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bitterrfruit · 3 months ago

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houndtooth [18]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 7.4k words cw: smut. 18+ mdni thank you to the divine and talented @theorist-fox for helping me figure out this chapter <3

he softens.

You steep in the bathwater like tea.

Loose leaves, dispersing and unfurling in the heat, essences osmosing out through your skin and evaporating in tongues of silver steam. You trace lines into the surface of the aquamarine water, watching the ripples dance away from your touch and ricochet off the walls of the tub.

There’s an ache somewhere in the back of your head, dull, thumping. A dread that lingers, black and sticky like a tumour, feeding on the liquid fear that courses through every blood vessel in your skull. One that continues to grow, even as its presence has eluded you, if only for the time being.

You’re warm. Skin lacquered in ephemeral honey, blanketing and sweet — it placates you, for now. Mollified by a false peace, the comfort of quiet and the gloaming of soft touch.

You should regret what you did.

Begging for him like a degenerate — the memory should be sour to reflect on. Should taste like bile in your mouth as you reminisce on kissing him, on biting him, on coming on his tongue.

It doesn’t.

It was what you needed.

Needed, not wanted, you needed it with the same exigency as a starving animal in need of food, of a wilting flower in need of water. That’s the only way you could begin to explain it. Overwhelmed by such a dearth of comfort that you acted on the impulse to sate it because it was needed to survive.

You hear the flick of a lighter, where Simon sits against the wall beside the tub. Knee propped up, he hangs an arm over it as he pinches a cigarette with the other, sucks down a deep drag.

He looks at you with lidded eyes as the smoke flows from his nostrils in curls, before he reaches over to hand you the roll.

You lean against the side of the tub, forearms propped up on the edge, chin resting on the back of your hands. You free one to take it from him, sip a short puff, and give it back.

In the dim light of the bathroom, he looks like a different man.

His cheeks are pinker, eyes a little brighter. Softer lips. Gentler stare. Perhaps you’re making it up, to make yourself feel better for using him so brazenly.

His familiar mask is still downstairs, tossed somewhere to oblivion. Jersey in a pile on the kitchen floor. His bare chest is bruised, scratched, bitten — blood-red weals where you had abused him with your teeth and your claws, spotted bruises on his neck and shoulders where you suckled on him like a leech.

Your eyes scour the marks that weren’t left by you; white cords of poorly healed gashes, craters left by bullets, knurled and pink where he had been burned. He is covered in them.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” you say, as mild as a whisper, a pang of embarrassment at the tip of your tongue.

“Hurt me?” He asks, a low rumble, through a bemused smirk.

You extend a hand over the edge of the tub, trace the tip of your finger against a throbbing red imprint of your teeth in his pectoral, a bite mark so deep it lingers even an hour after its infliction.

He looks down his nose at where you touch him, releasing a pent breath in a huff of laughter.

“Mh,” he grunts, as though only now noticing how you had maimed him. “You’re a little animal.”

“Sorry,” you puff, tucking your hand back under the other.

“Didn’t hurt,” he says simply, poking his cigarette in his lips to punctuate it. “Felt good.”

You smile wryly at that, before you sheepishly glance at the floor.

“More worried that I hurt you,” he says, after a languid pause. Cigarette smoke in a mist around his head, he hands it to you again.

You keep it for a bit, sucking in two consecutive puffs to slow your heart down before giving it back.

“You didn’t,” you reply.

He rocks his head back, leaning it against the dark tiles of the wall. His eyes turn sombre, and he rubs his brow with a tense thumb.

“What,” you ask edgily.

He exhales out a cloud of smoke. “Nothing.” he mutters, under breath, as though to himself.

You shift uneasily in the water and the waves splash quietly against the ceramic walls of the tub. “Do you regret it?”

His stare is heavy. Pointed. Rust-brown eyes laden with quiet guilt and an anger you can’t place — at you, or at somebody else, you cannot be certain.

“Fucking you?”

Your brows twitch into a frown, but soften quickly. You aren’t sure why you’re taken aback by his bluntness — fucking you — given he hasn’t shown much in the way of subtlety in the short time you have known him.

What you don’t like, though, is that he believes himself to have done something to you. He fucked you. A one-way act.

You’re used to being fucked in such a way. A man fucks you, a sire fucks a bitch. In either case, you’re the receptacle. The sleeve for a cock. A passive recipient of fucking, your contribution irrelevant, or worse, unnecessary.

This was different.

“Yeah,” is all you say, resting your chin on the back of your hands.

He lets out a ragged sigh. “No,” he says brusquely, “I’m glad I did.”

Strawberry red stains your cheeks, sugary heat suffusing under your skin. Your tongue is heavy and uncooperative and you have nothing to say.

“I’m glad I made you feel good,” he adds, a murmur. “I’m glad I took you from that fuckin’ mansion. I’m glad I shot your husband. And I’m glad I hit Makarov. I only wish I’d shot him as well.”

He ends his tirade with a final puff of his short cigarette, sucking it down to the filter, before squishing the butt into the marble and adding it to the pile of the last three he already finished.

Your chest is tight, ribs enclosing, lungs sipping shallow. Heart tumescent at the base of your throat and thumping between your collarbones.

“I’m glad too,” you breathe, not quite able to let the words slip out confidently, because you can’t believe you’re saying them. You’re not even sure uttering them aloud makes the sentiment true, but it feels that way.

The silence that follows is as tepid as your bathwater. He shuts his eyes, head leaning against the black tile behind him.

“Will you get in with me?” You surprise yourself when you ask it, and he cracks open an eye to look at you.

“I’ll dirty up your water,” he says frankly.

“I don’t care,” you whisper.

His lips curl as he decides whether or not to entertain you. It was an admittedly uncouth request, and you begin to mourn asking — until he reaches forward and pulls loose the laces of his boots, kicking them off with his socks, they bounce and thud on the tile.

With a grunt he pushes himself up to stand. His pants are already unbuckled, left that way after your tryst in the kitchen, so he simply shucks them down and unabashedly tugs his boxers with them.

You sit upright in the water, and you feel like a little lecher for watching so raptly. You didn’t get to see much when he had you on the kitchen counter — only his torso, which you weren’t upset about. But you did not expect that he’d bare himself so willingly, a man whose face you had barely become accustomed to, previously hidden by a permanent mask.

His legs are long, they look as tall as you — just as wide, too, thighs like hocks of pork and hirsute with straw curls. Tattoos bedizen a single leg, his left; a large gun on his shin, a nautical star on the side of his thigh, other engravings you can’t make out in the dim light of the orange sconce by the mirror.

Your prurient eyes latch to something else, though, as it swings heavy between his legs on his way towards the tub. Even soft, you cannot fathom that you had fit it inside you. Uncircumcised, unlike Victor’s. A hearty mauve at the thick head, sheathed in ruddy foreskin. Pale at the base, corded with veins, and pendulous under its own weight.

It makes you swallow as he lifts a colossal leg over the edge of the tub, settling immediately into the water and forcing waves to splash up the sides and dribble onto the floor. With his added mass the water’s surface brushes your nipples, they stiffen when it tickles.

He sinks into the water with a strained sigh, head hanging back over the rounded edge of the tub. The water laps just below his sternum, and his legs overlap with yours — great big knees jutting out of the glossy surface on either side of you, you tuck your knees together, but wedge a foot at either side of his waist. Takes up the entire fucking tub, titanic as he is.

“Nice, isn’t it?” You say quietly, amused.

“Mh,” he hums.

“Bet you haven’t had a bath in a while.”

“You saying’ I smell?”

You snort. “No, I just mean, you know, like, specifically—”

He cracks a wide smile, eyes shut. “I know,” he says. “It has been a while.”

In the quiet you hang your arms over your knees, silently observing every scar on his freckled body, each more grisly than the last. Your eyes fix to a burl of keloid under his ribs, thick and purple, scarred skin shiny where it healed wrong.

“You have a lot of scars,” you quietly muse.

He only grunts.

“Are they all from — fighting, and stuff?”

His eyes open and cut across the tub, as if to check why you’d ask such a thing. You feel a bit guilty having asked it, but you know so little about him; the man himself is a mystery, enigmatic as he is reclusive, and you’ve let him inside you. Some part of you feels owed a glimpse of who he is.

“Some of them,” he says.

“Not all of them?”

“No.”

“What else are they from?”

His stare is forlorn. He seems to take a moment to decide whether or not to answer you.

“Couple from when I was a kid,” he says mutedly, swiping the pink slit in his top lip. You don’t want to know how he got that as a little boy. “The rest are from Mexico.”

“What happened in Mexico,” you ask, near a whisper, curiosity getting the better of you.

He sucks deep a breath, drumming on the edge of the tub with the pads of his fingers. You haven’t yet seen him so uneasy, so patently upset. His eyes are black with it, pools of tar that swirl and bubble, plainly haunted by something you don’t need to see to understand.

“Sorry,” you say abruptly. “Don’t tell me. You don’t need to tell me.”

He drops a hand from where it rests on the lip of the tub, and plants it on your calf. Grazes your skin with his thumb. He gives you a faint nod, and he doesn’t elaborate. You wonder if he would have felt obligated to tell you if you hadn’t relented.

“What happens next?” You ask, if only to fill the silence.

He licks his teeth. “That depends on what we got tonight.”

“Oh, shit!—” you suddenly blurt, jolting up, and he looks taken aback. “I heard some things when they were in the dining room.”

He straightens himself, sitting upright and watching you keenly. “What.”

“Um — they said something about a vault. At the house in Russia, I think, after I lied and said I heard the assassins talking about a USB drive. Sergei said, um, Victor’s digital assets hadn’t been compromised, and that you hadn’t touched the vault. So maybe there’s something important in there.”

“Did they say where the vault was?”

“No — only that you didn’t find it, so I guess… somewhere you didn’t look,” you explain. “They’re getting someone else to sweep the mansion again. Vladimir said — he said Konni, I think, are inept, so must have missed something. Then Sergei said he’d talk to someone called Arkady.”

He chews on that for a moment, glaring into the surface of the water.

“You know him?” You ask.

“I do,” he says. “Anything else?”

You take a second to think, to comb through the weeds of everything else that had happened in the last few hours.

“Well, when… when you interrogated me, you asked about a factory, so I told them I overheard the people who killed Victor talking about a factory.” You say, suddenly feeling like the only information you had gleaned was vague and useless, and you pick at your fingernails. “But I was vague about it, I didn’t want them to think — you know, that I knew too much. So I told them I thought it meant warehouse. Then one of them said, ‘they know about Mialstor’.”

He cocks his head at that. “What?”

“Mialstor, is what he said,” you repeat. “I guess that’s the name of the factory.”

He suddenly grins, eyes wide with a vigour you had not yet seen at all in him. He reaches forward with both hands, and your instinct is to recoil — but he grabs you by the cheeks and tugs you towards him.

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” he hails, pressing his forehead to yours and almost shaking you in exuberance. “You’re brilliant, Mia.”

A rush of blood rises up from your chest, turning you pink, and you’re not yet sure what you did right. “Do you know it?”

“Yeah, I know it,” he says, reeling back from you slightly. “Just can’t fuckin’ believe we hadn’t thought of it already.”

“So — so, that’s good?” You ask anxiously, “I got something?”

He chuckles dryly, grin wide; tilts your head downward to plant his lips on your forehead, and your blood turns to syrup.

“Yeah, you fuckin’ did,” he croons.

His praise sends a tickling warmth down your spine, gooseflesh pricking up on the surface of your flushed skin. Turns you to pudding. Not just the assurance that you had done something right, that you were inching closer to your freedom — but an expression of genuine pride, of unburdened affection, truly alien to you. Surreal. Much like most of the last several days, tonight especially.

You rest a wet hand on his knee, unsure where else to put it, his skin is cold in your palm.

You have always had little control over what your body chooses to do, proven further as you tilt your head upward, until your mouth meets his chin, his stubble prickly on your lips.

And as though hearing the thoughts even you could not, he takes the burden from you — his lips find yours, and his mouth opens to take you. You draw in a shuddering breath, his tongue glides against yours, and he breathes your air from its source.

There is no reluctance left in him, seems you have bled him dry of any remaining reservations. No longer wastes his energy questioning the morality of how he touches you. His hands jump from your cheeks to your hips, and he hoists you up and between his knees — plants you astride his pelvis, his thighs a backrest, a seat made for you.

His lips take no pause, lavishing from your neck to your collarbone, taking your soft breast in his mouth as you straighten your spine. His tongue feathers over your nipple and a whine escapes your throat, hands firm in the hollows of your waist, holding you in place as he indulges himself.

He bucks his hips to tip you forward as he leans back against the reclined wall of the tub, wide hand fixes to the back of your neck, under your hair.

You kiss him without haste but no less eager, tobacco on your tongue, hunger in your teeth. He smooths a free hand down your spine and it makes your hairs stand on end, grazing until it reaches your ass, and he burrows his fingers unabashedly into the pillow of your flesh.

The silence of the room is peppered with quiet splashes of water and breathing turning heavier, then the whimper that escapes you as you feel his cock growing harder underneath you. Wedged in the petals of your pussy, suddenly taking up more space as it steels in the cleft of you.

You arch your spine to glide your cunt down his shaft, gripping in the soapy wetness of the bathwater — curl forward as you grind upward, releasing a puff of wanton air as your clit rubs against the bulb of his head, where it lies flat against his stomach.

He hisses as you knead against him with your full weight, gluttonous hands boring into your hips to compel you even further downwards; but you persist unfettered, rocking your pelvis back and forth along his shaft until you can feel your slick between his skin and yours, not yet dissolved in the bathwater.

You can feel him growing frustrated. He tries his hardest not to burrow his fingernails into your skin, masseters jutting out as he grits his jaw, temples divoting in the strain.

You straighten your back, looking down your nose at him; cheeks calescent red and lids heavy, luxuriating in his desperation, panting through your open mouth.

“What do you want,” you ask, voice low, resting a hand flat on his rigid pectoral to balance yourself.

He glowers at you, panting, hopelessly grinding his hips up into you to chase the friction.

“You know what I want,” he grits, enormous hands briefly loosening to slide to your waist, before they dig in there instead.

“Say it,” you hum, stilling with the blunt head of his cock nestled between your folds.

