#‘and if you don’t drive I hope they nail you or your window or whatever’

[chika-nyan]

*lies facedown in the dirt* One more day……….. after that my long work week comes to an end and I will revive once more u_u Tentative otome day this Tuesday? We’ll see how I’m holding up after a long rest, honestly it’s 25/75 but it’s a chance nonetheless wheeze

[emilys-bangs]

Awww congrats on 200 followers lovely!!! You deserve it, I always find myself rereading your works! So I went to the first section Andromeda, saw prompt #1 “Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.” and thought YES that’s an Emily prompt right there 🤣 I feel like Emily being able to immediately sense reader’s feelings would be super sweet. Like maybe it was rough case/day for reader, Emily steps up, and then starts rambling trying to distract reader so they’re both just laughing and even more in love by the end? Will also read whatever you want to write 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Tysm lovely!!! It amazes me that you reread my fics, I'm so happy you like them🥹!! I changed a tiny bit of this at the end, hope you don't mind <3

Word count: 0.9k

Join my celebration here <3

You’re upset. It’s not hard to see—shoulders rising to your ears, your jaw set, the skin pulled tight over your knuckles as you grip the steering wheel. Add that to the lack of your usual easy chatter and Emily’s worried, absently picking at the loose skin around her nail as she tries not to make it too obvious she’s staring.

The case was hard on you. The two of you shared a room this time, so she was more in tune with you than she normally is. She heard the sounds of distress you let out in your sleep almost every night, the way you’d toss and turn on the bed for hours after. Emily didn’t say anything, held back her urge to talk to you about it, but she noticed the restless frustration building in you, the way you poured yourself into the case. 

It ended badly, and you’ve been quiet ever since.

She hadn’t argued when you grabbed the car keys, figuring you’d appreciate the small modicum of control, but it’s been almost half an hour and she’s grown uneasy from your still-tight grip on the wheel. Her eyes flick to your face just in time to see the tick in your clenched jaw.

Before Emily can think about it, the words are out of her mouth. “Pull over,” she says softly, breaking the stillness. “Let me drive for a while.”

You give no indication that you heard her; silence makes her words hang in the air, unanswered. Her worry increases when you don’t protest, simply pulling over and unbuckling your seatbelt. 

Emily gets out of the car and makes her way to the driver’s seat just as you’re getting out. She knows her gaze must be hot on your cheeks, but you don’t look at her. Instead, your gaze tips up, and she follows it.

The one road leading out of town is dark. Apart from the headlights of the car and a few spare street lamps, it’s swathed almost entirely in darkness, and the sky above you is lit up with stars.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” Emily murmurs, desperately trying to draw an answer from your lips.

You hum noncommittally and move past her to get back in the car.

Helplessness crawls up Emily’s throat and settles there like a hard lump. She swallows tightly and gets into the car, briefly unmoored at her reaction to your reaction, unsure why it is that she so desperately wants you to be okay.

The silence is back as she drives off. From the corner of her eye, she sees you rest your head on the window and cross your arms, turning away.

Emily is an expert on body language—she has to be—but this time, she can’t sit and watch you drift away from her, further into your mind.

“Did you recognize any constellations out there?” She blurts out, then winces at the stupid question. 

You’re slow to respond. 

“Think I saw…what was that famous one called? The hunter?”

Relief floods Emily’s veins. “Yeah, Orion.” She nods, turning to get a glimpse of you. Your head is still on the window, but your body is tilted toward hers. Her next breath comes a little easier. “It’s arguably the most recognizable constellation in the Milky Way. It lies on the celestial equator, so it’s visible from both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres.”

“Okay, Reid,” you retort, but the gentleness to your voice tells her you don’t mean any malice. Emily turns and finds a small quirk to your lips; she bites back a smile of her own.

“Yeah, I was a big geek about the stars,” she whispers. Still am. Emily clears her throat. “When I was younger, I used to spend summers in a cabin up in the Alps with my grandfather. He had these huge books about stars and constellations.” You’re quiet next to her, but she sees the way you perk up and shift closer. She never shares her past—or any aspect of her life, really—with anyone, but it’s you, and if it makes you feel even a little bit better, she’ll spell out her whole life’s story for you to hear. 

“The sky was so clear there, it’s insane. I used to draw constellations on the back of my hand and try to search for them in the sky; I spent hours looking up until Grandad called me back. And for each one I’d found, he’d tell me a story.” A wistful smile pulls at her lips. When Emily turns and finds you staring with your head cushioned on your arm, her smile widens.

“Do you want to hear the story of Orion?” She asks softly.

She hears the low whoosh of air as you breathe in, then nod once. “Yeah,” you give her a small smile and warmth spreads all over her body, “I do.”

You’re asleep by the end of it, exhaustion claiming your body, but somehow, at some point, your pinky linked with hers. Both your hands rest on the console now, and Emily looks away from the empty road ahead of her. Your lashes rest on your cheeks, the tense lines of your face relaxing in sleep, and she squeezes your pinky before turning back to the road, her heart somewhat lighter.

taglist: @suckerforcate

[pupkashi]

the worst part of dating gojo? how often he gets hit on

a/n: hi hi friends !! thank you for the request and sorry for taking so long </3 i hope you enjoy !!

wordcount: 1,293

masterlist

warnings: general feelings of insecurity and jealous

youre trying your best to keep the tight smile on your face, your hands are bunching up the hem of your t shirt to stop your nails from digging into your palm.

“you’re just too funny satoru!” the girl giggles, her hand almost hitting his bicep, he’s chuckling dryly, but you’re seeing red and don’t notice how he looks at you for help.

“your arms are so toned! i can’t imagine how strong you are” your jaw is clenched, you don’t bother excusing yourself as you leave and head for the restroom.

locking the door you’re fighting back tears, the lump in your throat burning with the insecurities clawing their way up. you aren’t even sure who she is, all you knew was one of your friends invited her and they ditched the bar twenty minutes ago.

all that was running through your mind was how much better she was than you, each of your insecurities picking at your brain. the vibration of the phone in your pocket brings you back to reality.

the brightness of the letters satoru ♡ cause you to wipe your tears away, reading the message and typing back a quick reply.

where’d u go?

had to pee, almost done

when you reach the table again, satoru looks almost relieved that you’ve arrived, opening his arms and practically pulling you into his lap.

“you guys are just sooooo cute together! i cant believe y/n managed to find someone so out of their league!” the backhanded compliment has you clenching your fists again, shoving yourself off your boyfriend and settling into the booth with a tight smile on your face.

gojo looks at you before looking at the girl again, he’s giving her a right lipped smile before he’s ushering you to stand up.

“i cant say i had a good time, what was it again? Camille?” she looks hurt as she repeats her name, satoru only waves her off, “yeah yeah whatever, we are gonna head out because you’re terrible company! hope to never see you around” he’s giving her a dazzling smile as his arm loops around your shoulder, practically pushing you away from them.

when you reach the car satoru is staring at you, waiting for you to say something, anything. he’s watching how you fix your hair nervously, the way you’re avoiding eye contact and how you’ve gona radio silent, bouncing your leg and picking at your nails.

“sweets please say something” there’s a slight pleading tone to his voice and you almost cave in.

“I’m fine satoru, can we please just go home” you mumble, your knees facing the window and your voice soft. you can practically hear his frown as he drives home, his music playing softly as the night replays in your mind.

jealousy courses through your blood as you remember how she touched your lover, how she touched his arms and chest falling him ‘so strong’ when you were right there. your jaws clenched, and your knuckles are white.

a sigh leaves your lips when you recall how nicely her dress fit her, how great her hair looked and what a perfect body she had. she looked like someone gojo would actually want, why would he want someone like you?

“we’re home sweetheart” his voice is soft, as he opens his door, rushing to the passenger side to open your door. you only mumble a thank you before walking past him and unlocking the front door.

Gojo’s hot on your heels, calling your name before he finally gets frustrated with you ignoring him. there’s a firm grip on your wrist and he’s pulling you to his chest, his free hand going under your chin and forcing him to look in his eyes.

“talk to me, please”

“there’s nothing to talk about!” you reply curtly, heading for the bedroom and changing out of your clothes, washing your face and brushing your teeth quickly before gojo can join you.

“did you have a good time? you were real quiet, missed your voice” he mumbles as he slips under the covers. you don’t reply, afraid if you do your voice would crack, both out of anger and the tears you’re fighting back.

“your friend was” a pause, “nice.” you roll your eyes at his words, scoffing before throwing the blankets off you and moving to get your phone and head to the living room.

“y/n!” you turn around quickly to face him, your eyes teary and your hands shaking a bit from anger.

“what? you wanna get her number? talking to her again so she can try and feel you up again?” he tries to walk closer to you but you only back up. “no! go ahead, im sure you’d prefer her much more than me” you growl, “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

satoru only stands there shocked, never had he heard you so angry and sad about something, your voice had never been that cold towards him. then it clicks in his head.

you were jealous.

it didn’t take long for him follow you into the living room, he didn’t care that you were already starting to make yourself comfortable on the couch.

“i don’t give a fuck about her sweetheart, i don’t even know her name and i hope i never see her again” he sighs, picking you up from the couch and carrying you bridal style to the bedroom.

“put me down!” you shriek, punching his chest in hopes he’d let you down, but his grip only tightened. he only put you down when he throws you in the bed, pinning your hands above your head with ease and hovering over your body.

“i only want you, i have only ever wanted you and no one is gonna change my mind, my love” his words are sincere and you feel guilt creeping up on you.

“I’m-” you’re cut off by his lips on yours. it was the kind of kiss that leaves you light headed from how much love is behind it, the kind that wraps you in a warm blanket of love and makes you feel safe.

“you have nothing to be jealous about i swear to you” he mumbles, “there’s no one more perfect for me than you” another kiss to your cheek. “she’s not even near as pretty as you so don’t even try using that line on me” he says, smirking before he loosens his grip on your wrists, letting you sit up.

when you do r bother getting up satoru lays next to you, his arm draping over your waist, his hand snaking it’s way under your shirt and settling snugly at the dip of your waist.

“sorry for being so-” you pause as you search for the word, satoru wastes no time to finish your sentence for you, “green?” he smiles, kissing your jawline and you pout.

“yeah,” you sigh, turning to look at him. your heart clenches as you see the loving look in his face, like you’re the only person in the world.

“‘s okay, kinda nice to know you’re still getting jealous” your brows furrowed at his words, “makes me know you’re still in love with me” he winks and you roll your eyes.

“all it does is inflate you’re already huge ego” you retort and he smiles, peppering kisses on your face as you giggle.

you’re both quiet for a second, wrapped in each others arms. it’s with you when satoru’s the calmest, his breathing even as you run your fingers through his snowy hair.

it’s you he lets in, let’s you cuddle and kiss him to your hearts content. it’s with you that his guard is down, that his infinity is off.

it’s only with you, because he only loves you.

[billybob598]

How Many People? (Sydney Lohmann x Reader)

I'm backkkkkk. My bad for not writing in like 2 weeks, but whatever. This was requested by an amazing anon. I hope you all enjoy it! My next fic is an Obi one so maybe I'll do that. I'm thinking of doing a part 2 to this in the near future. As always any feedback good or bad is welcomed! Have fun reading!

And shout out to @ares3460 @simp4panos @inlovewithwoso @wosofanstuff and the lovely 🧡 anon for helping me decide what kind of ending I should have

Word Count: 2.3K (Guys?!?!?!)

You watch fondly as Syndey runs around the paddock, taking pictures of everything she sees. While she had been to many races before, she just really loved Belgium for some reason. It could be that the track was nestled in the Ardennes forest or that the race was one of the most historic on the calendar. Whatever it was, Sydney was beyond excited to be there. She looked like a kid in a candy store the way her eyes darted around, taking everything in. You, on the other hand, were not that fazed by everything. Instead, you opt to stare at your girlfriend with heart eyes as you fall harder when you notice how happy she looks. Walking into the Williams garage, Sydney immediately seeks out Lily (our favourite WAG). They had become close friends as they watched you and Alex race around the track. 

The weekend forecast was less than ideal. Everyone is predicting heavy rainfall on both Saturday and Sunday. Even on Friday, the dark clouds sat overhead, putting everyone on edge. Everyone knew the dangers of racing around Spa in the wet. Lando had a massive crash in 2021 and tragically, Dilano Van’t Hoff passed away at Spa, also in the wet. When you heard about Dilano your heart broke. You had raced against each other back in your karting days and become good friends. He was destined to reach Formula 1, both of you had dreamed of driving alongside each other in the pinnacle of motorsport. Now, due to the FIA’s carelessness, your friend who deserved to be where you are today was gone. Racing at Spa in the wet scared you. Not that you would admit it to anyone, although Syndey had kind of figured it out. That’s when you know something is wrong, when a driver who is usually crazy and ready to do anything, fears for their life doing something they love. 

As you’re in your driver's room with your head in Syndey’s lap, her nails running softly through your hair, you can’t help but let your mind wander towards the conditions of the track. Your girlfriend notices the furrow of your eyebrows, indicating you’re in deep thought. 

“So you gonna tell me?” She asks gently.

“Hm?” You hum quietly back. She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“You gonna tell me what you’re thinking about?” Sydney says trying to coax an answer out of you.

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about the rain and stuff,” you speak softly as the rain patters against the window. Once the words leave your mouth Syndey knows what you’re thinking about.

“You don’t want to race do you?” She says. 

“No, I mean, I don’t know. Of course I want to race, I love this track and I always want to race, but…” You trail off. Syndey stops her hand midway through your hair and raises her eyebrows in question. “But, it’s just, how many people have to die before they realize that it’s not safe in the wet?” You sigh out as tears threaten to fall out. The midfielder looks at you sympathetically before continuing her previous motion in an attempt to soothe you.

“If it’s really bad then tell them it’s not safe,” she shrugs.

“It’s not that simple, Syd. I can’t just go to the FIA and be like, ‘It’s raining too much, I’m terrified to put my foot on the accelerator, I think we should just cancel the entire weekend.’ I can’t do that.” She nods in understanding, opening her mouth to speak but is cut off when a loud knock brings the two of you out of your little world. 

“Mate, let’s go! Quali is in like 20 minutes and the engineers want to go over some data,” a voice says loudly from the other side of the door. Both of you sigh as you stand up. Slipping your arms into your overalls, Sydney stands up and places her hands on either side of your waist. You freeze your movements and look at her. She places a feather-light kiss on your lips, then on your cheek, then on your forehead. 

“Please, please be safe, liebe,” she mutters against your forehead. Trying your best to give her a reassuring smile you whisper against her neck,

“I will. I promise.”

Lily and Syndey cling to each other as the qualifying session progresses. Both of them praying that all twenty drivers survive the session unscathed. It doesn’t help that almost every other minute somebody new has gone for a joyride through the gravel or grass off the track. What does help is that both you and Alex Albon made it through to Q2. Your first lap in Q2 was solid, with a few moments here or there, but all together a relatively tidy lap. The lap put you P10; on the chopping block but you knew there was time to find so you weren’t necessarily worried. On the downside, the rain had only gotten heavier, opposite to what the radar suggested. Now, instead of only being on intermediates the teams and drivers had to make the switch to full wets. So, when you went back out for your second Q2 lap with four minutes left, it’s safe to say Syndey was scared shitless. 

“Okay so, we have a good gap to the car in front of us so there shouldn’t be any problems with traffic. Gap to P11 is .098, again gap to the elimination zone is .098,” your engineer informs you over the radio.

“Copy. Visibility is very, very poor. So is traction. I’ll go for it, though,” you respond. Mentally you lock in. You tune out all the other distractions and prepare to give it your all for one lap. However, you can’t shake this bad feeling sitting at the bottom of your stomach. As you slam your foot down on the gas pedal, a ton of water smacks against your visor. Leaving you practically blind. At this point, you're just driving on instinct and memory. Smoothly gearing down as you approach Turn 1, you slowly apply pressure to the brake being careful to not lock up and slide through the corner. You straight-line it as quickly as possible and make the run towards your favourite corner, but also the most dangerous one, Eau Rouge. Usually, in dry conditions, you would take this flat-out, with no hesitation. The thrill of nailing it at 300kph was something you could never get enough of. As you turn left slightly to begin your climb up the hill, you feel the back end slip out. Immediately, you try to correct it, quickly switching the steering wheel to the right. This only causes the rear wheels to lose even more traction. The car starts to spin around wildly. Then, it smashes into the barrier with such force that your helmet jerks forward, threatening to rip your head off from your neck. A searing pain makes its way through your neck and your ribs rattle from the impact. It’s only when hit another solid object that you realize that you’re still moving. The second impact is a lot less painful, but you still figure that you hit the barrier at around 180kph. Everything stops shaking for a second. The rain continues to pour all around you. Yellow flashing lights can barely be made out in your peripheral. Your internal organs start to reorganize back to normal when through the sound of rain spattering on the asphalt you hear the roar of an engine getting nearer. Then, everything goes black.

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

The Williams garage is absolute chaos. Everyone is scrambling, trying to see if you’re okay if the ambulances are on their way, or trying to watch the replay of what happened. To Sydney, everything was happening in slow motion. The second Pierre Gasly’s Alpine collided with you, tears rolled down her face. Lily was also crying at the sight of your car broken in two. Out of the corner of her watering eye, Sydney could see your race engineer frantically repeating your name into his headset, trying desperately to get you to acknowledge him. Her head feels like it’s underwater with everyone's muffled voices. Her mind directly goes to the worst possible outcomes. All the negative thoughts swim around her brain for a few minutes until the wailing of the ambulance sirens breaks her out of her trance. Desperately, she looks at the cameras on the pit wall only to see that they have lost connection. After five more agonizing minutes that felt like hours, Sydney was informed by one of the team members that you were being airlifted to the nearest hospital. She was also told that they arranged a car to take her there. Lily refused to leave her side and slipped into the car with her, holding her hand as an act of comfort. Alex’s girlfriend also had the Sky Sports live coverage playing on her phone so they saw the camera zoom in on Alex’s wide eyes as the TV replayed your accident. It was like some sick joke the way your car just snapped in two like a twig. 

