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orchidniins · 7 months ago

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Cupid Clarkey | Chris Dixon

Summary: George Clarke plays matchmaker for his best friend and his flatmate. Pairing: ChrisMD x f!Reader, Best Friend!George Clarke Warning: Fluff Word count: 9.3k+ A/N: Thanks anon for this request! The timeline in the fic sorta jumps forward quickly (just don't think about it too much😗 ). This is my longest fic ever and I would really appreciate feedback on it! Hope you enjoy it!

Masterlist

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Can you get off my Hinge already, Y/N?” George's annoyed voice cut through the blaring music of the pub as he tried (and failed) to snatch his phone out of your hand.

“I'm trying to find you a girlfriend, Georgie,” you retorted, laughing as you dodged his attempts.

You were currently squished into a booth in the pub, sitting next to George, both of you a few drinks in (though you were definitely more drunk than him), swiping away on his Hinge profile and bickering like you two used to back in uni.

Having just moved to London a few weeks ago, tonight was a reunion of sorts. You were meeting up with George and a bunch of other friends from your uni days.

You and him had met in the first week of school, initially sitting next to each other in class, which turned into late-night study sessions and eventually blossomed into a close friendship.

George rolled his eyes. “Oh please, like you’re any better at this than I am.”

“Better at what? Being single or being hopeless at dating?” you shot back, smirking.

“How long has it been since your last relationship?” George challenged, raising an eyebrow at you.

You scoffed and looked back at him. “And how long has it been since you’ve been laid?” you teased, swiping left on yet another profile.

“Oh, trust me, Y/N, I get action,” George shot back, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Oh please, the only action you’ve seen is from your right hand,” you said, laughing at him.

“Well, that’s a lot coming from you,” George countered. “You haven’t dated since that prick from uni.”

“I actually enjoy being single,” you said, shrugging. “All you do is cry about it. You always say you want a girlfriend, but you turn down every girl that approaches you.”

George snorted. “Say that to the pint of ice cream you finished last week in under an hour while watching that chick movie and bawling your eyes out about wanting a boyfriend.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, turning back to his phone. “Oh, you got a match! I’m gonna message her.”

“Absolutely not!” George exclaimed, finally managing to pry his phone out of your hands. “Maybe if you were a little less picky, you wouldn’t be single.”

You looked at him in shock and surprise. “Really? You’re gonna talk to me about being picky?”

“You say that, but you’re the one with the mile-long checklist, not everyone can be as perfect as me, Y/N.” George retorted, shaking his head.

“If you’re so perfect, then maybe we should just date, Georgie,” you said jokingly, nudging him with your shoulder.

The both of you went silent for a moment, staring blankly at each other. Then, simultaneously, you shuddered at the thought. “No!” you both said in unison, laughing.

“God, that’d be like dating my sister,” George said, acting outwardly disgusted at your joke.

You stuck your tongue out at him, making a face.

You two continue your bickering, the atmosphere in the pub buzzing with laughter and chatter from your group of friends. After a while, your friends scatter around the pub, leaving just you and George in the booth. Just as you're deep in banter, an unfamiliar voice interrupts you two.

“Hey man,” a voice said, and you looked up to see a man with blonde curly hair approaching your booth. George got up to greet him, and from where you’re sitting, it’s very obvious that he was quite drunk himself.

"Chris, mate, how drunk are you already?" George asked, as if he had read your mind, with a chuckle, clapping Chris on the back.

Chris laughed, his grin widening. "Chip's pub golf videos always destroy me," he replied, his words slightly slurred as he swayed a little.

Chris glanced over at you, his eyes momentarily focusing as he took in your presence. "Hope I’m not interrupting," he said teasingly, turning back to George, flashing a mischievous grin.

George chuckled and shook his head. "Nah, mate, you're good. Go get yourself a drink and join us." Chris headed off to the bar, and George sat back down.

Chris returned with his drink and slid into the booth, his easy smile and sparkling eyes catching your attention.

“So, who’s your friend?” Chris asked, nodding towards you with a playful grin.

“Y/N, this is Chris, the flatmate,” George introduced, gesturing between the two of you. “Chris, this is Y/N, the best friend.”

“Hey, nice to meet you,” you greeted Chris warmly.

Chris grinned back at you. “George is wrong, you know. I’m the best friend.”

“No, you’re wrong. I've known him longer, so I am his only best friend,” you say, as you laugh at him.

“Don’t need to fight, guys,” George interjects, “There’s enough of me to go around.”

“That’s just not right,” Chris replies, ignoring George. “I live with him. Do you know how much shit I put up with? Surely that makes me his best friend.”

You chuckle, “Okay…but have you had him shotgun a can an hour before a final, puke all over your bed, and then have to clean it up and make sure he gets to campus in time?”

Chris grins, “Alright, but have you had to deal with his shit love life? Or lack thereof? And like have had to listen to him complain all the time.”

You exasperatedly add, “Yeah! Actually, I have,” you say, nodding at Chris.

You turn to George. “Honestly, George mate, you're a mess. I don’t even want to be your best friend anymore.”

Chris nods in agreement. “Yeah, man, you’re kind of a pain in the ass.”

George looks between the two of you, bewildered. “What the fuck is happening?”

You and Chris exchange a look. “Maybe we should become best friends and ditch George,” Chris suggests, winking at you.

“Guys, can we go back to both of you fighting over me?” George says, and you and Chris burst out laughing at him.

You find yourself feeling instantly drawn to Chris's charm. After a bit of small talk, you learn that Chris had been out for a shoot and decided to drop by the pub where George was once he finished. You had heard George talk about Chris before and all the antics they’d gotten up to, but you hadn’t paid much heed to it until now.

And as the night went on and you got increasingly drunker, you found yourself sitting closer to Chris. George already knew this about you; you always got increasingly flirty and bolder when you were drunk—a stark contrast to your sober self.

Usually, George was always one of your victims, jokingly hitting on him to piss him off, and he also always had to keep you away from creepy men when you were drunk. But now, with Chris in the mix, George honestly did not know what to say at the scene in front of him.

(A/N: I have no game whatsoever. Even if I did pull in the past, I was so drunk that I genuinely don’t remember. I did my best I promise)

“You’re pretty cute for someone who’s friends with George,” you say to Chris, a playful smile on your lips as you take another sip of your cocktail.

Chris grins and leans in closer. “And you’re pretty hot for someone who hangs out with him.”

You laugh, inching closer to him and playfully touching his bicep. "I know, I'm just naturally irresistible," you tease, giving him a sly look that hints at something more.

Chris chuckles, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I believe it. If you weren’t George’s friend, I’d have made a move on you the second I walked in.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning in so your lips are just inches from his ear. “Who says you can’t make a move now?” you whisper, your breath warm against his skin. “Who knows, tonight might be your night.”

Chris’s breath hitches, his gaze darkening. “Is that so?”

George groans. “You two are disgusting. Chris, stop hitting on her. Y/N get away from him!”

You brush off George, leaning even closer into Chris’s touch. “Ignore him, he’s no fun.”

Chris says, "He's just jealous that I’ve got the attention of someone this beautiful," he murmurs back, his lips brushing lightly against your earlobe, his voice low and you hear George scoff in the back.

George rolls his eyes dramatically. “I can’t take any more of this. You two are unbearable.” He stands up, shaking his head. “I’m going to go close out our tab. You better be five feet apart when I get back.”

As George walks away, you and Chris are left alone, practically glued together at this point. “Looks like it’s just us now,” Chris murmurs, his hand migrating to your thigh, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

You smile coyly, leaning closer to him. “And what do you plan to do now that it’s just us?” you tease, your voice laced with playful anticipation.

Chris chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. “When George told me about you, he didn’t mention how incredibly sexy you are. If I had to be around someone as gorgeous as you, I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”

Your heart flutters at his words, and you feel a rush of desire. “Well, it looks like you’re doing a pretty good job of controlling yourself so far,” you reply, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Chris’s eyes darken with desire. “Who says I’m trying to control myself?” he murmurs, his lips hovering just above yours, lips so close that they are almost touching.

Before things could escalate further between you and Chris, George returned, breaking the intense moment. "Okay, I think it's time to get you two home," he announced.

Despite your protests, he manages to pull you off of Chris. As you stood up, the effects of the alcohol hit you, causing you to stumble. George quickly steadied you, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you from falling over.

Realizing it was late and knowing you were in no state to go home alone, George insisted you crash at his place, which was closer than yours and the three of you hailed a cab back to the boy’s flat.

Once there, George quickly dumps Chris in his room, before he sets you up in his own bed. He offers you some of his clothes to change out of your outfit and he opts to sleep on the couch for the night.

As you drifted towards sleep, the alcohol slowly wearing off, you couldn't help but rethink the events of the night. All your actions start to blur now, though a wave of embarrassment washes over you. You knew there would be consequences to face in the morning, but for now your body needed sleep.

-------⋆✧⋆-------

The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache, the hazy memories of the previous night lingering in your mind. As the realization of your interaction with Chris sets in, all you wanted to do was bury yourself six feet under.

You stumble out of George’s bed, groaning softly as your head throbs. Dressed in George's oversized clothes, you made your way to the kitchen, clutching your head, desperately in need of coffee.

As you enter, you freeze at the sight of Chris, who’s already there, shuffling around in the kitchen.

He’s dressed in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his hair tousled and the hangover evident on his face. You catch a glimpse of his abs when he reaches up to a cupboard, and despite your headache, you can’t help but stare for a moment, your brain going to dangerous places.

Chris turns around and spots you, offering a weak smile. You look away slightly embarrassed, fearing that you were caught staring. “Morning,” he says, his voice hoarse as he clears his throat.

“Morning,” you reply, trying to muster a smile despite the awkward tension that has settled into the air.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence as you both avoid each other’s eyes, the memory of your flirtatious behavior lingering between you. Chris pours himself a glass of water, and you take the opportunity to grab a mug for coffee, hoping the caffeine will help clear your head. “Do you want a cup as well?” you ask, trying to break the silence.

“Huh? No, thanks,” he responds, clearly drawing himself out of wherever he had zoned out to for a minute.

“So, uh,” Chris begins hesitantly, stopping for a moment when you both hear George stirring on the couch. Chris gestures toward the balcony, and you grab your coffee and follow him outside. Once you two are there, you lean against the railing, both of you awkward, neither knowing what to say.

Chris is the first to break the silence, rubbing the back of his neck. “…last night…was something...I guess we were pretty drunk.”

“Yeah,” you agree quickly, trying to downplay your embarrassment. “Pretty drunk.”

He chuckles nervously. “I don’t usually… you know, act like that.”

“Me neither,” you admit, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “It was just the alcohol, I guess.”

“Definitely,” he nods, relief evident in his expression. “We can just, uh, forget about it, right?”

“Absolutely,” you say a bit too quickly. But, you feel your heart drop a little, though you don’t know why. Him wanting to not acknowledge what happened yesterday (though it was nothing) makes you slightly upset, but you don’t let it show on your face. You bury your face in your coffee, avoiding his gaze.

It was insane how comfortable you two were around each other last night, and now the air was replaced with this heavy awkwardness that neither of you knew how to break. And the worst part is you couldn’t even remember all that you did yesterday (But you're sure George won't let you forget).

“So, um, any plans for today?” Chris asks, trying to make small talk and pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Um, what? No, nothing. Just gonna get back to my place and crash,” you say, shaking your head. “You?” you ask him.

“Same,” he says. You nod in response, but neither of you knows how to continue. You both stand there, sipping your drinks and stealing glances at each other, the awkwardness palpable.

“So I should go,” you say, trying to get out of that situation as quickly as possible. Chris just nods, and you step back into the apartment, making a beeline for George’s room, just wanting to get out of there and back to your own space as quickly as possible.

All you can think is, what the hell is wrong with you? You weren’t usually like this with people…what is happening?

-------⋆✧⋆-------

After that day, George teased you endlessly about what happened with Chris. Each time, you brushed him off, ignoring his jabs, saying you didn’t want to talk about it or that you didn’t remember what happened, unwilling to revisit the embarrassing memories of that night.

You’d run into Chris a few times when you were over at the flat with George, but those interactions weren’t any better. Your interactions with Chris went from awkward to him just plain ignoring your presence now, and you didn’t know what you did wrong. Combined with how embarrassed you still felt about your actions, you decided it was better to just ignore him as well.

George would drop you knowing looks whenever that happened, but when he saw that you really didn’t want to talk about it, he eventually dropped the topic.

Until today, that was.

“I’m not feeling up to it,” you tell George, speaking with him over the phone.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. Just a movie night with some friends,” George tries to persuade you.

“I don’t know, George. I’m just not in the mood,” you reply, feeling a mix of anxiety and reluctance.

George sighs, knowing exactly why you’re hesitant. “Look, I get that things are awkward between you and Chris. But avoiding each other isn’t going to make it any better. We’re all friends here. Just come over, watch a movie, and relax. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “I just... I feel so embarrassed about everything. I don’t want to make things weird.”

“See, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with the both of you, but I can tell you’re overthinking it. Things are only as awkward as you make them. We’ll have a good time, I promise. And if it gets too much, you can always leave. Just give it a chance, yeah?”

You sigh, feeling the weight of his words. “You’re right. I’m just overthinking. It’s not a big deal. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Great! I’ll see you soon,” George says, the excitement evident in his voice.

And that is how you found yourself sitting on the floor in George’s flat, leaning up against the couch with "The Hangover" playing on the TV.

You were bundled up in a blanket, surrounded by scattered cushions, with the smell of popcorn in the air. George was sitting on the couch just behind you, lazily flicking popcorn at your head, which you returned by swatting him on the knee.

“Seriously, George, you’re worse than a child,” you scolded, turning around to look at him as another popcorn kernel hit you on the forehead.

“Can’t help it,” he replied with a grin. You whacked him on the thigh this time, but he still threw another piece your way.

It was just George and the Arthurs for now. Despite your cold conversations with Chris, you couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit disappointed when George mentioned that Chris would be running late. Even with the weird energy between you two, you were kind of maybe hoping to see him today.

You were enjoying yourself, though. You’d met Arthur Hill a few times before and got along really well, and this was your first time meeting Mr. Television (as George liked to call him), and you were having a great time with the boys.

You pull your focus away from George and instead decide to just watch the movie when you hear the door open, and your eyes dart to the entrance. Chris walks in, dressed in dark cargos and a black sweatshirt, his curls messy from the day and it made him look a little rugged, and all you could think about was how good you thought he looked.

He swings his backpack onto the floor and starts taking off his coat, before he greeted everyone.

Your heart skips a beat at how effortlessly attractive he looked. Despite the cold vibes he had been giving you this whole time, you couldn’t deny your attraction towards him.

Outwardly, you were trying to be cool about it, but inwardly, you were itching to know why he was acting like this. You give him a tight-lipped smile as you make brief eye contact, but he quickly looks away, heading to his room.

George noticed the exchange and shook his head slightly. You shot him a look that said ‘stop it’, but you knew he’d bring this up later.

After a few minutes, Chris joins you all, settling on the floor next to you while the others remain on the couch. Other than the occasional instances where you pass him the popcorn, he avoids eye contact, but you can sometimes feel his gaze on you, especially when you and George bicker in loud whispers.

You reach for the coffee table, grabbing a can of seltzer, about to take a sip, only for George to snatch it out of your hand. “George!” you exclaim, swatting him on the arm before you wipe away the few drops of the drink that he managed to spill on your shirt.

You think you hear a chuckle from Chris, but when you turn to look in the direction of the sound, his eyes are glued to the TV.

After a bit, Chris gets up and heads to the kitchen. When he returns, he silently hands you a drink. You take it with a small, surprised smile, touched by the sweet gesture even if things between you two are still a little awkward. "Thanks," you murmur.

He nods in response, his genuine smile making your heart flutter before his eyes flick away from yours, and you feel yourself melt.

As the credits roll on the third film, George nudges you and suddenly pulls you into his room.

“What the fuck is going on with you and Chris?” George asks bluntly, shutting the door behind him.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Honestly, I have no idea. After that day at the pub, it’s been so weird. I don’t even know the guy, and I feel like he hates me or something. Is he like this with everyone he just meets?”

George frowns, looking apologetic. “Not really… Normally, you can’t get him to shut up.”

“I get such cold vibes from him,” you admit, frustration seeping into your voice. “What did I do wrong?… Whatever, I don’t care, but its annoying.” You pause, then add with a small, reluctant smile, “It doesn’t help that every time I look at him, I drool.”

George responds, slightly shocked, “I—I’m sorry, what?”

You roll your eyes and say, “I’ve been single for so long that I’m even attracted to your shitty friend.”

George laughs, shaking his head. “He can get on your nerves, but he’s not that bad. But, he can be a little socially challenged around people he—”

George stops mid-sentence, seeming to have a moment of realization, his expression shifting. “Huh.”

“What? What’s wrong?” you ask, confused.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” he says quickly, disappearing out of the room before you can press further.

You stand there confused for a second before you return to the living room, where Arthur Hill and Arthur TV was tidying up. You decide to join them, looking around, wondering where George and Chris had suddenly disappeared to.

You help them gather the empty bottles and snack wrappers, making small talk. Just as you're finishing up, George and Chris reappear, both looking shady as hell, whispering to each other.

You look at George, giving him a pointed look. "What was that about?" you whisper, nodding toward Chris, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with the Arthurs, laughing about something.

George shrugs, trying to play it cool. "Nothing, just guy talk."

You give him a look. "Tell me."

"Really, it was nothing," he insists.

You roll your eyes, annoyed. "Fine, whatever, don’t tell me. I need to get home anyway, it’s getting late."

George quickly checks the time on his phone. "It’s almost midnight. Why don’t you just sleep here?"

"I just wanna be back in my own bed. At midnight is not that late, and I barely live like a 15 min walk away," you explain to him.

"You can just as easily walk home in the morning," he says.

Before you can protest, he continues, "You know what, fine. But I don’t want you going home alone." He turns toward the kitchen and shouts, "Chris! Do you mind driving Y/N back home? I would do it myself…but can’t drive mate."

Chris whips around, looking between the two of you, clearly flustered at George’s request. "Uh, sure, no problem."

You quickly interject, "It's okay, I can get home on my own. I don’t want to trouble you."

Chris clears his throat. "It's no trouble," he assures you, grabbing his keys. "Let's go."

You grab your stuff and walk out the door with him. The ride down in the elevator is silent. You play with your nails, trying to avoid his gaze, while he shifts uncomfortably beside you. When you reach the car, Chris opens the door for you, and you thank him. "Thanks, Chris."

"Don’t thank me yet," he jokes as you both buckle up. "I’ve only had my UK license for a month now, so we’ll see how this goes."

You look at him, slightly alarmed. "Seriously? Get me out of the car."

He laughs, and you join in. "I know how to drive, I just haven’t driven much since I moved to London."

Some of the tension eases, and you both relax a bit. He hands you his phone. "Can you enter your address into the GPS?"

You do, and as he starts driving Chris glances at you, "So, why did you move to London?"

You smile, happy to have a conversation starter. "Work, mostly. And also ‘cause I have friends here.”

He nods. “So, you liking London so far?”

You nod, looking at him as you speak. “Yeah, I like it. But the city gets overwhelming sometimes. Sometimes I just wanna run back home.”

Chris nods in agreement. “Same, especially when I miss my family. And I get it, sometimes you need to get away from George.”

You chuckle, wanting to keep the conversation going. “Be honest with me… how have you not killed him yet?”

He laughs, responding, “I won’t lie, I’ve plotted his murder many a times.”