He cracks a grin, jaw slack, he laughs at you incredulously. At a loss for words, for a beat, as he futilely rolls his hips.

But his eyes are dark, and they do not leave you. Through a smirk, he says; “I want you.”

You liquefy when he says it. Insides turn as gummy and bittersweet as jam.

You know he means your body, your cunt; you, the parts of you that matter. You can’t help but burden his hungry words with a weight they were not intended to carry.

Still, you raise yourself just enough to reach beneath you, taking his cock in your kittenish fingers — your tongue wettens when you touch it, hard as titanium and hot as molten iron. Girth dizzying now that it is tangible in your hand, when you wrap your fingers around it and hold it upright.

His eyes go glassy when you slot the head of his cock between your labia, nudging it at your entrance — you gasp through wet lips as you sink back down, lancing yourself on the length of him until you sit flush with his hips, impaled to the helve.

It’s harder to breathe around the size of him in this position. It ached delightfully the first time, when his head mashed into your cervix, when he buried deep — now he takes up all the space inside you, bullying your womb out of the way to fit, and he hadn’t even moved yet.

He keeps his hips still, in fact. Busies himself with his hands, they graze over your thighs, up your waist, around your breasts, along your collarbones.

“Say it again,” you breathe, voice broken.

He smooths a flat hand down your sternum, between your breasts, over your belly as if just to feel the warmth of your skin.

“I want you,” he murmurs, no longer smiling.

A heat blooms in the hollows of your eyes, tumid with unspent tears, and you keel forward to taste him again; with an open mouth you seal your lips to his, and exhale all of yourself into him. A wide hand weaves into the hair at the back of your head, the other sweeps from your waist and around your ribs, settling in the divot of your spine.

Still, he does not move. Doesn’t rut himself deeper, doesn’t reel back his hips to indulge himself with the slightest friction. Instead, he moves his lips to your cheek, curling his hand to the top of your head, before nestling your face into the crook of his neck.

You wonder what thoughts of yours he can hear, can feel through your skin, can taste in your mouth, that you yourself are not privy to. Because with a free hand he scoops underneath you, lifting you like you’re weightless in the water, and unsheathing his cock from inside you. Sits you back down on your side against him, with your knees tucked in.

You’ve resolved not to cry, but quiet tears drip from your eyes regardless of your attempt to subdue them. Their origin eludes you, they roll anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, into the balmy skin of his neck.

He draws in a slow breath, your head rises with his chest, lets it out just as languidly. His hand knots a little firmer against your scalp, his lips press into your hair.

“Don’t be.”

He can’t explain it.

Whatever it is, palpitating behind his sternum, aching like cardiac failure.

He’d have called it guilt, perhaps, in the days leading up to now, while he has you purring on his chest like a cat. He pets you like one, a listless hand stroking your damp hair from your forehead to the back of your neck. Keeps still like you’re as skittish as one, liable to jump off his lap and scurry away into the shadow if he moves too quickly.

He’s not sure what he’d call it, now.

It was hatred, first, bubbling and acerbic in his chest at the sight of you. That hadn’t lasted long, though. Then, it was pity, when he watched you cower away from himself and others who hurt or threatened you, or when he had to listen to your husband unjustly berate you. Then, it was shame, for salivating over you like an animal despite how he exploited you. Next was guilt, for exploiting you at all.

Whatever it is now, he doesn’t have a name for it.

He would have indulged you, if you wanted him to. He’d have fucked you to sleep in the bathwater, or simply coaxed another orgasm out of you with his fingers, or his tongue, if you asked. He could never be unwilling to surfeit you if that were what you needed from him.

He could tell, though, read it on your lips, see it in your eyes, that it wasn’t what you needed. That you were acting out of routine, out of habit, a machine on autopilot. He’s sure that you know well how potently magnetising you are. That any man would lust over you, would fuck you in a heartbeat, and would tell you so. You don’t need him to attest to that.

He’s certain you’d be expectant of it. Certain that sex is the only affection you are accustomed to receiving, and that anything else has been a means to an end.

He has always had a similar attitude.

He doesn’t dole out affection freely, nor does he willingly receive it. A fuck was once all he needed, and he decided himself uninterested in, or unworthy of, anything more than that. He has always prided himself on it, in fact, that he never needs anything else. Doesn’t need reassurance, or care, or sympathy. Doesn’t need touch beyond the kind that gets his cock hard.

Can’t explain why he doesn’t want to be that for you.

He doesn’t want to be another dog, so you called them; an animal that mauls, that bites, that scratches and grabs, hits and breaks. He doesn’t want to be a creature of hunger and hatred, destined only to consume, to masticate then swallow.

He doesn’t want to prove you right. He has already been that creature, that dog, for all of his life. Sharp-toothed and brutal, permanently apoplectic with a rage that never dissipates, turbid in his blood like silt. Antipathy aimed indiscriminately, at everybody, himself no exception.

That sediment that terminally thunders through him has settled, temporarily. A momentary taste of amity, while you lie curled up on his stomach, gently breathing against the skin of his neck.

Pride beats through him, too. He’s bright with it. He’s fucking proud of you — not a sentiment he would ever have expected to hold.

Clever girl, using what little knowledge you had gleaned from him to fish out intel he would never have found himself. Clever girl, feigning uncertainty about the very language you’re fluent in to milk them of even more. Staggered by your courage, brave girl, maintaining strength within arm’s reach of those wolves who so deeply terrify you. Brave girl, standing up to the warmongering sadist even as he had his hands around your throat.

He wants to tell you so, but it’s not in his nature, would go against his grain — regardless, it seems you have fallen asleep, judging by the shift in your breathing. Slow, deep, in a torpor that leaves you limp against him.

The water isn’t hot anymore. Not quite lukewarm, either; the exact temperature of the surface of his skin, so it feels as though he isn’t submerged at all.

He’d leave you sleeping, if he could, but he can’t have you spend the night in cold water. If he had another set of arms, he could gracefully get out of the tub and carry you to bed without needing to wake you. Alas.

He adjusts himself, skin squeaking against the ceramic walls of the tub, and that seems to be enough to disturb your slumber.

You quickly push yourself upright with your hands on his chest, and he releases you. Your stare jumps around as though you had forgotten where you were, until his hand falls to the small of your back, and you catch his eye in the dim yellow light.

A pent breath escapes you, and you rub an eye with the heel of your palm. “Sorry,” you croak.

“For what,” he says torpidly.

“For — for falling asleep on you.”

He lets out a puff of laughter. “Seems like you needed it.”

You smile sheepishly, and his stomach tightens up. “Guess so.”

You stare at him, for a beat, and he swears you tilt your head in thought — lids heavy, eyes shadowed by exhaustion but laden with a quiet comfort. Not once would he ever have thought he’d see such an expression in them, so used to them being wide and frightened, or wet and ruddy with tears.

“What do we do now?” You ask quietly, and he wonders how metaphorical you’re being. “Have we — is there more to do, still?”

Not metaphorical at all, evidently. “There’s more to do,” he replies, remorseful.

Your expression sinks, and he feels guilty again. “Right,” you breathe. “Do I have to see him again?”

Him, he needn’t ask. The way you say it, thick with hate, speaks his name for you.

He reaches for you, brushes your jaw with his thumb, sweeps a damp curl of hair behind your ear. “No.”

You all but deflate with relief once he says it.

“I need to check in with my team,” he adds, with a huff. “C.O. will figure out what happens next.”

“The Captain?” You ask, a grumble.

He nods.

You chew on something to say, a divot between your brows. “I don’t like him.”

He smirks at that. Hopes he gets to tell him that, one day. Bird says she doesn’t like you. “He’s not everyone’s cup o’ tea.”

“No, I mean, I don’t trust him.”

“No?”

He doesn’t blame you, he’d never vouch for the man. He just wants to know if the Captain had done something to you to make you feel that way, while he wasn’t around to see it.

“If he had his way I’d be dead already,” you say sombrely.

He grimaces. You’re probably right.

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he grunts, hand smoothing over the curve of your shoulder, brushing down your arm. He can’t stop touching you.

You adjust your position on his lap, not quite getting comfortable, but turning to face him better. “How can you guarantee that if he’s your commander?” You ask, tone interrogative. “What if he orders you to kill me?”

“I wouldn’t,” he says, more forcefully, anger bubbling in the back of his throat at the thought.

He hasn’t considered it, going against direct command, breaking the chain of authority that he has been beholden to since birth. His eyes go dark as he thinks about it. Such an order an immovable object, his newborn compulsion to safeguard you an unstoppable force.

He doesn’t know what would happen. Only that you’d be alive at the end of it.

Concern bleeds into your features, but it seems you elect to believe him, answering only with a faint nod. “Okay.”

“You should get some sleep,” he says.

“Do we have time to?” You ask dubiously, dread in your throat.

He huffs. “You do.”

A look of pity cracks through your features, but you relent with a nod. “Okay.”

With some maneuvering, you push yourself up and step a leg out of the tub, standing on the tufted bathmat. Your skin prickles up in the cold, tiny bumps of gooseflesh feather your skin, faint hairs standing on end.

There’s no caution in your nakedness, no lingering reluctance in having his eyes soak you in. You stand unblushing, and he watches as you float to the towel rail; the way your calves tighten, lush thighs bounce with each small step. The way the faint light catches in the valley of your spine, shimmers on your soft skin embellished with drops of water, carves out the nectarine contours of your ass.

He’s not ignorant of his lechery. Acknowledges that simply having sex with you should not embolden him to abandon all shame as he relishes in the sight of you, he can’t quite justify it — but there’s more to it than that.

Not anything he can articulate nor make sense of. But you let him admire you, so he admires you.

You’ve already collected a towel for him by the time he gets out to follow you, handing it to him as you drape your own around your own shoulders. He’s not shy about spectating you as you dry yourself off, running the plush towel down your torso, arms, legs, before wrapping it around your hair and wringing out your locks.

You dump your towel on the floor by the vanity once you deem yourself dry enough, leaving your hair damp down your back. He puts his boxers back on, slightly less comfortable with his nudity than you. He’s not sure why, perhaps just habit. He’s used to staying hidden.

Seems you get stuck in the mirror.

He watches, quietly, as you glower into it like you can see somebody on the other side. Eyes penetrating like you hate her. White-knuckled hands clutch the edge of the vanity, as you let out a frayed sigh.

He shuffles over until he stands behind you. More than a head above you in the reflection, the shadow you cast.

Even with your brows curled in worry, lips in a caustic line, you’re pretty. So pretty. He wants to tell you so. His mouth won’t let him utter the words.

“Do you ever look in a mirror, and—” you hesitate, “and think, ‘who the fuck is that’?”

He bites down on nothing, but nods in response. “Most of the time.”

You blink at yourself, a slender finger lifting to graze the yellowing bruise under your eye.

“I used to look so normal,” you say quietly, musing to yourself.

He exhales as if to laugh — can’t imagine that you ever looked normal. You’re abnormal, by nature. He’s sure it would come across as an insult if he were to say so, but he doesn’t mean it as one. Even as he imagines you in a hoodie and jeans, crossing the street, buying cigarettes from the corner shop — you’d glow.

He lacks the eloquence to say such a thing, so he says nothing. Instead cranes his head and presses his lips into the swell of your shoulder. Fleeting, a simple kiss, he doesn’t linger.

“Go to bed,” he tells you.

“What will you do?” You ask quietly, pretty eyes fluttering shut as his lips graze your skin, before he steps back.

“Got some calls to make,” he answers.

“You’ll stay in the house, right?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Yet would have been accurate to disclaim, but he doesn’t want to frighten you. He knows you’d hardly sleep.

You nod, finally acquiescing, and he follows a few paces behind you as you wander out of the bathroom towards your bedroom. Leans against the jamb of the doorframe and watches as you pull a comically oversized t-shirt over your head, brush out your hair in front of your mirror, tug open the drawer of your nightstand.

Grits his teeth as you toss two oxycodone tablets into your open mouth, and swallow them with a placated sigh. Comforts himself with the promise that you’ll break your habit when you’re free from the hell you’re imprisoned in.

When you’re free, he thinks — ruminates on the prospect. He was ambivalent about your liberation when he first took you on, considered you deserving of whatever fate befell you. Let the Captain believe that you were unlikely to make it out of the arrangement alive, so no additional measures needed to be taken to ensure your emancipation.

He’ll make it right.

Observes silently as you settle yourself into bed on your side, tugging your thick covers up until they brush your cheeks, shimmying yourself deeper into the mattress. Thanks to him, it has been several nights since you have slept in a bed, and the relief is visible in the softening of your eyes and the pleased curl in your lips.

Sweet thing. He’ll get you out, or die trying.

“Night,” he grumbles, and your eyes blink open before landing on him.

“You’ll wake me up, won’t you?” You ask, “when it’s time to go?”

“Course.”

You nod. “Okay. G’night.”

He flicks off the light switch on the wall with the back of his finger. Remains in the door for far longer than necessary. Attentive as your breathing settles, as your eyes grow heavier, as your lips part slightly in your slumber. The shadow of his silhouette drapes over your body under the covers, haunting you, he’s sure. Only once you roll over to your other side, does he step away from the frame, and carefully shut the door behind him.

He pulls out his satellite phone as he meanders down the hallway away from your bedroom, dialing up the Captain and holding it to his ear.

He picks up on the first beep.

“Jesus, I’ve been waiting for you to check in for fuckin’ hours. Thought you’d gone AWOL.”

“Not quite,” he murmurs.

“Why’re you so quiet? S’the weather dirty?”

“It’s clear,” he says, as he makes his way down the staircase, out of earshot. Dithers for a moment about whether he’ll disclose why. “Didn’t want to wake the bird.”

“She’s still kicking?”

“Affirmative.”

Price chortles on the end of the line. “You’re a bloody good guard dog, I’ll give you that. How’d she do?”

“She did good.”

“Go on then, we don’t have time to piss around here.”

He makes his way to the kitchen. Eyes catch on the counter. On the glitter of the broken glass that sprinkles over its surface.

“We need to get ‘er out, sir,” he says rigidly.

“What?”

“Mia,” he grits. “I’m not leaving her in this fuckin’ shithole.”

An uneasy pause cuts through the line, as Price considers his response.

“What’s changed? Has she ended the damn war?”

