#Defence Job Preparation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luveline · 2 years ago

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𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐠𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

when an unknown intruder breaks into your apartment, you call hotch. he races to make it to you in time. requested here. fem!reader, 3.7k

cw home invasion, assault, attempted sexual assault, reader is badly hurt/held at gunpoint, please read with care for the content warnings above

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

"Hotch?" you whisper into the phone, your voice barely audible.

"Who is this?"

Hotch doesn't always look at who's calling at night, he just answers. Bad habit. You curl in on yourself where you're on your knees in the closet, trying not to wheeze breathlessly down the receiver. "Hotch, it's me. I need you to come and help me."

"What's wrong?" He doesn't ask why you're whispering. "Are you at home?"

"There's someone in my apartment."

"You're sure?"

You shift backwards into the embrace of your hanging coats and dresses. It feels as though tens of hands are petting your shoulders, a shiver racing along your spine as a floorboard creaks somewhere in your kitchen.

"I heard them open my door. I don't have my taser, I…" You stop talking when you hear more movement, terrified you'll be discovered. Regret clings to you. How many times has Morgan offered to teach you self defence personally? "I don't know how they got inside."

It doesn't take more than that for Hotch to click into work mode. "Stay on the phone with me. Don't talk. I'm going to put you on hold to call Morgan. I will be ten seconds at most. Don't panic. Don't hang up. If you think you can leave without being seen or heard, leave, but if you can't, don't show him where you are."

The invader's footsteps track to the bedroom. You know at once that your tired mind isn't hallucinating a bad scenario to keep you up —this is real.

You had the hindsight to close your laptop and push it under the bed along with your go-bag, a rucksack full of clothes that you take on cases in different states as part of the BAU. You'd made a quick assessment —your job more than prepared you for this— based on the little information you had. Either the invader knows nothing about you and has assumed you'd be home, or they watch you enough to think you'd be elsewhere. If they think you're here, you're in danger of being assaulted, kidnapped, or murdered. If they think you're away, you're in danger of being robbed. One scenario is a thousand times more preferable than the other.

You can't help but think of the horrible things you've seen. You know intimately what kind of damage one person can do to someone at their mercy.

The hold sound is a quiet droning that freaks you out. If you can hear it, the intruder might be able to, too. Like the low hum of the fridge at night or the bumping of the dyer.

You hang up the phone.

"I know you're here."

Your pulse flies through the roof. It pounds so hard you can feel it everywhere, the tip of your nose, your eyelashes. You look through the dark of your closet and panic in the fullest definition of the word. Your heart can't sustain this for long.

You failed to think of a third possibility. The intruder watches you enough to know you're home. The BAU has a lot of enemies. Anyone could be waiting for you on the other side of the door.

"Come out and I'll be kind," the intruder sing-songs.

You type out a text with shaking hands, your message nearly illegible.

They knowa 8m hjome. Cant talkk dontcall me

Thirty seconds elapse. A reply comes through. You smother the chirp with your chest. It sounds loud as a shot in the relative quiet.

Police dispatch 5mins. I'm 10mins. Morgan 12. I will be there as soon as I can. Protect yourself

That's easy for him to say. You drop your phone in defeat but scramble to pick it up again when you realise it's your best weapon. Or… You crawl to the opposite end of the closet to your shoe rack and slide the shoes apart with honey slow movements, your breath coming in quick, too-loud pants. You never expected to feel this way, you thought you'd know exactly what to do, how to react, but this feels outside of reality.

You brace the long heel of a shoe between your fingers. Your hand is a vice.

In your bedroom, the intruder goads you. "I know you're home, Y/N. There's only so many places for me to look, you know? But if you make me check each one, I'll be unhappy when I find you."

What the fuck? you think. Breaking apart the fear like a knife is anger, a new shot of adrenaline. Who is this guy? You want to spring from the closet and show him how unhappy you are, but your chances of survival improve the longer you can hide. If he has a gun, that's it. You could be dead in the next two minutes. No amount of anger would save you.

You could be dead in the next two minutes.

thank you dpr everything, for being my friend aaron, you text. You know how embarrassing it will be to have said goodbye if nothing bad happens to you, but you also know how haunted Hotch will be if he can't get to you in time. You aren't foolish enough to unravel your feelings for him over text, but you're sentimental enough to think they'd matter to him. He'd want to know.

If things go bad please knoeew that I loved my life and my work and you and the tram more than anything

After a moment, you add, If things don't go bad please nevrr mentiom this

Footsteps at the closet door. A pause that feels gargantuan, the silence so heavy it threatens to snap the floorboards beneath your knees.

"Found you."

You leap up and throw yourself at the closet door as hard as you can, gasping when it swings on the hinges and clips your opposition in the leg. You don't think, you don't look at his face, you simply drive the point of your shoe into his collar.

He gasps. Something hard and rigid whips upward, your neck snapping to one side as the skin of your cheek splits, gunmetal glancing off of bone. You drop down onto your ass, half out of necessity and half to get away from the pain. You can't outrun it, nor can you escape the forthcoming assault, grunting in shock as the bottom of the gun comes down atop your head. It was likely meant to incapacitate you, but all it does is hurt.

You flip onto your front, stagger onto your hands and knees, and launch yourself up through the bedroom doorway. You only have to get away.

He sweeps your legs from under you barely ten feet down the hall.

You fall. Your knees hit the hallway slats and your face follows, the nerve endings in your teeth ringing one by one and your eyes tearing up as your nose makes a huge thwacking sound. Gasping, you rush to cover your face though the damage is done. Your gasp turns to a sob, hands quickly wetted by blood.

"Stupid bitch," he hisses.

You crawl into the kitchen. He steps on the back of your thigh.

"I have a G43 pointed straight at the back of your fucking head."

"Good for you?" you say, eyes squeezed closed.

You whimper as he grinds his foot into your leg.

"Don't think I won't use it when I'm done with you."

You shake your head from side to side. That can't be what he's here for.

You should ask him what he wants, or threaten him with the approaching police sirens. You should've tried to climb out of your fire escape. You should've set the door alarm as soon as you came home, but you're just so fucking tired lately you must've forgot. Everything feels like a chore. Right now, you're exhausted.

"What are you going to do?" he asks you.

You won't negotiate. You don't answer.

Forceful, no time to protect yourself, he kicks you in the side of the face. It hurts worse than the fall, that shattering pain like a firework under your skin. You struggle to keep your mouth shut, hoping that your whining cry is less audible to him than it is to you, scrambling backward toward the cabinets. You're defeated. Maybe you deserve it, for it to happen so easily. Three minutes and you're down.

"I asked you what are you going to do, Agent?"

"What am I supposed to say?" you ask. Even to your own ears, you sound pathetic.

"Whatever I want you to. Now get up, honey." You cringe. "Unless you want to stay on the floor like a dog?"

"Don't call me that," you say, wincing at the grinding sensation of your jaw.

"What, a dog? Or… honey?" His tone is smug. "I thought you'd like that. It's what your boss calls you, isn't it? Late at night when he drops you off. Not strictly professional."

You groan and turn onto your side. The police sirens are getting close. You live in a busy place near a main road, the sirens could be for anybody, but you need them to be for you.

"Get up, honey. You can pretend I'm him, if you like. I'll make it easy on you. I can be nice."

You deliberate. Do as he says, or risk further agitation. Do what he says. Live to see the end of the night.

Or drag it out. Give Hotch enough time to get here.

"You'll pretend to be him?" you ask, sniffing. You can't tell if you're crying or there's blood on your face.

"Aw. To begin with, sure."

You sit up. For the first time, you look your attacker in the face. It's difficult to tear your eyes from the barrel, but you do. He has a cruel face, as tall and formidable as Hotch is but with none of his lightness. You put on your softest expression, gazing at him through tears. When you speak, the fear is real, even if you're attempting a facade. "You'll be gentle?"

"No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?" His lip curls in disgust.

"I don't know," you mumble, looking down at the floor. "You said you'd be nice."

"We both know you don't like nice."

"I do," you say, finding your footing in the charade, the sorry victim, whatever he needs you to be for now. You hate giving him anything, but you know in the moment that you'll do what you need to do to save yourself from injury. "I haven't… I haven't done stuff in a long time, I can't just rush into things."

The gun makes a quiet clicking sound as he points it with more fervour. "Like I believe that. You're probably fucking Hotchner on the side."

There, that jealousy. He's been watching you, he knows where you live, what you want, and he's still convinced that you're fucking Hotch. It's not logical.

You cling to the threads, trying to pull apart his composure. You'd assumed him an anger-excitation rapist, unafraid to hurt you as he already has, but now you're thinking something else.

"You think I'm sleeping with my boss? Why?"

"Besides your constant need to be touching him? It's disgusting, you throw yourself at someone who doesn't want you. You're pathetic. I can make you better."

You see movement in the corner of your vision. Dark hair, a stony expression. Hotch stands at the precipice of the kitchen in a bulletproof vest, a finger to his lips. Sh.

Your relief knocks a breath out of you. The invader takes it for pain at being read.

"Look," he says, softer. Not genuine softness, but practised. As soon as you give in, he'll drop it. You're both acting for one another, but only one of you is a profiler. "You'll forget all about Agent Hotchner once we're done. So just get up."

You hold out your hand. His eyes light up with malice as he leans down to take it, his gun finally aimed away from your face.

Hotch moves in.

"Drop the weapon."

Your attacker whirls. Hotch doesn't hesitate. Front sight, controlled trigger press, follow through. A bang like a clap of thunder fills the room.

You flinch down into yourself. Everything goes a little white for a while, people running into the room, a gun skittling across your kitchen tile. Your ears ring from the bang of two bullets and you're sure you've been hit, you're hurting so much, but hands squeeze under your arms to tell you otherwise.

"You're okay," Hotch says, knee against your thigh, face ducked down to meet your eyes. "Hey, can you hear me?"

You shake your head. You can hear him, but you're far from okay. Hotch bites commands over his shoulder, holding your waist in his hands like he's worried you'll slip out of them. Tight. Too tight. You suck in as big a breath as you can manage and choke on it, coughing, the wild sting of your wounds a ringer.

"You did so well," he says as he catalogues your injuries, his frown deepening. He tilts your head up to the light.

"I knew you were on your way," you deflect.

"You were talking him down."

"No, I was surrendering."

"You didn't give in until you saw me. You weren't surrendering."

"But I would have," you whisper, closing your eyes.

"Doing what you need to to survive isn't easy. But you do it."

You hang your head.

—

Hotch winces at the sound of your skin being sewn closed. Morgan sits beside you in the back of the ambulance holding your hand, your fingers twitching between his with every tug. They dosed you and applied a general anaesthesia, but the pain is pervasive. His eyes keep moving back to your hand in Morgan's. He isn't jealous —he's annoyed with himself. Hotch should be the one holding your hand.

He should've hugged you. The absence of it feels awkward between you, though he's positive that that's the last thing you're thinking of right now.

"Will you have to set her nose?" Morgan asks.

The paramedic shakes his head. "Not broken. Just very badly bruised. Even the bone."

"That doesn't need a cast?"

Hotch should hold your hand, should hug you, should be organising the scene. Should, should, should. The only thing he's managed to do since he incapacitated your stranger is watch you for signs of life.

You're despondent. In shock, no doubt. You let your friends pass you from place to place with little more than pained sighs for input.

JJ does an excellent job of surveying the goings on, while Rossi and Reid take care of some of the bigger questions: who is this guy, what did he want, and how did it come to happen?

What did he want? Hotch can guess. Rage collects like the heart of a furnace, a molten cup of steel in his throat as what he heard you say plays over and over in his head.

You'll be gentle?

No. You think he'd be gentle? Agent Hotchner?

He'll never forget the way you sounded asking that question. Terrified, begging for a scrap of mercy.

Emily approaches from behind. "We have a name." Hotch tips his head to show he's listening. "Paulo Danvers. He was part of a crew that installed her security parameters a few months ago. He was vetted. This shouldn't have happened."

"No, it shouldn't have." Hotch lowers his tone, "She said she wasn't sure she set the lock."

"It wouldn't have mattered. He disengaged it from the outside." Emily takes a few steps closer to the ambulance. "Hey. Morgan taking care of you?"

"Don't I always?" Morgan asks, clapping your arm gently.

You don't answer.

"What, you're not talking to me?" Emily asks. She's not mad, the opposite. Concern lines her eyes, thin brows pinching together at the starts, though she does her best to smile through it.

"I don't feel well," you say quietly.

"Yeah? You're not squeamish, are you?"

"Don't think so."

"It's shock," says the paramedic.

"What's your pain like?" Hotch asks. He's the only person you'll give a straight answer to. "Bad?"

"Yeah." Your hand is lax in Morgan's.

"I can give you slow release tramadol to last the night or codeine pretty much immediately. It's up to you. And I'm really not comfortable with releasing you without next of kin. Do you have family in the area?"

You shake your head. "It's just Hotch. Agent Hotchner," you correct yourself, nodding at him.

"You're her partner?" the paramedic asks. He can sense the disapproval.

"Her boss."

"Not her partner?"

"He's my closest friend," you say.

He's never heard you say that before, but it's true.

"I wish you were my boss," the paramedic jokes, turning back to her supplies as she peels off her gloves. "Maybe I'd get better sick pay."

You're given slow release tramadol and officially pronounced to be on the mend. If he didn't have an FBI badge, you'd be spending the night on a ward. He'd prefer if you did, but you clearly don't want to be somewhere alone right now, and he just wants to give you what you want after having your choices held over your head.

He's not offended when Emily asks if you'd prefer to stay with her. It's harrowing what might have happened to you had you not heard the initial break in, and the perpetrator would've been a man like Hotch. Tall, white, dark-haired. He wouldn't blame you for needing space from him to feel safe tonight, but he's relieved when you turn her down.

"You don't have to act like something happened to me," you say.

Hotch clicks down the locks of his car and turns on the overhead light. You squirm in the passenger seat, looking wrecked. Your chin is split, your nose a dark purple mess cut by white splint. You have a cut on your cheek and another just above your eye.

"You don't think something happened?" he asks, hands on his legs. He can tell you wish he would start the car and take you home without pressing.

"No, I know, I look awful, but he didn't do anything to me." Why is it so hard to say what it could have been? "You don't have to act like I'm gonna wig if you touch me."

"You won't mind if I hug you?" he asks.

"No. No, I want you to."

It's thankfully a short gap to cover as Hotch leans over the console. He's careful of your face and still you mumble a tired, "Ouch," in his ear.

He rubs your back, slow and soft. "You okay?" he asks.

You don't answer for a while. It doesn't matter, Hotch'll sit here in his parked car for hours if you want him to, hands on your hunched back. Your face hides away. He can feel and hear your distress building, and he wants you to cry if you need to, but it'll hurt.

"Sh," he hushes you gently, "it's okay."

"I'm fine." You sound welled up.

"Someone broke into your home and held you at gunpoint. You don't have to be fine."

"Yeah, I do. It's my job."

"No, that's not your job," he says, closing his eyes. "This has nothing to do with your job. This is about something bad happening to you. Don't put walls up now. It won't work, it never does."

He tries to back away in case you're overwhelmed.

"Wait," you say, your panic like a cough.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says.

You sniffle, nodding into his chest. Hotch has comforted a hundred victims of violent assault. He's held the faces of women he didn't know hoping to give them something solid to lean on. But it's different with you, because you and Hotch aren't simply friends. There's a deeper vein of affection, and tonight's event is a jagged slash against it, bringing every unbidden feeling he has for you to the surface. He can't get how scared you sounded out of his head. He knows that feeling is still there.

"How did you get here so fast?" you asked.

"I took the side road. And went unavoidably fast."

You make a small, small sound. He's known you for long enough to understand what it demarcates, unsurprised when the trembling of your shoulders turns to pained shaking. Hotch holds you delicately. He's done so much in his life, made a thousand and one mistakes, used a heavy hand when he could've been sweeter. He's determined to get this part right.

"I'm with you now," he says. "I'm sorry I couldn't–" This is harder than he imagined. He presses on. "Couldn't protect you from the start."

"You know why I called you?" you ask, your tone similarly soft.

Hotch doesn't bother answering. The answer is unsaid, loudly heard.

"I knew you'd come," you finish.

He puts a hand on your neck to encourage you into place, kissing the side of your head. Hotch will always come when you call.

That night, you ask to sleep in his room. I'll sleep on the floor, just don't want to be alone. You're in ragtag clothes he'd scraped together for you, and after helping you wash the blood from your hair and face, you're even more impossible to say no to than usual, looking small in a way you haven't before. Hotch sets you up in bed next to him and wonders if he'll ever sleep next to someone he hasn't let down.

You put that notion straight in your sleep. Hotch lays awake sick with the idea that he's failed you, and you, frowning, snoring, covered in cuts, curl into his side. You cling to his arm so hard he's certain you're awake at first, a bouquet of bruises painted across your cheek.

Hotch pulls the blanket up over your shoulder, planting a chaste kiss to your forehead.

He whispers your name, not sure what he'd say if you answered.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed♡ I haven't written long form (ish) for Hotch in a while so I'm nervous but I hope it's good!! let me know also if you'd like a second part cos usually I don't feel like there's much left to tell but for this one the could actually confess :o

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samkerrworshipper · 6 months ago

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lights are on, but nobody’s home

barca femeni x reader

it’s unedited. i’m not sorry about it, if it puts u off then soz icbf. this fic has been in my drafts since october so it was about time i finished it! combined to fics lol to get it done and its a fast paced very vague mess but have fun :) loved the idea not the execution!

warnings: kinda angsty?