You both laugh, and the conversation continues, light-hearted and easy. For the first time in like a month, the conversation between you two feels natural. And before you know it, you’d reached your apartment.

"Thanks for the ride, Chris," you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

"No problem," he replies, his smile genuine. The air goes silent as you both stare at each other.

"Umm... goodnight," you say, quickly getting out of the car, feeling a tad bit awkward.

"Goodnight," he responds, and you gently close the door.

He waits until you're inside the building before driving off, and for the first time, you feel a warm, hopeful sensation in your chest and you can’t seem to wipe away the smile on your face the whole way up to your flat.

-------⋆✧⋆-------

The next day, you and George meet for dinner after you’re done with work. “I can’t believe he’s engaged”, you say as you move your food around on your plate, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“Why do you care?” George asks between bites of his burger. “You hated him by the end of your relationship.”

“I know, but why does someone like him get to be happy?” you sighed. “I’m just tired of being single. Why is it so hard to find someone half decent?”

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places,” George says, trying to sound all philosophical.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you on about?”

He shrugs, laughing as he says, “Maybe you should date Chris.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Chris? Really? Chris? We can barely hold a conversation!”

George smirks. “Didn’t you say you guys got along fine last night? And don’t get me started on drinks last month. And don’t lie to me…you think he’s hot,” he says, making a fake gag face.

“What? No, I don’t,” you protest. “I might be desperate, George, but not desperate enough to date your friends.”

“What’s wrong with dating one of my friends?” George mocks hurt.

“I was kinda hoping that once I got a boyfriend, I just wouldn’t have to see you anymore,” you joke.

George clutches his chest dramatically. “Ouch!”

The drive with him the other day was fine, more than fine and he was kind of sweet actually. You laugh, but the thought of dating Chris stays on your mind, an idea that you might not be all that opposed to. -------⋆✧⋆-------

A week had passed since your conversation with George, and despite trying not to let it affect you too much, you couldn't deny still feeling on cloud nine after that drive with Chris (even if it was barely 10 minutes long).

You and Chris were now following each other on social media. You'd occasionally chat or reply to each other's stories, gradually warming up to each other. You found yourself craving more time alone with him, curious about what it would be like to get to know him better.

But right now, you were looking forward to a quiet weekend in, finally getting to that book you had been putting off for weeks now. With a cozy blanket wrapped around you and a hot cup of tea, you settle onto your couch, eager to dive into your book.

Just as you start to get lost in the pages, a notification pops up on your screen. You peek over at your phone and see a text message from George.

George: Hello best friend Y/N: What do you want? George: Wow. Warm welcome Y/N: Fine. Hiii Georgieeee….What do you want? George: So you know how you are the smartest, strongest person I know 🥺 Y/N: Just spit it out 🙄 George: Can you please come over and help me build that dresser I ordered for my room? Y/N: And there it is... George: So..? Y/N: No, don’t want to. George: Pleaseeeeee….I’ll buy you food Y/N: No George: Come on, please 😩 Y/N: No….you’re gonna make me do all the work George: I won’t...and I’ll throw in dessert Y/N: You’re impossible George: 👀 Y/N: Fine….See you in 10 George: 🫡🙇

With a sigh, you set your book aside and started getting ready to head over to George's place. Not bothering to change out of your comfy sweats, you threw on a jacket and made your way out.

When you arrived at George's flat, you knocked on the door and waited. To your surprise, Chris answered, looking equally surprised to see you. "Hey, Y/N. What are you doing here?"

“George asked me to come over, said he needed help building his dresser”, you explain, and Chris steps aside, letting you step inside.

Chris says, “Hmm, he asked me to help as well, after complaining for a straight 5 mins about not wanting to do it on his own.”

"That little bitch," you huffed, pulling out your phone from your pocket.

Y/N: Where the fuck are you!!??? George: Sorry emergency Y/N: What? George: Please help a guy out Y/n: Why!? It’s your dresser! George: Chris will help Y/N: Wait George: Bye

You breathed out in frustration, realizing all too well what George was trying to do. Deep down, though, you were somewhat glad to have some time alone with Chris. Fingers crossed you'd be able to hold a conversation today.

You huffed and shoved your phone in your pocket, then turned to face Chris. "Yep, he's ditched us, the bastard," you said, looking back up at Chris who was watching you with an amused expression.

Chris chuckled, and you felt a bit self-conscious. "What?"

"The Powerpuff Girls?" he asked, a small smile curling up on his lips.

"What? I'm here to build furniture, not walk a red carpet," you replied, glancing down at your pajamas, trying to appear nonchalant but secretly cursing yourself for not dressing better. Chris just laughed, shaking his head.

“Great…it’s just the two of us." you said, catching Chris's attention as he looked at the unpacked table pieces that George had left for you.

Chris raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. "You act like it's a bad thing."

You chuckled, picking up a screwdriver. "Let's just survive this project together first."

"Survive? Geez…It's just an Ikea dresser," Chris teased, walking towards the scattered pieces.

"Yeah, but have you ever tried assembling furniture with George? He pulls everything out of the box, doesn’t organize anything by the way, then he just gives up and leaves you to figure stuff out," you vented, holding up a loose screw you found on the floor a good distance from the table for emphasis.

Chris laughed, shaking his head. "Can't say that I have. Lucky for me you’re here to pick up the pieces," he joked lamely, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes, letting out a small laugh at his attempt.

"Let’s just build this stupid thing," you said, walking towards the mess.

Chris chuckled. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, looking around for the instruction manual.

Chris sighed in frustration, looking through the jumbled pieces. "Damn, where did George put those instructions?"

"Knowing George, he probably already threw out the instructions with the outer box," you said, half-jokingly. You fear you might be right, shuffling through everything and not finding the booklet.

You sit on the ground and try to organize the pieces, placing everything into neat piles. Chris picked up a piece and moved to place it in what he thought was the right pile.

"No, not that one," you said, pointing to a different pile. "Put that there."

Chris chuckled. "You're a little type A, aren't you?"

You grinned. "That's not the insult you think it is." You laughed lightly, enjoying the banter.

The two of you get on with trying to put the piece of furniture together.

Chris was completely engrossed in screwing in the legs, his brow furrowed in concentration. You couldn’t help but notice how his features hardened with determination, and you find him extremely attractive in this moment.

"You're really into this," you teased lightly, nudging him with your elbow as you passed him the next piece.

Chris glanced up, a playful glint in his eye. "Of course. Gotta impress you with my handyman skills."

You chuckled, kneeling down to align a set of screws. "Impress me, huh? Well, if you can get through this without instructions, color me impressed."

“Prepare to be amazed, Y/N,” Chris replied with a grin, returning to his task.

Your eyes involuntarily lingered on his arms, noticing how his t-shirt hugged his muscles snugly. You found yourself imagining running your hands across his arms and over his chest, remembering how you felt that night when inhibitions were lower.

Chris's voice snapped you out of your daze. "Sorry, what was that?" you asked, needing him to repeat his words.

"No, I was just…" Chris paused for a moment, sitting on the floor, pausing the task at hand. He hesitated as he looked up at you.

"Go on, what is it?" you encouraged him, curious about his question.

He started cautiously, "I've always wondered, why did you and George never date?"

You laughed softly, surprised by the question. “George? I don’t know, it’s just something that never happened. I don't even think either of us ever even considered our relationship to go that way”

Chris gives you a skeptical look, "Really? Not even once?"

"Not even once," you confirmed, shaking your head. "George and I have always been more like siblings."

Chris nodded softly, as if processing your answer. "Good to know."

Though slightly taken aback by his reaction, you chose not to dwell on it for too long.

“How did your shoot go this week?” you ask him.

Chris perks up a little, clearly pleased by your interest. "Oh, it was great! But it did go a lot longer than usual. I'll blame that on Arthur and his terrible football skills. But the audience will never find out. I should probably pay my editors more for making him look somewhat competent at football."

You both laugh, and Chris continues to talk about YouTube and some of his ideas. You can't help but smile at how passionate and happy he sounds when he talks about his work.

After a while, you two pull yourselves out of the conversation and get back to finishing the dresser.

"So, if you had to rate my IKEA furniture-building skills, what would you give me?" Chris asks, a playful grin on his face as the two of you now sit on the couch.

"Hmm," you ponder, pretending to be deep in thought. "Solid seven."

"Seven!?" Chris asks, feigning outrage, leaning in a little closer. "I thought I did pretty good."

"It would be higher, but you get distracted easily," you tell him, the space between you and Chris now barely a breath.

"Well, you were the one distracting me," Chris says, and you're taken aback by his comment. Your mouth falls slightly open, suddenly very aware of the proximity between you two.

Before you can respond, the door swings open, and George walks in, looking between the two of you with a mischievous grin. "Well, you two seem to be getting along well." You quickly get up from your place next to Chris.

You stare back blankly at George, arms crossed over your chest. "How was your... emergency?"

George's grin widens. "All sorted," he replies nonchalantly, before turning around to enter his room. "So which one of you is gonna help me move the dresser into my room?"

You and Chris exchange annoyed looks, then smile at each other, his smile exceedingly tugging at your heart, before you both scream, "Do it yourself!"

-------⋆✧⋆-------

Over the next few weeks, you and Chris had become friends, finding yourself spending time with him more often. You still couldn’t believe that just a few months ago you two couldn’t even look each other in the eye.

However, it seemed like every time you made plans with George or any of his friends, Chris was always there, and you two would magically end up alone together. You didn't think much of it, knowing that as much as you loved George, you hated him meddling in your love life, and he knew that as well. So, there’s no way he was involved, right? (Or maybe, deep down, you hoped that all the time you’ve been able to spend with Chris was somewhat of a sign and not your nosy best friend getting involved.)

You were at George’s place yet again (where else could you be? You only had like two friends) and helping him clean out his closet, stuffing his old clothes into donation boxes.

Slyly, you asked, “Where are the rest of your flatmates?”

George replied, “You know…they’re around,” without making eye contact, his back turned to you.

“And Chris?” you asked, slightly hopeful.

George looked up at you, almost as if he was wishing that you hadn’t asked that question.

You caught his expression, furrowing your eyebrows in worry. “What’s wrong?”

George placed the T-shirt he was folding gently into the box before turning to look at you. “Okay, so don’t get upset.”

“Why would I get upset?” you asked, a little concerned.

“Before I tell you, know that I told him not to do it,” George started.

“George... speak,” you demanded, poking him in the chest.

“Chris is out on a date,” he finally said.

You feel your heart plummet to the pit of your stomach, “Oh, good for him.”

George looked at you, clearly noticing your attempt to hide your disappointment. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” you said, trying to brush it off and distract yourself by placing more clothes into the box.

“Y/N, come on. You really don’t think I know you better than you know yourself?” he looked at you matter-of-factly and you were struggling to maintain eye contact with him.

“I’m fine, George,” you tell him, trying to get him to drop the topic, but he only looks at you like he doesn't believe you.

“Y/N. I know you like Chris”, he states and you feel your whole body freeze.

“What? No, I don’t,” you retorted, and honestly, even you couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth.

“Y/N—”

“George—”

“I see the way you look at him, Y/N, and when he speaks, you hang on his every word,” he interrupts you.

“George, no... Chris and I, we’re just barely friends,” you try to explain to him.

“I know you two had a rocky start, well, a drunk and touchy start,” he teased, dodging the T-shirt you threw at him, “but you’ve grown closer over the past few months and I think you’re just in denial about your feelings. Plus you look like you wanna jump him every time you look at him.”

You sat there on the edge of the bed for a minute, thinking about what George had said. Yes, things were a little iffy at the start, but you had grown to like his company. He was funny, quite sweet, and in recent times, easy to talk to. Not to mention, every time you looked at the man, it was like your brain short-circuited at how hot he looked.

George carefully considered his words before continuing. “You’ve always been like this, Y/N…cautious.”

As his words sank in, it dawned on you.

“Holy fuck, George! I like Chris,” you exclaimed, falling back onto the bed. “How did this happen? I feel like I’ve gone insane. When did I become so blind to my own feelings?”

George watched you in amusement, a small smile playing on his lips. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

“But–-,” you sat up, turning to George who was now sitting on the opposite corner of the bed, “there’s no way he likes me back.”

“Eh?” George responded, confused. “Why would you think that?”

“Because the guy is literally on a date right now,” you say, exasperated.

“So?”

“What do you mean, “So”? If he liked me even a little bit, he wouldn’t be going on dates,” you say, throwing your hands up in frustration.

“Probably because he doesn’t know you like him. Just tell the guy,” he suggests, his face soft, laced with concern.

“I can’t do that,” you look at him, your voice coming out almost broken.

“Why?” George comes to sit next to you, placing a comforting hand on your back.

You take a deep breath before you continue, “Because things just got somewhat good with him. We’re finally past that awkward phase and are friends now. I don’t want to go back to that cold phase when he ultimately rejects me.”

“He’s not gonna reject you, Y/N,” he says, throwing his arm around, pulling you into his side.

“How do you know?” you look up at him.

“For Christ’s sake, Y/N, just tell the guy how you feel.” he says, as he pulls away from you so that you’re both now facing each other.

“No, I can’t do that,” you said, getting up off his bed and heading out of his bedroom.

“What, Y/N! Where are you going?” he asked, following you.

“Home,” you said, making a beeline for the door.

“Why?"

“So that I can go to bed and wake up and forget about all of this,” you said looking back at him, hand now on the door knob.

“Y/N…”

“Bye, George,” you said, before opening the main door and closing it behind you, confusion and uncertainty swirling in your head.

-------⋆✧⋆-------

“Here,” Arthur Hill handed you a drink, and you threw him a quick thanks, quickly gulping down the liquid. Arthur looked at you, concerned. The party was lively around you, the usual chaos of a house party at George’s place.

George had convinced you to come to the party, saying it’d be a good distraction, to get your mind off of things—things being Chris.

George had promised you that Chris was busy tonight and wouldn’t be here, so you reluctantly agreed (though George had to beg a lot more than he was hoping he’d have to).

You had only arrived a few minutes ago, and you already wanted to leave. You just wanted the peace and quiet of your room to contemplate about your doomed love life and drown your sorrows in a pint of ice cream.

“You okay?” Arthur asked, pulling you out of your daze. “You look distracted.”

“Hmm? Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied with a half-hearted smile and you were grateful that Arthur didn’t push any further.

"I'm gonna get myself another drink," you said, and Arthur nodded in response before you navigated through the crowd toward the kitchen.

You made yourself a drink, pouring whatever bottle of alcohol was closest to your reach into your cup, wanting something strong. If you couldn’t drown yourself in ice cream, alcohol would have to do. (Not your smartest idea, but oh well.)

You took a sip of your concoction, the liquid burning as it flowed down your throat. You turned around but just as you were about to head back to find Arthur, when you spotted him. Chris.

He was the last person you wanted to see right now, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him. How did he manage to get even hotter than the last time you’d seen him? (Honestly, it was torture.)

But there he was, talking to some girl you’d never seen before. The sight felt like a punch in the stomach, knocking the air out of your lungs. All you wanted to do was leave. You placed your drink on the counter and set your sights straight at the door. In your haste, you didn’t pay much attention to your surroundings and bumped into someone. Looking up, you saw it was George.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" George asked, blocking your path.

"George, I need to leave," you said, trying to sidestep him.

“Why? What happened?” he asked, but before you could answer, he glanced over your shoulder and saw Chris. “Oh, I see.”

“Just talk to him, Y/N,” he tried to persuade you. “Whatever the outcome, it’ll make you feel better.”

“George, are you crazy? I can’t” You looked up at him, and the vulnerable look in your eyes made his heart break.

“Fine, but please don’t leave. Just take a breather for a minute. You should at least stay and enjoy the party,” he insisted. You opened your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off, “Just stay in my room for a bit. You can come back out after a while.”

You agreed, knowing he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and turned towards his room. “Good,” he said, pushing you gently by the shoulders.

Once you were in his room, you turned to look at him. “Now stay put, I’ll be right back.” You nodded, and he headed back out of the room.

You took a seat on his bed, and before you knew it, you heard the door open. Expecting to see George, you froze when you found Chris instead.

“George, what are you doing?” Chris protested as George pushed him into the room. “Stop, bro!”

You got up and shout, “George! What the hell?”

“You two talk,” George said, pointing at both of you before quickly shutting the door. You heard the lock click.

You rushed to the door, trying to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. “Bastard locked us in,” you said to Chris.

“George! Let me out!” you protested, banging on the door.

“Not until you two talk to each other,” George yelled back.

You turned to find Chris looking just as surprised as you. “Well, this is awkward,” Chris said, rocking back and forth on his feet with his hands shoved into his pockets. “I might be wrong...but I think George wants us to talk.”

You sighed, leaning against the door. “Yeah, he’s a lot of things… but subtle, he is not.”

Chris chuckled. “What gave it away?”

Your suspicions were right. That motherfucker had been playing you this whole time, getting Chris to drive you home, finding ways to get the two of you to spend time alone, locking you in his room. And you’d walked right into it. Idiot.

“That slimy little shithole,” you muttered to yourself.

You laughed out loud. “So George seems to think we would make a good match.”

“What?” Chris said, looking nervous.

“Did you not realize?” You looked at Chris, and he was staring at you with an unrecognizable look on his face.

“Well…” he started sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “I kind of knew.”

“What do you mean you knew, Chris?” you asked, confused.

“I mean, I knew George was trying to set us up, he sort of told me he would, that day that you were over at our place for movie night.” he admitted.

“I’m sorry…?” you ask him again, arms crossed.

You raised an eyebrow. “And you were okay with it? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Chris sighed. “I promise, I told him not to! And I just didn’t know how to bring it up..... But honestly, I didn’t mind. I liked spending time with you.”

You felt your heart skip a beat. “What? You liked spending time with me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve kind of liked you since the day we first met in the pub.”

“But that was months ago,” you said, incredulous. “Why didn't you say anything till now?”

He sighed, looking down for a moment before meeting your eyes. “I don’t know. All I know is that every time I look at you, it’s like the words leave my mouth. Of course, I wanted to talk to you after that night, but I didn’t know what came over me every time. You’re literally the most gorgeous woman I’d ever laid my eyes on, and each time I wanted to ask you out, I’d choke up.” “But what about that date?” you asked, trying to process everything. “If you liked me so much, then why did you go on a date?”

Chris looked a little guilty. “George told you about that?” You nodded before he continued, “You can’t blame a guy for trying to move on, especially when a girl like you couldn’t possibly like me back,” he said softly.

You shook your head. “Chris, I… I’ve liked you too. I think I’ve liked you the whole time. But I didn’t think you did, especially after how everything was after we got drunk that night.”

Chris stepped closer, hope in his eyes. “You like me too?” he asked again, making sure he wasn’t wrong about what he heard.

“Yes, Chris, I like you too,” you responded.

“So we’re both hopeless in the love department?” he asked.

“Yep, looks like it,” you said, laughing. “So hopeless that we needed Cupid Clarkey to get us to finally admit our feelings.”

You both stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter.

Chris stopped to look at you, stepping even closer. “God, I love your laugh,” he said softly, and you looked at him shyly.

“And you have the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen,” you stepped closer as well and he flashes that gorgeous smile of his, the kind that gets your stomach in knots.

He said, “You know, I regret nothing from that night.”

You replied teasingly, “Really?”

He nodded, “Well, there’s only one thing I regret.”

You asked, “And what’s that?”

He said, “That I didn’t get to kiss you,” as he tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his eyes go dark and intense, piercing into your soul.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” you whispered, and with that, Chris crashed his lips onto yours.

