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ittybittyfanblog · 1 month ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Epilogue

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and his lover :) That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, finally some fluff lol A/N: I missed writing for Error!! God, deliver me from the shackles of schoolwork and capitalism pls (I wanted this, I wanted this....) Enjoy! <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

“When I look at you, I can't believe it's true You're all I ever dreamed of, and you love me (And you love me) And you love me.”

The two of you are holding hands as you make your way to the new café that just opened on 6th Avenue, near Darlington Square, your fingers woven into his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’ve heard great things about the place, and not just the usual noise from clickbait-y blogs desperate for engagement, but from people who actually know what they’re talking about. The hipster types—the new-age purist fucks who claim they can taste the "notes of apricot and the warmth of an abuela’s love" in a single origin Santuário Sul pour-over, brewed with beans ethically scoured from the mystical depths of Carmo de Minas or whatever.

You think they’re full of shit. But for all their unbearable pretentiousness, they’ve never steered you wrong. So.

It still feels… unreal sometimes. Sylus, here, beside you. Present, in a way he never could have been before. In a way you two could only think of as a passing pipedream, not so long ago.

He’s here. Solid, tangible. And so, so warm.

His thumb traces soft circles against your knuckles, an absentminded caress that sends a shiver up your spine. He does that a lot—little touches here and there, like he’s committing the texture of your skin to memory. Like there’s still a part of him that can’t quite believe that you two exist in the same space now. In the same plane of existence.

And maybe you’re just as bad; sneaking glances at him whenever you could, half-expecting him to flicker out like a glitch in the system. Like some cruel error will right itself and erase him from this reality at any given moment, when you least expect it.

He never does.

He’s still with you. Always with you.

And day by day, the knot in your chest loosens; not all at once, but in slow, steady increments. Like frost clinging to the soles of your boots, melting under the first touch of spring. Day by day, the small voice in your head—the one that whispers warnings of borrowed time, of happiness slipping through your fingers—slows to a mum.

Not gone, not yet, but it's quieter. Fainter now. Sounding more and more like the lingering echoes of a bad dream.

(You hope that one day, when you look into Sylus’ fathomless grey eyes, the reflection staring back at you will be filled with certainty. Of this. Of him. Of what you have. Nothing else.)

And whenever reality hits you – and what a novel thing it is, that this is what you now consider reality – it steals the very breath from your lungs.

It’s an exhilarating kind of happiness; the way it makes you feel as if your heart's too big for your ribs, too much for your mortal body to contain. It spills over, bright and absurd—almost to a ludicrous degree, honestly.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. The utter magnitude of your bliss.

And he’s just as lost in this as you are—though you suspect he’s just a tad better at making it less obvious.

He never strays too far away from you. He stays close to your orbit, always within arm’s reach; his fingers brushing against yours when they can, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go. Your personal shadow.

It’s more than just physical proximity. There’s a gravity to him now, almost on a molecular level, like he’s in the very air you breathe. Inescapable, even if you tried.

(Not that you’d ever want to.)

Sometimes you think you’re not even consciously doing it, but when he moves, you move with him. You lean into him as if by instinct, finding the curve of his body and the spaces in between as though it was made just for you. It’s a rhythm that feels both thrilling and comforting, the kind of closeness that makes your heart thump a little faster; your cheeks a little redder.

“Sweetie.”

Sylus’ voice breaks through your thoughts. It settles over the buzzing noise in your mind, soothing as ever. As it always has.

Has it really been four months?

You still find yourself mesmerised by the way he’s easily integrated himself into your world. His world now, too. All six-foot-five (!) of him; impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and so naturally magnetic.

It’s in the way he carries himself—not unlike the way he’s always done, back when he was no more but your impossible, sentient character. That presence is still there, the one you always thought was larger than life. But it's slightly more subdued now, toned down into something less intimidating. Something less… exorbitant.

Something just for you.

And then there’s also the fact that he’s stupidly, ridiculously handsome.

It’s unfair, really. As if it weren’t already enough of a miracle that he’s here, real, flesh and blood, he had to step into this world looking just as breathtaking as his video game counterpart. And hey, maybe you’re a little biased, but you think the changes that came with his mortality only made him all the more perfect in your eyes.

Sure, you miss the silver hair from time to time. And occasionally, your brain still expects the sharp contrast of crimson when his gaze cuts to yours—only to be met with a monochromatic grey, deep and electrifying as a thundercloud in mid-July.

But then there’s everything else. The way his chest rises and falls under your palm, the steady heartbeat that lulls you to sleep at night. The way his hair sticks up in all the wrong places in the mornings, no physics engine rendering it down to a smooth perfection. The scratch of stubble when he steals kisses from you throughout the day, because body hair is a thing now (thank god).

The off-key singing when he’s taking a shower—

Oh. Nevermind.

The little imperfections that weren’t designed to be attractive but somehow make him even more so.

He isn’t all clean-cut lines anymore, no longer a carefully-crafted fantasy meant to appeal to an audience. There’s a rawness to him now, something that’s inexplicably human. He’s just some… guy.

Granted, an extremely hot guy, but still.

Just himself. Just Sylus.

And maybe… maybe, that’s what makes this version of him the most beautiful of all.

Because he’s yours. Completely and wholly yours.

“Sweetheart, we’re here.”

There’s laughter in his voice. You blink up at him, only to find that look in his eyes—amused and endearingly fond. You realize, a beat too late, that you’ve been spacing out for the last couple of minutes.

Sylus tips his chin toward the double doors a few metres away, and he feels the way you startle slightly.

You give him a sheepish smile. He merely chuckles, squeezing your hand in response.

He’s used to this, revels in this. The way your mind drifts so freely when your hand is in his. It’s not unlike the way you used to depend on him, back when his existence was confined to a screen.

But now, in this corporeal form, he can be more than a voice in your ear—do more than just watch from the sidelines.

He can pull you back when you get too close to the curb, for one. Tuck you into his side when the cold bites too sharply at your skin. He can prevent you from walking straight into oncoming traffic whenever you get too lost in your own head… because of course you would. Carefree thing that you are.

He likes seeing you at ease; so completely trusting of the man who, in the grand scheme of things, has only truly been here for a fraction of a year.

As if he’s always belonged by your side.

Oh, how he adores you.

He’d take care of you forever, if you let him. His little dove.

You two enter the café, and immediately, your eyes are drawn to the eclectic décor of the place. It’s almost like you’ve entered a fever dream—or what you can only describe as a frankensteined aquarium.

Circular faux windows line the stone-clad walls, imitating a sort of subterranean oceanic sanctum, drowning the space with an atmospheric blue. There are hanging lamps reminiscent of jellyfish floating at sea, casting vivid hues of bioluminescent purples and pinks across the room; the mix of colours gives off the illusion of something sunken, almost psychedelic. An abundance of plants of varying sizes can also be seen at every corner, from the creeping ivies to the potted lilies, as if they’ve simply sprouted into existence.

The main kicker, though, is that – aside from the predominantly nautical motif – the owner seems to have a strange fondness for… the cabaret?

Framed photographs of harlequin girls wink from gilded edges, and there’s a signage in cabochon lettering that looks like it belongs outside a burlesque theater rather than in here. It spells out a cryptic phrase in a swirling font, in a language you don’t recognize.

You’re still trying to process the visuals of it all when you register the familiar notes of Paradise Circus filtering in through the speakers.

…They’re committed, you’ll give them that.

"Woah," you can’t help but say, momentarily disoriented by the overwhelming interior of the unassuming—or at least, from the outside—café. "This is… definitely something."

Sylus glances around, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting a full immersion," he remarks dryly. "I was wondering what all the fuss was about. Glad to see they didn’t oversell it."

You snort. “I hope good coffee is part of the experience.”

You both amble toward the counter, third in line behind a girl with a bob cut who’s swaying to the music in a pair of silver bell-bottoms, and a shorter fellow wearing a flatcap and trench coat like he’s on the damned set of Peaky Blinders.

Clearing your throat, you quickly glance up at Sylus—just to see him watching you with a knowing look, an eyebrow arched.

You roll your eyes, pressing your lips to suppress a smile. Judgemental little shit.

"It’s possible we missed a dress code somewhere," he says drolly.

“Shh,” you hiss at him, trying to keep your voice low—or as low as you can manage—trying your hardest not to laugh. “You’re wearing leather pants. You don’t exactly have the fashion high ground here.”

Sylus pinches your side in retaliation, and you swat his hand away.

Tommy Shelb—rather, the cap wearing twenty-year-old-something dude—gives the two of you the stink eye, clearly unimpressed by your not-so-quiet banter. You can’t help but think that maybe he’s the type to take himself a little too seriously.

After a few minutes, you two are next in line.

You’re looking up at the hanging menu—an aged wooden board with elegant yet slightly smudged calligraphy, suspended by fibre twine that gives it a rustic feel without making it look too tacky. Your eyes skim past the more familiar offerings before landing on something called The Drowned Saint.

It’s intriguing. You’re intrigued.

Why not?

“Ready to order?” an easygoing voice asks, prompting you to tear your gaze away from the menu.

The barista in front of you is tall, with large, square glasses that sit slightly crooked on his nose, like they’ve been knocked askew one too many times. It gives him a friendly, bookish vibe, the kind of charm that might fool you into a sense of security… if not for the sly look in his eyes.

Something that spells mischief.

“Oh, hi—yeah, can I get The Drowned Saint? Just, uh, a regular.” You say, glancing down at the silver name tag pinned to his shirt.

… Red. Does everybody in this establishment need to have a certain degree of quirky to them...?

“–-and a strawberry muffin, too.”

“And for you?” The dark-haired man seems to size Sylus up, his gaze sharpening with something you can’t put a name to. “Sir?”

There’s a pause. It makes you peek up at Sylus, and you’re surprised to see the same look of quiet consideration on his face.

You shift your weight awkwardly, glancing between the two men. Um.

Finally, Sylus lists his order in a measured tone. Red hums noncommittally, grabbing a paperboard cup from the stack behind the counter.

"Alrighty, and can I get a name for that?”

“... Silas.”

A snort; followed by a barely-restrained cough.

Your brows lift. Okay. What’s this guy’s damage?

“Riiight, so do you spell that with an ‘I’?” There’s a deliberate smirk playing on Red’s lips. “Or maybe a ‘Y’? Sorry, still getting the hang of–” he makes a vague gesture with his fingers, “all this.”

You squint, getting a little annoyed by the whole ‘cool guy’ act. Fucking hipsters, man. “Look, it’s not that complicated. It’s S-I-L–”

You feel the light press of Sylus’ palm at the small of your back—a silent reassurance while he cuts in, unperturbed. “It’s alright, sweetie,” he murmurs by your ear.

Then, without looking away from the irritating barista, he languidly pulls out his wallet. There’s something almost amused in the way his brow lifts, the barest flicker of challenge. “Write it however you want.”

Red, looking unruffled for the most part, is already jotting something down on the cup. There’s no visible reaction; just that same ever-present ghost of a smile, which you’re starting to find… kind of weird, to be honest.

After paying, both of you move to the side, settling into the wait. You narrow your eyes at the flamboyant man who's busy humming something upbeat under his breath as he moves effortlessly behind the counter. Steam rises in the air while he works the espresso machine like he’s done it a thousand times before.

You wouldn’t be surprised if he started twirling a milk frothing pitcher mid-pour, like a performer in some kind of latte circus act. He seems like the type.

Finally, Red pings a tiny brass bell by the pick-up area, the tinkling chime almost mocking. “Order up,” he calls out, flashing the two of you a toothy grin. “Enjoy, lovebirds.”

Sylus scoffs, unimpressed. He doesn’t respond—just picks up the tray in one smooth motion, nudging you toward an empty table near the centre of the room, right below a floating indigo anemone.

He pulls out a chair, and you drop into it with a huff. “The fuck was that guy’s deal?”

He takes his seat across from you, unbothered. To your surprise, instead of the ire you expected to be written on his face, he looks more fascinated than anything.

He studies you, eyes flickering with something you can’t put your finger on.

“Does he remind you of anyone?”

You frown. The question throws you. “Huh?” Your brows knit together, head cocking sideways in confusion. “Wait—you know him?”

He gives you an indulgent smile, but doesn’t say anything. He picks up his cup, gaze dropping briefly as he turns it in his hand.

Do you know him?

Sylus watches you, patient, the faintest curl of his mouth betraying nothing as you mull it over. It’s as if he’s waiting, trusting you’ll make the connection yourself without his help. But how would you know the owner of a newly-opened café—if he even is the owner? (He sure carries himself like he owns the place.)

You wrack your brain, trying to pin him down. Where else would you know a roughly six-foot-tall guy with dark, wavy hair and shifty-looking eyes the color of a dead aubergine?

He’s certainly… a character. And he doesn’t pass off as local—maybe foreign, or at least mixed—so should be easily recognizable, right?

Yet, for some damning reason, nothing’s clicking.

It’s in the way he acts too, you think. The easy arrogance, the look of mirth lingering in his expression, as if he’s in on some inside joke you’re not privy to. It’s nagging at you, like an itch in the back of your brain. You’ve seen him before, right?

You’re pretty sure you have… but for the life of you, you can’t figure out where.

“I mean, like, he does look kind of familia—” Wait.

Oceanic décor. Dark irises that glint into a near-violet hue under the dim, overhead lights.

Red.

Reddie.

The realisation hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Wha—no.” You spin your head around so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

And as if he’s already expecting it, Rafayel meets your wide eyes.

He gives you a wink.

Holy fucking shit.

“So he found a way out, as well,” Sylus muses, his large hand comically dwarfing the coffee that he’s back to examining. When he meets your stunned gaze, he casually flips the cup around, revealing the name scribbled on the sleeve.

‘Sylus’

And just right below: ‘still got here first lol ;)’

You let out a sharp exhale, the dots starting to connect in your head. “Did you know?” Your voice pitching higher than you intended, brows scrunched up as you look at the calm man in front of you—the nonchalance to your overreaction. “Is that why you wanted to come here?”

He picks up your strawberry muffin, tapping the excess crumbs off the edge of the plate. “I had my suspicions,” he admits, cupping a hand beneath the pastry, angling the muffin closer to your face. “Ahh, baby.”

With no small amount of frustration, you take a bite, your eyebrows still furrowed as you chew. The flavors don’t even register on your tongue as you try to wrap your head around this… unexpected development.

Of course, that’s putting it lightly—inside you’re freaking out. What does this mean? When did this happen? Two of them now?

Are you losing it? Again??

It’s too much to process in one go. You’ve just come to terms with your very own freak of nature, thank you very much.

Sylus tuts gently, dabbing a napkin at the corner of your lips. "No need to stress over it, my love," he rubs his thumb on your lower lip to draw your focus back to him. The corners of his mouth curl into a small smirk when he sees you nibble on it absentmindedly. "Careful now."

Suddenly, your ears pick up a voice calling out, “Raf!” from behind, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see someone step out from the small kitchenette.

They’re wearing a navy blue apron over a glittery top, carrying a square pan of what looks to be a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls.

On the taller side, standing only a couple of inches shorter than Rafayel, sporting a silver nose ring. Their hair is in a split-dye, parted down the middle, and styled into intricately braided space buns—likely a labor of love from the man himself.

“Ah, that must be his partner,” Sylus notes idly.

Rafayel reaches for the tray with all the confidence of someone who has absolutely no plan beyond offloading the weight from their lover’s hands. His partner, quicker and clearly wiser, snatches it away at the last second with a knowing look. "Cutie, I was about to get that," he whines in protest, lips forming a pout.

"And yet here I am, actually getting it," they reply dryly, maneuvering the steaming buns out of his reach.

Undeterred, he makes another attempt; only for them to sidestep, holding the tray higher like a seasoned veteran at dealing with his antics.

Rafayel huffs but refuses to back down, making for another grab. This time, faster.

He gets his fingers around the edge of the baking tray—only to hiss in pain and immediately jerk back. "Just let me– ow, fuck, hot!"

His partner gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "You don’t say."

"You could’ve warned me," he accuses, shaking out his hand with all the theatrics of a man in peril.

"I did. With common sense," they deadpan, but you detect a hint of laughter beneath the monotone.

That earns a full-blown scowl, but it’s betrayed by the way his eyes soften—something unmistakably fond in the way he watches them, as if their amusement alone makes the now-forgotten burn worth it.

You don’t miss the subtle shift in his posture; the way his shoulders loosens, the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s biting back the urge to grin.

After a few more playful back-and-forths (one of which involves Rafayel attempting a truly ridiculous reach-around that gets his wrist lightly smacked in retaliation), they finally place the cinnamon rolls into the glass display, arranging them alongside the rest of the baked goods.

It’s the ease between them that sticks with you. The way he casually fixes the strap of their apron, how they don’t even flinch when he brushes a stray crumb from their cheek.

It’s an old, familiar rhythm—one that speaks of something long-established. The kind of comfort built over time. Like it's already habit.

It makes you smile.

(In your periphery, you catch Sylus smiling, too.)

You exhale a long sigh, sinking back into your chair, only now noticing the weight you’d been carrying—the one you hadn’t even realized was there—finally lifting off your chest.

Questions swirl in your mind, most of them aimed at the busy couple manning the counter. The hows and whens. The adjustment period. The hardships.

And, honestly? Just the need to have someone to freak out with and scream say, Can you actually believe this?

… But you suppose it can wait. There will be time for questions, for stories, for untangling the mysteries of it all.

For now, you’re just going to enjoy a normal weekend afternoon with your very normal boyfriend.

After all, they’re not going anywhere. Nor will the two of you.

- -

An errant thought pops into your head.

Before you can stop it, your mouth blurts out: “You think Xavier’s ever gonna come out of the game, too?”

A beat.

Sylus freezes for a split-second before his gaze locks onto you, wry and amused—like he’s debating whether he heard you right.

You get the bad, bad feeling that you’ve made a mistake somewhere.

He lets out a low, throaty chuckle. “Xavier, huh?” he muses, almost patronizingly, eyes alight with an intensity that makes you squirm in your seat.

The nervous little action doesn’t escape his notice.

“Look at the time, kitten.” His voice drops an octave, deceptively calm and even, but there’s an undercurrent to it that has you squeezing your thighs together. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough. Don’t you?”

Uh-oh.

End A/N: Ok, so I’m a big, fat liar who lied about not including anything about the silly lil fishman ≽^-⩊¬^≼ I’m anal about spoilers if you haven’t noticed.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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lay-z · 3 months ago

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barbed-wire kisses | 1

Synopsis: Soap, the SAS and 141's most prized explosives detection hybrid and demolitions expert, gets a new handler.

Pairing: hybrid!John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x fem!handler!Reader Warnings/Info: 18+ | Soap is a purebred German Shepherd hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adopted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | enemies strangers to lovers; forbidden love; angst; hurt/comfort; heavy smut; eventual romance; canon-typical violence; military inaccuracies; dom/sub elements; forced submission; cussing; humour (Please mind the warnings for each chapter!)

Based on this idea 🩶

Big thanks to my bestie @bloodytalefeathers for helping me handling our boy Soap 🐶

It’s always a rather impersonal affair as a hybrid serving in the military–getting a new handler assigned and vice versa.

John sniffs you out, of course, before Captain Price even has the chance to properly introduce you. When the Sergeant is given your file along with the handlership documents on a random Wednesday in February–the ones you’ve already signed a few weeks prior–he gets one deep whiff of your musk still lingering on the paper and starts prowling the base on the lookout for his new target.

Despite the many familiar, surrounding scents among the different smells announcing the beginning of spring, it doesn’t take too long for a specimen like him to pick up on and find you on the large military base, letting the winds do most of the work for him.

He's just way too good at his job, and his little self-imposed challenge leaves his chest puffing with pride and the blood in his veins buzzing with an odd eagerness to meet you once he finally spots you among the large crowd of soldiers on the training grounds.

John decides to skip his lunchbreak and watch you instead. He takes a seat on a well-positioned bench with a good view of the field where you’re currently going through drills with a platoon that you’re serving as their temporary CO. His tail swishes lazily against the wooden planks of the bench, pushing off some dry leaves that gathered there.

He’s read about you, knows that you’ve just come back from a five-month overseas deployment in Al Mazrah–supporting their local forces with the training of the serving hybrids, among other duties.

John can see it in the tension you carry in your neck and shoulders, in the way you keep checking your surroundings while you give orders to your soldiers, and with the dark circles under your eyes–all of it speaks volumes of how well you’ve adjusted to living on base again so far, and, boy, does it look bad.

On top of that, you’ve just been transferred to Hereford from your previous base and task force–after getting your new orders while you were still deployed–so you must be twice as stressed and thrice as vexed about this whole new arrangement you’re finding yourself in right now, thanks to the brass. He also knows that you’ve already moved and settled into your new place close to the barracks. Close to where he lives, too.

Fucking brilliant, John thinks, and his large furry ears twitch as he grins wickedly. It’ll be more than easy to get rid of you if you’re already feeling this worn out; perhaps even easier than it went with the previous handlers he’s had since boot camp.

None of them ever made it past the six-month mark before they were transferred again due to their incompetence, though none of the higher-ups has ever admitted fault and called it what it is.

No, it’s always just been ‘Soap being a bloody handful’, slippery and clever as he simply happens to be, and yet the brass still keeps refusing him that exceptional permission which would finally grand him freedom–the freedom to operate without a handler on, and to a certain degree, off duty.

He is a canine hybrid, yes, and his nature might make him extraordinary, aye, but he’s not a fucking toddler in need of assistance and guidance 24/7. It’s bad enough that his rank as Sergeant can easily be outranked by a human subordinate simply because he happens to be a hybrid.

His thought process is disturbed by the crunching of boots on the gravelly road leading up to his makeshift recon spot, when a group of soldiers walks up the rolling hill to have a smoke break.

Scrunching up his sensitive nose at the stench of cigarettes despite being used to the smell, John gives up his seat for the group, straightening his shoulders with a curt nod at them before he makes his way back to HQ.

There’s a meeting he needs to prepare for after all.

A few hours later, the briefing room clears again when everyone claims to not have any questions left to simply get it over with.

“Right,” Price utters roughly. “I’ll leave you two to it then. Lieutenant,” he gives you a curt nod and John has to suppress a smirk when the Captain shoots him a glare as soon as his back is turned towards you. “Soap.” And John can hear the stern warning underlying Price’s voice before the latter leaves the briefing room and shuts the door behind him with finality and a raging ball of concern lodged in his guts.

And even though Price has left, and took his commanding aura right with him, the room feels even smaller and stuffy now with only you and John, standing across from each other like it’s a Mexican Standoff.

While John lets his eyes roam freely, assessing you thoroughly and searching for weaknesses, you simply keep your sharp eyes trained on his with a kind of effortlessness that is slowly making the fur on his tail bristle–up, up, up his spine until it tickles his neck and makes his ears twitch involuntarily.

Your hands are firmly clasped behind your back, your stance relaxed as your hip leans against the table behind you; keeping your whole front exposed and vulnerable while you’re oozing nonchalance and confidence with no trace left of all that tension and fatigue he’d noticed earlier when he was watching you train with your platoon.

