look confused, their eyes darting about as they try to piece something together.)

"I doubt you want to go back in there tonight. Maybe you should stay at the Inn for tonight, cool off a little..."

"Y-Yes... that sounds like it's for the best..." (Before Vale can get too far, Nille lightly grabs their arm to keep them from going too far.)

"This doesn't give you permission to run away though! Remember... you made a promise." (She smiles softly then lets go.)

"... Right... I promise." (Vale can't hold eye contact with either of you for more than a second, slowly starting to walk off again.)

"We'll see you tomorrow, Vale?..." (You plead. They nod back at you before fully turning away. The both of you watch as they slowly vanish from view towards the town center.)

"... Hey, Frin? Are you sure you're okay?" (Nille starts to speak again, now that Vale was safely out of earshot.)

"... It's not that bad, I promise."

"But they killed you Frin... I know they've got issues but... I didn't think they'd be capable of doing that." (Nille holds her arms, gripping them a bit too tightly.)

"They're not! They knew I'd be okay! I'm still looping, it's fine! They would never have done it if they knew it wouldn't happen, like when-" (You cut yourself off, quickly slapping your hand over your mouth.)

"... When what?"

"... After the loops 'ended' the first time, I went to find them... That's when they admitted who they were, and they kinda... snapped. They attacked me, they were ranting and raving, they spent all that time just watching me do it and have an easier time than they ever did, everything they went through and my loops were practically a walk in the park in comparison... But when they had me beaten they couldn't do it! They wouldn't! They're not capable of that I swear!!!" (You do your best to convince her... and possibly yourself in the process. You still blame yourself for what happened, you just don't want Vale to suffer for it.)

"Frin... I'm not saying we should just send them on their merry way or anything but... they still attacked you, they still stabbed you... I don't know if you should just act like that's fine and forget it ever happened..."

"Nille... I've had a very long time to think about this. I've missed them for decades, and now they're finally back... I'm not going to do anything to mess that up, so please don't do so either." (You don't realize it until it's already happened, your face turning to a colder, darker expression. It felt vaguely familiar, likely similar to how you looked in those later loops... Nille looks a bit unnerved by it.)

"Siffrin, that's not healthy! Don't you think you're being a bit obsessive about thi-"

"I don't care!" (Nille jolts in shock, stepping back at your outburst. You stop before you lose it too much, taking a deep breath to compose yourself.)

"I just want them back... I just want them to be happy... I had 30 years of a wonderful life with all of you while they got nothing... Isn't that unfair? Isn't that a tragedy? They go through all the pain and suffering and I just come in and replace them?!"

"Frin! That's no-"

"NO! They're the only reason I'm here! They're the only reason I got to be happy for all this time! So don't you dare get in the way of me making it up to them!" (You snap. Nille stares down at you in a mix of shock and nerves. She looks over you a bit, as if trying to work out the best way to deal with this situation. You sigh and take a step back, making yourself smaller as you duck into your cloak a little.)

"I'm sorry... but please, don't... don't ruin this for me... I need this. I need them... Good night Nille." (You excuse yourself before you say anything else you may regret. You head back inside, ignoring anything she or anyone else may be saying to you as you pass. You reach your room and settle in for bed, not wanting to deal with this day any longer.)

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

An Analysis of Gman in Half Life: Alyx

HL:A Gman is by far the most interesting version of Gman I've seen and I've noticed so many details in his one interaction with Alyx, to the point I needed to make a full post about all the bullet points. (Note that this is MY personal interpretation, so it could be different from what was intended or what other people believe)

Starting from the very beginning, when Alyx asks whether Gman is Gordon Freeman or not, he responds in a kind of. Condescending way.

It's almost like he's amused by the fact he was mistaken for Gordon. not to mention the use of "Imprison" in the statement, almost as if he's not only making a snide remark towards Gordon, but also implying that even he sees Gordon's employment as "imprisonment". Not to mention the implication that it really does not take that much to hold Gordon captive in one way or another. Could also be literal, meaning Gordon isn't near powerful enough to require a full Vault be built around him.

A: "So. Who are you?"

Alyx asks a very simple question cause. why wouldn't she be confused? She expected a super-weapon; she expected Gordon Freeman, so when she found nothing but a man in a suit who straight up scoffs at the misunderstanding, of COURSE she'd want to ask questions. However, Gman only responds with:

Gman deflects the question, but rather than completely ignoring it, he simply leads it into a new question: "What can I offer you?"

He guides the conversation to a different topic, luring Alyx away from questioning who, or what, he is, whether it's because he doesn't want to (or can't) give an answer, or if it's because he simply wants the conversation to move forward rather than being caught on the nature of Gman himself.

G: "Some believe the fate of our world is Inflexible. My Employers disagree."

This statement is funny in an ironic way. he states that fate is flexible and can be changed, yet. When was the last time Gman didn't have full say on what can and will happen? By making everything go a very specific way, you CREATE fate.

G: "They authorize me to… nudge things in a particular direction from time to time. What would YOU want nudged, Ms. Vance?"

The use of word "Nudge" is an interesting way to describe changing things within the timeline. though something else that's interesting is his facial expressions during this moment.

He looks almost. Kind. but in a forced sort of way. It feels like he's expecting a certain answer from Alyx, and is just waiting for her to say it.

However, when she says she wants the combine off earth, his expression changes.

The change in expression implies that Alyx's answer was not the one he wanted or hoped for. Thus, he once again ignores what Alyx said and gives his own reasons for it.

G: "Ahhh. That would be a considerably large nudge. Too large, given the interests of my employers."

Rather than giving Alyx a second chance at a more reasonable request however, he instead says:

G: "What if I could offer you something you don't know you want?"

It finally clicks together why Gman's there: To make a deal. Whatever Alyx said before this moment was completely irrelevant. No matter what Alyx requested to have "Nudged", he would have brought up his own offer. He had already mapped out how the conversation was going to end even before Alyx had even begun speaking to him. It was just a matter of getting there.

Gman showing Alyx her fathers death was an intentional and targeted choice. Alyx is a little more naïve here than she is in HL2, not to mention her close relationship to Eli. Eli is one of the only people she has left at this point in her life, so. Why wouldn't she want to save him? This is exactly the reason Gman chose this event in particular above anything else, because he knew it was an offer Alyx would NEVER say no to. He knows Alyx more than she knows herself, and had already predicted the outcome of the situation. So, understandably, Alyx kills the Advisor in place of her father's life.

This line. This line is so interesting to me in particular. Rather than describing Eli as a "person" or "human", and describing the dead Advisor as something "alien", he refers to both as "entities." almost as if he sees both of them on the same wavelength of sorts. It implies Gman sees no difference between a human and an animal, or alien of some kind. Sees them all as simply that. Entities.

Yet another example of Gman deflecting the questions given to him, guiding the conversation instead towards Alyx herself.

G: "A previous hire has been unable — or unwilling — to perform the tasks laid before him. We have struggled to find a suitable replacement. Until now."

Him referring to Gordon in this way is interesting to me. Was the sudden wish to drop Gordon from employment due to the Vortigaunt intervention in HL2 Episode 1? Was it because Gordon was truly incapable of fulfilling certain "tasks"? Or maybe it was because Gordon was not as vulnerable to Gman's influence? It's unclear, and it's also not clear whether this means Gordon is fully free of Gman's control or not.

At this point it's made crystal clear that Alyx killing the advisor in place of her father was a contract she was signing, one she didn't even know she held the pen to. This was always going to be the outcome of the interaction, since the beginning. Everything Alyx had done up to that point was to help Gman and his "Employers" get further in their goals now that Gordon was deemed "Incapable". Nothing that Alyx could have done would've mattered; her "fate" was decided from the beginning.

Overall what I gather from this ending is a lot about Gman as a character. He never truly lies, yet he purposefully leaves out important details, such as the fact that reversing Eli's death wasn't without a price. He manipulates the conversation to fit his wants and needs, ignoring direct questions he sees as unimportant to his goals. And the thing is, he does it in a way that Alyx doesn't even seem to notice. He has played this game so many times that he knows exactly what moves to play. He knows the people he talks to more than they know themselves. He uses their worst fears against them to make them go to him for safety.

Judging by the things Gordon survived in Black Mesa, you can gauge he had a strong will to survive. So what better to do to seal a deal than to threaten that life he cares so much about? To tell him that the only other option was to go under Gman's employment else he face death itself? Alyx had such a strong connection to her father, so what better to do than to tell her that Eli will die if she doesn't do anything, luring her in to sign a contract without even knowing what she was signing?

Gman is a master manipulator, no better words for it. And he always manages to do it in such a way that you can barely even notice it happening. He never raises his voice. he never shows irritation or hostility aside from only one instance. Because why should he be frustrated? He's won even before the game started. And honestly that is frightening to me, cause it shows that he's done this many times before and knows just how to get what he and his "Employers" want, regardless of how it effects other people.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Parry but thwh fell out aftee darry and him had a fight because he laughed at some kids, KID Greasers jumping, (he laugher out of awkwardness) and darry took it as a sign he though it was ok and processed it as a threat ti the gang ESPECIALLY Ponyboy.

They fought alot. It was scary because Both Soda and Pony where homd, and classes and plates got broke, shattered, and lots if door slammimg and threats where thrown at each other. Things where said to a point

darry cried.

Hm, ok, so this isn't EXACTLY this but I saw this ask and my brain was like minific! so...minific. Hope you like it!

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

“I’m telling you man,” Paul is saying, “the giants have got it in the bag this year, have you seen their defense?”

“No way,” Darry shakes his head, “the Bears are consistent and they’ve got Wade as QB, no way they aren’t taking the superbowl.”

“Wade is fine but he’s not better than-”

He’s cut off by the door slamming open. Normally Darry would have half a mind to yell at whoever slammed it because mom always blamed him and Two for it when Steve and Pony were the biggest culprits, but any thoughts of teasing are forgotten as Steve sprints down the hall without even a hello, Soda right on his heels. Darry’s used to the gang bursting in at all hours of the day and night, it’s how their house works, but something about this feels off. His suspicions are confirmed when Steve hurtles back out again a second later holding the first aid kit. 

“Whoa!” Darry grabs Soda’s shoulder before he can follow, pulling him to a stop, “what’s going’ on?”

“Joey Dubois got jumped,” Soda gasps out, chest heaving, “it’s pretty bad.”

“Aaron’s kid brother?” Darry’s heart drops, “But…but he’s ten!”

“Yeah,” Soda’s grim, “I know.”

“You need any help?”

“Nah. Pony’s sittin’ with him right now, and between Dally and Tim Shepard we got enough muscle keepin’ Aaron from doin’ something he’ll regret. ‘Sides,” Soda shoots a cold glare at Paul, “your buddy here shows his face and he’ll probably lose some teeth. Aaron’s gang is out for blood.”

He claps Darry on the shoulder and then he’s gone, jumping off the porch steps and running after Steve.

“Shit,” Darry sinks into a chair, previous conversation forgotten, and buries his head in his hands. Joey Dubois. He can see the kid in his head, a little guy with a mop of dark curls and a grin that spelled trouble. Him and Pony buddied it around sometimes, and Darry had always thought it was funny when his own kid brother would complain about having to put up with Joey always following him around. Lord knew Pony followed him and Johnny and Soda around the same way. The thought of the bright eyed kid being jumped nearly made Darry sick. He was hardly the first real little kid to ever be jumped in their neighbourhood, and wouldn’t be the last, but it didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

“So anyway,” Paul says, like Soda hadn’t just interrupted and told them about a literal child being jumped, “Wade isn’t as good a kicker as Tittle–”

“--Paul” Darry grits through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to talk about football right now.”

“What?” Paul scoffs a little, “why?”

“Did you not hear what Soda just said?”

“Some kid got jumped. So what? Happens all the time."