Red cards exist in the game for a reason. You don’t deny that. Red cards are needed to keep people safe, to set a boundary between safe and unsafe play. But there had been something so undeniably unfair about yours.

You’d hurt somebody, you weren’t going to lie about that. It had been unintentional, but a risk you’d taken had ended up with the world’s best player being stretchered off the pitch, and for just that, you deserved a yellow. But a red, for a tackle that was mostly legal, seemed ridiculous. Tackles happened. As a defensive midfielder, it was your job to get the ball off attackers, it was your responsibility to make sure that you stopped the ball from being kicked in the direction of your keeper or down the field to another player. It was what cemented your spot in the English midfield; you weren’t just a good attacker; you were ferocious in defence. You averaged at least 5 tackles per game; it was the most crucial part of your game; it was fundamentally what made you a good footballer.

Arguing with the ref and using some particularly vulgar language definitely didn’t help your case but in your defence it hadn’t been a red cardable offence. It was all pointless though, the card had already been raised and pointed in your direction, you’d been booked, in a friendly of all games.

It was bad, you’d know that from the moment your cleats had stepped over the line, the incessant booing being directed towards you as you walked past Sarina the grim frown etched into the details of her face was enough of a sign. You were in a bad situation, but you’d just put your team in an even worse situation with a one less player on the field to continue the fight in the world cup final rematch. It wasn’t good, it was your job to make sure that your team was in the best situation to achieve success on the pitch and you’d jeopardised that. What you hadn’t realised was that action wasn’t only jeopardising your team, it was jeopardising you as a whole.

It had begun from the moment you’d gotten back to your hotel room later that night. Your teammates had focused all of their energy on trying to lift your spirits, with the game ending in a 1-1 draw, everyone was happy. The England team was your second family, and considering you didn’t play in the WSL like the vast majority of them, national team time was valuable to you. You sat next to Beth on the ride back to the hotel, happy to listen to her non-stop talking as a distraction for the disappointment that had settled inside of you. At team dinner, you sat sandwiched in between Grace and Ella; most dinners spent on your normal table, you struggled to get a word in, but it was the constant surrounding buzz that kept you out of your head and specifically off of your phone, and you were more grateful than usual that you had that. By the time you’d even made it to your room and gone through your nighttime routine, you still hadn’t checked your phone. It was only as you began to prepare yourself to get into bed that you headed towards your bag to fish it out. You climbed into bed, finally opening your phone for the first time, and instead of it having a handful of messages from your family and a sprinkle of Instagram notifications, there were thousands. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, newsforums, both English and Spanish; as you scrolled down the list, it only got bigger. All of it was the same, about how you’d ‘intentionally’ injured your own club teammate to benefit your national team, how you were malicious, how you had played beyond the line of safe play, how you deserved to be penalised, how you had ruined sportsmanship. It was never-ending, and the more that you read, the worse it got. You felt like a shell of yourself as your eyes scanned the different words; you completely dissociated it all. It felt like you were reading about somebody else, like there was absolutely no possibility that the sentences you were absorbing could possibly be about you. There was so much falsity behind all of it that it was hard to understand it. You’d played the same you always did, you hadn’t played dangerously, you’d played within the rules as you always did. Beyond that, you’d visited Aitana in the change rooms after the game, desperate to apologise and make sure that you hadn’t done any damage or hurt her in any way. Your play hadn’t been malicious, there hadn’t been any ill intention or hatred fueled behind it, even though every single article or post was making it seem that way. Aitana had come off after the clash purely as a caution, when you’d gone to see her, all she was dealing with was a little bit of inflammation. By the time you were both back in Barcelona, she’d be as good as new. Even after watching the replays, it was clear to anybody with eyes that all you were doing was fighting for the ball, the same as every other 1-on-1 battle throughout the game. Yet as soon as a spotlighted player got injured, it was suddenly a different story being told.

Normally you would shake it off, in general, you were the kind of person who didn’t get bothered by much, You were a bubbly and happy person, you were the kind of teammate who was always smiling and trying to make other people laugh. Usually, if you had a teammate who was in the same situation as you were now, you would be the one picking them up and trying to help them shake off all of this. It wasn’t normally a struggle for you to overcome a little bit of hate, but there was something so shattering about this. Whilst you still believed deep down that you’d done nothing wrong, it was hard to convince yourself of that when there were so many people who were telling you otherwise.

You weren’t the kind of person who regularly fell into the mind numbing action of doom scrolling, you weren’t big on social media in general, it was something you had to do because of your job but not much else beyond that. Yet right now it felt impossible to deviate away from it, every time you saw your name pop up again somewhere you were drawn to another dark place of the internet where you kept reading until you were mentioned or tagged in another post and your phone lit up with a new piece of media.

It was never ending, it just kept coming, and the longer you indulged in it, the sicker you started to feel. Had you done something wrong? Were you truly as malicious as everyone wrote? Were you the bad person they were painting you to be?

It was impossible to not consider that potentially everyone else was right, maybe you were the problem.

It was a good day to be roomed with Lucy, she’d been in bed before you’d even made it up to the room and asleep whilst you’d been showering. If the sounds of snoring were anything to go off of then she was long gone, which made you feel more secure as you muffled a sob into your pillow. It was going to be fine, by the time morning rolled around it would be forgotten. Or at least that was what you thought.

The convenience of playing your games in Spain was that unlike majority of your teammates, you were able to sleep in the following morning instead of flying back to their club teams. Lucy was gone long before you woke up, something you were specifically grateful for because whilst Lucy was mostly oblivious, you weren’t sure if you would have been able to hide your red eyes and puffy face. You hadn’t had much sleep, but even in the few hours that you had managed to get, the notifiations on your phone had only multiplied significantly. Every second your phone lit up again, and for the sake of your own brain you chose to switch it off completely. If you stayed in the shower a little longer because you got so lost thinking about it all that your feet started to go numb from the water pressure there was nobody around to say anything about it. If you happened to space out halfway through your skincare and accidentally spill half of your serum down the sink it was nothing a bit of water from the sink couldn’t fix. Every time you thought you’d forgotten about it all, like you’d drifted away from everything you’d read and then suddenly it all came back to you like some sick fever dream. It was the same words that kept circulating, and every time it came back to you it was impossible to just let it go.

You were half way dressed when your door was knocked on. It was what woke you up to the fact that you had absolutely no idea what time it was or how long you’d spent spaced out and in your brain.

You weren’t shocked to find Keira waiting outside your door, looking significantly more put together then you were.

“Mate, I’ve texted you about 30 times. The taxis here to take us to the airport.”

Fuck. You’d forgotten that you were taking a group taxi instead of leaving the hotel individually.

“Give me five minutes, I slept in and forgot to pack up last night.”

Keira cut you off before you continued your ramble of excuses.

“I’ll help you pack up, you focus on getting dressed and sorting yourself out, okay?”

Keira wasn’t your closest friend, she was one of the few people on the Barcelona team that spoke fluent english which grouped the two of you together. She was also one of your idols coming through as the youngest midfielder in the English and Barcelona squad. But personality wise the two of you didn’t jell, you were too energetic and a little bit too immature to buddy up with her. It didn’t change the fact that she was basically an older sister to you. She wasn’t exactly the person you’d go to for relationship advice or confess your troubling thoughts to. But she was the person you could rely on to help you in any situation without asking questions, and this really was an extension of that.

Keira made quick work of packing up your things from around your room whilst you finished getting dressed and putting your hair in a messy bun.

By the time you’d made yourself look just enough presentable for the public eye Keira was done, all of your bags piled together at your hotel room door.

“I found your phone at the bottom of your bag, looks like you might want to charge it before the drive.”

Right now, your phone felt like a block of dynamite, balancing in Keira’s hand, ready to explode at any second.

“No, I just turned it off.”

You didn’t really think about how odd your words could sound until they’d left your mouth, and Keira’s eyebrows were raising quickly.

“You just turned it off?”

It’s an unusual behaviour for you, one that Keira has clearly picked up on by the tone in her voice. Your phone is practically an extension of you, the team didn’t joke about you having square eyes for nothing. Always getting people to film tiktoks or do stupid challenges.

“Yes?”

You actively observe all of the cogs in Keira’s brain turning, she looks like she has a lot to say, but then she glances down at her watch and it’s clear that the fact that you are running well behind time takes priority.

“Let’s go, the taxi is waiting.”

Keira practically pushed you out of the hotel room, all of your bags in her hands and ushering you straight towards the elevator.

As she’d said, the taxi is waiting in front of the lobby, the driver looks particularly ticked off as he waits outside the drivers side door, his foot tapping and a cigarette hanging halfway out of his mouth. Keira loads your suitcase into the boot of the car whilst you take your backpack off of her and hop into the back of the car, Keira follows and sits down across from you.

The first five minutes of the ride are silent, Keira flicks through her phone whilst you stare out the tinted window and pretend that you can see the things passing by.

“You can talk to me you know? I know we’re not exactly the closest, but I’m here for you.”

You don’t bother to look in Keira’s direction, you keep your eyes and facial expression schooled and focused on the window.

“Anything the media writes is bullshit, you ought to just ignore it.”

You wished you could have ignored it last night, when theoretically you were at your most vulnerable. Maybe if you hadn’t of read so much when you were already in a bad mindset it wouldn’t have imprinted so much, regardless it has and you can’t just ignore it.

“Kei, I’m fine. When have I ever cared what the papers write about me?”

Now, right now is when you care. It’s a fair statement though, you’ve never been affected when tabloids have written far worse things about you, when you came out and for months there was homophobic slander everywhere you looked. In the past it hadn’t been based off of facts, it had all been fictitious. But now that there is just a inkling of truth behind what’s being written it feels far more real and you aren’t sure how to get past that.

“I’m just saying that there isn’t anything wrong with being affected by it. Especially after last night, there’s nothing wrong with admitting that.”

This is the trouble between you and Keira, she’s a lot more frank. In your opinion it’s a thing that comes with age, whilst she’s very happy to admit when she’s going through a hard time you’d rather cover it up with jokes and pretend that it doesn’t actually bother you. The trouble with your approach is that it only works for so long before people start to see you fraying at the edges or you completely break down from the pressure.

“Just mad I hurt your bestfriend, huh?”

The only response you get from Keira is a loud exhale, the same a mother would when her child makes a immature joke at a immature time. Immaturity is your coping mechanism, because by default people tend to be put off by it, they naturally gravitate away from it. Furthermore they gravitate away from whatever conversation or confrontation they were going to have.

“I’m not mad, I’m concerned for you and how something like this can affect a persons career.”

It’s too many feelings, to much concern, too much. You don’t deserve it and you definitely do not want it.

“I’m fine, we play football, it’s part of it all.”

You still haven’t looked at Keira but you could make an educated guess and assume that she looks deflated. It’s another reason that out of Keira and Lucy you’d always gotten along better with Lucy, you didn’t care to admit it but she knew how to get to the bottom of all of your weird cues and knew what was right and wrong to say. Keira’s too smart for her own good, and it doesn’t work on you, it never has. She’s all you have at Barca now though, besides Roebs, whose been too focused on her rehab and getting back on the pitch to be much of a friend.

“Hate shouldn’t be part of it. If you need to talk about the fact that some part of it is clearly bothering you then I’m here, anybody else on the team is here. Okay?”

You nod purely for the sake of ending the conversation, you can’ even figure out how you feel about it all, let alone trying to rationalise it with Keira. You’re upset, yet you can’t quite get to the bottom of it. You’ve never been upset before when your actions have ended in somebody else getting injured, it’s a rare occurence and when it happens you feel a little bit of guilt but usually it fades. Injury is part of the game, it happens all the time right in front of your eyes. You suppose Aitana isn’t actually injured though, she’s sore and has a low grade ankle sprain but it’s nowhere near the same as her tearing her acl or breaking a bone because of you. You just feel drained, it’s odd, you put it down to the fact that you hardly got any sleep last night but you have this underlying feeling that it’s somehow more than that, yet you have no explanation for it.

After a long break of silence Keira and yourself fall into a fairly bland conversation about the upcoming fixtures and winter break plans. It’s so evident that there is tension in every word each of you speak, like you’re both a few syllables away from saying something that neither of you want to.

Luckily Keira is a lot more cautious than most people, unlike most of you friends or teammates in general she can control herself to a respectable level and can stop herself from word vomiting emotion fueled spieles.

By the time the driver pulls up in front of your apartment building not much has been said at all, but the overarching feeling is tense, it doesn’t feel good and the mixture of it with the everything else is making you feel sick. Keira gives you a hug after helping you unload your luggage and then leaves you. You know that outwardly you’re presenting that you want to be left alone yet everything in you is being used to stop yourself from clinging onto Keira and asking her to stay with you.

Your week is a lot of the same feelings. You have two days to yourself before training starts again and the two days are spent in bed. If you aren’t scrolling on your phone andreading every single thing that has your name mentioned then you are sleeping, or crying, or lying in bed thinking about it all. Every text from one of your teammates is left unopened, none of it matters when every single waking moment of your life is being spent thinking about the moment over and over again. It’s not just your career, not just the fact that you’re going to have to sit out in the next fixture and potentially tarnish your relationship with Sarina. You hurt Aitana, you hurt your ownt teammate. Your own actions had caused harm to somebody that you cared about. Every article, tiktok, post they were all painting you in some kind of negative light, like you were a demon hiding behind smiles. It was hard not to consider the truth behind it all, had you done what you did with malicious intent?

By the time training finally rolled around you were feeling even worse than you had a couple of days ago. Even though you’d been sleeping for hours a day there wer ebig eye bags under your eyes, you were pale and looked like you were sick. It was noticed by your teammates almost immediately, you weren’t even fully dressed in the change rooms before Pina was punching on you, talking rapidly in Catalan that you didn’t remotely understand.

“Chica, you missed our games night last night. To busy sleeping off the four goals you scored over the break, no? You need to leave some goals for other people.”

You shook Pina off as quickly as you could, you had a focus for the day and that was getting all of this over with. You had a game in three days, a game that you couldn’t ruin for your team again.

“Estas bien?”

You finish pulling your training top on and sit down on the bench in front of your locker.

“Estoy Bien.”

You focus on getting a sock on each of your feet and then your boots.

“Chica?”

There is concern laced in Pina’s voice, she’s still standing in front of you. Almost everybody else has made their way out onto the pitch, leaving the two of you and a couple of stragglers behind.

“You don’t look so good chica, are you feeling okay?”

Your boots are easy enough to lace up, once you’re done you reach behind you for your jacket, not quite sure if it’s warm enough to train in just your shirt.

“Estoy Bien. Vale?”

Before Pina can ask much more, you begin to walk towards the doors of the locker room. It’s breezy enough outside that you choose to put your jumper on, as do most of your teammates.

Aitana is doing individual training, because of her ankle. Pere says that it’s precautionary.

If you weren’t already feeling like you were on the brink of vomiting then now it’s the only thing you can feel. You feel ill, you feel completely absorbed by the sickness pooled at the bottom of your stomach. When Pere asks if you’re feeling alright you can’t say no, because you have no reason to feel as badly as you do. But it’s all the words, they’re spinning around in your head, every article, every single word.

It shows on the pitch, every decision, every pass, every shot, every tackle is helf back. You’re fearufl and it shows.

When training finally does finish, and Aitana is still working by herself with one of the coaches on another pitch you feel like it’s almost your breaking point. Until Pere pulls you over again and lets you know that you’ll be starting for the match on the weekend as a replacement for Aitana.

That’s your breaking point. You have nothing to say, nothing to think. You feel like a zombie as you walk towards the locker room. You sabotaged your teammate for your own good.

As soon as the team list is out that’s the only thing people will be saying, You don’t even want to think about what people will think when they see the photos of Aitana training by herself with her ankle all taped up. Whilst you were out on the pitch with all of your teammates. What was just starting to get better for you was only bound to relapse with the new information.

All of the girls notice your shift in behaviour. It’s Pina though who approaches Alexia on your third day of training back. Aitana is still training individually, purely for precaution and preservation. There are more important games then the one coming on the weekend and it’s not worth aggravating the small injury. It doesn’t feel like that to you though, and it’s been abundantly clear to everybody that something is up with you.

“Alexia, can I talk to you for a second?”

Alexia’s been talking to Irene about ….. for at least ten minutes and whilst Pina has no interest in interrupting it’s getting boring waiting around for a conversation to end that’s clearly dragging.

Alexia looks so care free, and Pina asking to talk to her shouldn’t change that, but the look that’s on her face changes Alexia’s demeanour almost immediately.

“What’s up?”

Pina looks at Irene awkwardly, like she’s not sure if the information she’s about to share with Alexia is for Irene’s ears. Irene seems to get the message, farewelling the two of them before heading off.

“I’m worried about y/n.”

Alexia’s silently been wondering whether to approach the subject. She’d thouyght about asking Keira is something had happened on England camp, considering that your particularly filthy mood had seemed to start afterwards. It was out of character for you, and originally Alexia had thought it was all part of some sort of prank plot. But as the last couple of days had passed it had become drastically clear that there was something else wrong. She’d thought it would be smarter to give you the benefit of the doubt, everyone had bad weeks. Alexia wasn’t aware of any relationships you were in but she wouldn’t have been shocked if your mood had been due to a breakup or something of similar origin.