You almost look… bored now that you’re finally alone with him, and John doesn’t quite know what to make of this reaction.

His thick brows furrow and he caves, despising the tense silence already. “Ye not gonna say nothin’, lass?”

Suddenly, your lips twitch into a humourless half-smile. “That’s still ‘Lieutenant’ to you, Sergeant,” you reply coolly. “We’re no friends yet.”

“Right,” he half-snorts, half-huffs in response. “Well, ‘am lookin’ forward ta workin’ with ye, ma’am.” If you’re just a wee bit clever, you could easily pick up on the sarcasm in his words, and judging by the way your eyebrow twitches, you can. His tail swishes proudly in response, and then John mirrors your stance; clasping his hands behind his back before rolling his broad shoulders and straightening up to his full height.

“Oh, are you now?” It’s a rhetorical question, and John finds the way you tilt your head to the side like a wee pup utterly adorable, along with the fact that he’s taller than you, forcing you to crane your neck if you want to maintain eye-contact with him despite the thick-soled combat boots you’re wearing.

“Well, in that case–” You bring your arms forward suddenly, clutching a black collar in your hand; brand new and personalized, the scent of its full-grain leather still fresh and thick in the air. His eyes zero in on your name and rank stitched into it, along with your emergency contact and military ID number. “May I?”

John’s tail stills, bright eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at the collar and processes the implication behind your words. He doesn’t get collared like this, no; usually grabs the damn mandatory thing and puts it on himself to get it over with.

“Ye insistin’ to put it on me, la–Lieutenant?”

You simply stare up at him with those unimpressed, gorgeous eyes – eyes that have seen as much, perhaps even more, horrific crap he has in combat–and his heart starts jumping in his chest in return. “You tell me, Sergeant. You wanna be a difficult pup?”

He swallows hard, clenching his teeth and wrinkling his nose at the raw condescension in your voice. Aye, he wants to make this difficult, wants to get rid of you already and let everyone know that he doesn’t need a handler–doesn’t need you–and yet he can only shake his head slowly while you stand before him so confidently, triggering his natural urge to please, to submit to a leader.

None of your predecessors ever made him feel quite like–this–so effortlessly. They always tried to force it yet never succeeded.

Almost subconsciously, John steps forward, towering over you though you still don’t move a muscle before he leans down, bracing his palms on the table you’re leaning against, now practically bracketing you in. “Go ahead, then,” he hums roughly, lowering his gaze to hide the way his pupils are dilating while his skin begins to prickle at the sudden close proximity to you.

As you unclasp the collar to bring it up to his neck, he gets a real whiff of your scent and nearly groans; an all-natural concoction of female pheromones, sweat and skin hidden underneath a layer of artificial peach-scented body wash and deodorant. His mouth starts salivating and he gulps it down harshly, fingers twitching against the table as you fasten the collar around his neck.

“Atta boy,” you mutter and your warm breath puffs against his rapidly flushing skin, making his pulse jump in his neck. His dog ears twitch as he leans in closer until his nose nearly brushes against your shoulder and he exhales a shuddering breath as the collar finally wraps around his throat.

“Need it a wee bit tighter, ma’am,” he rumbles and his breath hitches as you oblige; he swallows thickly, barely able to, while the leather creaks and tightens, pressing against his Adam’s apple snugly. You fasten it with nimble fingers, leaving goosebumps in their wake and his pulse sky-rockets at once. “Aye… perfect,” he breathes, almost panting now, his voice strained while another tingle runs down his spine that has warmth pooling between his thighs, and his cock chuffing in his boxers with interest.

An unexpected chuckle makes his eyes flicker up to meet yours again. “I see how it is, Sergeant,” you muse, a hint of a smile playing on your lips that makes him smirk boyishly in return.

Then, your index finger hooks through the metal loop for his leash, and another gentle tug makes his heart flutter and his chest rumble with a playful growl.

“Well then, let’s get to fucking work, MacTavish.”

And it’s the firmness in your words or the pure determination twinkling in your eyes that leaves John’s tail wagging.

Perhaps both.

#barbed-wire kisses #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #call of duty #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cod hybrid au #hybrid au #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x you #soap mactavish x you

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lvmimis · 21 days ago

Text

cw: fluff? reader has described magic.

“It should have been Eva, you know.”

Nero is almost surprised by the sound of your voice, piping up suddenly after nearly a half hour of silence, where you followed him close as he trudged forward despite the fact that you are supposed to lead, as you are the one with the sought after ability.

Now that you’ve made it through the corridors that lead to the underground lab, the two of you have paused, separating even further as you wandered off to peruse the ruins and he found himself unsure of what to do next. Nero had possibly resigned himself not to speak until you did, perhaps still smarted by your irritation with him (only partially fabricated), and found himself perched against a wall, waiting for… he’s not sure what exactly. But right now, he’s not much more than a bodyguard, and you seemed to need a few more moments before deciding how to best approach the task at hand.

So when you spoke suddenly, he found his heart skipping a beat

He didn’t expect you to bring up his grandmother.

Hearing her name, in this new context, is often still so discombobulating to him. When he thinks of family, he thinks of Kyrie, of Credo, of his adoptive parents - lately of Dante.

Yet it’s hard for him to think of Eva in anything more than a somewhat religious feature, and even in that setting, she’s shrouded in mystery.

But Eva is Dante’s mother, and his grandmother, and Eva’s blood runs through him, with just as much gravity as Sparda does. The bulk of his humanity springs forth first from her.

“What about her?” he asks, gruffly. He pretends no longer to be interested in anything you say, but the truth is, for some odd reason, he’s always liked the sound of your voice. Ever since you first addressed him years ago - there’s something in your eyes and the way your lips move and the way your voice rises and falls and rushes too quickly, sometimes too slow, as if the thoughts in your head and the twists of your tongue are never exactly in sync. He finds himself wondering what you’ll say next, if only it could be kind when it came to him.

When he tosses his head in your direction, you’re not returning his glance at all - rather, your fingers are lightly tracing a dusty textbook. He wouldn’t know it just by looking but you’re looking for a trace of demon or angel influence, the aura of those primordial beings far too powerful to fade or ignore. You’re not as gifted a sensor as your mentor, and will never be, but she’s taught you a few tricks that can help sometimes.

There’s nothing there. You continue to muse.

“We worshipped Sparda like a god, but it should have been Eva. Eva is who reached out her hand first.”

Nero watches you as you smile to yourself, then look around the room. You’ve lost interest in the book, and now are prodding at a few clumps of rubble with the tip of your boot.

He’s not here to waste time.

Nero pushes off from his leaned position against the wall to stand, but you speak again and unwittingly he stops in his tracks.

“I wonder if when she first met him she was afraid.”

Nero feels like the appropriate thing to do is to roll his eyes and tell you to hurry up, but he’s curious too for a moment. He was raised to hate demons, he feared being found out as anything close to one for so long, but Eva must have immediately sought humanity in Sparda who was nothing but that. A demon.

“It probably doesn’t matter either way,” he points out. You look at him, but instead you’re smiling instead of scowling, a dreamy look in your eye. “It didn’t stop her from…” he pauses. “You know.” He gestures vaguely with a turn of his hand.

You laugh, and he’s actually surprised that you found him funny.

“That’s true. But the reason why I think it should have been her is because her love is what led to the very salvation we prayed for.”

Nero watches you. He’s surprised you can even talk about love fondly.

“Love that humanizes,” you murmur in continuation.

How has he ended up in a room with a woman who hates him, now proselytizing about love?

Nero runs his hand through his snowy hair, visibly frustrated. “Do you want to hurry up and find this portal or…?”

He looks at you and you’ve stopped smiling, a faraway look in your eye.

“I suppose ___ is Dante’s Eva,” you murmur. You’ve started to move, and you’re now looking again, on task.

Nero moves a little closer, deciding somehow if he helps you along, you’ll be able to leave quicker. “I can see that,” he admits.

“And your Eva would be Kyrie,” you say and he pauses.

That’s not- he wants to say, but he doesn’t really know how to argue for or against. He loves Kyrie. She’s the most important woman in his life, without question. You look at him for a little bit too long, and he can feel an uneasiness in his chest, a pressure building he cannot so easily disperse.

“Maybe,” he decides. Cutting his losses with an unnecessarily uncertain answer.

Admitting that his childhood friend he loves dearly has that sort of immense pull over him feels suddenly uncomfortable to do in your presence. Sparda turned against his own kin for Eva. Nero would do anything for Kyrie, he’s sure of it. But as he looks back at you, he feels as though the confirmation cannot come out of his mouth, not at this very instant.

You’re looking away from him again, and he hates that.

Why oh why does your lack of attention upset him so?

“I’ve dreamt of having my own Sparda,” you muse. Your hand passes against a sunken bookshelf, then lingers. The portal must be here.

“Does my grandfather have to be involved in your romantic fantasies?” Nero tries desperately to crack a joke, but it falls flat. His ears grow hot as you look at him suddenly, your face blank.

“You’re right, maybe I need a different way to describe it.” You say, simply, even though he expects you to get upset, to retaliate and receives nothing of the sort in return.

If this room suddenly became overrun with demons, Nero could hack and slash his way out easily. But it’s just you, and thus, he has to live with the warm sensation creeping up his neck.

You sigh. “I’ll shut up.”

“I wasn’t asking you to.” Nero says but he trails off.

You laugh to yourself. “I’m talking to you like you’re one of my girlfriends. I must be bored.”

You place your hand on the glowing center of the portal you’ve located. Your eyes close, and you feel warmth on the runes tattooed onto your wrists.

“I don’t have to be one of your girlfriends, but I can be a friend.”

Magic glows from your wrist to your palm as you concentrate. Your eyes furrow, squeezed shut tight as you concentrate.

The way you use magic, the way you pour yourself into it, is not unlike Kyrie’s singing, Nero thinks. For a moment, he wonders if you are able to sing, if you’ve ever tried to carry a tune.

The portal closes, and your eyes shoot open. Nero quickly finds something else to look at.

“I think we’re done,” you murmur. There’s a softness to your lids that suggests fatigue, but you’re still steady on your feet. Slower to move, and Nero wonders how he could offer you a lean on his shoulder. Carrying you would not be hard, but he knows you would object to being so close to him.

You don’t talk anymore. Not about Eva and Sparda, or about Dante and your mentor, or about him or Kyrie, or your version of Sparda that you haven’t met yet -

Someone who you’d be allowed to love so much it would be a sanctifying force.

“Hey.” Nero takes a few quick steps to overtake your fast pace and step a little ahead of you, not unlike earlier.

“Walk slower, okay?” He shakes his head, as if annoyed. “And stay close, there could still be demons prowling.”

You’re too exhausted from using your magic to argue with him.

“Sure.”

He walks slower deliberately but as he anticipated, it doesn’t take long for you to suddenly find yourself lightheaded.

“I… I don’t think I can…” Your head spins. By the time he turns, you’ve already fallen into his arms and he’s just in time, ready to catch you.

—

Your weight is different in his arms than Kyrie’s is, the distribution less familiar. You smell different, like something it feels too sinful of him to parse out and describe, and even the soft way you snore, fast asleep almost instantly, is different. It occurs to Nero that he hasn’t held very many people in his life, not like this.

You’re easy to carry, physical strength aside, and in just moments, he has almost forgotten that he’s holding you when his mind wanders.

How did Sparda know Eva was the one? Had he ever loved anyone else? Had he loved before?

If only you had spared him all the romance talk, it wouldn’t make this situation so very awkward. Kyrie would kill him if he saw the way he holds you right now, like a princess, carefully, tenderly. Perhaps he could shift you so that you’re no more special than a backpack.

But that feels wrong and untrue.

He doesn’t know when this desire for you to like him came to be, but he can’t shake it. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something that you aren’t allowing him to know, that you are supposed to mean more to each other than this strained relationship. Otherwise, why do you feel at home cradled in his arms?

Eva probably never saw Sparda as a threat from the very first time she laid eyes on him. She loved him from the start. And Sparda always protected her and the home and the city she loved.

Their love was easy and natural, not a single obstacle in their way. No false starts or missteps or bickering back and forth.

Yet, despite all that, where are either of them now?

Nero doesn’t realize he’s close to the front of the castle until Dante is raising his eyebrow at him.

“So what were you two up to?”

The uptick in his voice is playful and Nero ignores it.

If he’s carried you today, he should remember to carry Kyrie twice as long. Your mentor rushes quickly to check on you, relieved that you’re still bleeding and believing Nero’s account that you’re just fatigued.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” she offers.

Nero shrugs.

“Does this happen often?”

“Not as much as you’d expect.”

—

The car ride back is shorter than Nero wants. You rest your head precariously on Nero’s shoulder, rising only once to look in his eyes without recognition. His heart pounds until you place it again and fall back asleep.

Did Sparda get butterflies?

When you murmur thank you ten minutes later, he is sure he did.

#nero x reader #nero sparda x reader #mimi's notes #daydreams: dmc #devil may cry x reader

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yelenaslyubov · 8 days ago

Text

Something In The Air

main masterlist || yelena belova || requests

requested by yelenabelovasbxtch

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ pairing: yelena belova x female reader

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ warnings: MINORS DNI (18+) smut- reader receiving, strap on, praise kink, slight degradation, begging, choking, language, smoking

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ description: you spend your morning enjoying the first spring day in NYC when the woman you have had your eye on from across the street joins you for the day.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ word count: 3k

The rhythmic sound of your boots against the concrete pathway filled your ears, along with the joyful screams of children. It was the first sunny day of springtime in New York City and there were hundreds of people crowding Central Park with their picnic blankets, kites, and friends. There was something magical about the sun and how everyone reacted when it awoke from its slumber.

You breathed deeply and exhaled as the sun hit your skin. The rays began to warm your skin, realizing that you wouldn’t need your wool coat much longer. You were close to your destination where you planned on enjoying the first nice day by having a cup of coffee and reading a book.

The corner cafe was painted a beautiful green that matched the florals growing from above. You requested your usual order this time of year, along with a lemon loaf as an added treat. You brought your loaf and lavender latte outside to a small table on the street. You made yourself comfortable and sat down for a morning of relaxation.

Between the distractions of dogs passing by that you couldn’t pass up petting and the excitement in the air, you were able to finish half of your loaf and your coffee. You were around fifty pages into your book before a strange energy commanded you to pause. It felt as if someone was watching and observing your every move.

Though it was New York City and there were hundreds of people surrounding you at all times, it felt different. You looked around the cafe first, trying to pick up on any odd behavior. You looked across the other street corner where a different restaurant resided and saw a woman outside.

She was dressed in all black and wore sunglasses to shade her eyes from the heat. Even with her glasses, she was unmistakably staring straight at you. She locked eyes in your direction as she blew out a puff of smoke.

This wasn’t the first time you had seen the woman, but it was the first time she had been so forward. Maybe it was the sun making everyone act up, but you could feel her connection from across the street.

You tried to refocus yourself from the distraction, opening your book back up and reading where you left off. It was easy to get back in the swing for a few moments, but that was until a voice made you sit up.

“Good book?”

You looked up to see the woman in black standing in front of you. Not only was she much more attractive up close, but she had a strong accent that made your heart beat a little faster.

“Uhm, yeah, so far. I just started it.”

She nodded smugly. “Good because the second is even better.” You couldn’t help but let a small laugh escape from your mouth. “Mind if I sit?”

The right words couldn’t find you, so you gestured to the seat across from you, instructing her to sit down. She did so quickly, sitting and crossing her legs before pulling her sunglasses up on top of her head.

“I’m Yelena, and you are?”

Her confidence unsteadied you. It was not so often that you felt so strongly towards someone so quickly, which made your impending conversation more nerve wracking.

“I’m y/n.”

Yelena nodded while studying you. It was as if she was taking note of every small feature that you showcased. She was mentally writing everything down so she didn’t forget.

“Do you live around here?” she asked.

“Yeah, I live in the area. What about you?”

“Sometimes,” she smirked. You weren’t exactly sure how to interpret her response since she wasn’t giving you much to go off of. “What are you doing here all by yourself on a day like today?”

“A day like today?”

“The sun is out and everyone is with someone.”

“Must be something in the air, but I could say the same about you,” you smirked.

Yelena crossed her arms and smiled. “Fair enough. I guess that means I get to be your somebody today.”

Luckily, the heat warmed your cheeks enough to where Yelena couldn’t tell what was heat or embarrassment. “Seems like it.”

You were fully convinced that the weather had completely messed with your sense of reason as you began to have filthy thoughts over a woman you had just met. Though that wasn’t fully true. You had seen the woman before— several times actually. This was only the first time you had seen her up close and personal.

The idea that Yelena had also seen you from afar multiple times was thrilling. There was a familiarity to Yelena that made you just comfortable enough to ask her a very forward question.

“If you’re not doing anything, care for a drink? My place is a few blocks away.”

Yelena smirked as if she had been waiting for you to pop the question. “Sounds perfect.”

The walk went quickly with someone else by your side, especially when it was Yelena’s banter that kept you preoccupied. The sound of her voice was drowned out occasionally by your own thoughts, flashing in your mind like manifestations for the future.

You both made it to your apartment building in no time, climbing up the stairs before reaching your door. You fumbled awkwardly with your keys while Yelena stood behind you, looking back and forth down the hallway. The door opened with a squeak as you held it open for Yelena. She walked through before you shut the door behind you and locked it.

“You can put your things down here if you would-”

Before you could fully close the door, Yelena did the honors by slamming your back against it. Yelena dropped her things to the floor before grabbing your face and recklessly kissing you.

You couldn’t say you were completely surprised. Yelena had been making eyes at you from across the table, but you didn’t expect things to escalate this quickly.

Your body shivered from the feeling of her cold rings gliding across your skin. There wasn’t a place that was untouched by her hands.

In this short time you quickly understood Yelena’s force. She led with passion and power, which seemed to translate into every part of her life. Her grip on your hips could have made you wince in pain if it wasn’t for how aroused you were.

You almost lost your breath when Yelena kicked your foot off to the side to gain more access between your legs. Without missing a beat, her toned thigh shoved its way between your legs and upwards, pressing against your center.

You were having a hard time keeping your composure and Yelena could see that. “Come on, I know you want to,” she whispered.

Her words were dripping with dominance. You knew she wanted to see you whining and begging for it.

You did exactly as she wanted. You let yourself go, grinding your hips against her leg and silently begging for more friction. One of her hands situated itself on the curve of your lower back, guiding your movements.

“That’s it, just like that,” she spoke.

Your head hit the door with a thud from the force of it being sent back. Your chest was rising and falling at an increasing rate, and even more so as Yelena began unbuttoning your blouse one by one. She tore it open and sank her teeth into the soft flesh beneath it.

She kissed and licked above the lace that covered your breasts. You so desperately wanted everything off of you, but Yelena was more than content to have her way with you against the front door.

You tried to indicate your impatience by pulling away and leading her towards your bedroom, but Yelena was frozen in place.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Yelena said through gritted teeth.

“I thought things might be…easier in the bedroom?” you spoke while catching your breath.

“Oh, baby,” she said in such a way that sounded both condescending and enduring. “There’s nothing that can be done in there that I can’t do right here.”

You let a breathless chuckle slip before trying everything you could at matching her level. “I can think of one thing,” you smirked.

She finally got the hint and led the two of you into the bedroom while each of you stripped down to almost nothing. There were brief moments in which your lips disconnected, but you stayed flush against each other.

The back of your knees hit the bed quickly causing you to gracefully fall onto the bed. You reached for your bedside drawer, throwing the contents from inside towards Yelena. She made quick work of sliding the garment on while you adjusted yourself on the bed.

Yelena towered over you, staring down at your bare frame as if she had no shame in the gesture. Your face reddened the longer she stared and you slowly started to close your legs to try and hide some part of you that you could.

Yelena forced your leg outward without hesitation. “No,” she said, almost like a command. “Do you know how long I have been waiting to take you like this?”

A shiver ran down your spine, turning your skin cold and your brain fuzzy. You never thought there was a moment that Yelena had actually been paying attention to the distant looks from across the street. And you never thought in a million lifetimes this moment would be something that the woman would crave.

Before you could question any further, you reached for Yelena’s face and pulled her in close. You couldn’t wait another minute without so much as a small touch from her.

You tugged on her short hair, creating small whimpers that traveled from Yelena to your mouth. Coffee and tobacco had never tasted so good as the flavor lingered on Yelena’s tongue.

With every movement Yelena made, the tip of the strap kissed your cunt teasingly. She made it so hard to wait patiently when everything she was doing made your body react in the best ways.

Yelena kissed you harder and longer as a diversion to slowly sink the strap into you when you least expected it. You grabbed her shoulders suddenly and moaned at the feeling of taking all of her in. Yelena leaned farther over you to gain better access, which you used to your advantage. Your teeth grazed the curve of her neck and with every movement you bit down on Yelena’s skin.

You could taste the expensive cologne that coated her skin and blended so perfectly with her natural scent. She was practically a drug you found yourself lost in with each passing moment.

Yelena’s hips moved faster now, moving in and out of you with precision. Your hands traveled from her shoulders to her lower back. You placed your hands on Yelena’s ass, pushing her forward each time. While touching her you must have lost consciousness of yourself, your legs absentmindedly closing.

Yelena stopped, leaving you whining. That was nothing compared to the sight of Yelena using her knees to stretch your legs further apart. “What did I say about closing those pretty legs of yours, hmm?”

You would do anything to appease Yelena in these fleeting moments. You gave yourself to her so she could use you however she pleased.

Your legs were opened as wide as they could be while Yelena buried the strap deeper inside your pussy. You were a moaning mess, not caring if anyone heard the pleasure Yelena gave you.

Yelena’s hands were gripped so tight to your hips that you were sure to find bruises by morning. You didn’t care in the slightest, you even liked it. It would be a reminder that she was real and that the moment in fact happened outside of a dream.

She had a way of making you feel so damn beautiful while she was destroying you beyond comparison. Maybe it was the way her touch was rough with deep intention behind it— or it might even be the way she looked like a fallen angel on earth with the drippings of lust running down her forehead to bleed into her smudged eye makeup.

You had a burst of confidence. A moment of courage that reared its ugly head to prove something.

When Yelena loosened her grip only slightly, you used your strength to flatten Yelena out onto the bed while you straddled her without disconnecting. Her mouth was slightly agape in surprise at your finesse.

Her reaction gave you the drive you needed to keep going for her. You leaned forward, steadying yourself by grabbing onto the headboard. You moved your hips at an easy pace, one that wouldn’t allow you to finish as quickly since you predicted that Yelena would want power over that choice.

Yelena met you in the middle where she wrapped her arms around your back, pulling you flush against her. She kissed your neck while her hot breath set your skin alight. One of her hands pressed on your lower back, forcing your hips to move. Between the angle of your hips on Yelena’s hitting your most sensitive spots and her lips, you couldn’t stop the sounds that escaped from you now.