“He’s ten.”

“Dar,” Paul laughs a little, “it’s not a big deal. Yeah he’s ten but so what? He was probably asking for it.”

Darry's jaw tightens..

Usually, his friendship with Paul is easy. They get along better than Darry gets along with just about anyone, they have the same interests, share the same sense of humour and the same desperation to get out of Tulsa Oklahoma no matter what it takes. Sometimes their friendship is so easy that Darry forgets what Paul is, forgets where he comes from. 

Paul Holden is a west side elite, as soc as it gets. And sometimes, like right now, he’s so fucking patronizing Darry could smack him. 

Say what you want about him, but Darry Curtis is not stupid, nor is he naive. He’s seen things on the east side that Paul could only dream of, for all he pretends to be normal, comes to their house and bums around the east side like an actor in a movie, looks at Darry’s world,  his friends and his family like they’re an intriguing thought experiment instead of Darry’s very real life. And people can think what they want about him but Darry Curtis is not ashamed of where he comes from. There’s a lot of shitty things about the east side, but there’s a lot of good people here too, and Paul doesn’t get to sit there in his letterman jacket with his madras shirt and act like Darry reacting to a ten year old kid getting jumped is some crazy, childish thing. 

“You do realize,” he can hear his voice rising, “that my own baby brother is only twelve, right? And that the only difference between him and Joey is luck? I know you have no skin in this game so you don’t give a flying fuck about anything, but you could at least pretend to care.”

“C’mon, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” Darry demands, “Like someone who cares about little kids getting hurt in my own fucking neighbourhood?”

“Like you’re a fucking greaser!” Pauls bursts out, and then suddenly it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Darry recovers first.

“Get out.”

“Darry-”

“I said get out.” 

“Darry I’m sorry I-”

“No,” Darry advances on him, trying so hard to control his temper he’s literally shaking, “no you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come here, to my house, in my neighbourhood, meet all my friends and my family, and then look down on me for it like I’m some sort of trash.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Paul begs, “I-”

“Yes you did,” Darry cuts him off. He can feel hot tears welling, the way they always do when he’s so furious it’s hard to think, but he forces them back, “you meant it, and I’m fucking glad you did because guess what? I am a greaser, and I wear that title like a badge of honour ‘cause at least it means I ain’t nothin’ like you!”

“You didn’t seem to want that title when I gave you that shirt did you?” Paul spits back, moved to anger himself. Good. Darry can face Paul's anger a lot easier than his repentance. “Or when you started hanging out with me and the rest of the guys from the football team, or when Tammy Crenshaw asked you to Sadie Hawkins!”

“Whatever,” Darry sneers, “I thought you were better than this but once an asshole always an asshole, huh? I can’t believe I thought you changed. You’re the same shallow, entitled, socy asshole you were back in ninth grade.”

“Fuck you!”

“Get outta my house,” Darry shoves him, hard, “and don’t ever fucking come back. I never wanna see you again.”

“Go to hell!” Paul storms down the steps, “and hey, tell that kid brother of yours to watch his back. Since you apparently think I’m such a piece of shit, I might as well prove it.”

The words hang heavy in the air. For a second, Darry almost can’t understand them strung together like that, the threat almost ludicrous coming from someone he’d considered one of his best friends, the only guy from his circle of west side football buddies he’s ever allowed into his house, ever introduced his family to. For all they’re arguing in this second, for all Darry doesn’t know if he could ever forgive him for his words and his cavalier attitude, he’d never believe Paul capable of doing something like that, of hurting his brother.

But Paul just said it. And Paul Holden never says anything he doesn’t completely mean.

Darry sees red.

The next thing he knows the skin of his knuckles is splitting against Paul’s nose and he’s screaming louder than he can remember screaming in a long time.

“You touch either one of them and I’ll kill you! You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you!”

He doesn’t realize he’s got Paul by the collar of his shirt until he feels multiple pairs of hands yanking him back, someone else tearing Paul away from him.

“That’s enough,” Soda’s back. He shoves Paul, lighter than Darry had but enough that it’s clear he means it, “you better get outta here Holden. Looks like you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Paul spits at his feet. 

“You better watch your back Curtis.”

Soda’s eyes flash. He’s only fourteen but he’s grown half a foot this summer alone, and right now he looks nothing but tough, cold and fierce.

“Unlike you I’ve got six buddies to watch it for me, so I think you’d better watch your back pal.”

The hands holding Darry release him, Steve moving to flank Soda, Dally and Ponyboy on either side of him, all of them- even twelve year old Pony- just a little in front of Darry.

“Beat it Holden,” Steve tells Paul in that low, deadly voice he only uses when he’s real mad, the one that’s ten times scarier than any of his hollering, “if we have to ask again we won’t be so polite.”

Paul's last glare is cutting but he leaves, eyes like quicksilver as he turns away, and Darry finds himself hoping he’ll run into Aaron Dubois or his gang on his way back to the west side. 

When he's out of sight Dally spits on the ground and lights a cigarette, eyes cold and dangerous.

“C’mon, Dar,” Soda claps him on the shoulder, his smile only a little dimmer than usual, “Johnny and Two went to go see if they could russell up a car for the drag race tonight, and you know mom won’t let Pony watch unless you come with us.”

Darry follows his friends- his real friends- down the street, ruffles his brothers’ hair, and quietly mourns a person he thought he knew.

None of the gang ask what happened, not even Ponyboy. Darry doesn’t tell them, and if he sniffles a bit on the walk to the old rodeo grounds where the race is taking place, well, at least he's quiet enough that no one could possibly notice.

[soulofapatrick]

Sleep, I've Got You - Liam Mairi x Female Reader

Summary: you haven't slept in two weeks and two people are pushing you to seek Liam's help

Warnings: none

Words: 2.3k

Y/N's POV

The training room is filled with quiet conversation, but I linger in the doorway, unnoticed. Violet is stretched out on the floor with a book in hand, Bodhi and Garrick are watching Ridoc and Sawyer debating something trivial. Liam is just listening along, breathing air through his nose  when either of the goofs say something even more ridiculous than the other but he’s fiddling with a dagger in his hand. Xaden is in the corner, brooding as usual, his dark eyes occasionally flicking up to meet mine before drifting away. 

“Go to him.” Draighanmúr’s, or Draighan as I call him, voice rumbles in the back of my mind, firm and gentle. His presence is soothing, as always, but his suggestion catches me off guard, feeling his silent urge for me to move from where I’m still hovering in the doorway. He doesn’t say who the ‘him’ is but I know exactly who he is on about. 

I shouldn’t be here. My body is heavy with exhaustion, my thoughts fogged by the lack of sleep that’s haunted me for days. I know I should turn around and head back to the dorms, crawl into bed and pull the duvet over my head and try to get a single wink of sleep. Something, or someone, keeps me rooted in place, Xaden’s eyes flicking over to mine again once more before he goes back to brooding. 

The shadows around me seem to come to life, curling around my ankles like tendrils, their touch cold and almost tangible. There’s a light pressure at the back of my legs, an insistent nudge that makes me take a wobbly step forwards. My breath catching in my throat as I realise what’s happening—these aren’t just ordinary shadows. They’re Xaden’s. 

I glare at my wingleader instinctively, annoyance flickering in my chest. He’s the only one who could be doing this, the one manipulating the shadows to push me out of the safety of the darkness where I’ve been hiding. His eyes meet mine briefly, and there’s a knowing look in them, an acknowledgment of what he’s doing. He doesn’t say anything, though, just tilts his head slightly as if to say, You know this is for your own good.

Draighan chuffs in the back of my mind as if agreeing with Xaden’s silent comment, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and agreement as he tells me You need rest, and you know who can give it to you. His presence is warm, comforting, but it doesn’t take away the frustration bubbling inside me. Xaden and Draighan unknowingly conspiring against me. 

With a resigned sigh, I continue to shuffle forwards, my movements somewhat sluggish and uncertain—things you don’t want for a dragon rider. Every step feels heavier than the last, and I hesitate again, my body instinctively trying to resit the pull. But I can feel Xaden’s eyes boring holes into the side of my head, a silent pressure that refuses to elm me retreat. It’s as if his gaze alone is propelling my forwards, leaving me no choice but to keep moving until I find myself standing next to the group of boys. 

Ridoc glances up at me, a mischievous grin on his face which would have me worried if it were anyone else but Ridoc as he asks, “You joining us?” His tone is light, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes, like he’s surprised I’ve wandered over to them and not Violet. 

I just nod, the motion feeling more like a reflex than a conscious decision. Without saying a word, I sink down the wall, near Sawyer and a few steps away from Liam, close enough to feel the warmth of Liam’s presence but far enough that I don’t feel complexly exposed. 

The golden evening light streams into the training room, casting a warm, ethereal glow over everything it touches. Liam sits bathed in that light, his soft light-blond hair catching the glow, making him look almost ethereal. His tall, muscular frame, as built as Dain, is relaxed as he fiddles with a dagger, the blade catching the light as it twirls effortlessly between his fingers. His blue eyes are focused on the conversation, a soft, thoughtful expression on his face as he listens to the banter around him. There’s a rugged handsomeness to him, emphasised by the prominent nose and the sprawling rebellion relic that begins at his wrist and disappears under the sleeve of his tunic. When he smiles, a dimple appears, adding a touch of warmth to his otherwise stoic demeanour.

My heart tightens in my chest as I watch him. He looks like he belongs in this light, like the strength and calmness of it are just extensions of who he is. There’s a quiet confidence about him that draws me in, and I can’t help but feel my crush on him swell, massive and overwhelming. I’m head over heels for him, and it’s a feeling that terrifies me as much as it thrills me. 

Draighan’s presence in my mind is a steady, reassuring hum, bolstering my resolve. I scoot closer to Liam, my movements slow and deliberate as I inch toward him. My heart races as I reach out, nudging his right arm from his lap. He looks down at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything as I lay my head down where his arm once rested.

I tense, my whole body stiffening in anticipation of some kind of backlash or teasing comment. I’m ready for Ridoc’s sharp wit, for Sawyer’s playful jabs, or even for Liam to shift uncomfortably and pull away. But none of that happens. Instead, there’s a beat of silence, and then I feel Liam’s hand find its way into my hair. His fingers are gentle, tentative at first, before they start to move in slow, soothing strokes.

Liam's fingers begin to move through my hair, the touch light and careful, as though he’s afraid of hurting me. He smooths out the knots with practiced ease, each motion gentle yet firm. The tension I’ve been holding in my scalp and neck gradually starts to dissolve under his deft touch, the soothing strokes lulling me into a state of relaxation I haven’t felt in days.

As his hand continues to comb through my hair, he leans forward slightly, tilting my head to the side so that our eyes meet. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and alert, soften as they take in the exhaustion written across my face. There’s a quiet understanding in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of how tired I am, how much I need this moment of comfort.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and tender. “Sleep.”

The warmth in his tone wraps around me like a blanket, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the noise of the room, the worries in my mind. It’s just him, his voice, and the steady rhythm of his fingers in my hair. He lets go of my face, leaning back against the wall as he continues his soothing ministrations. Before he settles, though, his fingers briefly brush against my cheek, a tender gesture that sends a warmth spreading through my chest. Then, his hand returns to my hair, the steady, rhythmic strokes coaxing me closer to the edge of sleep.

As I begin to drift, I catch Ridoc’s eyes from across the room. He’s been watching quietly, his playful demeanour momentarily subdued. He mouths a single word at me, a question: Nightmares?

I nod once, softly, the motion barely perceptible. It’s all I can manage in my state of exhaustion, but it’s enough. Ridoc’s gaze softens in understanding before he turns back to his banter with Sawyer, Bodhi, and Garrick, picking up the conversation where he left off.

