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bring-forth-his-sac · 2 months ago

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Kneel

Summary: Negan reminds you what you’re supposed to do whenever you see him in the Sanctuary

Pairing: Saviors Era Negan x f!reader

Tags: !NSFW!, power play, dominant Negan, swearing, intimidation, erection, pet names

Word Count: 1.8k (this was meant to be under 1k but I once again forgot how to stfu)

“My oh my, where are your manners?”.

Shit. You knew this would happen eventually. It feels as though Negan has had his eye on you for weeks now, just waiting to pop the question. Because obviously, six wives isn’t enough for one man and he’s in need of another.

You, more specifically.

You’re in the middle of pushing crates piled on to a small trolley when he approaches. He smirks, baring his teeth as he casually swings Lucille by his side. As if the odds are stacked against you, the hallway is empty, leaving only you and Negan. Alone.

“You’ve been here, what, two months now?” Negan acts as if that’s just a guess and he hasn’t been keeping track.

You stand tall beside the crates, making it abundantly clear that you won't be an easy target for him. Your eyes are steady, a defiant gleam in them as you hold his gaze.

No matter how charming or beneficial being with him would be, you refuse to be some damsel he can have for his own twisted amusement. After all, you’ve taken care of yourself for this long in the apocalypse, why rely on someone like him now?

“I have” you confirm, not wanting this conversation to draw out longer than it needs to. Even if you’re on his good side, it’s hard to feel relaxed with Negan’s attention on you.

He hums in response.

You watch as Negan's gaze shifts, his features becoming more stern as he stands there. It's as if a switch has been flipped, transforming him from the charismatic leader to the cold and dominant figure you know he can be.

“So you gonna do it?” he questions, the sharp edge to his words sending a clear message: he’s not asking, he’s telling.

You can feel your jaw clench. Is he expecting you to just throw yourself at him? Or thank him profusely for allowing you to stay here?

Feigning innocence, you gesture towards the crates. "Do what? My job?" you retort, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you intimidated. You go to move the crates again when you feel it - the silent warning of Lucille’s sharp tips resting gently on your shoulder.

Negan maintains a stoic expression, letting Lucille display his authority. His voice is low and gravelly, resembling a growl more than anything else. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, just cause I think you're pretty fuckin’ hot, and ask again" he explains.

Hearing Negan's flippant admission, the way his voice drips with lust as he mentions his attraction to you is enough to send a thrill down your spine. It's a complex feeling to know that a man like Negan is attracted to you. It's thrilling, dangerous, and undeniably exciting all at once.

You hold your breath, expecting Lucille to scratch her way across your face at any moment. But instead, Negan takes a breath and asks again “Whenever I decide to grace your fucking presence, what is it you’re going to do?”.

You feel as if you’re back in school, after getting asked a question by a teacher who knows you weren’t paying attention. You’re unsure what would be worse; to answer incorrectly or to not answer at all.

Slowly, Negan starts to increase the pressure, Lucille’s spikes digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. She prickles at your skin, the feeling thankfully being more uncomfortable than outright painful.

Instinctively, your legs buckle and you sink to your knees before him. “You kneel.” Negan drawls as you go down “There you go. Not that hard, is it?”.

Negan eases the pressure, the painful stabs from Lucille's barbed wire gradually lessening as you comply. You breathe a silent sigh of relief, hoping Lucille didn’t break your skin and leave puncture marks in her wake.

Despite your best efforts to maintain a defiant expression, you can feel a flutter of something in your stomach. It’s subtle, but undeniable. You stare up at him with a determined glare, refusing to acknowledge the confused mixture of disdain and arousal coursing through your body.

Negan lets out a low, guttural groan, his head tilting down to meet your gaze directly. His expression is equal parts hunger and satisfaction as he takes in the sight of you kneeling before him.

"Goddamn," he murmurs approvingly, "now this is a view I could get used to”. Negan's signature cocky smirk returns, the brief display of dominance seemingly fulfilled for now.

It’s easy to feel somewhat distracted in your current position, your head level with his crotch. The temptation to look is strong but you’re aware of what his reaction might be and so you quickly push the thought aside. Fighting with your inner urges, you subconsciously nibble at your lip, accidentally fuelling Negan’s amusement.

He sees straight through you and you know it.

Moving the bat from your shoulder completely, he lightly taps it against the crates. “You come to me if you ever want a change of lifestyle,” he coaxes “I got some real sexy dresses upstairs that haven’t been claimed yet”.

The tension between you both is palpable. There’s no denying that you feel a throbbing sensation between your thighs, the logical side of your mind growing hazy and clouded by lust. Your response catches you off guard, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I think I’d look better without them on," you hear yourself say, the words daring and suggestive.

Are you really flirting with the man who just forced you to kneel!? Damn him.

Negan immediately picks up what you’re putting down, “Oh is that so? Think I’d need to be the judge of that, sweet thing”.

Bringing his free hand down to your face, Negan surprises you with his soft touch. You can feel his fingertips tracing along your cheekbone before gently cupping your face in his hand.

The contrasting sides of this man are striking and downright annoying to put up with but you don’t fight against it. It’s hard to decide which side of Negan you actually prefer; the dominant leader that forced you on your knees to satisfy his ego or this charmingly soft man who calls you pretty pet names.

Unable to resist the temptation, you steal a quick glance forwards. You only sneak a brief look but sure enough, there’s an obvious bulge right there, a mere inches away from your face.

A part of you wants to whimper at the sight but another part of you wants to scoff and get up, stopping this game of cat and mouse no matter the consequences of ‘disrespecting’ his authority.

“Well, damn" he practically groans as you look back up at him "I don't see why we should wait until you try on one of the dresses." His words are direct, the implication clear that he's craving you just as much as you're craving him.

But the ball is in your court now. Negan keeps his hand on your face, staying deliberately still, leaving the next move up to you. He's put his cards on the table, making sure his desires are known. It's up to you to respond, to show him that you want him just as badly.

A thought flickers through your head. How bad would it be if you did hookup with Negan? You know you’d have a good time but there would be consequences. Even though Negan seems casual, there’s no doubt he would push you to become another wife. Once he sinks his claws into you, he won’t simply let go after a hookup or two. Why would he when he can have an unlimited number of wives just for himself?

Before you can make that decision, movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. You snap your head in their direction, watching as a figure hesitantly comes closer, uncertainty laced in each step.

Joey — or, Fat Joey, as he’s so graciously called by Negan — steps closer, nervously wringing his hands together.

Negan follows your gaze, letting his hand drop from your cheek as he huffs. “Fat Joey! Holy fuck, who knew you could sneak… or cockblock” he exclaims, putting on his bravado act.

Taking advantage of Negan's momentary distraction, you quickly stand up, using the opportunity to distance yourself and get back to work. The feeling of embarrassment washes over you as you realise what that must have looked like for Joey, who just stumbled across you both.

Negan shoots you a quick look. It's not an angry glare but rather a pout, as if he had expected you to patiently wait on your knees until he’s done talking to Joey.

Joey speaks up, his voice a bit shaky as he tries to sound professional. "Boss, Simon wants to talk to you, he said it’s important" he says, attempting to mimic a soldier's stance "He tried contacting you on the walkie but didn't get an answer".

Negan reluctantly gives Joey his attention, a hint of annoyance in his expression. You swiftly begin to move the crates, deciding to take Joey’s interruption as some kind of divine intervention that’s telling you not to give into Negan so easily.

“Simon already rounded up the other lieutenant’s, so they’re just waiting for you, sir” Joey rambles on as you pass by.

Just as you're about to make your exit, you pause, unable to stop yourself from making a snide comment. You turn to Joey, purposely avoiding Negan's gaze. "Oh, Joey," you say with a hint of sarcasm, "don't forget to kneel. He likes that."

Joey, completely oblivious to the sarcasm behind your words, takes your reminder as sincere advice. He immediately drops to his knees, a look of panic on his face as he hastily apologises. "S-sorry, sir!" he stammers "I didn't mean to forget!".

Negan takes a step back, his hand instinctively going to cover his bulge now that someone else is so close. ”Yeah, sure, just get the fuck up,” Negan grumbles.

As you walk away, you throw a playful goodbye over your shoulder. "Bye, sir," you say with a smirk, feeling a small sense of victory at having left Negan standing there with Joey, who’s still babbling on.

Negan stays silent, mulling over his thoughts. He can hear Joey drone on but he isn't interested. There's only one thing on Negan’s mind.

You’re definitely a keeper.

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katyawriteswhump · 3 months ago

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I hear your voice (and it carries me)

for @steddieangstyaugust day 17 prompt: 'Keep breathing, please."

Rating: M WC: 1700 CW Drug-use Tags: Established steddie, alternate canon season 4 (with details fudged and twisted for my own plotty purposes.)

What if Vecna came for Steve first, not Chrissy? (No actual death, I promise, just guilty-pleasure pop and major angst…)

...

Eddie climbed through the window that Dustin had left open and into Steve’s hospital room. His boots smacked too loud on the floor, and his every muscle tightened.

Steve was wired up to a series of bleeping machines. Plaster casts smothered three of his limbs. His neck was in a brace, and his face was half-lost beneath an oxygen mask.

Eddie knew, of course. Steve had arrived here in a far worse state than this.

Still one helluva punch in the gut.

He tiptoed to the bed and located Steve’s Walkman, which had been dumped on a trolley. He slipped it back over Steve’s ears, careful not to disturb the mask. Dustin and Robin had played a showstopper in convincing Steve’s mom that Steve would want constant pop.

Unfortunately, the medical staff kept taking the darn thing off.

Eddie didn’t switch the cassette on right away, however. He anxiously smoothed Steve’s hair.

“God, I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “I panicked, Stevie. I was too fucking scared. I should’ve broken your fall, and I should never have let you… I… I shouldn’t have…” He pressed his lips to Steve’s cool, clammy brow. A fat tear dripped from his nose. “Keep breathing, Baby. Keep breathing, please.”

“CODE RED, I REPEAT THIS IS A CODE RED! EDDIE, DO YOU COPY?”

Dustin’s yell blasted through Eddie’s walkie-talkie. Eddie scrambled to turn the volume down.

“Henderson, what the heck?”

“Eddie, the night nurse has started her rounds early. I repeat—she’s started her rounds early. You gotta get outta there NOW.”

…

One week earlier

Steve lay flat on his back on Eddie’s bed, shirtless, and with his jeans tangled round his knees. Eddie was sprawled on top of him—a smokin’ hot mess of sweat and hair—and kissing Steve stupid.

Steve should’ve been in a happy place. He was sucking Eddie’s face off, grinding himself up into Eddie, while Eddie pawed hungrily at his ass. Eddie wanted in, and Steve wanted nothing more than for Eddie to bone his brains out.

If only he could shake these stupid jitters.

Christ, the blood pounding in his ears drowned out the mega-loud Aerosmith track on his latest mixtape. He was also dog-tired, and sick of it. The nightmares had ruined his sleep for days.

And they were all total bull.

Yeah, Steve felt guilty about shit. Not only about Barb, though that was a biggie—there was so much he’d screwed up in his life. He sucked. He got it, blah, blah, blah.

No way was he buying into crazy hallucinations where Eddie yelled and hated on him. Let alone ones where Robin transformed into a squelchy tentacle monster. He was going out of his tiny mind. It was the only reasonable explanation, and the only answer right now was…

Eddie broke the kiss. “You okay, Babe? Still got a headache?”

“I’m fine.” Steve dabbed his lips, shivering because Eddie was too far away already. “I’ll be fine. Gimme more of the good stuff, okay?”

Eddie turned down the music. “Seriously? You mainlined poppers earlier—enough to lay low a daddy buffalo. That shit means business.”

“So I do. Stop being a freakin’ pussy.” Steve wedged his hand between Eddie’s thighs and purred. “I can totally handle it, and if I do turn to mush? Means I can take even more of this big boy.”

“I’m not sure, Stevie… Oh shiiiit.”