While you were fully bare, Yelena was still covered on top by a dark green vest that bore many pockets. Feeling that it was a bit unfair and a disgrace that Yelena was still clothed, you tried to sneak the vest off, pulling on the zipper quietly. When you got to the bottom, Yelena grabbed your hand, catching you in the act.

“If you’re going to act like a slut, I will gladly treat you like one,” Yelena grumbled. She quickly lived up to her expectations.

She dropped your hand before forcefully clutching your neck in her own hand. Yelena lightly choked you while guiding you to continue your relentless actions around her strap. You didn’t care how you received it, you just wanted Yelena’s touch to be never ending.

You bounced on her strap while it was becoming harder and harder to keep your orgasm suppressed. Heinous noises filled the room just as much as the smell of arousal.

The hand around your neck relaxed, but she wasn’t done. Her finger laced into your hair starting from the base of your head and extending down to the midsection of your hair. You gasped and whimpered when she twisted your hair and yanked down to expose your body to her.

“I bet you like it when I do that, baby,” she whispered. “You want me to use you however I wish, don’t you?”

You would have nodded if it weren’t for the fight grip she had on your hair that prevented you from moving your head. Whatever you did, you didn’t stop the movements of your hips. You wanted Yelena too badly.

Yelena began marking you wherever she could. To be honest, you didn’t know why it took her so long since you had been silently begging her for it the entire time.

Your chest was tattooed in pink and purple marks. You didn’t dare try to defy what Yelena wanted, even if you would pay for the fun later.

She also seemed to make it her mission to avoid the sensitivity of your nipples, somehow making it even hotter. You took it into your own hands, literally combing through her hair and guiding her head closer to your chest, but she seemed to resist your internal begging.

“Yelena…” you dared to speak.

You could feel her body become more rigid after muttering her name. “Say it again.”

You seemed to find her weakness. The use of her name caused her to abandon all means of resistance. Her lips and teeth found your nipples quickly after. She so delicately flicked your nipple with her tongue, teasing you while your body twitched in pleasure.

She sucked harder, taking you into her mouth. She licked back and forth, causing your body and voice to have a reaction.

“Fuck, Yelena!”

“Again,” she whispered.

She laid back now against the bed and watched you. She was the painter and you were her masterpiece that was finally coming together.

You leaned back and rested your hands on each of Yelena’s thighs, giving her the perfect view of you. You didn’t care how desperate you looked, you moved your hips recklessly, shifting back and forth and up and down.

“Yelena,” you continued to say, gaining volume with every word evoked.

When you were at your loudest, Yelena’s hand found your soaked clit. She knew well enough that you were close to your breaking point, so she helped you along.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. Do you want to cum, baby?” Though your head was thrown back, you nodded fiercely. “What was that, I can’t hear you?”

“Yes, please,” you whispered.

“You’re going to have to be louder for me.”

“Please!”

Yelena rubbed your clit faster while her other hand pinched at your nipple. You took this as her way of allowing you to come undone.

Your body twitched and convulsed as you reached your climax around Yelena’s strap and fingers. You came with Yelena’s name on your tongue, just how she liked it.

Yelena didn’t stop touching you until you physically couldn’t stand the touch anymore, moving her hands away from you. You clumsily removed yourself from Yelena’s strap, falling down on the bed beside her.

The room seemed to be spinning as well as your thoughts. The best sex you ever had was with the woman you had been spying on for months. You did have one peculiar question to ask.

“What’s with the vest anyway?” You had seen her wear it either on top of or secretly under her garments.

“It’s complicated,” she sighed.

You sat in comfortable silence for several moments. You, as well as Yelena, needed to process the result of a pent up crush you each had for months— if you could even call it a crush.

“So,” Yelena broke the silence, “want to grab dinner some time?”

(thank you to my beautiful gf for the inspiration ;)

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#my writing #marvel #florence pugh #yelena belova #yelena belova x fem!reader #yelena belova x you #yelena belova x y/n #yelena belova x female reader #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova au #yelena belova smut #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova fic #wlw #wlw smut #lesbian smut

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writingwisterias · 3 months ago

Text

Ruined

Part 2

Kidnapper! Leon Kennedy x AFAB!reader

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DNE, SMUT MDNI, Dub-Con, Sonomphila, Oral (F receiving), Cow-Girl, Unprotected Sex, Degradation Kink, Implied Abuse, Manipulation, Light Intox Kink, Isolation

Read Pt1

Taglist: @rigorwhoring

had a thought couldn't shake it = pt2, Lighter on the tags this time but only going to get worse ;)

Nature was your only chance for a brief moment of peace, being able to watch the water flow freely in front of you from where you perched on a fallen tree without the fear of anything. Most of your fight had left, the fear of him doing something worse lingered in the back of your mind. His strength seemed endless like there were no limits he wouldn’t go to just so you understood that he can easily overpower you. Nothing in this situation was fair and it never will be so you have accepted that you should just deal with it. You had still yet to see the full extent of your kidnappers' anger – it wasn’t like you wanted to, after all curiosity killed the cat. With how obsessed he was with you it wouldn’t be like him to go that far. At least you hoped not. It was a good thing, you suppose, that his tolerance was high you guess.

If you sat here for long enough it was like you almost forgot where you were or why you were here. The nature changed around you, fresh leaves appearing on the tree now that spring had come around. The leaf litter being broken down by the mushroom colonies that had now appeared, their spores dusted the air giving the rays of sun an ethereal look. Occasionally animals would appear on the other side of the stream, the new babies drinking for the first time. You were just enjoying the sounds and sights of your new home you suppose, it wasn’t one that you wanted but it wasn’t terrible. It was nice to be here, like this. Until you heard the twig snap - his boots thudding on the floor as he approached you.

The plant life squashed, its future growth now relied on its own will to live.

“It’s getting dark now,” Leon said from behind you. One of his new rules he’s implemented. No time after dark, not when he nearly had a heart attack when he couldn’t find or see you. The orange sky was your warning. You didn’t reply to him, you never needed to say anything after all what he said was final. You’ve had enough handprints on your skin to learn that lesson. At least he was gentle this time as you walked through the door, his hand was holding yours softly instead crushing each bone.

“The sky’s pretty today” You said, watching the ground carefully as you walked next to him. Shoes were still a privilege you have yet to earn back after the last attempt to escape a few months ago so the last thing you needed was a thorn or cut on your foot if the opportunity did present itself. Leon nodded, stopping on the porch to observe the orange hues. They were always his favourite. It didn’t matter if the sun was rising or setting - if he saw them it meant he survived to live another day.

You watched carefully as his eyes scanned over them, his features calm as they fluttered shut. He looked peaceful – thankful even. “Don’t you think? I always liked the sunset” You prompted. He glanced over to you. He always did this, like he still didn’t fully trust you since your last escape. Trying to find any hidden meanings in your words. His grip tightened ever so slightly, afraid in his moment of weakness you might dash away again. Still never fully convinced you wanted to be here, like you were hesitant.

Upon entering the cabin you could already feel the heat of the fire, the crackles filling the room. The dinner he had made was already set out in front of you, vegetables he had gone out to collect, the ones from the garden not quite ready yet. Venison that he had also previously hunted.

You hated the way that smell was becoming familiar, feeling like home to you after so long being here. Dinner as usual was eaten in silence, he preferred it that way. Spending his time making sure you actually ate everything until he began to eat himself. Once the clinking sound of your cutlery against the plate was heard you would be allowed to speak again. “There were a few animals at the stream today” You spoke watching him as he began to eat.

He was methodic and gentle as he used the knife on the steak, scoring his lines in the meat before pressing harder to carve it. The actions mimicked familiar situations you have been in with him. The scar was now angry and red, you caught it in every window reflection or the bathroom mirror. A branding of where you belonged, like a horse or cattle to a cowboy. “What kind?” He asked, his eyes bore into you but they never really seemed interested in what you had to say exactly. More like he enjoyed the simplicity and domestic feel of the evening. “A few deer and rabbits. If I stay quiet enough they linger”

Your nails picked at the skin on your hand, your once perfect ones now were often seen with bloodied scabs. Despite your acceptance of your situation, the doubts and guilt you once had with your forgotten life are now gone – you still grew nervous in his presence. His control and dominance never faulted, always masking an element of him that you knew haunted him. It always slipped when darkness greeted him, when he was forced to sleep. His mind is plagued by nightmares of a side of him you didn't know about and he hoped you never would. After all he considered you his salvation, the only good thing he has managed to protect and gain. Conversations like this, despite his lack of interest, meant a lot to him.

“Maybe I should take you hunting with me then” Leon commented. Everything was always so violent with him, something innocent like watching animals always involved death eventually, little do you know that his whole life has been violent. Apart from the slither of love you have given him during sex it’s all he’s ever known. You smiled and nodded, not exactly agreeing but the idea of seeing more of the surrounding area is tempting. You never got far enough in your times of escaping, the trees always looked the same beyond the stream. “What’s it like? Hunting I mean.” You asked anything to stop the impending silence that lingered if the conversation went dry.

Leon always assumed you wouldn’t be interested in stuff like that. He would never admit that he hunted in a way to keep himself trained around a gun, after all anything could happen. “Peaceful”

Seeing him describe such a violent act like this made himself cringe, he had never liked the idea of death. He’s seen it far too often but Leon was a provider – a career. You needed to eat and he had the skills to make sure you have plenty of what you needed. Maybe showing more of the beauty that surrounded you would make you happier. Keep that smile that showed itself very little, there a while longer. That meant it was easier for you to gather your surroundings. It had only been a season since your last escape. You promised not to fight anymore but he saw the way you hesitated still when he kissed you. You grimace as you look upon the mark he left on your chest in the mirror.

The hesitation was still there and until he got rid of it you would be limited. You didn’t need him to explain his answer further, it would open up questions you were sure would get you punished in some way. Instead you both continued to clean up, manoeuvring around each other like a practiced dance. Your hums filled the air such a sweet tune he enjoyed so much. He watched as you lost yourself in your own mind watching the night grow closer through the window. He wondered where you were, wanting to know every thought you had and collect it like a dream journal. You jumped when you felt his lips on your shoulder, sucking the skin softly no doubt leaving another mark.

His touch was always so confusing. His lips were demanding, greedy to devour your sweet taste whilst his hands were gentle as they lifted you onto the kitchen counter. His fingers dug in the flesh of your thighs as he pried them apart, the nightdress you wore hitching up towards your hips as you displayed yourself to him. Leon nibbled at your thighs, each bite slowly growing closer to your clothed cunt. Yet, when he reached his destination he only smirked, eyes flicking upwards to see your face. Your brows pinched in pleasure, your teeth tugging on your lips silencing your whimpers as if they were a shameful thing to do.

Like it was such a terrible thing to enjoy what pleasure he treated you with. You felt his rough fingertips graze along the hem of your underwear, playing with the lace. “Don’t silence yourself love, you know how much I love your pretty song” He chuckled. You whimpered as his nose pressed against the fabric that separated him from your pussy. You could feel the tug on the fabric as he inhaled your scent, sucking on the gusset gently to gather the first taste. An appetiser of what you had to offer. You could feel the hint of a smile grow on your features as he pulled the fabric away exposing you.

His tongue had insane accuracy as he swiped at the arousal that was already pooling. His moan vibrated around you at your sweet taste, if only he had a drink in this flavour. Your legs trapped him close to you ensuring that he had no choice but to continue to devour you. Your pleasure caused his cock to throb in his trousers, the hardness of it almost becoming painful. He realized a while ago you didn’t mind the sex with him as long as your pleasure came first. If it felt like you were getting something out of it before him. You never saw the damp patch on his boxers when he would stand up and pull out his cock. The taste of you was enough for him, the thrill of betraying you with this simple realization had him orgasming first. The taste of you was always comparable to a Michelin star dessert.

Leon could feel the clench of your walls around your tongue as he brought you closer to your orgasm. His nose nudged against the sensitive bud eliciting deep guttural moans that sent the blood straight down to his cock. Just when you were about to cum, to give him the sweet juices he craved daily – Leon pulled away standing in front of you. Your cheeks were flush, eyebrows pinched in frustration. Complaints lingered in your mouth but came out in pathetic pleads and begs for pleasure again. Your own fingers frantically help him undo his trousers and free his leaking cock. “So desperate. I still remember when you pleaded for me to not give it to you. All that time you could have been getting all of this pleasure. Just for what? To not ruin your pride?” He chuckled as he lined it up.

It felt like heaven as he slid it through your folds, you watched the tip appear – red and eager already beading with his cum. His lips brushing the shell of your ear “Admit to me that you’ve always wanted it. Even when you squirmed part of you enjoyed it. Admit it”

It was a command. One that if you refused he would withdraw the pleasure you were clawing for. “Please, I was a fool before. I need it Leon” You begged. He laughed as he finally sunk himself into you. Groaning as you moulded around him, the tightness of your cunt gripping onto him like the nails you dug into his shoulders. He never seemed to get close enough, there was never enough skin contact for you. Leon moved slowly at first teasing you before his own pleasure coursed through him in a demand to finish. The usual silence of the home was broken with your moans, the sound of skin slapping before with one final thrust he finished. Pulling away to watch the cum spill out of you.

“Beautiful”

You didn’t hear his words, not when you felt his lips suck against the scar on your chest. The skin now angry and pulsing. Always leaving a reminder, making sure you never forgot. Sex was weird, the casual act of intimacy for normal people never felt quite right for the two of you. There was still reluctance on your part – the palms of your hands always pushed against his shoulders shoving him further away. Your mind always outwardly rejects him whenever you know it or not.

You wouldn’t get a shower tonight, not as his cum still dripped down your thighs. He always left it there to grow sticky, the smell permeating your skin like a scent claim. You could imagine the look he would give you in the morning when he wakes you up with his mouth again, the smell of him lingering on your skin.

Your nightgown was replaced with a fresh one, the stark white showing off an innocence you weren’t sure you obtained anymore. Leon did however – of course he did. You hadn’t seen what he had, felt the bones crush in your body as you continued to fight no matter what because it was your job.

The two of you laid away in the dark, your head resting on his chest listening to his steady heart whilst his finger brushed through your hair. How did you get here? Why did he have to choose you? You wouldn’t have wished this on any other girl but what was his incentive. What was his goal? Did he really want you to just live here, in this lonely bubble? Your thoughts were loud to him as they were everynight. You understood he explained the basics of why he took you, his admission to finally having something good in his life. To provide a happy ending for the both of you. He felt your breathing change as you grew frustrated. You promised him to not fight anymore, to give in and appreciate the life he's giving you. Leon wasn’t stupid, not anymore, he could tell you still had a spark of rebellion in you. He was just waiting for it to appear.

He thought before about telling you about the horrors that plagued his mind. AFter all, he had only given you a brief explanation over what his job was. The gruesome details of the event he had experienced left him with nightmares. The things he had faced now lingered in the shadows of the room or the corner of his eyes. Maybe he would tell you about the ghosts of his pasts, the one that smiled at him from the trees when he was alone. He wouldn’t let you turn out like them; not when he had the ability to make sure you never did.

You were special, Leon knew that from the moment he sunk his fat cock into your pussy. You stretched and clenched around him in the most perfect way he immediately became addicted that first night he had you. You had to be claimed somehow – so feisty that first time it was a hassle getting you to stay still, a fuck like you was too good to let loose. He still had the photo after he fucked your mouth; it was your fault the cock slipped out of your mouth anyway. The tip was lined up perfectly as he rubbed his cock until his load drenched your face. The translucent substance looked so pretty against your skin, giving it a soft glow that suited you. Eyes still shut as it coated your lashes; it created the perfect opportunity to form that photo. God you were perfect for him.

You felt his breathing even out the soft snores slowly releasing from his lips. It only ever happened when he was on his back trapped by you, for your own sleep you slipped away opting to face the window and the impending darkness that lingered. It never scared you, the unknown. The idea that something will happen to save you was one you clinged onto for comfort. You might have lost everything, became some mystery to the outside world but you knew your story wasn’t finished. Even if it was the reaper that came to write your final ending, that the darkness outside would sneak inside to take you away. Away from him. Unlike Leon the darkness didn’t scare you.

His whimpers woke you up, the sheets ripped from your body as he shot awake with a sense of urgency. You didn’t even get time to react to the blinding light as he turned on the lamp beside you. His frantic eyes scanned the room silently getting rid of any danger that lurked in the corners. Until they fell on you. Your body looked so small in the sheets, eyes slowly adjusting to the light as well as his panicked form. His hands shook as they touched you, holding your shoulder tightly. “Leon-”

You were cut off as he brought you into his arms, burying you in a hug. His scent intoxicated you, his skin layered with a sheen of sweat. You could feel him press kisses in the crown of your head, his mind using you as a grounding point. There was nothing you could do, you waited for his grip to loosen. The pain that flared along your skin was just a sign of more bruises to litter there in the morning. The tender spots would be hard to forget like always. Part of you felt sorry for him seeing him this affected by a dream. You would ask if there was anything more you could have done or if there was something in particular he needed.

He was a horrible man, one that has stripped you of the essence of yourself but no one should be hunted in their dreams. Having nowhere to escape in a vulnerable moment. It was only when his grip loosened you spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?”

It was normal to do that, he knew this. It's what normal couples do to comfort and talk to each other about what happened in their dreams, even the bad ones. He pulled away and looked at you, the sleep still lingered in your eyes. You slowly blinked them at him. He could tell you, perhaps in this state you would forget not to use his dream against him in the future. Allow a moment for his control to slip but that was riding on the fact you would forget. He knew you…you wouldn’t forget not with something like this. “You don’t need to worry about me” He spoke instead. It was strange to see the inner conflict so visible on your face as you had a silent conversation. You were never this expressive with him unless he was pounding his cock into you.

“Does it happen often?” You asked again. Leon nodded his already messy hair now falling over his face. “Tonight was the worst. In a long while at least”

You believed him, most of the time he woke up and snuggled back into you as if you being here actually helped him. Tonight however he jumped from bed, holding you desperately. It was different, the air had shifted. “I can make you tea tomorrow, it’s meant to help with sleep. I used to make it.”

Your offer wasn’t instantly rejected which surprised you, maybe his troubles with sleep were worse than he led on. Leon nodded again, a smile growing on his lips at your offer to even help him. Maybe it was slowly developing into something he wanted, that time alone with just him was enough to ensure you created a bond with him. “Is there anything in particular you need?” He questioned, the house was stocked and he made sure of it. The kitchen had shelves of herbs and spices, in those cute little house jars that he assumed you would like.

He didn’t tap into your devices for no reason after all, he wanted the perfect life for you. To spoil you with everything you wanted. He saw each little post you made online about how they made you feel, about how much you wanted to leave. Your pinterest boards filled with your dream items, the style you wanted, the hobbies or house decoration. He read it all like a book, like it was his daily news. It hurt you still didn’t notice or appreciate it all. “Valerian root, Lavender, Chamomile. I can forage for most of it, there might be some in the woods”

He nodded, his heartbeat was steady again, a united front to prevent you from seeing too much. You had already seen enough weakness. “I’ll see what I can do”

It was the next morning he approached you with the idea of going out further into the woods, you had told him the only one native was Valerian root. Also rumoured to be the most effective in achieving a deeper sleep. Leon would be lying if he said he didn’t feel unnerved with the idea of falling into a deep sleep, it had been so long since he’s not been plagued by nightmares and had a full body reset. Part of it felt nice, beginning to be able to just feel his muscles slightly looser in the morning. Maybe his head will be clearer and he’ll stop being so paranoid. He was aware of the effect lack of sleep had on a person – he just never had the ability to ease it.

It shocked him last night at your admittance to using the tea yourself. Since you have been living here there was no evidence of your bad sleep. Perhaps that was another thing he has helped you with – his presence next to you at night fighting the nightmares you have now forgotten about. It was an unknown privilege to you that he no longer had to leave for the longer missions. It had been months since he was called into office.

Leon knew how to make the activity harder since he insisted you held his hand the entire time. This was the compromise, he wanted you naked again – stripped bare so you wouldn't even think about leaving him. His hand was warm at least, a reminder that if you dared to edge closer to him you would feel the warmth of his body, a stark contrast from the morning frost. “I see why you like coming out here so much, the sun looks…magical” He spoke. You looked at him surprised to find his features relaxed, his eyes briefly closing just like he did yesterday evening. As if in his darkness the sun was his only light but now you caught him looking at you more, like you actually had an impact in his life. As if you helped him. If only you could know how.

Your eyes remained firmly on the ground once he caught you looking at him, blush creeping in on your features. It wasn’t that Leon was unattractive that’s what confused you. He was fine until you miss behaved, you’ve learnt which of his buttons not to push and which of his moods to avoid to make your life easier. And yet still, you longed for that boring job which gave you endless headaches. The small meaningless things in life that still somehow gave you joy. He took that from you. You have learnt how to live without it, yes but part of you still craves it.

“Your brain is working too hard again. Why?”

He tugged on your arm, pain flaring as his grip tightened to halt your movements. You blinked at him like a deer in headlights. “I–I was just thinking about you” Your voice was quite unsure like you were aware of the hole you were digging yourself into. “What about me?” His smirk was suggestive, an eyebrow quirked up in amusement. Blush coats your cheeks as you attempt to think of any form of answer. “Um…s–sex?” Was that the best you could come up with?

He barked a laugh, your response clearly pleasing him as his grip loosened slightly. “Never thought I’d see the day” His response was teasing. You felt your cheeks heat up, becoming flustered as you then began to actually think about him and sex. Heat pooling in between your legs. It wasn’t normal to feel like this, you shouldn’t. He was a horrible man – that’s all he should be left as.

“I’ve found some” You muttered after a short while, pointing at the white flowers that decorated the stem you needed. He nodded, taking the combat knife that always stayed strapped to his hip. The green hilt was frayed and damaged - evidence that he has had it for many years. He let go of your hand briefly, watching you with an intense stare before walking around to the side of the plant so he could still see you as he cut it. “It would be pointless running away whilst you are right next to me” You spoke. It had been a while since the both of you had spoken about your old habit. He shrugged, watching you more carefully now. “I wouldn’t put it past you”.

He was right, this was your first act towards loyalty that wasn’t just following his rules. You were optionally helping him, using your knowledge to treat him from unknown horrors to you. It was something he hadn’t expected from you. Not for a while anyway. “I like this. Being here. I just wish I could see or do more” You admitted. Leon nodded, perhaps it was time to allow you to have some freedoms that didn’t involve you sitting on the log opposite the house. Maybe you could learn how to sew or knit and begin filling the house with things that you made. Finally turning it into a loving home, warmth coming from something other than the fire that you both watched at night. You couldn’t tell what was going on through his head, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to. “It makes me happy to hear that” Was all he responded with accompanied with a gentler smile.

Your usual routine was pretty much the same, your outside time was cut short from the orange hues. He didn’t hold your hand this time, he allowed you to walk next to him without guidance. It felt nice to have this small display of trust but your fingers itched for the warmth of his. To feel the rough skin on his palms against yours.