The world around me fades into the background as Liam’s fingers continue to move through my hair, the gentle rhythm pulling me closer to sleep. Draighan’s presence hums softly in the back of my mind, a comforting reminder that I’m safe, that I can finally let go. My breathing slows, and before long, I succumb to the exhaustion, my body sinking into the warmth and comfort of Liam’s lap.

————

I slowly drift back into consciousness, the heaviness of sleep gradually lifting as awareness returns. The first thing I notice is the softness beneath my head—a pillow, not the comforting firmness of Liam’s lap where I last remember resting. I shift slightly, feeling the warmth of a blanket draped over me, its weight soothing against the cool air of the room. There’s another weight too, heavier and more solid, resting across my waist. It takes me a moment to realize it’s an arm, strong and steady, holding me close.

I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dim light in the room. The training room is gone, replaced by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through a small window. The familiar scent of leather and something distinctly Liam fills my senses, grounding me as I take in my surroundings. I’m not in the dorms, not in my own bed. My heart skips a beat as the realisation sinks in—I’m in Liam’s bed.

I take a slow, deep breath, feeling the rise and fall of the warm body behind me. His presence is solid, comforting, and undeniably familiar. The heat of his body seeps into my back, and for a moment, I just lie there, processing the unexpected but welcome reality of where I am.

Carefully, I roll over, shifting beneath the weight of his arm until I’m facing him. The room is quiet, the only sounds being the soft rustle of the blanket and the steady rhythm of Liam’s breathing. My eyes trace his features, relaxed and peaceful in sleep. His spiky blond hair is tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead. His sharp, blue eyes are hidden behind closed lids, their intensity softened by the calmness of slumber. His prominent nose and the faint shadow of stubble on his jawline give him a rugged look, but there’s a gentleness to him now, a vulnerability that makes my heart ache.

As I lie there, taking in every detail of Liam's serene face, I feel an overwhelming tenderness swell in my chest. His usually intense blue eyes are softened by sleep, his features relaxed in a way I rarely get to see. I can’t help myself—I lean in and press a gentle kiss to his jawline, just where the faint shadow of stubble begins. His skin is warm and slightly rough beneath my lips, the contact filling me with a quiet sense of intimacy.

The soft press of my lips causes him to stir, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes slowly flutter open. For a moment, he looks disoriented, but then his gaze finds mine, and a slow, sleepy smile spreads across his face, the dimple in his cheek deepening.

"How'd you sleep?" he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

I begin to answer, my voice still soft and laced with the remnants of sleep, "Better than I have in days—" But before I can finish, I notice his eyes flick down to my lips, lingering there for just a heartbeat before he moves.

In a fluid motion, Liam closes the small distance between us, capturing my lips in a kiss that feels like the culmination of something we’ve both been wanting for far too long. His lips are warm and firm against mine, moving with a gentle urgency that takes my breath away. His hand, still resting on my waist, tightens slightly, pulling me closer as if he needs to make sure I’m real, that this moment is real.

The kiss is slow and tender, but there’s a depth to it that speaks of unspoken emotions, of the comfort we find in each other. His thumb brushes over my cheek as he deepens the kiss, his touch both loving and reverent. I lose myself in the sensation, in the way his lips mold perfectly to mine, in the way his warmth seeps into every corner of my being. It feels like coming home, like finding a piece of myself I didn’t know was missing.

When we finally part, it’s with a shared breath, both of us a little dazed but undeniably content. His forehead rests gently against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us.

"Maybe we should get a little more sleep," he whispers, his voice a soft murmur that makes my heart flutter. There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, one that I can’t help but return.

"Yeah," I agree, my own voice barely more than a sigh as I shift closer, tucking myself against his bare chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear is a comforting rhythm, lulling me back toward sleep. His arm wraps securely around me, holding me close as his other hand continues its soothing motions, tracing gentle patterns along my back.

As I drift off, the warmth of his body enveloping me and the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my head, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace. With Liam holding me close, sleep comes easily, and I let myself surrender to it, knowing that for now, everything is exactly as it should be.

Fourth Wing Masterlist - To be made Comment to be added to tag list

[evilgoosegoose]

Reset Time Jim AU but a bit different

Please excuse my horrendous writing skills it's been years since I wrote a real story with characters, even as short as this

He had done it, after hundreds of resets, after carefully studying, carefully changing each detail one by one, he had given everyone a good ending, only those completely necessary died, like the Tarron's parents.

Jim had finally been able to tell them what he did, and while they had lectured him about pulling a batman and purposefully retraumatizing himself multiple times in the process of saving them, they all eventually just started laughing and crying.

He had even managed to stop the titans entirely, catching them early and foiling their plans, saving those three days that would have been used tracking the Titans and stopping them, so instead, they celebrated, they had sleepovers, parties, and worked to rebuild the town better and friendly towards every species living in their town

the old belltower was one of the first things they had rebuilt, adding on a large canopy to provide more shade over the town square and it chimed every day right on time at 3:00 PM, Jim thought back on all those other timelines, erased from existence around this time, on this day, he had come to memorize when he would reset it all, exactly 3:42 PM, finally he could forget that time once and for all. Jim took a nice deep breath and went back to work painting the walls of the new school, much more colorful and much more variety, with enchanted paint that would change patterns daily, to add a little excitement.

He had finished the wall he had been working on a little after 3:20 and went to go eat lunch with the rest of the trollhunters, though that title wasn't entirely needed anymore. They chatted idly about things that have become mundane for them, seeing a particularly small goblin paint a little ">:(" with finger paints onto a wall, joking about imagining Jim being short and Toby being tall, like that'll ever happen, or Claire accidentally burning the cookies she was making because Nari started growing the Nunez's houseplants all over the walls and floors. Until all conversation suddenly ceased, causing Jim to look around for a second, what happened?

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Jim shot up in his bed, and looked around, what? Had he fallen asleep painting and got taken to his room? Yeah, that had to be it, He got up, made some breakfast for him and Toby, and headed out. Huh, the trashcans had gotten knocked over, must've been a stray goblin or something. He started to make his way over to Toby's house, opting to walk, but Toby was way ahead of him and was already biking towards him. And then he said they were going to be late for school, Jim felt a bit of panic before realizing Toby was messing with him, Ha Ha very funny Tobes, "oH wE'rE gOnNa Be LaTe FoR sChOoL".

But Toby just stared at him, confused, before asking if he had hit his head when he was getting up this morning, now Jim was confused too, what? Wait. Jim frantically pulled out his phone and.

the time line had reset. No. It was never a time line reset, it was a time loop. And just like a gun, the trigger had been pulled, there is no taking the bullet back, the world is doomed to infinitely loop every two years, those same, horrendous, traumatizing, mind breaking, two years

[mandalorianchronicles]

This popped into my head last night and now I can't shake it. Anyone else here think there is something so oddly familiar about an enemies to friends to lovers relationship between a scoundrel who flits from one job to the next in a vintage starship with an alien companion he's extremely close to (surviving on 70% luck and 30% skill) and a warrior princess with a bitchy attitude who lost her planet and is leading a rebellion against the Empire? No? Just me, huh.

[schizowitchic]

i keep forgetting that theres a work party next week and im actually going for once because its actually at a convenient time for me. why did i think this was a good idea (im sure it has nothing to do with the guy who is occasionally on my mind being there.... which is a stupid reason bc people who he is friends with will be there so it's not like he's even going to speak to me.... although the machines at work are getting in the way of me speaking to him because they made conversation - that he started, might i point out - between us nigh on impossible) . ......................... anyways it's bring ur own drinks and i can't honestly be bothered to pour any more money into this (its already costing me a fiver and what little sanity i have left) .... and also it's on a beach and they have organised activities such as team sports so i might actually kms im not capable of that BUT i have to go bc im not wasting the money & i do have friends (well. sort of.) who are going

[fingertipsmp3]

Okay. Is it delusional of me to try to signal to this guy in my class that I like him… through my choice of earrings

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

(Don't You) Steal My Thunder

my tyler owens playlist 🤝 inspiring fic titles

Tyler Owens x fem!reader  7k words

summary: Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's set on getting you on his good side. And the more you get to know him, the less you can resist.

a/n: i had to research sm car stuff for this it's not funny. i now know exactly how to describe a truck bed though, so. that's fun.

again, my inbox is wide open <33 i don't guarantee anything, but you can always come talk to me or request smth

masterlist | twisters masterlist

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met.

He prints his face on t-shirts, writes his autograph on mugs, comes up with ridiculous sayings ("Not My First Tornadeo" and "If you feel it, chase it" are really just the tip of the ice berg) and most importantly, he costs you the best shots of tornadoes every goddamn time.

Tyler Owens is a problem.

And Tyler Owens seems to have actively decided to make himself a problem too.

Which would be fine, if he flipped you the bird or told you to fuck off or threw his paper towels at you. Unluckily, those are rather examples of what you have done to him. Because it's not fine, not at all - no, Tyler Owens has decided that it's not enough to be in your way all the time, he has to seek you out and rub your nose in it.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's arrogant and he's entirely too full of himself. He brags too much and calls you "weather girl" too often. He gets under your skin more than you would ever admit.

And, as if all of that isn't enough - Tyler Owens is the very epitome of handsomeness.

It's like god didn't just have a good day when he created Tyler Owens, no, god must have still been in the post-haze of the best head he'd gotten in his whole immortal life when he'd created Tyler Owens.

Because Tyler Owens has the body of a greek god and the face of a Hollywood actor. He's not a pornstar, he's who pornstars worship. He's the Prince Charming little girls dream of and the Christian Grey grown women lust for.

Tyler Owens looks like everything you've ever wanted.

But he's just such a fucking asshole.

You wish you could say you didn't care. You'd love to be the kind of woman who didn't even acknowledge him. But you're not. You're not. You watch his videos when you can't sleep, you chuckle when you happen to overhear his jokes, you ogle his back when he's turned away from you. Sometimes, you get so lost in staring at him that you realise too late when he turns back around, and then you have to act unbothered when he grins his fucking grin at you. That's mostly when you flip him off, desperately fighting to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

Not like it stops him. You honestly feel like it only spurs him on.

Something has to seriously be wrong with him. It's not his face. But something is seriously wrong with him, you're sure of that.

Something has to be wrong with him. No sane person would ever go tornado wrangling. No hate to the rest of his crew - they're nice, you've managed to hold a few pretty normal conversations with them here and there - but none of them are sane either.

Storm chasing is different. You keep your distance. All you need are a few well-placed photographs - and those you can get from a rather safe number of miles away. The weather channel doesn't care about close-ups (not really, anyway). They want something to show the people on their comfortable couches, up in New Hampshire or Maine, so that all of them can say to each other "What poor folks, wouldn't wanna live there" and nod in pity as they switch the channel to watch another blockbuster.

You're just doing your job.

The only problem is that it's hard to do your job properly when there's always that fucking red truck in the way, driving down empty roads right into the heart of the tornado. And because no one on the news wants people to see that and go "Well, can't be too bad if there's still cars on the streets!", in the last few months - ever since you'd volunteered to move back to Oklahoma 'So that we've got someone right in Tornado Alley and don't have to fly people out there every time' - the weather channel has only shown the first few minutes of tornadoes forming. The rest of your pictures and videos lie abandoned in the trash file on your laptop. Except for a few - a very, very few, very, very good pictures of Tyler Owens and his Tornado Wranglers. But those won't ever see the light of day either.

You'd be damned if you let anyone know that while Tyler Owens is busy disturbing your actual work, you're busy taking pictures of him shooting fireworks into tornadoes. Pictures that would make for some damn good headers (if you hadn't buried them far, far down your gallery).

This time is no different. You get a few amazing shots of the tornado forming – surely an EF2, maybe even an EF3 - before you settle in the driver's seat again, your window rolled down and your camera hung around your neck as you push down on the gas. Then, a few miles further, you get even better shots of the full tornado, of the first few minutes of destruction, right there, in the middle of an empty field.