Steve mercilessly squeezed Eddie’s dick, batted his lashes. Yeah, he’d beg if he had to. Anything to feel less tense and haunted, to feel he was actually in the room with Eddie.

He never had to.

Eddie pulled a dopey face, started rummaging through his stuff. Steve dragged his jeans up with fumbling hands. He maxed out the stereo volume—snickering because Eddie was gonna literally piss himself when the track-after-next started—and wandered toward the kitchen to get more beer.

….

Eddie located a shoebox full of snazzy lil’ multicolor poppers and a sachet of Special K. Then his frazzled brain caught up with him.

He’s already had waaay too much. Okay, he’s still revved as fuck, but THAT’S NOT NORMAL.

He ditched the shoebox, grabbed a jar of Acetaminophen. After tipping all but two pills out, he peeled off the label. He’d tell Steve they were hardcore tranqs. Shifty, but… Screw it, he cared about Steve more than he’d ever cared about anyone. Yeah, Steve had bugged him for downers. Eddie should never have caved. He vowed, one way or another, he’d wean his boy off ’em.

He was, admittedly, launching his campaign the coward’s way. Had to start somewhere, right?

“There you go, Honey,” he said, wandering out. “Boneless bliss just moments away.”

Eddie stopped in his tracks. He dropped the jar. Steve stood motionless in the middle of the trailer. His eyes were lidded, twitchy with the occasional flash of white.

“Steve?” Eddie dashed forward, started shaking him. “Talk to me, Steve. Wake up! Can you hear me? I don’t like this, Stevie.”

Shit! He’s ODd already!

Eddie jostled him, pleaded with him. Right till the moment Steve levitated up into the air and smacked into the ceiling.

Eddie staggered back. The Black Sabbath track blasting from the stereo ended. Silence reigned.

One of Steve’s arms twisted the wrong way at the elbow and popped. Eddie screamed, then actually pinched himself, because this had to be a horrible dream, and then…

‘Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth?

Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth’

Belinda Carlilse. Belinda fucking Carlilse. Yeah, Steve loved to sneak pop-tastic hits onto his mixtapes. Eddie would always crack up, plus he didn’t hate them either.

One of Steve’s legs contorted with a sickening snap.

‘They say in Heaven, love comes first

We'll make Heaven a place on Earth…’

Steve’s eyes flashed from white to brown. He fell, landing with a horribly crunching smack.

In the blur of the next few minutes, Eddie called an ambulance. He leaned close over Steve’s blue-ish lips, sensed the faintest warmth, though didn’t dare touch him. His eyes bled. He looked so… broken. Eddie prayed to some WASP deity he’d never believed in that he was the one having a really bad trip.

He went with Steve in the ambulance and held his limp hand on the ride. They’d already got that mask on his face, the brace around his neck. At the hospital, Eddie watched Steve’s gurney disappear through swinging doors. He collapsed in the waiting room, buried his face in his hands.

Steve’s parents arrived soon after. They joined the doctors in bombarding Eddie with thunderous glares, until the truth finally glimmered.

They believe I did that to him.

Even if… WHEN… Steve wakes up, they’ll say we were both high as fucking kites. They’ll blame the satan-worshipping freakshow.

Convinced the cops were on their way, Eddie fled via a fire escape. While he was holed up at Reefer Ric’s, two teens were murdered. The whole town now believed Eddie was the monster behind those crimes, too.

“Way to go making a play for the FBI’s Most Wanted list,” Dustin said, when he brought Eddie supplies. “If you hadn’t run, those deaths would’ve got you off the hook. Not that you’re exactly innocent. You know your fun-time sweeties repressed Steve’s breathing as badly as the neck injuries? Sent him into that coma?”

“Wow, you’re a real genius! Never dawned on me. Oh, hold on. IT’LL TORTURE ME EVERY GODDAMN MOMENT, OF EVERY FREAKIN’ DAY, FOR THE REST OF MY CURSED LIFE.”

At least the kid had a theory about the attacks, supernatural sorcery shit that blew Eddie’s mind. Also, one of Dustin’s friends, Max, was apparently lined up to be the next victim. For some wild reason, the only thing keeping the killer at bay was endless Kate Bush.

“Eddie,” asked Dustin, while Eddie stared into a box of Cap’n Crunch he’d literally no appetite for. “Is there any music you reckon might help Steve?”

…

‘In this world we're just beginnin'

To understand the miracle of livin'’

Steve was beyond sick of Belinda.

She ebbed and flowed through his consciousness pretty much constantly. Trouble was, whenever she was randomly gone, as she was now, the swirling red fog around him thickened. He was confused, and yeah, he was frightened. He’d not heard any squelching footsteps or booming synth voices lately, but he sensed that thing was still out there.

He occasionally heard talking. People poked and prodded him, and breathing was sometimes a scary battle. He tried to talk himself once or twice, but he couldn’t even open his eyes. He was lost and sick and hurting and… so lost.

Right until he felt somebody stroking his hair. Then a moist feather-soft brush on his brow.

Eddie.

He’d recognise Eddie’s kiss anywhere, whether rough or dumbass levels of sweet. Eddie was here. Eddie was with him. Steve strove harder than ever to fight free of the choking fog.

“Keep breathing, Baby.”

Eddie’s voice. Broken and distant, but it was him.

“Keep breathing,” Eddie whispered, “please.”

“CODE RED, I REPEAT THIS IS A CODE RED! EDDIE, DO YOU COPY?”

Steve’s blood literally jumped. Shit, was that Henderson? “Eddie, the night nurse has started her rounds early. I repeat—she’s started her rounds. You gotta get outta there NOW.”

Too much. Steve’s head was too muddled, he didn’t understand. He finally fluttered his eyes open and latched his blurry focus onto Eddie. Who startled like a coyote bit his butt. Steve would’ve laughed, if he’d gotten the lung power.

“Steve? Steve!”

Eddie seemed spooked. Steve’s heart rate skyrocketed. He was in a hospital bed. He’d got some weird plastic mask thing on his face. When he tried to lift his arm, pain lanced hotly.

Oh God, oh God!

He fixed on Eddie and felt himself calm a little. “Please,” he murmured, his voice a barely-there rasp. “Don’t go.”

Eddie squeezed Steve’s hand and smiled gently. “Not if I can help it, darlin’.”

Steve faintly registered a door flying wide. A voice cried out, echoed by a wailing alarm. He somehow found the strength to grip Eddie’s fingers, even as Belinda Carlisle launched up in his ears again:

‘Baby, I was afraid before

But I'm not afraid anymore…’

Eddie’s hand was torn away from Steve’s loosening grip, and Steve slipped back into the fog.

...

(Steve is okay, Vecna got distracted and El whipped his ass anyway, then Eddie get off, and it all ended happily... promise!) You tube link to 'heaven is a place on earth' for other 80s pop obsessives

Thanks for reading! All my ST fic on AO3

#steddieangstyaugust #steddie angst #steddie #steddie fic #established steddie #stranger things fic #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington whump #eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie angsty august

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inkykeiji · 1 year ago

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character: todoroki touya | dabi x fem!reader

genre: smut | dark academia au

notes: this was technically supposed to be for the ‘ravens and crows’ prompt but it grew and it grew and it grew and so!!! here it is! set in my dark academia au!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, toxic relationship, rough and messy facefucking, semi-public, dubcon, dacryphilia, cum swallowing

words: 2.7k

The air in the library is sticky, humid and heavy with the heat of late summer. The casement windows, made of crystal and wire, are opened wide, letting streams of setting sunlight paint the aisles unhindered. It turns the library a hazy gold, highlighting the dust motes wandering aimlessly between the shelves, dislodged from their cozy homes of old paper and rotting canvas by curious hands.

The wind howls gently, gathering stray leaves in its gusts and hurling them in swirls at the bricks, disturbing the tap of the ravens and the caw of the crows; a warning.

Summer will be dead soon.

A breeze meanders through the window, cool on your damp neck, and you hum softly, fingertips trailing along the spines, looking for the gaping space to wedge this recently returned book back where it belongs.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice him; don’t hear his Balenciaga boots or his soft breath, don’t see his shadow creeping up behind you, slow and steady as it engulfs you, don’t realize anything until it’s too late, until one arm is wrapping around your hips and the other is slapping a hand over your mouth.

The sudden action startles you, a jolt of surprise coursing through your entire body and yanking a yelp from your throat, only to be muffled by the palm clasped tightly over your lips.

He’s laughing in your ear, low and smooth, dark and decadent, a sound that pours over your body like a slow, thick syrup, leaving trails of chills in its wake.

Bigger than you, stronger than you, smarter, faster, better than you, he spins you around with ease, trapping your body between his and the bookshelves, the sharp wooden edges cutting into your back.

“Surprise,” his breath wafts across your face, stained with cedarwood and smoke, word drifting through a lopsided smirk.

“Jesus, Touya,” you’re nearly panting out, chest heaving against his. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Why not?” he asks, a slight pout to his voice. “You’re so cute when you’re scared.”

“Very funny,” you roll your eyes, attempting to push past him and back to your book trolley.

“Hey, where you going?” his hips shove forward, forcing your legs to part, the jutting bones carving into your inner thighs, effectively keeping you pinned. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

And although his voice is amicable enough, the glint in his eye is sharp, shimmering as it catches on the setting sun, the ghost of a shiver climbing the notches of your spine, leaving each vertebra icy with dread.

“I don’t care whether you’re finished with me or not, I have to get back to work.”

“Aw, come on, you can hang out with me for a little longer.”

“Touya, I need this job. My father doesn’t own a tech company like yours does. If I’m caught—”

“Then I will pay for whatever you need, simple as that.”

“Yeah, right,” you snort. “And con me into being indebted to you for eternity? I don’t think so.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“I can think of worse.”

“I don’t think I want to know what goes on in that head of yours.”

That gets him to crack a smile; genuine, terrifying. Sapphire sweeps your face, slow and scrutinizing, gears of his brilliant brain beginning to shift in thought. A beat of silence passes before he speaks again.

“Gimme a kiss and I’ll let you go.”

“God, could you be any more cliche?” you struggle against him again, trying to worm your way free, and he pushes back hard, forcing a short, high pitched cry from your throat.

“I didn’t say on my lips.”

“Oh, fuck off—”

“You’re brave, talking to me like that.”

“Touya,” you say, and although it’s supposed to be a warning, firm and sharp, the name trembles on your tongue, wavering with fear. “If we get caught—”

“Look around you,” he says, eyes gleaming as he raises his brows in question. “Do you see anyone else?”

No. You don’t.

You don’t, because you’re in one of the furthest, deepest corners of the library; secluded, hidden, and utterly trapped.

He’s been waiting for this.

It dawns on you then, that he must’ve been following you, tracking you, stalking his prey and biding his time until the opportune moment to strike—when you were alone, unassuming, and entirely unarmed.

His smirk has grown into a grin, stretched unnaturally wide across his handsome face, tinged with a deranged sort of glee. His eyes are soaking it all up, every little micro-expression that morphs your features as you realize the full weight of the situation.

“C’mon,” he breathes, hips rutting against your inner thigh in barely there gyrations. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“You have?”

And you hate the sheer desperation in your voice, the question breathed out in a single breath, quick and airy on your tongue.

“Of course I have,” he knocks his forehead against yours, malicious smile still in place, the words said like a slap to the face, like you’re so fucking stupid to think otherwise, but it’s so fucking precious how eager you are for the confirmation. “Don’t you want to be good for me and give my cock just a teensy tiny little kiss? It misses you, you know, can’t you feel how much?”

And he sounds so fucking genuine as he shifts his hips between your thighs and presses his cock, now hot and hard, into your core, grinding up against your clit. It forces a moan from your chest, soft and pitchy, lips pressing together firmly in a pathetic attempt to silence it.

“Don’t let me down now, sweetheart.” No, not after all the trouble he’s been through, all the watching and waiting.