Finally, they arrived at the hospital, Sydney running through the rain towards the front desk. 

“I’m-I’m here for Y/N Y/L/N,” she pants out, her eyes watering and her clothes drenched making her quite the sight. The receptionist nods her head as she scrolls through her computer,

“Uh huh, Ms. Y/L/N is currently in surgery. You are welcome to sit in the waiting area,” the young lady says pointing towards a room full of chairs and concerned looking family members. The Bayern player mutters out a thank you before finding a seat. Lily comes in a few seconds later and sits in the chair beside Sydney.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Lily attempts to sooth your girlfriends nerves. She continues to talk about how you’re a fighter and how you’ll be fine, but this all goes in one of Syndey’s ears and out the other. After what felt like an eternity, but really closer to about an hour, a nurse comes into the waiting area saying your name. Instantaneously, Sydney shoots out of her seat and makes her way towards the nurse.

“Is she okay? What are her injuries? Oh God, please tell me she’s okay,” the young midfielder rants out quickly. Unfazed, the nurse replies,

“Relation to the patient?”

“Girlfriend.”

Sighing, the nurse looks down at her clipboard and starts to read,“Ms. Y/L/N suffered many injuries. Major trauma to the head, a collapsed lung, a broken leg, and severe damage to her spinal cord.” The tears threaten to fall once again as your girlfriend gets told the extent of your injuries. 

“Is she…Is she like stable?” Her bottom lip quivers. Again, the nurse sighs,

“She is in critical condition, currently she is hooked up to a heart monitor and an artificial ventilator to help her breathe.”

“Can I go see her?” The nurse nods before motiong to follow her.

“RIght now the doctor is just finishing up, but he will tell you more about Ms. Y/L/N’s condition.” They arrive at a brightly lit room, white covering every inch of the walls. Then, Sydney sees you. Your body laying limply on the hospital bed with what seems like a thousand different tubes and cords attached to you. You seem so small, your usually bright face now covered by an oxygen mask. The smile that can make anyone’s day better no where to be found. 

“Hi, I’m Dr. Khan, I’ll be overseeing Ms. Y/L/N for the next little while. Have you been briefed on her injuries yet?” Syndey tears her eyes away from you to see a tall man in a white lab coat talking to her. She nods in response to his question. “Perfect. Well, right now she is in critical condition. The next forty-eight hours or so will be crucial. If she makes it through the first couple days her chance at surviving and making a full recovery will greatly increase. I’ll give you some privacy now, but a nurse will be in to check on her every hour. If you need anything just give me a shout.” He then turns before briskly walking out of the room, leaving Sydney and your unconscious body alone. She takes a seat in a chair alongside of your bed. Her vision goes blurry as the tears flow freely,

“Y-Y/N, please d-don’t leave m-me,” she chokes out in between sobs, “I need yo-you. I don’t k-know what I’d do without you, please liebling.” 

For the next fifty minutes Sydney stays silent, her mind racing as her eyes rake over your body. The only thing brining her the slightest bit of comfort being the steady beep of your heartbeat on the monitor. Soon enough, a nurse comes in to check on you, inspecting all of the machines you’re hooked onto. Sydney for the most part ignores her, that is until a small curse leaves the womans mouth.

“What? What’s wrong?” She questions the woman. All of a sudden the nurse shouts for the doctor and presses a red button near your bedside. Within seconds Dr. Khan and more nurses come flooding into the room, one or two of them pulling Syndey out of the room. She tries to fight them, desperate to see what’s happening. 

“She’s gone into cardiac arrest!” Someone shouts. Her eyes widen as the words sink in. With one last tug from behind she’s taken completely out of the room. But, she sees one last thing before they slam the door shut in her face. 

The line on the heart monitor going completely flat.

[dearsnow]

Hello!

Could I request a Jon Snow x female reader, where she is a seamstress for the Stark family and they become friends and talk during her visits to Winterfell and slowly become lovers?

A PATCHWORK OF BLOOD AND BATTLES

- you are a fighter, and so seems to be the needle stuck in your thumb. and, of course, the man that unintentionally put it there (jon snow x fem!seamstress!reader ⚠️ mentions of blood and a needle-based injury).

word count: 1058

a/n - this took absolutely forever to finish i’m so sorry 😭 i think this request was from literal months ago, but here you are!! i love this concept so much, i hope you don’t mind my artistic liberties :)

You have fought for everything in your life. For your right to simply exist in the same world as the nobles, for your trade, and most importantly, you have fought for yourself. You have climbed the ranks of peasantry with chipped nails and a needle, asking for more and getting less. Now, you have won. At least, you have won as much as the earth beneath your feet will allow you to win. You are a seamstress for one of the most prominent families in Westeros, and as you patch a hole in a fancy evening dress, you can’t help but smile.

The night is dark, but you are not unfamiliar with the flicker of a candle flame. Snow falls lightly outside, and the wind rustles your hair as it sneaks through your open window. As you thread your needle through the lacy fabric, your door slams open.

Your eyes widen as the needle between your fingers is driven straight into your thumb, sending a shooting pain through your entire hand. You let out a sharp yelp, clutching your injury. Who in the gods’ good name was slamming doors at this hour? And why the hell didn’t they warn you?

The thumb clenched between your hand is throbbing and dripping red around the needle still stuck in the middle of it. You look up at the man who startled you, eyes burning with distaste.

It’s him. Lord Stark’s bastard child, the one that sits alone at feasts. And the one that comes to you with sword slashes in his vests.

“May I help you?” You ask. Your finger is still in burning hot pain.

In truth, you have grown to like him. He is also someone who has fought for his status, though his came with a lot more cushion. You recognize the burn in him, the drive that your own eyes carry. He will do great things someday; you’re sure of it.

He looks at you like your hand is made of dragonfire. “Sorry.”

You press your lips into a thin line. You need to keep him on your good side if you wish to keep your job.

You tuck your hand behind your back, hoping he just drops off whatever garment he needs repaired and leaves you to nurse your sores. Unluckily for you, he is a gentleman.

He moves to kneel beside you, dark curls almost glowing in the dim lighting. He looks positively angelic as he reaches for your hand.

“My lord?”

“Allow me to help.” He utters, voice as soft as the wind. He is an honorable man, you cannot deny it. You have seen him in the courtyards during your visits to the castle. He is always improving and always helping others do the same. He gets it from his father, you assume.

You comply with his urges, slightly in fear that you will lose your position if you do not. That worry is always in the back of your head. Will sewing this neckline a millimeter too short cost you your life? Is this cuff good enough for Lady Stark? Are you up to the task? Your thoughts almost consume you long enough to not notice Jon Snow pulling the needle out of your finger.

Almost. You feel a sharp sting of pain, but you bite your tongue. He swiftly wraps the undershirt in his hand around yours. For a brief moment, his rough hands brush the tip of your pinky finger. You have never felt anything so electrifying.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up like the angels have come for your body at long last. When he pulls away, your thumb shouts with new pain, but all you can focus on is the memory of his hand. You shake your head.

“Shall I call the maester?” He asks, ever the responsible one. You wave your good hand.

“I will be alright, my lord. I will wash and patch your shirt, if you wish.” You don’t exactly love the idea of taking the pressure off of your wound, but you must be willing to sacrifice your own comfort in this moment to assure your future.

He stands, and an owl outside hoots. His eyes flicker to the window, then back down to you. “Don’t worry about it. Keep the thing.”

This shocks you. It shouldn’t, but it does. He is being kind to you. For the first time in a long while, someone is being kind to you.

“I mustn’t, my lord.” You speak, hesitantly standing up next to him.

“It’s no trouble. I insist.” His voice is smooth, and the sound tickles your ears. You think you could hear him speak all night if you ever had the opportunity. Something in you wishes you did.

You nod slowly. It would be rude to further refuse it. That’s what you tell yourself, at least. You hope it is not the fact that you suddenly hope your finger never stops bleeding.

Jon turns to leave, exiting just as swiftly as he had come. You clutch his shirt, heart beating wildly in disbelief of what just happened. In that moment, you suddenly decide that you have another thing to fight for.

Gods, did you fight for it. You took every opportunity to see him, and it worked like a well-oiled hinge. From patching more sword slashes to custom-tailoring a pair of riding pants, you were able to take any of his sewing work off of your coworkers’ hands. And through that, you began to learn why exactly he was fighting.

He often sat in your quarters while you worked, and you were beyond glad for the company. Eventually, he began to open up as beautifully as a flower in spring.

He was neglected and outright hated by Lady Stark, as he was the bane of her married life. He wishes to take the black and become a watcher of the wall. Most importantly, he does everything possible to maintain what little honor he has in his family.

Like you, he is a fighter.

Sometimes, in the quiet night, words spill from his mouth like he has never held them back. You do the same. And every once in a while, very softly, he takes your hands in his larger ones and whispers that he will fight only for you.

comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

Taglist: @lovelyliliya @the-jess-life @hopelesswritergall @watercolorskyy @cecespizza01

[bendycxmet]

My, What Beautiful Hair You Have!—Vash the Stampede

summary: on a boring Sunday, you decide to get Vash's attention through some head scratches

content: 771 words. mostly fluff but suggestive towards the end, head scratches, needy reader kinda ngl (but who isn't for Vash's attention), one (1) hickey, written with tristamp vash in mind

a/n: saw this fanart and immediately wanted to write this. his hair looks so nice. anyway something soft before i post my first smut piece. aha

You should be thankful. Its been a long week of nonstop travel from dusty town to dusty town. You stopped remembering what the town names were, every stop melding into one as the exhaustion from the constant Tomas riding got to you. But finally, the week reached its end, producing a lazy Sunday for you and Vash to recuperate at the latest town you stopped in. 

Both of you were lounging on the motel bed, sunlight creeping in from the second-story window, dust flurries apparent from the rays pouring in. You were lying sprawled out on the mattress, Vash sitting at the end of the bed, cleaning his gun. You feel your eyes shut, not from sleepiness. No. Boredom. You sigh loudly, hoping Vash can give you some attention. Silence meets your ears. You sigh again, this time much more slowly and drawn out. Nothing. Wondering what is so interesting about that damn gun of his, you open your eyes and stare longingly at his back.

“Vashhh,” you whined. He hums questioningly, continuing his ministrations against the metallic piece in his hand. That’s not the answer you wanted. You wanted him to turn around and pay attention to you. A conversation. A wrestling competition. Anything to drive away this boredom that’s consumed you.

Your eyes land on the back of his head, outlining where his scruffy brown undercut meets the soft gentle waves of his longer, blond hair. 

When does he find the time to cut his hair? Why does it look so nice? He should let me cut it for him…

What stands out to you the most, is how fluffy it looks. You feel your hand moving on its own before your brain can even register the action. You feel your fingertips reach his head, and just as you expected. Soft. You trail your fingers up from the undercut and into his blond tresses.

Vash is used to you touching his hair. What he isn’t used to is you actually using your nails to scratch his scalp. A pleasurable shudder runs down his spine, whipping around to face you as he lets out a squeak.

“Uhh…” He doesnt even know what to say, only averting his eyes and trying to distract you from the blush that’s fallen on his cheeks.

“Oh, sorry, did I scare you? I can stop.”

“No, no. It’s fine… just took me off guard.” Vash glances at you, shooting you a quick smile before turning back around. Assuming he’s ok with it now, you sit up straighter, reaching your fingers back to softly scratch at his hair, admiring the way it shifts back into place, covering your path.

“How the hell is your hair so soft? We live in a dry desert!” 

“I just take showers with whatever soap we have. Other than that, mostly water when we come across a fountain and I wanna wash the dirt off me.” Vash shrugs, peeking at you over his shoulder, his gun forgotten. You smile. 

I win. You thought. You finally got his attention.

“I don’t know what pisses me off more: the fact that you’re blessed with this hair, or the fact you don’t even realize. Ugh, I hate men.” You tease, a slight quirk in your lip.

“Mayflyy, you love meee though, right?”

“Yeah yeah whatever you say hot stuff.” You can’t let him think he’s got the upper hand after ignoring you for an hour. The way his brown undercut trails into a peak at the slight bend of his neck triggers an impulsive thought. You lean in, trailing your lips across his neck, giving light kisses along the way. You feel Vash stop his movements suddenly, his breathing becoming shallow.

Got you right where I want you.

Just as Vash begins to relax into your gentle kisses, he gasps, eyes shooting open as you abruptly bite into the soft skin, suckling slightly after. You pull back, leaning on the palms of your hands as you stare admiringly at your work. 

The satisfying grin falls away as Vash doesn’t turn around after a minute. Thinking you may have crossed the line, you offer a white flag in surrender.

“Heh, hey sorry I didn’t mean to stop you from working on your gun. If you want, we can go out and get din-” 

His gun clatters noisily on the ground near his feet. Looking up, you meet Vash’s swimmingly hot gaze. 

“Not tonight. You started something you have to finish now, Mayfly.”

You scoot backwards, inviting him further up the bed as he crawls his way to you. 

This was gonna be a long night.

masterlist

divider

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Civilian Asset 3.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Things go from bad to worse.

Master List / Prev chapter

Warnings: 18+, Mild/brief self harm (over-washing), language, peril, first aid/wound care, discussion of terrorism, emotional break downs

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Thank you for your continued support! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Barely edited, but made with love. Keeping chapters short for quicker updates, so that Soap teaser I dropped will actually be in 4. My bad.

3.

You can’t think beyond my face hurts and I thought I died.

The men to either side have you packed in tight, shoulders pressing against yours, knees bumping with every sway and turn. All four of the soldiers keep their eyes on the passing landscape and the road leading through it. The men only speak to make note of potential tails, to confirm or deny the presence of new threats.

You left London a while back, and you’re in the patchwork of expanding towns spilling out beyond the green belt by the time you regain enough sense to notice.

You see very little. Fewer houses. More fields.

None of it really sinks in. The inside of the car smells like gun oil, sweat, and a coppery stink you know rises from your own clothes. Your own skin and hair and empty nail beds.

You let yourself disappear for a while. For maybe an hour, you let the static blanket your mind like snow. It’s like floating on the top of the lake, and if you break that surface tension, you’ll drown, so you let it blind your senses instead. So long as no one notices you, you don’t have to exist. You tell yourself it’s just for a minute, just for a bit, just until something else goes wrong and you have to remember pain, and fear, and whatever else makes up your life in the moment. The protective blur stretches on forever, and you lose track of time.

An itch pulls you back into your body. Eyes on you. Someone watching.

You glance up, and you meet death’s gaze in the rearview. There are eyes, but no face. Only a skull. For a brief instant you think of trying to jerk awake, like you would in a falling dream, because maybe the reaper isn’t real, unlike every other horror of the day. But then you notice the cloth beneath the bone and the military headgear.

It’s just a man in a mask, the one in the front passenger seat with the rifle you noticed as you piled in behind the Scotsman.

Skull-face blinks slowly, twice, confident you won’t look away while his eyes are closed, patiently enigmatic as a cat.

The SUV turns sharply onto a gravel track, and Skull-face turns back to the window, like he didn’t just stare you down through the mirror.

The uneven jolts as the tires dip into grooves and potholes drives away the last of the static. And you blink, eyes still on the mirror, trying to come to grips with reality.

What the actual fuck?

Around the bend, a farmhouse creeps into view. It sits low over the green turf, unassuming apart from old leaded windows that make it look too much like something out of a cottage core mood board for the situation. This isn’t a space for men with guns and tac vests.

But the man in the bucket hat taps on the brakes, nods, and says, “Ghost, Gaz: clear the house.” He doesn’t change gear. Doesn’t park. Even now, he’s ready for an ambush.

You don’t think the men who grabbed you were capable of thinking that far ahead. They did find the original safehouse, though, so maybe you should be a good civilian and keep those thoughts to yourself.

The Brit who clipped the zip ties off your wrists and helped you out of the warehouse pops out with a “Yes, sir.” So does the grim reaper up front. The doors slam shut again, and the two move in concert, guns raised, sights fixed on the windows and door as they approach. The man in the mask takes point, rushing through the door the instant his colleague turns the knob, and they disappear inside.

You’re uncomfortably aware of… everything. Your breath. The ants roving under your skin. The two men still in the car with you. It’s impossible to sit still, and you peer around your enclosure like a gerbil in a hamster ball – technically safe but in no control. The wind stirs the bushes at the edge of the driveway, and you imagine people behind them who move like your escorts. Cold. Efficient. And they’re already too close.

Your neck strains as you try to see through all the windows at once, struggling to catch a glimpse of doom before it drags you under.

“You broken?”

The leader, the man behind the wheel, must be addressing the Scot. It only registers he’s talking to you when you find said Scot watching you, too. There’s more room in the back now, but you still feel crowded and exposed in a horrible, nonsensical mess.

And – oh, right, the man is talking to you.

“Hey.” He doesn’t look through the mirror. He physically turns, arm over the back of the seat, so he can look you in the eye as he asks again, and his words come slow to your adrenaline-scoured brain. “Are you broken?”

You flounder. Puzzled. That… means what? You’re missing context. Is what broken? No bones. They didn’t – technically – hurt you that badly. Everything will fix itself in time. It could’ve been worse. You know that, even if in the moment all you want to do is sprint to the ends of the earth, find a blanket, and curl up in the darkest corner at the edge of the map.

Is he asking if you’re functional? If you can make it through debriefing?

That must be it.

And, fuck, you’d physically fight all four of them at this point if they tried to stop you from passing on the intelligence you’ve literally bled for.

“No.” You’re surprised by your own conviction (and how little your voice shakes). “Not broken.”

There’s an actual twinkle in his eye – and really, how dare he? – but his approval and the uptick of those bushy, bearded cheeks is the right kind of ridiculous in the moment. The Scot huffs beside you, but you don’t have the bandwidth for any more smirks, twinkles, or other bullshittery, so you keep your eyes forward and hope to fuck someone will tell you what to do. You can only hop between so many distractions before you miss a step and fall into a heaving mess on the floor.

“Good,” says Captain Fishing Hat. He turns back to the wheel just as Skull Face comes back.