After dinner, you boiled the water in the kitchen for you to make the tea, the valerian root was already grated ready for use. He watched as you prepared it, tasting it for yourself with a small sip on the side of the mug. Hands flickering over the spice jars to add what you thought it needed. You had a small smile when you presented it to him after dinner, the fire crackled behind the both of you. “We can go to bed when I start to feel sleepy” You nodded, understanding that he wouldn’t want you walking around the house whilst he slept. You still had to wake him up to let him know you were going to the bathroom at night. “And you are sure this will help?” He asked, swirling the liquid in the mug. It wasn’t like you could poison him, he had watched you prepare every step from where he sat at the table. “It should help you fall asleep. It won’t knock you out like a sleep med” You said, smiling softly.

That was a good thing he supposed, eliminated one of his fears. You both moved to the fire, sitting on the sofa watching the flames dance around each other. The wood burns brightly leaving only the embers and ashes. To his surprise you leant on his shoulder. You had never done this before; maybe it was because he was finally trusting you and in return you trusted him. He watched the shadows dance along your features, your hair falling on his shoulders. You felt him tug you closer, silently offering a sense of protection. “Why are you crying?” He whispered in your ear. You hadn’t even noticed you were, the tear was a silent scream from the inside that this enjoyment was wrong. You shouldn’t want to be near him and be held like this, but your longing for freedom was fading.

It has been so long since you have been held, being able to weep in someone else's arms, not the pillow you used at night. “I’m not sure” you whispered, sitting up straighter to look at him. To watch his reaction. Instead of anger or disappointment genuine care laced his features. The last time you saw this look was after one of the first escape attempts and you tripped over a log. Your cries of pain hurt him deeply back then, now they were just another sound to him. Most of them coming from his punishments anyway. “Maybe sleep will make you feel better” He cooed. You nodded, holding his hand optionally.

Leon felt the effects of your tea pretty quickly it seemed, his arm now dead weight against your waist. You watched the net curtain blow in the wind, the breeze that leaked through the small gap. You turned to face Leon, watched as the soft snores slipped through his partially open mouth. He was peaceful for once, nightmares that normally plagued him finally left him alone. Your finger poked at him, prodding him gently. He didn’t move, didn’t react. Normally his eyes opened immediately. He had never been a deep sleeper, you knew this from when you tried to chance an escape at night. Perhaps it could work this time.

The floor was cold against your bare feet but you took no notice as you began to creep out the room. The front door was now in sight, as you crept past the dying fire that had now reduced to embers: to you, this was the prettiest part of a fire, burning a bright red, waiting for the opportunity to ignite again with the right fuel. Nobody ever thinks to drown them out with water, they just assume that they’ll burn out on their own, but that's how most fires restart. It just takes the right conditions for it all to spark up again…

Your hand gingerly touched the freezing knob, turning it slightly. It was unlocked. This was your chance surely? A sign you could finally get a good enough headstart and escape or die somewhere in the woods. Finally get away from this place.

You couldn’t move, it felt too good to be true. The door was ajar, the cold breeze was harsh on your bare toes. You had finally settled here, everyone back home would have forgotten you by now. He would just find you again, he was a government agent. You couldn’t hide from someone like him. You would only be dragged back and your hard work to get him to trust you would be pointless. Your eyes glanced at his boots placed neatly next to the front door. The laces loose incase he needed to slip them on quickly. It didn’t take much to tug them out, holding the ribbons of fabric in your fingers. You closed the door, turning back towards the bedroom.

Heat and excitement blossomed in your stomach alongside the fire, which now had a new lease of life, rejuvenated by the breeze. As you sashayed through the bedroom door, you noticed Leon now lay on his back. His chest is still slowly rising and falling with his sleep. He didn’t wake when you sat back on the bed, your knees pressed against his chest nor did he when you began to tie his wrists to the bed frame. You didn’t care if the string bit into his skin, he could have marks like he gave you when he first did this. You looked at the permanent red bracelets that now decorated your skin. Maybe you could carve your name onto his chest, give him the same treatment as you gave him.

You felt the tears this time. What happened to you? You were just like him. Thinking of every way you could hurt him like he did to you. You weren’t any better.

Not ignoring the heat that pooled in your stomach you hovered above him before sinking on his lap, feeling his soft cock underneath you separated by the duvet and underwear. He was vulnerable like this. Just as you were before. When he took you all those months ago. Leon broke you into the person you were now. Your family wouldn’t want you back, not after him. Not with these ugly scars that now littered your body, his stupid initials branded onto you. You were his now, there was no point in denying it.

You moaned as you rubbed yourself along the length of him, feeling it harden even in his sleep. His need and reactions to your body only spurred you on more. There wasn’t anyone else that would react to you like he did; Made you feel like they needed you to just breathe. Your fingers shook as you pulled the fabric away, sliding his boxer along his legs exposing the length you now craved. Your eyes flicked towards his face, watching as his eyebrows pinched together slightly now his tip was exposed to the cold air but he didn’t wake. Your finger ran along the slit of it watching as beads of cum replaced the ones you wiped away. Even in his sleep he was desperate for you. Craving you. You slipped your underwear off, the nightdress discarded as well. The white fabric didn’t suit you anymore. Not after this.

You whimpered as you sunk onto him, feeling yourself stretch and mold to accommodate him. His hangs tugged at the laces you began to move, eyes blinking as he panicked. Leon’s groan was wonderful, they always were. You were in control, it was exciting. He was whimpering beneath you. Your hips continued to wake him up, the slow circles causing him to tug at the restraints until finally he stopped. You faltered as he stared at you, keeping eye contact with you as you continued. “What is this?” He said, a slow smirk beginning to grow on his features. “Have I corrupted you? Tainted your soul to be as dark as mine?”

You shook your head, the pleasure building up slowly as you continued to use him. He stopped tugging, stopped trying to break away. Eyes fluttering shut each time you lifted yourself along his cock only to slam it back down. “I thought you’d run away, finally get a head start but you finally figured out there was no point didn’t you”

You jumped as his hand caressed your thigh, it shouldn’t be there. It was…tied up. Leon’s eyes darkened as you looked back at his wrists. “You were so close, love but don’t fool yourself now” He chuckled. You sped up, trying to finish before he ripped it away. Your desperation only fuels him further, his hip joining yours in an onslaught of pleasure. He couldn’t have given you this slither of power. Once chance to finally take what you wanted. No. That would have gone to your head, made you think your plan worked. You used his weakness against him. The fight has never left you now. No matter how many times you told him it had. That he had broken you down to this weak person who wouldn’t betray him anymore.

“Please…just let me finish” You whimpered, you needed the release that was coming from your own doings. Your own pace. To enjoy the slither of freedom you gave yourself. He only smirked. “Leon– please”

“Such a whore now. Begging for your release. I know it’s because you gave it. You made it happen”

You whimpered again, nodding. Cursing yourself as your hips began to falter now the pleasure was getting too much, tethering yourself on the edge of overstimulation. “Such a whore for the bad man”

He stopped, his fingers gripped at your hips holding you in place. He couldn’t give you this, you would do it again and again. He’d rather suffer in his nightmare than allow someone else take control of his choices, his life. You were flipped onto the bed. Head dangling off the edge causing the blood to rush there. Leon was unforgiving in his pace, his pelvis hitting yours and it turned into pain. Each thrust felt like a spank. Your hands gripped at his, desperately holding on as you became fuzzy. He felt your orgasm, the force of it pushing his cock out harshly. “I was wrong to trust you, to think you were changing and understanding what I do for you”

You whimpered attempting to lift your head to look at him but his hand landed on your neck. Holding it in place. He was doing it wrong, crushing your windpipes instead of the blood circulation. You panicked squirming beneath. “After months we are right back where we started. If you had seen the things I have you wouldn’t. You would hide here like a good girl and be grateful for this. That you are alive to experience it”

Leon finished with a grunt, his hand closing around your throat as he fucked his cum into your over senstive pussy. When you finally raised your head he stared back at you, his eyes dark daring you to do something. It was tempting. To become this little brat he couldn’t contain. “Continue like this…and see where it gets you. You are already becoming twisted using me like that”

“Just took inspiration from you”

He didn’t appreciate the bite in your words. You watched his fingers twitch each digit clenching into a fist and then relaxing. Your hips hurt, your throat hurts. He had ruined you now, your soul and actions just as bad as his own. He wasn’t wrong. It just made it all the more exciting.

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loveindefinitely · 1 year ago

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˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ PRINCESS TREATMENT — price + gaz x reader

01 — THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

featuring. kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. fem!reader, fmm, friends to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence, frequent mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, discussions of mental health

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

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If you had to say when, exactly, everything changed, you’d put it down to a single monarch butterfly.

Walking down the tight alleyways of Las Almas, the sky a four o’clock black, a lone street light casts a gentle yellow over your frame. The air is stagnant, the warmth of late spring mixed with the type of humidity that only comes before a storm, your boots clicking against the stone beneath your feet.

With a leather jacket wrapped tight around you, you fall into the rhythm of it all. It’s just before five in the morning, and you know that you should be heading home any minute, but you find yourself rejecting the idea.

Everytime you leave for the night, just to breathe, to live for no one but yourself, it gets harder and harder to make your way back through your bedroom window. You know the guards are getting antsy, too, your payoffs for their silence on the issue becoming less and less worth it. Not when it’s becoming an ultimatum between some quick cash and a slow death.

You wish you were given that choice. Mightn’t even care which option you happened to receive.

It’s quiet, in these parts. No sign of the city that had been ruined by mercs, no sign of the destruction that had once lay beneath one man’s boots.

Instead, this city now sits in the firm grip of El Sin Nombre – the way it had once been, and if your family has it how they want it, the way it shall forever be.

Underneath your breath, you hum, a tune you’d picked up from the local radio. Every morning, you listen to the daily news reports, the weather, the latest celebrity gossip. Without fail, El Sin Nombre is never mentioned. Neither are the missing persons, the families torn apart by the woman you call boss.

The end of the alleyway is coming up, the main street ahead barren of people, except the odd homeless person or fitness nut getting their morning fix.

Just as you’re about to turn around and manually move your feet back to your home, the smallest of movements catches your eye, right by a potted plant sitting at the street corner. You’re not sure how, or why, it catches your attention – but it snags it, hook line and sinker.

Quickly looking both ways, you take a cautious step towards what appears to be a small aloe vera plant, stopping in your tracks when you realise what’s perched upon the tallest of the stems, its burnt orange wings fluttering with the small breeze.

A butterfly.

It hasn’t spooked – not yet, not with your careful movements – and it seems so insignificant. So small, with the family homes lining the streets, the independent stores setting up for the day.

With you, your massive life, your massive boots to fill.

And it just sits.

Flaps its wings.

A shot sounds.

Jumping back, your eyes catch the butterfly taking off into the sky, its sun-kissed wings taking it as far away from the horror as possible. Exactly as you should be doing.

Screams echo around you, another bullet sounding, and then another, and another –

Hand resting at the gun sitting in your thigh hollister, you whip your head towards the sound, the yelling, the rushed Spanish leaving people’s mouths. Gringos. El Sin Nombre. Death. Stay down.

Taking a sharp right turn onto the main street’s footpath, another shot fires, this time much closer. Much more real, tangible. Hand fully fisting around the handle of your pistol, you take the corner to the sidestreet – the source of it all – with quiet ease.

Multiple cartel members – expendable pendejos, Valeria would say – have guns not unlike your own, aimed at two separate men hidden behind a parked car. They’re crouched behind it, peaking and launching their own retaliating shots, hitting either shoulders or necks.

They fire off quick, dirty shots, one bursting through the car’s windows, shattering the glass, before lodging in one of the mens’ head. He falls, blood and brain matter splattering on the brick wall behind him. None of the others even spare him a look.

“Get ‘im!” A deep, rough voice calls – British, assertive, mature – the one furthest from you. He’s adorning a boonie hat, pulled down to cover the tops of his ears, facial hair decorating his jawline and upper lip.

They both seem to be exerting themselves, clearly having done a lot of activity and planning before the current scene. Nearly all of the civilians are out of the area, the two foreigners taking care to not harm any of the innocents.

Certainly a step up from the cartel.

There’s four left, all taking shots at the car, some bullets ricocheting off of the flat metal. Back to the opposite wall, you take out your pistol, switching off the safety with a single brush of your thumb. Keeping it extended in front of you, both hands holding it, you make your way silently closer to the confrontation, keeping behind them all.

The second foreigner – tall, all slim muscle, radiating warmth and self-assurance – takes a sweeping step away from the car, delivering final head shots to all but one.

Clawing against the ground, trying to gain his footing, pistol flung metres away from him, he lets out groans of agony. He’s been shot in the knee, it seems like – yeah, definitely been shot in the knee, by the way he screams when he tries to rise on it.

Doing quick head checks, the younger foreigner keeps his gun raised at a safe level, before walking over to the wounded member.

The lone soldier grunts when the lithe man smacks the butt of his gun against his temple, his head twisting with the force of it. You can tell he’s being kept alive.

“Fuck, Cap,” the younger man hisses, hooking his thumb in his vest, throwing his head back slightly. In the streetlight, from your close distance, you can see a droplet trail down his Adam’s apple. Collect at the hollow of his throat, glisten in the dim light.

The other, ‘Cap’, presses his hands against his knees, using the momentum to stand, wiping the back of his glove against his mouth. Quickly scanning his surroundings, you dart behind a small, abandoned street stall, crouching as you do so.

No shots are fired – you consider it a win.

“C’mon, we gotta get ‘im to exfil,” he grunts, and when you move back to watch them in full view, you see him jog over to stand next to his partner. Leaning down, he pulls his arm around the unconscious man, lifting him up with the younger’s help. They swing his arms around the necks of them both, their hands keeping him upright between the two.

“Ale and Rudy are gonna have our asses for the stray shots,” the black-haired one groans, but there’s a relieved smile stretching over his face. “Hopefully this guy has the intel they want.”

“If he doesn’t,” ‘Cap’ returns, a humoured look written all over his face, “We’ll have their asses.”

Intel. They want… intel. On the cartel, on El Sin Nombre. Something you have in spades. In fact, you were probably the closest thing to a gold mine when it came to information of the Las Almas cartel. Wouldn’t even need torture to get you to speak.

You’d heard of Alejandro and Rodolfo. They were considered legends by the townspeople, the men who nearly took down the cartel. The true face of the Mexican Military – not the paid off army.

It was a shame, really, how much of their story wasn’t told.

Being shot if either name left anyone’s mouth made it a difficult one to retell. Especially to you – the Cartel’s Princess – a woman hated for nothing more than her last name.

Your step-father and ‘boss’ refused to speak of them, either. Your limited knowledge pertained to the fact that they were direct enemies of El Sin Nombre, and shared a complicated past with Valeria. You’d asked, once, what happened.

You’d never asked again.

The sun is rising, the hints of morning brushing over the deserted side street. They seem… ethereal, in this light, exhausted from work but cheerful from a job well done. At ease with each other, even with blood decorating their skin, boots covered in red.

You remember when you’d first tried to run away, fourteen and too naive to plan it beforehand, before you knew to slide cash into the guards’ belt. It had been seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds before a bullet had grazed your thigh, and you were brought back to your house. You still have the scar – both physically, and mentally.

Having to learn that running away was never a truly feasible option was a hard reality at such a young age. Sheltered, too – you didn’t understand the true way of the world. What life was like without a bounty on your head and blood money decorating your neck in the form of a pearl necklace. Hands chained with bracelets of pure gold.

The cool metal grows clammy with your own distraught, your index finger hooking around the trigger.

When you were younger, you wanted to become a journalist. You dreamt of the ability to make things known – uncover the dark secrets your family loved to hide. A servant to the public – in the most damning of ways, a true way of protecting without the need for blood on your hands. The only black metal in your hands would be that of a pen; considerably more deadly than a weapon could ever be.

You aim your pistol.

Oh, to be free. To not have to wake up every day, dreading, hating yourself for the sins of your family. Your livelihood. Freedom in not having to choose between being a bystander, or meeting the death of a traitor.

That butterfly, gods, that butterfly. It took itself wherever it wanted – got to experience the world at its own pace. Live for the sake of it, gifting the Earth for the pleasure of it all.

Grateful for just a week of substance. A week of survival.

What you’d do for just a week.

A shot fires, and you don’t move an inch from the drawback. You just stand, watching, as a body falls, and two guns are instantly aimed at you in turn.

Just a week.

Letting the gun slide from your hand and hit the floor, you raise your hands, palms facing the two. They don’t shoot – that’s all you could’ve hoped for. Being reckless was part of being in the cartel, and your very blood ran because of it.

“You want intel?” You ask, loud enough to carry to them, taking a bold step forward. With the sun not having risen, a chill settles into your bones, the tight, silk nightdress you adorn during sleep the only thing protecting you as the breeze brushes open your jacket. “I have it.”

The youngest moves to lower his gun, but a side eye from ‘Cap’ has him raising it again. The way they stare you down has your chest rising and falling in dramatic movements, and for the first time this night, you second guess yourself.

It’s the only chance you’ve ever gotten – you think, reminding yourself – and you will accept it with open arms. Just a week.

Taking careful, precise steps closer, you keep your palms facing them and face a stubborn neutral. You’d been trained in a lot of areas, sparsely, but there was no doubt in your mind that you wouldn’t be able to take either of them in a real fight. Diego had spoiled you with riches and luxury, not sparring and gunslinging.

“Wait –” the younger stretches out his hand, looking to the other with an expression. Like he’d seen a ghost. “She’s…”

“I know,” the other breathes out, his tense stance easing slightly.

As you stand, just a metre or two away from them, you look between them both. Calculating, watching, you slide off your leather jacket and drop it to the ground – showing that you have no other weapons, no bombs strapped to you.

Just a silk, blood red nightdress, an empty hollister, and black leather boots.

“You guys were pretty loud when you said you needed intel,” you narrow your eyes, flitting between them both. They shroud you in their shadows; tall, muscular – military. But not… regiment. Different, more sinister, maybe, more important. “And I saw you kill my auntie’s men.”

They both lower their weapons. Partly stupid, partly an insult. “You’re the Cartel Princess, aye?” The younger raises his brows, looking over you with studious brown.

“I left my tiara at home,” you snark. The younger smirks, approving of your response. Maybe you wouldn’t have to be stepped all over, to be taken in by them.

Jerking his head to the dead body laying between the both of them, the older levels an unimpressed gaze your way. “Was that necessary?” He asks, folding his arms over his chest and righting his posture, looking down at you.

“He was a dick anyways,” you roll your eyes, finally lowering your own hands to rest at your hips. “He tried to offer up his daughter ‘cause he was in debt.”

Both of their jaws go slack.

You shrug.

“Where are you guys going anyways?” You ask, bouncing on the heels of your feet, hands held together behind your back. Looking around, your mouth pulls into a small frown at the shattered store windows. You’d try and leave some money for them when you got back.

The smaller one lets out an almost shocked chuckle. “This isn’t – you’re not hitchhiking.”

Rubbing at the roof of his nose, the one with the boonie hat looses a thick sigh, before giving you an exhausted look. “You’re lucky Alejandro has been after your arse for years. Gaz, get ‘er gun.”

“Yes, Sir,” he jokes, roughly saluting the man before grabbing your weapon. Sliding it into his own holster, he loops his elbow through yours, and starts dragging you down the street, the other walking a bit ahead of you both.

“This went way easier than I thought,” you mutter, realising just how… simple it had been to get them to take you. No cuffs, surprisingly, and no sedatives.

Gaz, as the other referred to him as, looks down to you with a friendly smile. “Most of us know your face. Alejandro and Rodolfo have been looking for you – something about you being ‘one of the good ones’.”

“I’ve never met them,” you admit, a small crease forming between your brows. “I’ve heard of them, but… why do they care about me?”

“Apparently,” the one up ahead darts his blue eyes back to you, “You do, in fact, have ‘intel’. And…” He trails off, before shaking his head. “You’ll see when we get back to base. I think he’ll be quite happy.”

Gaz groans with a laugh. “Hate when he’s giddy. They’re so loud.”

Falling back a little, ‘Cap’ hits his subordinate lightly up the back of his head. “You’re gross. Exfil’s just off to the right.”

“Reminds me of Amsterdam,” Gaz says wistfully, his elbow still linked around yours. This might just be the oddest way to be taken in by a supposed ‘enemy’ ever. Definitely up there.

Turning, you see a black SUV parked off to the side, the windows tinted to the nth degree. You can’t see anything within them except your own reflections, the winding streets behind you three. Looking to Gaz, you ask, “Where’s my carriage?”

He gives an incredulous look. “You’re serious?”

You and his partner answer at the exact same time, the same tone, “No.”

Opening the door to the back, Cap urges the two of you in, before getting into the passenger seat. The cushions are black, too, and comfortable as you situate yourself by the window, Gaz taking the middle seat. So much for space.

“John –”

“Kate, they’ve been after her for years. We owe ‘em.”

A woman, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, looks at you through her rearview mirror. She seems… displeased about your presence.

“You’re making us a bigger target,” she hisses, shooting him an annoyed look. “If they aren’t already trying to gun us down, they’re about to go nuclear!”

“Auntie and daddy don’t like missiles. Said it’s cheap,” you chip in, folding your knee so your ankle rests on your opposite knee, folding your hands in your lap. Damn, you think, You chipped your nail polish. Only lasted a day.

Silence fills the vehicle.

You hum that radio’s tune once more, and Kate exhales a deep, calming breath. Like she’s one step away from whipping out her own gun and shooting you all dead. And then herself.

“Can you turn on the heater? It’s kinda cold,” you ask, hands rubbing at your bare arms. Should’ve put your leather jacket back on before they took you.

“John,” Kate grits out, “I am two seconds away from –”

A shot fires, then two, then three. In one movement, you grab a hold of your pistol from Gaz’s hollister, switching off the safety once more and holding it to your chest. Kate instantly switches on the ignition, accelerating hard enough to have your head hitting the back of your chair with a squeak.

Gaz unwinds the window to his left, furthest away from you, and starts firing at where a dozen or so members stand at the main street, firing off shots at the car. Bracing yourself against the back of the driver’s seat, you take aim.

True as the way the sun is set to rise, you land multiple shots through vital organs, some lucky ones blasting right through their heads. Your wrist aches from the strength of your hold around your weapon, a break from childhood coming back to haunt you. You don’t stop, however, not when you’re nowhere near your breaking point.

Within seconds, Kate drives the car out of their view, dodging potholes like a professional.

It’s five minutes later, when you’re out of the main business streets of Las Almas, that your back hits your seat once more, eyes fluttering shut as you flick the safety back on.

Gaz does the same, his shoulder bumping yours with the width and sheer height of him. You feel small, between him and the door, but not unsafe. Quite the opposite, actually, with the way he sliced through those men with buttery gunmanship.

The silence, this time, is electric. A buzzing in the air, an excitement flowing through your veins.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh, shit,” you whine, dragging your hands over your face and sloping in your seat, lips forming a disgruntled pout.

“What – what happened? You good?” Gaz asks, leaning forward, placing his hand on the back of Kate’s headrest to look over you. His arm is corded with muscle, the sleeves of his shirt pulled up to his elbows, allowing a decent view of his military-grade skin.