Oh, you would never, could never, even if you wanted to—no matter how badly you wanted to.

Glowing sapphire watches as you slide down his body and sink to the floor, kneecaps on his toes, delicate fingers making quick work of his belt, picking at the heavy chrome buckle and tugging at the strap. It clinks together as you undo the zipper of his jeans, the weight of the buckle pulling his pants open further, denim folding over.

And God, his cock is so fucking pretty, dusty pink and smooth as velvet, save for that one big, thick vein that runs, almost perfectly straight, along the bottom of his shaft.

Your mind is already beginning to evaporate into a dense fog of lust, starved for his praise and eager to please, torrents of saliva beginning to collect in the cavities of your cheeks and pool beneath your tongue.

A thick bout of shame surges through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough to dispel the hedonistic haze Touya casts over your brain.

He holds it steady for you, a slender hand wrapped around the base, pupils gaping and unhindered as he watches you inch forward, puckered lips pressing a sweet, sloppy kiss to the tip of his cock.

It’s open-mouthed, tongue swiping over the slit in a swift caress and collecting a weeping bead of precum, bitter and salty as it seeps into your tastebuds.

Pulling back, you stare up at him with desperate desire slapped across your face, lips parted with panting little breaths, a glimmering thread of precum keeping your mouth connected to him, and holy Christ, he’s breathing as he smears the sticky substance across your chin and your jaw with the steadily leaking head of his cock, painting you in stringy webs of him, that’s so fucking hot.

It’s being shoved past your lips and down your throat without warning—there never is any, not with Touya—and you sputter around the unexpected intrusion, a film of reflexive tears shielding your eyes.

“Good girl,” Touya breathes, and your jaw automatically stretches wider, peering up at him with a sort of insatiable devoutness. “Take it all for me.”

And so, you do.

Because he’s hypnotic, his presence an instant, addictive, irresistible pull, his praise and respect even more so. They’re drugs you gorge yourself on, drugs you vie and scratch and scream and claw for, drugs that make you feel pathetic, but drugs you can’t stop using nonetheless.

Because praise from Touya makes you feel like you’re on top of the fucking world. Praise from Touya is a hard, precious, valuable resource to come by, rare and not easily doled out. You have to earn it, he had once told you. You have to really deserve it.

“Yeah, yeah, s’it,” he encourages as you endeavour to swallow him more, to suck him down further. “S’a good girl for me. Go on, make me proud.”

It’s always speckled with a hefty dose of sugared degradation, cooed yet condescending. But the praise that falls from his mouth, cracking with sincerity as his head tilts back, strong jaw on display, the lines and ridges of his neck moving with his voice, soothes any sting his insults could bring. They make it all so worth it.

Because Touya has what you wish you had, what you want to have, what you will have, according to him, if you stay his good little girl. Touya has executive access to that exclusive, elusive upper class world; a place you’ve always been able to worm your way into with pretty smiles and batting eyelashes, but a place you’re consistently pushed out of.

Touya can make it permanent. Touya can find a spot where you belong, where you snap perfectly into place, cozy and comfortable as if you were always meant to be there—easy, effortless, effaced.

And, really, that’s all you want. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Acceptance, belonging, community.

So you take him down your throat with ardency, wretch your jaw open further, hinges straining with a dull, dense ache, doing anything and everything he says in an effort to make him proud, just like he asked you to.

You’re barely able to get a few good pumps in before lithe fingers are curling around your skull, palms pressed to your temples and thumbs digging bruises into your cheekbones as he grips your head tightly, holding you in place and wedging his cock down your throat.

The pace is brutal right from the start, the pounding of his hips so powerful that it has the tip of your nose repeatedly slamming against his pubic bone, swollen lips leaving crude kisses of saliva streaked across his skin.

The slap of your face against his groin is grotesque, paired with the sick squelching each thrust procures and the pathetic, embarrassing sounds oozing from the corners of your lips—choked off gags and snuffed out whimpers and those pitiful little sniffles, hiccuped with each hitch of your chest.

But they all feel so good around him, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good, so you don’t try to stifle them, borderline weeping around him, unbridled and unreserved.

Your fingers curl in the waistband of his jeans and briefs—a small comfort to hold onto as he fucks your mouth raw, hips snapping rough and fast and downright ruthless.

A condescending coo slips from between his lips, as if it’s precious that you need something to ground you while he ravages your throat, knuckles pressed firmly against flexing thighs as you cling to him, and he takes it as an invitation to speed up, movements turned vicious.

Your head thwacks off the edge of the shelf behind you, sending thorns of pain searing through your skull. A loud whine vibrates around Touya’s cock, the sound rammed back down your throat by the head, and he groans, deep and guttural, Adams apple quivering with the sound.

The sharp agony radiates, a deep ache that burrows into your neck, and you can feel the sore spot beginning to swell. It knocks against the wood again, your eyes snapping shut with a wince, tight enough to crinkle your lids, the motion dislodging tears from the corners, cascading down your face in fat, sticky streams.

“No, no, no,” he’s panting. “Keep those pretty eyes open for me.”

Your lids spring open again, an involuntary reflex, a zealous attempt to appease their master, lashes heavy and weighted with tears, sparkling crystal drops clinging perilously to clumped spikes.

Anything, anything, anything for him.

And, oh, how those eyes shine for him. Such pathetic, pious dedication.

“Fu-Fuck,” he nearly whines, the curse hoarse as it splinters in his throat, eyes voracious as they drink you in, soak you up, swallow you down. “Yeah, yeah, jus’like that.”

It hurts, but it’s over quick; only three more pistons of his hips before he’s holding you flush to his gut, his whole cock jammed down your throat as it spurts hot, thick cum, that one vein throbbing on your tongue.

You’re absolutely sobbing around him, strings of snot infused drool dribbling from your lips as you suffocate on his flesh, lungs beginning to burn, shriveling to ash in your chest. Instinctively, your head wrenches, desperate for oxygen, but he growls, the sound so deep, so dark you swear it rattles his ribcage.

“Hold it, hold it,” he keens, hips twitching a little as his fingers strengthen their grip, stamping bruises into the already puffy contusion, blunt nails carving deep crescent indents into the back of your scalp. Your struggling stops almost instantly, coughing harshly around his cock, and his hips jerk, a moan shattering on his tongue.

You can do nothing but take it, take it all for him, just like you were told to. What a good little girl he’s caught himself.

It’s only after he’s emptied his balls into your stomach, forced all his cum into your tummy, full and bloated, that his grasp finally lets up, tugging you off of him with knuckles rooted in your hair, groaning a little at the thick ropes of milky saliva tethering your mouth to his cock.

You’re sputtering the very moment he lets up, whole body shuddering as you gulp down razored air.

“You look so fucking perfect on your knees for me, baby,” he’s rasping out, collarbone shimmering with perspiration as it heaves. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier sight.”

A whine slips from your lips, and he takes a moment to admire you, sapphire sweeping across your face in slow, deliberate motions, almost as if he’s cataloguing your expression, outlining it all—the tear-stained cheeks and the spit-slicked chin and the sheer devotion spilling from your lashes—and searing it into the fabric of his memory.

“You’re a piece of art all on your own, aren’t you?”

Maybe you are, with streaks of glittering salt soiling your bruised cheeks and crystal dewdrops suspended in your spiky lashes and his cum, ivory and pearlescent, oozing from the corner of your lips to roll down your chin in thick dollops of cream.

His pupils are cavernous, carnivorous, ragged little pants exhaled through parted lips, stare unblinking as he watches drops of his cum drip off the line of your jaw in sticky, viscous cords, mixed with your saliva, drizzling onto your bosom and soaking the unbuttoned collar of your shirt.

“What a fucking mess you are,” he breathes, thumb and forefinger grasping your chin and yanking, forcing you to look up at him. “What a fucking mess I’ve made of you.”

All you can do is whimper and nod, fingers clinging to his waistband as you paw at him, a pitiful attempt to get closer.

A masterpiece. His masterpiece.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Did I fuck the brains from your skull?” he tuts his tongue, mouth fashioned in a mocking pout, eyes shining with amusement. “Where’s that smart, snarky little girl now?”

“Wanna be good for you,” you drool out, looking up at him with lidded, bleary eyes, glistening with admiration, with awe, as if he’s the most magnificent sight you’ve ever seen, as if he’s a fucking god. “S’all, Touya, s’all.”

“Oh, precious,” he murmurs, thumb caressing a rapidly developing bruise, gaze following his movement for a moment before connecting with your own again. “I know. And you will be.”

He promises, you will be.

Outside, as the light dims, sun devoured by the rapidly encroaching darkness, the ravens and crows pick at carcasses and caw into the night.

#dabi smut #dabi x reader #dabi x you #todoroki touya smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya x you #weeeeeee yay

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desideriumwriter · 1 year ago

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Anyone But You | Chapter 5 | F.W. x Fem!Reader

Chapter Summary - Reader makes her way to the Quidditch World Cup using a map of confusing directions and a portkey, she finds out who will be at the games with her. After the games, she gets stuck in the midst of an attack, left injured and on her own.

Pairing - Fred Weasley x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Category - enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, slowburn

Content Warnings - cursing, arguing, the quidditch world cup attack, depictions of torture? mentions of blood, mentions of fire, crying, injuries, trampling, mass chaos + fear, (tell me if i missed anything)

Word Count - 4.4k

A/N: not really sure what to say for this one! it's truly chaotic is the most i can say lmaoo, hopefully you enjoy it! feedback is greatly appreciated!

Series Masterlist | F.W Masterlist | Previous | Next | Navigation

You folded your pajamas in a neat stack and shoved them in your bag.

You’d spent the past hour packing for tomorrow's events. The Quidditch World Cup games had already started, but you didn’t care all that much.

You tend to claim you're not a huge fan of quidditch, but there has been one or two times you’ve lost your voice from screaming and cheering during a school match.

Anyways, you stood up, taking a billionth look around your bedroom, making sure there was nothing you needed laying around.

Preparing for a single night away from home should not be this stressful.

As your eyes traveled around the room, they stopped once they saw the necklace sitting on your dresser.

The moonstone necklace the twins gave you. It sat there, untouched. It’s stayed in that exact same spot since you tossed it out of your suitcase from when you got home for summer break. It’s been like that all summer.

Until, your mum saw it and fixed it with some simple spell.

Even though it was fixed and in perfect condition, you still hadn’t worn it, nor touched it.

You walked up to it slowly, moving at a pace that made it seem like you were expecting the damn thing to jump and attack you somehow.

Picking it up, you wondered if you should set it along with the outfit you already had laid out for tomorrow. Or if you should shove it in your bag. Or just keep it in its previous spot.

You set it back down, turning away from it and walking to your bed. Only for you to change your mind. Turning back towards it quickly, snatching it up and shoving it into your bag.

You laid in bed, eyes unable to stay closed, and a grin on your face.

Though you knew that in the next week you’ll most likely be stuck with crowds of people in Diagon Alley, gathering school supplies. You had the same excitement as a kid on Christmas Eve, too eager to sleep.

There wasn’t much information given on what today’s plans were.

You didn’t know how you’d get there, or if there would be anyone else going with, or how long the game would last. All you knew was that you were going to the Quidditch World Cup and staying at the campsite for one night.

And a strange list of directions. It had you take a few stops on different trolley cars to get to your spot. The last place you were dropped off was at another stop, so you decided to walk the rest of the way.

The handwriting on the paper with the directions looked familiar, it wasn't Cedric’s however, it was too messy. Maybe it was his fathers. Maybe he’d got it from a friend.

Thinking of it, the paper was never directly given to you by Cedric. Your father gave it to you when a stack of mail came in.

You let your thoughts wander around, imagining how today would go as you began to get closer to the designated spot the directions gave you. It was at “a hill with an old boot on it” according to the paper.

A tall, older man, with wired glasses, a scrubby beard and brown hair stood on top of the hill. Amos Diggory. Cedric’s dad.