The burly man signals, and as the boss finally turns off the engine, he opens the door and reports, “House is clear. Gaz is setting up for debrief.”

Gaz, then, must be the youngest Englishman. The Scot shifts, subtly ushering you out, and you scoot along as instructed, letting the men more or less herd you across the yard, through the door, into the kitchen. They keep their heads on a swivel, and that doesn’t help your nerves. Not at all. But they don’t give you time to stop and angst over it, either.

You find yourself in the kitchen, guided to one of four wooden chairs around a square table. It’s covered in tech. A black case sits open on one of the other seats, and the empty foam imprints inside match the boxes, cables, and laptop before you.

“Ready, Kyle?” Fishing Hat asks.

“Nearly, Captain,” Gaz replies. “Working on the connection now.”

So, Captain Fishing Hat is an actual captain. You aren’t shocked. Maybe in shock, but not surprised.

But as you sit where you’re told and watch the screen illuminate, a realization dawns on you. You won’t be debriefing to these men. Someone else at the other end of this connection is waiting for the whole story, and fear flutters to life in your gut like a startled pigeon. Loud, awkward, probably diseased.

What if you’ve misjudged all this? What if it’s a ploy? The enemy of your enemy is not always your friend, and the proper authorities aren’t the only ones hungry for the information you carry. Stiffening in your seat, you prepare for another fight, lifting the prickly guard you let drop as you knelt in the back of the SUV, clinging to the Scotsman’s tac vest.

Just as you’re glancing at the window over the kitchen sink and wondering if you jump high enough to break through the glass before any of the men grab you, a face appears on the screen, and the woman says your name.

You recognize her. Or at least her voice.

It’s the woman from the phone.

You physically droop against the back of the chair, gasping in relief.

Fuck. Fuck.

You’re going to be okay.

“Glad to see you in one piece,” she says.

“Me, too.” A rasp taints your voice, and you feel the phantom pressure of an arm crushing your trachea.

“Kate Laswell,” she introduces herself. “This is a secure line. Go ahead and tell me what you know.”

It’s easier than you expect. You’ve been thinking so much about everything you need to say, turning over pieces in your head, putting it into clearer words, ordering it by importance, that now it just flows. You lean forward, desperately ready to spill. But just because you’ve gathered everything into a coherent thread doesn’t make it any less painful to acknowledge. It’s like tugging up a string of barbed wire from your gut, pulling it out of your mouth inch by inch. You worry if you have to stop, the blades will lodge in your throat.

The woman is clearly a pro, though, and she saves her questions.

You list names first: people in American alphabet agencies with ties to a particularly violent white supremacist group. If there’s any chance they could be listening, she could end the call and try again in a secure location. But she must’ve guessed something was off when the official safehouse she sent you to was compromised. This time she’s prepared, and she lets you continue.

There’s a bomb, a new alliance with ultranationalists, someone named Makarov. It’s a test. To see if the American terrorists are as good as they say, if they’re worth Makarov’s investment. There’s a promise of more if they get the body count Makarov’s set (thousands).

The man whose blood you’ll always feel, slick between your fingers as you confused the thump of the nightclub’s base with your own pulse, kept his cover long enough to get the details of the attack. Date, location, time, target. He didn’t live long enough to give you more. He gave you what he thought was most important. You hope it’s enough. You hope it’s worth it.

Laswell thinks for a minute, then asks, “Did the men who kidnapped you indicate they knew how much of this information you possessed?”

“No. They, uh – that was the whole point, I think.” You lift you hand, so she can see the missing nails. “They wanted to know how compromised they were before they shot me.”

You say it so quickly it only clicks after it leaves your mouth. They were going to shoot you. You knew that, but away from the rough hands and zip ties it feels surreal. People like you don’t get shot. People like you have car accidents and a few too many fast food dinners for your general wellbeing. But the gun against your head was real. It’s a true thing that just happened, and that means people like you do get shot. Every safe, calm moment in your life looks like a lie, a skewed carnival mirror in retrospect.

People like you get shot.

People want to kill you.

You may still get shot. That’s why you’re in this safehouse with four heavily armed men.

Time isn’t the endless resource you imaged yesterday morning. It isn’t a solid path with clear, expected landmarks with which to gauge your progress. It’s ice, and the patch under your feet spiderwebs with ominous cracks.

You realize Laswell is speaking again.

“- handle the situation Stateside. Your current location is one of my private safehouses. Not on any list. Totally secure. I think it’s best to stay there and treat it as your base of operations for now, Captain.”

The captain, leaning over your shoulder to get in frame, nods. He’s too close without touching you, but no one’s indicated your part in this is finished. So you stay put.

“Rog,” he says.

“The attack is our chief priority, but closing the active cell in England and following their trail back to Makarov is a close second. I already have taps being set on a few of the names on that list.” Laswell says your name, and she clearly tries to soften her war face, but she’s all business right now. “I’m leaving you in the custody of the 141, under Captain Price.”

He gently claps you on the shoulder, like he’s assuming command. “Understood. Keep us in the loop, Kate.”

“Roger that. Keep your heads down. Stay safe. Over and out.”

The feed cuts out, Gaz – Kyle? – closes the laptop, moving the chaos out of the way as the Scotsman appears with a first aid kit. None of the soldiers leave space for an awkward pause. They all have a mission. Somewhere to be. Something to do.

The captain pulls a second chair up beside yours, meeting your gaze with another of his disarmingly charming smiles that crinkles at his eyes. As he and the Scot begin sorting through the kit, he says, “We’re overdue for introductions. Captain John Price.”

He holds out his hand, and you tentatively accept it in a piss poor handshake, but his smile doesn’t break, and he gestures at the Scotsman. “That’s Sergeant Johnny MacTavish, or Soap.”

The sergeant waves with a handful of cotton pads and disinfectant. He points into the corner, where Skull Face lurks. “Grumpy bastard in the corner’s Ghost. He’s a lieutenant. If you were curious.”

No one offers his real name, and you swallow down every question with a vengeance. The names make them seem real, concrete, and you seize the lifeline they’ve thrown.

You make eye contact with the last man, trying to prove you aren’t a sack of potatoes in human skin and have an actual, working brain between your ears. “And you’re Gaz?”

He smiles, reaching over the table to shake your hand in a way that makes you double down on your bet that he’s the youngest. Certainly the least jaded, even if he’s every bit the soldier the others are. “Sergeant Kyle Garrick, yeah.”

Ghost pushes off from the wall and heads back towards the front door. “I’ll take first watch.”

Whether he’ll be watching the road from a sniper’s perch or chilling by a window, you can only guess, but his captain gives him another nod, and off he goes. Sociable as an alley cat.

“Let’s see about that hand, then.” Calloused fingers rasp along the underside of your wrist as the captain lifts your hand into the light. He arranges it carefully on the table, keeping his touch gentle so you don’t feel the raw bands of irritated skin where the zip ties bruised you.

It isn’t like you’re resisting. The bloody nail beds don’t look right, and you’re struggling to believe they belong to you at all. There’s an experiment where people develop an artificial connection to and fear for an artificial hand. You feel like you’re in an opposite test. Your eyes say the hand on the table belongs to you, but it doesn’t feel that way. If the captain sawed it off instead of gingerly spraying antiseptic ointment over the exposed nerves, you might just shrug it off.

The bandages hurt, though.

The pain tugs at your gut, and you rejoin your whole body with a shudder. That hurts, too. You take a deep breath, and your stomach aches. Your free hand squeezes into a fist, and the scabs on your knuckles crack open. When tears flood your eyes, you can only imagine what new agonies they’d summon if you let them fall, so you blink furiously and pretend your eyelashes aren’t so wet they stick together.

As his captain finishes treating your hand, the Scot – MacTavish, Johnny, Soap, whatever the fuck you’re supposed to call him – takes a seat on the table, pinches your chin, and puts one of those little cleansing pads he’d been fussing with to work. It stings like a bitch, and you flinch despite your best efforts.

Still holding your chin, he angles your face up and blows over a series of cleaned scrapes on your cheek. The tiny breeze might as well be a hurricane. It knocks the soul from your body, and you go entirely still, befuddled.

“The fuck, Soap?” Gaz asks.

The Scot huffs, getting back to work with a fresh gauze pad, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “You’re supposed to blow on cuts,” he grumbles, like he’s trying to sound gruff to make up for the accidental sentiment. “So they don’t sting.”

It makes you want to smile. You can’t remember how right now, but maybe you’ll think back to this moment and smile about it later.

“Thanks,” you say instead.

Soap has not forgotten how to smile. “You’re welcome, bonnie. Let me put a butterfly plaster on this, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”

A nice thought, and maybe true for a soldier like him, but every screaming inch of your body informs you this is a lie.

The captain taps your knee, pulling your attention back to the fading crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He lifts a finger and leads your gaze from side to side, leaning in close to see if your pupils are the same size. “Doesn’t look like you have a concussion. Are you hurt anywhere else? Any risk of internal bleeding? Cracked ribs?”

Gaz, seeing your confusion (because how the fuck would you KNOW if you were bleeding internally?) offers some helpful context. “Did they kick you in the stomach? Any sharp pains in your chest when you breathe?”

Did they kick you? You can’t really remember. Probably. It’s all a furious blur of motion and panic.

“I’m not sure.”

It’s the truth, but it’s a bad one. The captain nods as a wintery flash passes over Gaz’s face. “That’s all right. Let us know if you notice any unusual swelling or new pains, yeah?”

“Okay.”

One more big smile – a bit forced, definitely for show – lifts his whiskers, and he climbs out of his chair, pulling it out of your way.

Gaz steps up to lead you out of the kitchen. You feel like a football – always under someone’s control, being run by one teammate to the next. But what else is there to do to, really? You follow him up a narrow flight of stairs to a pokey hall on the second level. There are three doors, and the first you pass has three twin beds crammed inside. The second is smaller but only holds two beds. And the last door leads to a bathroom. Gaz, clearly used to safehouse etiquette, fishes a washcloth, towel, and little bar of soap out of the deep, dark depths of a cupboard too high for you to reach.

He sets them on the counter in a tidy pile and says, “You really shouldn’t get your bandages wet for forty-eight hours, but I bet you feel like hell. Washing up a little with just the sink might help.”

His big brown eyes fix on you, too soft and looking for some kind of confirmation you’re okay without getting in your face.

Are you broken?

Fuck. They’re all trying to make this normal. What happened isn’t their fault, and they’ve surely seen worse. They probably don’t have to babysit damaged goods after the fact very often, though. The least you can do is try to make this normal for them, too.

“Like a bus ran over me, backed up, and ran over me again.” You think for a minute and add: “Might’ve been some Nazgul, or cave trolls, or some other shit, too.”

The soldier snorts. A grin catches him by surprise and turns his whole face bright. The effort was definitely worth it.

“Tolkien? I like it.” As he moves out of the bathroom, he points at the smaller bedroom. “Take whatever bed in there you want. Since one of us will be on watch, we probably won’t need the other one. Give you a bit of privacy. Try to get some rest, yeah?”

You can’t imagine how you’ll fall asleep, but you act like his suggestion is as reasonable as it sounds.

“Of course.”

He leaves you alone.

You soak the washcloth in tepid water and peel off your shirt. There’s a countdown of little tasks in your head, ways to delay the inevitable. How long can you linger over the soap and cheap terrycloth? What if you just lock the door and keep wake sitting on the cold floor?

Then you notice your reflection.

You haven’t thought about what you look like. It’s less your face staring back and more a collection of hurts, and you struggle to find yourself through the bruises and bandages.

Everything aches, throbs, or stings. You’re so scared you want to smash your head into the counter just in case it’s like in the movies, and time rewinds, letting you wake up in bed at the hostel with a clear head and free day to play tourist. You know how to do that. Always going, doing, seeing. Always a task, a plan, an idea.

Now your hands are empty – apart from that one fucking piece of glitter you can’t get off between your thumb and forefinger. It winks in the light, and you scrub at it in a frenzy. You clean everything in a rush, too rough with your bruises, but you’re on the verge of a breakdown, and you don’t want to fall apart in anything resembling a public space.

It’s all been too much for too long.

You open the door carefully, peek up and down the hall, wary of minding eyes. Then you nearly trip over your own feet getting into the smaller bedroom.

Door shut.

Shoes off.

Everything else stays on, every layer between you and the world outside a blessing as you bury yourself alive under a stiff, scratchy blanket that probably came from a secondhand shop two decades ago. Your breath catches when you breathe in, like you’re choking on the stuff you need to live. The air bubbles out in gasps. Painful. On the verge of sobs. But that would be too loud. You must be quiet and still or something awful will find you again.

It's a good thing tears are silent. You soak the flat pillow with them, hiding in the dark under the covers.

Impossibly, you do sleep. It takes a while, but your body screams for rest, and it pulls you deep as you cry yourself out into nightmares of voices arguing just behind your head, and eyes that send beams of light around shadowed walls.

[grapejuicestyless]

i have been loving the song big black car by Gregory Alan Isakov lately and was wondering if you could write something based on it? maybe Conrad … maybe harry? this song reminds me of autumn and blurry scenes out of train windows and i would love to see what you could do with it xxx fluff or angst, whatever best suits your mood at the time ⭐️🧚🏻🫂 sending you loooots of love! thank you!!!! <3

Big Black Car

Conrad Fisher x fem!reader

Summery: “Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car.” She laughed, pointing at the empty streets. Stepping in the puddles, I watch our reflection bend. She sticks out her tongue, but I can only frown. I understand now that no matter how this ends she will forever haunt me. I’ll see her smile in the rain and hear her voice in the breeze. She was a phonograph, I was a kid. She was everything, and yet nothing.

ANGST

(I might write an alternate version thats fluffy lmk if thats something you would want <3)

I rode in red train cars with the patterned seats from the nineties. I read the novels my friends recommend me and I bit at my nails until they bleed. I leave red stains from my lipstick on my skin when I pull away, and I admire the leaves that stick to the cement.

I don’t mind the chill or the way my nose burns in the late November air. It reminds me of the holidays, big sweaters and sweet n’ low sugar in dirty coffee cups. I don’t complain about the dirt on my shoes or the wetness on the bottom of my jeans. I don’t care about how wild my hair is or how my smile is crooked and my freckles are scattered.

The world is spinning, round and round like a carousel. What would I be if I were to stop and complain. To sit still on a world made for dancing, a world that gifts us the chance to take it all in just once.

So I don’t mind that I had to ride hours in a train to get to Boston. And I don’t care how he doesn’t wait for me on the platform like I would’ve. After all we are only gifted our place on this earth once. I’ve learned to hold no grudges, have no anger. I remember that I am not the only one living this life for the first time.

The red of their front door is the same red of my nails. The same red of my lips, the same flush of my nose and the red of my scarf. The color maroon reminds me of the fall, of the traditions and the cinnamon. Chai and tights and boots and fairy lights.

When the door opens, it’s Susannah who opens it. Her blonde hair is shorter and she has more wrinkles. The same smile lines she used to pull back and the creases between her eyebrows she used to complain about. There was nothing to complain about. Why would anyone ever be ashamed of the tattoos of their happiness. How beautifully they age. So I tell her she looks beautiful every chance I get. And I don’t say it just because I want to make her feel good, but because I mean it, and I hope she can see it too.

“Y/n, come in, come in!” She ushers me inside of the house, and her hands rub along my arms like I’d been waiting for hours in the baron winter. Then again, she’s more ill than I would ever be. She believes it’s colder than it truly is.

Unwrapping my scarf, I hang it on the banister. I leave my shoes by the door on the mat right below where my jacket hangs off the hook.

“Wheres Conrad?” I cant help but ask, running my fingers through each other repeatedly. The cold nipped at my fingertips and the wind blew harshly into my face, but it was autumn finally and I was in Boston. So who could complain?

“He’ll be down soon. Just finishing up some cleaning. You know how messy he is.” She smiles as she leaves, tending to the kitchen, making mashed potatoes and some main dish that smells like spices and butter.

The door at the end of the hall at the top of the stairs creaks, and heavy footsteps follow. There he is, I can breathe. I can breathe and I do, because the air is so much fresher when it’s the same air I get to share with my Conrad.

His hair is darker blonde than it was in the summer, and his sweater clings to his body perfectly. He looks so soft and cozy. It’s the same shade of maroon as my scarf and my nails and my nose and my lips. He’s smiling, faintly but I can see it. Right underneath the dark circles of his eyes, under his button nose. He’s just as charming as I remember.

“Con.” She breathed. She breathed like it was her first deep breath in a long time.

She looked so beautiful. Someone straight from a magazine. I swore even the lights above her head bent so they could shine down just on her. Full of so much life, so much love. I couldn’t help but feel dull being so close to her. A Plain Jane standing next to the most gorgeous woman. A miracle beside I, someone who was simply holding his space.

Each step seemed to draw out longer, my resistance to give into the warmth she radiated. The kindness that seeped out of her. She was understanding, smart. That empathy of hers really was a gift. A gift I wish I had, because then maybe I wouldn’t be thinking the things I was right now. Maybe then I could be happy with what I had.

When my mom called for us a few moments later, I silently thanked god for sparing me from my thoughts. The thoughts of her red lips, red nails, red scarf and how we looked like we matched. How I wanted to rip the cotton from my skin to differentiate us. To separate us physically.

I picked at my food with my fork that night at dinner. Pushing around the turkey and chewing at my cheek. Like she knew something was wrong she grabbed my hand, holding it under her own. She didn’t force me to curl my fingers into hers, which I appreciated. She knew, of course she did. How something was wrong. It wasn’t like me to be so distant, so closed off. No, not to the girl who had run around the beaches with me in late July, flying kites and kicking over each other’s sandcastles in fake fury.

She pressed a kiss to my hand then, and I saw the slight stain of red on my skin. She laughs about it, but doesn’t rub it away. But the red burns my skin and the reminder of her being so close hurts my heart. I rub it away quickly, smiling softly to her and letting her hand go. She doesn’t really mind it, and if she did she doesn’t have time to frown about it. Jeremiah is already asking about her college friends and if any of them are single. It makes her laugh, but he was being serious. Which is probably why it was so funny to her.