And as always, of course, just as the tornado takes on full form, you spot that familiar red truck through the lens of your camera. It speeds down the pavement right in front of where you’ve swerved onto the side of the road and you snap a few pictures, just because you’ve got the trigger right underneath your finger. Honestly, something about that dirty red paint against the grey skies just looks too good not to capture. But then the truck comes closer and closer and starts to slow down and you let your camera sink.

Tyler has his window rolled down already when he stops the car. There’s that annoyingly handsome grin on his lips, the one that makes you want to slap him across the face.

“You’re too far away, weather girl”, he calls out above the rumble of distant wind and thunder. “The good pictures are down that way.”

“The good pictures are right here.” You lift your camera at him. “Maybe you just need to update your equipment.”

Tyler’s grin widens, but before he can throw another of those obnoxious retorts your way, Lilly’s voice rings out through the car.

“Hey, T, looks like it’s changing course. You should hurry.”

His eyes are still glued to yours, still glued so firmly to yours that it makes your skin crawl. You can’t look away, couldn’t possibly look away. Tyler Owens might just be a cocky asshole, but you’re only human. And the weight of his gaze on yours is enough to keep you stuck in place, clutching at your camera.

“We’re on our way, Lilly”, he drawls without looking away from you. “See you around, weather girl.”

The rest of the pictures you take land in your trash file with all the other pictures of the last few weeks. You’re laying in bed, your laptop propped up against a pillow, the empty plate from dinner on the mattress next to you as you sort through today’s work. That’s the good thing about the time difference – you’ve got until seven to send the channel the day's results.

By nine, you’ve showered, put on a dress you feel confident in and settled on one of the chairs at the local bar. You’ve been telling yourself you need to get out a little bit more – you’ve been living here three months now and you haven’t really made any friends so far. To be fair, your job has kept you out and about most of the time. You’ve spent more hours at gas stations to fill up your tank than you have in your own home. But now you’ve decided to put an end to that. You're a young woman in a new town, you can meet more people than just the cashier at the local supermarket.

So for the past twenty minutes, you’ve been nursing a mojito at the counter and talking to the bartender. She’s nice, she’s your age, she’s extroverted enough to keep sidling up to you after every time she has to excuse herself to do her job. That, and she tells you she’s grown up here, so she knows most of the people around. She’s just serving another customer – a long-haired, brown-eyed, hat-wearing country guy who’s already shared a smile or two with you – when someone rests their arm on the countertop next to you.

“Didn’t expect to see you here”, he drawls, all low, deep Southern accent and you recognise his voice before you’ve even tilted your head up and looked at him. His grin drips down onto his words and wraps itself around your mind.

Tyler Owens isn’t just annoying – he’s unbelievable. He's unbelievable and he’s here.

“So you’re stalking me now”, you say, as drily as you can possibly manage. You've been doing that a lot around him. Dead-panning everything. Schooling your expression into fake neutrality.

"I'm here all the time, weather girl", he grins. "If anything, you're stalking me."

You snort, but it's rather unfunny when you think of all the videos you've watched, hours after they'd been livestreamed, cuddled up in your bed until midnight just to stare at his face. He's not that far from the truth.

"In your dreams, Owens", you say anyway, dragging your eyes back towards your almost empty cocktail glass. You wrap your lips around your straw and drain your drink entirely. What you say and what you do, none of that matters in the end. All of this is just show. Every conversation you've had with Tyler Owens in the last three months has been nothing but a performance. Other than your name, you don't think a single sentence out of your mouth has been honest. Not when it comes to him.

"Let me buy you a beer" is the only answer you get.

His grin widens when you look back up again - so cocky, so unbelievably cocky.

"I don't drink."

You push your glass an inch further down the bar top. Tyler raises his eyebrows. Fuck, someone really needs to kick him in the face. You can't keep having all these little heart attacks whenever he's close enough that you could touch him if you wanted.

Not that you want to.

"You're drinking right now", he says. You rest your palms against the bar top and blink at him.

"I don't drink with you."

He lets out a chuckle, one of those deep ones that settle right in your chest and make it hard to swallow.

"Just this once?", he asks and in all honesty, for just a second there, you actually consider giving in. He's too handsome for his own good. You really need to get it together. He's an ass (what an ass, goddamn). And he's insane. He's an insane ass. Sometimes you have to remind yourself of that - those times like now, when his piercing eyes and his kissable lips and his rugged stubble and his broad, broad shoulders and his drawled voice overshadow everything else.

"Don't you have some livestreaming to do?", you ask, hoping it still comes across just as sarcastic when you're the slightest bit distracted by how gloriously tight the sleeves of his flannel are. "Go chasing tornadoes, not me."

His grin widens inexplicably further. You're sure that if you were in a comic, there'd be a lightbulb flashing above his head right about now.

"Well", he drawls, "if you feel it..."

"Don't you do that shit to me, Owens."

He's raising his eyebrows again, raising his eyebrows as you clasp your hand around your empty glass so hard your knuckles turn white. But you're serious. Just as you'd lost yourself in the view of him, that angelic, sinful view of him, he'd gone and reminded you why you were so adamant to keep your distance. If you feel it, chase it. Ridiculous. Obnoxious. He's an arrogant, know-it-all, suicidal job-wrecker. He's the guy with cameras pointed at him everywhere he goes. He signs mugs and selfies and hats and shirts and bras. He's the reason you haven't gotten a single un-edited shot of a fully formed tornado in the last three months.

"You're not a fan of my catchphrase, weather girl?"

He can't even pretend to look wounded (even though he tries) with how big the grin on his lips still is. You stare right at him, dead-eyed and unflinching.

"I'm not a fan of you."

Lies slip off your tongue so easily by now that you wonder when you'd become morally compromised enough to not even care anymore. It must've happened somewhere along the way, sometime between the first conversation you'd had with him and the one you're having with him right now.

"You wound me", he grins, his palm pressed to his chest.

For the first time tonight, you allow yourself to grin back at him.

"I try."

With that, you slip off your chair and wave the bartender goodbye. You're already two steps away when Tyler calls after you.

"I'd still buy you a beer."

"I'm still not drinking with you", you call back. You don't turn around again. You just make your way back to your car and mark the evening as a half-successful night of socialising on your to-do list.

...

You see him again first thing the next day. Of course. Because there's no tornadoes without the Tornado Wranglers on their tail. By now, you're used to it. You wave at Dani as they come back out of the store at the gas station you're waiting at. They've got both arms full of coffees and for a second, you consider offering your help, but then you hear Tyler shout something out of his car and you suddenly don't feel any desire whatsoever to get up. You've sat yourself down in your truck bed, your camera slung around your neck and the radar on your lap. If all goes right, you're hoping for a tornado to form a little to the east from here. And as much as you dislike Tyler Owens, the fact that he's here soothes your nerves. Where he goes, there's sure to be tornadoes close by.

The few times you hadn't seen him had never ended well for you. You'd missed an EF3 your second week here just because you'd followed the wrong hunch. Meanwhile Tyler, of course, had been in the middle of it.

This might just be the one singular situation that you welcome seeing his red truck around. As long as you can manage to overtake him on the road after.

It's not that you need to be faster. You don't need to reach the tornado first. You don't even take the same way as him most of the time. He wants in there, you just want a sensible picture. Still, you can't help but feel a pang of disappointment every time you hit the brakes and jump out of your car, miles away from the actual cell as Tyler speeds down towards it. You've been telling yourself that it's because he ruins your pictures. It kind of is.

"Hey, weather girl!"

You let out a resigned breath as you tilt your head up and squint against the sun. He's still in his truck, his window rolled down, his elbow propped up against the car door.

"What do you want, Owens?"

Your fingers itch to reach for your camera. It's a visual, him in that fucking car, leaning out of his window with the sun peaking out behind him. But you can't, you can't take a picture of him this openly. Even if you were to argue that it's just the light you'd wanted to capture.

"To give you some advice", he calls out, his lips pulling into a grin. You raise your eyebrows at him. "East isn't gonna work out. Wind's changing. Go south."

He throws you a mock salute and hits the gas before you can say anything else.

Not that you'd been about to.

Instead you just curse to yourself, jump off the truck bed and throw your treacherous technology into the passenger seat with a little too much vigor. Fuck this. You sit at the steering wheel and stare out at the sky for exactly two seconds before you make your decision. Then you start your car and drive south.

You may not be a fan of Tyler Owens, but you've long since admitted to yourself that this man has got a gift. He has an unbeatable instinct when it comes to storms. And sure, you have your fair share of knowledge, but in the end, you're a photographer, not a meteorologist. You won't miss a day's work just because you're too proud to listen to Tyler.

You're a little further behind, but you can spot his truck and guess that he's driving straight on into the cell today, so you take a right and decide to try your luck with the side of the tornado. Not being right in its path doesn't sound too bad anyway.

You actually manage to snap a few well-placed pictures. You don't know what Tyler's doing, but it seems like he's not shooting random shit up the cell today. You'll watch the stream later - you're just the slightest bit curious now what's happening with them. Maybe they're doing some old-school chasing? Or maybe they're doing a challenge. Maybe Tyler is driving blindfolded. At this point, who knows.

It's good for you though. It's a considerable tornado today, an EF2 at least, and you only spot Tyler's red truck again when the cell moves further down the fields, away from him. It doesn't look like it's gonna disappear anytime soon. Maybe today's your lucky day.

Half an hour later, you're sure you've got at least a dozen pictures of the fully formed tornado, long touched down and without the red truck in the way.

You're just packing up your things, already sifting through the photos on your camera, squinting against the sunlight, trying to both tug the zipper of your bag closed and hit the right buttons at the same time when Tyler pulls up next to you.

"You look busy, weather girl", he says, already grinning that damn grin again.

"I am", you say - truthfully, for once. You let go of your bag and lower your camera. You're hesitant, but... "Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime", he grins. "Just do me one favour."

You already know this can't be good. Not with that cheeky look on his face. But he'd just saved you from chasing hot air (quite literally), so he deserves a little treat. And you don't want unsettled scores with Tyler Owens.

"I want to know what favour that's supposed to be before I agree", you say anyway, because with him, you can never be too careful. And in the end, you're only willing to do so much. (Though for him, you'd already do a lot more than you'd admit. A lot more than you hope he's aware of.)

"Let me buy you a beer", he says, and for once, he sounds serious.

The memory of yesterday night flashes before your eyes, of those same words at the bar. With him so close, way too close - with that grin and that stubble and that voice and those shoulders. You cross your arms and stare at him.

"If you're livestreaming this, I'm gonna sue your ass so hard."

He just lets out a chuckle and raises his hands in surrender.

"Cameras are off, I swear."

You stare at him for another silent ten or so seconds. At him in that fucking truck that looks just a little too good in your pictures. At him and his fucking face. That fucking face that you certainly wouldn't mind sitting on, if just to shut him up.

God, he's asking you to drink something with him. He's asking to buy you something to drink with him. You're stupid.

You're so, so stupid.

"Alright, cowboy", you say, uncrossing your arms and reaching for the handle of your car door. "I'll humour you."

...

You're in the bar again by nine that night, the same way you had been the day before. You're wearing a different dress and there's a different bartender, but you've ordered the same mojito and chosen the same place to sit.

Only this time, you're actively watching the door. And when Tyler strolls in, you've got to shift around in your seat and cross your legs. You don't even pretend you're not staring. You just ogle him openly. Not for the first time ever - you'd checked him out very obviously when he'd strutted towards you to introduce himself three months ago - but definitely for the first time in a while. And god yeah, he's a hunk of a man, alright. If you had your camera here right now...