As you got farther up, you could spot Cedric, laying down on the grass next to his father, using his bag as a pillow.

Both of their heads shot up and faces changed into a smile once they looked up, seeing you heading towards him.

“Y/N! Good to see you!” Mr.Diggory reached out to shake your hand.

“It’s good to see you too, Mr.Diggory.” You accepted his greeting, shaking his hand and giving him a warm smile back.

“It’s been quite awhile! How’s mum and dad? Doing well?” He asked while the boy behind him sat up. You gave a small “mhm” and nod in response.

Cedric hopped up from his spot on the grass, giving you a tight hug, purposely ruffling up your hair once he pulled away.

“So how’s your summer been? I didn’t get many letters from you.” He jokingly gave you a dramatic pout.

“It’s been lovely. No work, no uniforms, no getting up at the crack of dawn, and no annoying twins.” You sighed happily, you didn’t catch how Cedric’s expression faltered when you mentioned the twins.

“So, shouldn’t we get going? What are we waiting on?” You tried your best to sound as patient as possible, ignoring the excitement running through your veins.

“My dad invited a work friend. We’re just waiting on him I suppose.”

“Should be any moment now!” Amos added in, smilingly nervously and rocking back and forth on his heels.

“He said that about an hour ago.” Cedric whispered to you, “Anyways, what's that?” He gestured at the paper in your hands. You gave him a blank stare, expecting him to know what it was, he was the one who sent you it, right?

“The directions?” You said hesitantly, holding the paper up. “That you sent me?” Cedric's brows knit together, tilting his head to get a straight look at what was written.

“I never sent any directions?” He copied your tone. “Plus, that is not my handwriting.” He scoffed, amused at the scribbles on the page.

“Then who-” Your thoughts were interrupted once chattering and footsteps were heard in the distance.

"Amos!" A voice shouted from a distance. The shout came from Mr. Weasley, who was grinning as he strode closer. A group followed behind him.

All the excitement and joy in your veins was drained out once you saw who was part of that group. Those two dreadful boys. Your jaw tensed at the sight of them.

“Are you kidding me? You didn’t tell me those gits were coming along!” You hissed as you turned back towards Cedric.

“Don’t say that, y/n. The Weasleys are nice people.” Cedric scorned, you rolled your eyes. You were sick of people telling you that, of course they were nice people, they were the sweetest people you ever met, except for two of them.

“I know that! I’m not talking about the Weasley family Cedric, I'm talking about the Weasley twins!” You groaned, the bickering stopped between you two as Mr.Weasley began to speak.

"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," said Mr. Weasley. "He works for the

Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures! And I believe you

know his son, Cedric?"

“Hi.” Cedric let out, his eyes darting around them all. Everyone greeted back, except the twins, who gave barely a nod, they looked as if they were already miserable.

“Oh, I’m sure everyone remembers Y/N!” Mr.Weasley gestured, you gave an uncomfortable smile and a small wave.

Mr.Weasley and Amos went back into their own separate conversation, as you and Cedric did into your bickering.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You kept your voice low and stern.

“I didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t go! They didn’t have any idea you’d be here either, they don’t even know where we're going!” He scoffed. “Mr.Weasley and my father set this whole thing up! Can’t you push aside your hatred for one night? You won’t even be in the same tent as them, you’ll have your own bed…or you can share one with me.” He joked, giving you an exaggerated smolder.

“You wish.” You shoved him in the chest and let out a slight laugh, slowly forgetting about your bad mood.

The both of you turned your attention back to the older gentlemen. At this point, Amos was gawking at Harry’s presence, he began to unknowingly boast about Cedric and how he beat Harry at Quidditch last year.

The twins were scowling, you caught on quickly to that. It seemed as if they were still upset about losing to Hufflepuff and getting beaten by Cedric in the first Quidditch match of last year.

Cedric, obviously embarrassed, tried to explain it was due to Harry falling off his broom. His father only shrugged that off and continued to speak.

It looked like with every word Amos spoke about his son's win, the scowls on the twins' faces grew. You wanted to laugh, you wished you could laugh. You could only attempt to bite back your smirk.

You turned your attention back to Cedric.

“They don't seem very joyous.” You mocked as you jerked your head in the twins direction.

“Oh come on, I’m sure it’s not personal.” The hufflepuff shrugged it off, you raised your brows at him in disbelief. “But, I would really like to get going now.” He said through gritted teeth, eyes pointed at the boot in his fathers hand.

“So, what is it?” You asked, relating to the shoe.

“It’s a boot.” Fred's voice appeared from beside you. He was standing right there, it scared you for a second. Causing you to whip your head around quickly, you were unsure how he got next to you so quickly and silently.

“Yeah I know that, dimwit.” You sneered at him, “How are we going to use a ruddy old boot to get there?”

“It’s a portkey, dimwit.” He shot back, using your insult. “I’m sure you remember learning about those.” The redhead raised his brows at you, unamused.

“Well, I assume it’s time to get on our way!” Mr.Weasley spoke out, fortunately cutting off all the tension in the air. “Now, all you need to do is touch the portkey.” He said happily as he laid a hand onto the shoe, which was being held out by Amos.

“Glad to know you got here safely with the directions George and I wrote down for you.” He shot you a sarcastic smile as he walked up to the boot, nodding his head at the paper in your hand while passing you.

Your face went from confusion then dropped into irritation.

Everything made sense now. Of course those assholes sent you those puzzling directions.

The paper crumpled around your grasp once you tightened your hands into fists, you wadded up the parchment and shoved it in your pocket.

Once everyone was crowded around in a tight circle, a hand or finger touching the boot. Mr.Weasley stared at his watch and began to count down from three.

Suddenly, you felt your feet detach from the ground, you were flying through the air, it looked like you and everyone else was stuck in the middle of a tornado. You accidentally banged into others while being stuck in the swirl of wind.

Then, you were falling from the sky and heading towards the ground. You used your forearms as a shield for your head as you hit the rough grass.

However, Mr. Weasley, Cedric, and his father were literally walking on air. Their legs moving as if they were walking down an invisible staircase. They landed neatly onto the ground, standing, while everyone else was scattered around them.

You were just about to push yourself up before a body came flying towards you. Letting out a small yelp as you covered your head once again, feeling a weight hit your legs.

Once you removed your arms from your face, Fred was laid uncomfortably across the bottom half of your body.

His back pinning down your left leg while his head and arms were laid across your right.

“Ow! You landed on my legs!” You cried out.

“Whoops, sorry.” Fred smoothed back his hair. “They're not broken are they?” He smiled. You moved around your legs, they were sore, not broken.

“No.” You muttered as you waited for him to fully get off your limb and stand up. “Get off!”

“Right.” pushed himself up and dusted his clothes off from any grass.

“M’lady,” He jokingly bowed and reached out a hand to you, waiting for you to grab it so he could help you up. You ignored his gesture, picking up your bag while getting up without his help, rolling your eyes and shoving past him.

“Everyone up! We still have some walking to do before we get to the campsite!” Mr Diggory called out, everyone else began to pick themselves and their belongings up as they muttered and sighed under their breaths.

Thank Merlin you had your own room in this tent. You would’ve gone mad if you weren’t able to get some amount of isolation to cool down. It was shocking how easily the smallest interaction with Fred could ruin your mood.

You had about an hour before you had to get going. That’d be more than enough time for your irritation to go away.

“I’ve got great news!” Cedric jokingly sang as he pushed open the flaps of the tent leading into your space, making his dramatic entrance.

“What now?” You sat up amused. You assumed from his sarcastic tone that maybe the match had been postponed to a later time or you’d somehow got moved to shitter seats.

“Mr.Weasley invited us to go over to his tent tonight, after the game ends.” He let out quickly, knowing that you are not going to be pleased.

“What?” Your expression dropped. “That means- no! I’m not gonna be stuck in a tent with Fred and George!” You exclaimed, you’d already had your interaction with one of them today, now you would not be dealing with both.

“Well, my dad already agreed. So…” He trailed off. You groaned and fell back on the bed, you were too tired to argue.

“Fine, whatever. Just let me have a moment to myself, please.” You ran your hands down your face.

“Yeah, yeah. Oh, take this also!” He threw a red and black scarf at you, “We’ve got to sport some pride, right?” He shrugged before disappearing behind the flaps of the tent.

Merlin knows how many stairs you had to climb to get up there, your legs began to hurt once you made it to your seats.

Cedric and you were the first to make it to your spot. The seats that were set at the highest point of the stadium. The Weasley party was not far behind you.

As Fred walked up, you let out a small laugh of disbelief due to his appearance. He had a large three-leafed clover painted on his face, a white and green scarf hung around his neck, and wore a cartoonishly large white and green top hat.

While George only had stripes of white and green painted on his cheeks and Ginny wore a large Leprechaun hat.

Fred had truly outdone the others and himself.

Cedric noticed the laugh you let out and was not going to let you get away with that.

“Are you smiling at him?” Cedric looked at you with disbelief, but he sounded excited that you were smiling, almost like he was waiting for this to happen.

“I’m laughing at him.” You corrected him. “And it’s only because he looks like an idiot.” The small smile was still on your face. Cedric's eyes analyzed your expression.

“Sure.” He narrowed his eyes at you. You ignored him, looking around the large stadium.

A tall figure slid up next to you, and it sure as hell wasn’t Cedric.

"Aw, did you miss me?" Fred cooed, tilting his head.

"Absolutely not." You spat out the last word, your smile dissolving and a grimace taking over your face instead.

Just before you could get another snarky response out, a string of players flew past your head. The strong wind from their brooms nearly made Fred’s hat fly off.

The stadium roared and boomed with cheers from excited fans as more players from the teams flew out. You felt like your eardrums would burst with how loud the twins were.

They only got louder once Viktor Krum flew out.

“Who’s that?” Ginny shouted to her brothers.

“That, sis, is the best seeker in the world!” George exclaimed as he pointed at the Bulgarian wizard excitedly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be cheering for Ireland?” You narrowed your eyes at him and scoffed.

“Yeah, but who doesn’t love Krum!” Fred and George said in unison, George went back to screaming and cheering as players flew past on their brooms. Fred’s eyes averted to your neck, you noticed.

Do not let them ruin your night. Do not let them ruin your night. Do not let them ruin your-

“You know what I haven’t seen in a while, George?” Fred nudged his twin, getting him to look back over. “That necklace we made for her.” A smirk took over both of their faces as George decided to join in.

“Yeah, what happened to that? I reckon you wore it for a bit, then one day it just vanished.” George added in, peeking over Fred’s shoulder.

“I got rid of it. Could you two just watch the bloody game?” You turned your attention to the stadium, not wanting to be reminded of that embarrassing day in the library, the day you stopped wearing the stupid piece of jewelry they’d given you.

Not long after, Cedric returned, and this time, he stood between you and those red-headed boys. Freeing you from being pestered any more.

Despite the final game lasting over two hours, it went by fast.

And despite being near the twins, you had a good time overall.

The twins nearly fell out of their seats when Ireland won. They were screaming joyfully at each other. It was something about money and winning a bet. You could barely hear them over the rest of the stadium.

You secretly giggled as they jumped up and down like little girls.

Your time at the Weasleys tent wasn’t as bad as you expected. You talked with Hermione and Ginny some, while Ron preached about Krum to the entire tent.

“There's no one like Krum!” Ron shouted as he stood up on the small ottoman next to a chair.

“Krum? Dumb Krum?” Both Fred and George began to repeat this nickname to Ron, acting as if they weren’t cheering for him in the stands.

“He's like a bird the way he rides the wind!” He went on, sounding as if he was performing slam poetry.

“Dumb Krum!” The twins chanted as they ran around him, flapping their arms, mimicking the look that baby birds have when learning how to fly. Fred took the flag he had draped around him and threw it over Ron’s head.

“He's more than an athlete! He's an artist!” Ron cried out as he took the flag off.

“I think you're in love, Ron.” Ginny giggled, Ron only let out a muttered “Shut up.” in response.