I can tell by the way he pulls at his collar and sweats from his brow that he’s tense. I know him too well for him to hide from me. I won’t lie and say it didn’t sting to see him brush away the mark of my kiss on his hand, but the pain is dulled by his family and his soft smile assuring me he’s still down on earth right here beside me. It’s all my naive, young love sick brain could ever need from him, and I’m back on my feet.

He doesn’t hold me like he once did. Maybe the salt in the air had clouded his vision, maybe the sunlight made everything feel more genuine. Maybe thats why he once held me like it was his purpose. Like by not having me, he was killing himself. Maybe it was the changing seasons, or maybe it was his mother. But then again, he doesn’t talk much anymore anyways. At least, thats what Jeremiah says at dinner.

He complains how Conrad has no friends at school because he prefers to sit quietly in his dorm, the door only open because his roommate requested it to be so. How his mouth is never dry, he must have so much to say but never says it. His teasing turns sour when Conrad shrugs and mumbles something I don’t quite catch under his breath. I understand it to be something bitter, something rude from the way his eyebrows are furrowed and how Jeremiah’s smile drops. He tries to find his train of thought again, but the more jokes he tries to make towards his brother, hoping for that old banter, the more he is met with silence. Soon the fork is thrown to the plate and the brunette is gone into the backyard to talk with the neighborhood stray cat.

I clear my throat, understanding the discomfort coming from Susannah, the anger pouring from Jeremiah and the quiet coming from Conrad. All their faces are red, blushing in embarrassment. Red like Jeremiahs eyes right before he stormed off. It didn’t really make sense, how quickly it turned sour.

Susannah gathers the plates in her hands, uncaring about the way potatoes fall to the floor or how the carrots roll onto the table cloth. I ask her if she needs help, I beg her to let me but she shoos me away.

“It’s too nice out to be here with me in the kitchen. I’ve always found peace in the repetitive action of doing dishes.” She explains calmly, “This time of year is too short to spend inside. You kids go have fun.” She tries to persuade. And I’m not going to go, but Conrad puts his hand in mine for the first time all night, and his pull is so magnetic I don’t even care how I barely have time to slip on my jacket and my boots. I don’t care that my scarf still hangs from the banister or how i’m slightly thirsty.

It’s wet outside, the sky painted with a sunset so pure, it felt like Van Gogh had to have painted it himself. Last bits of sunlight shining through the tree branches and down onto the street. As soon as we’re far enough to never turn back, not run in to aid Susannah, he drops my hand.

I think it must be from the way his palms get clammy when they are warm enough, but he sets them in his pockets and pushes down. I wish he would talk more, I see why Jeremiahs teasing slowly became bitter. I wish I knew what to say to him.

Her eyes look everywhere but into mine. I can feel them. In my pockets, on my feet, in the sky, through the bushes and over the stone wall that fell with the rain next door. I can hear her breathing in the silence, see her smile with the passing puddles. And her footsteps in the mist that falls down gently.

“Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car.” She jokes, pointing at the empty streets. I watch a large van pass by, a single man with a frown behind the wheel. The jokes not that funny, is it even a joke? I’m not even sure. Maybe it was my silence, or my unwillingness to play nice. Maybe she was just making conversation.

Stepping in the puddles, I watch our reflection bend. She sticks out her tongue, but I can only frown. I understand now that no matter how this ends she will forever haunt me. I’ll see her smile in the rain and hear her voice in the breeze. She was a phonograph, I was a kid. She was everything, and yet nothing.

I’m thankful when I see the red door cracked open on my house. I’m thankful that my mother is asleep on the couch and my brother is distracted by the orange cat rolling on his back for stomach scratches. I’m thankful for my father’s absence and how quietly Y/n hangs her coat. I’m thankful I don’t have to make conversation and that the day is almost over. At least when I’m asleep, I have an excuse to ignore everyone.

My room feels like heaven. Carpet under my sock clad feet and the pillows bent in the way I slept. I’m ready to lay back and let the day melt into a faint memory. I’m ready to forget how I feel, and what I love.

The bed dips beside me when I lay down. I can hear the sigh leave her lips, conversation on the tip of her tongue. So I pull her back to my chest and hold her close.

“Con,” She mumbles quietly. I haven’t quite mastered the evening of my breathing. She knows I’m awake. “Why won’t you talk to me?” She asks, solemnly. Like my silence physically pains her.

“Goodnight, Y/n.” I don’t feel like talking. I can’t. Not now, I’m afraid it will all come out. I’ll spew out complements to cover my insecurities. How wonderful she is, a summer breeze passing through the darkest winters. The first break of sun after a long tireless night. And how I cannot compare, how I cannot have her because it’s not fair to keep the more deserving from her.

When she pulls away, the heater is not enough to warm my cold heart. When she frowns, my pillows aren’t comfortable enough to ease the pain in my heart.

Shes pacing the room, rubbing her temples. Her fingers leave little marks, changing the color of her skin slightly when she pulls too hard. It fades back into its warmth when he fingers fall to her sides.

“What do you want from me, Con?” Her voice shakes, but she does not shy away. She doesn’t run. She will fight with all she has, even if she trembles and cries. And she will speak until she has nothing left to say.

“I don’t know.” I admit shamefully, standing up, my long strides close the gap between us. I want to hold her in my arms and put her in my pocket forever. A photo would never be enough. A photo didn’t hum little melodies in the kitchen, a photo didn’t make stupid jokes and a photo didn’t have her laugh.

When my hands reach up to hold her, they settle on her face. I don’t know what to say, I can’t find the words. My lips stutter and only a squeak can get past my lips.

Her fingers meet my left hand, holding her hand gently on top of mine. But unlike at the dinner table, she interlocks our fingers and holds me there.

She presses another kiss to the palm of my hand, and like she had earlier, the red from her lips left a soft remnant of her lips. Staining the skin with a weak smudge. When she went to wipe it away, I flinched. Why did I flinch?

"No, don't." I pleaded softly. I watched her inch away.

"What are you playing at Conrad? One minute you hate me, the next you want me." I didn't hate her. I just didn’t know.

God, how could she think I hated her? All l ever wanted was her. I just loved her too much. I was drowning in her. Slowly killing myself.

"I don't know." I couldn't say much more, I couldn't even look at her anymore. This time, she drops my hand. And the red from her lips stings my skin like a bullet through my palm. But the tears in her eyes hurt much more than a loaded gun. I would have rather been shot through the ribs than see the way her eyes glossed over because of me. How her lips quivered and finally shut. She had no more back and forth to pursue. She had said everything she wanted to say. We had run our course, it seemed.

“Loose my number, Conrad.” And shes gone like the wind, out of the door in silence other than the shaking of the coat rack and the movement of her boots. I swear I hear Jeremiah come inside. He asks very softly where shes going. I imagine she’s smiling, holding his cheek like the good big sister she is to him. His role model that I so selfishly ripped away from him by breaking her heart. I wonder if they’ll keep in touch now that it’s over.

When the door shuts, I notice two things. One, Jeremiah is standing at the door, eyes wide and mouth open. He looks confused until he sees me, and the anger is surely possessing his body by now, but he doesn’t seem to want to move. His hand stuck to his cheek, covering the stain of red left behind on his cheek. The final kiss goodbye. I know then, he won’t hear from her that often anymore. At least, not right now.

Second, I notice the maroon scarf hanging on the banister. It’s soft and still smells like her perfume. I can smell it when I get too close. It’ll stay in our home, along with her jokes and the piece of her heart she left behind when her first love shattered her heart. Maybe it’s the look of guilt on my face, or the tears in my own eyes, but Jeremiah makes his way to me finally. And I expect a punch once he reaches the third step, but instead his arms wrap around my body and his head tucks into my shoulder.

He mumbles something about it being okay, but it’s muffled against the loud memories of her that I try to keep locked in my mind so that I never forget them. He says it more for himself than for me, and I understand that I’ve left not one heart in pieces, but three.

Leaving that house, I leave behind pieces of me I wish I never gave away. I leave behind the Pinterest boards of wedding dressing and flowers and rings in boxes. I leave behind our future dog’s name and the house we picked out in the summer, the future we dreamed about.

Suddenly the color maroon didn't remind me of autumn anymore. Not of the traditions and the cinnamon. Chai and tights and boots and fairy lights.

It reminds me of the blood I left on my fingers where I bit them. Of the blood pouring from my heart now that it's shattered. Of the train I'll be riding home far too soon. Of my favorite scarf, that still hangs from the banister. That still smells like his house. That I wonder if he will keep it or toss it.

I went tor a walk that next morning. The sun wasn't up yet, and the birds were long gone. Families snuggled inside of their homes. When I walked down the stairs, I let my fingers touch the cool wood of the banister to wake me. I let my hand rub over the soft scarf thats not mine, but hers. And I bring it to my nose to see if I can still smell her.

When I go for my walk I turn to the left every time until I'm almost back home. I've gone in big circles.

Everywhere yet no where. When I reach the street sign, a neighbor honks to me. He's at the stop sign, driving a big black car. I don't wave back. I'm far too shocked to move. The same sad man sitting in the car with his dog in the seat beside him and his aging mother curled up in the backseat. He doesn’t look so sad today. He looks indifferent, but not sad.

When he drives away I can't help but raise my arm. I point. "Heartbreak, drives a big black car." I joke. And only now do I find the joke funny. Only now that I'm hurting.

[ciaossu-imagines]

So, for the aesthetics day of the event, I used one of the prompts for Mikado from Durarara and I hope you all enjoy!

MUSE AESTHETICS: HORROR EDITION.

BOLD WHATEVER APPLIES & tag people. add stuff & even change the format to your liking! naturally, repost; don’t reblog!

CLASSIC.

black and white. powder puffs. red lipstick. winged eyeliner. white kitten heels. black lace lingerie. icy blue eyes. piercing gaze. rain. abandoned cars. skeletons. acid. poison. voyeurism. switchblades. strangling. overcoats. looking over your shoulder. trans-atlantic accents. private detectives. dinner parties. haunted mansions. cobwebs. perfect blonde curls. kitchen knives. shock. cellars. dust. ghosts. dark alleys. empty streets. horn-rimmed glasses. radiation. zombies. serial murder. suspicion. paranoia. the city. witches. the devil. cannibalism.conspiracies. amulets. abject terror. the american south. the american northeast. england. analog cameras.

                                           CRYPTID & URBAN LEGEND.

aliens. blinding light. dark woods. driving at night. claw marks. bite marks. men in black. memory loss. dismembered bodies. sewers. flashlights. cell phones. video cameras. cars with tinted windows. unlabeled cassette tapes. bugs. big cities. urban crimes. clowns. something rustling outside your window. glowing light. unsolved mysteries. suburbia. mirrors. the american pacific northwest. the american midwest. hiking. backpacking. hellhounds.

                                                           GOTHIC.

gaslights. corsets. ballrooms. candlelight. mist. starless nights. full moons.cobbled streets. horse-drawn carriages. mysterious strangers. bogs. moors. forests. mountains. castles. velvet. silver. brass. gold. jewels. domino masks. the opera. dangerous romances. tragic romances. violins. roses. lilies. empty graves. crosses. cemeteries. snow. ice. the gallows. crows. milk-white skin.ambiguous illness. fangs. pointed nails. something howling in the night. capes. gloves. top hats. straight razors. lightning. pipe organs. underground caverns. bats. mice. rats. ravens. cats. pearls. attics. talismans. axes. wood. isolation in a room full of people. vampires. werewolves. ghosts. coffins. western europe. eastern europe. bones. churches. catacombs. mausoleums. books.

                                                     PARANORMAL.

malevolent spirits. seances. spells. missing bodies. hidden graves. white noise. static. flickering lights. rings of salt. demons. poltergeists. dark histories. old buildings. cold air. wells. urban exploration. a dog barking at unseen things. iconoclasm. black ooze. old photographs. dark bodies of water. crucifixes. priests. possession. exorcisms.dolls.

                                                       SLASHER.

bloodbaths. massacres. wanton nudity. newspapers. leather jackets. letterman jackets. converse sneakers. obscured faces. social unrest. bonfires. lakes. babysitters. high school. lockers. dead leaves in the fall. jack-o’-lanterns. passing shadows. outdated television sets. nightmares. psychiatrists. hospitals. unstoppable forces. gunfire. police. landline telephones. improvised weapons. halloween. secrets. revelations. cut wires. character masks.scrunchies. wild curls. jeering children. parties. fire. swearing. revulsion. california. the american midwest. ambulances.

                                                      THRILLER.

daylight. fluorescent lighting. morgues. unwavering eye contact. tension. lit rooms. empty rooms. killer in plain sight. a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed. steely gazes. paperwork. anagrams. codes. convicted killers. missing persons. law enforcement. federal agents. small towns.suspicion.paranoia. subdued terror. dimly-lit parking lots. a noise in the distance.

[thisismysecondrodeo]

Idk if you're taking requests at the moment but the way you write for Ted is amazing and I'm stuck in bed feeling like death because I've got the most brutal sinus infection rn. I was hoping you might write something about Ted helping his partner feel better when they're sick or in pain. Be it joint pain, headache, cramps, flu whatever strikes your fancy. Thank you xx

🐝

AN: Omg this is the biggest compliment and I will always take requests when I think I can do them justice! Luckily I ADORE sickfic (and I’m sorry you feel awful!), hope this cheers you up and please forgive any typos!

Rating: Teen

Tags: Minor appearances of other Ted Lasso characters, Romance, Sickfic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender Neutral!Reader

Fic masterlist

It was Sunday morning which you knew was Ted’s absolute favorite time of day. You’d only been living together for a few weeks but you’d already grown accustomed to the sunlight streaming in through the windows and the sound of Ted’s “Easy Like Sunday Morning” playlist drifting in from the kitchen as he made pancakes or french toast or any other complicated breakfast recipe he’d saved during the week. 

But this Sunday morning wasn’t just any Sunday morning, as Ted had been reminding you all week. This Sunday, Ted had planned a full day of fun for the two of you. It had been in the works since the day you moved in. 

“I don’t want us shackin’ up to mean we stop lovin’ on each other,” Ted had explained when he laid out his plans over dinner at the Crown & Anchor. “I’ll block out the day and we’ll do some stuff we always planned on ‘round London-town!” 

You smiled at his enthusiasm, “We’ll never stop loving on each other just because we live together. In fact, I think we might be insufferable.” Ted laughed and brought the back of your hand up to his lips for a gentle kiss. 

And now that your jam-packed Sunday had been planned, tickets had been purchased, and dinner reservations made, you sat up in the warm, morning light of you and Ted’s shared bedroom…and you felt like garbage. 

You felt like more than garbage, actually. You were shivery, your eyes burned, and your head felt like someone was driving nails into it.

“Fuck,” you whispered, trying foolishly to rub sleep and sickness from your eyes. There was no way you were missing out on the day Ted had planned so thoughtfully. You’d just have to fake it. 

Ted must have heard you rustling because no sooner had you decided you’d just power through, Ted was tapping on the door and bringing you a cup of coffee. 

“Mornin’ sunshine!” Ted was still in his pajamas, hadn’t yet combed through his bed head and he looked soft and rumpled and perfect. You smiled and accepted the coffee, sipping quickly to hide the fact that you felt terrible. Ted sat near your feet, one hand resting lightly on your knee as he looked at you.

“So, I made cranberry orange muffins so we have some breakfast we can take with us on the road. I’m thinkin’ we can hop in the shower, and then…” Ted paused mid sentence and tilted his head at you, his gaze analytical. You went to take another sip of your coffee and realized at the same moment that he did that your hand was shaking. “Orrrr we could tuck you back into bed and have Sunday Funday another time.” 

“What?! No, why would we do that,” you sat the coffee aside and made to get out of bed, but Ted quickly put a hand over yours to keep you under the blanket. 

“Honey, are you going to look me in my eyes and tell me that you’re not sick? Because I can see it all over you.” 

You sighed, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m not THAT sick. I…don’t feel great. But you went through all that work for Sunday Funday, I can rally.” 

Ted smiled at you before standing up and walking around to his side of the bed, sliding under the covers. “Baby, I’d plan a million Sunday Fundays and lose money on it a million times before I let you do anythin’ but rest when you don’t feel well.”  Ted wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back down into the bed and against his chest. “Now, tell me what’s hurtin’?”

You groaned and shut your eyes, relishing in your boyfriend’s warmth. “What doesn’t? I’m cold and hot at the same time, my head aches, my eyes burn. I just feel like shit.” 

Ted chuckled, not unkindly. “And you thought you were gonna rally? I love you so much that you thought ya should, but jeez baby.” Ted kissed the back of your neck. “You get some rest and I’ll go get you some para-whos-a-whatsit—”

“Paracetamol,” you laughed.

“Right, that. And some water and crackers, and we’ll hole up here and maybe watch some movies if you’re feelin’ up to it later.” 

Ted moved to get up, but you grabbed him quickly by the wrist. “Wait! Wait, don’t… don’t go just yet. I’m sorry to be clingy—”

“Hey, hey, look at me.” You rolled over, and looked at Ted who brushed his knuckles gently over your cheekbone. “You don’t owe me a single sorry for wantin’ me around when you’re not feelin’ well. I’ll take care of sick-you every day of the week as long as it means ya ain’t sick o’ me.” 

You smiled, tucking your face into his neck. “Never. I’ll never be sick of you, Ted.” 

You didn’t know how long you slept but when you woke up again, Ted was sitting next to you, reading a book and stroking a hand through your hair, and there was paracetamol and water on your nightstand. An extra blanket was thrown over your shoulders, and a cool towel was on your forehead. 

You sat up slowly and took your medicine, and Ted immediately sat his book down, tugging you gently into his lap and kissing your temple. 

“How ya feelin’ darlin’? Anything I can do for you?” 

“Oh, you’ve done plenty, my love. I’m definitely feeling better. Not good enough to make it to any of our plans, but maybe good enough to shower and move this sick day to the couch for a movie?”