The kiss was everything you’d dreamed of and more. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer, while your arms made their way around his neck and your hand tangling into those perfect curls of his, tugging slightly, earning a groan from him.

The kiss was filled with so much emotion, both of you pouring everything into it—all the pent-up feelings from the past months. It was intense, and full of passion and tenderness, leaving you breathless. You could feel his heart pounding in sync with yours, the heat between you two electrifying. It was as if the world had melted away, and there was nothing but this moment.

Chris pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispered.

You smiled, feeling the warmth of his breath against your lips. “Me too.”

Before either of you could say anything else, you heard a slight thud outside the door. Chris gave you a knowing look, and you raised your voice intentionally louder. “Well, George’s bed looks nice doesn’t it? I think he just put new sheets on.”

Chris chimes up, “Maybe we should use it. We’re locked in here anyways. Might as well make the most of our time.”

Immediately, you heard George unlocking the door, bursting into the room. “Okay, get out, both of you. I don’t want you two fucking on my bed.”

You and Chris burst into laughter. Chris scooped you up playfully and ran off to his bedroom, shutting the door behind you two.

Once you were in his room, he slowly placed you on the ground, then pulled you onto his lap as he sat at the edge of the bed.

“So... I think I should ask you properly,” he said, looking up at you.

Chris leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Now that you know how I feel about you, what do you say we give this a shot? Will you go out with me?”

You nodded, heart pounding in your chest. “I’d like that, Chris.” and he flashed you a smile.

“We really should be thanking George,” he said.

“Yeah, normally I hate him meddling, but this time I don’t mind. But please don't tell him that, or I'll never here the end of it,” you said as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Chris grinned. Forget about it then, I just want to kiss you again.”

You laughed, and with that, you closed the distance again, letting yourself melt into his touch. The feeling of his soft lips sent a shiver down your spine.

This moment felt perfect, like you fit together in a way that was always meant to be. His arms wrapped around you securely, pulling you closer, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart against yours. You hated to admit it, but George playing cupid had turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to you and Chris.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Bonus Fun Facts (cannon to this AU):

- George did find your drunk closeness to Chris disgusting, but he didn't really care if you snogged his friend or not. He pulled you off of Chris more out of fear of what you would do to him if he let you make any drunken mistakes while he was around. - During your conversation after movie night, George realized that Chris had a crush on you. - He and Chris disappeared off onto the balcony and he managed to get Chris to fess up that he was in fact into you. - George said he'd gladly meddle. Chris told him not to meddle. George meddled. - He knew you two hopeless idiots would not give each other a chance without a gentle push in the right direction. - George did in fact tell Chris not to go on the date, bringing up his crush on you. - Chris said that he was sure that there was no way you liked him and that you had not shown any interest in him. He did not want to make you uncomfortable by making a move on you so he decided to try and forget about his crush. - Could George just have told you that Chris liked you...yes? But did he instead choose to play cupid for his own amusement, of course he did. - Plus you hadn't explicitly told him that you liked Chris and he didn't want to dump that news on you. But then he realized that you were too thick when it came to your own feelings..so he did just dump it on you. - George realized he had to kick his matchmaking skills up to a 100 (and yes his best idea was locking you to in a room). - Of course he eavesdropped, and the next morning he did in fact not let you hear the end of it.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A/N: Thanks for reading guys! I'm trying to get through all my pending requests now that I'm back. Also tell me if you liked the bonus facts in the end. I realized that there were things I wanted to include that I didn't want to put into the main fic, so I just threw them in at the end. I personally like it, so I think I'm going to start throwing them into my fics from now on.

Check out my other fics and oneshots here. Not working on any new requests currently but feel free to drop into my asks for a chat! 😊

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on-a-lucky-tide · 2 months ago

Text

Price worships Nik's body like he deserves, and treats him to a new experience.

cw: chest worship, rimming, anal sex, bottom Nikolai.

"You ready?"

"I am ready."

Price nodded and took one final glance around the room to ensure all assets were in position. Window open for the breeze, candles secure, lube in place on the bedside table, towels on hand, water with ice in a pint glass. Everything was thoroughly prepared. Right, he was ready to deploy.

Price scratched the back of his neck, glancing up through his eyebrows at the slab of top tier Russian beef currently awaiting him in the middle of the bed. It had been a hard week, Nik was exhausted, but two days into their leave, with the rest of the world shut out, Nik was finally in the right frame of mind for intimacy. Price had to get this bloody right.

And there he lounged, all dark hair, thick muscle and cocky smile. Fucking beautiful.

It had always struck Price how confident Nik was naked. He swaggered around their flat with his massive dick out, hard or soft, and had once almost answered the door in the buff. Would have given Beryl from Number 4 a bloody heart attack as she clutched their Amazon parcel full of creatine.

In all fairness, Price thought as he studied his lover on the bed, he would probably walk around naked too if he looked that bloody good. Nik had one arm tucked behind his head, a knee hitched up the bed, his prick sitting semi-hard in the curve of his hip as he studied Price with those big, inquisitive eyes.

In that one gay werewolf romance novel Price had found in Soap's quarters, the author had talked about hard lines and angles, but outside the sharp edge of his jaw and defined chin, Nik was all firm curves that made Price want to sink his teeth in and hump like a randy bloody dog. His shoulders, his biceps, his plush stomach, just lean enough to see his abdominals when he clenched to sit up, the mouthwatering heft of his balls between muscular thighs.... Fuuuh-kin' 'ell.

"Are you okay?" Nik asked, head tilting to the side.

"Grand," Price said, voice tight in his throat. "Just admirin' the scenery."

Nik smiled at him. It was the goofy little grin he only ever flashed when he was up to mischief, or planning it. Price cocked a brow as he slipped out of his boxers and lobbed them in a ball towards the laundry basket. He wasn’t quite at the 'walk around the house bollock naked' stage of his personal development. Maybe that happened when you turned forty.

Price didn't miss the way Nik's eyes ran down the length of his body as he swaggered up to the foot of the bed, bottom lip rolling between his teeth. Nik rubbed one big hand over the shaft of his cock, giving it a longing little tug as his gaze lingered on Price's lips. "Mm. Are you sure you would not rather do our usual?"

Price knelt on the mattress unsteadily, his own prick filling quickly in anticipation of getting his mouth on Nik's body. He crawled his way up the bed, marking the location of those greedy hands in case he needed to deploy countermeasures to maintain control of the engagement. "Naw. Ya promised. This is what I want."

Nik sighed, flopping his hands onto the bed, palms up. They had negotiated tying them to the headboard, because Nik might be tempted to use them as a distraction to get his own way. Wouldn't be the first time. But Nik had promised to behave. Given his word, in fact. Plus, running his hands over Price was one of the parts he enjoyed the most about sex, and Price was bloody well looking forward to feeling them clutch his back for the finale, anyway.

"Let me, Nik. Wanna make ya feel good," Price said as he sprawled at his lover's side, placing a palm in the centre of Nik's belly. He stroked his thumb through the soft hair trailing down to Nik's groin, jet black streaked with wisps of white and grey, and pressed his lips to Nik's bicep, blue eyes wide and imploring.

"I have never been able to say no to those eyes," Nik said, and leaned in for a kiss. Price let him have it, kissing slowly as he trailed that hand up to Nik's chest. His palm brushed over soft nipples, a fingertip teasing around the areola of one until it pulled tight.

Tonight was about Nik and his pleasure. Not that Nik had been able to fully grasp why Price wanted such an evening. "Because yer just asked a question as stupid as that," Price had said at the time, cutting off the end of his cigar. Nik had still looked nonplussed. It was truly baffling how little Nik considered his own needs and desires.

Price kissed slowly down Nik's jaw, savouring the bristles of stubble against his lips, tracing his nose over his neck to breathe him in. "Always smell so good," Price grumbled, leaning over to press his face into the hollow of Nik's throat for a deeper breath that made his mouth water.

"You have scents you prefer." Nik's hand couldn't stay still for long. It brushed up Price's back, fingertips skating over goosepimpled skin, sliding into his hair from the base of his neck. There was no attempt to guide, only hold, Nik’s thumb circling lazily beneath Price's ear.

"Oh yeah?" Price kissed Nik's clavicle, before working slowly down the centre of Nik's chest. He paid close attention to the curve of one glorious tit while he squeezed the other, rolling it around against his palm. Nik's cock twitched with interest; he liked having his chest played with, pushed into it, in fact.

"Da," Nik's fingers tightened a little as Price kissed across the crest of his pectoral and down the outside where the skin was soft, sensitive. It made Nik shiver, the first crack in his laid-back facade. "You prefer... mm, you prefer..."

"What do I prefer, Nik?" Price's tongue swirled around a nipple before he sucked it into his mouth, stroking the other between finger and thumb. That earned him a soft moan, Nik's head flopping back as he drew in deep breaths through his nose.

"You prefer muskier scents. Ones that, ah, John..."

"Doin' well, Nik," Price whispered, warm breath ghosting over wet skin. He guided Nik's arms up again to kiss into the dip of his armpit. Nik's fingers curled into his palm and he spread his legs, hips twitching up with a swell of arousal, another soft noise of enjoyment rumbling from that thick chest. Price kissed and nosed the underside of his bicep, before kissing deep into the groove again, where the taste and smell of Nik was rich. He lingered there until Nik shuddered out another soft moan, fingers and toes curling as his cock twitched up from his hip with an involuntary flex of his kegel.

“Soundin’ so pretty for me, sweet'eart.”

Nik flushed, self conscious, and Price squeezed the fingers wound through his just above Nik's head before he released them to kiss over Nik's obliques. Nik kept his arm curled up obediently, baring himself for Price's mouth even as his hips squirmed. Every inch of skin deserved to be worshipped, and Nik was enjoying it, his prick hard and leaking thick beads of precum where it rested heavily under its own weight against his belly. "Doin' so well," Price said again.

Price's hand had followed the progress of his mouth on the other side of Nik's body, stroking the contours of his torso down to his hip. Nik's fingers fluttered over the back of his wrist as if to ground himself, finding purchase again as he stroked into Price's hair. He was breathing heavier, fighting his instinct to take the wheel, squirming against the softness of the sheets.

Price glanced up to see Nik's head tilted back, his eyes closed and his damp lips parted, before he continued down his belly to press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. It twitched against his lips and Price ran the tip of his nose down the thick vein right to the base, nuzzling into the thick curls of black hair at his groin until he could bury his face against the heft of his sac. Price kneaded at the bedsheets, growling softly, feral, as his beard and face soaked in Nik's scent.

“Are you going to eat me, John?” Nik asked, amused, his voice thick and low as he looked down the slope of his body to John’s face. He'd see wild blue eyes buried among the thick hair around his cock, the side of John's nose brushing gently over the velvet skin of his shaft. John kept his eye contact as he opened his mouth and sucked around the base of Nik's cock, tongue swirling down over his balls. “Ahh, da… John…”

Nik sounded so good like that. Breathless, a slight tremor in his voice as a sigh stuttered over parted lips. John licked and kissed lazily, working his way back up to swirl his tongue over the soft join of skin at the back of Nik’s glans until Nik's thighs were twitching. John sucked over Nik’s leaking tip, moaning wantonly as he licked it clean of precum, tongue swirling through his slit until Nik's stomach clenched. Only then, did he pull away with a swift kiss to his glans, smirking up at Nik's flustered expression.

Nik groaned and flopped a wrist over his face. “John, pochemu ty vse vremya menya draznish?”

Price chuckled, hitching up onto his elbow so he could reach for the lube he had chucked onto the bedside table earlier. When he returned his mouth to Nik's cock, his slick fingers stroked down his taint, heavy balls nestling in the curve of his palm, so warm, so perfect, that Price couldn't help but suck another deep kiss over them. The fact that Nik's thighs spread, his hips lifting to Price's mouth in little needy twitches, made Price damn near purr.

It was rare he got to tease Nik for this long. Nik was usually too impatient to get between Price's legs and Price enjoyed getting drilled too much to put up any resistance. When time was short, they defaulted to the demands of raw need, but with two days of leave behind them and two more ahead, they had time and space to indulge.

Price pressed up just behind Nik's balls, circling the walnut shaped firmness that made Nik's back bow a little from the bed, as he kissed and lapped sloppily up and down his shaft. When Price worked lower, massaging the cluster of nerves around his opening. Nik’s fingers fisted in the sheets, a soft grunt escaping his throat.

Price kissed the soft skin of Nik's inner thigh, lips lingering over his thrumming pulse. “Ty slishkom napryazheny, tebya nuzhno rasslabit'sya…”

Nik glowed, dark eyes soft. “Ha, John… your… that was good…”

“Need ya to relax for me then,” another kiss, fingers still caressing insistently at Nik's fluttering hole, “ty khochesh etogo, da, detka?” Price asked, his voice husky and thick, and it had the desired effect, Nik’s body curled a little with delight.

“Da, ya klyanus…”

“Gluboko dyshat.” Price nuzzled the heft of Nik’s balls again, shouldering his leg a little further away as his tongue followed the slick path of his fingers to Nik's hole. He kissed the flexing muscle as deeply and passionately as if it were Nik’s mouth, tongue swirling around the outer ring before lapping inside.

Nik made the most beautiful noise Price had ever heard; a desperate, broken little whimper that might have started as a Russian curse and ended in a soft plea. A world away from the guttural grunts and moans he usually made during their tumbles. Price earned another when he thrust his tongue in again, followed by his forefinger. He worked them in and out together, the firm press of his fingertip contrasting with the slick writhe of his tongue in a messy glide that made Nik tremble.

“Ahh, haa, John… John… da, yeshcho, ahh, yeshcho,” Nik moaned, pressing his head back into the pillow, his legs shaking as Price’s finger curled to find his prostate and began to circle it. As an older gent, Nik's was a little bigger, easier to locate, and Price was going to take full advantage. Bloody hell, he was so sensitive, every flick and thrust of Price's tongue teasing another tortured pant out of him, thick tits heaving as his plush belly pulled tight.

Price took his time, tugging Nik’s rim down to lap the flat of his tongue over Nik's sloppy hole, enjoying the way it fluttered and clenched greedily, plunging back inside with his mouth wide. When he slipped a second finger in, Nik was relaxed enough to take it easily; Price pressed his fingertips up in a come hither motion that made Nik choke out another whimper.

Nik was so hard, his cockhead wet and glistening, and Price pumped a hand down it, working Nik's foreskin lazily over his glans. “Fuck, yer lovin’ this, aren't ya, sweet'eart? Love me playin’ with your hole.” Price’s jaw ached, his mouth watered at the delicious taste and smell of his lover on his tongue and lips. He closed his eyes to listen to the wet noise of his fingers working into Nik, and the soft, tortured noises his big Russian was panting into the warm comfort of their bedroom.

“Da, please… mm, John, haa, ah.”

“Reckon you could take my dick? Wanna feel ya…”

“Da, da.”

Price withdrew his fingers carefully, and sat up. “On yer front, spread yer legs fer me, love. Show me that pretty hole.”

Nik shifted slowly, his cheeks flushed and red, and rolled onto his hands and knees. Price guided him with gentle, encouraging hands. He placed a bent pillow beneath Nik's hips, urging his spine into a deeper curve and spreading his knees apart. All that heft and power presenting was bloody stunning, dark body hair, plush padding and muscle, Nik was a work of art. Nik's large shoulders and biceps bunched as big hands found an anchor in the blankets, his thick thighs twitching.

“There, fuck, look at’cha.. fuckin’ gorgeous,” Price breathed, thumbs pushing into the cheeks of Nik's arse to spread them open, admiring slick muscle and whirls of jet black bodyhair. He couldn't help it. He needed to taste him once more.

Nik scrambled at the blankets as Price buried his face against him, the soft bristles of his beard a little coarse against his sensitive skin as he was devoured. Price moaned as he ate his fill, saliva dripping down the back of Nik's balls. Nik damn squeaked, overwhelmed. “John, John, ahh…”

Price's cock ached, he was so damn hard, so damn desperate. He knew he was going to come quickly but it sounded like Nik was clinging on by the skin of his teeth too, ruddy cock heavy between his legs. When Price sat up, Nik was quivering, his face buried in the pillow. He placed a palm at the small of Nik's back while the other grasped the base of his cock, lining his tip up with his hole. The sight of Nik spreading open around his cockhead, gaping around his crown, swallowing an inch of his shaft, soft as butter. “Oh, fuck, Nik… takin’ me like a natural.”

Nik wheezed into the cotton pillowcase, bearing down against the intrusion, his hole sucking Price back in when his cock withdrew. Price squared his hips up and sank his fingers into the plush fat and muscle around Nik's hips, growling at the glorious, possessive give of Nik’s body in his grip. He started slowly, rocking in and out, sinking right to the hilt, pressing his balls into the weight of Nik's.

He listened to Nik’s moans, how they rose and fell, became more intense when Price was thrusting deep. The snug, inexperienced clutch of Nik's body was heavenly, the way he fluttered and bore down, hollowing out and relaxing more as the pleasure mounted.

Price draped over Nik's back, grinding and rutting into Nik's eager hole as he licked the sweat off Nik’s back, blissfully delirious. “Yeah, Nik… yeah, so fuckin’ good, fuck, oh, fuck, yeah.”

“Faster, please…”

Price pushed his knuckles into the mattress and lifted into his toes, pounding Nik down into the bed, and forcing increasingly urgent cries that couldn't be muffled by the pillows.

“John, John… vyyebi menya sil'neye, sil'neye!”

“C’mon, Nik, come for me. Lemme hear, fuck, fuck… yeah, c’mon, love, mm, aah.”

“Da, da, da…” Nik pushed back into Price's hips, desperate, needy, and Price slipped a hand beneath them to stroke Nik's cock. It took three firm tugs until Nik was half roaring, half seething through his orgasm, muffled by the pillow he'd shoved into his own mouth to manage the intensity. Price slowed, ekeing out the last few moments of his high, the tingling, heady, breathless peak before he tumbled over.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he snarled into Nik’s back, cock pulsing inside the firm grip of Nik's body. Grey splotches splashed over his vision, and he pressed his nose into the groove of Nik's spine as he wiggled and bumped his hips against Nik’s arse, humping wantonly through his own spend like a horny bloody dog. “Fuckin' ‘ell, yer so fuckin’ hot… what the fuck was that… wot…”

Nik chuckled into the pillow, breathless and limp. “John, your pillow talk is an art form.”

“Not my fault. Yer body makes me stupid. ‘m an actual dumb fuck, I…”

Nik’s soft chortles vibrated under Price's belly, rumbled around his cock still buried to the hilt, and Price grinned into his back. Those chuckles were delirious and fucked out, thoroughly satisfied, and Price felt a surge of masculine pride at his performance. He withdrew slowly, slumping to the side so he could urge Nik down against him. “You good? Nothin’ hurtin’?”

“I think I will be sore, but in a good way, no?”

“Yeah, maybe. Still. ‘m not packin’ your horse cock, so think yerself lucky.”

“You are exaggerating.”

“Nik, the first time ya fucked me, I had to stand up for the whole flight before a HALO…”

“The whole flight?” Nik asked, sounding far too pleased with himself.

“Yeah, yeah, olrigh’. Jus’ sayin’, bit of practice, everythin’ bounces back jus’ fine.”

“Hmm. You expect this to be… regular, then.”

“Got a taste of your arse now, ‘m gonna need regular top ups,” Price said, grabbing a handful of Nik's arse cheek. He leaned up on his elbow and studied Nik's face carefully. “If yer alright with that. Don't wanna be doin’ anyfin’ yer not happy with, love.”