“She’s not a war criminal. They’ve kept her prisoner for years, captain, they fuckin’ torture her.”

“She’s gotten in your head, then, has she?”

“If you’d spoken to her, John, you’d see the same.”

“See what, exactly.”

“An innocent girl.”

Price lets out a beleaguered sigh. “Christ,” he grumbles. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?”

A mess.

“Just get her the damn passport,” he demands, patience wearing thin. “She’s earned it.”

“Has she? You haven’t even told me if she found anything of any value.”

“Guarantee it.”

“Guarantee what?”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “That she’ll be sent home, for fuck’s sake.”

“When she’s done her job, I’ll see what I can do.”

“She has.”

“Not while we’ve got no missiles, she hasn’t.”

“Mialstor Munitions Factory,” he grunts, finally revealing the intel he called to share. “That’s where they’re making the missiles.”

“She found that out?”

“Affirmative.”

“That’s only a few clicks north of you.”

“Just under one-fifty.”

“D’she get anything else?”

“Sounds like we missed a few spots at the first estate,” he answers reluctantly. “Digital assets in a vault we weren’t aware of.”

“Right,” Price says urgently, a familiar rigidity that portends a plan. “I’ll call you back in a minute.”

The call ends with a click, and Ghost busies himself by collecting the gear that is scattered around the mansion. Finds his jersey and t-shirt on the floor of the kitchen, and his mask hanging from a cupboard handle, where it had fortuitously landed when you tossed it away. Gets himself dressed again, returning the balaclava to its rightful place. Grabs his tac vest from floor by in the foyer, handgun still tucked into the holster on its side. Returns to the bathroom and puts his trousers back on, boots to follow.

He knows what Price will inevitably ask of him. He just hopes he can get you out before he is ferried off to fulfil his next mission. Knows how dangerously distracted he’ll be if you’re stuck here without him.

His sat phone rings as he does up his belt. He picks it up immediately.

“Yep,” he answers quickly.

“Zero-seven, we’re sending a bird to you at 0400 hours. Bravo and Delta teams will meet you two clicks south of the factory.”

He checks his watch. Just before two.

“We’re storming it?”

“Affirmative, lieutenant. No time to waste.”

“Seems a little rash for you, captain.”

“You trust your bird, don’t you?”

His jaw tightens. “I do.”

“Then there’s no use sitting on our hands, is there?” Price barks. “MacTavish will be joining you at Mialstor. Garrick and I will be heading back to the estate to find what you missed.”

“They’ll be sweeping the mansion again,” he says. “It’ll be swarming.”

“Counting on it.”

Not unlike the Captain to dive right into the hornet's nest.

“You sorted exfil for the bird, then, I take it?”

“Jesus, lieutenant, get your bloody priorities straight. There are lives on the line.”

“So is hers,” he spits. “If they get to her they’ll fuckin’ kill her. Worse than that.”

“She should’ve thought about that before she married one o’ them.”

Ghost swallows his simmering insubordination before allowing himself to speak.

“Do you hear yourself?”

The silence that follows is ugly. He can hear the Captain gritting his teeth through the phone, can see the line that forms in his ever-severe lips. The man has always been callous, dangerously pragmatic — but this level of cold apathy is out of character. Pure desperation.

They’ve been hunting the same organisation for the better part of a decade. Makarov has never been so within reach, so close to being ensnared in their maws — seems the Captain has lost sight of his own humanity in the pursuit of his heroism.

Far be it from Ghost to be the one to discern it. Until now, their roles have been reversed. Ghost the cur, Price the muzzle.

A perturbed grunt crackles through the phone speaker. “Look, If her intel was good, if we find those missiles — I’ll get her out.”

“I don’t give a shit what we find there,” he growls. “I don’t care if we get there and it’s a fucking empty field. We’re getting that girl home.”

“What’s she done to you, Simon?” Price asks, earnestly, and Ghost’s knuckles turn white. “Alright. We can’t get another bird out before the operation. But afterwards, I’ll try.”

“You’ll try?” He grits. “Or you will?”

“I’ll do my best,” the Captain replies. “Just — don’t let her distract you, eh? Remember what’s at stake.”

“Haven’t forgotten, sir.”

“Good. I’ll check in with you when you’re on the helo. Get a few zees in while you can, yeah? Need you sharp.”

“Copy that.”

Price closes the call with over and out and Ghost fights the urge to throw the chunk of plastic into the vanity mirror.

The thought makes him sick. Leaving you here. Alone, unguarded, in a mansion with no defenses, no bulwark to shield you from the men who wrestle to maim you.

Abandoning you, just as he said he wouldn’t.

He doesn’t have a choice.

Guilt swelters within him as he makes his way down the same corridor, hovering outside your bedroom door, hand yet unwilling to touch the handle. The thought of telling you makes his tongue swell up. Having to utter the words aloud, having to see your face when you learn he has no choice but to leave you here.

How could you believe him when he says he’ll be back? What stock remains in his promises?

He loathes confessing to it, but he reminds himself that the Ultranationalist scum have no reason to return to your summer house, yourself notwithstanding. Makarov’s sadism is unearthly, but he would not jeopardise a decades-long scheme just to have his fun with you. He’ll come back for you eventually, no doubting that. The creature oozes such repulsive lust for you that it lingers in the air even after he was forced to leave the estate.

Simon will return to you before he even gets the chance. He’ll come back to guarantee it. To ensure your safety.

He twists the door knob, and it opens quietly, hinges fresh and well-maintained. A crack of light slices into the room through the opening door, cloaking where you lie on your back, a single forearm jutting out of the duvet and resting softly on the pillow. Deep in slumber.

You don’t stir as he makes his way into your room, feet heavy on the carpeted floor. Gentle face doesn’t twitch as he sweeps a tuft of your hair with a thick finger, from where it had draped over your nose, scooping it behind your ear, off of your neck. Eyes fix to the beating of your carotid artery beneath the velvet skin of your throat. The divots that carve beneath your collarbones as you breathe deeply.

Makes his chest sink to imagine that you’d sleep so tranquilly in his presence. That you could ever let your guard down in his proximity. He wonders how long it will take for the other shoe to drop.

Still, he leaves his tac vest leaning against the foot of the bed. Dumps his boots off beside it, upright and neat, as he was trained to leave them.

He looks at his watch again; 02:01. Gives him just under two hours to get some sleep. He could sleep anywhere — decades in the military have inured him to sleeping on raw dirt, hung over the back of a truck, upright in a plane.

Doesn’t want to, though.

He drops into the bed beside you, atop the covers, flat on his back. Heavy head sinks into the thick down pillow beneath his head. Luxury, all of it — not only the dizzyingly opulent bedding, but the body lying next to him.

You shuffle slightly before rolling onto your side. Eyes still shut, you nestle your forehead into the swell of his bicep, sleepy hand scooping under his arm to hold it close to you.

You let out a satisfied sigh, and sleep immediately swallows him whole.

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bella-writes

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shootingontothetrack · 13 days ago

Note

Hey! You got some nerve speaking the way you did to Hydra!

- @ 🚂

Awww did he go crying to you then huh? That’s sad.

#shootingontothetrack #stex rp #silver bullet replies

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shootingontothetrack · 23 days ago

Note

Arrow has a crush on eagle and orange is trying to make it happen.

Arrowhasacrushoneagleandorangeistryingtomakeithappen!

- @shootingontothetrack

Huh?

#shootingontothetrack #stex rp #hearmeknockin #silver bullet replies

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queers-gambit · 1 year ago

Text

Blue Bunny

prompt: you and the Twins show up to collect the same debt.

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 4.4k+

warnings: Tan's real name being Aaron, Lemon's real name being Brian, Mafia antics, depiction of murder, blood, guns, brief physical violence, given nickname [ Bunny ], Daddy's Girl trope? dialogue heavy fic.

"I like the lilac, what do you think? Maybe the yellow?"

"The pink's rather nice."

"How's about green? For St. Patrick's Day? Celebration of spring?"

Your lover chuckled over the receiver, phone set on speaker to the desk in front of you. "Think I prefer the blue," he replied, the smirk evident.

"You always prefer blue," you teased, handing the bottle of pale blue nail polish to your nail tech. "So, tell me, where are you now? Haven't seen yah all week," You pouted, placing your AirPods in to keep the conversation private. Not like it mattered, your nail tech, Collette, only spoke French, and she was the only other person in the room.

"'Fraid I can't divulge that information, sweetheart," Aaron sighed, "on a bit of business right now."

"Now? Like, in the present?" You chuckled, nodding at Collette when she pointed at the length of the acrylic.

"Yeah," Tan mused back, "say hello, sweetheart!"

"Hello, luv!" Brian, or otherwise known as Lemon, was heard calling. His twin, your lover, used the codename Tangerine for the contract agency they worked for - keeping their identities safe. Something you didn't necessarily have to worry about, being as your name held power. It was something like a shield in the criminal world, everyone knowing your surname dictated fear.

"Oh, hello, my sweetness," you cooed, grinning slyly. "What's it you two are up to? What sort of business are you on?"

"Ah, hang on a tick, love," Aaron mused, setting his phone down. You waited patiently, hearing a series of gunshots ringing out as you watched Collette paint the pale blue in sleek, professional strokes. Screams echoed over the line, tires screeches, several grunts of exertion, but you didn't so much as flinch, just admiring the work your nail tech did.

You blew on your nails, admiring the color.

Collette asked if you wanted to keep the paint shiny or add a matte overcoat, you humming, replying in French that you preferred the shiny coat. She held up a bottle of silver glitter, perking her brows, watching you nod - trusting her artistic eye.

"Hello? Still there, Bunny?" Aaron got back on the line, using your pet name he bestowed on you after your first date. You had a cold coming on, and after he kissed you, you instantly sneezed - nose screwing up like a fluffy bunny.

"I'm here," you smiled.

"Right, what color did you go with?"

You grinned, "Take a guess."

"Blue's your color."

"More like yours. I much prefer pastels, but I think this color's the best of both our preferences."

He chuckled, "Listen, yeah? You free Thursday? I'l be in your neck of the woods."

"Ah, I'm traveling this week," you answered with a pout, "what about next week?"

"I might be able t'swing that, yeah," Aaron agreed easily. "You hear from that Edward bloke recently?"

"No, no, I've told you, I'm done with him. You're quite the jealous type, you know, scared him off real good."

"Ah, well, don't like folks touchin' what's mine, now, do I?"

"Apparently not," you smiled, phone line beeping with an incoming call. "Oh, shit, I gotta go, Aaron, Daddy's calling."

"Mhm, and we all know you betta answer, huh?"

"It's how we all stay alive," you laughed. "Bye."

"See yah real soon, Bunny. Make sure your toes match!"

You hung up with a laugh, then accepted your father's incoming call, "Hi, Daddy."

"Hello, sweet one," he answered. "What are you up to?"

"Collette's doing my nails."

"Ah, very good. What color?"

"A pretty pale blue."

"Wonderful. Tell Collette I say hello. We'll have t'get her a sensational Christmas bonus with the way you work her."

You chuckled, "Yeah, yeah, I know."

"Listen, poppet, I need you to do something for me."

"Mhm, anything you need, Daddy."

"One of our associates is late on payment."

"How late?"

"A week."

"Oh, you're taking time in collecting," you mused, appreciating the full set Collette was detailing. "What's the hold up? Why wait?"

"I'm stuck in Prague."

"Daddy."

"I know," he rushed, "but I need you on this one, princess."

"Who's the associate?"

"Fella name Wilmer DeLano."

"I know of him, doesn't he own the chain of pharmacies? His son and I went to university together, right?"

"The exact same," your father confirmed. "I need you to go collect, princess, please."

"How much is the debt?"

"With the added week, chalks it up to $3 million."

"US dollars?"

"Yeah."

"Since when do we deal in US dollars?" You asked with a curled lip.

"Not the question I think you want to be asking."

"Uh, no, you're right, okay, sure, I can collect. Tonight?"

"He's not expecting it, knows I'm still in Prague. Take Rufus and Gunther with you for protection detail."

"I'd rather take Samuel."

"No, he's doing a different favor for me."

"Daddy."

"He's making a delivery, all right?"

"What about Gunther and Casey? Rufus creeps me out."

"That's fine," your father agreed with a sigh. "Listen, princess, tonight might get a little hairy, so I want you prepared."

"Daddy, I'm literally getting my nails done, I'm not handling a gun. That's what Gunther's for."

"I taught you better than that. You protect yourself, you can't depend on anyone else."

You nodded, "Yes, sir. Do you wanna call the boys or...?"

"I'll call them, don't worry. Just be ready to go by 8. Remember, princess, $3 million - and make sure you count it, too."

You agreed, promising you loved him, then wishing him luck in Prague on whatever his business was. After hanging up, Collette smiled, asking in French, "When are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"That you have a boyfriend," she laughed. "He's your father, he'll be happy for you."

"I don't have a boyfriend."

"Oh, please," she scoffed, swiping the glitter on your nails. "That boy that you're always on the phone with? You're not hiding it, not from me."

You felt warmth flush your chest, heating your core. "He's still not my boyfriend," you mumbled stubbornly.

"He picks your nail colors," she grinned, "that's a boyfriend!"

You double checked the address your father sent, nodding at Gunther in the driver's seat. "All right, lads, I want this a clean collection. Just got my nails done," you smirked, the lights of the three-story home still on and indicating DeLano must've been home.

"Yes, ma'am," Casey agreed, getting out of the backseat and opening your passenger door; helping you out, letting you readjust your clingy black dress. Gunther moved around the back of the car, grabbing the usual go-bag brought to every collection.

Slowly, carefully, you stalked up the long driveway, heels clacking with every pace. You let Gunther peer through the windows, him nodding before leading the way to the backdoor. It was simple enough to jimmy the lock open, silently swinging the door wide open and stepping over the threshold.

Casey went around the side to enter through the living room as you walked through the kitchen, surrounding your target. Wilmer DeLano was sat at his dining room table with his wife, looking up when you cleared your throat. He jolted in shock, but Casey blocked the only other doorway; his gun in hand, both clasped in front of him.

Gunther checked the rest of the house.