Ted grinned. “Well alright! That’s definitely an improvement. I’ll go get it set up while you hop in the shower. I’m thinking popcorn and maybe a little soup for you? Get somethin’ on your stomach?” 

You were already heading into the bathroom but you turned quickly, a mischievous look in your eye. “I see your soup and raise you one of those cranberry orange muffins you made this morning.” 

“Are you trying to bargain out of your sick food?!” Ted laughed with faux offense and you grinned. 

“Are you going to tell me no?”

Ted shook his head with a smirk and kissed you briefly on the lips, “Never.”

[lakotarcania]

Happy New Moon!

As my first post I would like to share my new moon routine/ritual!

The new moon is all about fresh starts and preparing for the upcoming moon cycle, which is what I like to base my day off of. I try to put intention into every little part of my day, and the intention for new moon days is always to refresh and cleanse every part of my life

I start off by making my bed like I try to do every day. I think it’s really important to separate your night space from your day space, even if it’s just by tucking some covers in.

Drinking a lot of water is a must during strong lunar phases (full/new moons). The moon is strongly connected to water so the more water you drink the stronger you are connected. Eating healthy is also something I try to do every new moon, I like to give my body a refreshing start to the lunar cycle.

Next I like to clean my room. I like to first open my windows to let energy from outside flow into my room (it was especially strong today due to a lovely thunderstorm). I’ll also light a candle or two to freshen up the scent. Sweeping and vacuuming always makes me feel refreshed and cleansed from any negativity that may have happened in the previous lunar cycle.

After cleansing my physical space I like to cleanse my physical body. I preformed a shower ritual, putting intention in every small step of the shower. For example, while using shampoo I’ll imagine all of the negativity in my brain washing away with any physical debris. Combing my hair is probably the most magical part to me, it really drives in the feeling of washing negative energy away one strand at a time.

My after shower routine includes putting hair oil and crème in and putting on lotion from top to bottom. I like to wear black on the new moon because it represents new beginnings for me, but wear whatever color you think is most magical. I’ll also take this time to do skincare with the same intentions of cleansing.

Another form of self care is painting my nails. Again, I like to paint them black for new beginnings, but at the very least I’ll take off any old nail polish to start clean.

The most important part of this ritual is manifestation. I always do this by journaling. To do this I like to write my wildest dreams as if they’ve already came true. Go into as much detail as humanly possible. Making a vision board is another powerful way of manifestation.

On top of manifestations I like to write future predictions. Even if they don’t turn out to be true it’s always fun to look back on. This is where you can use divination in the ritual.

As the sun sets, I’ll put out my crystals to charge and meditate before sleeping.

Hope this helps! Happy witching & I hope y’all have a lovely moon cycle!

[twinklelilstarkey]

𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 {𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏𝟑}

Words: 4.4k+ Summary: Hale's event. Warnings: Rich people being their privileged selves. Fem!Reader [no descriptions of race or body type]. Mentions of alcohol consumption. Character making fun of others for their clothes. Difficult family relationships. Parts: Prologue, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen [Series Masterlist]

I do NOT give you permission to repost my work. If you’d like to read my stories on other platforms, you can find them on my Wattpad and AO3.

As a small drop of water rolls down on your window, you watch it, silently. The rain has thankfully stopped since you got into the car. The soft murmur of the radio fills the small closed space, all while you and your driver don’t do much but wait for your turn to drive in.

You watch as some people get out of their cars already with their cameras in hand, absolutely oblivious to who is behind every single blacked-out window of this infinite queue of cars. You peek over to the ones behind you and notice your parents’ driver’s bored expression, making some sort of humor grow inside of you.

The car moves ever so slightly, and you turn back around to face the road. You stare down at your nails and at the white nail polish, hoping whatever imperfection you find will keep you grounded to whatever you will be facing in just a few minutes.

Soon, the building Patricia Hale rented for tonight comes into view. It’s an older building, just near the outside of the city, but it does fit Hale’s aesthetic when it comes to her events. A man in front of your car holds up his hand, and your driver stops as requested. The man has a reflective vest on and is standing on the sidewalk near every car that drives by. He looks over his shoulder from time to time, and you watch him in return, absolutely bored out of your mind.

He soon motions for your car to come forward and your and your parents’ cars do as told. A large group of paparazzi and journalists comes into view, and a man comes close to your car as soon as it stops moving. Your driver walks out, and you slide on closer to the door. A tap on the window after, and your door opens.

One foot over the concrete and your light blue dress is suddenly illuminated by all of the flashing lights surrounding you. You eye the ground as you get out and automatically look over at your parents' car to see your father get out right at the same time as you. You watch as he extends his hand over to your mom and she takes it.

You adjust your dress, running your palms through the fabric to make sure you don’t feel any creases and step over to the side to wait for your parents.

You watch as your mother walks out of the car and thanks your father with a small smile. She holds onto her clutch and walks right to stand beside you. Her hand lays across your back - just for everyone to see how close of a relationship you two have - and your father is the one that takes the first steps towards the entrance.

You can’t help but find yourself looking at the building. It is quite beautiful. The building definitely has a good few years, and you can’t quite put your finger on what it could've been used for originally.

It has pillars by the entrance, holding the high ceiling right at the front. The lights inside are golden and they flash through the sheer curtains carefully draped in front of the windows. The front door is wide open, yet it seems like everyone hasn't seen it since they're all standing at the entrance talking to each other.

As your mother walks, she notices something. She stands a few steps behind you, yet the lights don’t follow her or your father as much as they do you. It has been a while since the three of you have been to an event as large as this, and she has to admit it. She’s not used to the sight.

You don’t flinch at the lights. At least not as much as you used to when you were younger. You don’t even come close to squinting at them. You’ve grown accustomed to all of it.

As you’ve noticed, some people are standing by the entrance, and, to your distaste, your father walks up to one of the largest groups right away. You notice that they're some of his old, and retired, friends in the business.

You follow suit, not wanting to stand out or seem in any way distasteful towards his friends, and your mother speeds up her steps to stand beside him.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” You hear your father say as he pulls one of his friends into a side hug.

You look away quickly, not wanting to be pulled into the conversation.

Your eyes focus on some of the cameras instead, forcing a well-humored expression as some lights continue to focus on you. You continuously try to tell yourself to make sure you never slip with your obvious non-pleased expressions yet the flashes seem to never stop. Even while another family makes their way up the stairs.

“Oh, and look at how she's so grown up.” You hear a voice say, making you fight your urge to roll your eyes.

You force a smile and finally look over at your parents’ friends.

The older men, almost all of them between the ages of 50-70, stare at you with the exact same smiles, and you pleasantly greet them. At least pleasant enough to not get an elbow to the ribs by your mother. 

The men speak to you while carefully explaining who they are, not ever hiding how much they want you to know them. All for their businesses' sake.

They are from outside of Gotham, and, for the looks of it, they haven’t seen you or your parents in some time. And all of them seem to work on the same side of the business, which comes as quite a shock that they’ve never been rivals in their days.

“Heard the company has never been better.” One of the men comments, and your father smiles at him.

“That would be because of my daughter alone.” He says while pointing at you, making his friends smile with him and nod towards you.

“You must be greatly proud of her, no?” One of the wives asks your mother with a sweet smile.

“Of course.” Your mother answers right away, “How could I not?”

You swallow harshly at her words and act as if you can’t hear her over all of the voices.  You look around everyone, again, and begin to watch some people that stand by the journalists. You notice the way they lean towards the recorders as they speak and the way they talk carelessly. Their experiences are much different than yours in events such as these.

Car after car pulls up, and more families step out. All of them were greeted with a fairly nice shower of lights and screams of their last names, yet nothing similar to what you got. You can still feel your ears ringing and your eyes with tiny black spots from the lights. 

Hale loves to have events with entire families as guests, for a reason you like to believe is drama. But, to be fair to her, you have to find yourself believing that it’s also, as she likes to say, for the respect of everyone’s companies and their history.

You’re not quite sure how long it takes for your parents' conversation to end but you notice how many families walk right past you to get inside. Their eyes would sometimes move over to you, sometimes in not-so-nice ways. But, funnily enough, every time you were staring back at them, they always had a nice smile on.

Something tells you tonight will be fun.

A dark car stops in front of the building, and you look over to see Hale’s mother walk out. She is much older than the last time you saw her, but you have to admit, elegance never left the woman. Wearing a colorful suit with her heels as she strides in the direction of the entrance. All while with a great white smile on her face.

Patricia Hale’s mother is someone to appreciate. The woman continued her mother’s business and ruled over a lot of men in the city. All at a time people didn’t bat an eye at women in business.

You don't feel any pressure to stand in front or even near her. Nope, none at all.

Her eyes move to your parents first when she finishes walking up the steps, and you watch as she offers them a smile and a quick quiet greeting. But, suddenly, her eyes move over to you and her smile grows. Your heart speeds up at the recognition, and she slowly walks past you and never really disconnects your gazes.

A man, right at the entrance, quickly extends their arm and she grabs onto it, breaking your stares, and takes the first step up on the building. And with that, she disappears from your sight.

Before you could cherish the moment with yourself, you notice your mother standing right beside you. 

“She might want to speak to you tonight.” Your mother’s voice breaks your trance, “Think accordingly before speaking. Okay?”

“Yes, mother.”

You offer her a fake tightlipped grin and take a step to create some distance between you two, once more. The conversation at dinner from a few weeks ago is still fresh in your mind. Her pressure about knowing who you were seeing in secret, and her interest in keeping your head deep in business, not caring close to anything about your personal life. And all of it just emphasized by your father’s disinterest.

She notices your step back, and your eyes disconnect from hers. She bites her tongue to not say a thing and quickly turns back to your father.

You stand by them and force yourself to continue to appear interested in whatever surrounds you.

(...)

It has been an hour since this god-awful event began. Nothing remotely interesting or dramatic has happened, and you have never felt so bored.

The building is quite full with a lot of guests and, to make things better, some media has been let into the event - according to Patricia. 

The main room seems to be a ballroom more than anything. It has high tables near the bar, just like any other events you’ve been in lately, while some other normal tables stand by the side. The room has a tall ceiling, and the walls are white with golden touches. The tall windows - which you had just seen an hour prior - now stand beside you with their beautiful white long curtains, and the golden light flashes above you.

“God, what an awful dress.” Your mother comments.

You follow her gaze to see a woman, around her 40s, coming into the room with a silver dress on. It is surely something, but not awful as your mother says. It compliments her skin color nicely and she looks good in it. But, of course, your mother has always had a distaste for metallic-colored clothing.

“I don’t hate it.” You comment back.

It takes a few seconds for her to register what you just said.

“Don’t ever dare to wear a dress like that.” She tells you, turning her head to face you, “It’s awful.”

You will buy that goddamn dress.

“Do you like this wine better, ma’am?” A worker of the event asks your mother right as he gets to your table.

“No.” She bluntly says.

The man looks at you panicked, and you can only give him an apologetic look in return. There have been 2 wines already that she has disliked, and she has ordered a new one each time. You swear one of the two she had had is one you’ve seen in her home before.

As your mother continues to describe entirely how she wants exactly her wine to taste, and never which one she’s looking for, you look around for your father. He, at this moment, is the only person that can actually name a wine bottle that his wife enjoys, so, you really need to find him. You look around and see him on the other side of the room, talking to his friends. Great.

“I apologize once again, ma’am.”

Your mother doesn’t answer, and the man walks away. You don’t make eye contact with her as she looks at you as if to have you with her. You hold your drink delicately and continue to look around, avoiding all eye contact with her.

There are various people that you recognize in this event. Especially those that you’ve seen at the dinner at Patricia’s home. So it seems that no one is considering ever not coming to these events. Too big of a risk, you have to admit.

You’ve seen him tonight already. You've met his eyes once whenever you did your look around the room, but you also looked away as quickly as you could. You were not about to give your mother more things to complain about tonight. Absolutely not.

“And look at who it is…” A voice appears from behind you, and Patricia Hale smiles at you. “One of my favorite families of all time.”

Your mother greets her with a smile, and Patricia doesn’t hesitate to pull you into a hug just like she did back in her apartment. You hug her back and offer her a smile as she talks greatly of your business - a recurring theme tonight.

“The fact that you’re even giving me the pleasure of seeing you is mind-boggling.” She tells you, “You must be exhausted with all the work you’ve been doing lately.”

You smile at her brightly and, before you can say anything, your mother answers her for you.

“She’s used to long nights at the office, I suppose.” She says, stepping closer to the two of you, “Right when she was little, she liked to stay in her dad’s office until he left.”

“Really?” Patricia lifts her eyebrows, “Isn’t that amazing? I know my children could never do such a thing. They used to fall asleep on my office’s couch not even an hour in our ‘bring your kid to work’ day.”

Your mother forces her laugh to seem more authentic while you smile at Patricia’s words, yet she is oblivious to the faking of emotions. Your mother is fairly quick on changing the topic with a simple question as soon as her giggles subside.

“How have you been?”

They speak about their lives for quite a bit, and you sip your drink as they do so. They must have a lot to catch up, for sure, as it has been some time since your parents have actually talked to her in a way it wasn’t forced - aka, every time they forcefully went to her events.

“Oh, yes! I got a new chef. The food he makes is to die for.” Patricia tells your mother, “Maybe you should come over one day to try it.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Your mother hesitates right from the start, “I’m sure my daughter would love that experience way more than me. I’m not one to-”

"Nonsense!" Patricia says with a few giggles, “Your daughter has already tried his food, remember? I had an arranged dinner just, what was it, 2 months ago?”

Your mother bites her tongue, noticing how she can not escape the plans by throwing them at you. Which you are very thankful for. 

“You’re right. I completely forgot.” Your mother shakes your head, “How was that dinner, by the way? Did everything go well?”

“I like to believe it did.” Patricia smiles your way before continuing, “Everyone seems to have had a good time.” You tense up at her words, “Not a lot of people left until quite late into the night, which was so kind of them. I always forget to try and speed up a bit of my talking.”

You continue to look at her, trying to see if that smile meant anything at all.

“So she was well behaved?” Your mother playfully asks while pointing at you, making Patricia giggle at her, “Didn’t kick anyone under the table?”

Patricia laughs out loud at that, and your mother smiles triumphantly for making the event owner laugh this way. You stare at them with a small smile and listen to the answer carefully.

“Who didn’t kick anyone under the table?” You hear a voice from behind you as a warm hand lays over your shoulder.

You look up to see your father, who must have just finished his long conversation with his friends, or, at least, put it on pause. You smile over at him to greet him silently, all while Patricia chuckles lightly at his question.

“I don’t believe she did kick anyone, no.” She says while looking at you, “The person didn’t complain, at least.”

“Yes, I’m sure someone would complain if they were kicked by heels such as hers.” Your father jokes, poking fun at your heels and granting your elbow to his side.

He offers you a smile as you do it, and you shake your head, biting in your smile.

“Do not say that.” Patricia laughs, “She has quite the taste.”

You give your father the look of the casual ‘I told you so’, and he chuckles at you, bringing his cup to his lips and sipping the whiskey.

“Who was she seated with? Who was the possible victim?” Your mother jokes too, making your heart speed up.

“Ooh.” Patricia says right off the bat, “Not sure you’ll like my choice of seating that much.” She smiles through her hesitant words.

“How so?” Your father asks.

“I may have sat your daughter with Bruce Wayne.” She cringes at herself, scared of their reaction.

Your mother moves her head to stare you down with such speed, you’re not even sure how she doesn’t break it. And all while your father’s hand on your shoulder tenses up and he decides to sip his drink in silence.

“You didn’t tell us.” Your mother says to you right away.

“Didn’t find much use to say such a thing.” You say with a small smile, trying to keep the appearance of happy-family-simply-talking.

“There is nothing to worry about.” Patricia says, saving you from your mother's glare, “It was my fault to sit them together, but they were nothing but professional with one another. I swear that to you.” She says rather quickly to your mother, “They didn’t speak to each other during dinner, I don’t think.” She shakes her head, “And they only spoke to their partners, nothing else.”

You notice how your mother swallows harshly and the air between everyone has grown thick and uncomfortable. All because of your parents and their overreacting over something as small as sitting at the same table. The world might burn down if they hear what actually happened.

“They were very professional, I promise you that.” Patricia repeats, “If you dislike whatever could’ve happened on that night, there is only me to blame for.”

“She didn’t know about the seating arrangements?” Your father asks, his tone is quite gentle.

“No, no one knew, in fact.” Patricia shakes her head.

“Then there is nothing for us to worry about.” Your father shrugs, “Right, honey?”

Your mother looks away from Patricia to look at him, anger could not be any more noticeable in her gaze, but as your father stares back and stays silent, that same anger seems to subside slowly. You stare at the two of them in silence, trying to ignore how your father’s hand is still laying over your shoulder, and you look over to Patricia.

“I’m sorry.” She mouths the words, making you give her a smile.

“It’s alright.” You assure her with silent words.

Ironic how your mother worries so much about reputation and image but seems to be close to flipping the table right beside you. She talks to your father at a low volume, making neither you nor Patricia listens to what they’re saying. And as she steps back, she offers everyone a smile as fake as the gold on the walls.

“Nothing to worry about.” She says with a smile, “What was the food?” She turns to Patricia.

(...)

You walk away from the group of people you were forced to talk to by Patricia Hale and notice your father with his friends once more. It has been almost 2 hours since that awful conversation, and your father made sure to not leave you alone with your mother for the first hour. In the second hour, you were the one that walked off to talk to other people.

You walk over to him, and he quickly notices you. As you get to him, he introduces you to the group of men he was just talking to, and all of them are of all ages - different generations of the same businesses, as well as young business owners. You offer everyone a smile and slither into the conversation. 

“As I was saying,” One of the younger men says with a smile, “I haven’t seen anything remotely bad happen since I had that talk. The contract was signed with no problems.”

“And you’re sure you read everything in that same contract?” Your father jokes.

The men in the circle laugh at what he says, and you grin ever so slightly, having no idea what they’re talking about.