“Ale, she’s been acting strange. She comes in everyday and hardly talks to anybody, she doesn’t joke around with use like she normally does, she hasn’t been answering our groupchat, she’s been avoiding all of our plans to hang out. Out on the pitch she’s been cautious but so unphased and she won’t talk to me or Ona or Patri or Kika or Esmee and I don’t know what to do anymore. Somethings really wrong, normally she’s so happy, I mean everyones noticed that the locker room has been more quiet. I thought it was going to pass, but she’s seemed really upset, like somethings really wrong and what’s happening on the internet can’t be helping it.”

The problem is that Alexia doesn’t disagree with anything that Pina is saying, she can’t dismiss any of it as overreaction because whether it’s been conscious or not she has noticed all of the things that she’s being told. She hadn’t yet pieced it all together as one thing but now that all the puzzle pieces are being laid out in front of her it seems impossible to ignore that it’s all coming together.

“On the internet? De qúe estás hablando?”

Alexia is the first to admit that she’s not exactly the best with technology, sure she’s got all the social media apps and Olga is constantly trying to teach her the ways of all of them but it doesn’t particularly interest her. She finds it easier to look at them as another means of work, it’s how she makes money, posting about football and endorsements. Otherwise she finds enjoyment in places besides her phone. Does it keep her slightly out of the loop? Yes. Does she have younger teammates to keep her up to date? Also yes.

“All the stuff about Aitana. I haven’t read into it much, but I know it’s not good. The media have been slaughtering her for that red card. She punishes herself enough after a bad tackle or pass, I can’t imagine what a red card would do.”

Alexia makes a mental note to look into it later but for now she knows that she needs to deescalate. Because if Pina is telling Alexia now then it’s not long before it blows up within the team.

“Okay. I’ll talk to her tomorrow after the game, if she’s still off I’ll talk to her. I’ll have a chat with Keira and ask if anything asked on camp, bueno? Whatever it is Pina, it can be fixed, all problems can be fixed. I’m sure it’s just been a rough week with all the travel and games, not everybody can adjust well, mixed with the recent fixtures it would be expected that everyone is feeling a bit more exhausted.”

It’s the rationalisation that seems to calm Pina down more, which was ultimately Alexia’s end goal. She can deal with you tomorrow but for now it’s crucial that she stops this from escalating within the team. When things spread it all becomes more drama and it’s not good, distractions are not what everybody needs leading into the next fixtures.

Alexia honestly forgets about the conversation completely. Between organising dinner the night before, stretching, spending quality time with her girlfriend and generally just getting herself game ready and in a good head space. She woke up feeling rested and prepared for the game ahead.

You however, were quite simply a mess. You’d hardly slept in over a week now, if you did sleep you woke up in a sweat after a particularly brutal nightmare, you were hardly eating because you always felt so nauseous from the anxiety and your performance on the football pitch had been dismaying.

Alexia, and your teammates, weren’t noticing the smaller things. You lived in your own apartment, in your own building. Nobody was aware of everything that was contributing to all the things that were beginning to show.

Alexia, hyper vigilant after Pina’s admission decided that she’d try and find you before everyone hopped on the bus to head to the opposing stadium, yet you were nowhere to be found. As everyone loaded onto the bus she almost missed you. Usually, you sat at the back, with the younger girls. Normally, Alexia gravitated somewhere in the middle of the bus, she was too old to be singing or messing around at the back but she liked to still be kept in the mix.

It was why she almost missed you, hunched into a seat almost at the very front of the bus.

“Chica?”

The way your whole body darted upwards as soon as you heard Alexia was another concerning thing that she was adding to a mental list.

“Capi.”

You pull your headphones off as a courtesy, but the reintroduction to the sounds of earth and the environment around you brings you right back to everything you’ve been feeling.

“Are you waiting for Kika or Vicky?”

Alexia feels like she already knows your answer, but she’s hanging on to a thread of hope that whatever Pina is feeling isn’t as bad as it seems.

“No, I need some sleep and it’s impossible to get any back there without somebody sticking something in my mouth or posting videos of me with my mouth half open.”

Alexia laughs, it’s the exact reason she can’t sit up the back anymore, it’s too much stupidity in a concentrated space.

“Ah, normally you’re more than happy to terrorize the rest of us, normalmente eres la reina de los estupidas.”

When your face doesn’t even respond slightly to Alexia and you have no witty comeback about her being boring or something else it’s another clear sign that something is up, she just can’t quite pin point what.

You’ve tuned out from her though, and as much as she is worried and thrown off, the bus is not a place to make a scene, specifically before a match. You will not take well to Alexia interrogating you and potentially causing any kind of emotional distress.

So, even though it pains her to do so, she walks on, she leaves you in the sinking ship you’re currently n in, taking on more and more water as every minute passes.

You’re at a point where you can admit to yourself that you are in no way fit to play.

You don’t want to be on the pitch, the fans don’t want you on the pitch, your teammates musn’t want you on the pitch, Pere wouldn’t have you on the pitch if Aitana was available and when you think about it the whole footballing world doesn’t want you on the pitch.

You flinch when you walk out to warm up and are met with boos, the Spanish fans are unlike all other fans, their passion is palpable and when one person starts booing everybody follows suit. It’s not even Barcelona fans, which is undecidedly worse and better. The overall impression is that you’ve aggravated the Spanish people.

It takes your teammates a couple of seconds to catch on to who it is the anger is being directed at but once they do it’s a domino affect of everybody turning to you, and then turning to each other and back to you. You try your best to not let it affect you, you’ve been booed before and have dealt with many angry fans, but when it starts to echo from the away side of the stands you honestly question if you’ve pushed yourself a little bit too hard.

Alexia regrets her decision not to say something to you when she sees the complete fear in your eyes as you look around at the crowd, who are vehemently booing you. It’s not a good feeling on any day to clearly have a crowd so against you but when you’re clearly off kilter as it is it’s clear that it all throws you off even more.

Before Alexia can think about it, she’s beelining straight to Keira.

“What happened on camp?”

Keira is just as thrown off by what is occurring as everyone else.

“England camp?”

It’s clear in the bewilderment in Keira’s face that she’s not understood what Alexia’s asking.

“With y/n, did something happen that nobody knows about?”

The booing finally comes to an end, but it doesn’t change the overall energy in which a whole crowd is sending your way.

“She was fine all camp, being an idiot with grace and beth and being her usual self. All the other games she was fine, and then after the Spain game, after the red card, she’s just been acting different. It’s like G at Man City all over again.”

Alexia understands everything that Keira’s saying, until the last sentence. Her English is pretty good, hger understanding is almost perfect, speaking less so but the last few words completely surpass her level of interpretation.

“G? Man City?”

Alexia notices you in the corner of her eye doing shooting practice, every time you miss and echo of cheers erupts.

“Georgia? Stanway? A couple of years ago, when she was young she got a stupid red card, it wasn’t pretty not dissimilar to the challenge on Aitana. Big mess with the media, got some really nasty messages.”

She doesn’t remember the moment itself, but she does remember reading something about it a couple of years ago.

“Gracias.”

You’re red hot with rage already, the crowd has you amped up. When Pere questions you in the locker room about your state of mind, you are quite literally in a blinding fury. It the kind of sadness fueled anger, youa re literally ripping apart at the seams and instead of actually feeling all of the innate anguish you are experiencing you turn it into anger.

“Why the fuck did you go to Pere and tell him I wasn’t ready to play.”

The tunnel is the only time you’ve been able to talk to Alexia, she’d been so held up with the pep talk, then talking to Pere, then giving inspiration to everybody else. But now that you have the opportunity you can’t ignore it.

Alexia’s eyes are ahead, you’re stuck standing behind her but she can hear you perfectly clear.

“After the game.”

It had taken enough effort for you to convince Pere that you were fine. You were begging for a starting spot that you didn’t even want, a spot that is actually making you feel sick to your stomach. It’s the doubt though, you doubted yourself in that stupid tackle that got you the card, so if you doubted yourself what was to stop everybody else from doubting you?

“No, what makes you think that you can talk to our coach about my game fitness without even talking to me? Do you have any respect for me at all?”

Alexia turns around, and it makes you feel slightly validated and slightly less like you’re about to punch her in the head.

“It’s not about your fitness.”

The punching in the head feeling returns pretty quickly.

“Not about my fitness? What the fuck else is it then? Just because I don’t act like a dickhead on the bus and decide to take a nap?”

Alexia gives you on final look before turning around, the look on her face only adds to your sickeningly consuming anger.

You go onto the pitch angry, which isn’t good for anything. Every time the ball lands at your feet, boos echo out. Every time you get tackled, which is fairly frequently because the opposition has chosen you as the punching bag for the game, cheers erupt. The game is easy enough, 90 percent of possession is with Barcelona, with you spot in the midfield the ball comes to you every few seconds. It’s mostly fine, for the first ten or so minutes. Until the tackles start to get rougher, and you’re mad, and the crowd is loud and everything feels so incredibly wrong.

It’s working you up at a fast rate, then the ball lands at your feet for the 50th time in the match already, and without even looking up at your defender, who three seconds before was standing right in front of you, her studs are placing themselves directly into your calf. It’s not a comfortable feeling, to put it lightly. You manage to clear the ball before you’re on your back, clutching at your leg and trying your best to breathe as the crowd cries out, your opponent mutters something aggressively in spanish and your teammates argue with the referee.

It’s all too much. Your just angry, and upset. Not even at your defender or at the tackle, just at all of it. You think in a roundabout way that this is all karma, that this is your punishment for whatever you did to anger everyone and yourself. You’re tired and fed up and want it all to go away.

You want to sink into the grass of the pitch and just disappear, it would make your life so much easier if in this moment you could just disappear and not face any of the stuff that is happening.

Then there are hands on you and you’re reminded that it’s nowhere near that easy.

“Estas bien? Necesitas la medica?”

You force yourself to stand up, push through, get it over with. You need to prove everybody wrong.

Whether you can see it or not, you are spinning out. Everybody else can see it, you’re frantic, timid and shaken. Patri is the one to put her hands on your shoulders and steady you before you try to return to play.

“You need to go off.”

Twenty minutes have passed, you aren’t going to force a sub when it is unnecessary.

“I’m fine.”

Patri shakes her head, in the same way Irene or Marta would when they are being tough.

“You are not okay, and you need to go off before something worse than that happens.”

You shake Patri off, and when she tries to come back you give her a shove.

“I’m fucking fine. I know when I can and cannot play.”

Like every other attempt that’s been made to try and stop you, she just frowns and walks away. The ref gives you a once over before allowing the game to return to play.

It’s not fine, nothing is fine. Your defender continuously gets away with dangerous tackles that should be continous yellow cards, the crowd is getting to you with every passing second. By gods grace three goals are scored in a few minutes, not only does it silence the opposition it puts you at ease a little bit. For the most part, you’re doing okay, or as okay as possible.

Until it gets to a corner.

There is two minutes of stoppage time, which have well and truly been used up. The corner is going to be the last play and it’s impact is not super important but the pressure is still there. You end up sandwiched between the two centre backs, and for whatever reason when the boot releases off of Patri’s foot from the corner instead of running to make room like you’re supposed to, you are yanked directly to the ground, with two boots stepping directly onto your legs.

It’s not agony, it’s definitely not good but you’re spending more time trying to not cry and collect air then focusing on everything else.

You can’t breathe, and you physically can’t stop the sob that leaves your mouth, it’s pathetic but it’s been building and you can’t stop it.

You don’t bother with listening to the call, or letting your teammates help you up or worrying about the play. The whistle has blown and you have one mission, to go anywhere away from people. You force yourself to stand up even though your back hurts from falling flat on it and your thighs hurt from being stomped on, and walk off.

Pere and the bench are still waiting in the dug out, normally you’d hug or talk or anything but right now the only thing on your mind is getting away, because if you don’t then what is now only tears is going to turn into a full panic attack. You’re working simply off of pure instinct, you have the shutters on and the only thing you are focusing on is your end goal and getting there. When you get to the changing rooms it’s empty, you bee line straight through to the bathroom and lock yourself in a stall before you actually let yourself think beyond the orders that have been set out in your mind.

Like everyone had said, you aren’t ready. You are living with the knowledge that because of your actions, your stupid actions you are being given a spot and opportunity that you didn’t deserve, you got it purely based off of the fact that you injured one of your teammates. Now you can’t even live up to the expectation of being a replacement.

The feeling that was initially what you had thought to be anxiety sickness builds up and all of a sudden you’re grateful your in the bathroom because within a couple of seconds you are kneeled on the floor letting your whole stomach contents out. It’s not a good feeling, you’ve been slowly descending towards rock bottom for days now but you’ve come to the realisation that this is it, this is your lowest point. Every time you think about the pitch you subsequently think about the crowd which leads you to think about everything happening inside your phone and then the sick feeling is back full force. The you think about Aitana, her ankle, her spot, her training, everything. All of that combined and all you can do is cry, it’s the only emotional outlet that you have enough energy for. You’d love to be able to punch something or throw something but you don’t have the energy, you’re running off of no sleep, hardly any food and now the fatigue of playing a half of football.

“Chica, can you open the door?”

Truthfully there are not many people you want to see in this moment or really ever again but Alexia might be at the top of the list. You’d been a little bit star struck when you’d gotten to Barcelona, you were an up and coming and to be on a roster with the best midfielders in the world was something you were in awe of. You were still slightly in awe of the fact that you were sharing a bench with two ballon d’or winners.

“I’m fine.”

You force yourself to stay as silent as possible even though it’s hard with the constant sobs building up inside of your chest.

“Please open the door.”

You’re at rock bottom and even if you try to swim out you’re going to need some help at some stage you suppose.

As soon as you open the door there is a resounding gasp, you close your eyes to keep a little bit of your inner peace whilst Alexia steps into the stall and locks the door behind her. There is just enough room for her to squeeze down on the floor next to you so she does without any hesitation.

“I don’t need you telling me that you were right to question me playing and that it was a bad idea, I’m already aware.”

You’re not sore from the match and yet everything hurts, you actually feel like your limbs are slowly being ripped off of your body and everything is being split open.

“I wasn’t going to say that, I was going to ask if you’re okay.”

It’s a complicated question.

“Physically yes.”

Your eyes are still closed, if you look at Alexia then suddenly this all becomes a whole lot more real.

“Mentally, emotionally?”

Just the question is enough to essentially demuzzle you, everything you were doing to stop yourself from crying out fails, and you start sobbing, in the loudest and ugliest way possible.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Alexia bunches up jext to you, slings an arm around your shoulders and brings you in closer.

“Don’t apologise when you didn’t do anything wrong, even if everyone else is making it seem like you did.”

Deep down you do believe you did something wrong, you don’t exactly know what but you must have, you must have done something because why else would all of this have happened.

“I hurt Aitana, I took her spot, I sabotaged her.”

The crying is cathartic, you’ve been crying for days but in an unemotionally detached way to expel some of the depression instead of actually feeling it.

“No you didn’t. You mis-timed a tackle that ended in a very minor injury. Football is a game of injuries, it happens. I don’t care what you’ve read online or what you’ve heard, the facts are simple. Anyone on our team or the england team can tell you that. Nobody blames you for what happened, not even Aitana. So you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

It’s easier to blame yourself you think.

“Everybody hates me, all I’m getting are messages about how I deserve to die and how people wish I’m never able to have kids or that I get injured as payback.”

Alexia’s deep breath makes you feel queasy all over again.

“What we’re going to do is delete all of your social media apps for the next few weeks, nothing is going to make people stop being putas, si? So for your own sake you’re going to delete all of them, turn all of your comments off, turn your messages off. There is nothing more important then your peace of mind, once that’s gone then this happens. You deserve better than this, you deserve to feel better than this. You also deserve to have fun and enjoy being a part of this team, nobody thinks you sabotaged Aitana, nobody blames you. You are just as welcome here as you were before the break, you are just as valued here as you were before the break. This stupid situation is not worth your health, si?”

You wipe away some of your tears, even though they’re still coming and nod.

“You deserve better, and until people realise that we need to focus on making sure that you know that.”

You feel specifically worthless, and it’s completely your own doing.

“Now, we need to get up before my legs go to sleep and my old body is stuck on the floor in here. Not everybody has young bones like you kids.”

You flush whatever parts of your stomach decided they wanted to resurface and force yourself to stand up, but as you do so the realisation that you are midway through a match comes back and all off a sudden you feel the need to sit down again.

“I told Pere to take you off for the rest of the game, I was coming off anyway, managing minutes. You can get dressed or shower, or do whatever you need to do and then we’lltalk a bit more about how we can turn this around. I’m serious when I say that the main focus is you right now and supporting you.”

You ignore the fact that nothing was ever mentioned about Alexia managing minutes and just accept that it’s a pointless argument and you don’t exactly mind her company right now. It’s nice to know that there is somebody shining a light for you at the end of the tunnel.

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the-librarby · 1 month ago

Text

YOU WEAR ATTENTION LIKE IT’S PERFUME

- JOHN MACTAVISH (COD)

Johnny can keep his thoughts to himself on a good day. But this dinner with your friends is testing his patience, it’s either he knocks this guy’s teeth in or you let him have his under-the-table fun with you.

Take one for the team, will you?

Title taken from A.M.P by Movements.

Credit to @/dollywons for the banner.

Johnny knew he hit the jackpot with you. Not many would put up with his somewhat rowdy behaviour, let alone his line of work for long, but somehow you still stuck around despite the long periods of time work took him away for.