Nik hummed. “It was… intense. I would not be against it.”

“But?”

“Being inside of you is the closest I will ever come to God.”

“Ya jus’... come out with that shit like it's normal.”

“Da,” Nik turned and sat up on his elbow, one large paw of a hand slipping around John's jaw, thumb stroking down his throat. “Mere words are not enough to express my love for you, John. But I try.”

Price swallowed, trying to ignore the fact his eyes definitely wanted to emote far more than was truly necessary. Really. He should pull himself together, damn it. They'd just fucked raw and hard, and now he was being bloody wooed all over again.

“I love you, Nik. You soppy bastard,” he croaked, and then kissed the damn fucker before he could drop anymore purple prose and make actual tears fall.

#captain john price #cod nikolai #nikprice #prikolai #spicy again #i think nekro asked for this a while ago #maybe pan #eitherway #dumping this like a mangy street cat bringing you a wood pigeon lads

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kingkunigami · 1 year ago

Text

— hate you

You hate Oliver Aiku more than anything, if only he’d believe you.

Of course Oliver Aiku would be the first and only man to have me use the word ‘cunny’, but that’s the reason why we hate him right? Right—

Pairing: Aiku Oliver x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, hate sex, Oliver uses the word ‘cunny’ once, semi-public sex, dirty talk, no prep, creampie (reader tells him not to cum inside but he’s a prick).

Word Count: 2k.

You hate Oliver Aiku. Loathe him entirely. It’s as though this man exists to make your life miserable— and to destroy the battery in your vibrator, not that he ever needs to know that.

“Do you even know what the offside rule is, sweetheart?” He practically spat, his large form towering over you as he looked to intimidate you.

But it would never work. You were used to the same chauvenistic bullshit time and time again, by men who were far more powerful than Oliver Aiku. Remaining strong as you kept the flag high in the air and stood your ground, maintaining your verdict that the footballer was offside.

“I wouldn’t want a refresher from someone that doesn’t know what it is either.” You quipped coolly, watching his brows furrow as he kicked the ball towards Isagi in irritation.

And you tell yourself that the only reason why you’ve attended this stupid party in the first place was to annoy the centre back, and remind him that there’s no one else you hate more than him.

“Can you two just fuck already?” Chris Prince nudged your shoulder as he caught you looking across the room at Oliver, “You’re putting me off my pint.”

“I’d rather die.” You scoffed, chugging the rest of your drink before making your way towards the bathroom.

There’s no way you’d ever want to fuck a man like Oliver Aiku. He’s a misogynistic jerk that doesn’t deserve an ounce of your time, and you’ll spend the rest of your days reminding him of the fact. Worth nothing more than masturbation material as you rub your clit raw to try and get a quick release, replaying your sordid fantasies in your mind while you lay awake at night.

Or at least that’s what you try to convince yourself, as you now find yourself pressed against the bathroom wall by one extremely arrogant looking Oliver Aiku.

“I feel like you’ve been avoiding me all night, babygirl.” He teases, closing the door behind him.

“Don’t call me that,” You glower, but the cocky lilt to his voice had your clit betraying you. Stowing the sound of it away in the sordid core of your brain for later when you’d settle in bed with your trusty toy.

“Aww, don’t be like that,” He coos, placing his cup down on the corner of the bathroom sink as he corners you.

“I hate you,” The words are laced with venom as he cages you against the wall. The downstairs bathroom holds barely enough space for one person, nevermind Oliver’s hulking form. His broad shoulders box you in, and if you wanted to escape there would be nowhere to go— at least that’s what you tell yourself as you lean into his touch.

His lips ghost yours, and you can feel the warmth of him laced with a mixture of beer and far too much cologne. It leaves you feeling dizzy and disorientated as he invades your space. His palm circles your neck as he tilts your chin with his thumb, pressing the faintest butterfly kiss against your glossy lips as he gives you a chance to pull away. And you should, because you fucking hate him, right? But you don’t.

Oliver is ravenous as he captures your lips in a fierce kiss, his grip against you firm as he holds you in place. It’s difficult to think as he swipes his tongue against your parted lips, trying to delve deeper as he searches for entrance. Lashing against your teeth as you let him in, swallowing the groan that forms in your throat as he deepens the kiss.

Your legs feel like jelly as your thankful for his frame keeping you upright, your hands fist into the cotton of his shirt as you pull him closer. Your nose knocks against his clumsily as you feel him palm your clothed breast, slotting his thigh between your legs as he presses himself against your core.

You can’t help yourself— can’t stop your hips from jerking as you grind yourself against pure muscle, desperate to give some needed stimulation to your throbbing cunt. You can feel Oliver’s grin against your mouth as you pull away, licking his lips childishly to taste the saccharine of your gloss against his tongue. The messy pink hue tints his skin as he shamelessly slips his hands beneath your skirt to pull your soaked panties down.

You should tell him off when he pockets them without question, chastise him for being such an asshole. But the thoughts fall on deaf ears the moment his slender fingers brush through your messy folds.

“I hate you,” You repeat, although the venom has virtually disappeared to be replaced by the desperate sigh that escapes past your lips.

“Sure feels like you fucking hate me, sweetheart.” He groans, shamelessly prodding at your tight hole as it pulses in response, inviting him in like a tempting siren ushering a sailor to his death. Dragging the moisture from your weeping hole to press it against your puffy clit, stealing more pretty sounds from your throat.

“I do.” The words leave your lips as though you’re trying to convince yourself of a truth to them, sounding them against your tongue before licking your glossed lips.

He’s quick to undo his buckle, letting it hang in the loops of his jeans as he tugs them down enough to free his thick cock. It’s clear Oliver is unconcerned about foreplay, another reason why you should hate him more. But he has the decency to drag the leaking swollen tip of himself through the mess between your thighs before he presses himself against your tight entrance. Calloused fingers dig into the plush of your leg with even more urgency as he pulls your thigh higher against his hip.

“Yeah, yeah,” He gives a harsh rut of his hips that has your thick lashes fluttering as your nails dig into broad sboulders, “Can you feel how much I hate you too?”

He’s so deep inside you that you’re certain you can feel his cock pulse in your throat, the swollen tip angled perfectly to hit your g-spot with every messy thrust. Oliver gives another rough thrust to emphasise the statement, pushing you harder against the wall as you knock your head against the cool porcelain tile.

“You’re disgusting.” You groan, your chest heaves as he pulls your top down. Exposing your round breasts to his greedy eyes as he pinches a taut nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as you tremble against him.

“I know,” He sniggers, “That’s why you’re soaking my cock right now.”

“Fuck you,” The words leave your lips like an insult, but your body betrays your repulsion.

“At least your pussy’s fucking honest,” He continues, his grip almost bruising against your skin as he starts a brutal place, “Feel her sucking me in.”

It’s hard to focus with the way he uses you, messy stubble scratches against the column of your neck as he peppers searing hot kisses against your skin. Your hands reach the base of his skull, nails scratch against his scalp as you try to find purchase. To find some semblance of reality as the man you’re so certain you despise splits you apart on his cock.

“Oh, baby. You’ve got the sweetest little cunny.”

“Shut the fuck up,” You feel yourself blanch at the childish word, the humiliation swirls in your pelvis as you scrunch your nose in disgust, “Don’t call it that.”

“Oh?” You can hear the mirth on the tip of his tongue as he noses the side of your face, lips pressed against the shell of your ear, “You’d prefer if I called her my perfect little cunt instead?”

The crude spit of the word has your walls clenching around him. A pitiful, carnal response to his words as his lips curl into a smug grin. Oliver laughs and you hate him even more, the desire to push him off you and leave him drooling with your slick to wipe that stupid smirk of his face is strong. But the desire to cum is stronger.

“She’s not yours,” You snarl, your nails practically dig into his skin now, leaving long red lines down the expanse of his back even through the thin cotton of his shirt.

“She isn’t?” He tilts his head to the side with fake perplexity, “Is that why she’s fucked into the shape of my cock?”

You hate his stupid dirty talk, or the pathetic attempt of it. But your body betrays your consciousness, drooling down the length of him as you leave creamy rings of slick around the base. Oliver wonders what you’d think if you knew he wasn’t going to shower tonight, content to fist himself again to the memory— with his cock still covered in a thick layer of you.

“It’s like she knows who she belongs to—” You dont know whether he’s talking to you or your cunt now, as he reaches between your bodies to thumb at your swollen clit. Rubbing messy figures of eight against it as your hips buck into him, trying to match his thrusts as you feel the coil onside you tighten.

“Yeah, not to you—“ Your retorts are just as pathetic as you are now, barely able to form a coherent response as you’re focused on the way Oliver manages to hit that same spot inside with precision. The engorged tip bruising your cervix with each roll of his hips, intent on leaving you with a buoyant throb between your thighs the next morning. A reminder of just how well he fucked you—

“Let’s ask her, shall we?” He sneers, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. Smearing what little is left of your sparkly lipgloss against his lips and your cheeks, “If you love my cock cum for me, sweetheart.”

You clench in disdain, refusing to submit to a man— no less Oliver Aiku. But he feels the way you squeeze him, the way you try to fight back and he refuses to lose to you now. Increasing his pace as his balls slap against the swell of your ass, the crude sound mixes with the squelch of your cunt as he pushes you towards the brink. Challenging you to hold back, to deny your pleasure.

“I know you want to,” He continues, “I can feel you squeezin’ my cock.”

And he’s right, you hate how right he is. Your toes curl in your shoes as your eyes roll back into your skull, finally succumbing to the pleasure flowing through your veins as a pathetic whine of his name spills from your lips.

“Oh you good fuckin’ girl,” He gloats, cherishing the way your cunt throbs around him. Continuing to use your body for his own pleasure as he pounds into your convulsing heat.

Your cunt continues to clench around Oliver’s cock, trying to milk him of his release as your head lulls back against the porcelain tile. His palm reaches up to hold the back of it, and normally you’d shout at him for touching you when his fingers are covered in your slick. But it’s uncharacteristically caring as he stops your skull from banging against the wall as he uses you for his own pleasure, shamelessly seeking out his release as he fucks into your quivering hole.

“Not inside,” You whine, staring at him through half lidded eyes as he pouts pathetically.

“But she wants it,” He chimes between sloppy thrusts, “She wants me to fill her up— oh, fuck.”

The way your walls pulse around him in response is all it takes to have him tumbling over the edge into his own pleasure, his forehead pressed against yours as he empties his balls inside your silky walls. Lining them with white hot spurs of his release as he gives a few more sloppy thrusts, fucking the mixture deeper inside you as he rides out his high.

“You’re such an asshole,” You groan as he pulls out of your abused hole, feeling his spend leak out of you as it drools down your inner thighs.

“Would an asshole have you this wet, sweetheart?” And you can already feel your cunt throbbing at the sight of his softening cock glistening under the fluorescent light.

“That isn’t me,” You sneer, but Oliver unabashedly holds himself up so you can see the creamy slick pool around his sac.

“You keep telling yourself that,” He grins, “And I’ll keep believing it.”

#blue lock x reader #oliver aiku x reader #Oliver aiku smut #blue lock smut #bllk x reader #bllk smut #aiku oliver x reader #aiku Oliver smut #blue lock x you

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pookietv · 9 months ago

Text

friend's best friend | george clarke

this was a rec! smau where george meets max's best friend (and maybe simps a little)

liked by georgeclarkeey, andrew_spanndy and 3,496 others

yourusername: he told me we were going out for a walk and a coffee, ended up in the pub at 3pm

max_balegde: you were literally the one that said it was pint weather

↳ yourusername: all weather is pint weather with the right mindset

andrew_spanndy: getting a drunk call from max at 5pm was not what i had expected x

↳ yourusername: i told you that he has to be kept on a leash :/

liked by yourusername, andrew_spanndy and 8,839 others. tagged yourusername

max_balegde: she forced me to go outside and experience nature

yourusername: you're the laziest person i know i had to force you outside somehow

↳ max_balegde: untrue and rude

↳ yourusername: you literally had to be set a fitness challenge to start going outside

georgeclarkeey: not another thirty minute walk max

↳ yourusername: to be fair it was a couple hours long

↳ georgeclarkeey: please don't enable him

liked by georgeclarkeey, arthurtv and 4,857 others

yourusername: not going to tell you guys what i did today but i can indeed say it was very useless ;)

username: omg are we finally getting y/n on useless hotline ???

max_balegde: never talking to you again after today x

↳ yourusername: you're just salty i told the stories andrew was too scared to x

↳ andrew_spanndy: did you tell the spain story??

↳ yourusername: you already know i had to tell the spain story x

liked by yourusername, georgeclarkeey and 17,830 others. tagged yourusername

theuselesshotlinepod: Max's Best Friend Y/N talks Max's Embarrassing Moments, Dating and More in This Weeks Episode! (Dressed as 1920s Reporters, for some reason)

yourusername: still very confused as to why you made me dress up, but thanks for having me on!

↳ max_baledge: we honestly thought it would be funnier then it was

View 2,835 comments

liked by georgeclarkeey, arthurtv and 4,279 others

yourusername: when max promises me that we will have a quiet one and i end up plastered and dragged to the kebab shop with arthur and george

georgeclarkeey: you're lucky i shared my chips

↳ yourusername: you literally dragged me there what do u MEAN lucky ??

↳ georgeclarkeey: next time buy your own then x

arthurtv: to be fair it was mostly george that insisted you join at the kebab shop

↳ yourusername: true true but you played a part in the peer pressure

max_balegde: so this is where george dragged u when he made you leave ??

↳ arthurhfhill: i honestly thought they were leaving to do something else

↳ yourusername: @/arthurhfhill please never comment on my instagram again

liked by georgeclarkeey, max_balegde and 5,739 others

yourusername: george thought it would be funny to mock me

georgeclarkeey: it is a little funny to mock you

georgeclarkeey: plus, i did pay so i'm allowed to mock you

↳ yourusername: since when are they the rules?

↳ georgeclarkeey: since i paid and i wanted to mock you

usernameone: they went out alone and he paid ??

max_balegde: when i literally get excluded from my only two friends going out together

↳ yourusername: sorry next time i promise u can come on a date we will be a great throuple x

↳ usernametwo: THEY'RE ON A DATE????

liked by georgeclarkeey, max_balegde and 7,730 others

yourusername: guess who finally got a girlfriend (spoiler, it's this prick)

georgeclarkeey: i have never looked more attractive

↳ yourusername: i think the bloody cheerleeder fit and no eyebrow must have topped this x

↳ georgeclarkeey: brb about to post the worst photos of you ever x

↳ yourusername: okay you go do that then x

↳ georgeclarkeey: okay there aren't any bad photos of you i lied

arthurtv: jeeez whose that fine fella

↳ yourusername: no clue i found him on the street, he's free to a good home

#george clarkey #george clarke x reader #george clarkey x reader #george clarke #chaos crew

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writtenbymoonflower · 8 months ago

Text

Pint

It's game day and one of your customers is a player (in two ways) - Jamie Tartt x fem!reader

cw: mentions of alcohol, the exact WRONG way to speak to service workers

755 words

“Thank you, come again soon.” You said for the fiftieth time that night as another red and blue clad patron left the pub, the little bell on the door causing a pavlovian jolt to go through your body. You glanced up at the clock, grimacing when you saw you still had an hour and a half of your shift left. Thankfully things were quieting down for the night, only a few of your regular dawdlers slumping drunkenly in their chairs. You wiped your spirit-soaked hands on your apron and went back to cleaning glasses. There was some cooking show playing low on the television that no one was paying attention to. No one paid attention to the telly unless there was a game on, and the Richmond game ended hours ago.

When the door opened again, the drunk stragglers let out half-delirious cheers.

“Welcome.” You said, without looking up. The person sat in the chair right in front of you. “What can I get for you?”

“Pint of Guinness, please.” You still didn’t look up at the man as you poured, careful to not get beer down the side as you filled it right to the brim. You felt bad for your lack of charisma, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be peppy. The pub had been packed full of rowdy customers, as it always is on game days, but when one of the players made an apparently ‘impossible shot’ everyone decided that called for three rounds of shots per person. Your feet were aching from walking all day and you were sure you would never get the scent of spilled vanilla vodka out of your work trousers.

Only when you set the glass down did you finally look up at the patron, and you were suddenly far more embarrassed about how uninterested you must have seemed. You weren’t a football fan, but almost everyone in Richmond would recognize that megawatt smile from a mile away. You spilled a bit as the glass hit the table.

“Shit, sorry.” You winced, moving to grab napkins (and recompose yourself).

“You’re grand, love. I tend to have that effect on people.” He smirked. You rolled your eyes. Jamie Tartt was known for two things. One was being an amazing footballer, the second was being a shameless flirt. Despite this knowledge, your cheeks still flamed.

“Congrats on the win today.” You knew your smile was awkward, but you tried your hardest. He rewarded you with a dizzying grin.

“Ah, thanks. It was a prick move, but worth it.” He smirked. You pretended to know what he was referencing, nodding half-heartedly. You didn’t actually watch the game. He dug around in his pocket before setting a heap of coins on the bar top. “Six quid, right?”

“It’s on me.” You waved him off. It was the least you could do for your lack of hospitality, especially after his win.

“Love, if I got free handouts every time I got my team a win, I wouldn't be payin' for anything." He winked. You still didn't take the coins. He sighed "Take it as a tip, then.” He shoved the coins toward you. You looked at him incredulous.

“You can’t seriously be trying to give me a six quid tip.”

It should be criminal for someone to look that self-satisfied and that endearing at once. He narrowed his brown eyes at you, challenging. “Who says I can’t?”

“Common sense.” You suggested, turning your back to him. If you looked at his stupidly attractive face any longer you would be sick.

“Fair but... I did win today.” He argued. You could hear the smirk in his voice, only made more dizzying by his thick mancunian accent. “Don’t I get a prize?” You turned back around to give him a deadpan ‘are you serious’ look.

“I hardly think paying for your own drink counts as a prize.” You decided to not bring up how the free drink would be his prize and wiped at a nonexistent spill.

“I could buy you a drink then? Have it with me when you get off?” His eyes raked down your form shamelessly. Your head spun, but you pretended to be unaffected by his coquetry.

“Why not.” You were sure he wouldn’t stick around that long anyway. He smiled, more genuine this time.

“I’ll be here.” He took a sip of his drink. “If it goes my way, you'll get off twice tonight." He winked.

You almost dropped the glass you were cleaning.

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt fic #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt fluff #jamie tartt drabble #afc richmond #ted lasso #ted lasso fic #ted lasso tv #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fandom #phil dunster #apple tv

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laswells-ashtray · 1 month ago

Note

Hii pooks! It’s me again(weapon John ask)

Read your little tidbit and immediately read it three more times because you went above and beyond the original idea I had in my head.

Another idea/question since I’m here; how do you think John and Mac met? I think that with John’s stubborn(and cunt-ish) personality, it took maybe months to get him to be on Mac’s side, and years for Mac to break him from that “weapon” mindset.

I can also imagine that John gets to experience things that he never has, maybe something like fast food or playgrounds or something as simple as puzzles?

Anyhow, that’s it from me. Enjoy your New Year’s Eve and drink carefully!

God, how I wish I had seen that last sentence last night. One day i'll learn to stop combing chronic illness that doesn't mix well with drinking and treating my liver like it's easily replaced.

The first time Mac meets John Price, he takes a boot to the ribs that undoubtedly breaks at least two of them. The lad is a violent little fucker and is actively trying to murder him until he gets a backhand to the jaw for his trouble.