But you don't. So instead, you drop your eyes to his feet (brown leather boots), drag them up his legs (blue jeans), over his chest (red checkered flannel), over his face (god, what you wouldn't give-) and finally rest them on the cowboy hat on top of his head.

When he's close enough to hear you, already grinning, of course, probably at how you're actually sitting there in the same spot as yesterday and hadn't just lied to his face about coming here, you raise your eyebrows at him.

"A cowboy hat?", you ask, your voice as unbothered as you can possibly manage (even though you're very, very, very much bothered right now). His grin only widens.

"Ladies love country boys", he drawls with a shrug.

"Now that's straight out of a song", you say. "You're getting lazy, Owens."

"A song?", he asks. "No, that's an Owens Original."

You pull your eyebrows even further up.

"Ladies love country boys? Trace Adkins?"

"Nope. Not familiar."

But his grin tells you that he's lying. He's a liar. He knows very well where he got that line from. And he knows just how easily he got under your skin with his simple trick. As if his face isn't enough already.

You just shake your head and turn away from him.

"Put your money where your mouth is, Owens. Buy me a beer."

...

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also a great conversationalist.

The hours fly by as you're talking. One beer turns into two, then into an uncountable number of soft drinks. You both agree that you need to drive home, neither of you is willing to risk a run-in with the police. You need your drivers license for your jobs.

Tyler talks to you about the pictures you've taken today, then about the pictures from last week. He laughs when you blame him for ruining half of them and almost spits out his coke when you slap his arm for laughing at you. He tells you about his crew, about the people they've helped with the money from their dumb t-shirt sales. You think you hate him less by the minute. You're not sure if you're okay with that. But he gets you talking about your childhood and your parents, about school and college and about how you've wound back up here in Oklahoma. That effectively distracts you.

That, and how his cocky grin morphs into a genuine smile the more you open up.

Not that you didn't love the cocky grin. You did, just a bit. As obnoxious as it was. But the way he smiles at you all sweet has you melting right in your spot.

It's not the first time you realise that beneath all that rough exterior, there beats a heart of gold. You've known what those t-shirt sales are for, that he offers food and water after a tornado hits a town, that he carries the injured out of the ruins of their houses and helps find lost dogs. The more you've been around him in the past weeks, the more you've seen of his soft side. Of the way he cares and supports. But in the end, it always is easier to go back to the status quo - to fall back onto mindless snark and fleeting first impressions.

You'd clung so desperately to the image of him as this arrogant, smug, holier-than-thou influencer god for the sole purpose of keeping your own sanity. Because you'd known that without despising him, you would fall head over heels for Tyler Owens, and you just couldn't have that.

But now, with his arm brushing against yours and his hat discarded on the bar top and his smile, that beautiful, beautiful smile on his lips...

"Five bucks", he drawls, already reaching for his wallet.

"What?"

"Five bucks says there won't be a tornado tomorrow."

You raise your eyebrows at him, your glass hovering in mid-air between the two of you. You'd meant to take a sip, but now you're setting it right back down on the bar top.

"You're shitting me."

Tyler just shakes his head. He's grinning again, but it's much softer this time around.

"The winds are looking great. The forecast says it's gonna be the best conditions for tornadoes we've seen in the last six weeks. I've heard Dexter talk about how we're probably gonna see an EF4 tomorrow", you tell him, even though you're sure he's well aware of all of it. This is Tyler Owens, for god's sake. He knows about the winds and the forecasts. He knows that his crew is making preparations already.

His grin only grows. And it's smug now. It's cocky now. It's everything you thought you'd left behind during this conversation. He looks like the Tornado Wrangler again, like the guy who fucks up your pictures and makes your job harder than it already is.

It takes you a second too long to realise why.

"Dexter said that on our live", he grins, as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. You physically recoil from him. "Do you watch our streams, weather girl?"

"No", you breathe, rigid and frozen, shocked to your very core. No, no, no, no, this cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. You'd... You hadn't made that mistake. He hadn't got you to make that mistake.

"Dexter talked about tomorrow on our live", Tyler says again, straightening his back and grinning down at you like he's just uncovered the lost grave of Cleopatra. "Only on the live. You watched our stream."

"No", you mutter, your eyes wide and your mouth dry, so dry. You need to drink. You need to drink so badly. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You watched our stream, honey."

The petname runs down your spine and clogs your senses. Honey. Oh, he's an ass, he's an asshole! But you're on the spot, you're on the spot and he's calling you honey, honey, honey. You can't do anything but watch as he leans closer to you, grinning down at you like it's his one true purpose on this earth, like he wants to eat you alive.

"I'd say you watch our streams pretty regularly, weather girl."

You swallow hard and clasp your hand around your glass.

"Yeah?", you breathe, hoping against all hope that your voice sounds somewhat innocent. You're sure it doesn't. You know it doesn't. You probably sound as guilty as you are, but... Hope dies last. Hope always dies last. "Why would you say that?"

"Just a hunch." He shows off those pearly fucking whites for you. "Call it an instinct. I'm usually right."

He is.

He's right now. He's right usually.

Him and his fucking instinct. His goddamn gut feeling about tornadoes, always right all the fucking time. He's like an Oklahoma Jesus. The first coming of Tornado Christ.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

"I'll take your bet." You drain your glass at once. "Give me your five bucks, Owens."

You don't think it'll work. You don't think he'll let you distract him. You don't think it'll be this easy to stop his vile teasing. He's not the type of guy to let something go. He's not the type of guy to let anything go ever. But he looks at you and he grins at you and he trails his eyes over your face and then he opens up his wallet and pulls out five dollars without another word.

He puts the bill flat on the bar top.

But when you go to reach for it, he pushes his fingers down.

"The price just went up", he says.

You raise your eyebrows and let your hand sink again. Tyler is absolutely unpredictable. You should've known.

"The price just went up?", you repeat. He nods. "What more do you want to bet?"

He's closer now, closer all of a sudden. He's too close, close enough to make your breath hitch. He's looking down at you with that cocky, cheeky grin, with his weirdly green eyes, with his three day stubble and his generally much too symmetrical face. You can't do anything but look back up at him.

"A kiss", he says. Simple as that.

A kiss.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He is. Truly. He's annoying and way too full of himself and much too presumptuous. Tyler Owens is the only man who would ever do something like this. The only man who'd bet a kiss on whether or not there will be tornadoes tomorrow.

Especially with that forecast.

The one that says a tornado is basically inevitable.

"Alright", you say. He may be Tyler Owens, the guy with an infallible instinct - but he is also Tyler Owens, the guy who's been doing his hardest to get under your skin. This time might not be any different. For all you know, he's bluffing to rile you up. "I'm in."

...

At eleven the next day, you're standing next to Dexter in resigned silence.

"I really thought today was gonna pan out", you mutter.

"It should have", Dexter frowns, tapping against the screen in his hands. "It should have worked out. The conditions should have been perfect. Everything's been building the last few days."

"But it collapsed this morning."

You turn your head and watch as Tyler comes to a stand next to you, arms crossed, eyes locked on the clear sky up above. He tilts his head to you and grins. Fuck, he's wearing his goddamn hat again. It's like he doesn't even try to be normal.

"Hey, weather girl", he greets. "Ready to cash out your bet?"

You shake your head at him. No, you're not giving up this easily. You never give up this easily.

"The day's not over yet, Owens. You haven't won 'til midnight."

...

You spend most of the next hours sitting in your truck bed, reading a book you'd thrown into your backseat weeks ago and had so far neglected. Lilly hands you lunch around two, Dani offers you a coffee around five and Boone pipes up here and there to joke about the wasted day. Around six, Dexter comes by to let you know they're calling it.

You still have another hour to go. By seven, it'll be too late to send your pictures anyway. But you want the hour. You need the hour.

You still haven't decided what to do about Tyler. About Tyler and his fucking bet.

He's been loitering the whole day, walking by, joking around with his crew, livestreaming a spontaneous q&a just because.

And the more minutes tick by, the harder it is to keep ignoring that you've most definitely lost the bet. Even though you do your best. You read, you check your phone. You stare at your radar. You stare at the weather forecast. You talk to Dexter and Dani and Lilly and Boone. You take a few pictures of the sky. Then you take a few pictures of Tyler, standing some feet away from his truck and looking out at the clouds.

It's only when two of three Tornado Wranglers cars are disappearing down the road, when Tyler Owens suddenly stands in front of your truck bed, that you put down your book and face reality.

"No tornadoes in sight", he says, instead of 'Hello' or 'How are you' like any other person would.

"There's still six hours left", you reason. Even if only one of those is relevant for your job today.

"You really want to wait out six hours to prove I'm right?"

"You're not right", you argue. It's fruitless, it's stupid, it's unreasonable. But... "Not yet, anyway."

Tyler raises his eyebrows at you, lets out an amused chuckle and leans against the side of your truck bed.

"Alright, so we wait."

You eye him from the side. He's fucking leaning against your truck, staring out at the sky, talking about six hours. Goddamn. He can't be serious, can he? His crew is already gone. They've disappeared into the descending sun and he's talking about waiting another six hours. Leaned against your car.

"Fuck's sake, Owens", you sigh, scooching over to the right. "At least sit down then."

You don't talk much at first. You just open your book back up again and try your hardest to ignore that he's even here at all, barely two feet away from you on the other side of your truck bed. If you stretched your leg, you'd hit him right in the hip.

It makes reading close to impossible.

Even though he's not doing anything at all. He's just sitting there, one arm propped up on the side board, that goddamn cowboy hat on his head and his feet hanging off the opened tailgate. It's almost worse that he's not doing anything.

That he's just sitting there and watching the sky change.

You give up on reading entirely when you realise that you've finished exactly five pages in half an hour. Instead, you put your book back in the car, pull out your bluetooth speaker and two water bottles and offer Tyler one of them.

You don't even ask him what music he wants to listen to. You just put on your country playlist and roll with it. By the twitch of his lips, you know he certainly doesn't mind.

Another half hour later, it's starting to get chilly and you're beginning to grow bored of the music. Tyler sitting next to you makes you fidgety, somehow, and you can't really enjoy the songs you usually love so much. So you switch to a podcast. You don't ask Tyler if he minds. He's free to go anytime.

Around eight, the sun starts to set, and the chill turns into an unpleasant cool. You hadn't really expected to be sitting out here so long. You're not prepared for the temperature to drop. You're wearing shorts, for god's sake, shorts and a top. It's summer in Oklahoma - you don't know how Tyler even manages to survive in his long jeans. You certainly wouldn't.

But now you're a little jealous, to be honest. He doesn't look cold in the slightest while you're fighting off shivers. You can feel your hands trembling already.

You really should've brought a jacket. But who brings jackets in 30 degree summer weather?

So instead, you just resign yourself to your fate and rub your hands along your arms. Anything to get some warmth into your body.

For the first time since you've sat back down, Tyler turns his head and looks at you.

"You're cold", he says, eyes raking over your arms and the goosebumps you'd gotten.

"Great observational skills, Sherlock Holmes", you deadpan, even though he doesn't really deserve that. He had so far left you pretty much alone. "A+ on that assignment."

Well, it's hard to break bad habits.

Tyler just chuckles, shakes his head and pushes off of the truck bed. You watch, eyes narrowed, as he walks back to his own car, opens up the trunk and- pulls out a blanket?

Your hands have sunken down to your lap all by themselves by the time he's standing in front of you again, holding out the blanket.

"For you, Watson", he grins as you slowly, carefully take the blanket from him. You mutter something along the lines of a soft 'Thank you' before you wrap the blanket around your arms.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. But he's also the very definition of "Tough on the outside, soft on the inside". Sometimes, you think the word 'angelic' works for more than just his divine looks.