“Viktor, I love you!” George began to sing loudly as he grabbed onto Ron’s hand, Fred grabbed onto his other.

“Oh Viktor, I do!” Fred sang mockingly while getting down on one knee. This led to Harry choosing to sing along.

“When we're apart my heart beats only for you!” The three sang to a frowning Ron, who was still standing on the ottoman, shoulders slouched.

Screams and blasts coming from outside interrupted their singing.

“Sounds like the Irish have got their pride on.” Fred said amusedly as he stood up, not bothering to get a full look outside at what was happening.

He grabbed a cushion and was preparing to join in on a fight between Ron and George when his father came rushing in.

“Stop!” Mr.Weasley shouted at them, getting the attention of everyone in the tent.

“It’s not the Irish.” His voice was stern and there was panic filling up in his face. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.” His tone of voice didn’t make it sound like a suggestion, everyone began to run out the tent.

Outside was pure chaos.

Terror.

Tents were crushed and lit on fire. People were running into the woods, screaming, apparating, trying to get away from something.

You stood frozen in fear at the sight not far from you.

A group of hooded, masked wizards had their wands pointed upright, above them was a group of four floating in the air. Their figures being contorted and twisted into disturbing shapes. Something you’d see out of a horror movie.

“We’re going to help the Ministry.” Mr.Weasley's voice got your attention, he was standing next to Cedric’s father. “You lot, get back to the portkey and stick together!” He ordered as he took out his wand. Automatically you began to move towards Cedric.

“Fred and George, Ginny is your responsibility!” Mr.Weasley shouted before running off. Fred grabbed onto Ginny's hand and started heading towards the forest with George.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione grouped together and ran off with them.

“Here, I think I know a separate path!” Cedric shouted as grabbed onto your arm.

“You think? Or you know?” You questioned him, your feet stuck in place.

“Can you not do- Would you just trust me?” He bellowed out before he began to run, his hand still gripped around your arm, pulling you with him.

You ran for what felt like ages, constantly bumping into people and dodging fallen over remains of tents and trees.

You could see the forest in the distance when you heard a blast right next to you.

Suddenly, you were being knocked over by strong, hot, wind. It was strong enough to where Cedric lost his grip on your forearm. You hit the ground and your head hit something too.

Cedric tried to turn and run back to you, it seemed impossible due to the crowds pushing him, he could move with the crowd and not against, leaving you there.

You brought your hand to the side of your head, feeling a warm liquid smudge onto your fingers and you put your hand in front of your eyes, blood.

You weren’t able to process the fact that your head had just been busted open for long once more crowds of people began to run through, many accidentally kicking or stepping on you while rushing to get out.

All you could do was just lay there, groaning and trying to stay conscious as you were repeatedly hit. Your weakened limbs weren’t much help when trying to pick yourself up.

Even if you could get up, you wouldn’t know where to go. Cedric was out of sight and people were running in different directions.

You don’t remember how long you were stuck on the ground for. Maybe it was only a minute, maybe five, maybe ten. Who knows. It felt like forever.

Only remembering the horrible feeling of hundreds of scared and panicked feet running over you, on you, or accidentally kicking you, few people tripping over you, only to get back up and continue running. The wet tears sliding down the side of your face and the taste of metallic in your mouth, the smell of sweat and smoke filling your lungs.

You could see the dirt footprints from peoples shoes all over your legs, stomach, everywhere, some blood too.

You couldn’t tell if it was others or your own.

You started to lose all hope of someone helping, you chose to close your eyes and depressedly wish your body would go numb or that you would fall unconscious so you wouldn’t have to feel the pain anymore.

“Hey! Help me get her up!” A voice shouted as you felt someone lift you up by the underneath of your armpits. You were being dragged away from your spot on the ground and through the fiery campsite, you couldn’t even hold up the weight of your own head.

Eventually you heard the same voice mutter the words “Fuck it.” and you were no longer being dragged, you were being picked up and held bridal style. You were able to use enough of the little strength you had left to get a good look at who was holding you.

You lifted up your head and saw the last person you’d expect to see.

“Fred?” You mumbled, your eyes squinted and your head dizzy.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, we’re gonna get you help.” Fred said as he ran, his breathing heavy and panicked.

The orange flames all around lit up his face, you scanned it with your eyes, taking in the details.

Has he always had so many freckles?

Has his hair always looked so soft?

Have his eyelashes always been so long?

It must've been the fumes of the smoke getting to you, causing these thoughts.

Fred would occasionally look down at you while running, making sure you were still conscious. You saw the look on his face, the look of shock, of worry, of panic, of fear.

Your eyesight began to get blurry, it was getting more and more difficult to keep your eyes open and your head up. Your body gave in, your head fell back, you went limp. Fred was cursing to himself.

“Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.” He uttered, breathing heavily as he caught up to his family.

You had small moments of consciousness, constantly fading in and out. It was a struggle to keep your eyes from going blurry, you were only able to get a clear look of the night sky, trees above you, and occasionally Fred's face.

You remembered bits and pieces of conversation between the group once he had reached the rest of them.

“Where were- oh Merlin, what happened?” A similar voice to Fred’s called out, most likely George.

“She must’ve tripped or got knocked over, people were trampling her.”

“Fred, is that your blood?” Ginny pointed out, she noticed the fresh stains of blood covering the sleeve of his cardigan.

“No. It’s hers. Possibly. I think she hit her head somehow, she’s injured somewhere.”

Large running footsteps were heard coming towards you.

“Dad!” You heard Ginny call out.

“Are you all- oh dear, is she-“ It was an older man's voice, most likely Mr.Weasley. You cut off his question with a groan of agony.

“Well, that shows she’s alive.” George quipped in with some poorly timed humor.

“Wait, where have Ron and Harry and Hermione gone?” Mr.Weasley stressed.

One of the loudest explosions shook the ground, you felt the vibration as your arms and legs dangled around when Fred ducked down.

“We’ll search for them, get the girls to the portkey, go!” Arthur commanded, Fred shook his head frantically, you felt him begin to run, stress filling his face.

“Don’t get her hurt anymore than she already is!” Arthur called out from a distance.

You couldn’t remember anything after that. You’d lost consciousness for the last time.

Fred kept his eyes on you the entire time you were both flying and falling through the portkey, focused only on you, he used his body as a shield when you both hit the ground, hoping neither of your bones broke.

tell me what you thought! :) or ask tba to the taglist!

TAGLIST: @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @five-seconds-flat @nal-leo-17 @rhunew @albertdabuttler @weak-aesthetic @whotfskai @m00nymarauder @miaandthediamonds @hpstuff244444 @tarzanathetumblingwarrior

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fic #fred weasley x fem!reader #fred weasley angst #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley smut #harry potter fandom #weasley twins #anyone but you fic #anyone but you series

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cetaceans-pls · 25 days ago

Text

Oh Brother, My Brother

Is there actually any way to be both a Good Brother and a Cool Brother? Dick's trying to find out.

written as part of DC Gotcha for Gaza for em, who requested (annoying (affectionate) dick!

"Why," Jason says with a shocking amount of aggression for such a fine fall day, "are you trying to relive childhood memories that we just don't have, you weird ass bastard?"

He deftly ducks under a straw hat aimed at his head.

"Why shouldn't we!" Dick says with manic cheer, grin bright as all hell but still failing to improve the looks of Gotham's only inner-city 'pumpkin patch. Someone dropped a bunch of hay on the asphalt of the parking lot, a couple of people are gamely trying to stop an alpaca from biting a patron, and the hay ride is a man dressed as a scarecrow (classic, not Crane) huffing and puffing as he pulls 2 shopping trolleys tied together around the perimeter.

Despite the lackluster set up, turn out is good. Gothamites love a shit-show, entrance costs 4 bucks and includes unlimited scarecrow-powered rides for those who can stomach abusing the poor guy, and WE sponsored a falafel stand and a funnel cake stand, with proceeds going to CAIR.

Jason's here because Dick had asked for help for a mission; Jason's still here because despite Dick seeing the need to lie about a family bonding activity, he does unfortunately care enough about the shithead to see through his brother's latest crisis of self.

Doesn't mean that he's wearing an itchy straw hat in sight of one and all though. He snatches the damn thing and then frisbees it into the lot next door (Tall John's Low Price High Quality Cars), and Dick makes a mournful sound as it connects with a 2012 Mazda Miata.

"C'mon," Jason says gruffly. "I'll buy you a funnel cake, stop making that face."

Even the promise of a hot greasy treat does little to lift Dick's mood, but Jason still gets them one each, replete with cream and syrup and mashed strawberries. There's no elegant way to eat the damn things, especially not when it's terribly cold and windy, but they tuck up beside a low wall and make an attempt.

Halfway through, face covered in strawberry like he's just devoured a man, Jason nudges Dick. "Go on, then. Why the hell are you acting even more off the rails than usual?"

The look Dick sends him would make a hangdog hang its doggy face awful low. "It's Tim," he says, a sad high whine. "It's, he's.... Oh, God, I just can't-"

Now, if this was a normal sibling relationship, this would be plenty of cause for alarm. But because Dick's the man that he is and their brotherhood is this thing that's all wire in the blood, Jason knows that if it was something serious serious, life or death serious, then they wouldn't be here, talking about this. The fact that they've got powdered sugar on their noses and not 20 feet away a handsy man is being mauled gently by a llama, well.

It's just Dick being Dick, wanting to whine and be a little annoying and unserious in his brothering, and it's nice for all involved to have low-stakes troubles sometimes.

"Uh huh," Jason says indulgently. "What did he do now?"

"He's cancelled lunch on me like three times," Dick says, incensed. "And then said we should meet off-campus, because he didn't want people to see us together. What does that mean? Why wouldn't he want to be seen with me??"

Jason can't stop himself from quickly looking down to Dick's bare-ass legs in his running short-shorts, and feels a distant kinship with Tim (this hardly ever happens). "Don't take this the wrong way," Jason says, fully knowing that Dick will take it the wrong way, "but you're kinda incredibly embarrassing."

"What?!" Dick yells chestily, loud and powerful enough to startle the llama into letting go of the man it was trying to murder. On the other end of the lot, a gaggle of kids on the 'hay''ride' take Dick's hollering as permission to holler themselves, which results in scarecrow looking like he wants to plunge them all into traffic.

Jason has to stifle a laugh. "I said what I said. I bet every time you're on campus you're hitting on anyone legal and upright, and you always dress like you're in a budget porno. Also, I've seen you subbing for B at Damian's PTA meetings, man. You made his English teacher cry because the kid got an A-, which is not the energy I'd want around my professors." Probably. Jason knows that Bruce would move heaven and Earth to let him go to college if he wanted to, but there's a lot to that that needs untangling, so he'll just have to experience Psych 101 while listening to dick for now.

"He cried because he couldn't accept that he was wrong for not accepting that Damian's prose can be non-traditional, on account of English being like his fourth language!" Dick huffs, and takes a massive bite out of his funnel cake in mild irritation. "And I only ever slept with one professor at Gotham U, and that was before Timmy started taking her class, so that doesn't even count! I haven't done anything really weird!" In a calmer, quieter tone, Dick says, "What's wrong about being invested in you guys' lives?"

Jason bumps their shoulders together. "We're a pack of maladjusted kids who are real real used to not being invested in. Compared to all of that, you're, uh, a shock to the system, Dick." He can't help a little laugh, feeling pretty cheerful now that he knows that Dick's minor crisis is even more unworrying than he thought. "You showed up to an Ikea I was going undercover at to buy a mattress you did not need just so's my commission would get high enough to make me Employee of the Month. That's sooooo not regular, do you get that?"

"What's the point of being regular in this family?" Dick points out unhelpfully. "And I really did need a new mattress! I mean, it wasn't a coincidence that I got it from you, but it was a coincidence that I really did need something from Ikea."