"Hello, Mr. DeLano," you greeted casually. "Oh, something smells wonderful in here, you cook this?" You asked his wife, casually strolling up to the table, Red Bottoms sounding over the polish hardwood floors. You plucked up a slice of roast, tearing a bite off and humming, "Oh, very good that. You're a lucky man, Mr. DeLano to have such a talented wife."

"Who are you?" The portly woman begged, flinching when you hummed and brandished your gun.

"Right, guessing you don't know," you nodded. "Your husband's in a bit of a lucrative business, Missus. Nice house, though," you gazed around, "lot of fine art you've got hung up, saw all name-brand appliances in your kitchen."

"H-He owns a chain of drug stores - "

"Yes, yes, yes, I know. Very true," you agreed, "but that's only a front, it's not the full picture. I'm here to help illustrate, if you will. C'mon, why don't we all go into the living room? Hear that's where the safe is kept."

"What is happening!?" Mrs. DeLano demanded, gun pointed at her temple.

"Up, up," you demanded.

Slowly, Wilmer lifted from his seat with his hands held in peace, "Okay, okay, we can - let's go talk in the living room. Just don't threaten my wife, she's got nothing t'do with this."

"For now," you agreed, gathering the couple to the living room couch.

"Boss," Gunther alerted, dragging your old university classmate and a previous lover, Edward DeLano, up from the basement, "found this one down there, smoking a joint. Rest of the house is clear."

"Wonderful," you nodded, gesturing for Eddie to sit. "You bring enough to share with the class?" But your old peer just looked around the room of criminals. "Guessin' he didn't wanna share," you pouted, then rolling your eyes. "Well, now that we've all gathered - "

Suddenly, there was a noisy crack and bang as the front door was kicked in, making all three of you gangsters turn with weapons drawn and aimed. However, you chuckled and dropped your arm when you realized it was the Twins, Aaron and Brian, or Tangerine and Lemon, standing in the splintered doorway.

"At ease, lads," you chuckled, holstering your gun to your thigh. "These are friends of mine."

"You outsourced the job? Out your fuckin' mind, princess? Huh?" Casey growled, not lowering his gun as Tan and Lem strolled in.

"Don't fuckin' talk to her like that," Aaron snapped instantly.

"Fuck off, Casey, I would never outsource, I know the fucking rules," you sound more amused than anything.

"Well, ain't this fun?" Aaron mused with a grin, strolling in casually before pausing in the open foyer as Brian tried shutting the door again - but it the very doorframe was shattered, making it impossible. "Sorry 'bout the front door, ol' chap, but you understand, yeah? 'S just business," He nodded at DeLano. "Bunny," he smirked at you, hands in his tailored suit pants pockets; polished Italian leather shoes gently scoffing across the floor.

Aaron magnetized to your side, coiling his arm around your waist to lean in and peck your cheek.

"Hi, handsome. Thought you weren't in town until later?"

"We wrapped a different job early," he answered. "Question is: what're you doin' here, love?"

"Collecting debt payment."

"No shit," he grinned, "so are we."

Your head cocked; leaning into his side with your own arm wrapping around his chiseled waist. You asked, "He owes my father money. You?"

"Owes an associate, too." He smirked at the DeLano's you two stood in front of, "Ain't that right, geezer? Got yourself into a bit of a pickle, didn't yah? Got a bit of a problem with the nose candy, don't'cha, naughty boy?"

"You told me you quit!" Mrs. DeLano hissed, "now you're in debt!?"

"I have it under control," Wilmer deflected stiffly.

His wife sobbed and begged, "W-Would someone please just explain what's going on!? Who are you people!?" Tears fell fast. "What do you want from us!?"

"This ain't rocket science, love, fuck you mean what do we want?" Lemon snickered. "You not listenin' or something?"

"Ah, right, well, I was in the middle of explainin' the situation," you told the Twins, waving a manicured hand in the air as if swatting away a pesky fly. "'Ello, lovie," you grinned at Lemon when he stationed himself on your other side, "good t'see you."

"Sweetheart," he nodded, offering a side hug when you released his brother, "been too long, hasn't it?"

"Since Cancún," you agreed. "Right, then! Onward, ho! Casey, darlin', would you be a doll and open the bag? Get us set up t'count up?"

"'Course, boss," he agreed, kneeling at the mahogany coffee table and unzipping the duffel you brought.

"Right," your hands clapped, the family jumping at the sudden sound, "back to what I was sayin'. See, your husband owns the drug stores, that's true," you allotted, "but he also launders money for the Mafia. For my father, my family. Maybe you've heard of him?"

You relaid your father's first and last name, seeing the Fear of God paint over the DeLano's. "What?" Eddie snapped at his father sat beside him. See, despite dating briefly, you kept your identity a secret from Ed. "What have you done!? Do you know who her father is? Know what he's done!? He fuckin' gutted his own brother - "

"Allegedly," you interjected sharply.

" - all in the name of business! You don't know what this family is capable of!"

"Yes, boy, I'm well aware, the man is my bloody business partner," Wilmer snapped right back.

"Well, not so much of a partner now, are yah? Just more of a fuckin' nuisance," You smirked, earning the attention again. "So, you see, your husband washes our money, earns a significant cut for shouldering the risk. Payment's collected every two weeks and as of today, your husband's a week late on delivering our cash load."

"I-I can explain, please - "

"No need," you cut Wilmer off, "because I didn't get t'where I am now by listening to pathetic explanations. I don't listen to excuses. Fact is, you own my father money, and because you're late, the total is now $3 million - and he wants it in US dollars."

"Well, ain't that somethin'?" Tan smirked at Lem. "Turns out, he owes our client some million, too."

You hummed, nodding, "Right, right, but see, thing is, if my Daddy ain't paid, he goes postal. Nasty business, truly messy, just a chaotic clusterfuck, bodies left everywhere, cities in shambles." Turning back to the family, you offered, "So, we're just gonna make this easy. You cough up what you owe, we won't blow your brains out all over this nice Persian rug. Mmmh! See that, love?" You pointed to the fabric you stood on, looking at Aaron. "That's real authentic, you can tell by the threading. Be a shame to ruin it, yeah? Exquisite work."

"Sure is," he agreed, "but did you see up there, Bunny? 'Bove the mantel?"

"Oh, yes," you breathed in impression, "an ancient Aztec tribal mask. An artifact, very hard to get your hands on. Heard the British Museum was actually lookin' for that particular mask."

"Seems like Mr. DeLano is quite the collector of finer things," Lemon admired, pointing at a portrait on the wall. "Oi! Is that what I think? Is that a fucking Monet?"

"Priceless," you nodded.

"Listen, right, we've got strict orders, yeah?" Your lover sighed, shifting his weight. "We're t'collect payment by any means, a message is t'be sent. Right?"

"That's right, yeah," Lemon agreed, crossing his arms. "Make sure this kinda misunderstanding don't happen again."

Gunther asked, "You need tarps for this?"

You refused, "No, we're not here to kill anyone. We're here to let a loyal man the opportunity to pay us what's owed."

"Listen t-t-to me," Wilmer begged, stuttering in fear, "I don't have the money. Okay? The government came sniffin', I had tax liens to pay off to avoid prison time - "

"More fuckin' excuses! Jesus, fuck, man!" You groaned. "Who do you think can do more damage - the bloody government or my family? Huh? Look, lad, I know you've got what we're owed, so, be a good li'l boy and open the safe. Huh?"

"Fucking do it, Dad!"

"What're you doing, Wilmer? What are you waiting for!? You can't play this game! You'll get us all killed!"

"I don't have the money! How can I pay with what I don't have!?"

"Why do I not believe that?" You mused to Tan.

"'Cause you've been in this business a helluva lot longer than he has," Tangerine / Aaron answered. "You know a rat when you smell one, I reckon."

You nodded, then pulled your gun out again, aiming, and firing at Eddie's knee to shatter his kneecap. Blood splattered onto the couch. He screamed in agony, you raging above the panicked cries and shocked shouts, "Do I have your fucking attention now, Mr. DeLano?"

Edward sobbed in pain, trying to staunch the bleeding, Mrs. Delano gasping and shrieking. "Do whatever they want, Wilmer! For fuck's sake! Just do it!"

"Listen to your wife, mate," Lemon advised. "Unhappy wife, unhappy life, innit?"

You aimed at Eddie's other knee, firing, causing another flurry of screaming, crying, and begging. "If you want your son t'only have two bullets in 'im, I suggest you get moving!" You barked, aiming at Wilmer. "Now!"

"Well, wait a tick," Tangerine halted, "if we're both on the job, how's it gonna look if the geezer's telling us the truth, hey? Who gets the money?"

"Let's find it first, darlin', distribute later," you breathed as Casey finished setting up the automatic money counter. "Mr. DeLano? I advise you to do what we're asking. See, I use to duck hunt - I'm an excellent shot. The next bullet's goin' in your son's head and I never miss. Now, where's the fucking money!?"

"I don't have it! Please!"

"The money, DeLano, where's the fucking money!?"

"Please - "

"You want a dead son!?"

"All right!" He sobbed, "All right, fine! Yes, you win! Just please, please! Don't hurt my family anymore! Please, just leave them alone! I'll do what you want, just - leave them out of this!"

You nodded, "Well, you fucked with my Daddy's money. Only right I cripple you in a sense. Hey? Now, chop chop," you checked your watch for the time, "I'm a very busy bee and don't have all night."

"You're a smart lad, DeLano, we know you would've wanted to prep for a comfy fall if it came to it," Lemon laughed easily from beside you. "Ain't no way you're bone dry, know you have money stashed for security. Just c'mon, mate, these two sickos consider this a sort of foreplay, they'll go all fuckin' night with yah if you continue to refuse," he gestured at you and Tan.

You tacked on, "Lotta places to shoot someone without killin' 'em. Just saying..."

Wilmer stood from the couch, his wife shooting across the newly vacated space to embrace her whimpering son. The money launderer approached the Monet painting and lifted it from the wall; revealing an iron safe. You shared a look with Tangerine, smirking as the combination was entered and the door opening.

"That's what we fuckin' thought," Tangerine sneered, seeing the stacks and stacks and stacks of money. " Fuckin' hell. Right, so, look, count up the lady first. We'll settle after," he sniffed, fluffing his suit's lapel, picking off a piece of lint.

Wilmer began handing stacks to Casey to count, one of your arms crossing over your stomach to prop up your other arm; hand limp in the air. "Faster," you demanded, the man sweating bullets.

"Oh, now, look at that," Tan mused, taking your hand to admire your fresh manicure, "you went with blue."

"Like it?"

"Looks real pretty, Bunny, but I know something these would look better wrapped around," he grinned, making you smack his stomach playfully. "You wanna go get drinks afta this? My treat."

"Sounds like a date," you accepted, Gunther storing the counted cash into the dark duffel. "How's it lookin', Casey?"

"Looks 'bout right, boss," he reported, handing over another stack of banded money. "You want me t'count the Twins up?"

"Oh, if you would please, darlin', it would be very helpful," you nodded. "But I'm having a thought, right? Stay with me, would yah?"

"Oh, go on, toots, you've got great ideas," Lemon encouraged with a chuckle.

"Not always," Casey snickered, "remember what happened in Texas? At that Western bar?"

"Oi, the electronic bull was not my fault!"

"But the incident with the tequila and donkey was!"

"Hush!" You scolded. "Listen, all right, you see, this fucker tried to stiff us all... Let's clear the safe out. Take away any safety net? Truly cripple him, set him back to nothing?"

"Sound like your father," Gunther chuckled.

"That's a compliment," you shot back. "Go on, I want the lot."

Gunther agreed, standing, and approaching the safe. He shoved Wilmer out of the way, sweeping his arm into the safe and starting to load up the duffel. "You can't do this! If you take it all, what are we supposed to do!? How is my family supposed to survive when leeches like you suck us dry!?" Wilmer barked, making the amusement drop from your face.

"Watch your tone."

"No! No, I will not! You think you're high and mighty because of your father, but you're just a spoilt little girl! You all break into my house, extort me - "

"Can you truly extort a criminal? For the money they owe other criminals?" Brian / Lemon wondered out loud as he meandered the living room, making you shrug.

"He likes playing victim," you mused, but in the time you looked over your shoulder, Wilmer charged. You gasped when his shoulder bullied into your gut, tackling you past Tangerine and into the coffee table, shattering it.

"GO! RUN!" He shouted at his family, Tangerine lunging instantly to wrangle him off of you; the breath knocked from your lungs.

"Got some fuckin' nerve, don't yah!? Touchin' my girl!?" He raged, throwing the man to the floor again. "Nobody fuckin' moves!" Aaron growled, gun pointed at Wilmer.

"Not like they can, two blown out knees," Brian grunted as he helped pick you up from the wreck.

"Yeh all right, Bunny?"

"All right, love, yeah," you answered and adjusted your dress, picking up your weapon as Tan began wailing his balled-up fist into Wilmer's face at a jackhammering pace. It was wildly attractive, watching the man you were in-love with beat the shit out of someone who offered you threat and harm. Then something caught your eye, gasping, "Oh, you rat bastard! You broke my fucking nail!"

You yanked Tan back; aiming at Wilmer, pulling the trigger to let a close-range bullet explode the man's head; leaking brain matter on the Persian carpet. You turned to Mrs. DeLano and Eddie, cocking your head as they begged and pleaded for their lives, but you weren't listening anymore. "Got it all, boss," Gunther informed, dropping the stuffed duffel. "What we doin' with them?"

"Exactly what my father would do," you decided. "No witnesses."

"PLEASE! NO, GOD! NO, DON'T, PLEASE! WE WON'T SAY ANYTHING, I SWEAR! I SWEAR! PLEASE! MERCY! MERCY MERCY!"

Three more gunshots sounded, Tangerine's gun smoking before being tucked back into his shoulder holster under his jacket. "Well," he fluffed his lapels again, sniffling harshly, "shall we be on our way, Bunny? We good here?"

"Oh, might as well - got what we needed," you agreed, grimacing when blood bloomed towards your expensive shoes. "Ugh, what a mess. I'll make a call, have this cleaned up, pose it as a murder-suicide," you side-stepped the puddle. "Gunther, Casey, take what you want from this place, get the cash back to the stash house. I'm gonna grab a drink with the lads," you smirked, looping your arm with Aaron's.