“I kid you not. I read that contract as many times as I could in the two hours of the meeting. I almost felt like I was signing the beginning of a war or something.” He shakes his head, letting everyone smile and chuckle at his words. “But, in all seriousness, they are really good partners.”

Your father does a face, and the man that had just spoken chuckles.

“I’m serious, I’ve seen nothing but improvement.” He says with his smile.

You look at them confused one more time, and that's when one of the older men notices your confusion almost immediately.

“Wayne Enterprises.” He says out loud gathering the others’ attention, “That’s what they’re talking about.”

You nod slowly before thanking him, but you can’t help but look at your dad. Since when does he give his time of day to people that aren’t partners with us but with the Wayne’s?

Have you stepped into some sort of alternative reality?

“Signed with them just 5 months ago.” The younger man explains to you. “Haven’t had a problem since. And your old man, here, thinks that’s hard to believe.”

Your father chuckles and shakes his head.

“I don’t think it’s hard to believe… I simply find it improbable.”

As the men laugh and resume their conversation about Wayne Enterprises, you almost can’t believe how your father actually listens to them. It’s to no one’s surprise how good of a company they are. They aren’t considered the most successful business in Gotham for nothing. Both of your parents know that, they just refuse to ever want to listen to those types of things.

But your father actually wanting to have a conversation about how a company has improved after signing a contract with them? Yeah, that is right out of your list of things your parents are incapable of doing.

They talk for quite a while and with all your staring, you’re sure that your father has already noticed your interest in his own approval of the conversation. He doesn’t say anything to you just yet, but you listen to every word of the conversation.

With time, that same conversation ends and a new one begins. You stand there as the night continues, and some men leave as the conversations stop interesting them, but you and your father never move.

It is almost an hour later, close to the event's end, when it is just the two of you at the table because some of the men have walked away to grab some more whiskey.

You two stand in silence for quite a bit, and you don’t dare to say anything.

“Ever had a conversation with Wayne Enterprises?” He asks you, monotone.

“Can’t even say I ever looked the CEO in the eye.” You tell him, seriously, but add a small smile to your face to keep the conversation light.

“Yeah, I don’t think I have either.” He agrees with you, doing a short chuckle at his own words. “Can’t say I even like them, but… They don’t seem that bad, now.”

You chuckle at his realization and he smiles at you.

“I know.” You nod.

Your father finishes his drink, and you notice him looking over his shoulder at your mom. She is with some of the wives, still at the same table. She's laughing and seeming to have a good time.

Your father looks back over at you and then around the room. You don’t follow his gaze as it doesn’t really seem to be aiming at anything or anyone in particular. You check on his friends, to see them already making their way to the table.

“If you ever…” Your father begins, and you look up at him, giving him your attention. He’s looking directly at someone on the other side of the room as he continues, “If you ever do sign a contract with them make sure to do it whenever your mom and I are old enough to not care.” He pauses to look over at you, “It will spare you the drama.”

Your heart beats quickly at his words as you almost feel lightheaded with a mixture of both surprise and shock. You have never in your life expected a word such as these to come out of your father’s mouth.

It is not like it is some sort of dream to pair up with Wayne’s, if anything, you kind of liked the idea of competing against the richest of the city and seeing them as rivals. But… having your father unbothered with such a theme to accept such an offer. It doesn’t feel real.

“And here we are.” Your father’s friend says as he offers your father a drink, the same one as before, and the exact same for you.

They rebegin conversations, and your curiosity grows with this theme.

You look over around the room and look in the direction your father was staring at when he said it. Your feet glue to the ground when you see Bruce standing exactly where you staring. He’s talking to someone beside him, oblivious to the attention he has just gotten from you.

He says a few words and listens to whatever that same person is saying to him. You can’t even force yourself to look away and decide to simply stare for a little longer.

Bruce, eventually, looks over in your direction, and your eyes meet. This time, neither of you looks away, and you just stare at one another. Your heart still beats fairly quick, and you still feel rather confused at what just happened.

Your father gathers your attention by saying your name while talking to his friends, and you look away quickly to stare at him. The two of you, you and Bruce, while getting back to your conversations do, unknowingly, the same thing.

No one notices and those that do, don’t even catch what could connect the two of you together. You two smile at the thought of each other.

I'm going to start trying to post more regularly when it comes to these series. You guys really don't deserve to have to wait for this long. I'm so sorry.

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[caitimetravels]

she's insignificant

chapter 10: where you've gone

the umbrella academy x (fem) reader

disclaimer: i do not own the plot/storyline of the netflix tv series and i do not own the umbrella academy characters.

warnings: none

masterlist

with a sigh, y/n stood. five was still writing away behind her on the walls non-stop. she didn't dare interrupt him, simply leaving. she would be back anyways. all she needed was a nice walk. 

as she wandered down the street with no destination in mind she spaced out, eyes trained on her feet. suddenly someone knocked her shoulder and brought her back to reality. she raised her head, hoping they weren't someone looking to start a fight or argue with her.

"y/n?" instead she was met with allison. her technically older sister seemed frustrated.

"allison? are you okay?" y/n's eyebrows furrowed, looking up at the curly haired woman. 

"yeah.. i think so" she frowned, "i'm worried about vanya. she won't listen to me but her boyfriend, whoever he is.. i think he's dangerous. i couldn't find anything about him-"

"you went searching for his records?" y/n pulled back in disbelief, "allison! you know vanya doesn't like-"

"i know, she already got angry with me" allison sighed, shaking her head.

"why would you do that?" y/n tilted her head up at her, eyes narrowing incredulously. "where are you even going?"

"well, i found his address. i was going to see if anything's weird.." she earned a disapproving look, "i can't just sit around and do nothing y/n! please, help me, for vanya?"

y/n's expression only darkened, "why are you trying to ruin one of the only good things in her life?! she deserves to be happy for once and im not going to help you take that away from her!" she begun to shout, freezing as she realised her powers were getting out of control in the middle of the street. "just.. leave them alone!" 

she took off, hoping to get away, she needed to get away.

————————————————–

as the sweet melody came to soft halt y/n smiled up at her sister. vanya donned a similar grin, placing her violin down and joining y/n on the floor, cross legged and leaning back against her bed.

"one day, you're going to be amazing, v" y/n mumbled quietly, looking like she was in a slight daze, "more amazing than you are now.. you're going to be a famous violinist, i can see it now. 'vanya hargreeves, the world's best violinist'" 

vanya softly nudged her shoulder, shaking her head. "no way, the world? c'mon" 

"i'm serious!" y/n was adamant, sitting up straighter to see her better, "you're gonna be so cool! and everyone here is going to see you and say 'damn, wish i had seen how awesome our sister was back then' and you're going to have lots of fans!"

vanya snorted, shyly brushing her long hair to the side, "yeah, right"

".. you won't forget me when you're famous, right?" y/n leaned back against the bed to avoid direct eye contact, her voice was much softer now. "don't forget me.. okay?" she nervously side eyed her sister, trying to gauge her reaction.

"i could never" vanya shook her head, leaning into the h/c haired girl. both of them shared small content grins.

————————————————–

as she walked upstairs to five's room she heard a commotion, hopefully he hadn't gotten into a fight with one of their siblings again, right?

wrong.

"put her down" five snarled, holding a gun up to luther who held dolores' body out the window. y/n grinned at the sight, highly amused. who would have thought luther would ever threaten someone? well, y'know excluding their missions.. but five nonetheless? she leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossing and waiting for them to sort out whatever issue she walked in on.

"put the gun down, you're not killing anyone today. i know she's important to you so don't make me do this" luther paused, waiting to see what five would do. "it's either her or the gun.. you decide"

eventually five did decide that dolores was more important and dropped the gun before spacial jumping to catch dolores before she could fall. not that much damage would have occurred to the mannequin anyways, maybe a few scratches.

"i can keep doing this all day" luther spoke triumphantly, now holding the gun at his side. y/n snorted, catching their attention.

"you're such children" both glared at her in response, "c'mon, surely you have a better plan than whatever ended up in this-" she gestured vaguely between them, "squabble"

"we did not squabble" five hissed, placing dolores down and straightening his jacket. "but yes, i do have a one other plan" 

————————————————–

the three of them, five, luther and y/n, drove down an empty road before slowing to a stop. five unbuckled his seatbelt and sighed, looking around.

"you know, i never enjoyed it" he started and luther turned to him in confusion.

"what?"

"the killing. i mean i was- i was good at my work and i took pride in it but it never gave me pleasure" he took a deep breath, "i think it was all those years alone. solitude can do funny things to the mind"

"yeah well, you were gone for such a long time.. i only spent four years on the moon but that was more than enough. it's the being alone that breaks you" luther placed a hand on the briefcase, "you think they'll buy it?"

"well, what i do know is that they're desperate. it's like a cop losing his gun" he alluded, "if the commission finds out they'll be in deep shit, well not to mention that they'll be stuck here until they get it back"

"i should hold onto it" luther suggested, patting it with one hand.

"hm?" five's eyebrows furrowed,

"incase they make a move on you" he added to explain his point.

"okay, luther.. but be careful. i've lived a long life but.. you're still a young man, you've got your whole life ahead of you. don't waste it" y/n snorted and five turned to her, unamused.

"what?" they stared at each other for a moment before five shook his head, looking away with a small smile.

suddenly a car began to drive towards them and they all made to get out of the car. "here we go" five sighed again, he was doing that a lot, y/n realised.

the car continued to drive past them, stopping a few metres away.

"if this all goes sideways.. do me a favour and tell dolores i'm sorry" five turned to luther who nodded slowly.

as five walked away from them y/n leaned back against the car.

"i have a bad feeling about this" she nervously picked at her nails and luther frowned, looking over at her.

"why? what's wrong?"

"that.. i don't know yet" she looked down the road, "i just.. feel like something's off" she shook her head as five walked back, leaning next to her.

luther stepped forwards a bit, "what happens now?"

"now we wait" 

barely a moment later they heard the music of an ice cream truck. y/n squinted against the sun and wind, trying to work out who it was. she took a moment to focus, sensing klaus, diego and ben. uh oh.

as the car got closer luther turned to five, "is that her?"

"luther, you idiot" y/n shook her head, "it's klaus and diego" right on time klaus waved to them as they passed.

the two assassins begun shooting, thinking it was a set up and y/n raised her arms to cover her head as luther stepped in front of her and five to block any shots.

suddenly time stopped.. well, only for five.

he frowned down at y/n next to him, the girl cowering in on herself. he felt bad for bringing her into something like this but she was very persistent.

he slowly stepped under luther's arm, looking at everyone frozen in slight confusion.

"neat trick, isn't it?" a feminine voice called out behind him and he turned to face the woman he had asked to see. the handler. she stared at him, pulling the veil over her face up and onto her hat instead before pulling her sunglasses off.

"hello, five" she smiled, "you look good.. all things considered" she softly gestured to all of him.

"it's good to see you again" he nodded back,

"feels like we met just yesterday, 'course you were a little bit older then" she teased, "congratulations on the age regression, by the way. very clever, threw us all off the scent"

"ah, well, i wish i could take credit" five shrugged, looking away. "i just miscalculated the time dilation of projections and.. well, you know, here i am" his gaze met hers once again, throwing his hands up before putting them back in his pockets, casually.

"you realise your efforts are futile" the handler shifted so that her briefcase was behind her, "so, why don't you tell me what you really want?"

"i want you to put a stop to it" five moved his own hands behind his back. 

"you realise what you're asking for is next to impossible even for me" she shook her head, "what's meant to be is meant to be. that's our raison d'etre" 

"yeah?" five smiled sarcastically, pulling a gun from his shorts "well how about survival as a raison?" 

"i'll just be replaced, i am but a small cog in a machine" the handler waved it off, ignoring the gun pointing straight at her heart. "this fantasy you've been nurturing about summoning up your family to stop the apocalypse is just that.. a fantasy. i must say though, we'll quite impressed with your initiative, your stick-to-it-tiveness, really quite- quite something. which is why we want to offer you, a new position back at the commission, in management" the handler held a hand up, smiling like her offer was an obvious choice.

"sorry what's that now?" five scoffed as she stepped closer, hand tightening on the gun.

"come back to work for us again, you know it's where you belong" 

"well, it didn't work out too well the last time" he glared up at her, not liking the persistence.

"oh but you wouldn't be in the correction department any longer, i'm talking about the home office, you'd have the best health and pension and an end to this ceaseless travel" she laughed freely, "you're a distinguished professional in.. school boy shorts. we have the technology to reverse the process. i mean you- you can't be happy like this" she slowly pushed his gun down, stepping ever closer.

"i'm not looking for happy" he spat through gritted teeth.

the handler only tilted her head, eyeing him carefully before raising a hand to stroke his cheek, "we're all looking for happy. we can make that happen, we can make you.. yourself again"

five huffed a laugh, gesturing to his siblings. "what about my family?"

"what about them?" the handler raised an eyebrow, acting like she didn't already know he intended to save them.

"i want them to survive" 

the handler took in a deep breath, taking in the sight of luther protecting y/n who was still crouching against the car as well as diego and klaus who were in the middle of crashing the ice cream truck.

"all of them?" 

"yes, all of them" he narrowed his eyes at her,

the handler gave him a small smirk, moving towards the recoiled girl. five watched carefully, waiting to see what she would do.

"it's such a shame.. she would have done well with us. if only we could take her too" she reached a hand out, about to touch her but five moved first, spacial jumping in front of her and grabbing her hand. he held her away from y/n.

"don't touch her" he snarled, unmoving from his protective stance. 

"my my, five, i didn't expect such protectiveness from you" the handler merely smirked, stepping away. as they walked back she once again proposed her deal.

"well" the handler begun, reaching a hand into her pocket and pulling out her sunglasses before putting them back on her face. "i'll see what i can do from them.. do we have a deal?" she reached a hand out to him, awaiting his acceptance. he merely stared at her hand before sighing,

"one thing" five stepped back, putting his gun in his shorts again. he walked over to hazel's gun on the floor, taking out the ammunition and chucking it on one side of the road before chucking the rest of the gun to the other. he turned and walked back, noticing the bullet headed towards luther and y/n. he frowned, using his pointer finger and thumb to move it over so that it would hit the car instead of them.

as soon as he shook her outstretched hand they disappeared and time was restored.

y/n shivered, ignoring the bullet hitting the car next to her and the way her siblings scrambled around to get away quick. she allowed herself to be shoved into the car with klaus and diego, spaced out.

"you alright?" diego turned to her while klaus stuck the middle finger up at hazel and cha cha. 

"i felt someone else.. it was only for a moment but i felt someone.." she spoke solemnly, staring at her shaking hands. "and then five just.. disappeared"

tag list: (if your name is crossed i couldnt tag you) @rxses-and-reverie @lostgreekgod @on-yourmark-99 @bicyhot1 @navs-bhat @midnightmystic @shawkneecaps @baby-bi-bi-bi-yeah @velveticxyyy

[sm-entertain-me]

Stray Kids Masterlist

Welcome one and all to my masterlist dedicated to the lovely young men of Stray Kids! I will only be writing smut for these individuals so I do apologize if you were looking for fluff. Personally, I’m just not as good at writing fluff like I am smut. Please stick around, read some fics, and don’t be afraid to tell me what you think! I love to interact with my followers.

LEGEND: TBW - To be written. TBR - To be released, typically the smut I plan on releasing next. NC - Not Completed/In Progress. Bolded - Popular

Last updated: January 6th at 8:42 PM (PST). Most recent: Second Session (M), smut for Hyunjin (official part 2 of Heartbreak Hotel)

Bang Chan/Christopher Bang

Customer Service (M) -  As a worker in a sex shop, you’ve seen people from all walks of life cross through your 18 and over store. Whether it be two young lovers trying to spice up their love life to respected dominatrices in the adult entertainment industry, you catered to everyone’s needs and were always willing to go above and beyond to secure a sale. So when a dashing you man asks you to help sample some toys for his future lovers, you simply had to assist him further.

Compulsion (M) -  While the rest of the guys are busy sleeping the night away, you, Hyunjin and Chan stay up to play... (feat. Hyunjin)

Hunter, Hunted (M) - Bang Chan: one of the world’s most talented vampire hunters, easily being the cause to your kind beginning to dwindle. In order to preserve your bloodline from being wiped out by Chan’s vicious hunters, you take an alternative approach to ensure amnesty between your kinds.

Training Day (M) [TBW] - It’s your first session with your new personal trainer today, hoping to get a decent core workout in more ways than one.

Lee Know/Lee Minho

Kingdom Come (M)  - Prince Minho was feeling the pressure of finding a woman suitable enough to produce him a much needed heir if he were to continue his lineage. If not, he would have to relinquish his throne and destroy the dynasty the Lee’s have worked so hard to maintain.

Seo Changbin

Muse (M) - Changbin has been working late to nail his raps for the upcoming album, but he just can’t seem to focus. Hopefully asking you to stay late with him would help him find the inspiration he needs.

Hwang Hyunjin

Play Pretend (M) -  With the possibility of the ex that ruined Hyunjin’s life being at the party you two plan on going to, Hyunjin asks you a rather personal favor for one night and one night only. As his best friend, you were willing to do whatever it took to make sure Hyunjin felt whole again, no matter if it cost you the friendship you worked so hard to maintain.

Compulsion (M) -  While the rest of the guys are busy sleeping the night away, you, Hyunjin and Chan stay up to play... (feat. Chan)

Heartbreak Hotel pt 1/2 (M) - Welcome to the Heartbreak Hotel, where all our services are specifically designed to make you forget about those who hurt you most. Extra fees apply for all night excursions.

Second Session (M) -  What other activities transpired at the infamous Heartbreak Hotel that night? (Heartbreak Hotel pt 2/2)

Han Jisung

Off the Menu (M) - Usually you’re supposed to go home with your date, not the waiter…

Lee Felix

Midnight Snack (M) -  Four rambunctious young vampires had taken to the streets for their weekly hunt, prowling for their victims which usually contained the elderly or those who were already knocking on death’s door. But when one of the vampires gets a look at you through your open window, he simply had to taste.