"Uh huh," Jason says, untrusting just to be irritating (a younger brother's prerogative). "That definitely doesn't make it less weird. C'mon, that hot toddy stand is screaming our names. Your treat."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to be this weird if you guys were less weird," Dick says huffily, all tart and annoying (the oldest brother's prerogative). They skid and slide across the damp fall leaves on the ground, and take a moment to admire the little donkey that's just chilling between two trucks parked by the photo area. A man's carving the Gotham skyline into a pumpkin (complete with a tiny tiny Batman!!), and every bit he cuts out he feeds to the sweet braying thing.

Closer to the hot toddy stand, a woman tried to entice them with some home-baked pies she's selling right out the boot of the car. It's not entirely clear if she's here as an official vendor, or an enterprising Gothamite who had seen the pumpkin patch getting set up who just so happened to have 4 whole pecan pies in her car.

The price ($5.50 a slice) is written in lipstick on the plastic casing, so her origin is still unclear. Jason was still a little tempted though, even if they both turn her down on account of having bellies full of cake.

They do, finally, get to the drinks stand. Dick gets carded, to his tremendous delight, and Jason doesn't, which leaves him feeling a little Adult and a little Superior. To keep that particularly ball rolling, Jason even gallantly pays for their drinks (he stops Dick by forcibly taking his credit card from him and snapping it in half), and he leads them to the row of haystacks that demarcate the limited parking.

They're quiet for a while longer, enjoying the honey and the rye and the warmth and the chill. More and more people are showing up, gone 5 and now the little fall-time wonderland is seeing an uptick in people in smart business suits all heading straight to the hot toddy stand. More and more food trucks are showing up now, too, and it must've been a WE-mandate, that everyone's got stickers on their sides advertising the charity that they're championing.

"Thanks for taking me out," Jason says at long, long last. "I've never been to one of these things, but I gotta say, there's something a little special being surrounded by pumpkins and screaming kids and straw."

That makes Dick smile, warm and buttery like the best pie crust a car boot could contain. "'course, Jay. I didn't go to one of these until I was like 25, and I had such a great time that I wanted you guys to experience it too." He breathes in, then sighs out gustily. "You don't think Timmy dislikes me? He's just regular embarrassed? Because I know what it's like to be embarrassed, 'cos Bruce in socialite mode could make a rock bluch, but I'm not great at.... being disliked."

Jason drains his cup, yeets it, and punches the air when it slams into the trash can, nothing but net. "Dick, you asked to speak to my manager so's you could tell her how impressed you were with my mattress knowledge. You're honestly one of the most embarrassing people on this planet." He gets up, dusts himself off, and turns to look at Dick. "You're also one of the most well-liked, well-loved shitheads to walk the Earth. Stop fussing over Timmy and making Wet Sexy Eyes at his friends and professors, and before you know it you'll get cafeteria access again. Okay?"

That's enough, looks like. Dick is grinning so warmly at him it's genuinely embarrassing. "What," Jason says gruffly, looking away and feeling a little grateful that the cold means his face is already too flushed to give away a blush.

"Nothing," Dick says. "Just feeling some kind of way, on account of my little brother loudly proclaiming that I can be annoying but he loooooves me anyway."

"Kill me again," Jason says with feeling.

"Not on pain of death," Dick says with great cheer. "C'mon, we can't call it a good fall day out without a hayride!"

"I'm not sure if Mr. Scarecrow would agree," Jason eyes Dick up and down, and is relieved to see that his mood's a hell of a lot better than when they'd arrived. "There's got to be a way that's less of a labour law violation."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Dick says, dimple digging in more deeply when he smiles. "In your brother you trust!"

This is how they end up stuffing straw down their shirts, before going over to the overworked (and probably underpaid!!) scarecrow and offering to take turns hauling people around on this man-powered hayride.

Jason will see, later, in the community newsletter that he fervently keeps abreast of, a picture of him and Dick looking like they'd fought a wheatfield, lost, and then immediately started running away down the streets with kids in tow.

God aloud, nobody is as singularly funny and singularly annoying as Dick is. Even just looking at the picture is making Jason grin, which is SO embarrassing!!

(This man is heavy, but he sure sure is his brother).

a/n

thank you to the dc gotcha for gaza gang for organising this, and to em for making this charity commission request (annoying (affectionate) dick)! hope this tickles your fancy, i always enjoy giving dick some type of minor crisis to work through ;)

#whale writing #dick grayson #jason todd

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topazy · 1 month ago

Text

Tomorrow’s promise

Pairing: Daryl Dixon × reader, Rick Grimes × sister reader

Swearing: Swearing, blood

4.04

“Everyone, get back into your cells now!”

In the blink of an eye, everything had gone to shit. One minute you and Sasha are helping Hershel put a dead body onto a trolley for it to be taken away, and the next the prison block you’re in is full of walkers.

You shove Mika and Lizzie, two sisters under the age of thirteen, into a cell with you and slam the door shut just as a walker approaches. It tries to grab you, but thankfully the metal bar keeps it at bay.

“Y/n,” the youngest sister says. “She doesn’t look so good.”

Turning back around, you see Sasha slumped against the wall and coughing heavily. “Shit, keep her sitting upright and don’t open the cell for anyone else. I need to get Hershel.”

Using your blade, you stab the walker in the head, and do your best to not think about how this was a person who greeted you every morning, you’ve laughed with them, and survived alongside them.

As you navigate through the block, stepping over dead bodies and dodging walkers trying to rip you to shreds, sweat drips down your back.

You reach the far side of the upper floor and find Hershel attaching a resuscitator to Glenn. Maggie was standing guard at the cell door, shooting at the dead to keep them from getting to her dad and Glenn.

“Y/n behind you!”

The sound of shuffling feet echoes closer, and you spin fast and stab the person in the head. Henry. You feel sick; Henry was just a teenager.

Walker or not, you just stabbed a teenager, a kid.

You somehow manage to hold back the urge to vomit. “Hershel,” you call back. “Sasha’s not looking so good. You need to help her.”

The block is full of nothing but screams and gunfire, but you somehow manage to make out what Hershel is explaining, and you take over from him and start squeezing the bag of the resuscitator, inflating Glenn’s lungs.

You’re unsure how much time has passed, but when night comes, the walkers have been dealt with, and the sudden silence is deafening.

—

There was still pain in your chest whenever you took deep breaths, and your throat still felt dry and scratchy, but at least you were now able to go outside as long as you kept your distance from the others.

At least outside, the smell of death wasn’t so strong.

One of the fences came down the night before, and a horde would have gotten through if it wasn’t for Rick and Carl shooting the walkers down. Now that the rotten bodies had been moved further away, you were attempting to block up the gaps until the fence could be rebuilt more securely.

Maggie notices what you’re doing and comes over to help. “You should be resting.”

Since you’ve already been in close contact with Maggie, it didn’t matter if she was beside you. “I need to do something,” you say while wrapping a wire between a pole you stuck in the ground and a wooden crate. “Glenn is looking a lot better.”

“I know, thank God.”

“Thank Hershel; without your dad, more people would have died. Me included.”

She gives you a sympathetic smile, “Hopefully we can join the others in a couple of days.”

“Hopefully.”

You doubted things would feel normal for some time. Rick told you Carol murdered David and Karen in an attempt to stop the flu from spreading, so he banished her. You cared for Carol but couldn’t help but wonder if she would have done the same to you, Glenn, or Sasha if she saw how sick the three of you were.

“On the bright side, we got plenty of diapers and formula now that Daryl’s back from the supply,” Maggie says, making conversation.

You let out a deep sigh; you hadn’t seen Daryl since being completely conscious. He had taken a few other members of your community on a supply run, and they had only returned less than an hour ago.

Seeing you become teary-eyed, Maggie rests her hand on your shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I miss Jace.”

You wanted nothing more than to hold your baby and kiss his chubby cheeks and hold his hand. Beth has brought him to the viewing room once, but all it did was distress him; your poor boy didn’t understand the plastic barrier keeping the two of you apart.

“I can’t imagine how hard it is not being able to take care of him yourself, but at least you know he’s well taken care of.”

Following her trail of sight, you see Daryl holding Jace on the far side of the courtyard; he was pointing at the birds sitting on the fence. All you wanted to do was run to them, but you stayed back so as not to upset your son again. But seeing them together gives you peace of mind.

—

After helping scrub the remaining blood off the cell floors, you go back outside to watch the sun set. The atmosphere inside the block was becoming too much for you to bear—too many grieving parents, brothers, sisters, children… nothing you say would be able to help them.

Hershel says it should be safe for those not showing anymore symptoms of the flu to rejoin the rest of your community; you were equally as nervous as you were excited. Being able to take care of Jace, Carl, and Judith again was something you couldn’t wait for, but the fear of the virus spreading to them was still fresh in your mind.

The smell of tobacco fills the air. Looking over your shoulder, you see Daryl with a cigarette between his lips.

“Those things will kill ya.”

He grunts between exhaling smoke.

Sitting atop one of the metal benches, you bring your knees to your chest. “Thank you, Daryl, for always taking care of Jace.”

He takes another puff of the cigarette before dropping it on the ground and stubbing it out with his foot. “Ain’t nothing to thank me for,” he says, coming over to the bench and sitting beside you. “It’s just what we do; we dare for each other.”

Your heart races as you fully take in his appearance now that he is closer to you. Daryl’s eyes were heavy; his body, face, and hair had traces of dirt and blood covering them.

You sit in a comfortable silence for some time until Daryl suddenly turns to you and says, “Doncha, think it’s weird you ain’t ever seen me without a top on?”

“I’ve never really given it much thought; why?”

All of your time was usually spent surviving or looking after Jace, and since you hadn’t had sex yet, not seeing Daryl completely topless hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Daryl turns his head to see if anyone else is around, and after seeing there’s not, he looks away from you and pulls up the back of his top, revealing multiple deep scars on his back. After a moment, he pulls it back down and faces you just as a single tear rolls down your cheek. He wipes the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Both my parents were alcoholics, and after my mom died, my dad became a complete asshole.”

“Daryl…” The thought of him being a frightened young boy in pain was almost too much to bear.

“It’s why I hated my goddamn brother for so long. Merle left to join the army as soon as he could, leaving me alone with him.”

You link your fingers with his; Daryl wasn’t the kind of person you could pry info out of. He only shares things when he fully trusts someone, so for him to share this with you was a big deal.

Shyly, you start to lean into him, unsure how he will react, but Daryl wraps his arms around. You bury your face into the crook of his neck. “I’ve really missed you.”

“If you're broken, then I’m broken.”

#the walking dead #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon/you #tomorrow’s promise #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fanfiction #TWD fanfic #tomorrow’s promise 4.04 #Daryl Dixon/reader #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fic

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ronearoundblindly · 10 months ago

Note

17 with Jake

25 with ransom

-👜

Jake Jensen x ops!reader: a kiss to distract. (Ransom will be posted separately.)

No warnings except Jake is a dumbass... Cute divider by @cafekitsune and I hope you enjoy! This is one of my Valentine's Fics for 2024. (Ransom will be in a separate post, btw.) WC 738

"Under no circumstances are you to zipline that damn thing, Jensen. You hear me?” Clay bellows over your comms. The whole squad can hear their friend’s stupid thoughts from hundreds of yards away.

Jake simply bounces his shoulders next to you on the skyscraper roof, an awkward grimace stretched across his face instead of a smile.

The cool, intense winds this high up swirl around while you watch your targets become smaller and smaller, taking the only hardware down the wire with them.

You and Jake burst through the access door, raced over to grasp at the jumpers, and missed by mere inches.

So your partner thinks on his feet. It’s very dangerous.

"Yeah, well, I don't see you guys having a better idea."

Your disbelief is palpable, as you loudly mutter, "permission to shoot him, boss?"

Then there's an explosion of noise in your ear.

"GODDAMNIT, JUST DON’T—“ "You idiot!" "Ten bucks says he goes splat.”