So yes, he had sunk his hooks in you long ago and he wasn’t letting go, not until you snapped each finger back and finally told him to fuck off. You were counting on it though, what he failed to see was how much of an affect his unwavering loyalty had on you.

Ever since he told a guy who was persistently asking for your phone number when you were just trying to pick up your coffee, to pack it up and leave, you just knew. He tried to deter you, honestly, no matter how weak willed his defence was—you can’t say he didn’t warn you about what it would be like when he had to pack up and leave for the next place he was needed.

And it was tough, especially in the beginning, having to build so much trust over a long distance but you made it work. Your friends had thought you were lying about this military boyfriend for a while—because seriously where the fuck did you manage to meet him?—and were concerned about your mental wellbeing, until John had promised to put what limited time he had aside to call you and answer all your friends questions. It has been a very awkward first introduction, but it was endearing to hear him sweating over the prying questions your friends had prepared.

And that’s just the type of man he was. He was passionate,— loud, rowdy, whatever you want to call it—considerate, and most of all attentive.

“What time are we leavin’?”

His eyes meet yours through the mirror, he’s standing there ready to go but knows you’re nowhere near ready, evident by the fact that you’re not even dressed yet, “Um,” you pause mid-brush to look down at your phone, “Half an hour?”

He walks over to your makeup vanity to observe all the various products you have spread out over the desk, “Can I help?”

John makes himself comfortable by straddling the bench you’re currently sitting on, his bulky frame knocks into the table causing it to rattle everything. You gaze over at him questioningly with an eyebrow quirked, but he looks curious as he inspects everything a laugh can’t help but escape your lips.

“Help with what? My makeup?” You clarify, putting the hairbrush down.

John picks up one of your eyeliner pens and uncaps the lid, tilting it between his fingers, “Yeah,”

You point at the eyeliner in his hands, “Do you even know what that’s for?”

He squints for a moment and runs the tip of the brush against the back of his hand until it leaves a black smudge, “It’s a tool… for somethin’,” you hum in encouragement, “Eye related?”

At your brightened gaze he smiles triumphantly, “Lucky guess,” you roll your eyes, “Not sure if I trust you enough to put eyeliner on me though,”

His expression turns aghast as he holds the pen more firmly now, “I’ve got a steady hand!” He declares, inching closer to your face, “I can do a better job than you,”

You laugh and lean back out of his grabbing range, put space between the two of you by shoving against his chest, “You don’t even know what to do!”

He leans back and throws his hands up with an exasperated huff, “Show me a photo of you in it then, I can copy,”

“I wasn’t even going to put any on tonight,” you mutter, pulling up an old photo of you wearing it so he could see.

John whistles lowly, “Well you’ve got to now doll, look at that,” he hunches over you phone and uses his free hand to zoom in on your face, “Beautiful,”

“Alright,” you give in, propping up your phone against the mirror with the photo displayed as a reference. You copy John’s posture and swing one leg over the bench so you’re straddling it as well, “You get one chance, I don’t want us to be late.”

John looks at the photo one last time in upmost concentration before turning to you, eyeliner pen ready in his hand. Gently he grips your chin and tilts your head, eyes fluttering closed when you feel the closed palm of his other hand resting against your temple. Before he can begin, you rest your hands on the bench between your legs for balance and wait patiently for John to finish it off. You’re half convinced you’ll have to wipe it off, as much as you love him, you are not going out with subpar eyeliner on just to appease him.

“Done,” he mumbles, capping the lid back on the eyeliner.

When you open your eyes to check the damage, John is already looking at you through the mirror with a smug smile on his face. Fuck, it’s actually perfect.

“How the fuck did you manage that?” You gasp, tilting your head from side to side to check the evenness.

He puffs his chest out with pride, “Steady hands my love, what can I say? I’m a man of many talents,”

“Whatever, don’t get a big head about it,” you tease.

“Too late, my head is touching the ceiling as we speak.”

You laugh and stand up, hopping over the vanity bench to reach for tonight’s outfit which is hanging on your wardrobe door. It’s just a little black dress, a go to that you gravitate to once the weather starts to get warmer.

John stays seated when you disappear into the connecting ensuite to put it on. He’s just about organised all your discarded makeup when you walk back in, hands awkwardly twisted behind your back as you try to get the zipper to close.

“Help?” You ask.

You turn your back as John stands up to assist you, with careful hands he pinches the zipper and tugs it up in one smooth motion until it’s secure. In the full length mirror he can see you adjusting the hem of it until it’s shifted down just a bit lower. His hands rest on your waist as he ducks down to press a chaste kiss against your cheek.

“Look stunning, love,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head, “It’s not too short right?”

He hooks his chin over your shoulder to give you a proper once over. The dress is short, indecent thoughts of bending you over there and then are already running through his mind on a loop.

“If someone so much as looks at you wrong, you let me know. I’ll take care of it.” he promises.

Before you can come up with some kind of retort, your phone on the vanity starts to buzz with incoming text messages. Other friends have started to leave their places, meaning you’re now in a mad dash to collect the rest of your things and slip on a pair of heels.

John is already standing at the door with your bag over his shoulder waiting for you to catch up, car keys are dangling in his other hand.

“Are you sure you want to drive?”

“Aye, I’m being a good boy tonight, no rowdy bar fights for me when I’m making a good impression on your friends,”

You smile mischievously and run your hand down his chest as you go to step out the front door, “But I love when you start fights,”

John smirks and smacks your ass as you turn around, “Save your flirtin’ for later, we have places to be.”

Dinner was a casual affair between you, your closest friends, and their partners (a triple date as one of your friends referred to it as), at some inner city restaurant. The restaurant was known for its dim, almost candlelit lighting and limited seating—it was a miracle you’d actually had a chance to book a reservation.

Everyone was already seated at the circular table by the time you’d made it, it had taken a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the deep wooden interior and low hanging pendent lights accompanied by the candles littering each table really made up for the intimate atmosphere.

You went around the table to say hello to each person while John introduced himself to your friend’s partners, by now they were semi-introduced having only met him twice in between deployments. But it didn’t take long for John to get on someone’s good side if he behaved—as his mother would say.

“So glad you organised this!” One of the girls said, “This place is so nice, I didn’t even know there was a bar outside the back.”

John rested his hand over your thigh as he made polite small talk with the guys. They were a far stretch from his friends at work, business men—clearly knew each other by the way they talked about mutual coworkers, but John was nothing but flexible when it came to conversation. So he listened, added insightful detail, and asked questions when the girls were retelling a story he wasn’t there for.

They were great for pushing embarrassing details about you, “Remember when you got so drunk on the way to that pool hall, that you almost fell over into a ditch of water?”

John grins and leans over you to hear your friend’s details, “Sorry, she what? When?”

You shove him away, “God, shut up, that’s not even funny, I’ll never drink that much again in my life,”

Your friend laughed, patting your shoulder sympathetically, “It was so long ago, she literally couldn’t walk straight without holding onto someone,”

John laughs and squeezes your thigh, “When are you gonna let that loose around me?”

You roll your eyes, “Trust me,” you pat his hand, “It’s not cute, and definitely not something you want to see,”

“I agree, it’s not fun looking after a drunk girlfriend. So messy,” one of the guys cuts in judgementally, taking a sip of his scotch.

The table gets a bit quiet after that, unsure how to respond but John just laughs, “Nah mate, I’d love to see it, drunk babbling and all,” he says, lifting your hand to kiss the back of it.

A shy smile graces your face as he squeezes your hand in reassurance. I got you. Soon after, a new conversation starts up as the food arrives. There are drinks flowing—a decent amount until everyone lets their guard down and laughter comes more easier from around the table. The white tablecloth is starting to frustrate you with how long it is draping over your legs because you keep kicking it, but you try to not let it bother you.

“Bathroom?” One of the girls whispers. You nod eagerly and stand, adjusting your dress as you do, a mild dizzy spell hits you when you stand to your full height. Time to back off the drinks, you think.

You’re all giggling by the time you make it into the bathroom, taking turns in using the stall and touching up your makeup.

“Your make up is banging tonight,”

You laugh loudly, it’s an unexpected response that makes your friend look at you questioningly, “Would you believe me if I told you Johnny did my eyeliner?”

“What?” Your friend gasp, “No fucking way, let me see,”

“What! What!” The other girl calls from the stall, “What am I missing?”

You let your face be tilted side to side, “Damn he did good, what is this just a bizarre trick he knows?”

The sound of the toilet flushing and door slamming open breaks you both apart. You shrug, “I don’t know, he’s just a bag of tricks I guess,”

“What did I miss?” She asks, looking at the both of you.

“John did her eyeliner, and I’m fucking jealous in all honesty,” your friend said earnestly.

“What? Aw,” She coos, quickly washing her hands before looking at you, “That’s so cute! Goals, wish that were me,”

You smile bashfully but feel pride well in your chest, “Think I just lucked out.”

The girls smile at you knowingly and turn to each other to whisper conspiratorially right in front of you, making sure you can see every dramatic nod and glance your way.

“I know,” one of the girls points a finger in her mouth in a gagging act, “Disgustingly in love,”

“Right? I feel like I’m intruding on them,” the other agrees.

You roll your eyes, “Oh whatever, you’re both so dramatic,”

The girls laugh but follow your motion to walk out into the restaurant. You’re about to walk back to the table when the entrance to the bar comes into view. It’s much brighter out there with the warm lighting, in the outdoor patio space. The girls are immediately intrigued and want to have a look at the drinks menu, which you agree to and offer to meet them there once you tell the boys. You watch them disappear through the door before finding your way back to the table, which is incredibly hard in the dim lighting.

When John comes back into view he’s already looking at you curiously, “Fell down the rabbit hole on your way back or somethin’ lass?” He asks once you’re in earshot.

You grin and pat shoulder before letting it migrate to the back of his neck, he leans into your touch as you rest your elbows on the back of his chair, “No, just girl talk in the bathroom,” you crouch down to whisper in his ear, “They’re very envious of your makeup skills, had to practically claw them off you,”

He tilts his head until his lips are just shy of touching your cheek, “Oh yeah? Stake your claim did you?”

You hum, letting your fingers curl and pull at the hair at the nape of his neck, “You bet your ass I did baby.”

The clearing of someone’s throat popped the bubble that surrounded you both, when you glanced over at the other two guys you smiled politely, “The girls have gone to give the bar outside a try, did you guys want something? I’m about to go find them,”

“I’ll try whatever you’re gettin’.” John mumbles into your ear, giving your arm a pat.

The other two politely decline, so you nod and stand up before turning on your heel to find your way back to the girls. John watches you longingly as you leave, god your ass looks great in that dress.

“I don’t know how you do it John,” dickhead cuts in. He’d aptly named him that due to forgetting his name, and honestly not caring for ask for a reminder after his little comment about drunk women being messy.

“Do what?” He mutters, half disinterested.

“I could never let my girl go out in a dress like that,” he clarifies.

Oh how John feels his blood start to boil, “I fail to see how that’s any of your business,” he states bluntly, trying to keep his tone even.

Dickhead shrugs nonchalantly, raising his tumbler of watered down whiskey, “My girl knows she has to dress modestly,”

John crosses his ankle over his knee, leaning back in his chair, “And how’s that working out for you, mate?”

The other guy—idiot, as named in John’s mind for the way he spinelessly follows this dickhead’s words—shifts uncomfortably at the confrontational tone.

“Excuse me?” He inquires.

John clasps his hands together as his elbows rest against either arm rest, “I asked, how’s that going for you? Is the missus satisfied with your subpar performance?”

“Woah,” idiot chimes in awkwardly, “Let’s settle down,”

“My partner is more than happy thank you,” dickhead snips, knocking his tumbler against the table, “Calm down, I didn’t mean anything bad by my comment,”

John raises an eyebrow, “Didn’t mean anything bad when you commented on the way my partner dresses? You’ve overstepped your boundary, mate,”

He rolls his eyes, gesturing to his friend beside him, “This guy can’t take a joke, should’ve known better with a military man. So disconnected from our world,”

Idiot nods timidly and takes a sip of his water, but John is like a dog with a bone, “How about you stop hiding behind your pathetic superiority complex and say it like it is, since I’m so disconnected,”

Dickhead eyes him out of the corner of his eye, “Listen, clearly we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” he leans back in his seat, “You can’t take a joke, I see that now, let’s just drop it,”

John makes a grab for his drink, making the guy flinch in his seat, he can’t help but smirk, “Of course, I’m just a military man,” he sips his water, “I’d understand you’d want to backtrack since I could easily knock your teeth in,”

“Are you threatening me?”

He shrugs, “Depends, you gonna keep running your mouth?”

The man scoffs and shakes his head, “God, you’re suited for each other. Always knew she’d end up with a degenerate,”

“Fucks sake, degenerate? What are you, my mother?” He laughs, “Are ye jealous, cunt? Sounds like you’re pent up,” he leans closer to privately whisper, “I was joking about your subpar performance, are you actually having trouble? There’s things you can get for that now y’know?”

Dickhead looks aghast at his choice of words, his top lip curling up in distaste like John is the scum beneath his shoe, “Have a bit of tact, seriously, you’re embarrassing yourself,”

John snuffs out a laugh, relaxing back into his chair, “Yeah because tact has worked so well for you. Your girl is a saint for puttin’ up with ye,”

“Well I doubt you had to work very hard to get where you are, did you?” he spat.

“You implyin’ she’s a whore now?” He asks bluntly, he scoffs and shakes his head, “Mate, you’re askin’ the wrong questions, what you should be asking for is tips on how to eat out a cunt because I doubt you’ve ever been in any other position than missionary.”

The server that walks past side eyes their table as they walk past with their tray of drinks. You could hear a pin drop at the table now, dickhead is seething, if it were brighter in here John is sure he could watch the way his face turns red.

“That is not true,” he defends, “And it’s not your place to comment on such things—”

“Oh, now he gets it!” John cuts in, “Found out what decency is did you?”

“Yeah, does your girl know the meaning?” He jabs.

John nods with an amused smile, “Good one,” he comments, “My girl,” he emphasises pointing to his chest, “Knows she can wear whatever the fuck she wants because she’s got me looking after her. What are you doin’ when a guy makes a pass at your missus? Calling security? Fuckin’ wanker.”

The guy seethes silently for a moment, jaw set in anger until he’s finally had enough. He drags his chair out and stands up, muttering about not needing to take this, before storming off. His friend glances between the two of them before following suit, making an excuse to check on his partner.

“Tell his missus that he stormed off too while you’re at it,” he comments nodding in the direction of the door he stormed out of.

The guy just nods before walking towards the back door entrance to the bar. John sighs and sinks into his seat, fuck he hoped this didn’t blow it for you and your friends. He avoided drinking to keep himself from running his mouth, but it turns out he does a fantastic job at it while sober too.

It’s not long before he sees you making a beeline between the tables to get to him, a worried expression creasing your face, “What happened?” You ask, dropping down in the seat next to him.

John sighs roughly, “Fucking dickhead called you a tart,”

“What? Why?” You press on.

He looks at you for a moment before trailing his eyes down to your dress, “I don’t want this to ruin your night,” he huffs, “Guy is as stuck up as the nuns in church,”

You look down self consciously, “My dress isn’t it?”

John hooks his finger under your chin and knocks his forehead gently against yours, “Hey,” he murmurs, “Don’t let that guy get into your head,” he chuckles, eyes not straying away from yours, “If it makes you feel better he tried to call me dumb because I’m in the military,”

You laugh softly and sigh, “Must not know what he’s talking about then,”

“Exactly.” he agrees, dropping his hand down to your thigh.

You’re not entirely convinced of the whole situation, it does make you a bit self conscious that one of your friend’s partners commented on how you look. Like it has to be noticeable, if another guy is commenting right? The thought sticks like glue and plasters itself at the forefront of your mind, an unmovable stain on your mood.

The only thing that momentarily crashes your pity party is the intruding fingers trying to get underneath your dress, “What are you doing?” You ask, squirming away and trying to shove your dress back down.

“Sick of seeing you in this dress and not doing anything about it,” John says in a gruff tone, not even looking your way.

You squeak when he roughly pulls your leg to the side to get better access to your inner thigh, “John, where the fuck are you going—” you gasp as his finger trails down the crease of your panties.

Still unfazed, John’s hand remains where it is gently petting the outline of your slit. You’ve never been so thankful for the dim lighting and long tablecloth that’s covering your legs. You grab his wrist and squeeze your legs tightly around his hand in effort to limit his mobility.

“Are you insane?” You hiss, looking directly at him.

John tilts his head lazily in your direction, a matching at ease smirk on his face, “I’ve sat though some fucking painful conversations tonight, sweetheart,” he sighs, “If I don’t get to blow off some steam I’m going to beat the shit out of that guy when he comes back in to get his missus,”

You bite your lip looking around self consciously, suddenly all the eyes in the room feel like they’re on you. John leans over into your chair, “I don’t think you get it,” he murmurs, “This is not a choice, open your fucking legs or I’ll make sure everyone sees. I’m not above getting kicked out of here.”

He doesn’t even need to convince you any further, you believe it. He’s been kicked out of bars over smaller things, he’s told you so on dates when he traded stories over his embarrassing past behaviour.

Doesn’t seem like much has changed now. Reluctantly you sink further down into your seat, just to make sure the tablecloth is fully covering your lap before you let your legs fall open.

“Good girl.” he murmurs in your ear, resuming his soft movements.