Making Movies (M) [NC] - Felix suggested that the two of you go to the local drive in theater for a movie, but he had no intention of watching any movies with you. He wanted to make movies instead.

Kim Seungmin

Coming soon!

I.N./Yang Jeongin

Knight in Paradise (M)  - Your husband is an atrocious ruler and an abysmal king, committing horrors across the land in the name of power and greed. Calling for a complex and intimate coup d’etat, you decide that the best way to prevent from continuing his lineage is to continue it with someone else more deserving of the throne.

[seijorhi]

Inexorable ♕

My birthday present for my beloved wife @iwaasfairy​ and my contribution to her birthday bash collab you can find here. I love you, you’re incredible and I hope you like this i even wrote smut for you smh

Iwaizumi Hajime x female reader

tw: dub-con, stalking, unhealthy relationships, very questionable decision making, smut, nsfw, um... implied murder?

He’s sitting on the steps outside your apartment when you get home from work, a lit cigarette dangling between long fingers. He brings it to his lips, the bright cherry red tip glowing as he takes a nice, slow drag and you scurry on past.

Not a word passes between the two of you, but olive eyes follow you up the stairs regardless, just like always. His name is Iwaizumi – Iwa – but you only know that because you’ve heard his friends yelling it down the hallway. In the three months since you’ve moved in, you haven’t so much as introduced yourself to the guy, but like most strangers crammed into the same shitty place there’s some kind of a routine between the two of you.

Why he religiously chooses this time of night to take his smoke break is beyond you, but like clockwork you’ll arrive home, having walked back from the bus stop and Iwaizumi’ll be there waiting for you, cigarette in hand.

Well, not waiting, just… there. Black leather jacket with a hoodie underneath, there’s a cut above his eyebrow tonight that he hasn’t bothered to clean, a purpling bruise colouring his jaw. Whatever dealings Iwaizumi’s tangled up in, you don’t like to think about too much, but you know it can’t be anything good. His friends dress like him, all have the same ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe. You’ve seen their scrapes and bruises too – the weapons that stick out from the waistband of their pants – though you’re always quick to avert your eyes when they catch you staring.

You’ve heard them snickering about it when you hastily dart past, all but slamming your front door shut. 

And it’s not that you’re scared of him. There are people who play at being dangerous, and ones who are. Iwaizumi doesn’t strike you as somebody who enjoys playing, and while you don’t doubt for a second that he is dangerous, he isn’t to you. He wouldn’t go out of his way to hurt or scare you – you’re not even a blip on his radar – but what Iwaizumi is, at least as far as you’re concerned, the reason your step quickens and you can’t bear to meet his eyes, is intimidating.

Tall and broad shouldered, with those piercing green eyes. You’ve only seen him smile once, though it was more a quirking of his lips than anything else – usually he just stares, his expression halfway between impassive boredom and a scowl. 

No, Iwaizumi doesn’t scare you nearly as much as the bouquet of flowers you find sitting on your doorstep, a handwritten note tucked in between the roses.

—

The calls come next. You block one number and he rings from another, followed by endless texts. Cute little messages you suppose are meant to brighten up your day. 

Hi baby, love the skirt you’re wearing today. You know blue’s my favourite on you, always look so damn pretty. It’s like you’re trying to drive me crazy haha

Morning babe, I was thinking about you last night. You remember that trip we always said we were gonna take in the summer down to the lake? I can’t wait to bring you there.

Why won’t you answer my calls? I just wanna talk to you, hear your voice again. Let me make things right. I love you.

Don’t you miss me? I miss you. So, so much… You look beautiful today, by the way.

Baby, I love you, but you really shouldn’t be staying out so late with your coworkers for drinks. I just want you to be safe.

They’re not all soft and sweet though. Sometimes he just sends you pictures, and those creep you out most of all.

You change your number, and it doesn’t make a difference.

—

It’s hard for you to try and convince yourself that you’re imagining the prickling sensation on the back of your neck as you go about your day. You know he’s watching you – the messages and the voicemails just drive that home, but what else are you supposed to do?

You can’t just pack up and run again, and what good is a restraining order when you have no proof he’s violating it – and by the time you do, it probably won’t help you.

Kazuma’s always had patience, but only up to a point.

The final nail comes the day you arrive home to find one of Iwa’s friends heading out from his apartment – the tallest, with the curly dark hair. Barely spares you a glance until he seems to think better of it.

“Didn’t realise you had a boyfriend, sweetheart.”

He says it so casually, but the words make you falter, a sinking feeling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

And for a moment, he looks half surprised that you’ve bothered to reply – so far you’ve done nothing but pretend to ignore him and Iwa and every last one of their friends. But the mirth slips from his expression quickly enough once he gets a good look at yours, “Blonde guy with a shitty dye job, tall-ish. Saw him leaving your apartment an hour ago.” 

But to walk out of your apartment, he had to have first gotten into it.

“Guessing he wasn’t your boyfriend then,” he says, eyeing you with an odd look. But you don’t respond and after a short pause, he simply shrugs and continues on his way. 

You couldn’t care less.

Kazuma was in your apartment.

Leaving flowers at your doorstep is one thing, but now he has a key. 

And it feels like there’s somebody else moving your body as you stumble towards your apartment, your hand shaking so badly that you fumble and drop your own keys twice before you finally manage to slide them home and push your way inside.

It’s waiting for you inside your bedroom, sitting atop your pillow; a pretty blue box wrapped with white ribbon.

Your phone flashes to life a minute later; an incoming message from an unknown number. 

Did you like your present, baby?? I hope you don’t mind, I kinda borrowed a little something too… 

With your heart in your throat you watch those three bouncing dots as the image comes through. 

A pair of red lace panties – yours – scrunched up in his fist, wrapped around his–

Your stomach heaves, and you barely make it to the bathroom in time before you’re hurling your guts up.

—

You’ve always had an impulsive side, and more often than not it’s landed you into trouble.

So you force yourself to calm down and think before you do anything rash. You head to the police station the very next morning to file a report, fresh off a sleepless night. The officer seems sympathetic, but you know before she even opens her mouth that there’s nothing they can do.

There’s no proof of a crime committed; nothing was taken (nothing you can prove, at any rate) and because your door wasn’t tampered with and the windows weren’t smashed, there’s no evidence of a break in. She suggests changing your locks and going to stay with some friends or family for a few days and you don’t know whether you want to laugh or burst into tears.

And instead of going back to work, you call in sick.

Iwaizumi isn’t sitting on the front steps when you get back home, and why would he be? You’re not supposed to be home for another few hours – so instead you head to his apartment door and mustering every last ounce of courage you possess, you raise your fist and knock.

Silence greets you. 

You wait for a moment, a heartbeat, not daring to breathe, but there’s no answer. Which, really, shouldn’t be that surprising considering it’s mid-morning on a Tuesday, but you can’t help the crushing sense of disappointment that washes over you. The thought of trudging back to your apartment to sit and stew alone for the next few hours while you wait for him to come back makes your skin crawl. You can’t just sit still and twiddle your thumbs, not when–

Abruptly, the door in front of you swings open, and you find yourself face to face with a glaring Iwaizumi. His expression falters, momentary surprise flickering across his eyes at the sight of you standing in his doorway.

This time you don’t avert your eyes. Your heart’s pounding, your hands clammy and trembling by your side, but this is the only choice you have left. And so as a single eyebrow cocks and Iwa falls into a lean against the doorframe – the only invitation you’re gonna get – you steel your nerves, take a deep breath, and speak.

“I-I need a gun.”

To his credit, Iwaizumi doesn’t snort. “You planning on shooting somebody, princess?”

They’re the first words he’s ever spoken to you, and they make your cheeks burn, your stomach twisting into a knot. It’s not a dismissal, but there’s a tinge of amusement colouring his tone and you can’t help but wilt a little under the weight of his gaze. 

Better sense would tell you to turn around, walk back to your apartment and curse your own idiocy for entertaining this stupid idea to begin with But Iwaizumi’s staring at you like he’s expecting an answer and all you can think about is the fear that gripped your heart last night, how you couldn’t bear to turn the light off, half terrified that at any moment Kazuma would come back – and this time he wouldn’t be satisfied with just some panties.

You can’t live like this, and you can’t just pack up your life and wait for the same thing to happen in the next place, and the one after that. Kazuma won’t stop, you know that. 

“I…” you chew on your bottom lip, dropping your gaze so that you’re staring at his chest instead of those piercing green eyes. “I don’t, I-I’m not–”

“A killer?” he interjects, and you almost flinch at his bluntness“Yeah, no shit.”

Taking another breath in through your nose, you force yourself to meet his gaze, even as your nails bite into the palm of your hand and your heart skips a beat. “I just want…” but you can’t even bear to say the words aloud, not without your voice shaking like a leaf. “It’s for protection. I don’t know who else to go to. Please,” you beg.

Iwa exhales heavily, a crinkle appearing between his brows as he frowns, “This got anything to do with the blonde asshole that’s been sniffing ‘round your place?”

Your bewilderment must show, because he snorts, finally stepping back to let you inside. “Mattsun told me,” he says, answering your unspoken question. 

The unmistakably hard edge to his words takes you a little by surprise, but you nod anyway, gingerly taking a seat on the couch when he jerks his chin at it. “Oh, uh, yeah. He’s my ex, kinda. We… didn’t end well.”

It’s the understatement of the century, but you somehow doubt a man like Iwaizumi gives two shits about your past relationship with a stalker. Your fingers play with the hem of your skirt as the imposing man settles down beside you. “So does this mean you’ll get me a gun?” you ask. “I can pay you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have some money–”

Iwa scoffs, cutting you off. “If you think I’m letting you anywhere near a loaded gun, pretty girl, you’re dumber than I gave you credit for.”

You reel back as if he’s slapped you. But Iwaizumi’s staring at you with that steely expression and blood rushes to your cheeks. Why are you surprised? Did you actually think he was going to help you – a veritable stranger – just because you have some sob story? Why even bother letting you in if he was just gonna make you feel like an idiot? And for a moment you forget the gnawing terror that’s kept you up all night, letting yourself become awash with indignation. You have no control over the hurt noise that leaves your throat, but the ‘Fuck you’ that follows; that one’s intentional.

You don’t have time to regret the insult as you jump to your feet; his hand shoots out to wrap around your wrist, jerking you to a halt the moment you try it. 

“I didn’t say you could go,” he tells you, and you can’t fight the shiver that rolls down your spine at the unmistakably commanding tone. “Sit.”

Wordlessly, you comply.

“Look at me.”

Again, there’s that harsh undercurrent in his voice that tells you he’s not asking, and you lift your gaze with a tense swallow. Iwa still hasn’t released your wrist, the warmth of his calloused palm searing against your skin. 

He doesn’t speak for a moment, olive eyes studying your face intently as you force yourself to sit still under the appraisal. “I said that I wasn’t going to give you a gun, not that I wasn’t going to help.”

Your eyebrows draw together in confusion, “What–”

“I’ll take care of it,” he snaps, cutting you off once again. And as you inhale sharply, you realise that it’s not anger you see burning in those pretty eyes, but sheer, unrelenting fury, an icy rage that you don’t understand, that terrifies you as much as it enthrals.

Because you feel like it’s on purpose. Like he’s finally letting you get a glimpse of what silently seethes beneath that impassive mask of his. Are you scared now, sweetheart?

“H-how much?” you ask breathlessly, eyes wide and heart pounding. 

“I don’t want your money,” he says quietly, his voice low and husky. And just in case there was any confusion as to what he does want, his other hand comes up to your face, a broad thumb tracing along your bottom lip as he cups your cheek.

Iwaizumi leans in slowly, as if he’s giving you time to shove him away and tell him that you’re not that kind of girl. Part of you – the part that’s terrified, frozen stiff and regretting the very moment you decided to step into his apartment and cross that line – wants to. Even now, as those hooded olive eyes drink you in, his warm breath ghosting across your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake, you’re afraid that it’s too late for that. You’ve opened a door that should never have been opened and there’s been a fundamental shift between you and him. There’s no going back for either one of you.

And the other part of you revels in it.

“Don’t kill him,” you murmur the second before his lips meet yours. “Not unless you have to.” You don’t even know if he heard you, and as Iwa deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours you find that you don’t care. You lose yourself to Iwaizumi as he leans closer, gently pushing you to lie back on the couch.

He isn’t satisfied with just your lips for long, planting hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat, sucking on the sensitive flesh. His teeth nip at your collarbone as he busies himself unbuttoning your shirt, but your gasp sounds more like a needy whine than a plea for him to stop. 

He laughs a little at that, his chest rumbling against your stomach, but he makes no moves to slow down. Instead he turns his attention to your bra, his hands far less gentle with the delicate lace than he was with your shirt, and then his mouth is on your tits, licking, sucking, biting. Tomorrow, your skin will be littered with pretty red and purple marks, and judging from the single minded focus glinting in his eyes as he stares up at you, that’s exactly his intention. Iwa drags the flat of his tongue along the swell of your breast, circling it around your nipple before he sucks it into the wet warmth of his mouth, and the whimpering moan you give him in response is a thing of beauty. 

“Good girl,” he croons. “Such pretty, perfect tits.”

Your back arches when he cups the other in his hand, and you cry out when he roughly tugs the sensitive bud. He waits until the sting fades and you relax, sagging back against the cushions with relief before he does it again, harder this time. The sharp, searing pain ripples through you, your breath seizing in your chest as you try in vain to writhe away from his touch, but it’s followed by a flood of pleasure so strong it almost makes you dizzy. The fleeting kiss Iwa bestows on the supple flesh a moment later could almost be taken as an apology – if not from the satisfied smirk curling at his lips. He has no desire to be gentle with you, not today or any other day. That’s not who he is. 

Large hands ease down your side, reaching for the hem of your skirt. Iwa doesn’t bother trying to pull it off of you, merely flips it up, exposing your soft thighs and the delicate panties lying underneath. 

In an attempt to be helpful, you lift your hips to allow him to drag the lacy scrap of fabric down your legs and discard it, but Iwaizumi seems perfectly content with leaving them where they are. Even so, it takes you by surprise when his mouth descends on your cunt, the wet, pink muscle laving along the seat of your panties. You shiver in response, one hand instinctively reaching out to tangle in those spiky brunette locks, but if you’re about to tell him to stop teasing, the words are robbed from you when Iwa pushes the fabric aside and buries his face in the heat of your pussy.

His nose nudges at your clit and you jerk at the first lap at your folds, already shamefully wet for him. There’s no rhythm or rhyme to the way he eats you out, letting a long, thick finger slide into your cunt while he suckles and licks at your clit, but you can’t deny that it’s working. Your thighs tremble and quake beneath his hands, every second of his attention dragging you closer to unravelling entirely. And you’re awash with pleas, little whimpers and moans as he chuckles, the low vibrations making your fingers tighten in his hair as another burst of pleasure flutters through you. Your hips rise and fall against his face, desperate for more when he finally slides his tongue inside of your heat, eager to taste your cunt properly. You want more, you’re desperate and aching for it; but Iwaizumi’s grip tighten bruisingly against your thigh in warning. 

You’re at his mercy, and he’s in absolutely no hurry.

The first time you cum, it takes you by surprise. It feels like an endless build-up, Iwa’s tongue lapping at your pussy like it’s heaven sent, his mouth working diligently to drive you insane. Every touch feels unbearably good, from the long, slow strokes to the way he drags the tip of his tongue along your clit. Your toes are curling, your tits heaving with the desperate breaths you choke down, and all of a sudden his mouth latches onto your clitoris and he sucks hard at the swollen nub. You almost black out right there and then, stars bursting behind closed lids as pleasure wreaks havoc over your body. But as good as that feels, it’s not until you open your eyes and catch sight of the hunger blazing in Iwaizumi’s eyes that you tip over the edge, cumming into his waiting mouth with an earth shattering moan. 

At some point he must have let you go to rid himself of his own clothes, and your panties, but you’re boneless, basking in the afterglow as he shifts you once more, lifting one of your thighs up to hook your leg over his shoulder as he settles back onto the couch.

You just watch through hazy eyes as Iwaizumi gives his thick cock, already hard and flushed an angry red, a few cursory pumps. And his eyes are fixed on yours as he leans down, guiding the tip to your sopping cunt. 

“Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming of this, princess,” he grunts out. 

Warning bells sound in your head once more, your gut clenching uneasily, but any protests you might have voiced fall by the wayside as he slowly presses into you. It’s the girth, more than anything else, that takes you by surprise. It hurts, stretching out your poor, oversensitive cunt as his cock fills you up, inch by agonising inch. 

Iwa hisses from between clenched teeth and your eyes squeeze shut, trying to breathe through the pain. It won’t last long, you know that, and until it does you just have to grin and bear it.

You can feel it twitching inside of you, every ridge and vein, the way your slick walls hug his cock. His thumb strokes along your hip, soothing you as your face screws up and another whimper slips out. You think you hear him say something, praise maybe, or encouragement, but all you can focus on is the way his cock throbs inside your pussy when he finally bottoms out and stills.

And for a moment, he doesn’t move. A small kindness, letting you become adjusted to his size before he fucks you the way he’s dying to. 

“Look at me,” he says, and while his tone isn’t as sharp this time, it’s no less of an order.

Your eyes flutter open as Iwaizumi turns his head just a fraction without breaking eye contact, pressing a soft kiss against your calf. His eyes are glazed with feverish lust, pupils blown wide, almost swallowing up that thin ring of olive green entirely, and you wonder whether you should feel afraid right now.

You don’t have the words to describe it, the distant unease that seeps through you as you stare into the eyes of a man who’s clearly not in control anymore. If you screamed right now, tried to fight back or stop him, would it make a difference? 

Do you actually want to?

“You’re mine,” he growls out, drawing his hips back and slamming them forward ruthlessly as you choke on a scream. 

He’s relentless, hissing out curses as he fucks you like a rag doll, filling your wet, tight little cunt again and again and again. It’s all you can do to fist at the edge of the cushion, one hand wrapping around his back, your nails raking down his skin, drawing blood in their wake.