"No one bets on Pancake Jensen, okay?" You flash the bird toward the other rooftop where Cougar watches through binoculars.

Pooch scoffs. "Noob's no fun."

Jake is already ripping his belt from his jeans to use as a trolley.

Roque sighs. It’s so characteristic, he doesn’t even have to speak.

“Maybe no bets," Cougar chuckles, "but he's already playing strip poker."

"Jake, stop." You have to grip his hands to get his attention.

He's squinting at you in disbelief. "But they're getting away..."

"Yeah, and once they reach the bottom, that line'll get cut while you're still on it." He shifts so you have to step in front of him again and push at his t-shirt clad chest. "You cannot stick that landing."

"No hero landing?" Jake frowns.

You shake your head.

The group starts to throw out other options over the channel, and while you pay attention to that, your gaze wanders back to Cougar’s perch.

Jake sneaks past your grasp.

It’s only when the lookout starts shouting “woah, woah, woah,” that you realize Jensen’s about to toss the doubled-up leather of his belt over the wire, and you just…run.

You use your whole bodyweight to spin him. You push off the balls of your feet to reach level. Remarkably, you make it, your lips landing dead-center on his mouth parted in shock.

You did not, however, have time to calculate the ledge right behind Jake’s thighs.

He panics when he hits concrete and lurches forward, arms wrapping around you with an instinct to not die. Where was that consideration thirty seconds ago?

He holds on while stumbling, though, and by a few seconds in, you know he absolutely could have pulled away, if he wanted to, by now.

“Uh…”

Jake slides his big hands up to cup your face, lean further in, moving his head to the other side and licking the seam of your lips.

You weren’t expecting that.

Jensen always gripes about his awkwardness and lack of experience, but this is not amateur tongue action and definitely not detached. You can sense some real emotion in the dig of his fingers behind your ears, muffling your comms for who knows how long until one shift has your forehead smearing across his glasses.

“Sorry,” you blurt, breaking the kiss.

He lets go of your face just in time for you to see the thick wire snapping back toward the rooftop.

You grab Jake’s t-shirt in both fists and fling the pair of you to the ground.

“If you doofuses are alive,” Clay grumbles. “you better be halfway to the lobby.”

There’s a long, anguished sigh before Cougar adds, “and I just lost fifty bucks.”

Pooch whoops joyously.

“Hell yeah, I won the pot, didn’t I? Get it, Jensen. You’re my boy. I knew you could do it.”

Jake waits for the snaking wire to stop moving and nervously licks his bottom lip. “Right. No hero landing.” He squints at you again before popping up from the gravel, cleaning his lenses and inching toward the stairwell with wildly incoherent, stunted hand gestures. “We should…if you’re good…render-vous.”

On your elbows, you realize a talk with Jensen about this is not going to be pleasant. He’ll probably make you do all the talking and deny there was anything there between you. Maybe he is too awkward for his own good?

You reach past your feet toward the ledge, waving your find in the air.

“Don’t forget your belt.”

Bucky Barnes and a kiss, casually ⬅️ ➡️ Johnny Storm and a kiss in relief

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @spectre-posts @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @peyton--warren

#jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen x you #jake jensen x y/n #valentine's day fanfic #ro answers #jake jensen fluff #valentine's day prompts

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atlurbanist · 2 days ago

Text

From a 1953 ad: "In Atlanta more people travel transit than in most cities"!

A friend sent me this fascinating clipping from 1953, touting Atlanta's transit system. It comes from the Southern Israelite (weekly), May 15, 1953.

It reads:

"In Atlanta more people travel transit than in most cities | A study of 15 other cities with populations similar to Atlanta's shows that the number of rides on Atlanta's transit system per capita is greater than that of any city in the list, except only one."

"In 1952 the average Atlantan rode with us 184 times. The average person on the other 15 systems rode only 134 times -- 27% less than Atlanta!"

"Although the number of autos in Atlanta has doubled since 1946, the number of rides per capita has decreased only 38%. The average decrease in the other cities was 43% and in one 59%."

"So, while we've lost a lot of riders -- just as every other transit system in the country has -- our loss has been far smaller. And we attribute that to the fact that Atlanta has one of the nation's finest transit systems."

The photo in the ad shows a trolleybus. Streetcars that ran on tracks were phased out in 1949 in Atlanta, leaving the overhead wires in use by only trackless trolleys, or trolleybuses. The last run of a trolleybus in Atlanta was in 1963.

The history of mass transit in Atlanta reaches back to the mule-drawn streetcars of 1871. The city once had an extensive system of electric streetcars, with rail that reached out as far as Marietta. Many of our intown neighborhoods developed originally as streetcar suburbs of the historic Downtown commercial area.

It's important to remind ourselves that Atlanta has been a "car town" only for part of its history. It was a trolley town for a long time. Hopefully we're heading into a future where the city's transportation mix has lower focus on personal car ownership and a higher one on transit, walking, and cycling.

#atlanta #urbanism #transit

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transit-fag · 8 months ago

Note

In your learned opinion, how would you define the difference between a street car, a tram and a trolley bus

In my mind the street car is a single carriage that goes on rails alongside normal traffic in the street, relying on overhead cables, a tram is the same but often with a dedicated lane and multiple carriages - like a mini train, and a trolley bus is like a normal bus with rubber wheels (able to change lanes & overtake traffic), but powered off the trams electrical wires via a trapeze tips mechanism on the back. Is this right?

I would pretty much agree with your distinctions

A trolley bus is literally just a bus that is powered through trolley poles instead of an internal combustion engine

I typically see Trams and Streetcars as the European and American words for the same thing, but I would say Trams feel like they are more likely to have dedicated ROW while a streetcar is more likely to be just street running

#asks

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shycoffeeland · 1 year ago

Text

'MY GIRL' - SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X F!141!READER [002]

[Part One]

Content tags: mentions of torture and specific injury, brief allusion to SA. Petnames are love, my girl. Simon takes care of you while you recover from your injuries, and price outlines your medical leave.

The room you'd woken up in was very bright, too bright for how groggy you were. The strangely clinical scent indicative of a hospital setting still sept through for a makeshift ward on a military base.

In through the dirty windows shone the bright desert sun, beckoning you into its warmth. The faint sounds of birdsong bled into your subconscious, gently coaxing you from your the depths of your rest.

Opening your eyes fully was a challenge; but a soldier of your caliber had done far worse. The ward was decently put together, curtain dividers between the beds, everything cleaned as best it could be, with multiple metal trolleys full of medical equipment. As you came to, the first things you felt were your hands. An IV line through one, the small puncture and bruise familiar to you, and a soft pressure on the other one. A hand. Looking around your bedside, you saw to your right, a high table, with a small plastic cup of water. To your left, in a metal chair not too dissimilar to the one you'd been held in, sat Simon. Your Simon.

He wasn't looking at you, or even in your direction. He was reading something, a collection of papers held together with a staple in the corner. It could've been an incident report, you couldn't read it properly. He had a hand resting on yours, a small show of affection, a sign of allegiance. He wasn't going anywhere, and neither were you. His mask was in his lap, and you could see the distinct lines of scarring on the side of his cheek. He moved the hand away from yours, reaching down to the floor and picking up a file that was thick with documents.

You coughed, not entirely sure if it had been involuntary or a momentary plea to get Simon's attention. Either way, he turned around. His face softened once he saw you, those wonderful brown eyes holding more emotion alone than you'd ever see in his whole face. The suprise only lasted for a moment, and was replaced with a look of longing, of protection. He stood up from his seat, going over to the table at your side. "Have some water, I'll help you up."

He gently held you, his tattooed arm around your back as he used the other to move the rocky pillows to better prop you up. He set you down slowly, knowing to be gentle where the wire had dug into your back and chest. The high metal frame of the medical cot was less than comfortable against your head, but the payoff of being able to finally have a drink of water without it spilling all over your face, was too good.

"Thank you," your voice was still scratchy, "I forgot how nice water could be."

He didn't say anything in response, but made a face that was similar to 'it's nothing.'

"Are you okay?" You asked as you looked at him, noticing the pain behind his eyes.

"I'm the least of your worries right now, Love." He took the chair, and moved it to your right side so he was facing you. It was easier to look to your right than your left, as the forceful grabs of your neck and chin to get your attention had left bad bruising around your neck and face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit." You huffed out an attempt at a laugh, only resulting in another cough. "Feels like I got held captive."

He rolled his eyes with a small, almost unnoticeable smile. "Yeah you would do, given that's what happened."

"Did you-" you started, unsure of how to finish what you needed to say.

"We took out 11 of the 13 that were in the building. One got taken in successfully, the other one stole a gun and shot himself in transit." He couldn't make eye contact with you, talking about the people who tortured you. It felt like he failed you, for it to have even happened in the first place. "He's being held on base but apparently he won't budge. Only said two words to the captain since they took him."

"Which were?" You asked, intrigued.

"Get fucked." He answered, "It won't be long until he talks though." He said, looking at the floor. He knew you wanted to know what happened, between the drugging and falling unconscious, you only had fleeting glimpses of what transpired, memories you'd pay a handsome sum to get rid of. "You in pain?" He asked, looking at you with his elbows on his knees, his gloved hands hovering together.

"A bit. Still kinda groggy more than anything." You replied, watching his quiet concern at the husk in your voice. "Si, I'm fine."

"You're not, you don't have to pretend you are." He stood up, looking through one of the medical trolleys for a painkiller. "We can't get you the good stuff without a medic on board. You good with these?" He pulled out a small cardboard box of blister packs. They'd be weak as shit but it'd keep you going for a bit longer. It was more of a statement than a question. Simon was going to do everything he could for you. It broke his heart seeing you in such a bad way. You were off-colour from the medication, and the lacerations and bruising up and down your body he'd seen when you were being treated initially almost made him throw up with the memories it invoked.

"Thanks." You took the painkillers, eagerly awaiting their effectiveness as each waking moment drew the fog further away and brought the sensations back to your body. "You been alright while I've been out?"

He almost snorted as he wrote down a new entry on your medication papers.

"Almost got a smile off you." You smiled at him, looking at the scars around his mouth. "I know you've been fine."

"I wouldn't say fine. Been in here most of my free time, looking after my girl." He looked at you, kindness in his eyes. "Been hard to focus knowing you're in here."

You melted at the fond term. His girl.

"Not that you really needed looking after though," He tipped back in his chair, arms crossed against his chest. "You're tough as nails. You're used to this shit."

"Nobody gets used to being tortured though." You winced at the feeling of your heavily injured lower legs dragging against the bed as you moved to sit up further. The scabs had started to form, and god were they itching. They'd put your right leg in a splint, as well as 3 of the fingers on your left hand. Instead of ripping out nails, they broke fingers. Instead of gouging your eyes, they burnt, cut and broke your legs. Your back and chest ached something fierce, and there was a strange feeling in your insides. Your throat felt raw and bruised, you knew why, and it broke you.

"That's for sure." Simon sighed, almost feeling his ribs shift as he moved. "I'm sorry this happened, love."

"I'll be alright." You said matter-of-factly, there was no point throwing your toys out of the pram over something that was in the past. All you could do now, was get better and move along. "I didn't get into this team if I couldn't take a beating."

"L/N." You heard a voice call for you as the door to the ward opened.

Captain Price approached your bed, nodding in acknowledgement to ghost at your bedside. "He been taking care of you, has he? Must've been really playing doctor to forget the strict orders to inform me should you have woken up."

"Sorry sir."

"L/N... Good to see you awake. Been waiting with baited breath to see how you were." The captain stood infront of your bed with his arms crossed over his tac vest. You could smell the remnants of a recent smoke on him.

"All good here, Captain." You spoke to him in the usual respectful manner. Not too much to be an asslicker, not so little that it would seem insubordinate. "When am I out of here?"

"Nice enthusiasm, Y/N, however," He saved first-name-basis for his most valued soldiers. You were no exception. "Pending a doctor's review, you'll be on a flight home by tomorrow morning for medical leave."