You sit your head against the window.

“I left my favourite nail polish at home. And my favourite earrings,” you mumble, upset.

Gaz coughs, then sits back in his seat awkwardly. “...Right. Can’t you just. …Get more? If you’re cooperative, Ale–”

You punch him in his throat, and he wheezes, tears sprouting in his eyes as he coughs. “You don’t get it,” you glare at him, before patting his back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hit so hard.”

It’s only then that you realise John and Kate are speaking quietly up the front, low enough to not be heard by the two of you.

“Who do you guys work for, anyway?” You ask, when Gaz stops coughing, instead swallowing mouthfuls of water from the skin in his pack. He stops to stare at you.

“You ask this… now?” He questions, looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.

You shrug. “Even if you guys were mercs or something, I probably would’ve asked to be taken. Wait –” You pause, eyes going wide, mouth going slack, “You aren’t mercs, are you? Please say you aren’t.”

“We’re Special Ops. Dunno how much the old man wants me to say, so, there you go,” Gaz shrugs, pulling on his gloves. His gaze remains on yours as he does so – pulling them off by the tips of his fingers, revealing slender hands. They look oddly graceful, for a seasoned operator, and you can see the tendons pull when he takes off the other.

The sun is high enough to paint the sky in streaks of yellow and orange, swirling with the night’s dark blue. Clouds decorate the canvas like swipes of cotton, the beginnings of what looks to be a perfect Spring day. As you look out the window, watching as you pass the streets of your city, you feel an odd seed of doubt.

Not for what you’re doing – but for what you’re leaving. All of the bodies lining the streets under cartel cloths, never getting to do the very thing you’re experiencing. So many families torn apart without the option of freedom.

The glass is cool against your cheek as you drum your fingers over your lap, the tap tap tap of that song in your head looped.

“You don’t look like your pictures,” Gaz says, then, and when you turn, it’s to find him watching you studiously. He appears so relax, seated beside you, tall enough to have his head nearly hitting the roof of the car.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t realise this was a Tinder date.”

He laughs, the sound melting down your spine like the cocoa body butter you favourite. Maybe he was right about the cooperation thing – you could play nice if it meant you got to have your routine.

“I just mean,” he starts, before rolling over the words in his mouth, looking out the window before making eye contact once more. His eyes are so brown. “You’re a lot less… snobby-looking.”

You bite out a sharp laugh in shock. “Excuse me?”

He raises his hands, now, a direct copy of how you’d appeared when you first made eye contact. His smile is devastating as he says, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Just meant you have a lot more personality than expected.”

“Thought I was the type to be docile and pretty?” You quip, pulling your hair to rest over your shoulder. “How typically… male of you.”

Placing a hand over his heart, he pretends like he’s been wounded, expression twisting into one of pain. “Ouch, Princess. Way to hit a man where it hurts.”

“I know of many other places that’ll hurt,” you mutter, side-eying him. “Don’t test me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty,” he returns.

The car starts increasing in speed, then, at a harshly quick rate – enough to have both you and Gaz sitting up straighter, checking out your windows and tightening your grips on your guns.

Price turns, twisting where he sits in the passenger seat, looking out the back window. He curses under his breath, before looking between the both of you.

“We have company.”

author's note. please leave a comment or quote reblog if you enjoyed!! i hope you all enjoy this journey with me :) xx

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dee-writes-angst · 1 year ago

Text

DAFFODILS (Chapter One)

FEATURING Eris Vanserra x pregnant!reader

SUMMARY The Spring Court has gone to shit, and while you would normally be able to tolerate it, the new discovery that you were pregnant pushes you to the gates of The Autumn Court and unknowingly into Eris' arms.

CONTENT WARNINGS pregnancy, Eris being a slight douche (you know how it is yall), violence (reader is kicked in the stomach), and mentions of Tampon (Tamlin).

AUTHORS NOTE who's excited for the kick-off of yet another series? I am! Of course, I had to start an Eris series, I love him too much not to! Strap in, darlings, I have a feeling this is going to be a long one.

SERIES MASTERLIST

The once vibrant Spring court had gone to shit, a shadow of its former glory. Tamlin, the once revered and compassionate High Lord, had vanished, abandoning his people to suffer in the decay his negligence had allowed to fester.

Amid the desolation, there were attempts to salvage what remained of the Spring Court. Lucien's name surfaced as one who strove to preserve our home. I recall his desperate sacrifice on Calanmai, offering himself to Ianthe in a futile bid to rescue us. He still occasionally visits, perhaps clinging to a hope that he might stumble upon signs of revival, our High Lord restored to his former benevolence. Yet each return only reinforces the stark reality of our decline, leaving him unsurprised by the sight of our dwindling realm.

And now, here I stand, just beyond the borders of the Autumn Court, clad in nothing but the ragged remnants of my escape, imploring the impassive sentries to grant me sanctuary within their walls. They offer no response, their stoic countenances unmoved as I plead and weep at their feet.

In my disheveled state, I must present a pitiful sight—my attire threadbare and stained, my once-glamorous countenance marred by streaks of dirt and smudged cosmetics, my limbs adorned with bruises like macabre adornments.

As I teeter on the brink of desperation, a voice cuts through the stillness, emerging from the depths of the forest to my right. The guards snap to attention at its sound, their posture stiffening even further, if such a thing were possible, in deference to its commanding presence.

"What is the meaning of this?" The voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, belonged to a man with cascading locks of fiery hair, who strode forth from the underbrush with an air of regal authority.

Gods, he was a vision to behold. Despite the earthy stains marring his attire and the tousled state of his tunic sleeves, he exuded an otherworldly allure.

"A mere denizen of the Spring Court, attempting to beg her way into our domain, my lord," one of the guards grumbled, offering a curt bow before callously nudging me aside with his boot. I winced as the blow landed squarely in my stomach.

"And what, pray tell, do you think you are doing, you imbecile!" The fiery-haired man's voice dripped with disdain as he strode forward, confronting the offending guard with palpable fury. "Can you not discern her condition, you fool? She carries life within her."

My heart lurched as I instinctively cradled my abdomen, a protective gesture born of maternal instinct. Though every fiber of my being yearned to retaliate against the guard's callousness, I forced myself to breathe deeply, refusing to succumb to the animalistic urges that society expected of Spring Court members in these desperate times.

"Are you alright?" the man inquired, his amber eyes ablaze with a captivating mix of concern and authority, their gaze so intense that it stole the very air from my lungs.

"I'm… I'm fine," I managed to utter, brushing aside the tangled strands of hair obscuring my face and inhaling deeply to steady my frayed nerves.

"I must apologize for the behavior of my soldier. Rest assured, appropriate measures will be taken, my lady," the man assured me, his smile radiant as he inclined his head with graceful deference. His charm nearly brought a wry laugh to my lips.

"No need for such formalities," I replied weakly, the weight of my displaced status as a refugee gnawing at my throat like a persistent ache. But I steeled myself with the thought of my unborn child, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. "I am no longer a lady—well, not in the traditional sense, anyway."

"How so?" the man persisted, his expression a blend of curiosity and genuine concern, prompting me to draw my arms tighter around myself.

"I find it quite audacious for someone whose name I don't even know to ask such personal questions," I retorted, feigning a hint of indignation that rang hollow even to my own ears.

"Fair point," he conceded with a charming grin, though his adherence to formality still grated on my nerves. "Allow me to rectify that oversight. My name is Eris. Eris Vanserra, Heir to the Autumn Court," he declared, and I felt a strange mixture of relief and weariness wash over me at his introduction.

Eris. Lucien had spoken sparingly of his older brother during his time in the Spring Court, but whenever he did, a profound sense of affection tinged with melancholy colored his words. I shook myself from my reverie, extending a hand in a gesture of polite acknowledgement as I reciprocated with my own name. Eris repeated my name softly, testing it on his tongue, and my heart twinged at the striking resemblance in mannerism between him and Lucien, one so distant yet familiar, the other painfully close.

"Now," Eris began, his hands making a smooth, sweeping gesture that hinted at his readiness to delve deeper into the matter at hand, "what brings you to the borders of the Autumn Court, my lady?"

"The Spring Court is…" My voice faltered, and I let out a weary sigh, my hand instinctively resting on my still-flat stomach for comfort.

"It's gone to shit," he finished for me, his smirk sharp but not unkind.

"Well, I wouldn't have phrased it quite so bluntly, but yes," I responded, my fingers tracing small circles over my abdomen. "That place and its ruler are no fit environment for a child. Considering the proximity of your court, I was hoping I might find a new beginning here."

"What about the father?" Eris inquired, one eyebrow—a mirror image of Lucien's—arching skeptically.

I clear my throat awkwardly and look at my well-worn shoes. How does one tell the Heir to the Autumn Court that they are pregnant with his youngest brother's babe? How does one also explain how he is mated to another female, that they knew as soon as that brother found out about said babe, he would give up all hope to find his true mate in order to be there for his child?

"Not in the picture," I manage to say, my voice faltering slightly as I reach up to scratch the back of my neck, a gesture betraying my discomfort.

Eris hums, a low, thoughtful sound that vibrates with suspicion, his striking eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes my uneasy demeanor. The weight of his gaze feels like it could peel back the layers of my hastily constructed defenses, compelling me to confront truths I'd rather leave unspoken. Eris's scrutinizing gaze doesn't waver, and the silence stretches taut between us like a bowstring. "Not in the picture," he echoes thoughtfully, each word heavy with the promise of unasked questions.

I nod, feeling the weight of the moment settling around us. The air in the forest seems to hold its breath, the usual whispers of leaves and distant calls of woodland creatures falling into a hushed reverence. "And you must understand, my lord, that my child is my utmost priority," I assert with unwavering resolve, emphasizing his title with a hint of disdain, as if challenging the very foundations of our unequal stations.

The guards stationed behind me draw in sharp, anticipatory breaths, seemingly prepared for their lord to mete out swift retribution for my boldness. I steel myself against the expected blow, a silent rehearsal of defiance.

Yet, the expected strike does not materialize. Instead, Eris regards me with what could only be described as admiration. His gaze, intense and calculating, appraises me not as a threat, but as a formidable presence in my own right.

"Well, little fox," he begins, his voice carrying a playful undertone that belies the depth of his contemplation. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the lines of his jaw as if to physically underline his ponderings. "It appears you've presented quite the compelling argument for yourself here."

The use of "little fox" — a term perhaps meant to denote cunning and resilience — sparks a flicker of amusement within me, mixed with a surge of cautious optimism. His demeanor suggests a blend of challenge and respect, hinting at a dynamic that could evolve beyond mere formalities or supplications. This man before me is not just the heir to a court; he is a strategist weighing his next move.

"You seek shelter for yourself and the babe?" Eris inquires with a hint of slyness, as if to subtly test my resolve, though it's a point I've already made abundantly clear.

"Indeed," I retort sharply, refusing to waver under the weight of his penetrating gaze.

"Then shelter you shall have," he declares, pivoting on his heel to fix the guards with a stern glare. "You will allow her passage," he commands, his tone uncompromising. The guards, obedient to their lord's decree, quickly acquiesce, parting to allow me entry with a mere flick of Eris's wrist.

The heady scent of spices and autumnal freshness assaults my senses as I approach the threshold, beckoning me forward with its tantalizing allure. It's as if the very essence of this court implores me to embrace my true purpose, to seize control of my destiny without hesitation. The boldness of it all catches me off guard, stirring a sense of rebellion that courses through my veins like wildfire.

Pausing at the threshold, I find myself suspended between the tranquility of the wilderness behind me and the vibrant chaos of the court ahead. I hesitate, grappling with the weight of the choices that lie before me.

Eris slows his stride beside me, as if attuned to my uncertainty, and extends his arm—an offering both courteous and suggestive. His demeanor exudes confidence and assurance, as if he expects me to surrender to his lead without question.

But I refuse to yield to the expectations of courtly decorum. Chin held high, I meet his gaze with unwavering resolve, ignoring the disheveled state of my attire as I assert my independence. My feet remain firmly planted, refusing to advance until I am ready, on my own terms.

Eris's arm lingers in the air for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his features at my defiance. His amber eyes search mine, silently probing, yet beneath the scrutiny, I detect a glimmer of curiosity and… respect.

"I am quite capable of managing on my own," I declare, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within me.

His expression softens, and he nods, gracefully retracting his arm. "As you wish," he concedes, gesturing for me to take the lead as we finally step through the threshold together.

The walk through the streets of Autumn was like stepping into a painting come to life. The cobblestone pathways wound gracefully between quaint buildings adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant splashes of ivy. Overhead, colorful banners fluttered in the gentle breeze, their designs depicting scenes of seasonal splendor and courtly festivities.

Stands and stalls lined the streets, each one a miniature wonderland of treasures waiting to be discovered. From intricately woven tapestries to gleaming trinkets and baubles, the offerings were as diverse as they were captivating. Merchants called out to passersby in melodious voices, their wares displayed with care and pride.

The smells that wafted through the air were a symphony of sensory delights. Spices mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread, their fragrances intermingling in a tantalizing dance that made my mouth water. Roasted chestnuts crackled and popped over open fires, their warm, nutty aroma floating on the breeze alongside the sweet perfume of ripe fruit and fragrant flowers.

Eris's sudden change in direction pulled me from my reverie, my gaze following his lead as we approached a magnificent structure nestled within the heart of the Autumn Court. The Forest House loomed before us, its grandeur and mystique commanding attention as we drew nearer.

Surrounded by a wrought iron gate, the house stood as a bastion of elegance amidst the bustling streets. Tall trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches reaching out to embrace the ancient structure with a sense of reverence. Vines climbed the walls, their verdant tendrils weaving intricate patterns against the weathered stone.

The sight of the Forest House sent a shiver down my spine, a visceral reaction to the aura of power and mystery that seemed to emanate from its very core. It was as if the house held secrets untold, whispering tales of bygone days and forgotten legends to those who dared to listen.

"Wait!" I called out, the urgency in my voice halting Eris in his tracks. His steps faltered, and he turned to face me, a glint of amusement dancing in the depths of his eyes. The sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead cast dappled shadows across his features, lending an air of intrigue to his already enigmatic presence.

"Yes?" he inquired, his voice smooth and tinged with playful curiosity, his smirk hinting at secrets hidden just beneath the surface.

"What's going to happen to me? Where will I stay?" I blurted out, the fierce confidence I had summoned earlier dissipating like morning mist in the face of uncertainty. Nervously, I began to pick at my nails, the weight of the unknown pressing down upon me like a heavy cloak.

Eris regarded me with a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he had anticipated my question long before I had voiced it. "You will stay with me, of course," he replied simply, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that belied the gravity of his words. There was a subtle confidence in his demeanor, a quiet assurance that spoke of his authority within the court.

I recoiled at his casual response, a surge of apprehension coursing through me. "But what about Beron? Won't he object to having a… a lowborn in his household?" I ventured cautiously, the weight of his father's disapproval looming like a specter in the back of my mind.

"Nonsense," Eris scoffed, his arms crossing over his chest in a dismissive gesture. "You are now a member of this court, and given your condition," he added with a subtle nod towards my abdomen, "it is only fitting that you reside in more suitable accommodations." His words were tinged with a hint of defiance, a silent challenge to anyone who would dare question his authority.

Despite his reassurances, doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind, uncertainty clouding my thoughts like a thick fog. "Absolutely not!" I protested vehemently, a surge of protectiveness coursing through me as I instinctively placed a hand over my stomach, as if to shield my unborn child from the absurdity of Eris's suggestion. "I refuse to stay in your chambers, Eris. It's… it's utterly preposterous."

Eris's eyebrow lifted slightly, his gaze holding a hint of amusement mixed with something darker. "Stubborn, aren't we?" he remarked, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "But if you prefer to sleep on the streets, far be it from me to stand in your way."

His words, though seemingly casual, carried a sharp edge that hinted at the depth of his cunning. It was a subtle reminder of his position of power, a reminder that I was at his mercy whether I liked it or not.

I bristled at his thinly veiled threat, my jaw clenching as I met his gaze with a glare of my own. "You wouldn't dare," I challenged, though a flicker of uncertainty danced behind my eyes.

Eris's smirk widened, the glint in his amber eyes turning predatory. "Try me," he replied, his tone dripping with promise and menace in equal measure.

With a frustrated huff, I reluctantly relented, realizing that I was in no position to defy him. "Fine," I conceded through gritted teeth, my hand slipping from my stomach to clench into a fist at my side. "But don't expect me to thank you for it."

Eris's smirk softened into a smirk, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. "Who said anything about gratitude?" he mused, his voice low and husky. "I'm merely extending a courtesy to a fellow refugee."

His words were laced with sarcasm, a reminder that his generosity came with strings attached. It was a stark contrast to the charming facade he wore, a glimpse of the ruthlessness that lay beneath.

I swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in the back of my throat as I followed him towards the Forest House. It was clear that my time in the Autumn Court would be far from easy, but as I glanced back at the crumbling ruins of the Spring Court behind me, I knew that I had no other choice.

As we reached the grand doors of the Forest House, Eris turned to me with a smirk. "Welcome to your new home, little fox," he remarked, his tone dripping with irony. "Try not to get too comfortable."

My brows furrowed at his words, suspicion creeping into my mind. "What's the catch?" I asked warily, narrowing my eyes at him.

Eris chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "Though I do have one condition," he said, his smirk widening into a grin.

"And what is that?" I asked, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

"You must walk with me once a day for the duration of your stay," Eris declared, his tone teasing yet firm.

My jaw dropped in disbelief. "You're joking," I exclaimed, disbelief evident in my voice.

Eris's grin widened, his amber eyes dancing with amusement. "Do I look like I'm joking?" he retorted, his tone challenging.

I narrowed my eyes at him, a surge of defiance rising within me. "This is ridiculous," I protested, shaking my head in disbelief. "I won't be your captive audience."

Eris's expression softened, a hint of something unfamiliar flickering in his eyes. "It's not about being captive," he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Consider it… a chance to explore the court, to clear your mind. Besides," he added with a smirk, "I could use the company."

I bristled at his suggestion, my pride warring with my better judgment. "And if I refuse?" I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest.

Eris's smirk widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Then you'll miss out on some truly breathtaking views," he replied, his tone teasing yet earnest.

I sighed in frustration, realizing that I was fighting a losing battle. "Fine," I relented, though the words tasted like ash on my tongue. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."

Eris's grin widened into a smirk, his eyes alight with amusement. "Oh, I have a feeling you'll come to enjoy it more than you think," he remarked cryptically, before turning to lead the way into the Forest House.

As Eris escorted me to the grand Forest House, his steps were measured, exuding an air of regal confidence that was unmistakably his. His fiery locks seemed to dance with each movement, and his amber eyes held a glint of mischief, hinting at the cunning that lay beneath his charming exterior.

Upon entering my chambers, Eris's gaze swept over the room with a critical eye, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I trust the accommodations meet with your approval, my lady?" he inquired, his voice smooth as honey but tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

I nodded, unable to suppress a smirk of my own at his thinly veiled jest. "They're quite lovely, thank you," I replied, matching his playful tone with one of my own.

Eris's smirk widened into a grin, his amusement evident in the curve of his lips. "Excellent," he remarked, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than strictly necessary before turning away to survey the room once more.

As I explored my new surroundings, I couldn't help but notice Eris's watchful gaze following my every move. It was as if he were sizing me up, gauging my reactions to the opulence that surrounded us. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye, a depth of character hidden behind his charming facade.

Spotting the single daffodil on the table near the window, I couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight. It was a quintessentially Eris gesture—playful yet meaningful, a subtle reminder of our earlier exchange. I picked up the note beside it, the elegant script a testament to Eris's attention to detail.

"I will be seeing you real soon, little fox. Wouldn't want you slacking off on our daily walks now, would we?" the note read, the teasing tone perfectly in line with Eris's mischievous nature. I couldn't help but smile at his audacity, the unspoken challenge sparking a flicker of excitement within me.

Setting the note back down, I turned to find Eris watching me with a knowing smirk, his amber eyes alight with amusement. "I take it you approve of my choice of decor?" he quipped, the smirk widening into a grin as he met my gaze.

I rolled my eyes playfully, unable to suppress a laugh at his antics. "It's certainly… unique," I replied, the hint of sarcasm in my tone mirroring his own.

Eris chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. "I'm glad to hear it," he replied, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than strictly necessary before turning away to hide the flush that crept across his cheeks.

TAGLIST

@purple-writer8 @defnotlucienvanserra @cherry-cin @julesofvolterra @mirandasidefics @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @littlestw01f @skylarkalchemist @babypeapoddd

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attapullman · 1 year ago

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Stupid White Car | Neighbor!Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: Pretty trees and cozy fire pit nights are all you expected when Robert mentioned wanting to landscape his backyard. And then the architect in the slutty white Benz shows up.

Word Count: 810

Warnings: none except sorry if your name is Alyssa 😬

A Note From Mo: The world's biggest shoutout to my favourite Bradshaw Baddie @roosterforme for coming up with this delicious idea and beta-ing this sake-written, jealousy-fueled oneshot for the neighbor!Bob anthology. Hope this satisfies everyone's appetite until Part III graces your screens.

The project was supposed to be done a week ago. No more white Mercedes in his driveway, no more lemonade on the back patio, no more mulch deliveries outside business hours. No more her.

When Robert announced he was finally landscaping his boring grass lawn while on leave, you had encouraged him. Dreams of sitting out there with him by a fire pit under some string lights danced before your eyes. But now you’re wishing he had kept his patchy lawn that turned into a mud pit at the slightest chance of rain.

Then she showed up.

You were working in your home office, deep into a spreadsheet, when you heard a female voice in the yard next door. Face pressed into the window, turning just so, a tiny postage stamp of his yard visible from your vantage point. Your sweet boyfriend walking around his desolate lawn, pointing out problems, while the most stunning woman followed him, smiling and nodding and jotting down notes.

It should be illegal for him to look so good in faded jeans with grass stains. Or for her to pull off work boots so well.

You missed your three o’clock meeting observing them from your hideout, having moved to the laundry room where you could see his yard better. Watched them sit at the little finicky table he needed to replace and go over pages in her catalog, pointing out the design features he liked and what she recommended.

You didn’t know words like drip irrigation and concept plan could sound so…intimate.

Now it’s been weeks, and that annoying little car is always in his driveway. When she’s not “supervising” the subcontractor, she’s delivering supplies or needing to go over the plans one last time. The 15th has come and gone, and yet she’s still here. And you’re not sure whether it’s your imagination or not that her blouses suddenly have one less button done.

It’s a beautiful spring day outside, and you wish you were out there instead of holed up trying to make sense of this budget. The window is open to allow a soft breeze, tickling the skin not covered by your thin tshirt. An hour ago you shot Robert a text asking if he wanted to have dinner out tonight, try out that new bistro with the cute patio and enjoy the sunshine and some tiramisu.

Maybe add in an evening walk along the beach? Ending with a night cap and him wrapped in your overstuffed comforter, enjoying his last night of leave blissfully unaware of the rest of the world.