Up and down, and up and down, and down and up again. John is completely relaxed and satisfied with feeling the outline of your lips, occasionally pressing through the thin fabric of your panties to circle your clit.

“Oh my god,” a voice cuts through. You freeze and snap your head in the direction it came from, fully convinced you’ve been caught, “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

It’s your friends. They’ve come back in from the bar and look concerned, one of the girls partners is standing behind them looking sheepish, he must have filled them in.

You smile gracefully, “Yeah, I’m fine,” you drag out when John places a ill-timed press against your clit, “Not exactly what I like to hear, but it’s whatever,”

Your friends sit on the opposite side of you and John—thankfully leaving the seat next to you unoccupied—they look more angry on your behalf, “No, that’s completely unacceptable. He will apologise, and then he’ll fuck off.”

It makes you smile to know that even though it was your friend’s partner who made the comments, she’s still on your side, “I don’t want it to make issues in your relationshi—”

She raises her hand to silence you, “Not at all, I refuse to let that slide.”

You nod, trying to keep your face neutral as John decides to take it up a gear and apply more deliberate pressure over your panties. The small circles he rubs are enough to make you twitch and throb. John passes off getting more comfortable in his chair as he leans his arm closer to you so he has a better range of movement.

“You look fucking stunning in that dress, I hope you know that,” your other friend comments, pointing accusingly at you.

John nods, “That’s what I’ve been saying all night, thank you,”

“Ugh! I can’t believe he tried to call you indecent! I’m going to lose it at him,”

John looks over at you and smiles, “I like your friends,”

You can only hum and let out a small laugh through pressed lips, “Yeah, chose well didn’t I?”

His smile turns into a sharp grin, “Feeling good?” He whispers.

You glance over at your friends that are stuck in heated conversation before slumping into him and letting out a small moan into his shoulder, “Faster, please,”

John tilts his head to hear you better, “What was that?”

You frown, “S’not enough, Johnny, c’mon,” you whisper, bucking your hips into his hand.

He takes mercy and presses harder, it takes all willpower in you not to let your head loll back against the chair. Instead, you try to focus on the conversation on the other side of the table, bits and pieces filter through but most of it falls on deaf ears.

It’s lucky that you spot the emerging figure making its way back to the table. You grasp John’s wrist in a hard grip, “Stop, stop, stop,” you plead.

John follows your line of sight and lets out a low laugh, “This will be good.”

He stands awkwardly at the edge of the table, watching as everyone goes silent and looks at him. Instead of addressing the whole table, he turns to his girlfriend and mumbles something about a car being here.

Your friend’s expression turns furious almost instantly, “I’m not going fucking anywhere with you. How dare you call one of my friends indecent,”

He sighs roughly and shoots John a seething look before turning back, “Babe, it was taken out of context—”

“Well?” She questions, gesturing to the table with her hand, “Tell us what the context was then.”

John is doing a piss poor job of covering up his snickering behind his hand, that even you have to elbow him to get him to be quiet. He repays the favour by inching his fingers underneath your panties.

You inhale sharply but try not to tense up when his fingers dip between your wet folds.

“Can we just talk about this at home? This isn’t something I’d like to bring up in front of the table,” he hisses.

“You involved the table when you spoke about someone who wasn’t you,” your other friend cuts in.

Trapped in a corner the guy gets visibly more pissed off. John chooses that exact time to speak up, “You know what might be great?” He announces, circling your clit like it’s a second nature to him, “An apology,”

The girls clap in unison, “God, what a great idea John,” his girlfriend props her elbow up on the table and rests her chin on her hand in anticipation, “An apology would be amazing to hear.”

Your thighs are starting to tremble, you can’t help but wiggle your toes anxiously as you try to keep focus throughout the onslaught of pleasure building. John lets his middle finger slip down to coat his finger in your juices, he seems to think better of it—a small mercy—when his finger doesn’t sink in but resumes petting your clit.

“Sorry.”

You’re so preoccupied that you barely hear it, the conversation only floods back in when the girls start raising their voices.

“That’s it? Are you fucking dumb?”

Your eyes widen, raising your hands in a placating manner, “It’s okay, girls don’t need—” you gasp—fuck he’s found your sweet spot— but quickly cough in your hand to try and cover it up, “to yell,”

Your friend raises her hand to silence you, “No, shut up, he’s going to apologise and he’s gonna make it good.”

Even in the low light you can see how he’s starting to flush in embarrassment—you find it funny how you share that in common—under everyone’s scrutiny.

“I’m sorry for calling you indecent,” he grits.

“And a tart,” John cuts in.

“I didn’t say that!”

“Just fucking apologise!” The girls exasperate.

“I did apologise! Not my fucking fault, that asshole can’t take a joke.” he borderline shouts, pointing all his fingers in Johnny’s direction.

At this point the waitstaff are starting to get concern and send someone to approach. It’s fucking embarrassing, you bite down on the tip of your nail and observe it all, unwilling to even try and speak up again out of fear some other noise will slip out. By now you’re soaked, purposely being strung out either out of your own anxiety of being caught of John’s relaxed pace.

The guy throws his hands up in defeat, muttering that he was just on his way out to the staff before turning to his girlfriend.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she cringes.

“Where are you going to go?”

John raises his free hand, “You can crash at ours sweetheart.”

Just like the nail in the coffin, if looks could kill he would have been incinerated on the spot. Instead he doesn’t even fight it, he just turns to you one last time—looking more sincere than before.

“I hope this doesn’t destroy our friendship,” he pauses, a last ditch effort of getting in the good books, “I know what I said was wrong—”

“Just get the fuck out,” you hiss, borderline hysterical and about to come.

Everyone is looking at you now and you can’t handle it, not when Johnny is touching you so good, and is giving you no fucking mercy in the eyes of your own reputation. In a last attempt to save your dignity, you dig your head into his shoulder, and sink your nails hard into his forearm as your legs begin to tremble.

White noise floods your ears blocking out any and all words of concern coming from your friends. Lucky John is there as you cover as he strokes you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“She’s just a bit upset girls, can you give us a minute?” He asks, like a concerned boyfriend.

A moment later he whispers in your ear, “Coast is clear,”

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” you gasp, letting go of a breath you were holding.

“After all I’ve done?” He teases, “God, tell him to fuck off again, I’m rock hard sweetheart, think you can give me a hand?”

You shove his hand away until it’s out of your panties and shift them back in place, “You’re sick.” You criticise, slowly raising your head to see the table is empty.

John is right there already greeting you with a knowing smirk, “You knew that though, didn’t you? One of my selling points I think,”

You raise an eyebrow, “That is a selling point? Publicly humiliating me is a good thing?”

John rolls his eyes, “Was barely public,” he dismisses, “Keep talkin’ and I’ll throw you over the table next time.”

Your teeth click shut before you can think better of a snarky reply—lest he decides to cash in his promise on next time.

You wouldn’t put it past him.

#johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x you #john mactavish x you #john mactavish x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #cod x you #cod x reader #john mactavish smut

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lovelytsunoda · 3 months ago

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the residence | yuki tsunoda

summary: after the murder of a foreign secretary on australian soil, yuki tsunoda, who attended the very same party, must own up to a rather compromising alibi

pairing: foreign dignitary!yuki x pastry chef! reader

warnings: smut 18+ they start making out in the kitchen but then move to an insanely fancy room because this party is in some fuckass vintage hotel. somebody does d*e, but he's barely mentioned. takes 'compliments to the chef' to a new meaning, anal fingering, mirrors on the hotel ceiling, unprotected sex

"mr. tsunoda, why are you wearing a dead man's shirt?"

all eyes were on yuki, and he didn't like it. his hands went clammy, and the back of his neck began to sweat. "what are you talking about?" he asked "this is my shirt."

members of the japanese foreign ministry were gathered in the hotel's ornate sitting room, a ghostly rennasaince portrait staring down at him from over the fireplace while he tried to come up with a non incriminating answer.

"i mean that shirt is far too large for a man of your size." the detective crossed her arms over her chest, staring straight at him. "mr. tusnoda, you understand that this is a matter of national security?"

his face was red now, cheeks heated and rosy as he played with his collar. "i can explain. i really can."

"then start talking. a man is dead. a very important man from a foreign government that we were supposed to be fixing our relations with!"

"i was having sex at the time of the murder." he spoke quietly.

the detective cocked her head. "i'm sorry, i didn't catch that."

"i was in bed when the murder happened!" he shouted. "we were in the dead man's room, but i didn't know until afterwards. the buttons came off my shirt, so i took one of his from the closet."

behind him, he heard the defence minister cough, obviously stifling a laugh.

"yeah, that's right! i can get laid too, jackass!"

"boys!" the detective scolded. "that's enough. mr. tsunoda, i'm going to need someone to corroborate that story. can you tell me who you were with?"

he swallowed nervously. "the pastry chef. i think her name is y/n. please, if her boss finds out, she'll lose her job."

TWO HOURS EARLIER

the sound of glass crashing against the kitchen tile was quieter than it should have been against the muffled soundtrack coming in from the other room, where a concert had been hastily pulled together by event staff on account of the fact that miley cyrus was staying in the same hotel, and that the entertainment had dropped out at the last minute.

"what the fuck do you mean i can't do my dessert? mike, the whole evening counted on it!"

"i don't want any open flames in the dining room!"

"wait," yuki said calmly, trying to diffuse the situation. "what was the dessert?"

the chef looked at him, eyes narrowed. "who the fuck is he and who let him in my kitchen?"

her cheeks were damp and she was obviously sweating from the heat inside the industrial kitchen. there were faint pit stains on her black blouse, her hair held back by a floral bandana. her shirt was unbuttoned just enough that yuki could see the saint christopher pendant nestled between her boobs.

"tsunoda yuki, ma'am. from the japanese foreign ministry. what was the dessert you were making?"

"crepes suzette. they're flambeed at the table."

yuki grinned. "i think the prime minister would love that."

her face morphed from an angry glare to a giddy smile as she turned back to mike. "yuki-san can stay. you can get fucked because i'm making crepes suzette whether you like it or not. now get out of my fucking kitchen."

"y/n, please! i don't want your dessert burning down teh fucking hotel."

"as long as the fire inspection is up to date, there shouldn't be a problem. now get out!" to accentuate her point, she threw another crystal glass against the tiled wall.

as a connoisseur of fine foods, yuki found it remarkable to watch her work, preparing enough desserts (that would inevitably be blowtorched) for a dining room of seven hundred. she commanded attention and authority, dishing out instructions to her team in a way that made the foreign secretary's pants grow a little tighter.

he was well and truly smitten.

after the meal was over, and yuki had gotten to see the pure delight on y/n's face as she performed a demonstration of the flambee portion of the dessert, he politely excused himself from the table as miley began to sing.

out of no disrespect for her, of course. she was an incredible performer. there was just someone else that yuki wanted to see more.

the kitchen was empty, the staff having left for a well deserved break when he pushed his way through the swinging doors. y/n was alone, sitting on one of the metal islands. she'd let her hair down, voluminous strands falling around her face as she stared down at her cell phone. she was snacking on a small bowl of table water crackers.

"excuse me, miss?" yuki started, taking off his tie and unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt. "i would like to pay my compliments to the chef."

she looked up at him, smiling as she tucked her phone away into an apron pocket. under the apron, she was wearing jeans and knee high boots with a small wedge heel.

"oh yeah? and how do you reckon you're going to do that?" she slid off the island, leaning against it.

yuki crept closer, arms caging her in. "first with a kiss." his voice was sultry as he said it, resting his forehead against hers. "and then, if she's up for it, in a king sized bed with a bottle of champagne, making her come all night long."

y/n grinned, gently tugging his hair. he groaned, and she took pleasure in how flustered he was getting.

she was flustered too, heat pooling in her core. "oh yeah, she's up for it."

when he kissed her, it was like a dam had broken. the kiss was sloppy and hungry, smearing her clear lip gloss all around her mouth before he bit down on her bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth. they could faintly hear miley's second set through the walls, adding a fitting ambiance as she started to grind against yuki's thigh. he pushed his leg further between hers, encouraging her movements as he felt himself harden, swallowing one of her moans as she desperately humped his slacks.

reluctantly, she broke away, face flushed and chest heaving up and down. her blouse had shifted, allowing yuki to see the devilish purple lace undnerneath.

"this is a health hazard." she breathed. "i can't fuck you in here."

"my room is on the seventh floor." yuki breathed. "but i left the key at the table."

"shit." she groaned, leaning her head back so far that the ends of her hair brushed the top of the stainless steel work station.

yuki absentmindedly wondered if that's what she'd look like on top of him.

"i have an idea." she said with a twinkle in her eye. "room service has a master key. it has to be in here somewhere."

hurriedly, the pair separated, opening drawers and checking wall hooks until she found it, triumphantly holding up the skeleton key. all the rooms were fully booked, but as long as the party kept going all night, they would have more than enough time between the sheets before yuki could slink back into the ballroom and grab his own room key.

giggling, she grabbed his arm and tugged him out of the kitchen's service entrance and up the back staircase. on the second floor, they rushed out of the stairwell, going straight for the first room they saw. y/n knew that this whole floor was rented out to the partygoers, and that they would be undisturbed. she slid the key into the lock, silently screaming in triumph as the door gave way. yuki followed her inside, barely waiting until the door was closed to pounce on her again.

he gripped her ass firmly with both hands, his lips kissing the juncture between her neck and collarbone with such force that she was backed up against the door. one of her legs coiled around his, her hands vaguely remembering to take off her apron. she grabbed the man's face, pressing her lips to his again as he tried to shrug off his expensive tailored jacket. his cock strained against his dress pants, and she could feel it through her jeans as he rutted against her.

"bed. now."

she followed him deeper into the immaculate room, the only sign of its habitation being the suitcase shoved into the corner. the bed was massive, layered with plush white pillows and a down duvet.

she fumbled out of her boots, and then her jeans and blouse, leaving them as a trail from the foyer to the raised portion of floor that the bed was on. yuki was already undressed, stroking his hard cock as he watched her fluff her hair and skip towards the bed.

“that’s quite the lingerie set you’ve got there.” he remarked

she shrugged, crawling onto the bed. “confidence booster. makes me feel powerful.” she rested her hands on his thighs, leaning forward to kiss him softly before tapping the end of his nose with her fingertip. “and we had a league of aussie rules football players through here last month. god, those guys know what they’re doing in bed.”

“I don’t know if I like hearing you talk about other men.” yuki purred, running a hand through her hair. “I want to be the only one who makes you feel good.”

she kissed his neck, guiding his hand to her ass as her own hand went to his hard cock, skillfully stroking up and down as she licked at his pulse point.

“mm, sweet girl.” yuki hummed, hips bucking into her hand. “that’s it, just like that.”

his hand skirted over her bottom, over the dark silk of her panties to where he slipped his fingers between her ass cheeks, gently playing with her small, tight hole.

she gasped at the sensation, her hand faltering around yukis dick.

“oh my god.” she gasped, burying her face between his neck and shoulder.

“yeah baby?” he hummed, turning his head to kiss her hair, letting out his own soft moan at the feeling of her fingers around him. “you like it when I play with your asshole? atta girl, just let me make you feel good.”

she nodded against his neck before tilting her head up to kiss him, hand moving along his member quicker and quicker. she could feel his hips stuttering under her hand. he leaned back with a harsh moan, staring up at the room's mirrored ceiling. reflected back at him, he could see his flushed, muscular body, and a gorgeous woman running her hand all over his cock.

he was in fucking heaven.

"fuck, baby, i'm close. keep fucking stroking me." he breathed, forcing himself to keep watching in the mirror as he finished, spilling all over her fingers, and his own thighs.

she was positively soaked, her panties being the only thing keeping her from dripping everywhere. sitting back on her heels, she licked the remnants of yuki's release from her hands before casting her panties aside, dimly aware that they landed on the carpet with a wet thumping sound.

"baby," she whined. "i need you so bad."

"so do i, angel girl. since i first saw you in that kitchen. my dress pants have been tight all evening." yuki purred, grabbing her hands and pulling her closer before nuzzling into her neck. "couldn't decide if i wanted to bend you over that kitchen island and fuck you so hard that the whole party could hear, or let you ride my cock and use me to get yourself off."

she audibly whimpered, clenching her thighs together. "fuck me, you could have said something. my job is done for the night once dessert is served."

yuki grinned, kissing her collarbone. "you made wielding a blowtorch much sexier than i think it probably should be."

"I see" her voice was low as she kissed him again, gently grinding her soaking wet core against his cock. "did my blowtorch make you hard?"

subtly rolling his eyes, he used one hand to angle his hard member upwards, thrusting into her opening. she moaned out a curse, leaning her head back.

"see the mirror, sweet girl? see how fucking sexy you look?" he growled, leaning back against the pillows. "makes me wanna fucking worship you."

she opened her eyes, staring up at the mirrored ceiling, at the deliciously sinful image of her riding the politician, face flushed and hair sweaty, already wrecked just from the way he played her with his fingers.

scraping her nails along his abs, she started swiveling her hips, moaning at the delicious drag of his inches deep inside of her. for a moment, inside this stolen hotel room, she was able to forget that they were a politician and a lowly pastry chef. they were just people, making each other feel good.

"oh, baby, you feel so fucking good." yuki moaned, gently slapping at the flesh on her thigh. he met her eyes in the mirror, hips bucking up to take her deeper.

her mouth fell open in a moan as she tried to chase that sensation, lifting her body up before dropping it down.