"Sir, please," your heart sank. After all of this; you had to go home alone. Home to your shitty one bedroom in the middle of a grey town, and leave Simon. Leave him in the middle of nowhere. You wanted him. You needed his company, "I'm fine really, I can stay here and fight-"

"No you bloody well can't." Price's tone grew stern, like a father telling off his teenager for sneaking out. "You'll listen to your superiors, and take your medical leave."

"Yes sir." You conceded.

"If you go to physio, as well as therapy, see your doctors and look after yourself, you'll be back in seven months." Price said, gentler than before. "It's not long. Might even be sooner. You can't be on active duty in a condition like that, much less on 141."

"Understood, Captain." Your voice was almost blank as you settled into the idea of seven months off. Seven months would feel like a lifetime.

"I'll look forward to having you back, F/N L/N. Recover well, soldier." Price handed you the papers that arranged and outlined your leave, along with a pen. "You know where to sign. Leave it here. The doctors will pick it up and file it properly."

You hadn't even realised that the captain had left you both, when Simon leaned over and planted a small kiss to your forehead. "I'll file for leave. I never use mine anyway. I'll be a few weeks behind you, and I'll only really get a week off, but it will work."

"You don't have to do that."

"I don't know what else I'd end up doing. I want to be with you. Make sure my girl's okay. Do your shopping and make you food. Take you to a few appointments, that kind of thing." Simon sighed as he looked at you. "We can talk about it properly when you're ready, love."

"I love you." You mumbled.

"You'll be okay." Simon Riley's awkward and afraid version of 'I love you too.'

#simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #headcanons #simon riley

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novemberfyshenuke · 8 months ago

Text

Robotic Playtime

I may or may not have done something bad again....I'm not sure if this is ooc (This wasn't originally supposed to be Vash but I had to make it about him)

Summary: Turning off his pain sensors don't seem to affect his other sensations as you work on repairing his wiring. (Cy!Vash/reader) (This does have wire play; read with discretion) Shift in perspective from third to second for some spicier stuff.

Here again he sits on the cold metal frame. It tilted diagonally, almost hard to balance on when one was seated on the wider sides. The room was filled with walls of tools and machinery and gadgets. Elendira, being the occupant, was quite fond of tinkering with all things related to scientific reverie.

However, it was not the her who dragged Vash down from the airpad to the tech room. It was a this angry little creature who began dragging him along without letting him slip a word in. Stubborn to a point that rivaled Knives, they were someone Vash believes could actually stand against his prideful brother.

Many on this planet were odd. From all kinds of diverse backgrounds with troublesome pasts that chase them down.

And example was this individual that stood at the workbench a few meters away. They tinkered with all things there, mumbling jargon and other mumbo jumbo while they worked. Was this the first time they had done this?

Vash remained unaffected, or at least as he let on. That boyish smile never parted from his lips, or the child like curiosity that runs across his features as he observes them.

He doesn't remember when exactly they joined their merry bunch. His memory had never once failed him. It couldn't. Parts of him are still plenty biological, but for the most part...he's aware that he's a build of cogs and coded. So he asks;

"Uh, is this really necessary?"

The cyborg receives a silent glare from the mechanic. "Vash, what part of, 'Don't overwork your unit' did you not understand?"

There was something in them that made him want to continue pushing buttons. He'd never really found any interest to egg someone on like he did this mechanic of his. He leans forward, his smile twitching as he remembers to turn off the pain sensory nodes in his system. God, it hurt like a bitch.

"I was simply following mission orders. Evacuate civilians to the nearest relief site. They were endanger, and I have parts to spare. I wasn't even that damaged, I don't see why this is necessary."

With a low growl, the mechanic brings over the tools they were studying to the metal bed. The trolley squeaks, the wheels most likely uncared for by the owner. "If I don't do a general checkup or at least repair what need be, you'll just run off before the research department can make any proper repairs.

This way, you can atleast perform alright without leaving with deeper injuries." He tilts his head to the side, expression unchanging. Surely when he lets go of his next words, they would understand that he was simply a piece of scrap metal put together to fight for humanity's cause. "Damages." He corrected bluntly.

They lock eyes. As best as the they can that is. With the goggle in place of their sockets, Vash can only imagine what they were thinking under the layers. The silence breaks as they nod in agreement. "Right. Your damages. I'll fix them up temporarily."

They treated these robotic humanoids like their equal, something the association member, Meryl, and them share. Both of them are all too willing in acting as if they were human. All too willing. It made him question his humanity on occasion. Or at least the person who once handed control of this body to him.

He wanted to argue. It was so stuffy and terribly boring whenever he had to be put in maintenance. He craved excitement! Fun! But he just couldn't. For some reason, he always found himself following the whim of this particular person.

What was it? The air of mystery? The attitude problem? He can't begin to describe how his morbid interest wants him to inch closer to this particular being.

He lies back on the cool surface, staring up at the fluorescent light held up on the metal plates of the ceiling. The clinking of tools and the smooth touch of human skin on his arm were things he paid attention to, but didn't mind much of.

He glances at them from the corner of his eye. He had heard a number of rumors moving about in the busy SEEDS ship. It's a miracle they had time to gossip with how many refugees are still to be retrieved on Earth.

A part of an elite squad full of s-ranking units, this simple human had gone long and far compared to him. He wonders how much bloodshed stains their hands, how many times they had to pick up fallen comrades and desperately try and repair them.

What interested him right now though, wasn't their team or whatever other reason there needed to be. It was the clenched jaw that guided his eyes back up to the goggles perched on their face.

Gods, he was so curious to know what was under there. Hundreds if not thousands of images played in his mind.

They cuss, brow furrowing in frustration. Instinctively, he asks what's wrong. They shake their head, pressing fingers down on their temples.

"Your wiring might be fucked inside. I'm guessing it was fried when you went overboard during the switch. Usually, the Science Department has the tech to mend it without cracking you open. We should head over there."

That frustrated expression was one they made often. Especially around him. Did he cause such frustration? Could the grays in their hair be because of him as well?

His pupils dilate and shrink in a speed that was hard to catch. He closes his eyes, pausing his chatter for a while. Not that it mattered. He was quiet during the time he spent with them. Wolfwood would tease him about being shy, but it always was out of place coming from his aloof captain. Perhaps that's why he laughed along when the joke was mentioned.

The metal rubs up against the other, pulling open the compartment of wirings and other technology hidden away in his body. He nodded in their direction.

The weariness in their expression, puzzled him. He was simply doing what was best in the situation.

"You should probably power down for a while." They explained quietly. He could sense the insecurity in their tone. Was this truly the first time they had fixed up any units?

Vash shakes his head, all the more steady willed to stay online. "It would be better to have someone guide you, tiny. I can turn off my pain sensors for the time being so you can focus on the repairs."

His words don't seem to comfort them much. Their hands shook when they hovered above his open chassis; their teeth chattered louder than the built-in cooling systems in his body.

He slides his hand on top of their vacant one, winking playfully. He had enough trust in them to know they were more than capable to complete the task. Even if sweat started to build in their palms.

His grin was reflected back to him, the goggles glinting in the horrid lighting. Swirling with anxiousness but a determination mingles. Vash sharply inhales, hardening himself as well.

"...then I'll get started." You pull and move closer, almost scared to make a move. A few times, you would inform him of what part would be tampered with next. Through his guidance, the maintenance goes along much smoother than it started.

Vash jolts, his arm moving up to hold onto your wrist. A gritted apology passes along between the two of you. He had turn off the pain sensors in his frame, but for some odd reason his body continues to send signals to his central unit.

Good ones. He's aware of the difference, even if he's never really experienced those painful pleasures before.

"Easy." He hissed, flashing a lighthearted smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes, not that he was aware.

Had it always been so hard to focus when you had your hands on him? You slows their movements. That results to your palm hitting a particular module that causes a shiver to run down his systems.

He grunts, gripping onto the metal surface below him. "No fair, tiny. Are you teasing me?" He meets with your gaze slowly.

You don't even seem aware of what you were doing to him. Figures, he didn't even understand why he was feeling this way himself.

"Vash, is anything uncomfortable? Should I call Doctor Conrad?" You asked, dropping the wrench onto the trolley.

He gulps down his nerves, placing your hands back into the chassis. Vash smiles brightly, hunger dancing around in his eyes. He knows what it is. It was a curiosity to see where this would lead.

"It's alright. Keep going."

When the warmth of your fingertips glaze over his wirings, he almost let out a sound prematurely.

Your hands moved around, repairing a few disconnected lines and then going back up to the wires that hadn't been damaged. He guessed that you were ensuring that the placement was correct.

He grins, fighting the urge to squirm as his chest rises and falls. Sloppy engineer or otherwise, he loved the way your hands were delicate with their touch.

"Vash, I'm going to reach for an inner wire. That okay?"

He nods. If he said anything now, he'd be drooling like a dog. You pushed away a few loose wires, his back arching from the way they tugged gently at the inner wirings of his mechanical body.

"...shit." He murmurs when you squeezed his side for support. He moans softly, eyes wide while his lenses try and adjust to the hazy blur of his surroundings.

You rubbed your hand along the tubes, offering a few comforts as you continue to examine him. Vash jerks forward, grabbing hold of the small of your back.

"Vash! Hey! What's wrong?!" your words were distant. His head struggled to adapt to it. Funny, he had adapted to the harsh conditions of Earth many times before, yet he couldn't handle a simple mechanic running their hands through his wires?

Panting hard, he whimpers when you pull your hand away. The next moment those two warm hands were pressing against his cheeks, concern ever so present on your features.

"Tiny..." He leans in, pushing his lips onto yours. The other reciprocates without much fuss. He loved that about you. His spontaneous actions never surprised you by the slightest. Yet you never seem tired of his shenanigans.

"Tiny, I'm so...turned on right now." He whispers into your ear. And you give him a look. One crossed between confusion and intrigue.

He pants, grabbing hold of your hands to place back inside his chassis. "When you touch me here. It feels so good."

They follow the shape of his system, your eyes never straying from his. Just that look alone could make him melt. It wasn't far from happening. His cooling systems felt a little too hot for his liking.

"If I were human, I would have made a mess by now." He adds, moaning without much restraint. He wants them to know that it felt good. He wants them to feel good too. He puts out there like a young man who just lost his virginity.

...could this be considered as him losing his virginity?

"I see." your hands move away, retreating back to your side. Vash managed to noise out a complaint, pouting childishly when a hand was placed on his bicep.

A complicated expression fits on your lips. He knew this look. The researchers often eyed him just like that. Doctor Conrad being the most prominent in his thoughts.

To have piqued tiny's interest...that was definitely an accomplishment. The aloof responses from previous advancements he performed were more than a little disappointing for the cyborg. Perhaps this rather humiliating venture was worth it.

You scanned him, hand squeezing the fabric of his windbreaker in an attempt of a comforting gesture. 'Be patient' he could almost hear the voice in his head coo.

"Current theory, it's because of the advancement in construction technology. Hands on work with the wiring and frames haven't been done in forever." He could practically read your mind. You were worrying about mindless things. How units who defected survived on Earth, away from the technicians of the SEEDS project; What causes the tingly sensation that has him surfing above the clouds; why it took this long to be discovered.

He's sure you've come up with a few answers already. He's more curious on what you plan to do next.

His fingers drum onto the metal surface, watching as your hand cautiously drags over his wirings once more. "Vash. Please continue to be honest."

That artificial heart of his, whatever a human heart was a equivalent to, (he wouldn't know. Those scientists aren't exactly people he gets along with.) sends signals right up to his central control.

Whatever is to happen, he just hopes it won't end up with him overloading and breaking down.

Guys, is it obvious I reworked this from my PGR fic?

#trigun maximum #trigun stampede #tristamp #trigun 98 #knives million #drabble #vash the stampede #trigun vash #vash x reader #robofucker omg i can't believe you're reading this (drop some recs while you're here) embarrassing omg omg

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