Maybe the boy isn't used to people fighting back or maybe he's just never been smacked across the face before but the way the stranger blinks at him with furrowed brows and mutters "what the fuck." under his breath is something that sticks with Mac.

And then John's handler stumbles upon them both, the very man Mac had been set to meet before he'd been attacked by a lad who barely looks old enough to buy himself a pint and fights like he's done a stretch in Barlinnie.

"Ah, Captain MacMillan. I see you've met my pet project, John. Forgive the lad, hadn't warned him we'd be having visitors on base."

It grates at him, burns across his flesh like accidentally scratching sunburnt skin the way he refers to the lad as some kind of dog. Like a mutt who needs a tug at his leash. And it only serves to irritate him more the way the boy doesn't blink at it.

The stranger, John, he mentally corrects himself offers him a hand and pulls him back onto his feet. He looks repentant as he glances between his apparent minder and Mac, waiting for a nod of approval before offering the Scot a gruff apology.

"Eh, sorry. Shouldn't have pounced on you like that, might've broken a rib or two."

"Probably three, yer a scrappy wee bugger."

"Maybe you're just slow."

By the end of the day, MacMillan comes to two conclusions: one being John Price reminds him far too much of a mistreated wain and two, he's a bit of a prick. Mac likes him.

He sees the lad a lot, works in close quarters with him and the rest of the team he claims to be a part of. One thing is clear, the kid's training is far more extensive than even the SAS could offer. John fights without a care for himself, he doesn't have to. He's yet to see anyone land more than two hits on the boy. But John fights in a way that scares people, it intimidates the other boys his age and none of them will glance at him outside of any missions.

If Mac learns anything from talking to the kid's "handler" it's that it's intentional. Keep John isolated, alone and under his hand to use the poor fucker as a weapon. He's a gun with a man behind the trigger.

From the little interaction they share, Mac learns that John is funny. He's a cunt, he's biting and he has little patience for the typical soldier antics of the people surrounding him on base. And he's got a knack for saying things that leave MacMillan in stitches.

One day it hits him like a boot to the balls, he wants John working under him. Not because the sergeant is some deadly force to be feared but because he wants the younger man to be something more than that. He wants John to be a soldier, not artillery to haul around from base to field.

It takes several favours, a minor amount of blackmail and the help of a CIA lassie that he'd met recently who'd found herself unwillingly trying to befriend the sergeant to get John on his team. The lad doesn't seem to mourn the loss of his handler despite how bitter the man is at the thought of letting John go.

John doesn't settle well and MacMillan doesn't expect him to. He's tense, he's restless and he can't fathom articulating why. Mac offers to spar with him, and he learns how efficient John is with minor injuries when the lad resets his nose for him.

So, Mac enforces "meetings" with the sergeant. He drags John into his office under the guise of missions, paperwork and planning. While John is intuitive and he takes a weight off of Mac's back on and off the field, that isn't his goal with John. He isn't going to use the younger man as a tool to benefit himself, he's going to break open the mental vault surrounding John and his relationship with personhood regardless of whether it takes a crowbar to pry the door open and do so.

It takes four informal meetings until John lets something slip to him, the sergeant is an orphan and his dad was a drunk, a mean one at that. He brushes over the information so casually that Mac almost doesn't catch it, too focused on how John is dismantling his best pen on the desk. He feels for the younger man, truly he does. An abusive alcoholic father who dies and then he's thrown headfirst into an institution that crafts him into the divine executioner. No one who cared, until Mac threw himself tits over toes into the situation.

John has never mentioned his birthday, any past memories or a hint to when it might be. Mac does the next best thing and uses his own birthday to spend time with the kid. When he asks John his usual order from an Indian takeout he's met with an almost comedically blank look, it takes a bit of coaxing to find out that John doesn't have an order. He doesn't particularly do takeout, what good is a fighter if they aren't in their best shape. One day Mac is going to see John's "handler" dead with nothing left to bury.

He orders something simple for the sergeant, garlic chilli chicken and chips. If John doesn't like it then he can pick at the chicken madras Mac orders himself. Hell, if the lad didn't like either of them then he'd order from an entirely different place just so John could eat something he enjoyed.

John finishes his plate before he's even half done. John looks embarrassed, scarlet spreading across his cheeks as he looks down at his empty plate. Mac thinks that's the day he decides that John is his sergeant now.

A couple of years later he'll meet John for a catch-up, a familiar CIA lassie and Russian pilot at the table alongside one Captain Price. John steals Kate's garlic naan and he watches her smack his hand with the back of her fork, John only laughs. When the younger man lets slip that his old handler died a few years prior, some gruesome tale and nothing less than what the bastard deserved, Mac makes eye contact with Nikolai for just a split second before looking back to John and he feigns surprise.

It hadn't been hard to locate the man's address and hand it over to Nikolai when the Russian had asked for it those years back.

#captain john price #john price #cod macmillan #kate laswell #laswell cod #cod nikolai #nikprice #sorry i feel like this one sucks compared to the first part #in my defence if you coudln't tell i stopped halfway through to have my dinner which was indeed an indian takeaway

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gurugirl · 1 year ago

Note

Sneaky for part 3 of unicorn? I'm so excited guru you don't understand!

I'm so glad you're excited!!! I'm just over 4800 words into part 3 now. I'll give you a little something below the cut :) Thank you!!

I would give you guys more but there's so much going on in this part that some bits would just give too much away. Also this is raw from my drafts and not edited or proofread so the final version might look a little different. xoxo

Part 1 | Part 2

Jax bought the first pitcher as the rest of you claimed a nice table close to the dart boards at the back of the bar. It was a Friday night so the place got packed not long after you’d arrived.

You lost badly at the first game of darts which meant the next pitcher of beer was on you. You frowned exaggeratedly at the rule that the loser buys the beer, but the truth was that you were feeling amazing. It was nice to not be sitting at home thinking about things that you shouldn’t be. The distraction was welcome. Being out with friends was refreshing.

Waving at the bartender you placed the empty pitcher down and dug into your front pocket for some cash to pay your turn. But a sudden feeling came over you. Like you were being watched. Or noticed at least. You casually looked to your right and then to your left but you saw no one looking at you. And no one looked familiar.

“Another pitcher of beer?” The guy asked, bringing your attention back to him.

“Oh! Yes, please.”

With that strange feeling crawling its way up your spine you turned slowly and looked back at your friends and then to the table next to the window.

You jolted and felt your scalp prick and fingertips sizzle when you made eye contact with him. Harry. He was seated at a high-top table. He appeared to be alone.

He lifted a hand in greeting before bringing it back down to grasp his pint and looked out the window.

You hadn’t even become unfrozen from the shock of seeing him by the time the bartender was back with your pitcher. You settled up with him and looked back to where Harry was seated. He didn’t look back at you. You wondered how long he’d been there. Had he seen you before you walked up to the bar?

“Hey, here’s the pitcher,” you placed it at the center of the table. “I’m gonna sit this game out. Someone I know is here and I’m gonna go say hi.”

After refilling your glass you hesitantly made your way to Harry. The least you could do was say hi. You had wondered about him all this time and had been tempted to text him a time or two but never felt it was right.

“Hi.” You stood next to his table, at a safe distance in case he wasn’t interested in talking.

He pulled his gaze away from whatever he was looking at outside to you, “Hi, Y/n.”

“I was, uh, surprised to see you. I don’t want to bother you. I just–“

“Sit if you want,” he gestured at the other stool. So obviously you did, placing your glass on the table and keeping your eyes on him.

Harry took a sip of his beer and his eyes were as deep and full of warmth as ever.

“How have you been?” You asked. You didn’t really know what to say to him. Which was silly when you thought about it.

“Things are complicated at home. But I’m okay. How are you?”

You shrugged as you took a drink from your glass, “Good. School’s been good. Here for a night without worrying about homework and quizzes. Just needed a night out with some friends.”

He nodded and leaned forward, resting his forearms onto the lacquered wooden tabletop, caging in his beer, “I’ve wanted to text you to see how you were doing but figured you wouldn’t want to hear from me again after what happened.”

You pinched your brows together and shook your head, “That’s not… I wish you would have. I wanted to text you a few times too. Just to check-in. I’ve missed you guys.”

“The boys really miss you. They talk about you still. I mean…” he rotated his arm so his palm was face up in a passive gesture, “it hasn’t been that long since– well, anyway.”

You smiled, “I miss them a lot. Hey, did Warner ever finish learning that song on the piano you were teaching him? He was doing so well learning the parts. I kind of hoped to hear him complete it but then…” you didn’t dare finish that sentence.

Harry grinned. It was the first genuine smile you’d seen from him since you approached him.

“Yeah. He’s pretty much got it down now. I’m really proud of him. He’s gonna be starting guitar and singing lessons soon. He wants to learn to start a band with some friends so I encouraged him to take some lessons.”

“Takes after his father. Musically talented.” You gleamed at Harry.

Harry gulped the lump down his throat. He had really missed you around. But he’d been quite caught up in the aftermath of that night with Kit ever since. That night had changed everything.

“Ahh, I just dabble. Warner has real natural talent.”

You couldn’t be sure but you thought the apples of his cheeks were turning a shade pinker than they had been.

“I’ve heard you play the piano and sing. I’d say you have plenty of natural talent, Harry.”

You meant it too. He had a beautiful voice full of dark timbre and vibrant airy notes. And of course, he was so confident when he sang that if he had told you he made an album and played for audiences in sold-out venues you would have believed it.

“That’s nice to hear. Thank you, Y/n,” you watched a dimple slowly work its way deeper into his cheek as his smile widened. It was nice to see him smile.

You both sat quietly for a bit looking out the window at the dark street as cars drove by, headlamps beaming over the dark asphalt. You wondered if you should press him more about how he really was. You could tell something was off. He wasn’t as happy as he normally was. And when he told you things were complicated at home you figured it had something to do with Kit.

Tags (for The Unicorn): @littlenatilda @harryspirate @itsmytimetoodream @princessaxoo @summertime-pills @egirlshit @chesthairrry @idontknowbi @f1n3l1n3 @tpwk-sophie @justtilly @fictionalmensblog @harrrystyles5 @gem1712

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echo-goes-mmm · 9 months ago

Text

Silas and Wren 2.0 #6

Masterpost

Warnings: eating disorder

It was only a few days later when Wren realized what was wrong with him.

He was hungry, and it was lunch time, and Wren was staring at the fresh strawberries. He’d never had fresh fruit before; usually it was canned or dried, or jam if he was lucky.

But fresh strawberries were right there.

He licked his lips before plucking one from the container. He bit into the berry, and it was delicious. Juicy and sweet and tart.

He ate more and more of them, sucking the juice off his fingers, and soon the half-pint was gone.

Delicious, but… wrong.

He shouldn’t have eaten so much.

Wren put the container away and went upstairs. He pulled up his shirt and looked in the mirror.

He had gained weight. Fuck. Why hadn’t he noticed earlier? It was so obvious.

Wren had never had access to so much food, and it was showing. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. No wonder Silas was turned off. He probably noticed Wren eating like a pig.

Wren turned in the mirror, checking his profile. His full stomach stared at him accusingly.

He’d been eating eggs, cheese, meat, and all that fruit. Things that would have been considered wasted on slaves, and Wren was so greedy. He wanted to try everything, and look where that got him. Selfish.

He sat on his bed, head in his hands. At least he caught himself before it was too late. Losing five pounds was much easier than fifteen, or heaven forbid, more.

Luckily, he had experience getting rid of excess weight.

All masters wanted thin, attractive slaves. One of his old masters in particular had him lose ten pounds before he was good enough.

Surely he could manage five.

___________________

The scale in the bathroom was very helpful; a tool he didn’t really have before. He weighed himself twice a day to keep track.

Wren mixed up porridge for breakfast, just like the way he used to at his old masters’ houses. Oats, water, a pinch of salt.

Half a sandwich for lunch. Salad for dinner.

The number on the scale slowly went down. Half a pound, then one. Two. Two and a half.

It wasn’t happening fast enough for him.

Three days in, he broke.

Wren stuffed himself with food; blackberries and toast and spoonfuls of peanut butter.

Guilt swirled in his gut. He quietly put the dishes away and put the remaining bread and peanut butter away.

He checked himself on the scale. He’d gained a pound.

Wren began to cry.

___________________

He reduced his meals even more.

Dinner was only some vegetables. Fresh ones, as a treat. They were a lot better than what he was used to, so he carefully portioned them out to avoid eating too much at once.

A handful of broccoli, cooked to reduce the calories. He didn’t season them, forgoing salt and pepper.

If it didn’t taste that good, he could manage to eat less.

___________________

“Are you alright?” Master asked later that week. “You seem a bit tired.”

“I’m okay, Master Silas. I’ll go to bed early.”

Silas eyed him, but to his relief didn’t say anything more.

Wren checked himself on the scale before bed. His stomach pained him, but he ignored it. He caught his reflection in the mirror, and he did look a bit tired.

His body just needed to get used to it, and then he’d be fine.

___________________

Finally. Finally, he was five pounds lighter. He nearly wept with relief.

He didn’t feel good; the world went dark when he stood up too fast, and his stomach screamed at him at all hours.

It didn’t matter. Now all he had to do was maintain his weight, and Silas would be happy, and he’d be pretty, and he’d feel better once he stopped being so strict.

He went upstairs to change out of his pajamas.

Wren glanced in the mirror, expecting to see his old body again.

To his horror, he didn’t look any different.

He still had a stomach, still had that chub on his thighs. It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

Five more pounds, he told himself, just five more.

___________________

Silas knew something was wrong when he came downstairs.

Wren sat at the table, a bowl empty in front of him. He looked pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

He’d asked about it, but Wren insisted he was only tired.

Well, Wren would know his body best.

“Finished breakfast?” asked Silas lightly.

“Yes, Master,” Wren said, muted.

“Then do you mind if I-?” Silas gestured, and Wren tilted his head to the side, his eyes closed.

“Thanks.”

Silas brushed his lips over the usual spot, numbing the skin. Wren’s pulse was slower than usual, but maybe he had just woken up.

Silas bit down, warmth blossoming over his tongue.

It tasted… off. Like it was missing something.

Hm.

He drank slowly.

Suddenly, Wren’s heartbeat dropped like a stone.

Silas pulled off, and Wren slumped in his chair.

“Wren!”

Oh god, he thought. I’ve killed him!

Silas scooped him up and ran up to Wren’s room. He put Wren in his bed, and his skin was so stark against the dark sheets.

Silas laid his head on his chest, listening for his heart. It was there, barely, along with the sound of his slow breathing.

Silas stood up, and sighed in relief. He was alive; he’d only fainted.

He tilted Wren’s head. The wound had clotted, and Silas wiped away the stray drops of blood.

God, he was so cold.

Silas grabbed a blanket and tucked Wren in. He sat heavily in the chair next to the bed, and waited for him to wake up. He looked so thin on the bed, his cheeks devoid of color.

How had he not noticed that Wren was sick? The evidence was right in front of him, and yet he’d done nothing.

How could he let this happen?

taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @secretwhumplair @freefallingup13 @mylovelyme @whumpzone

@paintedpigeon1 @haro-whumps @whumpthisway @fanastyfinder @extemporary-whump

@susiequaz12 @keepingwhumpwiththekardashians @the-cyrulik @morning-star-whump @writereleaserepeat

@annablogsposts @tobiaslut @starfields08000 @ghost-whump @bitchaknso

@cepheusgalaxy

#whump #my writing #slavery whump #silas and wren #tw eating disorder

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amidst-wonderland · 3 months ago

Text

smoke break

paring - river cartwright x reader

warnings - nothing out of canon, suggestive language

note - i had this sitting and had no plans to do anything with it so enjoy

“then again,” she announces with a smirk, flicking the ash into her mug, “that affronted prick has been buried in just about every hole i’ve got, but never quite fucked me the way he did you.”

“jealous?” river quips, though it wouldn’t take an idiot to hear the pungent disgust lingering in the cheeky retort, whether it’s due to the memory of a purposely botched training exercise, or the image of webb, fucking the girl he’d been pinning over for years was anyone’s guess.

“god no.” (y/n) scoffs, taking another quick drawl, “if i was, probably wouldn’t be stuck here doing lamb’s fag runs and spider wouldn’t be heading for a put-down count that’d make the grand national squirm.”

“ever the optimist.” he offers a lazy smile taking another sip of his pint.

“reckon you’d have to be if you’ve ever seen the size of it. i’ve had shits bigger than that thing." she delivers crudely, watching her other blonde colleague almost choke on his drink before taking another inhale off the snout, grinning into it as river checks his shirt for any spillage.

it was nice. two old friends having a giggle outside a local. away from prying ears and eyes, allowed to announce their grievances without the threat of a verbal kick up the backside from an omnipresent employer.

“so, he’s the reason you’re here - cut from the same cloth.”

“technically, i’m here because of him. you’re here because of taverner, by proxy.”

“how so?”

“christ river,” (y/n) sighs, “y’know it’d be romantic if it wasn’t so utterly pathetic. lied to me, didn’t he? all so he could play prince-fucking-charming. swoops in with the dogs when his fiancée gets compromised.”

“can’t say i haven’t been there.”

“you can.” she pressed, “it wasn’t play-pretend for some of us cartwright. nearly ended-up a human shield to our own firearms unit in some grimy dutch brothel because he’d had an epiphany.”

“which was?”

“that his missus wasn’t boss material.” she solemnly smiles, stubbing out the cigarette. “taverner had me pegged as her second after the op and he didn’t like it. i was on the up, you were her hot-shot proto-bond and he became the afterthought and god forbid someone forget james webb.”

“that’s how you ended up in slough house?”

“well, after the debrief from hell and an engagement ring lobbed in the thames.”

“do you regret it?”

(y/n) snorts, “course i do, that ring would’ve covered a bloody downpayment.”

“that’s not what i mean.”

“i know,” she hums, turning to dig through her bag for her phone in case lamb had texted, asking where his pack of richmond’s went. “besides, i’ll bet in his mind it was some petty revenge for barcelona.”

“but you weren’t even-”

river’s cut off when (y/n)’s phone begins buzzing. she doesn’t answer but begins reading aloud some previously sent text. “‘if i don’t have a fag between two of my fingers in the next five minutes, consider yourself sacked, cartwright too.’ sent three minutes ago.”

“better shift then.”

“hope you brought trainers.”

–

“look who finally decided to show up,” lamb announces, perched against roddy’s desk with his arms crossed, “poundland’s answer to bond and the widow.”

(y/n) watches river let out a heavy sigh of contempt in his exhaustion before slipping past him, placing the pack of cigarettes into her boss’ now outstretched hand.

lamb scrunches his nose as (y/n) moves to dump her bag in the corner of the room. “box is feeling awfully light. hiding something with that perfume love? like a couple of nicked fags.”

“thought i’d try it out for a bit, it’s called 'au du, fuck you'.”

“mighty repellent then,” he replies, tearing open the richmond’s and perching a straight into his lips. “shame it’s not worked on junior over there.”

river and (y/n) share a knowing look of discontent and mild amusement before heading out the room one after the other.

#slow horses #river cartwright #river cartwright x reader #jackson lamb

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onceuponaoneshotfanfic · 1 year ago

Text

Shut Up and Drive (Chapter 5)

Roy Kent x F1 Driver!Reader

3.6k words

Warnings: Language, phone sex, masturbation (M and F), lots of pining, Jamie & Keeley being little shits, smutty smut, picture of MC

@agentstarkid !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Series Masterlist

“You get into a fight?”

Roy rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Jamie took a sip of his pint. “Cut yourself shaving?”