Your eyes are glued to him as he sits back down next to you and looks out at the darkening sky with that signature grin on his lips, like he knows that you're watching him and enjoys it more than he should. That doesn't deter you though. For the very first time. You don't even stop staring when he turns his head back to you. You don't even stop staring then.

You just look at him until his grin crumbles. Until he's smiling that smile from yesterday night, the one that has your heart squeezing together and then exploding in your chest. You think you could stare at that smile for the rest of eternity and never feel sated.

"What?", he asks, his voice so soft it makes you swallow. Your lips part, but there's no words on your tongue, none in your throat. They're stuck in your chest somewhere, wrapped around your heart so tightly that you can't let them go even now. So you just press your lips together, wrap your blanket tighter around yourself and say:

"So I'm Watson, yeah?"

Your podcast is long forgotten by the time the sky turns dark. So dark that you make Tyler climb into your car and turn on the lights. You're comfortable in your blanket, you don't feel the need to move.

It's around ten when the blanket isn't enough anymore.

You tuck your hands underneath your top, but that only helps for so long. A few minutes later, you're trembling again, trembling even though you're pulling the blanket as tightly around you as you possibly can. Tyler raises his eyebrows when a particularly heavy shiver runs down your spine, one of those that come and go within three seconds.

"Come here", he says, shuffling in his spot and motioning for you to move over to him. You don't really think about it. It's more of a reflex as you fumble the blanket off of your body, scooch over to him, settle yourself against his side and sneak your feet under his thigh. He tugs the blanket back up to your chin, tucks it in behind your back and wraps his arms around you.

Tyler Owens wraps his arms around you.

And he's so fucking warm you literally almost moan. God, you hadn't actually realised just how cold you'd been.

"Damn, you're freezing", he notes as well, just as you nestle further into him and hum in agreement. He's like a living heater right now. You'd like to just crawl inside of him and suck up all his warmth. "You should've told me sooner."

"I didn't tell you at all", you mutter, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. He smells good. He smells so good. Earthy, musky somehow. You're tempted to turn your head and bury your nose in his shoulder.

Instead, you just satisfy yourself with what you can get. Fuck, he smells so good. He smells just like you'd thought he would, like country and rodeo and thunderstorms. He smells like falling into bed at the end of a successful chase. He smells like more. You want more.

You want more of Tyler Owens.

"Are you sniffing me?", he asks suddenly, but he sounds so amused you can't even bring yourself to feel embarrassed. You just open your eyes and grin at him, tilting your head so you can look up at him.

"What if I am?", you ask, if only to hear that breathless chuckle fall from his lips. Oh, those lips. You're in trouble. "Are you gonna call the cops on me?"

"I could never."

"Yeah, you better not, cowboy", you mutter, eyes dropping to his lips when he grins. He's so close. He's way too close. "There's like thirty things I could call the cops about on your channel."

His grin grows until he's showing off his teeth, glinting against the low light of the leds in your car. He's closer now.

"So you do watch our streams, weather girl."

His voice is so low and he's so close, so close. Your lips part all on their own. You haven't looked back up at his eyes in too long. Far too long. But he's so close, and he's so warm, and he smells so good.

"Alright", you whisper. His mouth is barely an inch from yours. You can feel every breath he takes. "I watch your streams."

And then your lips are on his.

Tyler Owens is the most annoying man you've ever met. He's cocky and he's smug. He makes your job harder than it has to be. He does everything and anything to get under your skin. But Tyler Ownes is the best goddamn kisser this side of the globe.

He trails his hands, his big, big hands, down your sides, pushes the blanket out of the way and grabs at your waist with just enough firmness. He pulls you onto his lap and rests his thumbs over the hem of your top. He breathes into your mouth and takes it slow. He doesn't care that you almost knock his hat out of the way when you try to wrap your arms around his neck. He just holds you tightly to him and lets you tug on his lip.

You honestly don't know how much time has passed when he pulls back, grinning an entirely new grin at you, hazy and euphoric.

"It's not midnight yet", he mutters, the slightest bit out of breath.

"I don't care", you mumble, drawing him right back in for another kiss. You think you might be addicted. You simply can't get enough of him. You can't get enough of Tyler Owens.

But then a thought strikes you, and you pull away with a grin that makes him raise his eyebrows.

You chuckle against his lips.

"If you feel it, chase it, right?"

[ellecdc]

The Ruined Apothecary

Remus Lupin x feisty fem!reader who reconnect after Hogwarts

CW: chronic pain, Remus uses a mobility aid, financial insecurity, fluff/banter

A/N: I think this was a request from @maladaptiveescapism like eons ago about feisty reader who runs into Remus prior to a full moon post Hogwarts and somehow knows what Remus needs unprompted

Remus hated shopping in Diagon Alley for a number of reasons.

One, he hated running into people from Hogwarts – and the chances of such happening were quite high due to how small the Wizarding community was.

Two, he never could keep track of who was aware of his status as a werewolf and who didn’t, and more importantly, who took issue with his status.

But what he hated most of all was coming to Diagon Alley this close to the full moon on account of the two aforementioned reasons.

Unfortunately, Remus had left it too late to restock his medicine and potions cabinet, and he was out of dittany, valerian root, and pain potions; all things he couldn’t find for himself in the muggle world, and though he knew his friends would be more than happy to run these errands for him, he was tired of relying on them.

So, he put on a beanie and his denim jacket, a pair of ratty old converse and grabbed the cane that Sirius had insisted Remus let him buy for him because “it has moons on it!” and hobbled through Diagon Alley towards the discount Apothecary he hoped wasn’t out of stock of the common post-moon essentials.

“Lupin?” He heard from behind him, causing him to groan internally. 

He could pretend he hadn’t heard them, though, there was still a way out of this.

“Oh, come now, I know you heard me.” He heard the voice again.

So much for that plan.

Remus reluctantly turned towards the voice, only to be accosted by the beautiful image you painted, standing in the middle of Diagon Alley looking exactly like you had at school, but somehow more beautiful.

Remus hated that.

“L/N?” He asked, raising a hand in hello. To Remus’ absolute horror, you began moving towards him.

“Wow, I rarely get to see you around these parts. I’d say that makes me sad, but you and your friends were never a welcome sight back at school.” You jested, looking Remus up and down.

It took everything in him not to try to hide from your piercing gaze.

“Oh, I’m sure you see James and Sirius around enough for the lot of us.”

You laughed at that – Remus wasn’t sure he’d ever heard you laugh; certainly not back in school, and certainly not on account of anything he had said.

“Well, it gets a little boring around these parts sometimes; your lot would help keep some of these tosser shopkeeps on their toes I reckon.” You spat, glaring menacingly at a particular elderly shopkeep - who was very clearly eavesdropping on your conversation - causing them to hastily re-enter their establishment.

“Soddin’ no good Gwendolyn.” You grumbled, still staring daggers towards the offending shop. Remus felt his cheeks flame when his laugh turned into a coughing fit on account of his ribs stretching in preparation for the moon. 

You looked him over once again with a perceptive gaze that made Remus feel like he was standing naked in the middle of Diagon Alley.

He’d had that dream once before; didn’t much care for it.

“Where’re you headed?” You asked then, appearing for all intents and purposes like you were making casual conversation, though Remus knew better. 

“Just running some errands.” He offered noncommittally, and some of that feisty witch he remembered from back in school made an appearance as you narrowed your eyes at him. 

“Really?” You sneered at him. “I rather thought you were here to work on your tan.”

Remus - the dumb sod - actually looked up at the sky as if wondering if that was a good enough excuse to go by, only to be met with the familiar overcast sky that the UK typically wore.

“What errands, Lupin?” You asked again, and some of that heat from your sarcasm seemed to dissipate from your tone as your gaze turned softer.

“The Apothecary.” Remus admitted, not having the energy nor the patience to lie to you.

Your face grew into a wide grin at that, and he once again tried to remember if he’d ever seen you smile before; certainly not at him.

“Well why didn’t you just say so? I own an Apothecary, you know?” 

And he did know which was why he’d never been before.

He’d never been before because the ingredients he’d procured and the frequency of which he procured them would give away his status to one who didn’t already know it. It was admittedly easier having some middle-aged shopkeep who didn’t know him - and thus didn’t give a thestrals arse about what Remus was - dispense his ingredients than someone who he went to school with.

The other reason he’d never been before was that he was quite certain he’d never be able to afford your prices.

But you were already walking away from him as if you were expecting him to follow.

“It was nice seeing you!” He tried to dismiss you as he turned to walk the other way. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, Lupin.” He heard you call as you turned back towards him. “My shop’s this way.” 

Remus let out a sigh as he stared you down defiantly. 

He didn’t want to go to your shop. He didn’t want you to know what ingredients he needed for the potions and medical care he required every month. He also didn’t want to have to ask you in the end if he could come back and pay for the rest of his tab on payday, nor did he want to empty his wallet in one shop.

But his hip was killing him, his fingers were gripping the handle of his cane painfully, and you were standing there staring at him with your eyes and your looks and your gorgeousness and fucking dammit. 

He’d have to stop by Gringotts on his way out and see if they provide lines of credit. 

Your shop was….absolutely nothing like he expected it to be.

Don’t get him wrong, it definitely looked like a Slytherin owned and operated it, what with its deep jewel-toned walls, dark stained wood shelves, desks, and furniture, and the low-hanging ceiling that saw various plants, dried arrangements, and… crystals? hanging from it. 

“What’s with that face, Lupin?” You asked him from behind the desk, alerting him to the fact that he was standing in the middle of your shop staring at the ceiling with a look of pure discombobulation. 

“Are those…crystals?” He asked as he made his way, albeit slowly, towards your counter. 

You looked up at the ceiling as if noticing them for the first time. “Ah, yes; those would be Pandora’s doing. Something about the wrackspurts or what not, I couldn’t tell you.” You explained flippantly. “She offers tea leaf readings on Saturday’s if you’re interested.”

Remus let out a snort at that, immediately horrified that he just belittled a service that your shop provided. “Oh! I, erm, I mean-”

“Relax, Lupin; I’ve not had my tea leaves read either.” You offered in monotone, looking up and offering him a smirk.

“Not big on divination, I take it?” He asked you then, watching as you set up parchments and twine along your workbench. 

“Not at all; but she was bad for business which was what I was looking for.” 

Remus felt his head tilt at that but you disappeared behind the curtain into a store room before he was able to comment on your word choice. 

Remus leaned heavily against the counter as he made himself busy watching what looked to be a bowtruckle climb through the vines and branches of an ancient looking tree that seemed to make up the majority of the shop's ceiling. 

You reappeared from the back room with an overflowing basket of ingredients, and far more supplies than Remus came here for.

“Oh! I, erm, I only came for dittany, valerian root, and pain potions today.” He offered awkwardly, trying to stand up straighter and wincing when his hip cracked audibly. 

You looked up at him then, clearly fighting off an expression that threatened to take over your face that would give away the fact that you thought Remus quite stupid for explaining, which Remus also noted was a new skill you acquired since your days in school.

“Right…” You offered awkwardly, looking back down at your basket. “I also added some moonseed, powdered moonstone, powdered silver, and some wiggenweld potions.” 

“Moonseed can be used as a salve for your sores, Remus.” Madame Pomfrey explained to him after graduation before he left Hogwarts for the last time. “Do keep some on you at all times, okay? And any ingredients that can be used in pain potions or calming draughts; powdered moonstone, valerian root, and for very deep werewolf injuries, please keep powdered silver on you as well.” He simply smiled at Madame Pomfrey before pecking a kiss to her cheek - his mum away from home and the witch who single handedly ensured Remus’ survival all these years - not bothering to admit to her that he’d likely never be able to afford these ingredients as a lycanthrope.

He didn’t even register that you seemed to know of his lycanthropy nor that you had packaged everything up for him in your parchments and twine, adding sprigs of fluxweed between the knot of twine - for decoration or practical use, Remus wasn’t sure - until you read his total out for him. 