Lemon / Brian packed up their share of the money, following behind as Tangerine / Aaron lead you from the house; placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting the end, inhaling, tossing his free arm around your neck. The night was dark and brisk, refreshing on your clammy skin as you stabilized your breathing; always a little shaken after taking life.

Call it morality.

Once in their tinted Mercedes, Brian got in the backseat, Tan rolled his window down to smoke, and you pulled out your ringing cell phone to answer, "Hi, Daddy."

He breathed in relief, "Good, you answered. Means nothing bad happened."

"That's not entirely true," you admitted. "We're leaving now."

"What happened?"

You winced, brushes already forming, "DeLano got bold, he attacked. So we left no witnesses."

"Good girl," he praised. "You feel all right?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I'm actually going to drinks with some, uh, friends," you glanced at Tangerine - seeing his lips pulled in a smirk as he started the car and pulled off down the street. "Turns out, DeLano didn't just owe us, but some coke dealer, too. Right, love?" You checked.

"Right," Aaron confirmed, reaching over to plant his hand on your thigh and give a soft squeeze.

"Right, yeah, so, he tried lying 'bout money, I shot his son's kneecaps - "

"That's my girl!"

" - and cleared the safe out. That's when DeLano attacked me - "

"WHAT!?"

"Daddy," you reprimanded softly. "I'm okay. Actually, the hired contractors on the job saved my arse - they showed up after we did with the same agenda. Gunther and Casey are gonna take the cash to a stash house, I gotta call Mr. Brooks about cleaning up."

"Did you say contractors?"

"Yeah, uh, you know, from The Agency?"

"You mean hitmen?"

"Yeah, guess you could say that. Think they're more like contract killers? Verbiage is so fickle."

"Who? Who exactly was there?"

"The Twins, Daddy. Don't worry, they're absolutely charming, only took their payment. We're gonna go for drinks, yeah?"

"Huh," he grunted, "must've been some bigwig t'send them two. Or a considerable debt." You were about to reply when he gasped in realization, "Wait, no. No, no, hang on a tick, don't bloody tell me."

"What?"

"This the lad you've got a thing for, innit? The one that sends yah flowers every other week?"

"Daddy."

"Don't tell me it's that Tangerine fucker, princess, please!"

"Oh, no, look at that, we're heading into a tunnel! I'm gonna lose the call; talk tomorrow, be safe, good luck in Prague, okay, muah! Muah! Muah! Love you! Bye, bye, bye!" You rambled quickly, blowing air kisses, then hanging up swiftly.

"The hell was that about?" Aaron chuckled. "He mad we were there?"

"Not entirely."

"Was he mad you're gettin' drinks with us?" Brian laughed from the back.

"That's a little more accurate. Well," you winced, "he was a bit testy that I'm goin' with Aaron..."

"I haven't done a damn thing to him," he grumbled.

"You do have a bit of a reputation, bruv."

You smiled sweetly, gripping Aaron's hand on your thigh, "He's my father, 'course he's gonna worry."

"'Bout time he found out, keeping you two a secret was mad frustrating, yeah? You two are disgustingly in-love."

Tangerine squeezed your thigh again, sending you a bright grin, "That we are."

requesting rules and masterlist

Bullet Train masterlist

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eriace · 1 month ago

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fake it till you make it ; nagumo yoichi

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which, nagumo yoichi and l/n y/n was assigned to pretend as a married couple for an undercover mission. ↷ nagumo yoichi ; sakamoto days

THE FIRST LIE was the ring. Thin, silver, slid onto Y/n’s finger by Nagumo with a flourish and a smug grin.

“Fits like it was meant to be, huh, honey?"

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, tugging her hand back.

They were two days into an undercover mission posing as newlyweds at a quiet seaside town, tracking a weapons dealer rumored to be blending in with the locals. Their cover: a honeymooning couple staying in a creaky hotel with paper-thin walls, a single bed, and nosy neighbors.

She followed the protocol, while Nagumo improvised. Often.

“I don’t like deviating from the plan,” she told him when he ‘accidentally’ blew their surveillance camera cover with a dramatic kiss in the street.

“And I don’t like pineapple on pizza,” he said, licking his fingers from their takeout dinner. “But here we are.”

He was chaos wrapped in charm, smiled too easily, moved like he was dancing through danger, and Y/n hated that he got under her skin so fast.

ON THE FOURTH night, they sat shoulder to shoulder at the tiny hotel balcony, both nursing mugs of tea. The sky was deep blue, the sea humming somewhere below.

“You're always this uptight?” Nagumo asked, swinging his legs lazily.

“You've always been this reckless?”

He laughed, “Pretty much. It’s more fun to live like you’ve already died.”

She glanced at him, “That’s a stupid philosophy.”

“Maybe...” He replied as he paused, and his smile softened. “But you’re here with me anyway.”

She hated the way her chest tightened at that smile with that silly line.

THE MISSION ENDED with a bullet through the target’s shoulder and Nagumo leaping from a rooftop to chase down a fleeing accomplice. Y/n covered him, shooting with precise, practiced aim, her heart thundering.

They returned to the hotel, bruised and breathless, “We did it,” she said, peeling off her bloodied gloves.

Nagumo collapsed onto the bed, grinning, “I told you the honeymoon would be fun.”

She laughed for the first time, a real one.

And on the final morning, they stood outside the train station, suitcases packed. The fake rings were still on their fingers.

He twirled hers idly. “We make a good team, y’know?"

“We weren’t supposed to.”

“But we did.”

“And now what?” she asked.

Nagumo tilted his head, smiling playfully, but his eyes— sharp and searching.

“You tell me, wife.”

Y/n blinked as her face flushed, additionally of his hand holding it out to her, and she hesitated, yet she took it.

And maybe—just maybe— they stopped pretending.

For real, this time.

#nagumo yoichi #nagumo yoichi x reader #nagumo yoichi x y/n #yoichi nagumo #nagumo x reader #yoichi nagumo x reader #yoichi x reader #sakadays #sakamoto days #sakamoto days x reader #sakadays x reader

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wolviensabes · 10 months ago

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Pajamas and Lingerie.

RQ: 'Been thinking abt the idea of the reader surprising Logan with Deadpool themed lingerie of PJs to annoy him and then BAM it’s now single wear bc he’s jealous 🤭 If you wanna write it, I’d love to see your take on this req 💖💖' - @smokeywhalee

Warnings: 18+ MDNI ; F!reader, spanking, fingering, slight orgasm denial, some teasing and dominant Logan. Did not edit, possibly later ignore errors ty.

A/N: Sorry this took forever. I'm working on multiple requests at once so I try to get out as many as I can. Jealous Lo is my fav <3 I hope it's okay I made it nsfw, I couldn't help it. I hope you enjoy this one!

WC: 2.1k

"Oh god," Logan growled out with deep annoyance and disgust at what you wore. Red pajamas with Deadpool's mask printed all over them. He could see the lingerie portion on top, and your pajama pants were covering the lacy bottoms you had on. Still, he stared with rooted irritation at the fact you were decked out in Wade's colors and his damned mask printed all over you.

"You don't like them?" You feigned, tilting your head and spinning in a circle, Logan's eyes staring at you with a blank, unamused expression. The man shifted where he was on the bed and scoffed at you.

"Where the hell did you even get those?" He asked, taking a drag of his cigar. Part of his tone said that he didn't really want to know, but he asked regardless. He had a weird feeling Wade had them made for you so it would irritate him. Well, that walking mouth succeeded in annoying Logan.

"Wade made them for me," you replied with a smile, bingo. Right on the money.

"Take that off. I don't wanna see his damn fact plastered on ya." He waved his hand at you, almost as if to shoo you away. You could tell he was starting to come to a bad mood, so you tried to sweeten it up. "I have pajamas for you too~"

His head shot up and he grunted deeply, "Hell no."

"Come on, please?" you begged, drawing out your pleads and doing the very best puppy eyes look you could muster. It wasn't enough for Logan, whom turned away and scoffed.

'That ain't gonna work, pup." He took another drag of the cigar he had and gave you a short glare. "And what did I say? Take those off. Or I will." His tone was set and firm, yet...you couldn't help but feel yourself clench. God he was hot when he was annoyed.

"What if I don't?" you retorted bravely, feeling a surge of defiance that made you feel like a brat. This unexpected challenge caught Logan's attention immediately, and he turned his head back to you with a swift, almost predatory motion. The intense look in his eyes made you stiffen, your breath catching in your throat, and a strange mix of fear and excitement boiled in your belly. His gaze seemed to pierce through you, making your heart race even faster.

"Come here." he said firmly, putting the cigar down, his finger pointing down to the ground in front of him. You stiffened and swallowed, you felt nervous but excited, looking forward to where this was going. You could see the fire burning in his eyes, staring at your choice of pajamas.

The moment you were in front of him, he grabbed you and he made a fist with his other hand, those silver claws shooting out like bullets. He carefully let them drag across your abdomen, right above the waistline of the pajama bottoms before he pushed them down and he tore them off you. The bottoms turned into stray pieces of uneven fabric by the time he was done. He let out some steam once they were off you, going as far as tearing pieces into even smaller ones.

"Fuckin' Wade put you up to this...thinks it's funny to have ya wear his face?" Logan glared up at you, "You like gettin' me worked up, is that it? You little brat." He grabbed you and he pulled you over his knee. "Well, if you wanna be a brat...then I'll treat you like one."

You barely had time to register what was going on before his rough hand came down on your ass. It didn't hurt, it was sort of like a warning or experimental smack. When his hand collided with your backside you let out a natural gasp from the sensation. Your cheeks burned from embarrassment and arousal. He took his cigar up and took a long drag from it once more, the smell took some getting used to at first, but it was more tolerable than a cigarette, plus it mixed with his natural musk well.

"Naughty girl. You like this don't you? Pissin' me off..." he growled out and smacked your ass again, a little harder this time. His calloused hand marked your ass with each smack. Those precious little sounds you made urged him on, making him smirk with satisfaction as you wriggled around. Your hands searched for something to grab, he watched the pretty skin of your ass turn red and he grinned.

"Not so bratty now, are ya?" he huffed and stopped after a handful of spanks, looking down at you as you tried to squirm out of his lap. "Not so fast, princess. Sit still and take it." Logan ordered you, feeling the round of your ass and rubbing the red skin. He dipped his fingers down and he felt between your soft legs, letting out a short laugh, nearly a snort. "Wet, huh?"

"S-shut up..." you blushed darkly from shame, you didn't know how turned on you'd be from being spanked. You hadn't been spanked before, maybe you got spanked once or twice as a child, but it was so long ago you had forgotten about it. You knew Logan wouldn't let you live this down either, he was eating this up and he'd probably tease you forever.

Before another thought could cross your mind, his thick fingers pressed into your pussy, they stroked your slit before pushing into your tight hole. It made you gasp in surprise, you were so wet he didn't have to spit on his fingers at all. Two of his fingers slowly pumped you before working up to a quicker pace. You let out moan after moan, occasionally making a sweet squeal as he expertly curled against that special spot deep inside.

"Logan! Mmn, ugh, fuck..." Your hands found the sheets and fisted them tight. Your hips lifted off his lap slightly and pushed into his hand, your clear need and eagerness wasn't unnoticed. In fact, it just urged the primal mutant on even more. His fingers curled against that spot again, making your shaking legs stiffen as pleasure shot through your body.

"There it is," he continued to curl his fingers, that sweet, spongy spot that gave you so much pleasure was being constantly stimulated. "He ain't gonna get ya like this, ever. You wanna tease me, get me to make ya shake and whine?" Logan's words filled your head but honestly the pleasure you were getting from his fingers kept you from responding normally.

"Answer me." he laid a light smack with his free hand, grunting at you. Your brain was mush, god his fingers were thick and perfect inside you. The way he was manhandling you so much and spanking you like the brat you were was so hot, your pussy clearly told him how you felt.

He wasn't satisfied with just those nice sounds you made, so he grabbed your right leg and flipped you, you laid on your back now and his fingers returned to your warm cavern, listening to how wet you sounded as his fingers worked you. "So needy...your face is so red. Do you like this pretty girl? You like when I handle ya around?"

"Uh-huh...." you nodded, pathetically trying to respond. By now your inner thighs were soaked and you coated his fingers and palm with your juices, he looked at your pussy and gently pulled up on the skin, looking at your clit. The bud was swollen and a little redder than normal, clearly wanting stimulation. He tilted his head and smiled, the pad of his thumb gently teasing it and rolling over it in circles.

"Logan!" You couldn't help the moan and buck your hips into his touch, he knew what he was fucking doing. Giving you just enough, but not too much to push you over the edge. It was so frustrating. You whined and squirmed, trying to encourage him to give you more with your little hip movements and whimpering. The bastard kept his smug smile as he watched you, feeling satisfied with himself.

"Use your words, princess. I can't read your mind, do I look like Chuck?" he carefully circled your clit with his index finger, his other hand kept two buried in your wet cunt, slowing the movements and watching your desperation grow with each passing second.

It took all the willpower in you not to scream at him to let you cum already. You knew better than to demand something from him, the more you demanded something from him, the more he'd withdraw it from you. You couldn't make him let you cum, he uses denial as a punishment, and god does he love punishing you with something so simple, yet effective.

"Don't think I forgot what you came in with. You think it's funny to tease me with something like that?" he asked, his fingers pressed up into your sweet spot, but they were still. The light pressure send electric shocks down to your toes, it wasn't enough. You needed more. You needed him to let you cum, you hoped he'd show you mercy.

Your eyes burned with tears as you whimpered and whined, really pouting like a child. Like the brat you were. The desperate, needy, pitiful little brat. It just made him smirk down at you, his hand moved from your clit to your breast, gently groping and then pinching your nipple. He listened to the new sound you made, his fingers rolling the bud around. "Maybe I'll just play with these, let you get so, so wet and beg for me..."

"Nooo," you whined, just like the needy girl he turned you into. He knew just how to work you, just what to do, just where to touch. He knew you like the back of his hand, and he memorized every inch of you. Literally inside, and out.

"Come on...beg. I know you want to." Logan chuckled and leaned closer, setting the cigar down and blowing the smoke away. The smoke tickled your nose as it barely blew over your face. "Come on...you like it don't you? Just beg, a few little words..."

"Please! Please, just let me cum already!" you whined out to him, your hips unable to keep still by now. You could feel the obvious boner in his jeans and knew he wasn't going to hold back for long if you continued your little movements.