“Shut up.”

The striker’s grin grew. “Drop your curling iron?”

“Shut up.”

Despite the fact that all he really wanted to do was go home and have an extra-long shower after watching a few choice F1 interviews, Roy allowed himself to be dragged out after the match for dinner at Ola’s. If he’d known he was going to spend the whole time being harassed by Jamie fucking Tartt, he would have told everyone to fuck off when they invited him.

He wanted to scream when Keeley plopped down on his other side.

“Did you see our special guest at the match today?” she practically sang, waggling her eyebrows. “Couldn’t keep her eyes off the dugout.”

“Was kind of busy coaching a fucking football game,” Roy grumbled, slouching, wishing he was like Jamie, who carried around concealer in his stupid little fanny packs. Then he could’ve covered up the gorgeous little mark you’d left on his jaw.

Keeley leaned close. “Well, she looked much less put together than usual,” she continued, as if Roy wasn’t shooting daggers at her. “She had her cute little Ferrari hat, but you could tell her hair was a mess. And her skin was pretty red and blotchy. And she kept squirm-”

“What the fuck are you implying?” he growled, as if he wasn’t the reason for that messy hair and red skin and- fuck- squirming.

“So, where’d you do it?” Jamie leaned forward. “Showers? Weight room? Boot room? Supply closet? Fuck, it was the changing room after all left, wasn’t it?”

Roy stood, chugging the last of his beer. “Right. Fuck both of you, I’m heading home, where no one makes stupid fucking accusations to make their own stupid lives more interesting.” He gave a little salute. “Cheers, pricks.”

He ignored their protests and pleas to stay as he stalked out of the restaurant, nodding to his players as they called out their goodbyes. As he got in his car, he glanced at his phone, gulping when he saw he had a message waiting for him.

You ruined my panties, Kent. Thanks xx

For a couple of days, Roy found himself glued to his phone. It wasn’t like the two of you were texting nonstop like fucking teenagers or some shit. Just sporadic messages, murmurings of what you were each up to, some selfies you sent him for the sole purpose of teasing him, and one swear-infested rant about how Jamie almost hit him with the ball during training.

It was only a few messages exchanged, but Roy was determined not to miss a single one.

On Wednesday night, you sent Roy a picture of you in a stunning red dress, complaining about some event you had to go to. It took a lot of restraint on both sides to keep from admitting how badly you both wished he was your date.

Roy stared at his phone, keenly aware of the quickly growing tightness in his pants. Fuck, how was he supposed to respond?

His clouded brain settled for a simple you look beautiful have fun before setting his phone on the coffee table, deciding he needed a drink before he let his horniness take over.

He settled himself on the couch with his beer and a book, but he kept wondering how your night was going. It was probably full of cameras and reporters and people exclaiming about how gorgeous you were, and there were probably multiple guys vying for your attention, guys not as stupid and annoying as his idiot Greyhounds. It was his nightmare scenario, an evening at a public event with plenty of annoying people, and yet part of him wished he was there with you.

Old man that he was, Roy fell asleep, woken up late into the night by his own snores. Wiping the drool from his face and doing his best to avoid dwelling on the steamy dream he’d been having, he turned out the lights and dragged himself to his room, phone in hand.

After stripping down to his boxers, he crawled into bed and let his fingers tap away on his screen until he had pulled up your Instagram. He found a particular video he’d watched several times, one featuring a beach and you wearing a lovely little bikini. His free hand was just dipping under his boxers when the pinging of his mobile startled him, causing him to drop his phone onto his face.

“Fuck,” he hissed, readjusting himself. Fucking Jamie must be drunk texting him again-

Nope. Definitely not Jamie.

Roy gawked at the screen for a moment, taking in the view. Fuck. Now he really wished he’d been with you this evening. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he hit the call button by your name and held the phone to his face, trying to keep his breathing steady as it rang once, twice-

“What took you so long?” Your purring voice had an edge of teasing that sent his heart into overdrive.

“You have a nice time at your thing?” He sat up, trying to keep his voice even; a particular challenge considering the image you’d now planted in his mind.

He could hear your bored little hum. “Not bad. You know how these things are.”

“Yeah,” was all he could manage.

Smiling at the nervous tone in Roy Kent’s voice, you slid off the chair you were perched on and crossed over to your bed, leaving your now forgotten glass of wine on your nightstand before laying down on your belly. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

Roy stared at the tent that was forming in his bed. “’course not,” he assured you. “I was up.” Shit.

You stifled a giggle at what you hoped was a double entendre. “What were you up to, then?”

Definitely not having a wank to you. “Nothing much,” he managed. “Just laying down.”

“In bed?”

Roy felt relieved to know your minds were both heading in the same direction. “In bed,” he confirmed, feeling his mouth tug upwards. “Your chair comfy?”

You chuckled. “Moved over to the bed myself, actually.” You paused, gazing at the ceiling. “How’s your jaw?”

He let his free hand trace over the beautiful little mark, which he’d admired in the mirror earlier in the evening. “It looks like I lost a fight with a fucking vacuum cleaner, thank you very much,” he joked.

“Anyone notice?”

“Only Keeley. And Jamie. And the whole team.” He rolled his eyes at the memory of all those eyes on his face, all those raised eyebrows and suspicious grins. “Lots of fun questions after the match.”

You rolled over onto your back. “Sorry about that,” you murmured, your tone anything but sorry.

His smile turned soft. “Kind of worth it,” he admitted. He cleared his throat. “Heard you looked a right mess, though,” he teased. “And something about you spending half the match watching the dugout.”

“Yeah, A.F.C. Richmond has this very fit manager.” You absently twirled a strand of hair around your finger. “Gets me all excited.”

Roy licked his lips. “You excited right now?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Your free hand skimmed the exposed skin of your tummy; you wished it was Roy’s hand. “Maybe. What about you, Roy Kent? Does something have you excited?”

There was a half moment of hesitation at his end. “D’you want the honest fucking truth?”

“Sure.” His pause had you curious about he wanted to tell you.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I was actually already… getting excited when you texted me.” He couldn’t believe he was admitting this. “Looking at, er, pictures of you.”

Well fuck. You were already feeling frisky- hence the text you’d sent him to start all of this- but fuck, you felt your panties dampen with your arousal. There was no doubt Roy could hear your breath hitch at his confession.

“Which pictures?” you asked breathily, squirming at the image you conjured of Roy, in bed, touching himself and looking at you.

An embarrassed grin crossed his face when he realized his admission had turned you on. “Some fucking Instagram post of you on the beach. You’re in a swimsuit… this fucking bikini and… yeah.” He ran his free hand over his face.

Roy Kent didn’t have phone sex. Sure, he’d received more than a few dirty pictures over the years. And he and Keeley had liked to text each other what they wanted to do once they got home. But lying in bed, all alone, spurred on by his own imagination and the sound of your voice?

He’d try anything once. For you, at least.

Your breathy giggle had him feeling slightly less embarrassed. “Yeah, I know that post,” you murmured. “You often go stalking through my Instagram?”

“Sometimes,” Roy admitted softly, biting his lip. “Like you said, good way to relax before a match.”

“It’s not before a match, Roy,” you pointed out, your face on fire at the thought of Roy getting off to photos and videos of you.

Roy’s low chuckle had your entire body pulsating. “You got me there,” he hummed. “Maybe I was… just thinking of you.”

The smile you wore felt far too giddy; you needed to get this conversation back on track. “And tell me,” you asked in your most sultry voice, “what did those bikini photos make you think of?”

He got the hint. “Made me think of when you visited us in Leeds,” he murmured, his free hand dipping below the sheets again. “You, on your knees. Just the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.”

Your own hand traced a trail down to your already wet panties. “That was fun,” you sighed. “You were pretty fucking delicious.”

“Was I?” Roy palmed himself through his boxers; fuck he was hard.

“Uh huh,” was all you managed as you let a single finger trace your pussy lips through the damp material. “Just wish I could taste you now.” You held in a moan as you began to stroke yourself. “What do you wish I was doing right now?”

Roy’s chuckle was dark, sexy as all hell. “Well, I would love it if you could help me with this fucking boner you gave me.” He wrapped his hand around his clothed cock.

You grinned, mouth practically watering at the thought of Roy Kent’s hard dick. “What makes you think I’m not going to help you?” you purred. “Of course, you’re going to help me with my own little situation.”

His cock twitched in his hands. “And what situation would that be?”

Even though he couldn’t see it, you gave a little pout. “Well, I’m laying all alone in bed, and my panties are getting all wet. Any suggestions?”

“Fuck,” he huffed, stroking himself. “You should- shit- I dunno, touch yourself?”

Roy’s face was bright red. Not for the first time with you, he felt so fucking old. He didn’t know how to do this, or what he was supposed to say. His embarrassment was almost enough to kill his boner and make him hang up.

The soft groan that came through his phone brought him back. “Under or over my panties?” you whispered. You weren’t stupid; Roy Kent was not the kind of guy who had these kinds of late-night conversations. But the adorable earnestness and desire in his voice had you wanting to guide him through it. Mostly, though, your horniness had you refusing to hang up on that stunning man.

He had to admit he was grateful for the help. “Under,” he husked. “Go under.”

Eager to please, you did as you were told, dipping your hand under the soft material. You let out a sigh as your fingers grazed your wetness. “What about you? Are you touching yourself for me?”

Those last two words had him shuddering. “Over my boxers,” he admitted. “Should I, er, change that?”

“Yes, please.” You had to stop yourself from completely begging as you slid one finger through your slick. “Fuck, I wish it were me.”

“Me too,” Roy groaned as he slid his hand into his boxers and wrapped his hand around his hardness. “Fucking wish you were here, that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

You closed your eyes and brought your finger to your pulsing clit and began rubbing slow circles. “Fuck, Roy,” you breathed. “How hard are you right now?”

Roy sighed as he began stroking himself. “Really fucking hard. Just for you.” He licked his lips, thinking of you, laying in bed, touching yourself, writhing around, thinking of him. The image was better than any bikini photo. “Wish you were here to do something about it.”

“Oh, I’d do a lot about it if I was there.” You increased the pressure on your clit, hissing at the pleasure. “I’d be on my knees for you, Roy Kent. And I’d swallow everything you had to give me.”

“Actually,” Roy chuckled, his mind conjuring up some dirty pictures. “Would love to see those tits of yours all covered. Bet you’d look fucking great.”

Your soft moan told him you liked the sound of that. “Next time,” you breathed, moving away from your clit and to your needy cunt. “You can cover me all you want next time.”

His cock twitched at those two magical words: next time. “Where’re your fingers?” he asked, letting his thumb sweep over the precum that was leaking out of him. “Fuck, please tell me they’re inside that pretty pussy.”

Fuck. It was as if he knew. Of course Roy Kent knew. You answered him with a lewd moan as you slid a finger inside yourself. “Yeah,” you cooed. “It’s really fucking wet for you, Roy.”

“Fucking love when you say my name,” he rasped, increasing his pace. “Fuck, can you say it again?”

You were more than happy to oblige. “Roy,” you whined, adding a second finger to your wetness. “Fuck, Roy.” You let out a whimper as you pumped in and out. “I wish you were fucking me, Roy. Fucking me the way you did in the boot room that day, all fucking desperate and dirty.”

Roy’s eyebrows flew up. “You like it dirty then?” he teased, relishing the memory of you in the boot room, head thrown back as you tried to keep quiet, looking like a fucking goddess. “That’s really fucking good to know.”

“Why?” you shot back, grinning as you pictured his sexy smirk. “You going to give it to me dirty?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Roy was starting to like this phone sex thing. He could get used to it. “Babe, I want you on this bed on all fours. Then I’ll show you desperate and dirty.”

You weren’t sure what had your pussy clenching around your fingers- the confidence in Roy’s voice, the image of you on your hands and knees for him, or the sweet pet name he growled out, not to mention the idea of being fucked in Roy Kent’s bed. Either way, you let out a little whimper as you began to squirm on your mattress.

That whimper had Roy moaning. “Fuck you sound beautiful,” he cooed. “You always sound so beautiful. Bet you’d sound beautiful in my shower.”

“You want me in your shower?” You couldn’t help smiling at the image- you, pressed up against a steamy glass door, Roy having to hold you up because you can’t feel your legs anymore, that perfect cock stretching and filling you.

The idea was almost enough to make you ignore the fact that Roy Kent had now mentioned having you over twice over the course of this phone call.

“I want you every-fucking-where.”

Your hips rocked against your hand as you listened to Roy’s ragged breathing, his soft moans. Your skin grew warm as you wondered if he could hear the wet sounds filling your quiet bedroom, sounds he usually helped you make in hotel rooms and, apparently, locked boot rooms. You wondered how it would sound if he was making those noises with you here, now, in your bedroom.

Fuck that sounded good.

“’m getting close,” Roy growled, his voice strained. “Wanna hear you come, gorgeous.”

Your pussy clenched at that word. Gorgeous. Hearing Roy call you that sent a shiver through your whole body; it seemed to be his favorite word to call you.

“Fucking want you,” you managed to whine as you pumped in and out of your soaked cunt, wishing that your fingers were Roy’s cock. “Fucking need you inside me, Roy.” Your release grew closer and closer as your back arched. “That fucking cock stretching me out.”

“Bet those fingers of yours aren’t as good as my cock,” Roy groaned, his grip tightening as he felt his own orgasm approach. “Love burying it inside you, fucking you the way you deserve. Like a fucking queen. My fucking Empress.”

Electricity flowed through your veins as you let out a silent moan.

Somehow, he knew.

“Let me hear you, gorgeous,” he begged, eyes screwed shut. “Let me hear those pretty fucking sounds.”

“Fuck, Roy,” you moaned, louder now as pleasure overwhelmed you. “Fucking coming for you. Coming for your cock,” you babbled, thrusting your fingers as deep as you could. “Wish you were here. Wish you were inside me.”

Listening to you come for him had Roy following you over the edge. “Fuck,” he hissed, feeling his cock jerk. “Love your pussy,” he stammered. “Fucking want to fill it up. Fill you til it’s leaking out of you, dirty fucking girl.”

Your moans turned high-pitched as you climaxed, your cunt so tight you wondered how the fuck you managed to fit Roy Kent’s thick cock inside. You nearly dropped your phone, but instead tightened your grip on it, not wanting Roy to miss a single moment of you coming just for him.

He moaned your name as he spilled over, not caring about how he’d have to change his sheets. Pump after pump, his release dripped onto his hand, a hand he desperately wished was your hand. Or mouth. Or cunt.

You collapsed on your bed with a groan, coming down from your high, listening as Roy’s breaths became just as soft and ragged as your own. With a sigh, you pulled your fingers out of your soaked pussy; you rubbed them together, wondering when you last got this wet on your own.

Then again, were you really on your own tonight?

“You… you come for me?” Roy’s voice was so soft, so gentle.

“Yeah,” you assured him, your eyes fluttering shut. “Just for you, Kent.”

His chuckle had your heart fluttering even more than your pussy just had. “Good, good, I’m glad.” He paused, unable to help the smile that grew on his face. “That was…”

You giggled and stretched your free hand over your head. “Yeah, it was.”

Roy was quiet for a moment, choosing to ignore the mess beneath his sheets. “I liked it,” he admitted. “A lot.”

“Good.” You gave a little wiggle, reveling in your post-orgasm bliss. “Could do it again sometime. If you want to, that is.”

“Oi, careful,” he warned playfully. “You might get me addicted to this shit. Almost as addicted as I am to you.”

Fuck. Did he really just say that?

You let out a nervous little giggle, pretending you weren’t obsessed with the words that slipped out before he could think about them. “Maybe I want you addicted.” You paused for a moment, wishing you were in his arms, and scolding yourself for it. “Hey, I should, er, probably clean myself up.”

“Yeah, yeah, me too.” Roy cleared his throat. “Can I call you back after?”

“I’d like that.”

Once you’d cleaned yourself up and thrown on a clean pair of panties and your Greyhounds sweatshirt- a choice you tried not to think too hard about- you turned off the lights and settled into bed properly. Just as you were wondering if Roy would actually call you back, your phone vibrated; you grinned when you saw Roy Kent appear on your screen.

“Hey.”

“Hi there,” he hummed, resting a hand behind his head as he stared up into the darkness. “How… how’re you feeling?”

His nervous tone had you snuggling lower into your bed. “Pretty darn good,” you assured him. “You?”

“Yeah, fucking good.” He smiled in spite of the shyness he suddenly felt. “You’re really somethin’, you know that?”

You turned onto your side, stretching your free hand over to the side of your bed that suddenly felt far too empty. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His smile grew. “You’re just… kind of amazing.” He felt himself start to gush; fuck, he couldn’t help it. “I don’t fucking know. Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

Your body buzzed with delight, more from his affectionate rambling than your post-orgasm bliss. “Anyone like me?” you teased, urging him on.

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughed, shaking his head at your coyness. “You’re incredible. Fucking gorgeous. Badass as all hell. So fucking confident. Damn funny. And, well, you’re not bad in bed.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Fucking dream come true.”

Oh hell. Roy’s words punched your heart with each syllable, making you forget about all your resolutions about not falling for the gruff, sexy manager. “You’re pretty wonderful yourself,” you heard yourself admit. “And I’m not just talking about the fact that you made me orgasm over the phone.”

You weren’t sure how much longer you stayed on the phone with Roy Kent, murmuring sweet nothings back and forth before moving on to general chitchat, the conversation flowing as naturally as it did when you were in his arms after sex. The last thing you remembered before you slipped into sleep was the sound of Roy Kent sleepily mumbling, “I really fucking miss you.”

Taglist:@hotdoglamp@daydreamgoddess14@klaine-92@gibby31@anonurs@taytaylala12@unholyhuntress@thatonedogwithablog@seacactusplant@e-mmygrey@jane-dough @zara-aliza08 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers

#roy kent shut up and drive #roy kent x f1! reader #he's here he's there he's every fucking where #roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent smut #ted lasso fic #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction

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assortedseaglass · 2 years ago

Text

The Ashes In My Wake

Request: Please may I request something with Billy Washington? Perhaps something where he is jealous/possessive over his lady. We don’t have enough Billy content and you write him so well!

@bouncehousedemons

Billy Washington x Unnamed OFC

Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, Trigger Point spoilers(ish)

Word Count: 2K

Note: I’m taking so long with requests but c’est la vie

The bass from the speakers rattled his every organ, but the thrum of guitar and the singer’s rasping voice were warped by the breath ringing in his ears. All around him, the crowd brayed with laughter, pulsed and lurched, shouted words to songs Billy didn’t know. Some edged away from him with disgusted looks. Others laughed. A few were scrabbling at him, their hands pouring from the darkness to pull him away.

Billy hadn’t meant to do it. Not really. Dark spaces crammed with writhing, sweaty bodies weren’t his scene. Give him a pint of pilsner at the pub any day. But when she’d begged him, arms wrapped about the small of his waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing the freckles of his stomach, he’d caved. Surely he owed her something? She had dinner at his parents’, somehow got Lana to like her, let him fuck her. Even dragged him away from those pathetic, self-mutilating thoughts. One night peppered with furtive cigarettes in the piss-stained alley and a quick jägerbomb or three at the bar while she danced her heart out couldn’t hurt. Not him at least.