Checking your quiet phone again, you settle down to your computer. And then you hear a perfect twinkle of a laugh.

You abandon your computer and race down to the laundry, face pressed against the glass as emerald green jealousy licks along your skin.

No wonder you haven’t heard from Robert, his full attention is on his landscape architect as she has him choose between gravels for the stepping stones they’re finally installing. He’s brought out lemonade. Innocent blue eyes trained on her and laughing good-naturedly as she makes a joke about mortar. A joke a little too sultry for your taste.

You didn’t even hear her car pull in. When you talked to him last night he acted like all decisions had been made, one more full day of work and his backyard would be summer ready. It’s not a surprise she has weaseled herself into another visit.

Their hands accidentally brush as they flip between sample pages. Your entire being is rigid, the world in front of you an ominous red. How dare she touch what’s yours!

Before reasoning can interfere, you’re slipping on sandals and racing to the back fence. Pupils wild, heart racing, the green-eyed monster hot on your heels.

The latch on his fence, newly installed, nearly pulverized in your jealousy-fueled mission. The gate swings open and there they sit, too close for your liking, her manicured fingers gliding along his forearm as she explains costs.

Robert stands from his chair, shock and surprise written all over his face. He’s never seen this look in your eyes, this possession written all over your features. The woman raises her eyebrows to you, mildly shocked, mildly irritated you’ve interrupted her meeting with her favorite client.

“Alyssa, this is my, uh, neighbor next door…” he trails off awkwardly, realizing he’s never had to introduce you since that fateful night in your kitchen.

You see her smirk. Her revealing blouse. Her eyes that pity you. And from the corner of your eye, you see that stupid white Mercedes.

Rounding the rickety table, Robert’s eyes are filled with nothing but affection. A gentle reminder that she’s had his time, but you have his heart.

Your shoulders relax, returning her smug smile as you complete his sentence. “Neighbor…and girlfriend.”

taglist: @bella-maria2018 @berryvanille @bobfloydsbabe @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @desert-fern @drxgxnslxyer @erospecies @hangmanapologist @hauntedduckdefendor @hiireadstuff @himbos-on-ice @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @livingoutsidethetardis @mariaenchanted @maryelizabeth13 @melsunshine @midnightmagpiemama @petersunderoos96 @pinkdaisies9285 @primroseluna @roosterforme @seitmai @senawashere @sometimesanalice @sorchathered @sweetwhispersofchaos @sydsommersss @topherwrites @unpretty-reader @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld

join the taglist for any fic

#neighbor!bob #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd #robert bob floyd fic #bob floyd fic #top gun: maverick fic #bob floyd fan fiction #robert bob floyd fan fiction #top gun: maverick fan fiction

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sai-int · 6 months ago

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Panther | FNG

[PREV] | [NEXT]

MASTERLIST AO3

cw: strong language, depictions of violence, 7.8k words

7.23.22 - 1143

The hotel room felt like a holding cell disguised as comfort. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige furniture—the place looked like someone had tried to save money by shopping for the most uninspired options available. A faint smell of industrial cleaner and something vaguely floral clung to the air, leaving an antiseptic sharpness in my nose. The bedspread, patterned with muted geometric shapes, screamed early 2000s nostalgia, but not the good kind.

I dropped my duffel on the bed, the springs squeaking in protest, and surveyed my temporary prison. No orders. No updates. Just waiting. My job was often like this—quiet stretches of tedium punctuated by bursts of chaos. But this particular stretch of quiet was gnawing at me. The unknowns about the mission swirled in my head, each unanswered question more frustrating than the last.

"One hell of a start," I muttered, kicking off my boots and tossing them by the door. The thud echoed briefly in the otherwise silent room.

The first thing I did was shower. The bathroom wasn't much better than the room—a cramped space with dingy white tiles and a warped mirror that distorted my reflection at the edges. I turned the shower knob to its hottest setting, waiting for steam to rise, but the water barely made it past lukewarm.

The spray hit my skin in uneven bursts, but I stood under it anyway, letting the tepid water wash away the film of airport sweat and grime. My hair clung to my scalp, plastered down in thick, wet strands, as I worked shampoo into my roots. The simple act of scrubbing felt grounding, almost meditative.

I leaned my forehead against the cool tiles, water streaming down my face as my thoughts spiraled. Who were these people I was about to work with? What kind of mission required this much secrecy? Was I walking into something I wasn't ready for?

The bathroom filled with the faint scent of cheap soap as I rinsed the last of the suds from my hair, the water trickling down the drain with an almost hypnotic rhythm. I can't allow myself to be human in this line of work; I'd be down in the gutter before I could count to three. Doesn't matter, I reminded myself. Stick with it.

After drying off with a towel that was more scratchy than soft, I pulled on an old pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt. The fabric clung uncomfortably to my damp skin as I brushed through my dark hair and stepped back into the main room.

The sun did its best to break through the thick curtains, but to no avail. The space was dim and flipping through the TV channels proved to be as uninspiring as the rest of the room. Home renovation shows featuring overenthusiastic couples arguing about countertops. Reruns of Friends with jokes that hadn't aged well. A game show where contestants embarrassingly misidentified pop hits from the early 2000s.

I settled on the game show, not because it was good, but because it was the least mind-numbing option. The canned laughter eventually fell to static in the background after a few hours or so. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, laid down, and started scrolling.

Stale group chats. Generic memes on Instagram. News articles. Spam emails promising discounts I didn't care about. Nothing to distract me from the oppressive quiet.

Just as I was about to toss the phone aside, it buzzed in my hand.

The screen lit up: Carlos calling.

I swiped to answer and sat up to lean back against the headboard. "Carlos," I said, unable to keep the small smile out of my voice. "How y'doin'?"

"Bea!" His voice was so loud and cheerful it felt like he was in the room with me. "Where the hell did you go? Witness protection or something?"

I laughed lightly, feeling some of the tension in my chest ease. "'f anythin', 'm prob'ly more likely to put someone in witness protection," I chuckled. "But somethin' like that. Just got yanked into somethin' new. Y'know how it is."

"Yeah, totally. Oh wait- Leon's here too," Carlos said, his voice muffled briefly before another familiar voice chimed in.

"Bea! You're alive!" Leon's tone was light, with just a hint of teasing. "So, what's with the cryptic Houdini act?"

I hesitated, staring at the beige wall as I chose my words. "Can't really say. Actually don't even know much. 'M just...waitin' for now."

Carlos snorted. "Cryptic as hell. You good, though? You sound...off."

"Yeah, 'm good," I lied smoothly, though the knot in my stomach said otherwise.

"Calling bullshit," Leon interrupted. "You're terrible at lying, Bea."

I sighed, running a hand through my still-damp hair. I had to assume everything about what I'm doing is classified. "'M just a little... antsy. Don't know what 'm about t'get into."

"Doesn't matter," Carlos said. "You're the Panther. You're top dog. You've got this."

I grimaced and cringed. "Hate when y'all call me that.."

I could hear Leon chuckle in the background, he chimed in, "Oh come on! We've seen you pull off some crazy shit. This'll be a cakewalk for you."

I chuckled and rolled my eyes., feeling the tension in my chest ease a fraction. "Y'all are ridiculous."

"Yeah, but you love us for it," Leon said, his grin practically audible.

Carlos interrupted. "Yeah, Bea. Remember the time you had to hot wire that Humvee on the fly in the middle of fucking Iraq? How'd you learn to do that anyway?"

"That's a can o'worms you just don't wanna open." I said bashfully, trying to shut down the hype they were giving me.

The conversation drifted into lighter topics, touching on inside jokes and harmless teasing. They never let up. I said "fixin' to" and they drop it for 30 minutes.

"If you could hear yourself," Carlos said, barely able to get the words out between laughs.

"Oh shut it," I shot back, rolling my eyes even though they couldn't see me.

Eventually the call came to an end and I tossed my phone aside. The afternoon sun was finally coming down and the long forgotten game-show was still running in the background, yet the room felt heavier, the lightness from their banter fading too quickly. I needed to move. The restless energy thrummed under my skin, and sitting still felt unbearable.

Dropping to the floor, I started with push-ups, counting off each one in my head. The muscles in my arms and chest burned, screaming for a break by the time I hit 60, but I kept going. Sit-ups came next, followed by planks and burpees. Sweat dripped down my face and onto the carpet as I pushed myself to exhaustion, each motion burning off a little more of my unease.

When I finally stopped, my chest was heaving, and my hands were trembling. I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting my breath slow. I got up and lugged myself back to the bathroom for another shower.

This time, I didn't care that the water was only lukewarm. It felt good against my overheated skin, washing away the sweat and replacing it with a sense of calm. The sound of the water, steady and rhythmic, drowned out the storm in my head, at least for a while.

Back in bed, the exhaustion hit me quickly, but sleep didn't come easy. My mind was still restless, thoughts flitting between the mission and the unknown faces I'd be working with. When I finally drifted off, the nightmares came fast.

The dream was jagged, a montage of half-formed memories and blurred faces.

My father's voice echoed, low and slurred, as he fumbled with his belt. A crash. A scream. My mother's blue face, the smell of gunpowder sharp in the air. The scene shifted, fragments colliding. The hollow sound of a shot, the thud of a body hitting the floor. My own cries drowned out by silence.

I woke up gasping, sweat sticking my shirt and the sheets to my skin. The hotel room was dark, save for the faint glow of the clock on the nightstand. 2:43 a.m. I pressed my hands against my face, grounding myself in the now.

"It's just a dream," I muttered, though the tightness in my chest said otherwise. It was a long time before I managed to fall back asleep. When I did, it was fitful, the shadows of the dream still lurking.

....

The morning light crept into the room through the curtains, painting the walls in muted yellows that did little to brighten the drab decor. My body felt sluggish as I blinked awake, the weight of the restless night still clinging to me. The clock on the nightstand read 9:47 a.m.—late, by my standards. The room was still and heavy with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning unit chugging along in the corner.

Rolling out of bed, I stretched, feeling the satisfying pull of tight muscles. My stomach growled, a low reminder of how long it had been since I'd eaten anything more substantial than a granola bar. Room service seemed like a small indulgence, but the idea of heading down to the lobby and facing the fake pleasantries of strangers wasn't appealing. I picked up the laminated menu from the desk and scanned the options. Pancakes, eggs, toast—the basics. I dialed the number, ordered a bit of everything, and sank into the chair by the window, letting my gaze drift across the parking lot below. It was weird and entirely unfamiliar to be somewhere so... normal. I had been practically living on bases for years.

After some time, a knock came at the door, the smell of coffee and bacon was already seeping through the hallway. I opened the door to a young man in a surprisingly crisp uniform who wheeled in the tray with a polite smile, his movements practiced and efficient. The food was neatly arranged: fluffy scrambled eggs, toast cut into perfect triangles, syrup glistening on a stack of pancakes. I poured the coffee into a white ceramic cup and took a long sip, the bitter heat jolting me into full wakefulness. This was way better than expected given the room. I had a feeling that this was more than just a dingy motel. Thanks, Laswell.

After eating, I headed for the shower again to wash off the night terrors and the sweat and torment that came with it. The bathroom's mirror was still fogged from last night's use, a faint outline of my reflection visible in the glass. I turned on the water and let it get hot for a few moments. I stared at my reflection, looking at myself indifferently as if I wasn't even real. A large scar ran across my left eye, several on my lips and cheek. To me, it was unsightly. No wonder people do double takes when I walk by.

The steam filled the room as I stepped under the spray, letting it wash away the stiffness from sleep. The scent of generic hotel soap filled the air, a clean but unremarkable smell that somehow felt comforting. Showers were a luxury I didn't take for granted. In the field, water was often scarce or cold, stolen moments of hygiene were wedged between long days of sweat and dirt... Sometimes mud or sand. The water rushed over my skin, pooling at my feet before swirling down the drain.

I didn't know if I should wear my fatigues or my civvies. I opted for my fatigues and figured it was a better way to make good first impressions. I slipped on the camouflage pants and tucked my forest green shirt into the waistband. I tried to lose myself in the endless loop of hotel TV. The channels hadn't improved overnight. A cooking competition played on one, the dramatic music and over-the-top commentary that grated after ten minutes.

When my phone buzzed, the sound cut through the monotony like a lifeline. I grabbed it off the nightstand, seeing a random number on the screen. Swiping to answer, I pressed it to my ear.

"Hello?", my voice steady.

Laswell's tone was brisk and to the point. "Two men will be at your door in thirty minutes to escort you to the plane. Be ready and packed."

"Yes, ma'am," I said automatically. She was probably using a burner.

The call ended before I could ask anything further. I set the phone down, the weight of her words settling over me. Thirty minutes. Plenty of time to throw everything back into my duffel, though I moved with purpose anyway, folding clothes and stashing toiletries with precision. I could hear my Drill Sergeants voice in my head from Basic Training yelling at me about how to pack.

Right on time, there was a knock at the door. I opened it up and two men in dark suits stood in the hallway, their expressions unreadable behind tinted sunglasses. "Ms. Dawson?" one of them asked, his voice low and professional.

"That's me," I replied, slinging the duffel over my shoulder.

They nodded and led me downstairs and out to a sleek black car waiting at the curb. The ride to the airfield was silent, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle as one of the men shifted in his seat. The city blurred in the distance as we got closer to the private terminal I came from just a day ago.

When we arrived, the private plane was already waiting, its sleek white body gleaming in the sunlight. The stairs were down, and I could see two figures waiting at the top—Kate Laswell and John Price.

I climbed the steps, my boots thudding softly against the metal, and nodded at them. "Ma'am. Sir."

Price gave me a small smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "At ease, Soldier. No need for the formalities right now. Just Price will do."

"Yes, si—Price," I corrected myself quickly, this habit would be so hard to break if this continues.

Laswell's gaze was sharp, but not unkind, as she motioned me to take a seat. The interior of the plane was immaculate, all leather seats and polished wood.

I settled into a seat across from him, glancing out the window as the engines roared to life.

"You're already a decorated Ranger," Price started, his tone casual but probing. "Air Assault, Jungle Warfare, Arctic Survival, 8 deployments... Silver Star... Hell, you've got more certifications than some of my guys."

"Thank you," I said simply as I sat up straighter, not sure where he was going with this.

"And..." He continued, "You killed Barkov."

"I did, Sir." I affirmed. That's how I got that stupid Silver Star.

"I was hunting him for a while. Glad someone got to him when I couldn't." Price gave me a genuine, yet controlled smile before returning to look at my file.

"Overqualified for most things," he continued, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Which is good. Means you're ready for whatever this is."

"I sure hope so," I said, my voice steady even as my mind raced.

"And the therapy?" Laswell interjected, her gaze sharp.

"I've been dealin' with it. It won't interfere, Ma'am." I responded firmly.

"Good. We don't babysit." she responded, seemingly satisfied.

After a few beats of silence, I turned my attention to Price and spoke up. "Who's your crew?"

Price promptly grabbed an accordion folder from his side as if he'd been waiting for me to ask. He opened it up and pulled out some files, sliding the first one to me.

"Sergeant Garrick. Kyle Garrick. They call him 'Gaz'."

I took the file, observing the picture of the man on the front before he pulled out another.

"John Mactavish. SAS. Sniper- Demolitions. Goes by 'Soap'."

I sat back as he spoke and I eyed the file as he slid it toward me. "Why?"

"That's classified."

I took the file and stacked it atop the other, making no attempts to argue with the Captain. Price pulled another file out and chuckled.

"There he is," He tossed it in front of me with finality. "Simon Riley."

I sat up and looked at the file curiously before meeting Price's eyes. "There's no picture-"

"Never." He interrupted. "Now the rest comes if we determine that you can work with us."

I nodded the gravity of the situation settling deep in my bones. This wasn't just a field OP. This was a fucking coalition Taskforce with men that make Carlos and Leon look like they're fresh out of Basic. I glanced at the files once more before looking back to Price.

"What's your Taskforce called?"

Price crossed his arms and sat back, a look of pride in his eyes, likely to the fact that this was entirely his.

"141."

....

The rest of the plane ride passed in a blur as I absorbed everything I could from the files, the quiet hum of the engines a constant backdrop. Simon Riley—Ghost, SAS, British, Lieutenant, 6 foot 5... The man was a fucking war machine as far as I could tell. John Mactavish—Soap, the name was weird as fuck, but mine was Panther, so I couldn't say much. SAS, Scottish, Sergeant, 6 foot 2. Then there was Kyle Garrick—Gaz, also British, SAS, Expertise in target elimination, weapons tactics, covert surveillance...By the time I studied them all, I was sure I'd gone cross-eyed.

By the time we landed at an airfield in what I guessed was Belarus—though I couldn't be sure—I felt more prepared, though still on edge. They were all Brits. Last time I worked with a British guy, I had to get someone to practically translate for me. Price and Laswell exited the plane first, their figures outlined against the dull gray sky. The chill of the airfield hit me, sharp and biting against my face as I stepped off the plane. Clouds hung low and gray, diffusing the light and casting everything in a dull, washed-out tone. My boots clattered against the metal stairs as I descended, the wind tugging at my hair. Standing near the edge of the tarmac were three men, their postures casual but their presence anything but.

The first one caught my eye immediately, mostly because of his mohawk. He had a boyish charm to him despite the hardened lines of his face, his grin quick and easy as his sharp blue eyes tracked my approach. His clothes were relaxed but practical—jeans, a plain shirt, and boots that looked like they'd been through more than a few scrapes. When I got closer, he tipped an imaginary hat and said, "John MacTavish, b'ye can call m'Soap." His Scottish accent was thick, the words tumbling out in a way that left me scrambling to decipher them. They were giving me their full names. Back at base we just toss out our last names and keep it going.

I managed a polite nod, offering a terse, "Dawson." His grin widened, and I wondered if he'd expected more.

Next to him stood a tall figure whose presence was as imposing as his attire was understated. He wore a black hoodie and dark jeans, blending into the dreary surroundings, but his face—or what little of it I could see—was unforgettable. A balaclava stretched over his head, the skeletal outline of a skull painted across it. Only his eyes were visible, sharp and assessing beneath the fabric. He didn't speak immediately, just extended a gloved hand.

"Ghost," he said, his voice low and gravelly.

I shook his hand, the contact brief and almost perfunctory. The mask unsettled me, though I kept my expression neutral.

The last man seemed the most approachable, dressed in what could've been casual streetwear: a jacket, a t-shirt, and jeans, topped off with a baseball cap. His expression was calm, his brown eyes warm as he offered me a small smile. "Kyle Garrick," he said, his accent lighter and easier to follow than Ghost. Or really Soap's, for that matter. "Most call me Gaz."

"Dawson," I said again, keeping it short.

As I stood there, my eyes flicking between the three of them, everything felt... off. They didn't look like soldiers—not in the way I was used to. No fatigues. No rank patches. No insignias to give away who or what they were. Covered faces, hats and mohawks... I'd spent years surrounded by military structure, the hierarchy so ingrained it was second nature to clock someone's rank and unit at a glance and approach accordingly. Here, they just looked like three men who, albeit shredded, could've stepped off the street, and I was definitely out of place.

And that's when it hit me. These weren't just Special Forces like I was Special Forces. They were Special Forces. The kind of guys whose faces you'd never see on the news because they were blurred out. The ones who didn't exist in the official reports. I'd been plucked from my comfort zone and thrown into something that felt leagues above what I was used to. But this was what I was trained for, wasn't it? I reminded myself of the certifications, the grueling schools, the endless hours of preparation. I was ready.

"Shall we?" Price's voice cut through my thoughts, and I followed the group inside the nearby building. The interior was all business: gray walls, functional lighting, and the faint hum of a heater somewhere in the background. We walked down a corridor and into a conference room with a large table at its center and chairs arranged neatly around it.

Once we were seated, the real introductions began.

"So," Soap said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Where exactly are ye from? 'Cause tha's one 'ell of 'n accent."

It caught me off guard for a second. I knew my accent was noticeable to some Americans, but hearing it called out like that made me suddenly self-conscious. "Georgia," I said simply, but the single word drew a smirk from him.

"Ah, we read that in the file," Gaz chimed in, his tone light. "Didn't quite expect it to sound like that, though."

"Like what?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Like w'need subtitles," Soap said, grinning.

The other two chuckled, and I felt my ears heat up, though I tried not to let it show. "Y'all ain't exactly easy t'understand either," I shot back, glancing at Soap. "'Specially you."

His grin only widened. "What's th' problem? Ah'm speakin' plain English, Bonnie."

"Sure you are," I muttered. "'N that's not my name."

At that, Gaz and Soap looked at each other as if they had some inside joke, their lips collectively pursing to hold back laughter. Ghost looked like he'd rather be anywhere but in the room.

I didn't know what they were giggling about. Price had the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers and Ghost was watching the two, and me, with ever observant hazel eyes.

Gaz leaned back in his chair, his expression amused. "It'll uh-" He cleared his throat before trying to maintain some sort of professionalism. "... Take some getting used to, for both sides, I think."

Price cleared his throat, bringing the room back to focus. "Right, 'nough of that."

As the conversation shifted, I couldn't help but glance at Ghost. I was trying to decipher the kind of man he was. Was he the 'large-and-in-charge' type, or the 'straight-up-asshole' type? The mask was he wore impossible to ignore. It wasn't just the look of it—it was the way he wore it like it was part of him, as natural as the rest of us wearing shirts. The question slipped out before I could stop myself.

"What's with the mask?"

His gaze shifted to me as if he knew I was already watching, and for a moment, I thought he might not answer. Then he said, simply, "To hide my face."

I blinked. "Well, sure, but... why?"

"To hide my face," he repeated, his tone flat, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The corner of Soap's mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh. Gaz just shook his head, clearly used to this kind of interaction. Defintely a straight-up-asshole.

Deciding to drop it, I focused instead on Gaz, who seemed the easiest to talk to. His voice was smoother than the others', his accent less pronounced, and he had an easy way about him that put me at ease. We chatted briefly about training and the differences between our experiences, though I still had to concentrate to catch everything he was saying. Soap chimed in occasionally, his words rapid-fire and impossible to follow at times.

By the end of the introductions, my head was spinning, not just from the accents but from the realization of what I was stepping into. These men were leagues beyond anything I'd experienced before.

.....

The base had a weird vibe. The walls were all utilitarian gray, the kind of color that felt like it sucked the personality out of the place. There was a faint hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, and the air smelled like oil, metal, and... something earthy. Maybe it was the boots dragging dirt in or just the age of the place. Either way, it was sterile in some parts and oddly homey in others.

After the "introductions", I'd been told to "familiarize myself." That was it. No details, no specific instructions, just those two vague words. I wasn't sure if it meant the base or the people, but wandering around seemed like as good a start as any.

Eventually, I stumbled into a kitchen. And when I say kitchen, I mean something that wouldn't have been out of place in a rundown apartment. Counters were scattered with mugs that didn't match, a few jars of instant coffee, and a box of cookies that looked like it had been forgotten halfway through a snack break. The fridge hummed in the corner, looking like it had seen better days.