Logan sighed, looking down and giving you a scolding glance, "No, no...that's not good enough sweetheart. Beg like you mean it." His fingers slowly began to retract and your eyes widened. All hell...

"No! Don't take them out...fuck! Fine!" You groaned loudly, "Please, let me cum...please, I need it...look at me!" You couldn't help yourself, you sounded so pitiful, your watery eyes looked at him and silently pleaded for him to make you cum.

Your pleading was satisfying enough. Logan's fingers plunged back and curled up, that sweet motion that you needed. Your gasp and eager bucking urged him on, and he toyed with your sensitive clit. His finger rubbing it in just the right way you liked. You had enough slick for his calloused pad to slide all over it and the texture of his finger felt just as good.

"Cum for me, princess. You begged for it," Logan growled out, looking at your red face, your cheeks damp from the intense pleasure. "Pretty girl, that's it...I feel you're getting close..." His fingers could feel you clenching and you were more slick now, your body preparing for your impending orgasm. Your chest rose and fell, he watched your chest as it moved and he chuckled, his fingers doing a little bit more and...there it came.

You cried out, your back arched and you moaned loudly. Your pussy tightened and you came all over his fingers, soaking his hand and lap. Your gentle voice cried his name in ecstasy, Logan groaned and he was painfully pressed against his zipper. "Goddamn..." he grunted, withdrawing his fingers when your body relaxed. He pulled his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, making you mewl and cover your face. "Good girl...look at this mess you made..."

The whimper that left your trembling lip was barely audible as you sat up and looked at the soaked spot below you, his jeans were wet and you could see his hard on struggling to remain contained in his jeans. He grunted and palmed himself as he carefully sat up, looking down at you. "I think you need another little punishment for that, don't you agree?" His dark gaze eyed the pajama pants you brought in for him, a low snarl escaping his lips and he gave a slight eye roll.

"I need to remind you who you belong to, princess...and you will wear me instead of that..." he growled, leaning over you as he pulled you closer, your bare pussy rubbed his jeans and felt how hot he was around his crotch. "What do you say, sweetheart...hm?"

"Please..." you barely got out, knowing what you are in for. Jealous Logan was about to ruin you.

"Good girl..."

Thanks for reading.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

#logan howlett #wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #wolverine xmen #wolverine smut #logan howlett smut #deadpool and wolverine #🎠my works

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shootingontothetrack · 23 days ago

Note

He’s got a crush.

Orange guess what arrow just told me.

#shootingontothetrack #stex rp #letsmakesomenoisenow #silver bullet replies

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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 1 month ago

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Skewered

(Sam Winchester x female reader)

Summary You are hurt during a hunt. Luckily Sam is there to take care of you, which makes getting stabbed a little less horrifying. CWs What it says on the tin - you get stabbed and Sam takes care of you. Fluff. Some angst. Established relationship. Teen. 3.5k words.

Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Slowly putting one foot in front of the other, you neared the door, hearing low voices on the other side.

When you reached it, you leaned your back against the wall, slowly exhaled and then disengaged the safety on your gun.

You should wait. It would be smarter, definitely, to wait for Sam and Dean to catch up, but however many people were on the other side of this door were about to be dog food, and every second could mean the difference between life and death. So you took another breath, hoping you weren’t going to regret this.

Then you moved, kicked open the door with one swift motion and aimed inside. There were two of them, and while they weren’t in wolf-mode currently, they were easily distinguishable from their captives, because for one, they looked like rejects of a mullet rock cover band, and second, they weren’t tied to chairs.

You aimed for the first one and put a silver bullet between his eyes before he even understood what was going on. Before you had time to wonder why werewolves insisted on being so consistently out of touch with modern fashion trends, the second one was reaching behind him, probably going for his own gun. You aimed, and just as he was pulling his own piece, he went down too.

There was a second of perfect silence, which was broken only by the low whimpering of the family of three the wolves had kidnapped and planned to make their packed lunch. They were tied and gagged and you took a few step forward, raising your hands a little to show them you weren’t a threat.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you said, keeping your voice friendly, “it’s all gonna be al—”

You heard a noise behind you and whipped around but it was too late. You felt the knife go in and had just enough time to think I’m getting stabbed before the pain flashed through you like white hot lava.

The knife went out of you, and you felt yourself meet the floor, your gun flying off to who knew where. Your hands went to your wound, the touch making you cringe in pain, as the third werewolf stood over you. He looked down at you with hate in his eyes as he raised the knife again.

“I’m gonna kill you, you—” He didn’t finish, because just then the blade of an axe severed his head from the rest of his body. His separate parts slid to the ground, only to reveal Sam standing behind him. Sam looked at the wolf’s body for a second, as if to make sure the decapitation had actually killed it, but then his eyes went to you and the big gaping hole that had been opened in your abdomen, and shock went over his handsome features.

He let go of the axe and it clattered to the floor as he dropped to his knees next to you. One hand went around your back, the other landed near the wound.

“Let me see,” he said and you pushed yourself to move your hand away from where it had been covering you. Both you and Sam watched as a fresh gush of blood ran out of you, Sam’s big hand quickly covering the wound.

Just then Dean came bursting into the room. He had blood on him as well, but from the way it was sprayed on him, you were pretty sure it wasn’t his. Sam turned his head, his eyes wide as he said his brother’s name. Dean came closer as he looked down on you two.

“You know,” he said, trying to make his voice sound light, “the red stuff’s supposed to stay on the inside.” You chuckled weakly, hoping that if Dean was making jokes things weren’t half as bad as they felt.

“I’m gonna get her to the motel,” Sam said, and Dean nodded.

“Okay,” he replied, “I’ve got the hostages.” He reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out the keys to the Impala, pushing them towards Sam. You moved your hand over Sam’s where he was covering your wound and he reluctantly let go, taking the keys. Then his hand went under your knees and he gently lifted you up.

He looked at your face, to see if he was hurting you. You wrapped your free hand around his neck, his closeness and strength comforting.

“No bleedin’ on the seats, you hear?” Dean said to you and you grinned, feeling a little woozy.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, noticing that your voice was a little quieter than you expected. Sam didn’t bother with any more words, and he hurriedly carried you out of the room and down the hallways of the old factory you were in. It was at the edge of town and if you were an evil monster, you would also have picked this place as your lair. It was kind of cozy.

The Impala was standing just outside, and without letting go of you, Sam pulled the passenger side door open and gently deposited you on the seat.

“That okay?” he asked as you let the arm that had been around his neck drop into your lap.

“Peachy,” you replied. Sam took off his jacket, bunching it up, then gently moved your arm so that he could lay it over the wound, then put your hand on top of it.

“Keep pressure on it, okay?” he said. You were about to sass him, tell him you knew damn well how to take care of a stab wound, but you didn’t. The truth was, you were starting to feel weak, which in turn made you feel scared.

Sam closed the door, and rushed over to the driver side, got in quickly. He started the car and looked behind, backing up and then drove off the site. He was definitely going over the speed limit as you were driving down the dark country road. He kept shooting looks at you and his hand, covered in your blood, went to your leg.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. You swallowed.

“Not… awesome,” you replied. You had hoped it would make Sam smile, but the worry did not leave his face. Instead he squeezed your leg and you felt a distant tremble in his hand.

“I’m alright, Sam,” you said but it came out a little stuttery. In response, Sam stepped harder on the gas.

You pulled into the motel parking lot and Sam parked as close to your shared room as possible. He was on your side of the car in the blink of an eye. You put your feet on the ground, the motion making a sick pain twist through you, but you fully intended to walk to the room. Sam thought otherwise.

Again, his one arm went under your knees, the other steadying your back as he lifted you up and carried you towards the door. He’d already pulled the key out, and managed to unlock the door without putting you down.

Once you were inside, Sam put you down on the small, checkered couch. He closed the door and started moving, grabbing things from his bag and then returning to you. He didn’t say anything, but his brows were knotted and you saw a muscle twitch in his jaw where he was pressing his teeth together. He sat down on the small couch table next to you and you looked up at him, your head resting on one arm of the couch and your feet hanging over the other one.

“I’m gonna need to disinfect it,” Sam told you, looking at your face. This was going to suck, but you pressed your lips together and nodded. Sam gently moved your hand off the wound and then peeled your shirt up. The blood had already started drying and when the fabric brushed over your wound, you flinched.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sam said quickly. You swallowed again, noticing your throat was dry.

“You know, Sam,” you said, trying to make your voice sound light, “if you wanted to feel me up, you should have just said so.” Sam forced a smile, but you could tell that the worry was stronger. The wound now accessible to him, he reached for the flask you knew contained the high percentage alcohol you used to clean wounds. You’d once almost taken a swig from it, but the feeling of your nose hairs being burned out of you had stopped you in time.

Sam poured a little bit of the alcohol over his hands to disinfect them, then looked at your face.

“Ready?” he asked and you nodded, one of your hands wandering to his arm. Then Sam started pouring, and it felt like someone was sticking their finger into the bloody gash. You whined, pressing your lips together in the hope it would stop you from screaming, fisting the fabric of Sam’s shirt where you were holding on to his arm for dear life. It was over a second later, but you felt tears rush to your eyes.

“That’s it,” Sam said, putting the flask away and quickly grabbing your hand. “You’re doing so good,” he said, and a shuddering breath left you.

“You won’t think I’m any less of a badass if I cry a little, will you?” you asked, your voice small. Sam actually chuckled, and he brushed a strand of hair off your face.

“Gonna take a lot more than some tears to convince me you’re not the toughest person I know,” he said, smiling down at you. You nodded a little as you felt one tear fall out of your eye and run into your hair.

“The toughest of asses,” you said, your voice sounding thick. Sam nodded, running his thumb over your cheek to catch a second tear.

“The absolute toughest,” he replied. He looked at you for a second. You both knew what was next.

“Ready?” Sam asked and you nodded. He reluctantly let go of you, grabbing for something he had put on the table next to him. It was a small needle and thread. The sight of it made you want to whimper. Sam moved the thread into the eye of the needle. He was focused and you knew he was trying to push off his own panic until he had taken care of you.

When he was done, he took a deep breath, then looked down at you. You nodded at him and he laid one large hand on your stomach to steady you, the other one going to the wound. Your eyes went up to the ceiling, hoping you could somehow disassociate away from your body. It didn’t work.

You felt the needle go in and your entire body tensed, your legs instinctively trying to go up to protect your most vital organs. You stopped yourself and then pressed your eyes closed. You could feel the thread running through your skin and you felt a wave of nausea.

“Almost done,” you heard Sam’s deep voice, and tightened your grip on his arm. You opened your eyes, more tears spilling from them. Your gaze focused on where your hand was grabbing Sam, and then went up to his shoulder, and you remember when he had gotten hurt there, only a few weeks earlier, and you had done to him what he as doing to you now.

He had been sitting up, putting his shoulder at a good height for you to work on it, his flannel unbuttoned and hanging off his other arm, t-shirt pull up to be out of the way. He had closed his eyes when you had finished, a deep sigh leaving him and you had kissed him on top of his head.

“Gotta take advantage of having you down here,” you’d said, and he had smiled through the pain.

You must have zoned out, because the next thing you knew, Sam was running his hand over your head.

“All done,” he said, and you could see a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You looked down yourself and saw the sewed wound. It would scar and Sam’s needle skills weren’t going to be winning any beauty awards, but it kept all the stuff inside you where it was supposed to be.

Sam meanwhile was getting some gauze. He wrapped it around you, helping you lift up your torso by sliding his hand under you, then he secured it with some tape.

“Good as new,” he said, and smiled at you, but you could see the deep crease of worry between his eyebrows, his fingers fidgeting where he was holding them in front of himself. You put your hand over his two large ones, making him stop. He looked up at your face as you started talking, feeling a little loopy: “Damn, a boyfriend who’s tall, hot, a sweetheart and can sew me shut like nobody’s business?” You blew some hair out of your face. “I’m a lucky gal.” Sam smiled a little, then took your hands into his.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Want me to move you to the bed?” You huffed. “If you want me to swoon some more, sure.” This finally made Sam chuckle and his face relaxed a little, his shoulders going down. Success, you thought.

Sam started moving, scooping you up again and slowly, carefully carried you over to one of the two beds in the room. He put you down, and then moved to the end of the bed, slowly untying your boots and then took them off you, putting them on the floor near him. Then he moved to the small fridge, taking a bottle of water out of it and set it down on the night table. He started moving again, and your hand went up to grab his.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

“Just gonna get us something to clean up,” he said, squeezing your hand. You nodded and let go of him. You closed your eyes, listening to Sam move around the room. A few minutes later you heard the water in the bathroom start running and then Sam was back with you.

You blinked your eyes open when you felt him sit on the mattress next to you. Sam took your hands and started running a wet cloth over them, cleaning away the dried blood, having already cleaned his own hands in the bathroom. He threw the cloth towards the trash can and turned back to you.

“What do you need?” he asked. You moved your arm behind you, patting the bed.

“Can you just stay with me for a little?” you asked. A look went over Sam’s face and he took a shallow breath.

“Of course,” he said. He moved and climbed over you, careful not to move you too much in the process. He laid behind you and wrapped his arm around you, cautious not to touch the area of your wound. You put your hand on his arm, stroking it. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

“Hey,” Sam said, his voice almost warning. “I’ll always take care of you, okay?” And then, his voice a little gentler, he added: “You don’t need to thank me for anything.” You ran your hand over his arm.

“It’s just… having you around makes the scary things a lot less scary,” you said in a low voice. You felt Sam stiffen for a second.

“Good,” he said then, and you thought you detected a rush of emotion in his voice. Then you felt his lips on the back of your head, kissing your hair. “Get some rest, okay?” he said, his voice under control again. “I’ll wake you in a few hours to change your bandage.”

You nodded, then very carefully moved your body until you were comfortable and you could feel Sam’s chest rising and falling against your back. You wanted to keep feeling him, but it didn’t take long for a restful sleep to overtake you.

You woke up a little while later when you heard low voices in the room. It was Sam and Dean, quietly conversing. Dean was raising his hand to put it on his younger brother’s shoulder.