And Iwa doesn’t care, tossing his head back as he pounds his cock into your needy cunt, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. “Iwa,” you plead between gasping breaths, clinging to his broad frame. You don’t even know what you’re begging for, not as he grabs you by the hips and lifts you up, hauling you closer so he can fuck you deeper. And you can feel his cockhead rutting against your cervix with every vicious thrust, the painful stretch of your cunt as you’re forced to take his fat cock. It hurts, it does, but holy fuck you can’t focus on that when his fingers slip between your legs and he starts to rub at your puffy, oversensitive clit.

You’re whining, mewling, hips shifting as you rock against him, desperate for more friction. “Please, Iwa,” you moan.

The sound of it, the lewd slaps of skin against skin, the wet squelching as he drives his cock home again with an unforgiving pace would be enough to make you burn with embarrassment, but you don’t care because you’re quickly losing yourself to mindless pleasure. Every stroke fills you completely, it’s hot and thick and the drag of his cock against your plush walls, the way it kisses that sweet perfect spot with every thrust is driving you to insanity.

“Fuck!” you cry, clenching tightly around his length as you hurtle over the edge for a second time. You’re gushing, convulsing, back arched up off the couch, lips parted and–

Iwaizumi stops with a growl and you barely have time to process it before he’s flipping you onto your front, yanking your ass up into the air and hammering his cock back into your swollen, abused little pussy. It’s a bruising pace he sets as he chases after his own end, your name falling from his lips in harsh, breathless grunts. 

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to become sloppy, your cunt sucking him in and pulsing around his cock. And you don’t have the mental capacity to beg him to pull out, not as his muscular chest collapses against your back, his arms wrapping around your waist and he pumps you full of his seed.

Neither one of you move straight away, both fighting to catch your breath and calm down in the afterglow of your orgasms. Your eyes flutter shut as he presses soft, sweet kisses to the back of your neck, your shoulders, anywhere he can reach. It’s an intimacy that doesn’t belong here, but you find yourself arching into it, a small, tired smile curling at your lips as Iwaizumi lavishes you with affection. 

And you can only whine softly when he finally pulls his cock out and stands, lifting your boneless form up into his arms, chuckling quietly when you bury your head into his chest. Your head’s empty, your thoughts a jumbled mess as he carries you into his bedroom, depositing you carefully onto the bed. 

Iwaizumi leaves you there like that, and when he returns a few minutes later he’s dressed again. He doesn’t smile, but there’s something oddly content about his expression as he stops by the doorway and takes in the sight of you; naked and thoroughly fucked out, curled up amongst his covers. 

“Iwa?” you ask sleepily, stretching your aching body to make yourself more comfortable as you nestle further into the soft mattress.

He doesn’t answer you as he strides in, but you watch through half lidded eyes as his expression hardens. Stopping by the bedside, Iwaizumi reaches for you. You think he’s going to cup your cheek again, maybe run his fingers through your hair, but instead his hand slides between your thighs, gathering up some of the cum that’s seeped from your pussy with his fingers and slowly pushing it back inside of you, humming when you whine and shift under him.

“I’m leaving for a bit,” he tells you, your gut clenching as you remember why you’re in this position in the first place. “You don’t leave this apartment until I get back. You don’t answer the door, you don’t tell anyone you’re here, you don’t leave this bed unless you have a goddamn good reason. Understand?”

Weakly, you nod.

“Such a good girl for me,” he breathes, and this time when he leans over he does kiss you, sweeping your hair back from your face before his warm lips meet your cheek. He lingers there for a beat longer than necessary before pulling away with a sigh.

And as the door swings shut, the sound of the lock clicking into place behind him, you begin to question whether you’ve made a mistake. You don’t doubt for a second that Iwa will follow through with his promise. Whether it’s tonight or tomorrow or a week from now, he’ll find Kazuma; him and his friends, and they’ll make sure he stays away. And until they do, you won’t leave this apartment.

There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach that despite your pleas, Iwaizumi’ll kill him. 

Not because that’s the only way for this to end, though you realise that that’s always been a possibility, but because of what you glimpsed in his eyes today. Stupidly, you’d thought you had Iwa pegged. But there’s something that lurks beneath that facade, something more dangerous than you could’ve possibly imagined and the moment you opened the door to Iwaizumi it sunk its teeth into you and now you’re not sure if it’ll ever let you go.

And as you lie back in Iwaizumi’s bed, covered in the marks he left behind you wonder whether you’ve merely traded one monster for another. Perhaps it was inevitable. Inexorable.

[sserpente]

A/N: That Hyundai ad hit different. *chuckles*

Words: 3097 Warnings: kidnapping, hostage

New York smelled pretty bad, come to think of it. You had almost forgotten the hustle and bustle of this huge city that never slept and if there was one thing you had not been missing at all after spending a few months in Morocco for work, it was the constant traffic jams.

It was hot, unbearably so. You’d been a sweating mess ever since your cab driver had picked you up at the airport and the fact that the air conditioning in the cab was broken didn’t exactly help with that. Your thighs stuck to the leather of the backseat, your forehead glistening and your make-up… well, it used to be make-up.

The cab driver seemed nice, at least and since the long snake made entirely of cars had not moved for at least an hour now, he had offered to park on the side of the road and get you both a bottle of water. Ironically, you were only a few yards away from Stark Tower.

Perhaps you shouldn’t complain about the traffic jam. Half of the city was a mess after the atrocious battle you had been fortunate enough only to have witnessed on the news on the plane. You could only hope that your tiny studio flat was still intact and quite frankly, it was short of a miracle that a cab service had actually agreed on picking you up so shortly after an almost-war—not to mention that the plane had actually landed.

You sighed, brushing a strand of hair sticking to your cheek out of your face. You were unbelievably tired—even more so knowing that you had dodged a catastrophe that would go down in history all thanks to work. Your eyes fell shut and you leaned against the car window when suddenly, the driver’s door was all but yanked open and someone who certainly did not resemble your cab driver, started the car and clutched at the steering wheel as if his life depended on it.

Your lips parted. Shackles and a muzzle, along with a blue glowing cube landed on the passenger seat with a loud clatter, followed by an annoyed groan. It was him. The man who had attempted to take over the entire planet only moments ago, he was here in this car and he was currently kidnapping you with it.

A scream escaped your lips, a mixture of shock and fear spreading in your body and fuelling the rising amount of adrenaline. It was only then the God of Mischief glanced at the rear-view mirror and spotted you there panicking—but by then, he had already stirred the car back on the road, straight towards the traffic jam.

“You… you are… Let me out! Let me out at once!” You screeched, the heat around you—along with your miserable appearance—all but forgotten. Loki rolled his eyes. Great. Another mortal.

“I am not stopping this car,” was all he said. Your eyes widened in utter shock.

“Then don’t! Fuck!” Danger was radiating off of this man like heat from an active volcano; so if necessary, you would jump out of the moving car as well. Biting your lower lip and wondering if you should go through with this risky stunt at the speed he was going, the wheels squeaking over the asphalt with every abrupt turn he took, or if that would be a suicide mission. It was probably the latter, and when you reached for the handle of the back door, it took the God of Mischief only a mere second to lock it, trapping you inside.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

“You’ll kill yourself.” Loki spat. You did not miss the patronising tone in his voice—stupid. He believed you stupid.

“And if I stay in here with you I won’t?” You retorted hysterically. And it was justified, really—for when your gaze drifted back to the road ahead of you, you could see him racing straight towards a long line of cars waiting for the traffic to clear up.

“Watch out! The other cars, watch out! Oh my God…” You screamed, squeezing your eyes shut and covering your face with your arms but the imminent crash never came. When you opened your eyes again, Loki had all but moved through the other cars as if by magic. God, what was this, Harry Potter?

With your heart in your mouth, you brought your trembling hands to your thighs and pressed down on them in a desperate attempt to fight off the panic attack rising within you like the forthcoming eruption of a volcano.

But even when you reached the suburbs, ironically moved closer to your home, and the car finally slowed down to a reasonable speed, making you wonder how a god from another realm knew how to drive a car in the first place, your dread kept growing steadily. What would happen once Loki decided he had reached his destination? What would he do with you? Would you end up as another casualty? You’d know where he was, after all, and only God knew how he had managed to escape after the Avengers reported his capture—not to mention that he was in the possession of that mysterious blue cube you were certain bore even more chaos and destruction in the wrong hands.

“I take it this vehicle is supposed to be a means of transport in exchange for payment?” He suddenly said.

“What?” You gaped at him, swallowing. “Yes! I mean, yes, it’s a taxi. That’s… I was…”

“Where do you live?”

“Excuse me? What, are you going to drop me off and expect me to tip you?”

Loki smirked. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why but he did like your feistiness. “I need a place to hide.”

“What… no! No! I am not giving shelter to a criminal!” You snarled, swallowing your fear of him—and then you made the mistake of peeking at the navigation system the taxi driver had set up next to the steering wheel, with your address on bright display to show Loki exactly where he’d have to go.

The God of Mischief tilted his head. “You don’t have much choice in the matter, my dear.”

You took a deep shaky breath, digging your nails into the backseat. If your lower lip was trembling, you didn’t notice. “P-please… please just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone where you are or where you went. Please.”

“I am not going to kill you if that is what you are worried about.” He replied after a long pause. When you said nothing, too stunned and scared to come up with another snarky comment, silence spread in the car like wildfire.

Hugging your knees to your chest, you closed your eyes, hoping that this was a bad joke, a terrible nightmare and any moment now, you would wake up safely on the plane, yet to land in half-destroyed New York City—but the end of slumber never came. You were wide awake; even more so when, after what felt like hours, Loki finally stopped the car. Of course, you had not noticed him observing you repeatedly through the rear-view mirror, almost as if to check if you were still alive.

Your eyes met and then, finally, he unlocked the doors. Only now, you did not move an inch. You had no idea what to expect if you stepped out of this car.

Naturally, Loki disagreed with your cautious decision. He yanked the car door open when he saw you frozen in place, grabbing your upper arm so fast you didn’t even have a chance to react, and all of a sudden, seeing the entrance door of the apartment building you lived in did not at all look as appealing as it had at the airport anymore.

His grip around your arm was firm but when you whined in pain, the God of Mischief actually softened it—if only a little, barely noticeable.

“Unlock the door, my dear, will you?” He inquired, smiling sweetly at you. Right beneath the surface, you could hear that there would be dire consequences if you failed to comply.

Surely at this point, he could hear your rapid heartbeat. Shaking, you fumbled for the keys in your bag until they were jingling in your palms all the while Loki watched you like a hawk. You had dismissed calling the police on your phone in the car already—for now.

Fuck, you had been kidnapped. You were about to be held hostage in your own flat, or… or… was he just going to enter and kick you out? Had he been lying about not killing you? Would he fling a dagger at you any moment now like you had seen him do on TV?

Loki followed you when you approached the door and unlocked it clumsily. One floor up and to the left. For just a brief moment, you wondered what would happen if you started screaming bloody murder, alerting your neighbours but even when you opened your mouth to attempt it, not a single sound would escape your lips.

Even a little further out and farther away from the centre of New York City, rent prices were horrendous. Your salary was not bad but your apartment was no more than a small studio equipped with a humble kitchen, a separate bathroom with a tiny shower and lastly, your double bed in the centre of the room, posing as your sofa during the day.

Loki looked around unimpressed when he entered. “Well… it will do.”

“N-now what?” You choked out.

Loki raised his eyebrows, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Right—because that was going to be so easy. He sighed and rolled his eyes when you only stared at him in horror.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

“W-would you? You tried to subjugate our planet like ten minutes ago!”

“And for good reason too. This realm is lawless, your people slaughter each other day in and out and you feel threatened by me? I would have given you a new purpose.”

He had a point… but… “And what is that so-called purpose? Slavery?” Loki’s expression darkened, making you flinch back.

“S-sorry… I’ll… I’ll be i-in the bathroom taking a shower. Please just… I mean… whatever.” Would he stop you? Hesitating, you made your way to the bathroom, waiting for him to yank you back, press you against the wall and threaten you? Threaten you with what, exactly? Could you trust that he wouldn’t kill you? Loki felt like a ticking time bomb in your flat.

But a painful yank never came and when you locked the bathroom door behind you, you exhaled. Inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, trying to process the fact you had a war criminal in your home.

Once you had gathered enough energy to do what you had come to the bathroom for and, an hour later, returned to the main room, Loki was sitting on your bed cross-legged, the Tesseract right before him, glowing away.

“I roamed your ‘kitchen’”, he said without glancing up to meet your eyes, “Do you have anything edible at all?”

“I was away for a whole month.” You argued. “I haven’t done any shopping yet because I was kidnapped by a space Viking.”

Loki smirked. Amused, he finally looked up. “Well, perhaps I should take you back to Asgard with me then. I could use a diligent little servant.”

Your reaction did not disappoint him. Chuckling to himself, he slid off the bed more elegantly than you could ever muster, the Tesseract disappearing into nothingness.

“What I am trying to say is that even gods need to eat and I am, quite frankly, starving.”

“That sounds like a you-problem.” You grumbled. And then, as if on cue, your stomach growled. Damn it.

“Fine. I’ll order some pizza.”

-

Loki had all but watched you like a hawk upon calling the local pizza place. Everything inside of you had screamed to let them know about your predicament, to beg them to call the police and send them to you instead of the pizza.

But as soon as the food was delivered, the mood in your apartment changed so rapidly it left you wondering if the only reason for Loki’s world domination attempt had been his hunger. The man devoured a family-sized pizza in but what felt like two minutes and, upon realising you were done with yours, leaving three pieces in the box, he devoured those as well. And never before had you seen someone eat pizza so gracefully.

It didn’t exactly make it feel like you had been kidnapped anymore. Perhaps… perhaps he hadn’t been lying about not wanting to kill you after all. Perhaps he wasn’t as evil as you… no, stop. He had literally just tried to take over the planet!

“What are you pondering on, little mortal?”

You shivered, the nickname affecting you in a way it truly shouldn’t, especially after he had lost his armour and magically exchanged it for more casual clothes—they still looked like they were from a different time period altogether but it wasn’t nearly as intimidating as before.

“W-why did you really do it?” You found yourself asking. It was a risk—but you were feeling braver now that your stomach was full even though part of you was surprised you had managed to eat at all.

“What?”

“Why did you really try to take over the planet? Did you… do you really want to enslave us all?”

“A lack of freedom does not equal slavery. It offers protection from failure and bad choices.” He said. You frowned.

“You truly believe that?”

“You fight wars over opinions, religions and race among your own species. Your choices are suffocating the whole of Midgard. I would have changed that.”

“You can’t be serious.”

You looked down, reaching for the sweet treat that had come with your pizza to stop your fingers from trembling.

“What is that?”

“Oh, uh… those are marshmallows. This pizza place always packs them with your order, don’t ask me why.”

“What’s that?” He repeated, frowning at the plastic wrapper.

“It’s candy…”

“Well, it doesn’t look very natural.”

Woah. How had this conversation just gone from “humans should not have freedom of choice” to “marshmallows look unhealthy”?

“They’re… I mean they’re not. They’re made of pure sugar and artificial flavouring.”

“Then why do you eat them?”

“Because… because they taste good?”

Loki gave you a taunting look. See? It said. This is what I meant.

But when you opened the package and handed it to him, he took one out nonetheless. It looked tiny between his long fingers—as tiny as you must have looked next to him.

You gulped when it disappeared between his lips. When you reached out to take the package back, he snatched it away from you.

“They are quite delicious, actually.” Your jaw dropped when he popped them all into his mouth at once, winking at you. Not quite sure how to react to this, you averted your gaze, taking a feigned interest in your digital alarm clock on the nightstand instead.

It was only 5 PM but you were positively ready to pass out. Where would you even sleep tonight? Where would he sleep? Would he even sleep?

“You are tired.” He suddenly stated as if on cue. He couldn’t read your mind… right? He did have that weird cube of his, after all.

“Well, yeah… I got kidnapped, experienced a live remake of ‘Fast and Furious’ and I have a criminal in my flat.”

“I only understood half of what you just said but I can ensure you that I will not harm you when you sleep.” There it was again, that frown that almost made it look like he was offended. As if the very circumstance of him hurting an innocent for no reason other than malice insulted him.

“So by all means, retire to bed.” He went on, gesturing to the bed and eventually, standing up to make space for you. The pizza boxes disappeared in but a green shimmer of light and you watched Loki, albeit still suspicious, heading over to the small kitchen table. To be quite frank, it was the last thing you remembered.

-

Loki was gone, no trace of him left. It was as if he had never even been here. It was already past noon—the exhaustion from your flight as well as the racy car drive and last but not least, your shining time as a hostage had worn you out to the point you didn’t even remember falling asleep anymore.

You only realised now that it was your doorbell that had woken you up. Jumping out of bed and moaning when your vision turned black for a moment, you headed over to your speaker and pressed the button. Perhaps it was Loki. Perhaps he had locked himself out but then again… would he not be able to magic himself back in? Why had he insisted on you unlocking the door yesterday in the first place? You shook your head.

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Henry, I’ve got your delivery.” A boyish voice responded.

“W-what delivery? I didn’t order anything.”

“You did, ma’am, would you come open the door, please?”

You sighed. “Fine, I’ll be down in a second.”

You had fallen asleep in your clothes from last night, so one quick glance in the mirror was all you had before you headed back down and opened the main entrance door.

The delivery boy was holding both your suitcase and a jumbo-size package of marshmallows in his hands. Big marshmallows—the bonfire kind, to be precise.

“Who…” But you knew. You knew the moment you made the connection and knew the moment you looked straight into Henry’s eyes and noticed them glowing unnaturally blue when he handed the items to you.

It had not been a dream then. Loki had really been here. You had been eating pizza with the God of Mischief and now… the gesture was almost sweet. Was that his way of saying thank you? For what? You hadn’t exactly done much except for trembling in fear.

“He instructed me to tell you that you will meet again soon.” Henry announced and then, before you even had a chance to respond, he turned on his heel, hopped back into the delivery van parked in front of the building and left. You only realised now that the Hyundai taxi was gone too.