He'd been gone three minutes, fidgeting with the ring on his index finger, pint of whatever’s cheapest and some water, when his discomfort turned into something more sinister. Sure, he’d wanted to punch the twat’s teeth through the back of his skull the moment he sauntered toward her, the rock of his hips matching perfectly to the sway of hers. Yes, when the dickhead brushed her hair away from her head to whisper something, Billy wanted to pull that stupid fucking neckerchief so hard it made his eyes bulge. But when she threw her head back in laughter and the bellend, with his sleeve of stick and pokes, flashed a vulpine grin with those perfect teeth, Billy’s mind went blank with jealousy. He hadn’t meant to do it, but somehow, he knew that he had.

Over the heads of the crowd, Billy saw two men clad in black weaving towards them. She was screaming at him, hair whipping around her face as she hit his chest. Whatever she shouted was inaudible over the music, her spit flecking his cheeks. The dickhead, with his greaser’s hair and shit tattoos, clutched his nose. At his side, clenched into a ball of perfect rage, Billy’s knuckles were already purpling.

A wayward thud caught him in the sternum and, momentarily breathless, he looked down. Her eyes were red with fury, cheeks flushed from the exertion of dancing and the electricity of her anger, and Billy had to fight not to smile through his hot rage. A hand landed on his shoulder and pulled him backwards. The bouncers.

“Fuck off,” he twisted from their grip and pointed at the twat stood perilously close to his girlfriend. “Don’t fucking touch her again!” The man in the leather jacket stared at him in all his wild-eyed fury, wiped his nose of blood and stepped closer to her.

“You’re a fucking psycho, mate.” He pulled at the collar of his jacket and puffed out his chest. “You need to be put away.”

“Just fuck off!” As he yelled it, so did she. The ghost of a grin shadowed Billy’s face and his heart hammered with pride.

“Don’t think much of your taste, love,” The creep was smiling now, and though he spoke to the woman before him, his eyes bore into Billy’s, whose own fell to his girlfriend. She stared at the man who had so pleased her minutes before. Her face was unreadable, a mixture of anger, exasperation and, was that assent? For a moment, fleeting and pitiable, Billy stilled. The bouncers slackened their hold on his shoulders, and the try-hard backed into the dancing revellers.

“Insecure little prick.”

The stranger knew he was in trouble and his mirthless laughter died. This girl’s fella was scrawny, yes, but when his eyes flickered from her lovely face to his, the pathetic loser he had once seen was replaced by the animal within. It happened almost imperceptibly. The hard nose, carved from stone and no doubt impossible to break, flared with readying breaths. Beneath its shadow, his small scar curved as the thin lips bared across his teeth in a snarl. What scared the man most though, were his eyes. Set beneath a heavy brow, they seemed to flicker under the strobes. With each flash of white, his eyes turned to glass, focused on the man before him and nothing else. Everything about this boy was sharp, and the pain in the stranger’s broken nose seemed to numb. Whatever agony he thought he was in, the next blow would be worse. With a growl and slash of his wiry hands, Billy launched at the cunt.

He caught the man across the face, his nails tearing the skin. Before the bouncers could react or she could intervene, his other fist collided with the underside of the greaser’s ribs. The force of Billy’s punch caused the blood gathered in his nose and the back of his throat to rip past his lips. A few women shrieked and the bouncers leapt suddenly into action. Before they could, two small and solid hands pushed Billy backwards.

“What THE FUCK is wrong with you, Bill?” He stared at her. One of the bouncer’s meaty hands closed around his upper arm and pulled him away.

“What’s wrong with me? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME!? I didn’t agree come to this shitty gig just to watch you flirt with Danny fucking Zuko!” The man, who had stood aside to laugh at their argument, flinched as Billy lurched forwards once again. The second bouncer gripped a fistful of Billy’s hoodie and yanked, the force causing him to land on his arse. The surrounding crowd oohed and laughed at him. Someone pulled him off the ground and shoved him towards the door. “Fuck off! I’m going.” And without a glance backwards, pushing past bellowing spectators and carrying the last of his pride, Billy stalked from the club.

Drizzle glimmered blue on the black street. Shops were shuttered and a few late-night revellers swayed as they said their goodbyes. Billy took out his phone, her face smiling up at him from the screen. 23.54. He sighed, lit a cigarette and, pulling up the collar of his hoodie, meandered home.

“Traffic light, fag ends, bin, more fag ends, taxi,” His therapist got him to do these stupid lists when he was angry. Five things you can see, four things you can hear…

“Rain, cars, my feet-” The bass of the club still thudded in the distance and Billy kicked a blue bin as he passed it, anger flaring once again. What are you’re hot emotions, Billy? She always asked that. The therapist. After the incident at Cranstead Fields, the hospital prescribed Billy a course of CBT and psychotherapy. The police agreed, saying that if he attended the sessions, the community service he owed due to his attack on the butcher’s could be reduced. Not that any of it was fucking working. He talked until he was blue in the face about Lana and his parents, his rejection from the army, his rejection from work, but the nightmares still came. The car, the bomb, his body scattered across the field…

A dull headache was forming behind his eyes by the time he shut the door of the flat. Vestiges of his life before she had come along still clung to his home; unfolded piles of washing, dishes piling up by the sink, the curtains half open. But there was brightness too. Her coat was hung on the rack. The lounge was now a place to do just that, with cushions and candles and frames hung on the wall. In the fridge, leftovers of the last meal she cooked were waiting for him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and filled the kettle.

Cold showers ease the muscle tension and headaches aroused by angry outbursts.

In the bathroom, her makeup was still scattered across the sink. Billy piled it into the small vanity case she brought when she stayed at his and ran the shower. She’d still be at the gig, and Billy wondered if she’d be dancing with the stranger, or if she’d meant it when she told him to fuck off.

Cold shower having dampened his anger and his spirits, Billy padded towards the kitchen. He thought about calling Thom, but he’d only tell Lana. He thought about emailing his therapist, but it was midnight on a Saturday. There was nothing for it, and Billy did the only thing he could think of. Taking out his phone, he tapped away a quick message, I’m sorry, gone home. Will call in the morning x, and reboiled the kettle.

“I’ve already made you one.” The voice came from the lounge and, ducking his head beneath the frame, Billy saw her sat on the threadbare sofa, staring at the two steaming cups on the coffee table. “I thought we’d talked about this, Bill-”

“Don’t,” he spat, then weakly. “Don’t.”

“Do I need to call Lana?”

“I’m not a child,” he threw himself down in the gaming chair opposite her.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Silence. They stared at each other a while, both too stubborn to speak. When his leg began to bob in agitation, she sighed and leant forward.

“What happened?”

Billy didn’t speak, choosing instead to pick at the skin of his left palm. It wasn’t until her mug knocked against the table that he said anything.

“You looked so happy,” his voice was a whisper, and were she not so annoyed at him, her heart would have broken.

“Well, yeah, I was,” he could hear annoyance decorating her tender words. “But some guy making me laugh doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with you, Bill.” He didn’t look up, and she moved around the table to kneel below his gaze. “You make me happy, Billy.”

From under the sweep of his golden hair, he watched her, all gentle eyes and kindness despite the way he behaved. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m trying-”

“I know you are, and you’re doing so well.” She clutched at his hands, soothing the skin he had been rubbing. “You’ll get there.” Her hand grazed something cool. The ring she gave him for his birthday was cold against the heat of his swollen knuckles. “For God’s sake, Billy! Take it off.”

He tugged at it aggressively, huffing like a child but it didn’t budge. “I can’t.”

His petulance made her laugh and he frowned, pulling his hand from her grip.

“Don’t be so mardy,” she took back his hand and ran gentle kisses over the bruised skin. God, she was good to him. When she had delicately kissed each knuckle, she turned his hand over so his palm was facing upward. “You make me happy, Billy,” she repeated softly, before taking his ringed finger into her mouth. Billy’s breath caught at the warmth of it, they way her cheeks hollowed, the strain the action put on his trousers.

“Fuck,”

He watched, mesmerised, as she drew back. Her eyes never leaving his, she smiled, the ring held between her teeth. “Fuck,” he said again, when she took him by the hand and led him towards his bedroom.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, Wash.”

Note: When to an amazing gig at the weekend, but there was one guy there who was an absolute caricature of a 50s greaser. Had to put him in. Writing is hard at the moment because of things but I’m getting back to it as it makes me happy. Joined the Hozier lyrics as fic titles band wagon.

Tagging the old Come Back To Me crew: @jessssica1234 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @aemonds-wifey @slytherincursebreaker @valerie977 @greenowlfactif @heimtathurs @yentroucnagol @schniiipsel @multiple-fandoms-girl @just-emmaaaa @tosiaf @kage-no-sonzai @targaryenrealnessdarling

#ewan mitchell #billy washington #ewan mitchell x reader #trigger point #billy washington x oc

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abubblingcandle · 4 months ago

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The next cuddlepollen chapter was amazing! I loved the push and pull that lead to the first real cuddle! You've set up such an interesting dynamic and I cannot wait to see where you take it!!

Eee thank you! Chapter 4 should be on it's way when I finally combat the flu that has been lingering for about two weeks now 😭but it is coming I promise

Here's a little snippet to tide you over:

Jamie’s arm still laid limply across Roy’s stomach, sparks flying where the shirt had ridden up and they had fallen into unconscious skin to skin contact. Like there was nothing strange about this at all. “Yes,” Roy growled through his teeth, whole body tense with the pain coursing through his veins. It had been too much to hope that the euphoric drug induced bliss would continue to hide his frailties. “That was the least convincing thing I have ever heard and I’ve listened to Ted speak,” Jamie huffed a hoarse sleep filled laugh. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “Yeah sure, is it your knee?” Jamie asked, watching with hawklike eyes in the dull gloom of an early winter morning as Roy levered his shit leg out of the bed. He would have liked to his hidden his obvious discomfort better but he just couldn’t. When the muscles in his knee seized like this there was no denying them. He just needed to get up and on with his routine. And his routine didn’t involve the pint sized prick in his bed.

#candle writes #jamie tartt #roy kent #ted lasso fanfic #ask box is always open #cuddlepollen tag #candle's whumptober

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pfhwrittes · 1 year ago

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there's magic in this misery - part one

part two >

link to ao3 here

update: i'm currently reworking this fic as of 29th may 2024. existing parts will be deleted and replaced with an updated version when it's done!

here have some angst featuring johhny mac and ftm!reader.

TW: depictions of depression, angst, hurt no comfort, reader being a bit of a prick to johnny. ftm!reader is called handsome and bonnie lad.

pairing: john mactavish x ftm!reader (he/him pronouns used for reader)

725 words; not edited so please excuse the grammar and any typos.

AN: the depictions of depression detailed are based off my own experiences with it. it sucks and i'm offering you a head nod/handshake/hug in solidarity if you can relate or have to deal with your own brain being a dick to you. keep going, it might not get better but at least you'll prove to your brain that you won't be beaten by something that named itself.

the clock on your phone says it's 2.18pm when you hear the front door to your flat judder open, hinges sticking as always, and swiftly thud shut.

"shit! hang on LT, i'll give you a call back when i've spoken to him." johnny's voice seems especially loud in the stillness that shrouds your flat, the first burst of real life behind the flimsy door of your bedroom in a week.

you hope johnny doesn't come into your room. a flicker of warped pride doesn't want him to see the mess you've got yourself into this time. it doesn't want him to see your bare duvet and crumpled sheets abandoned on the floor at the end of the bed, proof of where you gave up putting them on because it was too much effort. it doesn't want johnny to see the stack of half drunk coke cans perched precariously on the set of drawers at your bedside, or the empty multipack of crisps and corresponding twenty-four foil packets scattered around your prone body. it doesn't want johnny to see that you've pulled the hood of a shapeless grey hoodie over your head so he can't see how greasy and unkempt your hair is after failing to shower for days on end. the flicker of pride sputters out as it’s blanketed by another wave of soul deep weariness and you curl tighter in on yourself on your side, legs tangling with the thin blanket you're using to cover yourself.

“bonnie lad, can i come in?” johnny’s voice has gone soft now that he’s not talking to simon on the phone, like he’s addressing an invalid or a child a nasty part of your mind pipes up unbidden. you grunt, neither an affirmative nor a denial, and you hear the door creak open behind you.

“oh handsome, you’ve got yersel’ intae a right state here, haven’t ye?” he’s still using that soft voice. the one that grates on your nerves and sends a ripple of muted irritation up your spine. your shoulders stiffen unconsciously as you fight the urge to roll over to glare at him, the interloper in your dingy room and darker thoughts.

“fuck off, johnny.” your voice is hoarse and raspy like you’ve been screaming for hours at a time instead of silent for days. “go away.”

the mattress creaks and dips under added weight, a crisp packet crinkles.

“i didnae know ye liked cheese and onion flavour.” johnny’s voice has gone artificially light and cheerful trying to eke out some kind of response. you shrug. you don’t particularly but they were the last ones in the multipack and you couldn’t be bothered to go into the kitchen to look for something else to eat.

a pause. you hear johnny stifle a sigh in his chest.

��the lads were wondering where you are, wantin’ to know if they should get you a pint.” you feel johnny lay a palm on your arm gently and your stomach roils, churning up the dark miasma inside you “or maybe a plate of chips? somethin’ to eat?”

“i’m fine.” you’re not. you know he can tell that you’re not fine either but your damned pride refuses to let you say anything other than you are. “say hello to the boys for me.”

johnny takes a breath and offers a tentative “maybe you could tell ‘em yerself?” into the space between you. you shrug again in response.

“i’m fine.” you repeat. if you say it enough it becomes true eventually.

“if you’re sure, bonnie lad.” johnny sounds disappointed, probably in you the voice tacks on.

“just go, johnny.” your voice cracks somewhere in the middle of the three words you use to send him away and you roll your shoulder to prompt him to remove his hand from your arm. the weight of it is smothering you. another burden.

the mattress dips again.

“i’ll -” johnny pauses to clear his throat as he retreats to the doorway “i’ll be back later, yeah?”

“sure.”

“i love you.”

you say nothing and turn your face into your pillow.

the door to the flat judders again and you catch part of a conversation as he moves back into the world of the living.

“yeah, no. he’s no’ comin’ -” the door shuts with another soft thud.

you check your phone again. it’s 2.32pm.

#john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x ftm!reader #ftm!reader #binders and boyfriends #tw depression #tw depictions of depression #i wrote this listening to 'my mistake' by gabrielle aplin on loop for added angst #i got bonked by the sad stick but i promise i'm doing okay after writing this #jm

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mikhailwrites · 1 year ago

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Waiting for Connection 8 / Ghost x Soap NerdAU

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

This is a bit of a mid-chapter, there will be a full chapter today as well - Soap and Ghost finally meeting face to face - but this was just... way too fun to write not to share.

Previous chapter | AO3

“Sooo,” Gary drags the chair closer, causing it to screech on the floor, earning several annoyed grunts from the other soldiers in the rec room. Soap looks up from his sketchbook, eyebrow questioningly raised. “Gonna confess, or do I have to work for it?”

“What are you on about, Roach?” Soap puts the sketchbook down before reaching for the mug on the table. He takes a sip, grimacing at the taste of the coffee.

“Ghost,” Roach clarifies.

Soap sighs; he should’ve seen this coming. “What about him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gary stares at him in disbelief, “how about you being totally smitten with him? Or the fact that he seems to be equally smitten with you?”

“What the hell? What are you talking about?” Soap straightens, brows knitted together and posture clearly defensive.

“Mate…,” Gary shakes his head. “Alright. Let’s not address your obvious crush on a man you’ve never even seen.”

“Gonna see him on Saturday,” Soap says and belatedly realises he just gave Roach a bloody bazooka.

Gary stares at him for a second, wide-eyed, before his face blooms into a shit-eating grin. “Are you, now?”

Soap runs a hand through his mohawk. Well, in for a penny and all that, he thinks. “Aye. It’s along the way to Glasgow. We’re just going to grab a pint or two, and I’ll be on my way.” He doesn’t mention that he usually takes a plane to Glasgow. He is actually going out of his way to see Ghost. But Roach definitely doesn’t need to know that.

“John…,” Gary leans to John, suddenly much more serious, “when was the last time you had friends outside the military?”

“He’s ex-military,” Soap objects.

“Answer the question, Sergeant,” Roach presses on.

Soap squirms a little, gaze dropping on the table. “Before I enlisted.”

“I’m not trying to talk you out of it, mate, just… be careful, alright?”

“I’m SAS, Roach,” Soap says a little defensively. He doesn’t need Roach to babysit him.

“I’m not talking about your physical safety. Anyway… we should also talk about that callsign of his.”

“It’s just a nickname for the game,” Soap shrugs.

“Jesus wept… remind me never to let you have my six again! You would probably shoot me in the back yourself, what with how daft you are! Look, I’ve spent one evening playing a stupid game with him to see that he owns that callsign. So either he’s a pretentious prick who took a callsign of only one of the fucking legends of SAS, or…,” Roach trails off, gesturing for Soap to draw his own conclusions.

“Yer not serious… he’s not…,” Soap shakes his head, “he can’t be…,” then he looks up at Garry with something akin to panic in his eyes. “Can he?”

Lieutenant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick was enjoying his book in the rec room in peace. Until he heard a single word uttered that dragged his attention from the words on the paper to words spoken not far from him. That word being, of course, Ghost.

Gaz doesn’t want to eavesdrop on his men, but it’s hard to let go once the callsign registers. And so he listens, and the more he hears, the harder it is to keep quiet and low-key. When Ghost asked to meet, Kyle knew something was up, especially since he was willing to come to London.

At first, Gaz thought it was just Ghost being paranoid and overly cautious about someone he had spent more than ten minutes with, which was pretty normal for Ghost. But the glint in his eyes when Gaz confirmed Soap is SAS? The momentary panic when Gaz implied Ghost likes Soap? Knowing what he knows now, Gaz can barely keep his face straight. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

When John pauses to think whether Ghost can really be The Ghost, Kyle gets up and leaves the room. Gaz is really proud of himself because he manages to get all the way outside the building before he breaks into laughter. A bunch of recruits and some lower officers look at him with some bewilderment before scurrying away.

#Soap having a surprised Pikachu moment #Gaz is gonna need a lot of popcorn #Roach is a little shit #I love Roach #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2

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shy-nightmare · 1 month ago

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The Toonz Twins: Toontown Sleuths

Chapter Eight: Unexpected Company

Summary: Eddie and Twyla return to update Tom on the case. And an unexpected guest pays them a visit.

Credit for inspiration goes to @imaginarytoon1, author of “The Birchwood Twins: Toontown Investigators” and @its-metal-mistress, author of “Bendy and the Ink Machine: Learning How to Live”. Please check out their own wonderful content ^^!

Special Guests Tags 😊: @marinerainbow, @slashingdisneypasta, @weaselnerd and @lastofautumn

“Will you please wait for a few more minutes?!” Tom exclaimed impatiently at Baby Herman. “They’ll be up soon.”

Tom was currently waiting back at the office and spent the last hour putting up with the man-brat’s tantrum. He was puffing his cigar with aggravated fury while he sat in a baby carriage strolled by his “lady friend”.

“Well, they better hurry up ‘cuz I got SHIT TO DO!” Herman snapped.

I swear to God, if I have to put up with this pint-sized prick one more time, I’m gonna rip his head off! Tom snarled, his fur bristling. He did what Eddie instructed him to do; find Baby Herman and give him the report of Jessica’s affair with Acme and his murder. However, the little bow-wearing bastard just ranted and vented about Roger being accused, waving a newspaper while forcing Tom to accompany him and the lady to Eddie’s office.

Tom’s left ear picked up the sound of two footsteps walking up the stairs and turned to see Eddie and his sister. Fucking finally!

“There you are!”