It wasn't what I'd expected in a high-stakes special forces base, but then again, nothing here was what I'd expected so far. Still, the sight of the fridge sparked a faint glimmer of hope. I walked over, tugged the door open, and leaned down to scan the shelves. Water bottles, leftovers in containers with no labels, some condiments shoved into the door—no surprises so far.

"Y'all got any tea in here?" I muttered under my breath, my voice barely louder than the fridge's hum. I didn't expect an answer.

Which is why I nearly jumped out of my skin when I got one.

"Tea? What're ye lookin' for tea in the fridge for?"

I spun around so fast I nearly slammed the fridge door shut with my hip. Standing in the doorway, looking like he'd just walked out of a casual Saturday afternoon, was John? Johnny? Or Soap, as they called him, I couldn't figure out which to use. He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world, his arms crossed over a plain blue t-shirt that showed off his forearms. His mohawk was a little messier under the kitchen lights, and of course, there was that trademark grin.

I frowned, trying to tamp down the irritation at being snuck up on. "Yeah, I'm lookin' for tea. What of it?"

Soap tilted his head, his grin widening like I'd just said the dumbest thing he'd ever heard. "Tea's not somethin' ye keep in the fridge, lass."

I narrowed my eyes at him, gesturing to the open fridge like it was obvious. "Yeah, it is."

He straightened up a bit, his grin slipping just enough to show he was genuinely confused. "What're ye sayin'?"

Now it was my turn to stare at him like he was the dumb one. "Y'don't know what tea is? Are you kiddin' with me?"

"I'm not!" he said, hands up like I'd pulled a gun on him. "Tea's tea, aye? Ye brew it hot, maybe add a wee splash o' milk, bit o' sugar if yer feelin' fancy."

I blinked at him, my jaw slack. "What? No. That's not tea. That's..." I paused, searching for the words. "That's hot tea. Like... what y'drink when you're sick or somethin'."

He recoiled like I'd just insulted his mother. "Sick? It's a bloody staple, tha's what it is!"

"Well, where I'm from, tea is tea. Cold, brewed with enough sugar to make your teeth ache."

The way he looked at me, you'd think I'd just told him I put ketchup on steak. "Yer serious?"

"Dead serious," I said, crossing my arms.

We stared at each other, the air thick with mutual disbelief. I couldn't tell if he was about to argue with me or just walk away shaking his head. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls like it had been bottled up for hours.

I watched him, unimpressed, as he finally wiped his eyes. "Ach, tha' explains it," he said between chuckles. "Southern lass, aye? Aren't the lot of ye supposed tae be sweet? Should've known ye'd have yer own rules for somethin' simple like tea. "

I raised an eyebrow, the irritation creeping into my voice. "If you're lookin' for 'sweet' outta me, you gon' be mighty disappointed. If I was fixin' to be nice, I would'a joined a book club, not the Army."

Soap grinned like I'd just proved his point. "Aye, fair enough."

We both stood there for a beat, the tension easing just enough for a smirk to tug at my lips. "You know," I said finally, glancing back at the fridge, "I think I'll take my chances and just make my own tea later. Whatever this place considers tea... I'm good."

Soap chuckled again. "Aye, we'll get along just fine, Dawson. Once we figure out what the hell we're sayin' to each other."

I shook my head, turning back to shut the fridge. "Yeah, good luck with that."

Despite myself, I couldn't help but feel just a little less like an outsider. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

....

I spent some time making myself at home in the tiny, sparsely furnished quarters I'd been assigned. I wasn't surprised—it was a far cry from the usual military accommodations, but I wasn't exactly here for luxury. There wasn't much to unpack. Just the essentials: my kit, my clothes, and the few personal items I'd managed to bring along. A small cot sat in one corner, its mattress thin and creaky. There was a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist's office and a desk with a few scattered papers and a lamp, but nothing much else.

I decided not to bother unpacking my duffel—just stashed it in the closet. The walls were bare, save for the faded insignia of the base. It smelled faintly of stale air, probably from disuse, and I didn't mind. It had been a while since I'd stayed anywhere that felt this... utilitarian.

With no one around to ask questions, I continued to explore a little. I didn't expect to find much, but it felt better than sitting still. I wandered through hallways, checking out the base. It wasn't big, but it was functional—something that could be packed up and relocated in a heartbeat. Eventually, I ended up in what looked like a gym—a decent-sized room with mats, machines, a few heavy bags, and weights scattered across the floor. It was quiet, except for the faint sound of weights clanking somewhere in the distance.

I continued walking and turned a corner and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Ghost standing there, leaning casually against the wall. The skull mask was just as unsettling in the dim light of the corridor as it had been earlier.

"Price wants you in his office," he said, his deep voice carrying a weight that made it clear this wasn't optional.

I nodded, following him silently as he led me through the base. He didn't say much, which wasn't surprising, but the air between us wasn't hostile. If anything, it felt calculated, like he was trying to get a read on me.

When we reached Price's office, Ghost opened the door and gestured for me to enter. Price was seated behind a desk cluttered with maps, papers, and a mug that I'd bet good money was full of tea.

"Sit," Price said, nodding to the chair across from him.

I sat down, and Ghost, instead of leaving, took a seat on the edge of the desk. It felt deliberate, like he was part of whatever conversation was about to happen.

"We've been going over your file," Price started, his tone steady but not unkind. "You're lethal on paper. Qualifications out the ass."

I stayed silent, waiting for the but I knew was coming.

"But," Price continued, "we need to see it for ourselves. Paper's one thing. Real life's another."

I raised an eyebrow. "So, what's the plan?"

"Skills check," Ghost chimed in, his face unreadable behind the skull mask.

"An hour from now," Price added, his eyes locking onto mine. "Head to the gym. Sparring first. Then we'll see how you handle weapons, close-quarters. We need to know you can keep up with the team."

I nodded, standing up. It was what I expected, honestly. Nothing I couldn't handle.

One hour later, I was in the gym with work out attire, stretching out and loosening my muscles on the mat. Soap and Gaz entered a few minutes later, looking ready to roll. Soap was grinning like he always did, while Gaz seemed more composed, his face a little harder to read. I threw a few jabs into the air, working on my technique, when Price came through the door. He glanced over at me, then turned to Soap.

"Let's see what she can do," Price said, and Soap gave a sharp nod, taking off his jacket.

"Ready to dance, lass?" Soap asked with a wink as he stepped to the center of the mat.

I rolled my neck, stretching out my shoulders. "Let's go."

We started with MMA, both of us moving around the mat, sizing each other up. Soap came at me fast, throwing jabs that I deflected with ease. He wasn't sloppy, though—each punch felt measured. I responded with a low kick to his thigh, then stepped in for a quick clinch. He tried to knee me in the ribs, but I blocked it and shifted my weight to take him down to the mat. I stayed on top for a second, keeping the pressure on, then he twisted out, using his leg to sweep me off balance.

The fight went back and forth like that—each of us landing solid blows, countering, and repositioning. Soap had quick reflexes, but I was used to handling someone who fought dirty. A few more exchanges, and I managed to lock him into a submission hold, straining until he tapped out, panting heavily.

"Not bad," Soap said, rubbing his neck with a grin. "Yer a tough one."

"Thanks," I replied, already sizing up Gaz as he moved into position.

Gaz and I started on jiu-jitsu. He was precise, working from a neutral stance. We moved into a series of sweeps, escapes, and joint locks. He kept trying to set me up with a few shoulder locks, but I was able to adjust, using my hips to break the hold before he could sink it in fully. Every time he adjusted, I did the same, matching his intensity.

I felt the sweat start to bead on my skin as we grappled, neither of us gaining an advantage. Finally, I managed to roll him into a top position, securing his wrist and pulling him into a quick submission. He tapped out, laughing a little as he rolled to his feet.

"Good," Gaz said with a nod. "You've got a hell of a grip."

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, breathing heavily. "You're not bad yourself."

We moved outside, where a range was set up for firearms testing. I grabbed the rifle that Price handed me, my hands naturally fitting around the grip. I went through the standard drills—standing, kneeling, prone—picking off targets with precision. The rifle felt smooth, as though it were an extension of my arm, and I was hitting bullseyes and headshots faster than I expected. I guess I work best while being watched by four men.

Ghost's gruff voice spoke authoritatively. "Move to the house."

I did, following his commands. My hands were steady, my mind focused. There was nothing distracting me. Just the target and the task.

I swiftly moved to a makeshift house setup outside, where cardboard cutouts of enemies popped up from behind walls. Ghost's voice crackled in my ear as I put the rifle down and got ready. I picked up a pistol and its magazine that was set on a table just outside the house. I popped the mag in and pulled back the slide and released. It snapped forward with a click and I knew the gun was locked and loaded.

"Clean house. Time's critical. Go."

I dashed forward, entering the first room and immediately spotting a cardboard enemy behind a corner. I squeezed off two quick rounds, head and chest, then moved, clearing the room with smooth efficiency. Ghost kept barking orders via a megaphone, guiding me through each step, my feet barely touching the ground as I cleared the rooms. It was all instinct now—years of training, muscle memory.

By the time I finished, my heart was pounding, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. I walked out of the house, eyes focused.

"1 minutes and 13 seconds " Price said, his voice calm but there was an edge to it. He was impressed, and I could tell.

The team exchanged glances, and Ghost gave a small nod. It was subtle, but it was there. I had proven myself.

...

The training session ended as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the air cool and crisp as night crept in. I was sore in places I didn't know existed, every muscle in my body aching from the relentless sparring and shooting drills. As I made my way back to my quarters, I felt the familiar buzz of exhaustion settling in, but my stomach growled louder than my fatigue. I hadn't had a real meal since I arrived, and all the energy I spent today made me ravenous.

I walked through the narrow hallways of the base and into the kitchen, hoping to scrounge up something to eat. As I opened the fridge, I squinted at the contents—the same as earlier. Definitely not what I had in mind.

I turned to the cabinets. Still nothing worth eating, just the usual dry goods and what I assumed. A sigh escaped my lips. "You guys got any MREs around here?" I muttered to myself.

"That's a no-go," came a voice from behind me. I spun around to see Gaz leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed. He gave me a grin that seemed genuine. "Haven't had an MRE in like... three years. We eat actual food around here."

If one more guy snuck up on me in this damned base, I was gonna it blow up. "Oh." It didn't surprise me that they were eating better than the standard issue stuff. These were some of the best soldiers in the world, after all.

"Look," Gaz continued, walking over to the counter, "we're all heading out to a pub around the corner from here. You should come with us. Get some food, have a drink."

I raised an eyebrow. A pub? Maybe the guys were a little too comfortable around me. "Not really my vibe."

Gaz leaned against the counter with a grin that never seemed to leave his face. "You're coming. Come on, no excuses. You've been all business since you got here. Y'need to unwind."

I didn't answer immediately, just looked him over. I wasn't exactly in the mood to be social, but I was hungry, and honestly, I was starting to realize I might need to get along with these people if I wanted to be effective in whatever this group was. Plus, there was no point in staying holed up in my quarters.

With a grunt, I gave in. "Fine. But don't expect me t'start singin' on table tops or whatever the hell y'all do for fun."

He chuckled and nodded. "Deal. Just be ready in thirty."

I headed back to my quarters to shower and change. The water in the shower wasn't exactly warm, but it was enough to rinse off the sweat and grime from the day. I scrubbed my skin, trying to wash away the tension that had built up in my muscles. The soap smelled like cedarwood, something oddly comforting. It wasn't much, but it was enough to help me relax.

Afterward, I tossed on a black shirt, some jeans, a leather jacket I had stowed, and my boots. When I walked back out, the guys were already waiting outside—Soap, Ghost, Price, Gaz, and Laswell. It felt strange to be stepping out with them, like I was joining a team, even though I wasn't sure I was quite part of it yet.

We piled into a truck—Gaz took the driver's seat, and the rest of us settled in, all silent except for the occasional joke from Soap. I sat back, staring out the window, the streets unfamiliar and dull under the dim streetlights. I couldn't help but think about how much better it would feel to be on my bike, wind in my hair, engine roaring beneath me. It was the only way I really felt alive anymore. Out here in the field, everything felt stifling. Even this pub felt like it would be one more thing I was expected to conform to.

We got to the pub after a short ride. The building looked worn, nothing special, but I could tell it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and I was just an unfamiliar face. The guys took their usual spots, settling into a back corner. Soap was already making jokes about something that had happened earlier in the day, and Price was giving him that look like, Not now, Johnny. Laswell, however, seemed more focused, scanning the room as she sipped on a drink.

I sat at the edge of the table, nursing a beer that definitely wasn't Bud Light, keeping mostly to myself. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the offer of company—it was just... I wasn't used to being part of a group like this. They were a unit, seasoned and tight-knit, while I was still the new one. Sure I had Carlos and Leon back home, but we were just a clique, per se. They ended up asking me the usual questions, ones that I knew were meant to break the ice.

"So... Panther," Soap said, his Scottish accent rolling through the nickname like it was the most natural thing. "What's the story 'hind tha'?"

I froze mid-sip. Clearly, that was something I didn't talk about, at least not with strangers. I never chose it. It was a reminder of the things I'd been through. The long, brutal stretches of time spent in the Russian forests and the constant fight for survival. It wasn't just a name—it was a scar, a ghost of a past I didn't want to revisit. A branding.

I set my beer down a little too forcefully, then put on a passive aggressive smile. "That's a story for another time, bud." The words came out harsher than I meant them to.

Soap looked at me, eyebrows raised, clearly sensing my discomfort. "Alright, alright. We'll keep it light."

But my mind started to race, recalling the isolation and brutality I'd experienced. The memories of that bloodbath clawed at me, and I felt my breath quicken, chest tightening. I curtly excused myself before I could think about it further.

I pushed the front door open and leaned against the cold brick of the building. The air surrounding me nipped at my cheeks, goosebumps spreading over my skin as I tried to catch my breath. Moments later, Ghost appeared beside me like the very thing he was named after. His figure was nearly lost in the shadows of the streetlight, his tall frame imposing, even without him saying a word. There was no noise, no warning—just the sudden weight of his proximity.

He didn't speak, didn't even look at me as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. Without a word, he flicked the lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the outline of his balaclava, and the faint glint of his eyes staring straight ahead. Then, he offered the cigarette to me, a silent invitation.

I hesitated for only a second, the instinct to refuse warring with the need for something, anything, to pull me out of my spiraling thoughts. I took the cigarette, our fingers brushing for the briefest of moments. I brought it to my lips, inhaling slowly, feeling the burn in my lungs. It wasn't the same as the sharp sting of adrenaline, but it was something—something that could fill the space between the chaos in my mind.

We stood there in silence, the world continuing on around us while we shared that smoke. The air was thick, not with words, but with something else—something unspoken that clung to both of us. His presence was suffocating, but not in a way that made me want to flee. No, there was a strange sense of comfort in the quiet, the understanding that neither of us needed to say anything to know what the other was thinking. We were soldiers. We both knew how to be silent.

The cigarette passed between us, each pull deepening the silence that stretched between us. The burn in my chest from the smoke was nothing compared to the ache that had been there all evening, lingering since I stepped into this world, a world that wasn't quite mine, and maybe never would be.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, Ghost spoke. His voice was steady—too steady. It was almost monotone, without a hint of anything that could be construed as emotion. "You'll be a good asset."

I could feel the weight of those words settle over me. Not a compliment. Not a critique. Just... fact. Cold, hard fact. And yet, there was something in it that made me tense all over again. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Maybe it was the way he said it, like he already knew everything about me, like he could see the pieces I hadn't yet figured out. Maybe it was the implication that, in this world, there was no room for doubt. You either were or you weren't. And there was no time for anything else.

I nodded, but I couldn't shake the chill that had crept up my spine. "Thanks."

The air between us thickened again, and I could hear the hum of the streetlights above, the occasional car passing by in the distance. But it was almost like the world had fallen away—just the two of us, standing there, with nothing left but the burning tip of the cigarette that eventually flickered out in the night.

Before I could respond further, the door to the pub slammed open, and Laswell stormed out, her expression grim. "We just got intel on his movements."

Ghost snuffed out the cigarette under his boot and looked over at me, his eyes unreadable as ever. The others were already filing out, their faces hardened, all business now. I stood there, my stomach sinking. "Who the hell are y'all talkin' about?"

No one said a word as we headed back to the van. Whatever this was began to settle on all of us. Finally, Price took a final drag of his cigar before clipping the ashed end.

"Ivankov."

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scintillasofbeomgyu · 1 year ago

Text

⟢ to swallow a star | c.bg

pairing: wizard!beomgyu x apprentice!f!reader. genres: fluff, romcom, fantasy. wc: 1,7k. warnings: this is so silly and unedited 💀. an: i was trying to make a point with the last paragraph but my brain isn’t working, but i am a howl girlie so just pretend u get it 🤣 found the last photo on pinterest with no credits, so credit to the original artist 🫶🏻

it is late afternoon down by lilac lane. the spring sunlight douses the cottage in gold, lighting up the grassy hills and fields, glittering off a nearby rushing creek. it allows warmth to seep in through the windows.

normally, on a cozy sunday such as this, you would be curled up on the soft upholstery armchair in the sitting room, with tabby purring in your lap and a volume of the Wizard Howl’s Why One should Not Swallow Stars series between your fingers. But today you were not, and it vexes you greatly to think of it. rather, you are standing on the tips of your toes, leaning over the sink, to squint through the kitchen window.

a great deal of time had passed since you saw the Wizard Beomgyu, under whom you were serving an apprenticeship. he had disappeared into the fields behind the cottage earlier that very afternoon, promising to teach you a new charm once he had returned. and this promise had pleased you.

for the first few weeks in his care, you and beomgyu had gotten along remarkably well. he would teach you spells and enchantments, you would prepare meals and you would share chores and tending to the cottage equally. in your free time you would tag along on his jobs in town, or you would read and he would paint.

but in the next few weeks that took you up to the current third month at the cottage, his behavior had changed drastically. the good-natured, occasional prankster of a man had reverted to a sulking, misbehaving teenager who had not taught you a thing in days.

so the thought of his unhappiness being cured and him now having the time to teach you, enlivened the witch in the exasperated nurse you had become. but that excitement had long since met its end. and as the clock struck five o’clock, your blood boiled.

a flash of green sweeps through the open window and you drop onto your heels. tabby lifts her head from where she had sat napping between the potted plants near you on the sink, one eye opening slowly to follow the squawking bird.

“toto,” you say, relieved to see the wizard’s familiar. you follow him into the sitting room, where he glides around once more before taking his perch. “where have you been? where is your master?”

he squawks. “miss (y/n), master requests your presence at poppy hill.”

“poppy hill?” you say in surprise, “i thought he was in the fields. is something the matter?” then your eyes shine, “is it time for my lesson at last?”

toto lets out a nervous squawk. “you should take your leave before last light, miss.”

“will you guide me to him, toto?” you ask politely. the parrot nods his head before hopping from his perch and sailing through the kitchen window once more.

you tighten your boots quickly, pausing only to check on tabby. “are you coming, girl?”

her countenance was such that, if she were a person, you’d imagine she would sigh unenthusiastically. but she nevertheless hopped off and ran after you at your heels.

you follow toto deep into the fields and up onto poppy hill where the Witch Karina grew and nurtured her genus of wild flowers. it pales you to imagine he had spent the entirety of his afternoon here, but you perk up when toto leads you down the windward side of the hill.

you come to a stop as you find the Wizard Beomgyu seated amongst red common poppies, the last light catching his features and making them glow. the gentle breeze brushes through his long, golden brown hair as he soaks it up. when the light disappears behind the mountains at last, toto settles atop his head and his eyes flutter open. he greets toto with a smile, then turns to you and his eyes light up. you gulp.

“(y/n)!” he says, climbing to his feet. as his hands clear the grass and dirt from his trousers, he starts toward you and continues, “i’m glad you could make it. i was just talking to karina and—”

you fix your hands on your hips and a severe expression on your face. he stops, fear in his eyes. you march toward him and he shrieks. “where have you been! you promised you would teach me today, beomgyu! what is the meaning of this!” you say, poking a finger into his chest.

“i was—”

“i have been patient! so patient with you these weeks and you go and leave me at noon until evening! what have you to say for yourself, sir!”

his frown morphs into a smile and you are simply flabbergasted. but before you can berate him further, he takes your hand into his gently. he presses his lips to your knuckles and then rubs his thumb over them gently.

“i have left you? why, i could never do such a thing my dear,” he says and your face burns red.

“wha– wai– i beg your pardon!” you exclaim. but he maintains his hold on your hand and leads you further down the hill until you reach the middle of the slope. “do you think you can treat me like those swooning ladies in town!”

the sky is now dark and the stars are twinkling above, the moonlight shimmering silver against the blades of grass beneath your feet. you try and use the fragrance of the flowers and the earth to distract you from how warm and soft his hand feels, but then he takes your other hand and pulls you toward him.

“there is going to be a meteor shower tonight.” he says excitedly, as if it explains anything. but you are much too distracted by his closeness and his touch and his prettiness to argue. “i have planned it all with Karina. she will—“

you finally manage to yank your hands from his. “i do not care to be in your presence now, sir. you refuse to explain your behavior! i am your apprentice, you are supposed to teach me. if our arrangement— if my company is not to your liking anymore simply say so and I will take my leave.”

you start your walk back up the hill, which, being now by your full senses, proved to be a lot more taxing than the journey down it. it only aggravates you more. but you gather your dress in your hands and push on. he rushes after you.

“i will swallow a star!”

you stop in your tracks. you turn to him. “what?”

“i will swallow a star,” he repeats, folding his arms across his chest with a resolved expression on his face. “so that i may compete with that pretty boy you like so much.”

you blink. “compete? with that pretty boy? who– The Wizard Howl? Pendragon?”

he does not answer, but turns his face up to the night sky with a pout. your jaw drops in absolute bafflement. then you burst out laughing. his cheeks turn pink.

“oh, beomgyu,” you sigh, taking his face into your hands and turning it to you. “howl’s books are about why we should not contract deals with demons for power; his own autobiography. and you are a powerful wizard of your own accord, why should you need to be like him?”

toto squawks. “that is what i told him, Miss.”

“you shut up,” he snaps, swatting his familiar away. when your hands drop from his face, he returns them to their place and he leans into your touch, still pouting. “but you like him so much. you’re always reading those things and talking to tabby and mrs rochester from the bakery about him.”

you grin, a blush glowing in your cheeks. “beomgyu, the wizard howl is a happily married man with a sweet two-year old son. the story of his life is remarkable to me, so I read about him.”

he stills. “really?”

you drop your head and giggle. when you look up again, he is watching you with a look in his eyes that makes your chest flutter.

“and what about you?” you say, fixing your hands on your hips again. “what were you doing all day with Miss Karina?”

he perks up. “oh! i spent the afternoon trying to convince her to let us borrow her field for the evening. she agreed on the condition that i promenade with her in town tomorrow.”

you glare at him and smack his shoulder. “And you said yes? i cannot believe you! courting couples promenade together! i—“

he hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against his chest. “i am a cunning wizard, darling. i may have pulled one on her,” he shrugs, “besides. how could i dream of courting anyone else when you are right here.”

then his eyes flit to your lips, asking, and when you nod, he takes them between his own in a sweet kiss.

when you break apart your breath is shaky and you think that if he should remove his arm from your waist you would fall straight to the ground. he smirks, as if he reads your mind.