“That’ll be three galleons and 25 knuts, please.” You said simply as you stared at him expectantly.

Three galleons?! The powdered silver should be almost five, alone. 

“That’s not enough.” He pressed quickly, causing one of your eyebrows to raise at him.

“It’s my shop, I get to charge what I feel.”

“I don’t need your charity, L/N.” He spat then, officially losing what little patience he had. Money had always been a sore spot for him, and this was exactly why he didn’t come to your Apothecary; a well-done by Sacred 28 witch like you wouldn’t understand.

“Lupin.” You chided harshly. “Since you’ve never bothered to frequent my shop before, you may not be aware that I had my business passed through the Ministry in partnership with St. Mungo’s as a sliding scale provider, meaning that I only have to charge people what they can afford to pay me. Aside from that, my family has more money than any of my potential future children’s children’s children will know what to do with, so I will tell you again: it is my shop, I get to charge what I feel.” 

Remus’ eyes flit back towards the ceiling without his consent to watch the bowtruckle twirl one of the hanging crystals and chatter happily as it watched the rainbow lights reflecting along the walls.

“Those would be Pandora’s…she offers tea leaf readings on Saturday’s; she was bad for business which was what I was looking for.”

“This was your father’s shop.” Remus concluded, watching your jaw tighten as you gave him a curt nod. “And you…did this?” Remus continued as he gestured to the store vaguely.

“Ruined it, yes.” You confirmed.

“Who said it was ruined?”

You hummed as you looked off into the distance recalling the names of people who said you had destroyed your family’s business. “My entire family, their peers, the business department at the Ministry, Professor Slughorn… the likes.”

You seemed surprised when you returned your gaze to Remus to find him smiling softly at you. 

“Why?” He whispered at you, causing you to smile what appeared to be bashfully. 

“I don’t need to profit off of someone else's struggles.” You said simply, no longer making eye contact with Remus and opting to bag the packages in front of you in order to have something to do with your hands. “I’m in a position to help, so…I feel like I should.”

Remus let out a hum of acknowledgment as he placed his three galleons and 25 knuts on the counter in front of you. 

“Or…” Remus started teasingly as he accepted the brown paper bag you had placed his packages in from your hand. “You’ve gone soft.”

Your face fell then as you stared him down challengingly, though Remus relished in the hint of a smile from your lips. “Get the hells out of my shop, Lupin.”

Remus laughed as he backed away from the counter, his bag and cane in one hand as he pointed at you. “No, no. You’ve made a terrible mistake, L/N. I will be haunting this shop frequently from now on.”

“Stay out of trouble, will you Lupin?” You called back to him as he made it to the door of the shop. 

“You know what? I don’t think I will. Thanks, dove! Next time I’ll stop by with James and Sirius!”

And he couldn’t help the beaming smile that took over his face as he heard your groan some profanity as the door slipped shut behind him. 

Oh yeah, he’d definitely be telling the boys that he found a new Apothecary, and that they should absolutely be investing their families money in it.

[hello-eden]

 Surprise Reflection

Red robin feels like he has been hit by a truck. He has no idea why he feels like this. He knows for a fact he was drugged and not hit over the head but there are more important things to worry about.

He wakes up tied to a chair with both rope and handcuffs. it's going to take a minute to get out. He looks around at his captors who make it very obvious that his initial guess of cult is correct.

There's a summoning Circle in the middle of the room that they're working on. He has no idea what there's summoning. No one's turned around to look at him and started villain monologuing to tell him. He sees two other people tied up and he recognizes them. 

Red hood and spoiler in gear, which is an unexpected surprise he thought they were off tonight. Hood is still conked out but spoiler is awake and gagged. He wonders if she bit one of the cultists or if she tried Nightwings favorite tactic to be as annoying as possible. 

He's busy trying to unravel the rope silently all the sudden he hears chanting. That is the worst thing to happen at this moment. He has basically zero backup as hood is incapacitated and spoiler is just as tied up as him.

Red robin tries to is yelling at the cultist trying to figure out what's going on or at least distracting them with the fact he's awake but they don't seem to hear him.

A being appeared in a blinding flash of white light. There is an unsettling feeling in the air that seemed to emerge with them.

Their eyes glowing such a bright green that you could barely make out the shapes of their face. Their hair seems to come down to their hips alternating from black to white. Their body forming itself right in front of their eyes turning into something not quite human but trying to be. the being turned to survey the room from the cultist to the heroes trying to stop whatever ritual this was.

“ WHO DARES” the being said, sounding as if they've been insulted.

“ Oh great being of chaos and Power, we have come before you to ask for a boon ” one of the cult members came forward to say.

“what is this boon you wish for” The being asks clearly not wanting to be here.

 “if the mighty one would will it we would be most grateful to have the ones known as the Justice League destroyed”

 The Being stopped for a moment as if trying to figure out what the cult leader had just said.

“Is this a fu*king cult”

That stopped everyone in their tracks. 

“I would not call it a cult, I would call it a group created to promote your greatness.” the cult member says trying to save the situation.  

“ That's a cult,“ The Beings seem to start laughing as they realize who had summoned them. ”is this seriously what's going on. who the hell even is this Justice League that you've decided they need to be destroyed.”

“ They are people who promote the destruction of ourselves and have been working too stop the spread of your greatness.”

“ Your majesty,”  Red Robin says, hoping to swing this one there way as it's obvious whatever this thing it is not exactly fond of Cults. “We are Protectors of the place that these people have been trying to destroy.”

 “Are you trying to make me go against Heroes” The Being said, even without a clear look at their face you could tell they're in disbelief.

“You Dare,” The anger in their voice makes it very clear they are dangerous ”I am created from one of Realm's Greatest protectors. you dare try and make me destroy Heroes. I will enjoy giving you to the nightmare dimension”

Another bright light appeared though this time instead of just being inside the circle it covered the entire room. This time the light was a ombre of green and blue. Once the light dispersed all of the cult members seemed to have disappeared.

In the center of the room where the summoning Circle originally was stands a girl. her eyes are the same bright green with white hair but this time with a human face. A familiar face. She's wearing jeans with a constellation hoodie and matching Converse.

“apologies for the inconvenience I do quite hate when I'm summoned” The girl disappears just as she finishes speaking. 

It took Red Robin a while to realize what was confusing him but the second she left he realized. She had Damian's face. From the shape of his nose and the resemblance to Bruce even down to the bright Lazarus green eyes. She was a mirror image and he had no idea what that meant for them.

[rafesgfs]

three cents

pairings: aaron hotchner x reader

summary: you butt dial your boss during a girls night … the girls night where you told them you’d fuck aaron hotchner for three cents.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: talks of big dick energy, prostitution if you squint, red wine, gray sweatpants (mentioned)

Girls' night out was wild, no one knew where you would end up. One night, you ended up on a boat and the next you were on a train to NYC. After getting thrown in jail with Emily, JJ, and Penelope during another night out, you all vowed to keep whatever happened during the night a secret from everyone, specifically Derek Morgan. Derek Morgan who had bailed all four of you out of jail, Derek Morgan who teased you relentlessly for weeks after.

After a long case, Emily suggested another girl’s night which all of you agreed on, desperately needing a celebratory drink after saving a little girl. It was around one in the morning when you got back to Quantico and though Aaron gave you the day off for tomorrow–or well, later today–all four of you decided to crash at Emily’s and drink to your heart’s content.

Popcorn and Hersey kisses lay on Emily’s coffee table, bottles of half-empty wine and jello shots litter the floor and you’re all giggling about whether to prank Derek by getting phone cases with a picture of him shirtless. You’re all on board and Penelope is getting them custom-made through a website she’s found.

“Speaking of Derek’s abs.” JJ drags the ‘s’ creating a hissing noise. She turns to you, grinning. “I’ve wanted to ask ever since you went to that Doctor Who convention with him. Do you like like Spence?”

You giggled, taking a small sip of wine, thinking about the genius. “Noooo. Spence is my friend. And he runs with his gun like it’s weighing him down. Besides, I only went to that Doctor Who convention because he went to see Barbie with me. He’s, like, too young for me, too.”

“He’s older than you.” Emily points out, smirking, knowing full well you liked older men. “He’s adorable and sweet.”

“Spencer is definitely cute and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had a sex dream about him,” you confessed, smiling as the girls burst out laughing. “But he’s too … inexperienced. I like my men like I like my wine. Old.”

Your phone had been on mute since you entered the plane, not wanting to abruptly wake anyone up if they were resting, so not a single person in the room had heard your phone ringing or Aaron’s multiple “hello’s” trying to get your attention. All of you were oblivious to your boss listening in to the conversation.

“Is Rossi too old for you?” Penelope asked, inciting another round of giggles.

You nodded, finishing off your glass of wine. “Just a bit. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was in the Marines though, and I definitely would’ve been the fourth Mrs. Rossi back then.”

Emily cackled, a bit of red wine spilling from her full glass. “Okay, I have a question. Would you guys fuck Hotch for ten million dollars? Be honest here.”

“No!” both JJ and Penelope spit out. They all turned to you, grinning like madmen.

You shrugged, filling another glass. “I’d do it for three.”

“Damn, three million? That’s–“

“Nope,” you smirked, taking a sip.

Emily paused, head tilting in confusion. “Three … hundred thousand?”

“No.”

“Three thousand?”

You shake your head, grinning at the confused woman. “Nope.”

“Three hundred?”

“No.”

Emily’s eyes widened, jaw-dropping a little further as you denied her guesses. “Three dollars?”

“No.”

“THREE CENTS?” JJ was the one to shout, mouth dropping open when you giggled and nodded.

Penelope threw a pillow at you, and you giggled, dodging it, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “Hey! This is supposed to be a judge-free zone. I’d suck and fuck Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner for three measly cents.”

“Okay, I’d understand if you said Derek but Hotch?” Emily exclaimed, shaking her head at the thought. “He’s like twenty years older than you!”

“Exactly! That’s part of the appeal,” you replied. You were sure by tomorrow no one would remember your confession–though you were positive you wouldn’t either–and that they wouldn’t tease you too much over it. “He’s the literal definition of a DILF.”

The girls laughed at your words, JJ having to clutch onto a pillow to control herself.

“And!” you continue. “I was working out with Derek once and Hotch came in the gym with gray sweats and his dick looks humongous. It was a huge fucking bulge. I think I saw it twitching.”

Penelope slaps her hands over her ears, playfully grimacing at your words while Emily chugs the remains of her glass, absolutely baffled. You didn’t mind, sex and boys were common conversation topics during girl’s night (and sometimes when Emily would catch you making eyes at someone.

The rest of the night continued the same, though less talk about Hotch’s big dick and more on whether you all should make more jello shots. By the time you’re coming up with an answer, it’s five in the morning and all four of you are knocked out from the alcohol in your system. Even in your drunk state, you knew you’d wake up to a pounding headache.

When Derek calls in the morning, telling everyone about a new case, you’re all moody and grumpy. Hotch wanted everyone in even though he had given the day off, so no one was jumping for joy especially not in your hangover state.

Despite drinking the most, Emily drives the four of you back to the BAU, mumbling obscenities under her breath on the way. When you enter the elevator, Derek is there, causing all of you to groan at his presence. One look at you and he laughs loudly, knowing what had transpired the night before.

You wish you could shoot his foot.

In the briefing room, Hotch apologizes for having you all come in on your day off, pausing to glance at you before presenting the case. Truth be told, you hadn’t paid that much attention to it, your headache taking up your attention. Fire, serial arsonist, fifteen dead, Seattle.

“Wheels up in thirty,” Hotch announces, walking across the table. As the team filters out of the room, he calls your name. “In my office, please. I want to discuss something with you.”