“I know that scared the hell out of you,” he was saying, quietly, “but she’s gonna be fine, okay?” Sam nodded and when he looked over at you, you quickly closed your eyes, pretending you hadn’t woken up.

“I know,” Sam said, but he didn’t sound convince. Of course he would give himself of the blame on this. That was how he always worked.

“Get some sleep, man,” Dean said and Sam complied, moving back to the bed and lying down behind you again. You were back to sleep in no time, the warmth of his big body comforting.

The next morning, you woke up just as Sam was coming back into the room. You sat up, forgetting about your wound, and cringed.

“Woah,” Sam said, “slow down.” You hissed as you brought your body back into a more relaxed position. Sam hurried over to you and helped you sit up.

“Almost forgot about the whole stabbing thing,” you said, trying to make your voice sound light.

“Well, you’re on bed rest today,” Sam replied and then, after thinking for a second, he added: “For the next seven hundred years.” You grinned.

“Sounds like a hell of a vacation,” you answered.

“Dean’s wrapping up the case,” Sam explained, “but I told him we’re taking it slow, at least for a couple of days. I want you rested up before we’re back to spending half the day in the car.” Well, you certainly weren’t going to complain about a little break. You nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Do you want me to move you to the couch?” Sam asked. “You can watch some TV.”

“Actually,” you replied, looking down yourself at the ruined shirt and blood-stained jeans you had slept in. “I would kind of like a change of clothes. And a shower.” Sam nodded.

“That should be fine.”

He helped you stand up but it quickly became apparent that most movement was hurting you. You could barely shuffle forward, so you didn’t even want to think about how you would take off your clothes, wash yourself. Sam had to be thinking the same thing, because as you reached the bathroom he stayed close.

He turned on the water, letting it warm up, and then helped you with undressing. Then he slowly helped you climb into the shower, letting you lean against the wall, before he started tugging off his own clothes. He climbed in with you, squirted some of the motel body wash into his hands, and started gently cleaning you.

You watched him do it, letting your eyes run up and down his body appreciatively. Sam caught you watching.

“What?” he said, a grin on his face.

“I was just thinking,” you replied, your own grin building, “that you are damn lucky I have part of my stomach missing.”

“And why’s that?” Sam asked, as if he didn’t know. You raised your eyebrows as he turned you around by the shoulders and started massaging shampoo into your hair.

“Cause otherwise I would be eating you alive right now,” you replied, your eyes falling shut as Sam’s strong fingers worked on your scalp. You heard him chuckle.

“Good to hear you have the motivation to heal up quickly,” he said. “That means you might actually be reasonable and rest.”

After the shower, Sam redressed your wound and helped you put on comfortable clothes, which included one of his shirts, only minimal hinting needed for him to lend it to you. Then, he sat you on the couch, remote in hand and told you he would be back soon.

You watched some TV, barely listening, mostly thinking about Sam and then he was back, with a few boxes of food and two styrofoam cups of coffee. The coffee tasted a little burnt but Sam had gotten your favorite breakfast foods, and didn’t leave you alone until you had eaten your fill.

Then you laid your head on his shoulder, his arm going around you as you kept watching TV.

“You know,” you said after a while, “it’s interesting.”

“What is?” Sam asked, his hand running over your arm.

“I was always really scared of getting stabbed,” you said, moving your head to look up at. He looked into your eyes. “Knives and sharp objects, just, ugh,” you said, shaking yourself a little.

“I feel a but coming?” Sam said carefully. You grinned at him.

“I don’t know,” you said. “It’s honestly not so bad.” Sam scoffed and shook his head.

“Just,” he said, and his voice sounded soft, “just never do it again, okay?” he said. You saw the worry in his eyes.

“I’ll do my best,” you said, smiling, and then Sam leaned down and kissed you.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #spn fanfic #fanfiction #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sorry's fics

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starsofarda · 6 months ago

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So, here's some thoughts about a fic I willone day write. Many thanks to @starshadeemilyart for helping me with brainstorming a few ideas.

I do not have a title for this yet. I will call it, at the moment, "The Feanorians' adventures in the Shire".

Bullet points seem like a good idea, so I am sticking with that.

Feanor gets kicked out of Mandos, Namo has had enough of this guy moping over the tortures of his sons and adamantl requesting to be sent back to Aman.

As a punishment Namo kicks him out, but sends him in the Shire, together with his sons, Fingolfin, Fingolfin's sons/daughter and Thingol. They are at the Grey Havens and Cirdan is refusing to let them leave ME. Arson/Kinslaying is stopped by the arrival of Gandalf.

Gandalf is tasked with taking care of Feanor & co. Gandalf will be happy about the task until Feanor opens his mouth and it is an insult. Gandalf also opens his mouth and it is another insult.

It's suddenly Gandalf "I preferred white" The Grey vs Curufinwe "Get thee gone from my gates" Feanaro in a battle of who can sass the other out first.

Someone interrupts them, maybe Gwahir has come reminding Gandalf of the task at hand.

Moment of Fingon calling Gwahir "Thorondor" and Gwahir saying "no, that was my great grandpa, I am Gwahir, current king of the Eagles". "Ok. You were not supposed to have such a short life?" "Apparently it's punishment for saving you all." "We are sorry!" "Oh no, we chose this, no probs mate"

Anyway, they are all in the Shire and it's during their travel to Hobbiton that they see what appears to be a bard, all dressed in black, sad and looking like a withered stalk. He is singing the Noldolante and they see it's actually Maglor

Cue family reunion, cue everyone gets filled in on what happened since their death.

Somehow they also start learning Westron bc having Linguistics Georg over there is actually a good thing.

They finally arrive at Hobbiton and Bilbo has come back from the Lonely Mountain and his house is being put on auction and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has already stolen the infamous silver spoons.

Feanor is reminded of his exile at Formenos and enquires CALMLY.

As in he shouts a loud "WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING HERE WHY ARE YOU DEPRIVING SOMEONE OF THEIR HOUSE?!"

Which also prompted Bilbo shouting as well: "I WAS GONE FOR 5 MINUTES AND NOW MY HOUSE IS ON AUCTION, ALL THESE PEOPLE ARE TAKING POSSESSION OF MY MATHOMS AND MY BELOATHED IN-LAWS HAVE STOLEN MY PRECIOUS SILVER SPOONS"

Cue explanation on what is a Mathom. Feanor, as crown prince and king, takes it well.

"GET AWAY FROM HIS GATES YOU FIENDS! AND YOU! GIVE HIM BACK THE SILVER SPOONS, I WILL FIGHT YOU!"

To which Lobelia replies like the refined lady she is. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU, I STOLE NOTHING, YOU WILL BE BEATEN BY MY UMBRELLA OF DOOM!"

Fingolfin, Thingol, the SoF, Fingolfin's sons are like trying to not be perceived, but they are being served tea and biscuits to enjoy the fight, bc this is an EventTM in the SHire and evveryone is treating this like a rooster fight.

It's at that point that some of them decide "fuck it, we might as well."

Maglor becomes the announcer, Celegorm is the referee, Curufin is the one building the ring, the Ambarussar act as PRs, Caranthir starts taking bets.

Maedhros is crying sobbing on Fingon's shoulder and saying something like "I want my mum, I probably deserve all of this, but by Eru Allmighty!", Aredhel is now in the Hobbit Ladies Gossip Club, Turgon, Argon and Fingolfin still try not to be perceived.

That until Thingol, out of spite, goes to Caranthir and bets against Feanor.

RIP Thingol, King of Bad Choices.

Gandalf is watching the drama unfold with the same glee he pulled Bilbo together with the Dwarves and doing absolutely nothing.

It's Feanor and a forging hammer against Lobelia and her umbrella.

It's a choir of "fight fight fight!" all the way.

Yes, Maglor is making introductions WWE style.

It still ends in a draw, but Bilbo gets back house and spoons and mathoms, bc the Hobbits as a whole deem him enough trouble if he has not only Dwarves, but also Elves around. Anyway, Mad Baggins now has a bunch of Elves with a lot of pent-up rage and a lot of free time.

DW, they are useful to the entire Hobbiton and they learn the way of the Hobbits. Somehow they start getting along.

Russingon wedding happens in Hobbit fashion, like the two are now clothed not with Elvish robes, but with carefully tailored suits like any gentleHobbit. There is a lot of crying.

CeleDhel wedding happens, but mostly so that if Eol ever gets reembodied he can fuck off immediately. Also, they are good friends and when Maeglin gets reembodied as well he can maybe have a slightly better father figure.

IDK these last two points seem like a natural consequence.

Thingol and the Gaffer become good friends, gardening reminds him of Melian, maybe he's finall making one (1) good decision.

And then they see that Elves are abandoning ME, at this point Gandalf tells them about Sauron, the rings and the whole deal.

"And who made the rings?" "The ones for the Elves was Celebrimbor, the others was Sauron."

Curufin: "And pray tell, WHERE IS MY SON."

Gandalf: decribes Celebrimbor's death as reported in the chronicles

The rest of the family reacts in the same way

In the meantime Bilbo has adopted Frodo and Frodo reminds them of little Tyelpe and they are going to throw hands

Maedhros just says: NO OATHS THIS TIME NO OATHS. OATHS BAD.

And well.

Ideas so far were to have them go to like Dol Guldur and have a fight off with Orcs and Nazguls, I am still undecided whether I want them to know about the One Ring. Oh well.

I'll probabl post something else once I figure out more stuff

Thoughts? Comments?

#tolkien #the lord of the rings #the silmarillion #feanor #feanorians #thingol #hobbits #bilbo #gandalf #crack post

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

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Steadfast 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, obsession, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: King!Bucky Barnes (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you serve Duke Rogers, but when his friend, the king, takes an interest, you find your work in turmoil.

Note: I’ve wanted to do medieval drabbles for years. I bit the bullet and now we’re all doomed. I was torn on whether to make this one Stucky however… I think Steve deserves a wifey in his own installment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“A tavern ahead,” the king declares as he slows the horse’s canter. “We should rest lest the bandits be upon us.”

You shift and bow your head. You hold back from giving his title. “Yes, poppet,” you agree.

He hums and approaches the low stone wall around the wood and wattle inn. As he does, you catch sight of a young boy sat upon a rootless stump. He looks up as he tucks away the sling in his hands. He approaches the gate as the horse stops at the post.

“Board for the night. For the beast too,” the king puts on a gruff affectation.

“No rooms, good sir. Only the loft above the chattel,” the boy replies.

“You should bring clean hay,” the king stirs beneath his cloak and presents a silver coin. “Feed the beast sweet oats and you will have another.”

He hands the reins to the stable boy and nudges your hip. He keeps hold of you as he helps you unhook your legs from over the mare and eases you to the ground. He slides off after you. The chestnut horse is led away as your muscles snag and tug.

The king stretches with a groan then offers his bent arm. You loop yours through in quick acquiescence to his act. You recall the duke’s words. You must keep the king’s true self unfounded, thus you must pretend as he does.

Inside, the space is dingy with the smell of unwashed bodies and yeasty ale. You follow your escort to the corner and sit with him on the wooden bench behind a table. He crosses his arms over the splintered surface as you wring your cold hands in your lap.

“Pip,” he sits back, sensing your fidgeting, “are you very cold?”

Before you can answer him, his large hand is over both of yours. He does not wear his embroidered velvet gloves, rather a leather pair he must have acquired from the stabler. You still and let him warm your brittle knuckles.

“...it isn’t so bad,” you assure him. You are addled at not addressing him properly. In a castle, that would be an oversight worthy of a switch’s bite.

He removes his glove and once more clamps down on your hands, “like ice. We must have you a better cloak for the road. Once we dock upon Gander River, the winds will not die.”

You nod and your brows furrow with a question you dare not ask. It floats away from you as a servant in apron and cap approaches. She offers two flagons and a pitcher. The king demands bread and some hearty stew in exchange for another coin. She goes and he rubs his bearded cheek as he peers around.

“I will not say much and more about our path, but I do hope you are not prone to seasickness,” he girds.

You follow his gaze around the lantern-lit chamber. The hearth burns at the other end. You look down at his other hand still upon yours.

“Come, wife, be close to me,” he says suddenly and you steel yourself as he leans closer. He whispers as he tilts his chin down. “Those who watch must believe we are not who we are. Be not shy with me.”

He nuzzles your temple and draws away. A fluttery warmth rolls through you. You dip your chin.

“As you wish,” you abide.

He reluctantly draws his hand from yours. He pours a cup for each of you, offering the dark ale to you first. You sip and nearly choke upon its wheaty pungency. He drinks without pause and two bowls of soup are set down with heels of thick rye.

You wait the king to eat first. He takes the bread from before you and splits it, offering you a piece. You accept it and lean forward. You dip the crust into the lumpy stew and stir it. You look at him. He watches you calmly. It will be a long road to be so unsettled.

You take a bite. He mimics you, stirring the rye through his soup before he indulges. It is blander than the castle fare. You assume the king is not used to such plain sustenance. Merely the scent of the spices they baste upon the noble’s meals is enough to make you salivate.

“Be mindful, little one,” he warns as he squints over his bowl.

You follow his gaze. A man stares back but not at the king. At you. You shrink down as he sidles closer.

“You will not leave my side,” he commands.

You hum and nod, ‘your highness’ teetering on your tongue. You clear your throat, “yes, poppet.”

“Good pip,” he praises.

You eat until the bowl is empty. Food is food, you do not mind the staleness of the barley as you gulp from the brim. You wipe your mouth with your sleeve and the king slaps his middle.

He doesn’t speak as he stands. He takes your hand and draws you after him. The shadows flicker on the wall as you hide from the glances in your direction. Road-weary men are the villains of many whispered tales.

The king brings you into the night and the boy sits on his stump, hunched beneath a wool cloak.

“Is the loft ready?” The king asks.

“Horse fed,” the boy assures and receives another coin.

The king guides you to the stable. The stink would be repulsive to many unused to it. The droppings and horse-sweat do not bother you much. He slides shut the door and leads you to the ladder’s feet. He urges you up first, hands on your hips until you mount the first rung.

He climbs up after you and pulls the ladder with him. Only the moonlight lights the space through the slats of wood. You crawl around in the fluffed hay as he bends beneath the slant of the roof. He unhooks his cloak and comes close. He surprises you as he sits next to you.