"yuki, please!" she begged. "i need you to fuck me deeper."

he sat up, planting the soles of his feet on the mattress. "hold on tight, angel." he warned, waiting for her to loop her arms around his neck before he gripped her hips tightly and started to thrust up, slamming himself into her.

"yes, yes, fuck!" she screamed, leaning over to kiss him, raking her nails across his shoulders as she moaned into his mouth. "feels so good."

she was perfectly content to sit there and continue to let the foreign secretary thrust into her, filling her in the perfect way as he grabbed the globes of her ass in both hands and continued to drive his hard cock in and out of her.

he noticed her legs start to tremble, and without a word, flipped them both over so that her back hit the goose down duvet. without missing a beat, yuki adjusted his angle, using one hand to hold himself up and the other to grip one of her legs, maneuvering it to change the angle slightly. he continued to thrust, but this time she could clearly see in the mirror where he was sliding in and out of her aching core.

that sight alone was enough to make her clench around his cock, hands gripping the sheets as she came without warning, back arched and eyes screwed shut.

"come on baby, give it to me." yuki encouraged. "come on, come on. cum for me." he fucked her right through it, never slowing down. "i know you've got another one in you baby, and i could spend all fucking night wrapped up inside this sweet pussy."

he slowed for a few thrusts, leaning over her with care and reverence as he brushed some of her sweaty hair out of her face, kissing her forehead, and then her cheeks, and lastly her lips.

"fuck, baby." he whispered. "something about you makes me want to soak these sheets in your come. i don't wanna stop until you're fully satiated."

"then don't stop." she encouraged, grabbing one of his ass cheeks and pulling him closer, feeling his cock go deeper. "give me another one."

"greedy girl." he grinned, kissing her again before thrusting hard and fast.

leaning her head back, she could see his body engulfing hers despite the minor height difference, likely due to muscle mass. with every thrust, she could see the way his ass jiggled with impact, the scratches she was leaving on his back, angry red marks against his pale skin, and each pleasure-filled expression she made as he took her higher and higher towards that peak.

"i want you to look at yourself when you come." he rasped into her ear. "see how fucking amazing you look."

she couldn't form words, simply gripping his shoulders tighter in response and latching her legs around his torso.

"atta girl." he grunted, using one hand to tweak and toy at her hard nipple through the lace of her unlined bra. "you can do it, i've got you. just give me one more, sweetheart. and then just milk my cock until you're full."

he could feel her walls clench around him, and he gently gripped her neck, guiding her face towards the mirror, watching her as she watched herself. "watch yourself come, angel. see how fucking good it feels."

she came with a cry, struggling to keep her eyes open as she gushed around him.

"fuck, babe. that's a big one." yuki groaned, snapping his hips. "take it, baby. take everything i've got." he let out a sharp grunt, hips faltering as he started to spill. she felt him everywhere, his release spreading deeper and deeper, hips smacking against hers.

with the soaked duvet lying on the floor with their clothes, the pair curled up in between the bamboo sheets, resting in a contented silence as yuki pressed gentle kisses to her body, paying extra attention to her perky and neglected nipples, sucking and kissing them through the fabric of her bra.

"i wish you didn't have to go back to japan." it wasn't a line. it was the truth. she really liked the dignitary she was sharing a bed with. he was sweet and kind and all the right kinds of spicy. in a different world, she would have loved to have seen where their relationship went.

"i know." he hummed, detaching himself from her right nipple. "but there's not much i can do about that. i'd love to bring you home with me, if it wouldn't create such a scandal."

combing her fingers through his hair, she was about to say something else when a crash and a scream forced them both to bolt upright.

"what the fuck was that?"

"i don't know." yuki jumped out of bed, reaching for his pants and shirt. "stay here while I go look."

she sat up anyways, back against the ornate headboard as she watched him dress. "what if its dangerous?"

"that's why you're staying here." he slipped his shirt over his shoulders, leaning over to kiss her. "i'm not letting anything happen to you." he turned around to button up his shirt before letting out a curse.

"what's wrong?"

"two buttons came off!"

"check the closet. one of the dignitaries is staying in here, there's bound to be another shirt."

yuki raised his eyebrows "you want me to wear a stranger's shirt!?"

"it's better than going out there without one!"

#yuki tsunoda x reader #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 smut #yuki tsunoda smut #yuki tsunoda imagine #formula one smut #formula 1 x reader #yuki tsunoda x you #yuki tsunoda fic

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melliemell · 10 months ago

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Pairing: Fyodor x f!reader

Contents: SFW, intense making out on chairs, fluff. Approx 2.6k words

Fyodor appeared to be engrossed in the bright screen before him, shoulders hunched as he bit at his thumb in thought.

It was a sight you were steadily becoming accustomed to. At times you doubted he even heard you entering his “workspace”, but you knew him better. Fyodor was a lot more observant than he let on.

There was no need to clear your throat or signal your arrival anyhow, you just saw his hand stretch out, ready to take the folder you brought for him, so you did just that.

It was the usual routine as Fyodor flipped through its contents, eyes scanning carefully. Even as he looked exhausted. In fact, Fyodor always had an aura of perpetual tiredness around him, so it was hard to read whether it applied to his current state. The late hour made you impatient too, wishing you’d at least get to sleep off the few hours before sunrise.

“I couldn’t get ahold of everything,” you said, keeping your voice even. “I’ve mapped out the building, so I’ll be able to retrieve the rest in quick time.”

It wasn’t so much as finding the papers, but copying them swiftly without notice that prolonged your job this time. Fyodor liked everything as he planned it, and when something went awry, it wasn’t so much as him adapting to the new circumstance than having predicted it itself.

Maybe that’s why you don’t feel worry now. He surely knew your capabilities–you’ve been doing these types of jobs for him for a while now–and you tried to be as strict with yourself as you could. Slip-ups happened, but there were rarely consequences for them. For you.

A thought to ponder over, indeed.

“I see. I would like to have it by tomorrow,” Fyodor said, glancing briefly at you, and smiled.

He always looked gentle, like this. A man who knew exactly what to say and when. All in service of getting what he wanted when he wanted it. It was easy to fall victim to.

You nodded, sensing the unspoken cue to leave.

And you were… you were leaving– yes. Your legs were already turning as Fyodor drew his gaze back to the screen, his lips parting to bite at his thumb again. You didn’t know what it was about that gesture, but it left a feeling of discontent in you.

And it kept on happening. Every time you came back, that small nagging voice in your head always guided your attention to Fyodor’s hands. For a man that seemed so easy to bodily harm, he had a knack for completely destroying his fingers. No wonder since he was a man of habit, but seeing that thoughtful look and calm demeanour combined with such an uncomely habit struck at your nerves.

It even got to the point of genuinely considering going to an actual drugstore just to buy him some nail recovery polish. Or something. You suppose straight-up bandages would go a bit far, though Fyodor didn’t seem the type to be offended.

Honestly, it was so absurd you barely had any idea how he’d react to that.

It irked you even now, as he worked in on your regular intel again. Fyodor’s hands were pale, delicate things, way swifter than you had thought as he typed away on the computer, both of you hunched over and seemingly breaking into a government organization that should definitely have better defences.

It was a slow procedure, but Fyodor’s focus didn’t waver once, just kept a steady pace of dedication you had grown to admire about him. If you had doubted him before, it was clear now, with every small precision and thoughtful act, his was not a game of chance, but planning.

And he was prepared for everything.

A small beep emerged from the screen. Your brows creased. “That’s supposed to be good, right?”

“I wouldn’t label it quite like that, but yes,” Fyodor’s eyes narrowed as he drew his chair closer, forcing you to shift more of your weight on the armrest. Your back was beginning to ache. “It will take more time this way, unfortunately.”

You nodded. To be honest, you didn’t mind the proximity. It took some time but you were proud to say you’d won some form of trust in recent. Or at least felt like it wasn’t too much of a hassle to be in Fyodor’s personal space like this. He does have a penchant for stabbing people, so it’s good to have a guard up, just in case.

It grew boring just watching on as time went by. By now the screen looked more like it behaved by itself, with Fyodor hitting a key here and there. You rose up and stretched, feeling a few joints pop. “I can’t fathom how you have the patience for this, I feel like an old grandpa just by standing.”

Fyodor looked at you, eyebrow raised. “Exactly. You’re standing, and I’m not. Small wonders help a lot.”

You hummed in agreement. But it was still rather stuffy in this room, the only light coming from the technology. There could have been a sun peaking through if only there were any windows. “Not just that, you’ve positively entered your hermit era if you keep plotting in your dark dungeon like this.”

“Is that bad?” Fyodor asked, almost seeming thoughtful.

“Very.” You shifted, leaning your weight on the desk to have a better view of the man before you.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said absently, head already turned to the screen.

Yeah, you doubted it. Not yet, at least. There was a lot more to be done before the next phase of his plane. You sighed, casting your gaze back to the screen.

The sound of tapping returned and soon you were in a struggle between keeping a facade of concentrated composure, and forcefully stuffing away any daydreams of buying that damned nail polish.

But as with all things, getting stuck in your head usually lead to idiocy in the real world. Without much thought, just as the screen behind you flashed, indicating you’ve finally made it in, your hand gently reached out, catching Fyodor’s mid-typing, stopping him on the spot.

He looked curiously down, blinking slowly.

You, on the other hand, were on the verge of chanting an inner mantra of stay calm stay calm stay calm and cool stay–

In moments like those, it was paramount to stand your ground. You touch remained firm, even if your pulse was rising by the second. Carefully, you turned his palm upwards, your fingers gently sliding along his skin as Fyodor tilted his head to the side. Observing.

“Now this is unexpected,” he remarked, but didn’t move away, compliant even now. You wondered if his words were true. He was never surprised.

You paid him no mind. Fyodor’s fingers shifted in sync with yours as you examined them, almost giving you more access to your curiosity.

“I like your hands,” you said, calmly. Testing the waters seemed safer, for now. “You should take care of them. It doesn’t go well with the image you want to send out.”

“And here I thought having layers was more eye-catching.” Damn. Fyodor was teasing you, by the sound of his tone. Almost playful as he reclined back in his chair and relaxed. The complete opposite of how you felt.

Forcing some semblance of control, you went on, “Not in the expanse of self-care. Really, I’m this close to booking you a manicure.”

A light chuckle escaped his lips. “I’ll respectfully decline. But it does warm my heart to see your concern.”

The weight of his gaze surprised you. It felt like being caged, every detail of your soul examined and studied in the blink of a second before his features softened into his usual pleasant smile. Amicable, and entirely fake.

You knew Fyodor was a man to keep your distance from. You’ve barely met any of his subordinates, yet even that small glimmer of information was enough to guess he wasn’t one to put his trust in others.

Hell, he wasn’t one to hold yours in either.

But this moment now… those moments… watching Fyodor was interesting. Seeing what he would do– even more so.

You didn’t have time to second guess yourself. You wouldn’t let your hand stay in another’s hold if you weren’t entirely against it, would you?

With that small confidence in tow, you–slowly, your full attention on Fyodor–moved his palm to the soft cushion of your lips. The kiss was scarcely there, shy of barely grazing his skin. It locked both of you in place, the build-up of something you weren’t entirely sure of engulfed the space in between.

If you were more observant, you would have noticed how stiff Fyodor’s hand had become, barely a waver in it. He was waiting, letting you guide the situation for reasons only he knew.

Your breath spilt against his skin as you said, “I wasn’t expecting to do this.”

“Weren’t you?” Fyodor’s brow raised.

You felt your skin warming. “You’re not pulling away.”

“Hm. Neither are you.”

Those words, simple and direct. It felt like permission, but to what? The fear of reading into this wrongly crawled into your belly, but you already fell into this situation. Might as well try–

“I wanted to see what will happen,” you said, not prepared for the intense look in Fyodor’s eyes. A moment later– your breath stilled in your chest just as the slow caress of Fyodor’s thumb brushed against your lower cheek, unexpected,

“What was that English phrase about killing curiosity?” The chair’s wheels scratched at the floor as Fyodor moved closer, leaning his weight on one armrest as he cocked his head in thought. “It’s very similar to a Russian one, so it can be a bother to mix up.”

Your answer came automatically, mind entirely on where you ended yourself up in. “How curiosity killed the cat? Yeah, I know that one.”

Fyodor hummed, pleased. “Yes, exactly. It’s a good phrase. Though a bit cliche.”

“Well, does it?” You swallowed. Your eyes never left his, still locked in place.

“‘Does it’ what?” He asked. There was no trace of his smile now. Just attention. All drawn to you.

“Kill it?” You searched his face.

“That is what you think of me? How cruel,” Fyodor said. His tone was playful still; you realised you liked it. Him. Like this.

Tentatively, you stood up. Life was about taking risks, right? “I can’t be blamed. You are hard to read.”

You weren’t sure how far you could push him, but the sight of his face morphing into one of surprise as your hand found balance on his shoulder, a moment later your legs dangling from one side as you found yourself seated on Fyodor’s lap. It wasn’t ideal, with too little space and two bodies in it, but feeling Fyodor’s hand finding its way on your hip, almost drawing you closer in help to keep you in balance, you weren’t about to complain.

You spun your head around, feining surprise. You forced your voice lower, hyper-aware of your newfound proximity. Faking being in control was pretty close to the real thing. Mostly. “Huh, curiosity can lead to some interesting circumstances.”

Nailed it.

“Indeed, you should be very careful with it,” Fyodor said. Despite his remarks, he leaned back again. The hand you held long left your cheek was now resting on the armrest, absently drumming into the plastic.

Fuck.

“I’m… trying. I’m guessing it’s fine for me to do this?” You wiggled your legs, wondering what exactly you wanted out of this. This felt nice, but you were nowhere near being comfortable enough with Fyodor to speak as openly as you wanted. Maybe there was a plus to this, the unpredictability of it all. He seemed way more at ease than you would like. “Where exactly are we going with this?”

“Why, I’ll be following your lead. It’s been amusing so far, I want to see what you will do.” And the bastard smiled.

Not ideal. But you brought this on yourself. The thought of that glimpse of surprise on Fyodor’s face from earlier made heat pool at your face again. You wanted to see more. Do more.

You leaned in, face scrunching in thought as Fyodor only looked down at you, eyebrow raised, almost beckoning you. The proximity felt nice, but something was missing. You tilted your head in contemplation.

“I think I want to kiss you.”

He leaned closer, the perfect image of composure. “I see.”

Your skin prickled, feeling his hand trail to your lower back, firm.

“Then go ahead,” Fyodor said, and your brain froze.

It’s funny when you reflect on it now, but then– you distinctly remember hearing those words, and you remember that it wasn’t you who moved closer. Or not just you. Your memory jumbled together the moment Fyodor’s lips were on yours. Other sensations became dulled, almost distant, and only his warmth engulfed you. You don’t remember when your hands trailed up, but you couldn’t forget Fyodor’s soft exhale against your lips as your fingers brushed through his locks. The kiss wasn’t even open, and it already sent goosebumps all over your shoulders and back.

It started slow, measured. You found yourself straddling him as the small, chaste kisses became heated, the warmth in your lower belly pooling as his hand held your face close to his. You’ve never been explored like this, Fyodor’s tongue licking its way into your mouth leisurely, prolonging every moment to its utmost.

“May I?” Fyodor whispered, his hand trailing down your neck and pushing the loose strands of hair away. Not that he needed to ask; you tilted your head, and his lips ghosted over your skin, their touch laden with so much gentleness you wondered where it all came from.

Fyodor’s manners were easy to notice, but here, now, he made you melt right into his hold. Chest to chest, your hands caressing his hair, neck, shoulders– silently encouraging as you become accustomed to the slow intertwined rhythm of your bodies.

It was irresponsible– enjoying this as much as you did. You didn’t know where this would lead to, or how you’d look Fyodor in the face seeing as you’d still be his employee. The dynamic had switched, forcing you into a completely new territory you weren’t prepared for.

But all that flew out the window as your hand found the hem of Fyodor’s shirt, your fingers coming into contact with warm, smooth skin, and Fyodor’s quiet exhale as he buried his face deeper in the crook of your neck.

“I’ll take that as encouragement, then.” You smiled, turning to kiss the side of his temple as your touch sent small shivers up Fyodor’s back, nails gently grazing at his skin. Whether he meant to say something in return… well, it seemed all thoughts were forgotten as you felt his muscles relax against you, body almost melting into yours.

You doubted he got to experience this often. Fyodor didn’t strike you as the type to go out of his way for affection– physical or otherwise. He reminded you of a cat, really, one that got too caught up in its self-sufficient world to realise it didn’t mind some tenderness when it was offered.

Fyodor might have craved it, even. You weren’t sure yet.

You stayed like that for a long time, the dim light flashing from the screens left for the future to worry over. Fyodor’s lips found yours a few more times, each leaving you feeling warm and at ease, as your tongues moved against each other lazily, more a lover’s exploration than those heated kisses you were used to seeing in the movies. Your breath did not hitch, nor did you feel like your heart was about to burst with desire.

No, you only felt Fyodor’s warm breath against your cheek, his lips pulling into a smile between chaste kisses as he pulled you even closer, hands firm around your waist as you squirmed now and then into a more comfortable position.

Chairs were not ideal places for this, but…

It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all.