They walked up the stairs, looking a bit disheveled. Eddie glanced at Herman smoking, then raised a brow at the lady. “I’ve been trying to get him to quit, but he just won’t listen to me.” She sighed annoyedly.

“What do you know, ya dumb broad? You’ve got the I.Q. of a rattle,” Herman quipped back, then he glanced at Eddie. “You Valiant?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanna talk to you and them twins about the Acme murder.” The “baby” addressed his “lady friend”, “Hey, psst, doll. Why don’tcha run downstairs and get me a racing form?” he dismissed her, smacking her ass on her way.

“A ladies’ man, huh?” Eddie asked.

“My problem is I got a fifty-year old lust and a three-year old dinky,” Herman replied, pointing down his blanketed crotch for emphasis. “But enough tea party chit-chat. Look, you guys, the rabbit didn’t kill Acme.”

That’s one thing we agree on, Twyla slightly nodded.

“He’s not a murderer, I should know. He’s a dear friend of mine. I tell you, Valiant, the whole thing stinks like yesterday’s diapers! Look at this!” He handed Eddie the newspaper Tom had already read. “The paper says that Acme had no will. That’s a load of succotash! Any Toon knows that Acme had a will.” He continued, “He promised to leave Toontown to us Toons. That will is the reason why he got bumped off.”

“Will?” Twyla whispered to her brother who replied, “The will was written right before the civil rights movement. It was the first step to ensure the safety of Toons living in the city.”

“Has anybody ever seen this will?” Eddie asked Herman.

“Ah, no. But he gave us his solemn oath!” the pint answered.

“If you believe that joker could do anything solid, the gag’s on you, pal.” Eddie snarked, walking over and turning the carriage around.

“I just figured since you were the one who got my pal in trouble, you might want to help him out.” Baby Herman defended, wiggling his eyebrows persuasively. “I can pay you.”

Eddie’s eyes flashed. “Save your money for a pair of elevator shoes!” He snapped and pushed the carriage away with Herman in it.

“Wait, no! Valiant!” he cried out. His carriage bumped into the lady just as she walked up the stairs, shoving her to the floor. The force of impact caused Herman to drop his cigar and fall on the floor. He looked down and started wailing un-babylike wails as Eddie pulled the twins into his office, closing the door behind him.

“It ain’t my fault the rabbit got himself in trouble,” the detective muttered, swallowing a drink of whiskey on his desk. “All I did was take a couple of lousy pictures.”

This asinine asshole, Tom mentally cursed. Then, he decided to bring up the Acme factory. “So what did you find?” he asked his companions while taking a seat on the recliner and pulling out a flask of water.

“We found Acme’s outline where the safe dropped on him. One of the lab boys was picking off yellow paint from the rope that was holding the safe, and stated the paint was from the rabbit’s glove.” Eddie explained.

Twyla nodded and pulled out a small baggie containing small traces of the paint. “I managed to sneak some of this.” She showed her brother the object, “I think he’s been framed. I’m gonna do my own analysis and see if I can find something. Any Toon can wear yellow gloves or be drawn in yellow paint, so I’ll also check for other suspects.”

“Since when did you start the idea of investigating the murder?!” Eddie snapped.

Tom growled at him warningly, but Twyla whipped her head to face Eddie with bared teeth. “Since I watched an innocent Toon get fuckin’ dipped in human public, then got flirted by a psychotic weasel and punched his boss who tried to get up in my face with a fuckin’ rubber glove covered in Dip and Toon blood!”

Bolting up from his chair, Tom spat out his water, “WHAT?!”

Twyla’s eyes darted to him, then her ears drooped from seeing the look on his face. “Oops.”

The Rubberhose’s darker eyes zoomed in on his sister’s body language. Her posture was tense and slightly trembling as if she had witnessed something horrible at the factory, and he caught a whiff of something on Twyla. Something…masculine.

This did not sit well with Tom.

His ears lowered and his eyebrows narrowed, letting out a low growl of protective anger. “Guys, what the hell happened?” he asked calmly, but there was a clear threatening undertone in his voice that made Twyla’s fur stand as she looked at him warily.

Before Twyla could answer, Eddie cut her off. “We were checking out the warehouse investigating Acme’s murder when we came across Judge Doom. He’s one hell of a gargoyle, if you know what I mean.”

“Valiant, I wasn’t there at the time.” Tom reminded, “Who the hell is Doom?”

“A psychotic, tyrannical bastard who controls the Toon district’s judicial system.” Eddie answered, his face grew dark and grim. “He punishes Toons by killing them with Dip, and just killed a Toon clown shoe in front of your sister to make a point.”

Tom’s blood froze. “What?”

He backtracked to where he had learned all about Dip, all those years ago. Years prior to 1947, the citizens of Toontown had once been terrorized by a maniacal monster of a human who had the entire district caged under his jurisdiction. Any unfortunate Toon who came across his path would be mercilessly killed by a deadly green combination of turpentine, acetone, and benzene. Also known as “Dip”, the same combination Tom used to kill Darry. Those Toons weren’t killed because they were labeled “insane” or even “criminally insane”. They were killed out of unjust cruelty and greed for power. No shred of justice spilled from the words of his venom. Dip not only became illegal, but also inaccessible after the false judge’s death, though the cause of his fate was unknown. However, the Toon-killing liquid still exists today under the highly strict condition that it should only be used as the death sentence specifically for Toons proven guilty of atrocious crimes such as genocide, terrorism, and treason. But despite its tight security, clandestine businesses hide in the dark, shadowy corners of the globe selling untraceable weapons and other contraband containing traces of Dip.

Tom brought his attention back to the situation and walked over to his sister. He cautiously extended his arm out, silently asking her if she needed his comfort while respecting her boundaries. She leaned in without even looking at him. Oh God, she was trembling.

“I’m guessing we gotta find Roger before he does, huh?” Tom asked Eddie who reluctantly nodded.

“Yeah. And you guys gotta keep him under low wraps before Twyla’s lover gets his claws on them both.”

“Eddie!” Twyla whisperingly hissed at him, but it was too late.

Tom’s posture straightened. “What?”

Twyla was about to protest, but he cut her off. “Oh, no, no, no. We’re not scrapping this scene from the movie. What the hell does he mean, your ‘lover’?” his lips pulled into a low growl, “And what the hell do you mean, you got flirted by a ‘psychotic weasel’ then his boss tried to get up to your face?”

He knew she knew she had been caught by the way her eyes cast down while her ears drooped. A habit of hers whenever she’s trying to hide something from her brother. You can’t fool his eyes, sis. The ravenette sighed, accepting her fate. She opened her mouth to speak—

“One of Doom’s goons got the hots for her, and his boss harassed her by bringing a glove Doom used for the shoe’s execution up to her face,” their boss answered, taking another sip of whiskey, oblivious of the hell that he had just unleashed. “Casanova got a little flirty with her, then he drove off.”

Silence froze the air like the icy-blue walls of a giant glacier. It was so quiet, it was deafening. Twyla’s composure shattered like a broken mirror and dread filled her heart.

For a moment, Tom stared at the booze-brained human with brows raised wide up and his grip on his flask slowly loosened. The flask fell with a soft clump.

“Fuck,” the female hybrid softly cursed, digging through her purse.

Eddie felt something burn deep in his bones, and he raised a brow at Tom’s unwavering expression. “What?”

“Valiant.” The gunslinger spoke, his tone oddly calm though Eddie can feel the ice-cold anger burning in his voice. “Do you have any idea where these weasels might be?”

The stock-built detective slowly recoiled in his seat, feeling an uneasy tension thickening the office. “Uh, probably back to that ink-built hellhole. Why?”

“Because, to put it in simple terms, I’m going to kill somebody.”

“GET DOWN!” Twyla shouted at Eddie, who immediately ducked just as Tom whipped out both his revolvers. His composure melted faster than a slice of cheese on a frying pan, and he bared his razor-sharp fangs while his pie-cut eyes narrowed into thin slits like two switchblades. He stormed off and nearly ripped the door open off its hinges only to be caught by his sister.

“Tomasso, stop!” Twyla desperately tried to pull her furious twin away from the door, holding him back with all the strength in her delicate arms while ducking her head from the pack leader’s violent swings. She managed to grab Tom’s left arm while constricting his right one with her tail, keeping her head low to avoid having her brains blown out. She glared at a startled, shellshocked Eddie over her shoulder, “Thanks a lot, Eddie!”

“LET ME GO, TWYLA!!! I’M GONNA HUNT THE BASTARDS DOWN AND RUN ‘EM OVER WITH A FUCKIN’ MACK TRUCK!!! THEN, I’LL SHOOT THEIR DICKS OFF AND USE THEIR BALLS FOR TARGET PRACTICE!!!” the elder twin roared. Rage burned in his eyes like fire, and extending from his fingers were huge sickle-shaped claws pricking the fur of his palms and leaving a puddle of blood. “GRRR, DAMMIT WOMAN! LET ME GO!!!”

“Not until you calm down!” Twyla shouted back. Without any other option, she tightened her grip on him until his wrists turned painfully white. He cursed out, dropping the guns. Then, the youngest sibling pounced on him to the ground. Snarling, Tom bucked back, and the twins roughhoused it out.

Toon-tornado!

Their bodies and arms were entwined into a two-headed Toon monster.

Toon-tornado!

They swapped each other’s clothes.

Toon-tornado!

Twyla maneuvered her tail around her brother’s legs, closing them tight enough for Tom to lose his balance and fell on the floor while she gripped his head. The wolf twin struggled angrily, but he was no match for her concealed strength. “Tommy,” she panted, keeping her voice soft and gentle but firm and steady. “I’m fine. I haven’t been harmed in any way. So please, please chill the fuck out.”

Tom gritted his teeth, his blood still boiling in righteous fury. Then, he settled down. He held his free hand up, waving a white flag. Sighing in relief, Twyla helped her brother up while cautiously returning his guns. However, he did cast her a look that said ‘We’re not done talking about this’. He dusted off the dust from his jacket, “Sorry about that, Val—What are you doing?”

Eddie was pulling out a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and laid one of the pictures of Acme and Jessica on his desk.

“Valiant, what is it?” Tom asked. But he didn’t answer.

The twins shared a confused glance, then walked over to either side of the desk, Tom on Eddie’s right and Twyla on his left. They both pulled out a magnifying glass of their own and peered at the photo with him. All three of them were close enough to look like a sandwich.

Something was poking from Acme’s pocket.

Twyla was the first to figure it out, and quietly gasped. “Is that…?”

“The will.” Tom finished in shock.

“The baby was right.” Eddie stated. He leaned back on his chair, staring at nothing in shocked silence.

“All of this has something to do with the will,” Tom said to his sister who nodded before he turned back to their boss. “Boss, do you think whoever killed him was after his will?”

Eddie stared at him for a moment, then he snapped out of it and shook his head. “How the hell should I know?” he grumbled, moving up from his chair. “I gotta get some shut eye.”

The man laid down on the bed when the twins noticed that something was…moving.

Tom instantly shielded his sister with his right arm, slowly reaching down his left pocket. “Valiant.” he whispered.

Eddie’s eyes sharply opened. “What?”

“Get out of the bed.”

“What? Why?”

Tom lightly jerked his head up, as if he were silently saying “Behind you”.

Eddie turned to his right…and found himself face-to-face with Roger Rabbit.

“AAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!” They screamed in unison, and both jumped off the bed. Tom was about to pull out his gun, but Twyla stopped him and shook her head.

Roger accidentally bumped against the wall in terror, but his frightened stance beamed into joy when he saw the twins.

“Hiya there, kiddies!” He waved at them excitedly. Twyla chuckled and waved back while Tom could only gape at him, stupefied.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Eddie demanded.

“Through the mail slot.” Roger answered, “I thought it would be best if I waited inside seein’ as how I’m wanted for murder.”

“No kiddin’,” Eddie snarked, “Just talking to you could get us a rap for aiding and abetting. Wait a minute,” he zeroed in, “Anybody know you’re here?”

“Nobody! Not a soul except, uh…”

“Who?” both Tom and Eddie demanded.

“Well, you see…” Roger began and stood on the bed. “I didn’t know where your office was. So I asked the newsboy. He didn’t know! So I asked the fireman, the greengrocer, the butcher, the baker, they didn’t know!” he finished off, “But the liquor store guy, he knew.”

“And now the whole damn town knows you’re here!” Eddie shouted, grabbing Roger by the neck. “Get out of here! Go on, out!”

“Please, Eddie! Don’t throw me out!” Roger pleaded as Eddie opened the door. The rabbit extended his limbs on the door and door frame to prevent Eddie from shoving him out. “You’re making a big mistake. I didn’t kill anybody. I swear!”

The twins rushed over and grabbed Eddie by the shoulders, pulling him back. However, this only enraged Eddie even further. He grabbed the ends of Roger’s overalls and pulled his legs like a rubber band. “This whole thing’s a setup, a scam, a frame job. I could never hurt anybody! Ow!” he cried out in pain. “My purpose in life is to make people…lllllaaaaaaaaugh!”

“Let ‘em go,” Tom said, and the twins released Eddie just as Roger lost his grip on the frame. He flew into Eddie and sent the man tumbling on the floor before he hopped on the bed. His knees shook underneath his overalls in fear.

“Roger,” Twyla spoke to him, as gently as she could. “I tried to find you last night, but I couldn’t catch your scent. Where were you?”

“OK, OK, sure. I admit it,” Roger answered, “I got a little steamed when you guys showed me those pictures of Jessica. So I rushed over to Ink &—” he leapt up and Tom pulled his sister out of the way just as Eddie lunged at him from across the bed. “Paint Club. But she wasn’t in her dressing room, so I wrote her a love letter.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute,” Eddie stopped him, “You’re telling us, in a fit of jealousy, you wrote your wife a love letter?”

“That’s right! I know that she was just an innocent victim of circumstance,” Roger smiled.

“I suppose you used the old lipstick on the mirror routine, huh?”

“Lipstick, yes. Mirror no. I found a nice, clean piece of paper.” Roger pulled out said paper, written in lipstick used for words. “‘Dear Jessica, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 1-1,000…” he began jumping on the bed. “2-1,000, 3-1,000—”

“Why didn’t you just leave the letter there?” Eddie asked.

“Obviously, a poem of this power and sensitivity must—” Eddie roughly yanked him by the ears to get him out of his way. “Aaahh!! Be read in person, so I went home to wait for here. But the weasels were there, waiting for me…”

Twyla’s ears lowered when he mentioned them. “So…” Roger trembled, “so I ran.”

“It’s my fault,” the noirette Toon lightly smacked her forehead. “I should’ve brought you back with me.” Tom raised an alarmed brow at her, but she didn’t have the energy to tell him more.

“So why come to me?” Eddie exclaimed. “I’m the guy that took the pictures of your wife!”

“Yeah, and you’re also the guy that helped all these Toons.” Roger responded, flipping through the pages of the scrapbook on the other desk.

He helped all of them? The twins’ brows rose.

“Everybody knows when a Toon’s in trouble, there’s only one place to go—Valiant & Valiant.”

“Not anymore,” Eddie muttered. Roger was about to sit down on the dusty chair when Eddie suddenly sprung up from his chair. “Get out of that chair!”

Holy shit! All three Toons flinched from the thunderous rage in Eddie’s voice. Roger’s ears drooped, his poor little cottontail and lips quivering in shocked fear. Twyla gently put a comforting, protective hand on his shoulder while Tom cast him a wary glare.

“That’s my brother’s chair.” Eddie’s tone slightly softened.

I knew it, Tom thought.

“Yeah, where is your brother anyway?” Roger asked, motioning to the other man in the photograph frame. Twyla silently moved her hand across her throat to tell him to stop, but he didn’t notice her. “He looks like a sensitive and…” Roger rose a brow at him. “sober fellow.”

Ah shit, now he’s treaded on thin ice.

“That’s it. I’m calling the cops.”

“WHAT?!” the twins exclaimed.

“Go ahead. Call the cops,” Roger responded dramatically, “I come here for help, and what do you do? You turn me in!”

He started walking towards…the closet door. “No, no! Don’t feel guilty about me! So long…and thanks for nothing!”

He slammed the door behind him, causing a frame to fall on the shelf.

“That’s the closet!” Eddie exclaimed, “Stupe!”

He stood up from his desk and walked over to the closet. He opened the door and turned on the light. All of a sudden, Roger peeked out from a hanging coat, his facial features changing to resemble a cartoon man with an overexaggerated square jaw.

“Eddie Valiant,” he said gruffly, taking out a pair of real-life handcuffs. “You’re under arrest!” He grabbed Eddie’s left hand and handcuffed him, then himself. He imitated a police siren bell which made Twyla crack up.

“Get out of there!” Eddie yanked the rabbit out of the closet, nearly whacking the twins. “Idiot. I got no keys for these cuffs!”

Tom’s right ear perked up. “Uh, guys. Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Twyla lifted hers up. It was the sound of a familiar siren.

Siren?

Twyla’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit!”

She and a freaked-out Roger ran to the window, dragging Eddie behind as he pulled up the blinds.

It was the same vehicle that belonged to the Toon Patrol.

Twyla gasped, “No. No. Fuck!”

“Twyla, what is it?!” Tom demanded.

“Come on. Get the lead out!” Cagney Weasel snapped, shoving Casanova out of the driver’s seat. The other three followed them. “Move it, will ya? Move it!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” Roger screamed in horror, “It’s the Toon Patrol!”

“The what?!” Tom shouted.

Roger leapt away from the window and hid under the bed, dragging Eddie until he slammed head-first into the metal platform, causing the mattress to move back up. “Hide me, you guys! P-pl-please!” He managed to hide in the dusty desk drawer, sending Eddie to nearly impale himself. Roger’s head peeked out. “Remember, you never saw me.”

“Get out of there!” Eddie yelled indignantly, pulling Roger out.

“Don’t let them find me.” Roger pleaded. He looked at Eddie and the twins with fearful, pleading cloud blue eyes. “Come on, guys. You’re my only hope.”

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Shit!” Tom hissed. Twyla growled at the sight of five silhouettes behind the glass window door.

“Open up in tha’ name of da law!” the harsh voice of the Brooklyn weasel shouted.

“Boss, come on,” Twyla pleaded to Eddie. “You saw what that bastard did to that Toon shoe.”

“We know you’re in there!” the Hispanic weasel interrupted her, and Twyla’s fur raised from hearing him. “Open the door, Valiant!”

“Please, Eddie. You know there’s no justice for Toons anymore.” Roger whimpered, “If the weasels get their hands on me…I’m as good as dipped.”

“Don’t make us play rough, Valiant!” the leader shouted, knocking on the door again with harsher knocks. “We just want the rabbit!”

“Boss, listen!” Tom snarled at Eddie. “If they get him, they’re gonna get us, too!”

“What are we going to do, Eddie? What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”

“What’s all this ‘we’ stuff?” Eddie quipped. “They just want the rabbit.”

“I fuckin’ had enough of this!” Twyla snarled. She pulled up a pillow. “Snap out of it!”

She whacked him hard in the face. That seemed to get him to come to his senses.

“OK, OK!” he huddled all three Toons together. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

#The Toonz Twins: Toontown Sleuths #Gunslinger Tom Toonz #Twisted Twyla Toonz #my story #my ocs <3 #Eddie Valiant #Roger Rabbit #Toon Patrol #Smartass Weasel #Greasy Weasel #Wheezy Weasel #Psycho Weasel #Stupid Weasel #Who Framed Roger Rabbit #WFRR #I'm so sorry I know it's posted past 11:00 A.M. I did it again 😞#Baby Herman

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