He turns and lowers himself upon his side. He drags you close to him and fans his cloak over both of you. You shiver against his warmth. He nestles into you and rests his chin on your crown.

“We will be off before the sun is here,” he bids as he holds you snug. “Sleep, my pip.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #steadfast #series #medieval au #marvel #mcu #au #captain america #winter soldier #avengers

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shootingontothetrack · 24 days ago

Note

Bye eagle.

June 1st 2025 got back to your shed from training around 5.26pm Pull ups. Stretches and laps.

- @ KW

Are you trying to threaten me!?

#stex rp #swoopingintoaction #killerwa11 #shootingontothetrack #letsmakesomenoisenow #silver bullet replies

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tofics · 6 months ago

Note

Hi!! I was wondering if you could write something about dean reacting to you getting your 🍒's pierced or him even finding out that they have been. Totally totally okay if not LOVE your work 🫶

Eeeek, my first request ever!!! 🤩 For that alone I'm inclined to make this as perfect as possible, but due to post-holiday brain-rot I can make no promises about the actual quality of what I'm about to produce. 🙈 I immediately had two ideas when I read this, so you're getting both.

Version 1 is just funny, whereas version 2 has a slight bit of angst to it, still a funny ending though. Hope you enjoy! 🤗

Warnings: nipple piercings, bare titties, exposing your 🍒's in front of strangers (willingly), some bleeding, canon typical violence (monster death)

POV: Dean finds out you got your nips pierced.

Version 1 "Sam, don't! He could be the shapeshifter, for all we know!" Dean pulled his brother back by the jacket. "A - a what?" The man in front of you stammered, his eyes blown wide in fear. You quickly hushed him. "It's okay, just get in there!" You were convinced this guy wasn't the shapeshifter. You knew it in your gut, but you knew that explanation wouldn't fly with Dean.

The four of you quickly pressed into the small bathroom. Dean had his gun pointed at the guy's throat, who was nervously eyeing the weapon. "It's okay", you assured him in a hushed whisper. "We'll get you out of here. Just give him the spoon, Sam." You nodded at the younger Winchester, who in turn started prodding his jacket. One pocket, another, then a quiet curse.

"I must've dropped it!"

You glanced at Sam in disbelief. Dean grunted, though he didn't take his eyes off of the stranger.

"Now what?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't have anything else silver on me. Do you?"

"I got lots of silver bullets," Dean growled, still clearly convinced that the poor soul trapped in this bathroom with you was the monster you were looking for. The man yelped quietly.

"Not helpful, Dean," you hissed, but the hunter just grunted.

"You got any better ideas?"

Silence filled the air as all three of you pondered over your current predicament. Then a lightbulb went off in your brain.

"I do, actually."

With swift movements, you handed your gun over to Sam and then began pulling your sweater off.

"Uh - what are you doing?" Sam stared at you like you had lost your mind and even Dean was glancing over at you as you began peeling your top upwards.

"My nipple piercings are made of silver," you explained casually. Sam's eyes grew wide while a vein popped out on Dean's temple. The man you were trying to save looked like he was trying very hard to look anywhere but at you. "If Dean's bullets are the only other silver thing we got, then I don't see any other way than this. I'm not blowing some guy's brain out just to be on the safe side," you continued.

Your top went over your head, leaving you in nothing but your bra from the waist upwards. Sam's face had a funny color and Dean looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. His eyes briefly traveled down to your exposed cleavage, then quickly flicked back up to your face. "You can't be serious," Sam cut in.

"About my nipples being pierced or the piercings being silver?"

"About letting this guy touch you."

You brushed Sam's concern off with a tut. "Oh, hush. Don't be so prude. Now, go on," you said and undid the clasp of your bra with swift fingers.

Three loud inhales sounded as you revealed your boobs to the room. Sam's eyes immediately went towards the ceiling. The stranger briefly glanced at your tits with a pained expression before following suit with Sam, mumbling something about how surely, all of this just had to be a weird dream. Dean, however, took a good long look before a smile whisked across his lips.

"When'd you get this done?" He whispered with an appreciative tone.

"Couple of months ago," you replied, smiling back at him. "You like it?"

"Like it? Sweetheart, I-"

"Guys," Sam interrupted, eyes still glued to the ceiling.

"Right, right, sorry." You reached for the man's hand who jumped when your hand touched his. "Go on, dude. Just put a hand on it so we know you're good."

The guy made no move to do much of anything, so you gently lifted his hand to your chest until it made contact with one of your piercings. "Just a dream, just a dream," the man mumbled with his head still turned upwards and away from you. "Maybe I'm a shapeshifter too," Dean mumbled, his eyes on the man's hand pressed to your boob.

You grinned in reply. "See? He's good." The man's hand showed no signs of injury as you lifted it off of your chest again. "Now how about I get dressed again and we go find the actual son-of-a-bitch?"

Version 2 Sure, people warn against getting body alterations done under the influence of alcohol all the time. It's sort of an unwritten rule, the kind of common-sense one is just expected to have. But as booze tends to do, it prefers to link up with mischief instead. Common-sense is just so boring. Such a goody-two-shoes. The nay-sayer of all genius ideas. And clearly, that's what getting your nipples pierced is: a genius fucking idea.

At least so you thought last night while out and about with Jo. The two of you had teamed up in an effort to drink your shared sorrows away: you'd just come back from yet another hunt during which you'd felt belittled by Dean yet again, and Jo was in the midst of another heated fight with Elle about being allowed out for a hunt at all - again. Each dismissal had lit the fire of injustice within the both of you, and while your first few drinks were meant to quench the flames, they had the opposite effect, acting like fuel instead.

Soon, both you and Jo were slurring your respective rambles about your 'suppressors'.

"Just isn't fair." Jo slammed her fist down on the bar top, earning herself a quick glance from the bartender.

You shook your head woefully. "It isn't. They just don't see us. It's like we're invisible. Or babies. Invisible babies."

Jo pointed her finger at you. "Exactly! Invisible babies. But we're not! We're grown women, god dammit! Women! Would babies have boobs like that?" Her finger swayed from your face to your cleavage, followed diligently by the guy who sat two seats down from you. Your chin dropped to your chest as you glanced at your own boobs before meeting the eyes of the sleazy guy two seats over. A sluggish grin crawled over your lips. "Nice, aren't they?" A toothy grin appeared on the other patron's face. "Sure are, baby, sure are," he called back, causing you to look at Jo with triumph in your eyes. "See? He agrees too. No baby would have boobs like that."

Jo nodded, her head bobbing up and down in a wobbly fashion. "Cause he sees us. Not like my mom. Or Dean." She scowled, then downed another shot the bartender had dutifully lined up for you at your signal.

"We jus' gotta find a way to show 'em," you slurred. "Way to show how badass we are. Hmm." You nodded to yourself like you'd just said the most profound thing.

A moment of silence passed between you two girls before Jo's face suddenly lit up. "I got an idea."

As genius as it had seemed to you four shots in, the next morning, you weren't so sure anymore that piercing your nipples had been a genius move. It did look amazing (one glance in the mirror in the morning after waking up confused why your nips felt so damn sore had convinced you of that easily), but you still needed some convincing about the practicality of it as you got dressed and put on your clothes for the day. It proved as your first challenge: a bra was immediately out of the question after feeling how tight the material pressed against your sensitive and raw skin. You threw on a large, comfy t-shirt instead and paired it with an even larger sweater. Oversized clothes to the rescue.

As expected, your drinking spectacle of last night didn't go unnoticed by either of the boys. Sam's "Whoa, you look rough" got quickly followed up by a dry snort from Dean at the sight of you. "Jesus, you and Jo empty half a liquor store or something?" You only grumbled something unintelligible as a response while you fixed yourself some coffee from the small breakfast spread your motel offered.

While you nursed your coffee, Dean and Sam made a plan for the day. Their mission yesterday had been a bust - the empty factory had, in fact, not been the hiding place of the shapeshifter that the three of you were after, which left it still roaming about. You didn't partake in the planning process, partially due to your hangover, but mostly due to the fact that you were still hung up on your exclusion. For your own safety. Dean's reasoning had felt like a punch in the gut. Did he still not trust your abilities?

"Hey." You were pulled back to the present by fingers snapping in front of your face. "You with us?" Dean's eyes were searching your face as you zeroed back in on him. You grunt for a response had one of his brows raising, but he didn't comment on it, instead pulling you aside when the three of you headed out towards the parking lot.

"Are you okay?" You knew that look. Dean's scrutinizing gaze roamed over your face to look for the subtlest of clues. You'd made your protest heard loud and clear yesterday, and you read the subtext in his question with ease. Are we okay? You inhaled deeply as you stalled to answer. You were still upset with him, but you didn't have it in you to discuss his views on your involvement during hunts in your current state. Your head was pounding too much, and your nipples faintly felt like someone was holding a lighter to them. "Yeah. I'm okay," you responded with a sigh. Dean looked like he was about to object, clearly not buying your answer, but just then, Sam called out for the two of you.

Genius fucking idea. You gritted your teeth as you sprinted after the shapeshifter. Of course you'd end up in action the one day you didn't wear a bra. As if chasing supernatural beings wasn't challenging enough, you were now forced to awkwardly press your arms under your boobs for support as you ran down the damp alleyway. Because of your makeshift-bra, your gun was holstered between your hands right under your tits, aiming directly forward. It wasn't a safe way to run, nor a comfortable one, but you didn't have time to ponder either of those facts. The shapeshifter was getting away, and you couldn't let that happen.

You saw it turning a corner a couple hundred feet ahead of you and dashed after it, tits squeezed together in front of your chest like they were your main weapon and not your gun. The fabric of your shirt rubbed over your freshly pierced nips like sandpaper on wood and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself focused on the monster chase instead of the pain.

When you skid around the corner, you found the shapeshifter trapped between yourself and Dean on the other end of the back alley. It's head spun back and forth between you and him like a trapped animal and for a moment, it felt like time had frozen. Your eyes briefly flicked over to Dean, whose brows were furrowed in concentration and determination, and he shook his head at you ever so slightly.

The flush of anger inside your belly was hot and instant, yet before you had time to react, a loud shriek echoed through the alleyway and the shapeshifter launched itself your way.

It all happened so quickly that you acted more out of instinct than on rational thought. The kicks and blows to your body barely registered before a gunshot rang through the air and the monster's lifeless body dropped to the ground in front of you.

You stared at it, panting. The adrenaline coursing through your veins felt like fire being pumped through your body. It took you a second to register Dean's voice through the ringing in your ears.

"Hey. Hey. You okay? Are you hurt?" Hands were gripping you by the shoulders and you were spun sideways. You blinked a couple of times as Dean came into focus in front of you, concern etched into every fine line on his face. "Talk to me," he urged as his eyes feverishly scanned you up and down. You shook your head faintly, still dazed. "I'm fine." You'd taken down the shapeshifter yourself. You'd done it. You'd kicked ass.

A slow smile spread on your face as the realization set in. You had taken down a shapeshifter all by yourself. In front of Dean, no less. Now he had to see you.

"We got it, Sammy. Yeah. It's done. Uh-huh. No, she took it out." Dean glanced over at you as the two of you walked back to his car. You were still smiling smugly ear to ear. Dean looked like he'd been forced to eat a lemon whole.

"What d'you think? Of course not." He growled into the phone. You could imagine Sam's question without having heard it. You let her come? Dean had ordered you to stay in the car of course. But then you'd seen the shapeshifter run by. Who in their right mind would've stayed in their car at the sight?

"Uh-huh. Yeah. We'll meet you back at the motel." Dean hung up. Anger radiated off of him in quiet, shaky waves. Under any other circumstance, you would've been quaking in your boots right about now, wary of the storm that was about to come your way any second now. But not today. Today, you were flying high, fueled on by your win.

Dean settled into the driver's seat, but didn't start the car. Here we go, you thought. Speech incoming. Yet it didn't come. When you turned your head to look at him, you didn't find Dean staring you down, but frowning at your chest instead.

"You're bleeding."

Your own forehead crinkled up as you looked down on yourself. Two deep red spots were starting to bloom on your chest, right where... Crap.

You quickly slung an arm over your chest, covering up the two spots. "I, uh. It's fine." Though it felt anything but. You hadn't noticed it in the moment, but the monster had apparently struck you in the chest, right across your boobs. Your fresh piercings had seemingly not appreciated that move in the least. Now that you had been made aware of it, your nipples felt like they were on fire, pain striking through each boob like a spasm.

Dean's jaw tensed. In one swift move, he leaned in and plucked your arm from your chest, exposing the bloody spots on your sweater that were slowly growing in size. You could see his frown deepening as he examined your injuries. Warmth crept up your neck and into your cheeks.

"It's not fine. What did he do? I can't see puncture wounds. Why are you bleeding?"

Whatever triumph you had felt just a moment ago had ebbed away and was now being replaced by the icky sticky feeling of shame. You turned your head so he wouldn't see the embarrassment coloring you the same color as the spots on your sweater, but Dean spoke your name in a soft, yet stern voice.

You knew he wouldn't let this go.

You sighed deeply. "I got my nipples pierced." Your voice was barely above a murmur. Heat blazed from your cheeks and pain throbbed in your wounded nips.

For the first time ever since meeting Dean Winchester, he did not hit you with a quick comeback. The lack of a snarky reply was so jarring that you looked back at him, despite the embarrassment shining bright in your cheeks like Rudolph's nose.

Dean's face seemed to be frozen in a state somewhere between surprise and amusement. You stared at him for a moment before scoffing. "Just get it out." His eyes flickered from the bloody spots on your torso to your eyes and back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Get what out?"

"The comments. Whatever you're dying to say. I know you've got some stupid shit already cooking in that brain of yours," you scoffed, and as if on cue, mischief glinted in his eyes.

"Actually," Dean started and flung a casual arm across your seat. "I think it's kind of hot."

The lack of reprimand caught you off guard so much that you could only stare at him.

"But I am gonna need details. Was it Jo's idea? Or yours?" Dean flashed a widespread grin at you and started the car. He was clearly enjoying himself.

You could only roll your eyes and groan.

"You know, I'll have to check when we're back. See how injured you are. Patch you up," he continued, the grin now stretching so wide that it almost went from ear to ear.

"Not a chance, Winchester."

Dean only snickered in return.

Divider credit: @saradika-graphics

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