#bsd #bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader #fyodor x you #fyodor x y/n #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd x y/n #bsd fanfic #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs

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manasastuff-blog · 11 months ago

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vampirehusbands · 1 month ago

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I need Emmrich who received a collection of fancy pens with peacock feathers and other expensive stationery from Dorian.

I need Emmrich who is a big planners and journals enjoyer. He writes all his plans with pens gifted by his former student, now an Archon.

I need Emmrich who is actually good in hand-to-hand combat. The Mourn Watch studies included it in their program since there are not only mages in the order. And also MWers must know how to defence themselves.

I need Emmrich who likes walking and prefers a lovely stroll to carriage ride. Especially since we know Grand Necropolis' lift problem. This man walked up and down thousands of stairwells.

I need Emmrich meeting with Myrna and Vorgoth for brunch every weekend or so. He used to do it when Johanna was still a member of the Mourn Watch, but now...only these two are his closest friends.

I need Emmrich and Myrna playfully scolding Vorgoth for being such a big chatter box.

I need Emmrich visiting Memorial Gardens weekly. It's his comfort place. Getting lost amongst many flowers who managed to grow in the dark and walking amongst the graves.

I need Emmrich who has a huge collection of memorabilia and trinkets. Old and rusty key of his dorm room he thought was lost, first Mourn Watcher attire, some notes from the first lectures, silly Johanna's scribble of a professor she didn't like. Anything he cherished greatly and that awakes bright memories.

I need Emmrich who dedicates whole Sunday to his family (Manfred). Teaching his skeletal companion how to repair some things, how to cook this or that dish. Gives him reading or writing lessons. He loves his job as a professor but after his lectures he doesn't have much time for his ward. He needs to prepare material for upcoming classes or check student's essays or lab works. So Sunday is a perfect day for family bonding.

I need Emmrich who has gentleman/country club membership. I'm pretty sure they have something like that in Nevarra.

I need Emmrich who still keeps in touch with some of his ex partners. Honestly, I think he's a type of a man who is trying at all costs to avoid a bitter and unpleasant breakup.

#dragon age the veilguard #dragon age #emmrich volkarin #dragon age veilguard #da #hc #mostly pre-veilguard and domestic #next pack is relationships and spice #and a little bit of appearance and wardrobe cause there are more of them #datv emmrich #dragon age emmrich

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konigslittleliebling · 1 year ago

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More boxxeerrr koniiig plss

I have a cutie patootie idea🎀🎀🎀🎀

This is from experience

Im a professional badminton player and there are many days when i just feel low and cant work for my dear life so i just ask my boyfriend to let me cuddle him (lets say hes not big fan of physical touch)

So i was thinking boxer konig who feels the same and hes standing like that one cat (pls understand) and the next second hes on top of you

yayy, fluffy könig 💐 this ask is so cute 🥹🫂 and omg a pro badminton anon? i feel honoured !! 🧎🏻‍♀️

and. . . this cat? 👀

könig gets restless between fights, which isn’t a great combination with still being sore and achy from the last one. he’d disappeared into the basement gym some time ago, but since he went down there, you’ve yet to hear his usual grunts whilst he lifts, or the loud slams each time he jabs or kicks his bag. (it’s a large sack of sand hanging from a wooden beam by a meat hook. he can’t be trusted not to destroy the likes of a generic one).

you’ve been battling with the idea of going down to check on him. maybe ask what he fancies for dinner. but he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s working out, especially not when preparing for his next fight — this one being his first title-defence match.

you’re on your laptop, browsing how many tickets have so far sold for the upcoming tournament, when you hear the basement stairs creak. “in here!” you call to him, and there’s a brief silence before his heavy footsteps resume in thudding towards your shared bedroom.

he appears in the doorway, dipping his head so he can walk through it, which he has to do sideways to avoid bumping his shoulders on the frame. you look up at him, smiling. he just stares, slumped and defeated. “. . . you okay there, hun?” you close your laptop, gazing worriedly up at him.

his eyes cast to his feet, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides every so often. you notice that his knuckles are neither bloody nor bruised, and you wonder what he’s been doing this whole time. this is most unlike him.

“what’s wrong?” you ask him, diverting your eyes briefly to place your laptop on the bedside table. the mattress dips, then; and you huff when his weight settles on top of you, his legs hanging off the foot of the bed as he hides his face in the crook of your neck.

you groan and reach up to awkwardly pat his back, feeling like your ribs might disintegrate into your lungs. you’re surprised, not just at this raw display of emotion and vulnerability, but the fact that he’s practically collapsed into the safety hub of your arms. his exterior is hard — like a nutshell. he never speaks of the struggles that come with his job: an idol and inspiration to so many people, a famous and respectably decorated fighter. he has a front for the cameras, and seemingly one that he puts up for you too.

until now.

“are you okay?” you manage, practically croaking the question. he only shakes his head ‘no’, inhaling your scent as he relaxes into your hold. you lift your hand to play with the unkept curls that have grown at the nape of his neck, massaging the base of his skull. he hums, nuzzling his face against your skin. “do you want to call off the fight?” you’re gentle with the query, aware of his loyalty to what he does. he shakes his head again and you know better than to persist.

“okay.” you smile, placing soft kisses in his hair. “would you like to swap positions so i don’t suffocate?” he hesitates, and you can feel his wispy eyelashes tickle your neck when he blinks, thinking. he nods after a long pause and you chuckle, relieved. “y’know, maybe you don’t need to punch your opponents. just lay on them instead.”

he doesn’t find that very funny.

#✎𓂃𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 #ᝰ 𝐾𝑜̈𝑛𝑖𝑔 #konig x reader #könig x fem reader #konig x fem reader #konig x female reader #konig x you #konig x y/n #konig fluff #könig fluff #konig call of duty #konig cod #könig cod x reader #könig x you #könig modern warfare

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callme-holly · 2 months ago

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𝐑𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 | 𝐃.𝐂

||۶ৎ part 5 of the "radio silence" series your gentle reminder that there's only one chapter left <3

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

It had come out of nowhere—a letter in your mailbox, sealed nicely with your name written in cursive on the front. The formality of it made your heart skip a beat and your breath hitch. You didn’t even wait to get inside before opening it.

A job offer. One you’d wanted so badly. The hours were better. The pay was good. It was the stability you craved… And it was back in New York.

For a moment, just for a few fleeting seconds, you let yourself imagine it: your clean little apartment overlooking the city, your name on an office door, a life where you weren’t constantly holding your breath and waiting for something to happen.

But then the ache returned.

Darry. You’d just got him back, just forged something real. You’d picked up the pieces and stuck them back together, not missing a single crack, sealing it with the strongest glue. And now it was all cracking back open.

Tulsa wasn’t glamorous, but it was home. It always had been. And now you were so ready to throw it all away just to return to your clean-cut life, which had been served to you on a silver platter. You were prepared to throw away Pony’s smiles and Soda’s stupid jokes. Two-Bits' unwarranted beers and Steve’s wisecracks. Johnny’s quiet greetings and the scent of smoke that always clung to Dallas.

And Darry…

You waited three days before telling him. Three excruciatingly long days, every hour plagued with the weighing up of your two lives: stay here with the people you loved most, or go back where you had everything you’d ever dreamed of.

The day you finally decided to tell him, he was working out in the front yard. The pavement held the stench of fresh rain, but Darry had insisted on fixing the latch on the gate. He was completely in his element, so focused that he didn’t notice you until your arms were winding around his middle.

He startled, straightening up, before an easy smile took over his features and he turned to look down at you with those eyes.

“Hey, darlin’,” he mumbled, voice quiet. It sent a whole new wave of pain through you.

“Hi,” you managed, barely choking it out around the lump forming in your throat. “How’s the gate?”

He hummed in response, giving a lazy shrug. “Rusty, but she’s doin’ okay.” He paused, tilting his head. “How are you?”

You should have known he’d see right through you, would read the hurt in your eyes like it was written clearly in front of him. You didn’t want to cry—that would make it harder—so instead you told him how it was.

“I got offered a job. Out of town.”

You felt his muscles tense beneath your touch, his easy smile slipping away. “Out of town?”

“Back in New York.” You clarified, trying to keep your tone steady. “They’re offering a full-time position. Good pay, good hours…”

Darry blinked, maybe a little harder than usual, and he looked like you’d just ripped the earth from beneath his feet, leaving him to sink to a depth he’d never climb back out of. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. Permanently, I guess.”

He looked you up and down, silent for a few seconds, before a laugh tore from him. Cold. Dry. “Right.”

“Darry, it isn’t like that,” The words came out quick, too quick, like you were defending something that was already so clear. “It’s not because of you. Or us. I just… I need this. I need to think about what's best for me.”

“No, sweetheart, I get it.” The pet name didn’t roll off his tongue as easily now; it sounded harsh and bitter in a way that twisted the blade. “If you did it once, you can do it again.”

“That isn’t fair.” You snapped, your back suddenly going up, defences becoming stronger by the second. “You’re acting like I’m trying to hurt you! I’m not. I’m just trying to survive, the same as you. And if that means taking a job that drags me away again, then I’m not going to fight it.”

“Oh, it’s not fair.” He’s standing taller now, looming over you just as he’d done during your first argument. “What isn’t fair, sweetheart, is you coming back just to shake things up and then leave again. Like this meant nothing to you.”

By now the blade was being dragged through you—up and down, back and forth—the pain so excruciating that you finally let the tears fall. “I didn’t ask for this. Any of this. But I’m allowed to have dreams, Darry.”

He was quiet then, the tension seemingly morphing into something akin to disappointment, the hurt finally taking over. “You always get the chance to leave. I never did.”

Your hands trembled at your side, and you swallowed again, wincing as the blade scraped your throat raw. Each tear stained your cheek, making it impossible to see through the blurred vision. “Stop it. Stop it, Darry.” You whispered. “You didn’t even try to ask me to stay last time. You just let me go—” “Because I knew that if I held on, I would only be pulling you back!” He cut you off. Another knife plunged deep into your heart. “I had to let you go. You deserved more. But now—God—now I don’t think I’d be able to bear you leaving again.”

“Then ask me to stay.” You choked out, reaching forward to cup his cheek. You noted his skin was slightly damp, his eyes red-rimmed. “Not because you’re scared, but because you want me to.”

And when he spoke, his voice was quiet, breathless, like he was struggling for words just as much as you were grappling for an answer. “I want you to stay. So bad. I just don’t know if I’m enough to make you stay.”

The silence hung over the two of you like the waiting storm clouds, ready to burst and flood the world once more. Its previous onslaught wasn’t enough and it just had to return.

Just like you.

His words weighed heavy in your mind, only adding more to the scales that had been constantly balanced for days. They were tipping, only one way, but you weren't sure if they were tipping the right way. Only that they were tipping the way you wanted.

And so, with a final kiss to his lips, the taste of salt lingering on your tongue, you turned.

And you left.

chapter masterlist

||۶ৎ tag list. @mrsdillonx , @goingdelux18 , @princesshailierawr , @r0seb100d , @groovydonutpost, @rizzraa , @sheepandlams , @marinefreaakk , @sugarrootwrites , @marilyn-girly , @itonlyhastobetruetoday , @dairyfairyy , @williamafton26 , @mystiqueonfleek007 , @atpeacee

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d4n1elll4 · 1 month ago

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───〃𖹭 MINHO

“I’m tougher than nails. I could still kick your pony-lovin’ butt with twice this pain.”

NAVIGATION ⋮ MASTERLIST

𖹭 A DRUNK MIND SPEAKS A SOBER HEART by starshaped-dreamer [ONESHOT] [1.9K]

⇢ You’re a clingy drunk and Minho isn’t expecting your pent up affection.

𖹭 AFTER THE CALM by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [3.3K]

⇢ You’ve survived the Scorch, dodged WICKED, and outlived Cranks—but nothing could prepare you for Minho’s feelings… or your own.

𖹭 ARE YOU OK? by masivechaos [ONESHOT] [1.4K]

⇢ Minho almost didn’t make it to the doors on time and you are so worried, but he can’t seem to understand why.

𖹭 AREN’T YOU LUCKY by sehnsuchts-trunken [ONESHOT] [1.2K]

⇢ A sprained ankle keeps you stuck in the glade as minho goes out into the maze to run, so you try your best to persuade him to stay.

𖹭 BEHAVE by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [2.2K]

⇢ Minho just wants to focus on mapping the maze in the map room. You’re determined to get his attention.

𖹭 BEST FEATURE by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [1.9K]

⇢ You like to pretend that you’re a level headed and controlled person. That things such as desire or general human nature don’t faze you and you’re focused on work and helping around the Glade. And, for the most part - that is completely believable. Mainly because Minho is always out in the Maze. Thank God.

𖹭 BEYOND THE OTHER SIDE by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [3.3K]

⇢ “You know they're not coming back, right?” You shoot him a glare, “Don't say that- if anyone can survive out there, it's Minho.”

𖹭 BLIND EYE by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [2K]

⇢ You were the first Glader to arrive in the Maze, and the only girl. With the help of Alby and Newt, you run the Glade. You take your job seriously and are the mother-figure of the Maze. Though, your business has led to complete oblivion on your end, especially when it comes to the Keeper of the Runners- who is desperately trying to get your attention.

𖹭 BUBBLY PERSONALITY by petrichor-idyllic [HEADCANONS]

𖹭* DATING HEADCANONS by petrichor-idyllic [HEADCANONS]

𖹭 DECEPTION IN LIBERATION by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [3.6K]

⇢ You and Aris escape the Maze, but the new place isn’t safe. People are disappearing, and WCKD is still in control. Teaming up with Thomas and the others, you uncover the truth and make a chaotic escape.

𖹭 DIE FOR YOU by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [1.9K]

⇢ You try to keep up under Minho’s tough leadership, wondering why he’s so hard on you. During a dangerous run, Minho saves you from a Griever, and things start to click—his harshness hides feelings he can’t express. Between near-death moments and awkward confessions, You both realize there might be more going on than just running.

𖹭 EYES UP HERE BABE... AND LIPS RIGHT THERE by minhotherunninshank [ONESHOT] [1.4K]

⇢ While fighting a griever in the maze Y/N’s shirt gets torn off and later on she realizes it and asks for Minho’s shirt.

𖹭 FIERCE by caitimetravels [DRABBLE] [0.9K]

⇢ “‘Do your part’... Does being eye candy count as my part? ’Cause it sure seems like it.”

𖹭 FINALLY by misskingshit [DRABBLE] [0.6K]

⇢ After so long, you finally take the step.

𖹭 FRIENDLY COMPETITION by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [4.2K]

⇢ After begging Alby for days, you finally get the Gladers to take a day off and play Capture the Flag. You and Minho end up leading rival teams, and the game gets heated with plenty of playful trash talk and flirty moments. Even after it’s over, the tension between you two is impossible to ignore as you chat about the day.

𖹭 FIRECRACKER by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [4.3K]

⇢ Minho teaches you self-defence.

𖹭 HIDE AND SEEK by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [2.3K]

⇢ In the heat of a life-or-death escape, Minho pulls you to safety just in time. Heart pounding and adrenaline rushing, you impulsively kiss his cheek in thanks. The danger might be over, but the tension between you is just getting started.

𖹭 HIGH SCHOOL NOT-SO-SWEETHEARTS by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [3.8K]

⇢ Shy and bookish, you can’t believe it when Minho, the school’s charming heartthrob, awkwardly asks you out. Thinking it’s a joke, you laugh it off—until a heartfelt, rain-soaked confession changes everything.

𖹭 HOW TO WINGMAN (POORLY) by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [2K]

⇢ You and Minho have been best friends since arriving in the Glade, but everyone except you two knows you’re perfect for each other. After countless awkward setups by your fellow Gladers, an accidental “date” in the Map Room finally gets you both to admit your feelings—but you decide to wait for freedom before making things official.

𖹭 IT’S YOU by vintage-marina [ONESHOT] [5.4K]

⇢ Little stories about how the reader came up in the box and adjusting in the Glade.

𖹭 LET ME MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER by petrichor-idyllic [TWOSHOT] [3.2K]

⇢ Minho comes back from the maze really stressed so you offer to give him a massage.

𖹭 LONGING FROM AFAR by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [4.9K]

⇢ Minho has always been confident and cocky, that is until a girl shows up in the Glade, completely changing the dynamic. What makes it worse is that Minho recognises her, though he doesn’t know where from.

𖹭 MIRAGE OF THE PAST by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [5.3K]

⇢ While you’re just gardening and humming to yourself in the safe haven, Minho spots you and feels like he knows you from somewhere—but he can’t quite place it. Intrigued (and maybe a little smitten), he goes all out trying to catch your attention, whether you notice or not.

𖹭 MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE by heliads [ONESHOTS] [2.3K]

⇢ Waking up in a strange, metal room with no memory of who you are, you’re thrown into the middle of a dangerous maze. Surrounded by boys who’ve learned to survive in this place, you decide to keep one secret: you’re the actually a girl.

𖹭 NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCES by starhaped-dreamer [ONESHOT] [2K]

⇢ Minho and y/n are stuck in the maze for the night. Feelings are confessed after their near death experience only amplifies them.

𖹭 NOTHING BY IT by heliads [ONESHOT] [2.2K]

⇢ "So, are you and Minho actually together, or do you guys just flirt all the time because you think it’s fun?"

𖹭 ON YOUR OWN | PT.2 | PT.3 by petrichor-idyllic [MULTI-PART] [2.9K]

⇢ Out of all the Maze that WCKD made, you got the short end of the stick. Completely abandoned on your own with just a dog to keep you company, you spend three years of your life in almost complete isolation, trapped with horrific monsters. That is until the last couple of days- when everything just stops. A God must be looking over you... or maybe someone else.