Confused, you follow him to his office, pushing through your headache to think about what he could possibly want to speak to you about. You come up blank, even more confused when you see him lock the door to his office as you enter. “Did I do something wrong?”

Hotch shook his head, moving past you to his desk. He picks up something and turns around. In his hands are three pennies, and he’s holding them out to you. “Three cents.”

You’re getting deja vu on the words, and it’s not until several seconds of standing in silence and confusion that it clicks. Three cents. You blush, looking at the pennies. “I don’t understand.”

“You said you’d suck and fuck me for three cents,” he smirks at your shock, placing the coins in your hands.

“What–”

Hotch unbuckles his belt, causing you to stop mid-sentence. “You’ve got twenty-eight minutes to suck my cock. Get to work.”

[maskedbyghost]

Heyyy, it's me again, but this time we're talking situationship!Simon—aka the biggest fuckboy you'll ever meet. Honestly, girl, I have no idea why you're still putting up with him!

you can’t even define what you two have, but one thing’s for sure—he knows how to use his dick, and you're both free to mess around with whoever you want. but of course, you had to fall for him, for that stupid smile he swore only you were special enough to see, for the gentle touch that lingered on your skin during those rare nights when he stayed longer than usual. you fell for the way he made you feel like you were the exception, even though deep down, you knew better.

you fell for how he made you feel like you were everything, even though he’d always leave just as quickly. he knew exactly how to keep you hooked—giving just enough to make you believe in him, but never enough to make it real. you wanted more, but every time he left, you remembered that his promises were as short-lived as his visits. still, you couldn’t stop going back, hoping that maybe this time, he’d actually mean it.

but he never did. you’d have fun for a few hours, but then he’d leave, acting like you didn’t exist around everyone else. he’d flirt with other girls right in front of you, not even bothering to hide it when he left with them, almost like he wanted you to see.

and every time, it hurt a little more, but you couldn’t bring yourself to end it. you told yourself you didn’t care, that it was just fun, but deep down, you wanted to be the one he stayed with. yet, no matter how much it hurt to watch him with someone else, the moment he came back, all that anger faded, and you let him in again, caught in the hope that maybe someday he’d truly see you as more than just a temporary fix.

one night, you tried to have a serious conversation with him, hoping that if you laid out your feelings, he might finally understand. but he dismissed your emotions with a shrug, listing reasons why he didn’t want a relationship: he was too focused on his career, he wasn’t ready for commitment, and he just didn’t want to deal with the complications. simon insisted that keeping things as they were was the best option for both of you.

afterward, as you lay together, a clear realization hit you. even though you were physically close, you couldn’t ignore the emptiness you felt. that night you made a silent promise to yourself: this would be the last time you let him in, and the last time you let yourself be trapped in this cycle.

and, being the dumb man he was, simon only came to realize what he had lost after you were gone. a few weeks after your last conversation, he saw you a few times out with other guys, laughing and flirting as if you were moving on. it hit him hard—a painful mix of jealousy and regret. he realized that he missed you, but at the same time, he knew he had no right to these feelings. not after treating you the way he did.  

he managed to keep his calm for a few more days, but the weight of his regret grew unbearable. finally, he snapped and called you into his office late one night, claiming he needed to discuss the upcoming mission with you.

as soon as you walked in, simon felt his heart tighten in his chest. seeing your face calm, confident, like you had already moved on, stirred something deeper than he expected. there was no trace of the vulnerability you used to show around him, no lingering affection. he realized, in that moment, just how much he had pushed you away. regret surged through him, sharper than he imagined, and he knew this conversation wouldn’t be easy.

after talking about unimportant stuff for a few minutes, simon took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “i know i messed up, and i’m sorry for how i treated you. i’ve been thinking a lot about what happened, and i realize now how much i regret it. i was wrong to push you away.”

you looked at him, your expression guarded. “it’s a little too late for apologies, simon, don't you think? you had plenty of chances to get it right, and now you’re just trying to fix things because you see me with someone else.”

he tried to reach out, his voice softening. “i know it’s not enough, but i want to make things right. i can’t stop thinking about what we had.”

you shook your head, stepping back. “you had your chance, and you threw it away. i’m not going to be your second choice or your backup plan.”

"y/n-"

"no, simon!" you sighed, closing your eyes briefly to gather your thoughts. when you spoke again, your voice was steady, "you know, some people never fade from memory. they leave a mark that lingers just beneath the surface, no matter how hard you try to move on. but to be honest, i’m not in the mood for any more humiliation or heartbreak. so, this is my final goodbye to you."

you could sense that he wanted to say something, but you couldn’t let him speak before you had your say. “go ahead and fill your life with new faces, as if i were nothing but a distant memory. enjoy your freedom and let others wear you out as they please. i’m done being part of that. keep moving forward, and if you ever try to reach out, know that i’ll let your calls go unanswered. for now, i’m celebrating the end of our chapter.”

even as he heard you declare the end, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he still wanted you in his life. he was stuck between guilt and the lingering hope that maybe he could still fix things. despite your rejection, part of him struggled to accept that he had truly lost you, and he felt powerless to change the situation or let you go.

simon’s face twisted with a mix of desperation and anger. “you think you can just walk away and erase everything we had? you think you can move on and leave me behind like I’m nothing?” he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his voice was filled with raw intensity. “don’t fool yourself, i still want you, and i won’t just let you go. you’re mine, whether you like it or not. i know i’ve made mistakes, but i’m not done fighting for what we had. if you think you can find someone better, go ahead. but know this: i’ll keep groveling and doing whatever it takes until you take me back. i’m not going anywhere, and i’ll make sure you remember what we had.” he took a step back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

you just smirked, turning on your heel to leave. as you reached the door, you glanced back over your shoulder with a cold, confident look. “i can’t wait to see you on your knees,” you said, your voice sharp. then, you walked out, leaving him alone with his mess.

game on.

(I WANT HIM TO GROVEL FOR MONTHSSSS)

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

@daydreamerwoah

[ramonathinks]

just a tiny reposted drabble lol

kento nanami is your dad’s boss … you meet him at a important dinner once that your dad forces you to come along to and he always holds a dark look in his eyes whenever he talk to you, he talks to you about the company, briefly says how pretty you are before he sips on his drink and licks his lips, you try to avoid him but for some reason he keeps trying to talk to you even though it’s clear you can’t hold a conversation with this man. so when your dad sprains his back and needs you to fill in for him, for a month max, he swears, you do it, never really realizing how much time the two spend with each other. you know little to nothing about the position or even what is it that these men do.

all you know is that you’re the only girl there… wearing a tight knee length skirt wasn’t the brightest of plans but it was hot outside and you just came to get some papers, sign them and fax a few of them. you’d be gone in less than two hours. you weren’t expecting Nanami to come into your dad’s office with yet another stack of papers, grumbling how important they were, about how he needed this done by the end of the day.

“did you work my dad like this? no wonder he sprained his back! i know he has desk work and has to go into the field with you and i don’t appreciate this!” you give him a piece of your mind and you know you shouldn’t, he’s your boss… at least for now, but more importantly he’s your dad’s boss, he could lose his job. but your mouth was moving faster than your brain. you can’t believe how selfish this man is.

“you never worked a day in your life huh?” he rolls his eyes. “i can tell that a cute little thing like yourself never so much a lifted your finger, you think he sprained his back because of me? what about that new bedroom set you pleaded with him to build you?” and that stops you dead in your tracks as you narrow your eyes at the man.

suddenly more annoyed than you ever been. “listen here! you don’t know me. you don’t know what i do! my daddy’s not expendable, this job is his life.” your eyes feel moist and your lips are quivering, he cups your face.

and you don’t know exactly how it happens but then…

he’s sinking in deep inside of you and he’s finally just like “well maybe i should give your dad a raise—fuck, maybe a bonus too…” you’re squeezing him so tight and he says: “he is a good worker, the fucking best. fuck… you’re so—fuck. you’re so damn tight…! pretty little thing like you milking my cock like you own it.”

“if i offered you a position,” his hips moving quick as he ruts deeper inside of you. “a permanent position…would you take it? work for me. Daddy’s not getting any younger babydoll. I’ll make sure he works one last good year and then you can return his favor. Just keep sucking me in just like that and I’ll just pay him all out, right now.”

[januaryembrs]

hot chocolate!

(last one i promise)

reader & spencer who aren’t exactly enemies but they’re def not friends but reader always double checks if spencer’s fbi vest is secured correctly which in return makes spencer check her over as well and they’re always like ‘stop checking up on me and worry about your own safety’ and it just happens every single time and they swear up and down that they dislike eachother deeply (they need to make out)

BANE OF MY EXISTENCE | Spencer Reid x reader

description: Spencer hates you, and you hate him, until it comes to protecting each other in the field

length: 0.7k

His fingers wound through the back of your vest as you made a move to dart past him, trailing after Hotch as you loaded your glock. 

You felt a yank at your neck, his obnoxiously long arms giving you a firm tug back with little to no effort, all but making you stumble backwards as he forced you to stop, and his fingers were at your hip, adjusting the strap before you could ask him just exactly what he was doing. 

“Wha- Reid, let go, my vest is fine,” You snapped, huffing when he ignored you, in the interest of fixing your belt, his brow turned down into a frown. 

“Don’t come crying to me when you get shot in abdomen and suddenly you’re bleeding out, and you lay there and thinking, dang if only the smart FBI would have told me to adjust my kevlar, and I’ll be right there to point and laugh and say I told you so,” He huffed, his fingers making light work of the fiddly strap, tightening it until he couldn’t see a single inch of your shirt to the point he heard your breathing constrict, but he thought he’d rather you be a little uncomfortable than shot. 

“I mean, if I’m laying bleeding out I won’t really have much to say other than, Reid, get medical, I think they hit something serious, please don’t come to my funeral, you were insufferable enough when I was living,” You said, allowing your body to be tugged back as he started on the other side, because there was no use fighting it when he got in those moods when he always needed to be right. 

He paused, his brain catching up to your words and he drew in a silent breath, wondering if the other side of your jacket needed tightening even more, or better yet, if there was any way Hotch would make you stay in the car as back up. 

Spencer yanked the strap with a vendetta, ignoring the way you whined it was too tight, and his lips pursed together. 

“Would you relax, I was clearly kidding,” You said, thinking his mood had come from your teasing, because you seemed to know exactly what to say to push every one of his buttons, “What I would probably be thinking however is if you’ll be able to flag down a medic with your shoelaces untied,”

His gaze snapped to his converse, and sure enough the double knot he relied on seemed to have failed him, and his strings were hazard material as they dragged along the pavement, already mucky where they’d probably been undone for hours. 

“Make sure you do them before we move in, I’m not carrying your bone head out of there if we start taking hits and you trip over your own feet,” You snipped, and he finally released you, immediately leaning down to fix his own issues, completely missing the way your eyes trailed down to make sure he did the loops tight enough because you were being serious when you said it would loathe you to be the one to carry him away from the danger, though probably not in the way he thought. 

He huffed, standing back to his full height and giving his feet a wiggle in their shoes to make sure they were comfortable, and he looked back at you where you were watching him carefully, catching the split second where something close to worry pooled in your eyes. 

It snapped back into your usual cold demeanour when you realised he was looking straight at you, and you whirled you keep your back to him, inspecting your loaded gun some more as a way to busy yourself. 

“Try not to miss, it doesn’t look good on the reports when I have to save your ass twice,” Spencer snarked, and he practically heard the scoff before you even gave it. 

“That was one time, Reid, and it was only cause I couldn’t see past your stupid fluffy hair. You’re a cop, Reid, not a poodle, you don't need that much volume,” You snapped back, the two of you squabbling the entire walk to the building, until Hotch separated you for the sake of his growing headache. 

He just wished you two would talk things out before he seriously considered Emily’s proposition of locking you in the broom closet together.