𖹭 ONE NIGHT AWAY by heliads [ONESHOT] [2.9K]

⇢ It takes Minho a couple of moments to realize what’s going on, why it sounds like thunder even without a drop of rain. He should know this sound from hearing it twice per day, yet for some reason being on this side of the Maze when the Doors start to close makes it completely, utterly foreign.

𖹭 OUTRUN ME by heliads [ONESHOT] [2.6K]

⇢ You and Minho have been competing since the day you met. Alby making you two co-Keepers of the Runners was the final straw, especially because that means you two have to work together.

𖹭 PROMISE by tomboyneedshercoffee [ONESHOT] [2.9K]

⇢ Minho, Thomas and Alby get trapped in the maze and as you wait oustide the walls, you think back to moments with Minho.

𖹭 PROMISE ME THIS by lieutenantfloyd [ONESHOT] [1.2K]

⇢ Reader, the keeper of the medjacks, is having a completely uneventful day. That is until Minho returns from the maze battered, bloody, and refusing to be treated by anyone but reader.

𖹭 RANDOM HEADCANONS | PT.2 by sehnsuchts-trunken [HEADCANONS]

𖹭 SAFE PLACE by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [1.6K]

⇢ It was meant to be a simple night. You’d always been restless and sleep never came easy to you. It was kind of common knowledge that you’re an insomniac, so when you decided to go on a late-night walk earlier, you never expected to end up on Minho’s doorstep, blood dripping from your palm, physically shaken.

𖹭 SAVIOUR COMPLEX by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [2.3K]

⇢ You’re a new Runner, and an absolute pain in Minho’s ass. You can’t seem to obey him and keep getting yourself in trouble. So, when you get stung, Minho is left to play saviour. And doctor. Though, as he looks after you, he starts to think you might not be so bad and his feelings might not just be annoyance... until things go wrong again.

𖹭 SECRETS WHISPERED BY THE WATER by heliads [ONESHOT] [2.2K]

⇢ There is a small pond in the glade. You and Minho are friends with hidden feelings. One day you find out about that pond so you takes Minho there for a swim.

𖹭 SELF-DEFENCE LESSONS by starshaped-dreamer [DRABBLE] [0.8K]

⇢ Minho reluctantly teaches you to fight after months of begging.

𖹭 SOFT AT HEART by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [2.1K]

⇢ You’ve been harbouring a long-term crush on Minho, but the problem is you’re shy and nervous, and Minho is anything but. Instead of bonding with the rowdy Gladers directly, you show you care by looking after them. Little do you know, your quiet kindness inspires Minho more than you realize—and he might just want more of it.

𖹭 STAY by caitimetravels [ONESHOT] [2.2K]

⇢ Y/N and Minho butt heads after a heated argument, but a drunken confession at a bonfire forces them to face their feelings.

𖹭 STUNG by sehnsuchts-trunken [DRABBLE] [0.7K]

⇢ Getting stung by a Griever was worse than you ever imagined, but Minho stayed by your side through all of it. Between the pain, the foggy memories, and his terrible jokes, you somehow made it through. Now, you're left with a sore leg, a clearer head, and the realization that you couldn’t have done it without him.

𖹭 TAKE A BREAK by rivwritesiguess [DRABBLE] [0.3K]

⇢ Whatever Minho has to do right now can wait. You want cuddles.

𖹭 THE BEGINNING | ON OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE WALL | HOPELESS GREY SKIES | STRIKES FROM ABOVE by minhos-harness [MULTI-PART] [10.3K+]

⇢ With (Y/N) being appointed the role of a Med-jack and Minho winding up injured during a venture in the Maze, the two end up becoming close friends. Throughout their journey to freedom alongside their fellow Gladers, deeper feelings grow between the two. However, both Minho and (Y/N) hesitate to act on them due to the uncertainty of reciprocation and their overall futures.

𖹭 THE CITY by heliads [ONESHOT] [2.1K]

⇢ Minho asks if you’d want kids someday. You’re unsure, but he reassures you that he’s happy with just you. Standing together, watching the city lights, you realize that’s enough.

𖹭 THIS NIGHT by heliads [ONESHOT] [2.6K]

⇢ Minho only has time for two things right now: one, making it out of the Maze long enough to scratch out the day’s findings in the Map Room, and two, his best friend Newt. However, you seem to have made yourself a place between those priorities.

𖹭 TMR BOYS IF YOU GAVE THEM A ROCK by givemearock [HEADCANONS]

𖹭 TO BET ON LOSING DOGS by acciopietro [ONESHOT] [5.2K]

⇢ The newest greenie isn’t as tough as he seems.

𖹭 TRAPPED TOGETHER | PT.2 | PT.3 by minhos-harness [MULTI-PART] [12K]

⇢ Despite their shared experience of surving the Maze and Scorch, (Y/N) and Minho never liked each other and often clashed. However, their toughest trial yet throws them together when they find themselves captured by WCKD, and a new side of their relationship comes to light.

𖹭 UNDER THE INFLUENCE by petrichor-idyllic [ONESHOT] [2.2K]

⇢ Greenie Day has always been your favorite time in the Glade, mostly because of Bonfire Night—a rare chance to let loose and forget the Maze for a while. This time, after a few too many drinks and some lighthearted games, liquid courage leads you to drunkenly flirt with Minho, much to his amusement.

𖹭 WARMTH IN COLD PLACES | PT.2 by petrichor-idyllic [TWOSHOT] [12K]

⇢ You are an undercover agent at WCKD secretly working for the Right Arm. When Minho is captured, You sneaks him food and helps him survive the facility. Along the way, You find ways to aid his escape, proving your loyalty to the cause—and to him.

𖹭* WORSE WAYS TO COPE by hollybell51 [ONESHOT] [4.6K]

⇢ “Lightly buzzed” confessions leading to making out leading to sex on a shitty couch.

𖹭 YOU THINK I’M PRETTY? by petrichor-idyllic [HEADCANONS]

𖹭 YOU’RE FROM ANOTHER MAZE by minhos-harness [HEADCANONS]

NOTE: All these fics are awesome but Petri’s have a special place in my heart they are perfect <3

#⋆. 𐙚 daniela’s recs˚#minho x reader #tmr minho x reader #tmr minho #the maze runner #tmr

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loveandmurders · 3 months ago

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Red string and crimson hands (Poly!Sinclair brothers x f!reader) - Part IV

Hi everyone, this is the fourth part of this new soulmate AU requested by @mrstargayen09 . You can find part 1 here, part 2 here and part 3 here.

Hope you'll enjoy <3

Warnings: no proof reading, mention of slutshaming (from Victor), mentions of Trudy being ill, mentions of death

That night, the boys insisted for you to sleep in their house and not in the one you used to live at with your parents. They pretended it was because they hadn’t fully finished cleaning things up, but you knew they were lying. They just wanted you under their roof. For once, Lester was even eager to stay over. You agreed because you trusted them, and you saw how it made them happy.

They were excited puppies around you and you couldn’t deny how much you enjoyed their constant attention on you. You were certain something really bad must have happened for you to decide to run away from them. They were attractive, they weren’t shy about their love for you, they wanted to take care of you… They were perfect. And yet you left. It scared you.

What were you going to find out?

You eventually wished them good night and they watched as you climbed upstairs. Jonesy followed you and stayed with you for a little while before going back to the boys. Despite your closed door, you could hear the three men whispering between them. You would have loved to hear what they were saying.

At first, they talked about how amazing it was to finally have you back, then about how hot you were, and about your memory loss and finally about everything they needed to do (or not to do) to convince you to stay. They agreed, for instance, that they needed to keep tourists away from Ambrose the following day. They couldn't kill anyone else in front of you, they needed to make you forget about all of this or you would leave again. Lester agreed to leave the twins alone with you for the day, but he asked for a moment with you on his own in the evening. The twins weren't too happy they would need to share you during the day, but they would spend more hours with you than Lester, so it was a fair deal.

The next morning, you woke up with a delicious scent of pancakes. When you went downstairs, Bo was cooking breakfast. As you entered the kitchen, you had a flash of a teenage boy preparing pancakes as well. Your young self walked to him and hugged him from behind, thanked him as he warmly smiled at you. You then remembered about a man - his father probably - breaking the moment by telling you were interested in an angry beast who will hurt you. You took Bo’s defence; the man shrugged before saying “you're just a slut for my three sons”. You remembered the shame of such words.

You went back to reality when Bo turned around and greeted you. He noticed the look on your face and frowned.

“Ya ‘kay, love?” he asked

“Yeah, no worries” you tried to smile but he kept looking at you and you remembered Lester begged you to always tell them what was on your mind, unlike before you left them “I think I just had a memory of your father calling me a slut” you finally said and Bo tensed, his fists clenching

“Sorry 'bout that. I should've broken his jaw that day”

“You were still a kid and I’m not so surprised to be treated that way in a small town with three soulmates who also happen to be brothers” you replied, trying to be rational “Pancakes smell good” you added to change the subject as you came closer to the food “You’re the cook of the family?” you asked with a tilted head

“‘M the eldest, that’s my job to take care of my family” Bo replied

“And of your soulmate?” you hummed

“Same thing. Ya didn’t leave ‘cause we weren’t lookin’ after ya” Bo let you know but before you could ask for more Vincent entered the room and you greeted him.

You helped him dress the table and waited for the pancakes to be ready.

“Lester not coming for breakfast?” you wondered

“Lester’s protecting the borders of Ambrose today so no tourist’ll interrupt us” Bo explained

“You casted him away?” you pouted

“No. It’s his job. But tonight he’ll be left alone with ya, for some egality or whatever” Bo rolled his eyes and you laughed

“It does sound fair. You wouldn’t want your brothers to be with me while you would be working away either” you added and Bo couldn’t argue with that. “So the “tourists” are how you call the people coming in Ambrose, the same people you kill?” you asked again and Vincent nodded

You finished your breakfast in silence but you could feel how the twins' attention was all on you. You enjoyed the warmth of it, the tenderness or it too. Vincent was a silent and comforting presence.

You could tell that you spent a lot of time in his arms when you just were feeling a little bit down and needed to snuggle your sadness away. You quite wanted to be a little bit physical with him, but you didn’t dare. You were a stranger to them too, even if they were eager to welcome you back in their lives.

You were a little bit more defiant of Bo who clearly was the seductive southern guy. But at the same time, you were pretty certain that whenever you had nightmares in the middle of the night, you would go and find him, because he could protect you from anything. One thing was certain they were both dangerous people who would kill for you.

You wanted to have a look at the House of Wax. Vincent was pretty excited about it. Bo a lot less but he tagged along, mostly to translate what his twin would want to tell you. You promised yourself you would force your brain to remember ASL.

At some point, you barely listened to Bo anymore, as you walked around the museum. Some of the faces were familiar, like if you had already met them in what could have been a dream.

The smell of wax was completely engulfing you and you remembered more of their mother, Trudy. You remembered she was spending hours with her art. She took Vincent by her side because he was talented but she was ashamed of his face, hence the mask. She had no interest in Lester because he was her last one, and she had so much work to do in the House of Wax before dying from her illness. And she despised Bo. He was handsome, but he was a little monster of a child, always angry, always asking for his Mama’s love when she didn’t have anything to give to the world and her family but her art. She was obsessed.

She liked you when you were taking Bo and Lester away from her, but she hated you when you were also taking Vincent away, when you were telling her that it wasn’t true that he had a face only a mother could love. She hated that you were able to love her sons, because they didn’t deserve it. And she hated even more how Bo’s fit of angers were calming around you, how Lester wasn’t in need of her attention when you were there, how Vincent was more himself when you gently smiled at him.

You found yourself stopping in front of the sculpture of a man. It was odd because you remembered him being the mailman. He was always observing you four. He even told you one day to stay away from the Sinclairs: the mother was crazy because she was talented, her husband was a cruel doctor and the children had to be monsters. Especially because the day before the brothers had almost beaten to death another teenager, who had touched you and made you feel so small.

“Love?” Bo placed a hand on your shoulder as you seemed to be frozen in front of the sculpture

“I remember him. You sculpt real people?” you asked and the twins exchanged a look at your phrasing

“Yes, Vincent, and our mother before, take inspiration from people we meet” Bo replied after a little while “Before Ambrose became a total ghost town, Vincent tried his best to reproduce the people who used to live here” Bo continued

“Did you make sculptures of your parents?” you suddenly asked, not even really knowing why

“Just our mother.” Bo said

“And of me and my parents?” you tilted your head to the side as you looked up at Vincent who shook his head

He signed something, and you read one of the words: perfect. Bo translated:

“We were too focused on you to really remember precisely what your parents looked like. And for you, you are way too perfect to be sculpted”

“Smooth talkers” you hummed and looked away, blushing a little

You resumed walking but a thought kept bugging you over and over again:

“What happened to your parents?” you asked

“Our mother died of illness when we were about 17” Bo replied instantly but you noticed how strained his voice was “Her last words and thoughts were for the House of Wax, the masterpiece of her life. She asked Vincent to keep takin’ care of it, no matter what the price’d be.”

“It must have been awful” you softly commented, remembering her funeral in the small church of Ambrose

“It got worse when our father went insane. I guess she was the only thin’ he loved, or felt somethin’ for at least.” Bo shrugged “He died too” Bo added but he didn’t say what he died of, and before you could ask more questions about it, Vincent uncharacteristically boldly reached for your hand to get you on another aisle of the museum.

The gesture alone made you forget about your interrogation.

You spent a fun day with the twins. They kept you entertained quite well and answered most of your questions. You noticed they avoided the church and other parts of the town, but you didn’t mind for the moment. You were happy with them, and they managed to make you feel at ease.

But truth to be told, you had missed Lester’s presence. You had seen his red string all day, waving in the air for you to follow again. You disliked being away from any of your soulmates.

You could remember that when you were living in Ambrose, you wanted your boys around you all the time, and the three brothers - who weren’t loved and wanted by anyone else - were more than happy to oblige. The more you thought about it and the more you realised that your absence must have been cruel and impossible to fill for them.

The twins groaned when they heard Lester’s truck and you shot them an amused glance. Lester parked and opened the house door, an instantly bright smile lighting up his face as he spotted you.

“Come for a ride?” he offered and you agreed, getting up and putting your shoes back on

“Where goin’? Bo asked his baby brother

“Don’t know, ‘round” Lester shrugged “Don’t have to stay in Ambrose all the damn time. And maybe the girl’d like to grab a snack or somethin’ he offered

“Oh yeah, that would be nice!” you exclaimed

“But ya come back here tonight?” Bo asked again “Both of ya”

“Yes, yes, we both sleep here tonight” you replied before Lester could answer and you saw the twins nodding and relaxing back in their seats.

Lester wouldn’t argue with you but he would have loved to keep you all to himself for the night as well. But he understood that his brothers also needed you under the same roof. After all, you had disappeared from their existences for so long, and knowing you were resting in the same house was bringing them all such a new kind of relief.

You waved the twins goodbye before following Lester to his truck. He started to drive and as you put loud music on, you both started to chat around. You loved how easy to talk Lester was. He was funny and he managed to make you laugh pretty easily.

“Hope the twins didn’t bore ya to death?” Lester teased

“Nah, they’re good but I’m glad to leave Ambrose for a moment” you admitted

“Why?” Lester frowned

“It’s not about the twins, they’ve been perfect to me” you quickly precised “It’s just… It’s so strange to be in a ghost town filled with wax sculptures. Also the House of Wax woke up quite a lot of memories and it was getting tiring” you admitted to him

“I understand” Lester hummed “I don’t live in Ambrose anymore”

“Which drives Bo crazy” you smiled

“Vincent too. The twins are pretty similar on a lot of thin', but Bo’s always the one voicin’ it. Vincent’s great at manipulatin’ ya though, he smooth talk ya” Lester hummed before realising he could sound bad “I don’t mean…”

“It’s okay, I understand.” you reassuringly smiled “You’re all dangerous people, I don’t really expect less from any of you, including you, Les” you added without realising you used the nickname

“Ya’re as dangerous as us, ‘cause we’re completely wrapped ‘round your little finger, even more when ya use nicknames” Lester told you with eyes shining in happiness

“Ah yes, what’s everyone’s favorite nicknames then?” you asked, curious and Lester let out a little laughter

“Bo likes to call ya “love”, but ya already noticed it.”

“Yeah, he’s not subtle, isn’t he?” you chuckled and Lester smirked

“He likes when ya call him “hon”. Vincent calls ya “muse” and he likes it when ya call him “handsome” for obvious reasons…”

“What happened to him?” you asked

“Bo and Vince were born conjoined twins and our father wasn’t the most careful doctor on Earth. But ya’re really handlin’ it very well so far, askin’ for him to remove his mask ‘round ya and all” Lester was grateful

“Trying my best” you shrugged “What about your nicknames?”

“I like to call ya “sunshine” and ya can honestly call me anythin’” he replied

“But what’s your favorite one?” you insisted as Lester kept looking at the roads

“Darl’ or darlin’ I believe” Lester shyly said and you smiled to yourself

“Thanks for that, I’ll make sure to use it against all of you” you laughed and Lester chuckled with you

“Not expecting any less from ya, sunshine”

Part 5

Taglist: @staley83 - @joyfulllittlething - @qardasngan

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