“sh- she’s going to curse you once she figures it out. d-do you not know of howl and the witch of the waste?”

at that moment the meteor shower begins, like glittering diamonds shooting across the heavens. you stare up in awe. tabby meows and rubs her head against your legs, while toto perches on beomgyu’s shoulder.

he gently takes your chin between his fingers and draws your attention back to him.

“do you know of the wizard beomgyu and the apprentice who stole his heart?” he says softly, bringing your face closer and closer and closer. “they say she was was vivacious,” he kisses one corner of your mouth, “unyielding,” then the other, “a powerful witch in the making who was not wise of what she was doing before it was far too late.”

your breathing is heavy and your eyes hooded, “w-what happened to them? the wizard and the apprentice?”

his lips curl into a soft smile. “the apprentice and her wizard’s fates became inseparable, and they were destined to love one another in this and every lifetime.”

he pulls you in once more, this kiss much different from the first. he holds you impossibly close, a hand buried in your hair and the other lifting you up to his lips. it is enrapturing and toe-curling and your insides melt.

you decided then and there that the Wizard Howl Jenkins Pendragon was a charlatan. for if this is what it felt like to swallow a star, to give your heart to another and share a life, you would choose it with beomgyu, every single day.

#txt imagines #txt scenarios #beomgyu imagines #beomgyu scenarios #txt x reader #beomgyu x reader

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francixoxoxo · 9 months ago

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𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟

Cooking was a lovely kind of art.

You created, to let others consume. Your creation directly filled the bellies and hearts of the people you cared for, the love sprinkled in the form of salt or sugar into the food is always evident.

Knives were no stranger. They were double-edged, not literally but in a sense; They were a tool, a clean-cut and a bit of a chef's best friend. Now, though, you'd hardly call your newly-whetted knife a friend.

Billy heard your screaming for him through the open window above the sink, Chantilly curtains blowing in the wind and framing your horrified expression as you looked down to where he could not see. He was in the yard, getting your little garden prepared for the spring so that you could skip the dirty work and go straight into planting your vegetables.

But that heartbreaking sound coming from your parted lips had him throwing the shovel onto the dirt, wiping the sweat from his brow and running inside. "What happened, what's wrong?" His voice was dripping with anxiety as his boots thumped against the hardwood. His shirt was long-discarded, the New Mexican sun too oppressive for unnecessary fabrics, his suspenders hanging around his thighs. The buckles of them clinked against the tile as he knelt next to where you sat, back against the cabinet.

A deep cut through your wrist dripped blood onto your house dress and the floor. Tears had only just begun to fill your eyes, the surprise putting them off until now. "My hand slipped, I-- I was cuttin' the eggplant, n' I just-"

"Okay, okay, yer fine. S'all fine, baby, just--" Billy cuts you off firmly, not without a poorly concealed fear behind his voice. His azure eyes are wide and buggy with a wild thing, the nerves that your pain always seem to induce in him. He snatches the dishtowel off the countertop, pressing it to your wrist where you'd sliced the skin. The side of your wrist was bleeding through the daisy yellow dish towel until the cheery color was vermillion.

It hurt terribly as he put pressure on the cut, you whined in pain. "That hurts, you're hurting me!" He winces, a deep grimace creasing his features.

"I know, I know, but you gotta put pressure," Billy cooes, one hand clutching the opposite side of your wrist to hold it still and his other holding the towel to the wound. If he wasn't already sweating outside, this whole ordeal would make him break a sweat.

Your mouth opened and closed wordlessly from the searing pain, Billy murmuring sweet words to you as the bleeding staunched enough for him to peel the towel away a bit. His free hand is both bloody and sweaty but it comes to hold the side of your hair regardless, he pulls you in for a lingering kiss to your crown. "Yer doin' so great, baby." Billy peers with drawn brows at the cut, making sure the towel is positioned so you can't see the damage. He shakes his head. "S' not that bad."

"Swear?" You sniffle, looking up at him and meeting his azure eyes. The soft smile that crosses his features soothes the nerves spiking like needles all over.

"Swear." Billy promises. "Don't even need stitches." He tells you to hold the towel down again as he stands, rummaging through the medicine cabinet for bandages and a little bottle of carbolic acid. He remembers insisting it was unnecessary, that alcohol does the trick, but you fought him down. As always, you ended up being right.

Billy isn't no medic, but he's pretty satisfied with how he wraps you up. "I ain't gonna let my woman go 'round without some good care." He'd insisted, his seriousness making a laugh bubble from your lips. A peck to your lips couldn't shut you up, but Billy didn't mind if it was at his expense; as long as he gets to hear that beautiful sound.

"I'm sorry, this is so stupid." You huff, closing your eyes as Billy cuts the end of the bandages with his teeth. He snorts, shaking his head at you and pressing a careful kiss to the material above the cut. It's a weird kind of tickle, one that wouldn't feel pleasant if your heart wasn't tricked into fluttering by the handsome man in front of you.

"Aint ever stupid when it comes t'you."

#I'm back #billy the kid #tom blyth #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x you #billy the kid 2022 #william h bonney x reader #billy the kid imagines #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid smut #Billy bonney #william h bonney imagine #william bonney

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cloveroctobers · 1 year ago

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FEBRUARY FLUFF — MANNY X READER X HAPPY LOWMAN.

A/N: Thank you to everyone that took the time out to vote for this thing! I’ve always wanted to write for happy but felt like I wouldn’t be able to do him any justice…this is just me brushing on him being in a relationship so I hope he wasn’t too OOC! Anyways hope you guys enjoy this!

WARNINGS: language, some angst—duh!, slight graphic violence right at the beginning, infidelity, age-gap, and me dipping into some smut?—Don’t get too excited 😆

*FIRST GIF BELONGS TO: @riosnecktattoo + the other doesn’t belong to me either!

PROMPT IS FROM HERE & I’m using: 48. "home doesn't feel like home anymore. you feel like home now."

𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢

with the new year just arriving you’ve been standing on business and keeping busy. You always believed in starting off big and ending with a bang but you didn’t actually want to start off February covered in: blood splatter on your face and brain matter falling onto your tall Chanel boots.

There goes that Christmas gift…

it was late and you were just finishing up at the new construction zone, touring the completed model home and agreeing to take it on as a property to sale. You were a real estate agent, one of the very best—if you did say so yourself—in the growing area of Charming and stood on that. Sure it’s name and it’s pretty views was part of what made Charming, charming but every city has its thorns.

Which led to a knife being pressed underneath your chin by a meth head who thought it would be fun to squat here. You weren’t sure how long he’s been hiding out in the home but it didn’t take him very long to attack after business was completed. Listen, you hardly went anywhere without your guard up but your bag was left in the kitchen, phone lost somewhere on the floor after the ambush, and your heart was going haywire while you held your breath, calculating how to handle this.

Before you could tune back into the addicts demands, you ripped your body away, cut on your chin as the knife slipped downwards just before the man fell forward. Your ears only heard ringing, taking up the once quiet of the night in the hills, and you slowly turned your attention to the person who quickly got you out of this messy situation.

Lowering their gun with gloved hands, there stood Manuel, “Manny,” Moreno. Once his long lash framed eyes fully sat on you, he’s shoving it back into his waistband and calls over his shoulder at the two men beside him, who spring into action to clean up their crime scene. He’s moving towards you now but you’re using the sleeve of the mesh new shirt you liked! to wipe away the blood from your face.

“Nu—

He starts to rest his hands on your upper arms but you shove him off, “I’m fine.”

There’s concern on his handsome features as he rasps, “Are you though?”

“It’s not my first time being around a dead body and I’m sure it won’t be my last.” You snap, “just wish it wasn’t fucking with my business but here we are.”

Manny dips his head at you, briefly glancing at his men who are shoving the body into a black bag, “yeah…sorry about that.”

You scoff at this and walk off to the half bath.

Manny hesitates to follow you but says to his men, “take him to the van and make sure y’all get everything spotless in here before we roll out.”

He stalks off in search of you, finding the half bathroom that has the door left open just a crack. Manny raps his knuckle against the door and he can hear you sigh over the water before you shut it off. He takes that as you being decent and pushes the door back with the tip of his shoe. You’ve rinsed and scrubbed your face but he knows when you get home, you’ll just go over that pretty skin even more.

“What’re you even doing here?” You ask, voice steady but there’s a slight shake in your shoulders before you stretch them back and straighten up your posture.

Manny lifts his own as if it’s obvious, “same as you, business.”

“No shit, smart ass! I’m talking about in this area…didn’t you take your spaceship back to AZ where you belong?” You bite but Manny finds that second half amusing.

Manny leans against the doorway, watching your reflection in the mirror, “nah…things changed and put me into a new perspective…so we decided a move to Stockton permanently was the best option.”

That was about fifteen minutes away from Charming.

You felt your eye twitch at this new information as it was your turn to fire off, “How long have you been here?”

Manny seemed to instantly grasp what you were getting at but knew there was no sense in lying as he exhaled through his pierced nose before holding your stare, “Only a couple of weeks.”

Pressing a tongue into your cheek you huff, “a phone call would have been nice.”

Manny lightly sucked his teeth, “Would you have picked up?”

“Probably not but a voicemail or even a damn text would do…unless you also were not expecting to see me here?” You questioned, although part of you had a feeling what that answer would be.

Manny is quiet for a moment and you scoff again. Whipping around with your backside pressing into the sink, arms spread out along the counter you burn your eyes into the man you shared history with. Once upon a time you used to look at him with such light in your eyes but the universe can show you just how wicked people can be. You’ve been on your healing journey and perhaps it can’t all be resolved by your expiration date but it was worth trying…yet the most high knows just how troubling it was for you.

it was difficult when the man you used to be in love with was back to his old tricks like: showing up when you were trying your best to forget his existence. You truly didn’t think you could even if you prayed hard enough while considering so many factors.

“The sons are a conflict and I’m just glad i got here in time.” Was all he said as confirmation.

You’re rolling your eyes, “oh my knight and shining armor! You think I wouldn’t be able to handle myself?”

Manny shakes his head, “Never that, I know exactly what you’re capable of but you hesistated and a thank you would be cool in my book.”

“And you not being a piece of shit would be even better,” you point into his forehead, leaving Manny to lean away from your jabbing nail until you’re shoving your way by, wanting nothing more than to get home and away from him.

Your stomach was churning just being in the same space as him again and you were trying to keep your anger calm but it was increasingly difficult the longer you spoke with Manny.

Moving around the living room, you’re down on your knees searching for the fallen phone and find it just underneath the couch. Bringing it back to your attention, you’re reminded of what last texts you were sending to your agency, (now ready to tell them another story but ultimately knew you probably couldn’t) before being shoved over the couch and then yanked back into the hands of the deceased.

“Look…you can say whatever you want about me but I don’t appreciate your abuelo being around my kid.” Manny tells you and you feel your blood pulsating as you whip your head around.

“What?!” You hiss, head pushed forward in hopes to help you make sense of where this conversation was going.

Manny chews on his bottom lip, “I said—

“I heard what you said,” you got to your feet, “but what makes you think I wanna hear it?”

“You don’t have to want to but I’m gonna tell you anyway.” Manny clasps his hands in front of him, already on defense.

Throwing your head back in laughter you say, “let me tell you something, Manuel. You don’t get to step in whenever it’s convenient for you, which is barely, thinking shit is going to be sweet just because you’re in your feelings about an actual man stepping in taking your place. That same place you didn’t even want, mind you.”

Manny quirked up a brow, “that bag of bones ain’t doin’ shit but getting his gravesite ready. You think that’s cool having that old head raise my kid?”

“What kid?” You quiz, “oh you mean the most adorable three year old girl that you first tried to deny because of something we both did? That same kid you thought was a mistake? The one you tried to hide from your wife? yet she’s the one who had the balls to reach out and want Aya to have a relationship with her big sister, Marbella?”

Manny tightens his jaw as the men are trying their best not to send him any looks as they’re using solution to clean up the hardwood floors. He’s rubbing at his jaw in irritation that his private business was being aired out like this but he’s the one who knew this conversation was going to be had at some point.

Manny’s wife, Lígia was the one to encourage this move. To push Manny to be the man he says he is and shown that he is. She always believed in him when he knew he didn’t deserve it. His wife had unmatched strength with all the deceit he brought into their home and he was just thankful she didn’t take Bella or her love away from him. He knew how shitty it sounded considering that he actually had a friendship with you some time ago—way before he even took those vows. The old him wasn’t as trustworthy and he wanted to try to be now, at least he was according to his brothers but he had his share of dirt. Nobody’s ever perfect inside or outside the club. He’s been married for eight years, had a six year old named Marbella with Lígia and a three year old named Aya out of infidelity with you.

It was always a tough pill for Manny to swallow even until this day. He felt like maybe he took advantage of your heart, promising at the beginning that it would all just be for fun with two friends messing around but you fell fast and even harder when he found Lígia. That was supposed to be you but it never happened. it was something you commonly did, the whole handing your heart over on a silver platter in hopes that your partner would do just the same. Manny ignorantly thought it had to do with the age difference. Now here the both of you stood with you at your early thirties and him approaching forty but this wasn’t the first time he’s ever mentioned this to you.

Manny knew how deeply you cared about him but he still went forth with his marriage and he still wanted you there. As down bad for Manny as you once were, you didn’t want to burst into flames watching Manny seal his love with someone that wasn’t you. Sure you weren’t proud to talk about how foolish you were but it wasn’t a secret like Manny tried to make it out to be. He really wasn’t as smart as he thought, honestly. It wasn’t all about pointing fingers, you had to find your worth, knowing that if Manny really cared about you he wouldn’t have strung you along with false promises. Eventually you knew when to step away for good but of course a pregnancy dragged you right on back until manny showed just how much he didn’t care enough to be there as much as he could for Aya.

Yes it was hard being in two different states now and you for damn sure wouldn’t be uprooting back to Arizona. To make it easier for Manny. He was going to have to put in the effort but instead he’s been here for weeks and his focus is on who Aya is being nurtured by?

He nudges his head, “let’s talk in the kitchen.”

You don’t argue because your bag is in there and you’re itching to get out. Briefly glancing through your bag to make sure your contents were still in there, you lift your head and exhale.

“I know it’s been rough,” Manny rasps as he leans over the large counter, “and I’ve got a lot of things in this world to be apologetic for but I’m here now and I would appreciate it if you would allow me to be there for Aya.”

You hold his stare, “I’d never deprive you of having a relationship with her because of how you treated me. It’s the way you went about everything else and now want to switch up because your wife gave you the okay? is what doesn’t sit right with me.”

Manny sighs aware that this is partly true, yes Lígia gave him the push but he had to learn how to face his truth on his own, “I know I fucked up and I’m sorry—i—just didnt want to be a failure of a husband and father to them but in return I treated y’all like you two didn’t matter. Which is the farthest thing from true. I’ll always be sorry for that time lost…which is why I’m here now.”

‘For how long?’ You thought to yourself.

It wasn’t time to be selfish because Aya deserved to get to know Manny regardless of how young she is at this time. You would have done anything to have more time with your dad if you could and honestly you wanted Aya to determine her own stance with Manny in due time.

For however long that’ll be.

Taking a deep inhale you shrug, “okay…when do you want to see her?”

“As soon as possible,” Manny perks up, “I actually can head your way now—

You grab your jacket, hooking it over your arm before grabbing your bag, “Aya’s not home. She’s spending the night with my mom and Rudy.”

Manny nods as he’s muttering, “right…I guess you and Mr. ‘I’ve fallen and can’t get up,’ probably have big plans tonight.”

Now why did he have to go and say that? Did he see you worrying about his wife or attacking her?

“Excuse me?”

Manny blinks not in the slightest bit worried about your tone, “you know tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day right? You used to love it.”

That holiday came around much faster than you remembered and you showed no emotion at Manny recalling one of your favorite holidays.

“I didn’t forget.” Was all that you said but it was clear Manny didn’t believe that, laughing to himself.

Manny sniffs as he talks once more, “right so…I’ll have the day off tomorrow, so maybe I’ll slide through and grab Aya from your moms and step dad’s and we can have some bonding time—just us three I swear.”

See how he just assumed that you would bring Lígia up? Of course you didn’t think you would one hundred percent be comfortable with that although she did reach out to you but you can never underestimate anyone. The both of you shared words before over the phone prior to the talk about Aya (mostly about you reaching out too much to a married man, although you tried to brush it off with just being besties but Lígia put the boundaries up for Manny since he wouldn’t) but it was never on sight. Lígia made sure of that which in your mind, you labeled that as her being scary of having a convo face to face but she just wanted you out of Manny’s life as it would create more problems for them.

She took it up more with Manny you heard…but she still should have been worried about you fucking her man even after they said, ‘I do.’

“Good luck with that,” you snort already aware how your mother felt about him, “she wont let Aya out of her sight.”

Manny shrugs, “I’ll figure it out.”

You saw something different in his eyes this year. There was a swirl of dedication in them the longer you stared and you didn’t want to get your hopes up. However you would give your mother a heads up since Manny probably already knew where she resided with your step-father. Manny was good at playing at not caring ever since he got into the club and chose to get married but you knew he couldn’t be that heartless. Sure he sent birthday cards here and there once he came to terms with Aya being his and even responded when you thought about child support.

The thing was he just didn’t show up whenever he was near by doing club business. It was the bare minimum and he chose not to. Manny claimed that moving here had partly to do with doing right by Aya and that’s all you could ask for. It still left a nasty taste in your mouth that Lígia got him to step up but that was your own personal problem not Aya’s.

“Alright then,” you start to make your exit until he says…

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Nubia.” His voice is gentle and you expect the tenderness in his tone to make you feel something but surprisingly it doesn’t as he continues, “take care of that cut and don’t forget to pick up something nice for abuelo on your way home.”

You halted but kept your gaze straight, “don’t worry, he’ll give me more than you ever could.”

Which left Manny nodding at your words, rubbing the tension from his jaw as he watched you walk away from him but certainly not for good in his eyes.

Making a stop was not on your to do list tonight but you stopped at your best friend’s lab to shower, take care of the scratch on your chin that would heal in a few days, get tested thanks to being exposed to blood—sadly while being asked a bunch of questions from the worry wart of a best friend that you had but you simply gave her a synopsis before making your way back home after a few texts to your mom and your man.

The drive was a bit longer since you had to go in the opposite direction to get a decent shower but it was what you needed. Eventually you made it through the suburbs and pulled your car right into the open garage beside the familiar bike. Reaching for the sun visor and pressing on the remote, you’re closing the garage door behind you and take a few more seconds to yourself before climbing out.

Each step you took towards the door you hoped the tension erased. The first door was left unlocked while you carried up the stairs, tiredly before unlocking the top door yourself. You don’t even peek to the right where your bedroom is, dumping your items right into the living chair before being greeted by Ope knocking into your legs for attention.

“Hey,” you greet the pit as you scratch behind his ears with a small smile, “you have a good day today? I’m sure you did since you don’t have any bills to pay.”

He barks at you, wagging his tail before running to head up the stairs. Letting out a yawn you raise your arms above your head, cracking the space in between your shoulder blades and blow out a breath as you drag your eyes from the window and to your left.

There Happy stands in what most would find a creepy demeanor. He’s watching you, almost analyzing but you greet him first before he can suspect anything, “hey.”

“Hey,” he blinks almost as if he has to remind himself, “what’s with the change of clothes?”

You frown, peering down although you’re aware what you left the house in but was unsure how Happy knew what you were wearing since his day started earlier than yours today.

“You left the damn shoe box out in the middle of the floor,” he responses in his usual gruff voice, “almost broke my fucken neck.”

Stepping to the bald man with the dark eyes, you wrap your arms around his waist burying your head into his chest to listen to the beat beneath it. “Sorry about that hun, I was rushing this morning.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Happy rests one hand on the middle of your back, squeezing you firmly to his frame.

The both of you hold onto each other for just a little awhile. This was all that you needed, to be in the arms of the man you could trust to be upfront with you and loving despite what the streets labeled him as. It’s not that it didn’t matter but at least you felt sure about this relationship—which didn’t sit right to some but you were grown enough to know what you wanted.

“I need to show you something.” Happy says now rubbing your back in circles, almost as if sensing you had a long day.

You squeeze him with your eyes shut, “is it a sweet chili wing dinner?”

“Better,” happy comments with a smirk as you peer up at him.

Turning your eyes into slits you don’t say much as Happy removes his hand from your back to slip his arm across your shoulders. Leading the way to your bedroom, you’re hit with the satisfying scent of brown sugar and fig, a thick patchwork towel spread out along the bed, and propped up pillows right along the center of the headboard.

“What’s this?”

“Strip,” happy demands from beside you while you frown.

“For…”

Happy rolls his eyes, “stop askin’ questions woman and get naked.”

Giving him a look you turn towards him, fist pressed into your hip while Happy can’t help but to let a smile slip past his lips, faint dimples appearing right with it.

“…am I getting naked by myself or…?”

“if you’re lucky,” happy grips the side of your neck and squeezes, “but first I’m taking care of you with a full body massage.”

A smile breaks out onto your lips now, “aw, happy—

“Don’t get all fucken mushy on me,” happy jeers as you go to scratch the white scruff on his face, “now strip and get your ass over there.”

“You could say please,” you tease kicking off your trainers first followed by Happy doing the honors of yanking up your crewneck.

Laughing to yourself at Happy’s impatience, you guess he’s been waiting a good amount of time for you get home so he could do this. He nods to the bed where you plop down and he lets own a low whistle along with a motion of his finger, “on your belly baby, you know the drill.”

“Oh?” You wink, while Happy grins at you.

Twisting your body, you crawl closer to the pillows, prepared to rest on your stomach but not without catching sight of some oil and flower petals resting in a wooden bowl. Call yourself impressed as you reach into the nightstand to grab your bonnet to slip over your hair.

“I need to be prepared too, hap.” You announce while the said man snickers to himself.

Resting your cheek against the soft pillows you close your eyes, feeling the bed dip and your man hovering over you. His lips are by your ear as he says, “I’ll always take care of you.”

And you believe him.

Happy’s touch is always rough but careful when it comes to you. You keep your eyes closed, body sinking into the comfort of the blanket and the roominess of your shared bed. His fingertips slip between your bra and skin, lifting the garment upwards before messing with the clasp. Being free from that trap makes you feel better already but there’s goosebumps as Happy trails a fingertip down your spine, against the dark art in Arabic that decorates your skin just right.

His hands are on the waistband of your leggings now and he doesn’t say much, he never does, making sure his movements are precise and swift; slipping a hand underneath you, lifting your hips with one arm while he uses the other to remove your leggings for you. The house is always toasty, just warm enough for the both of you during this comfortable but breezy winter but the goosebumps always arise once your skin is bare and underneath the gaze of the man you had no problem calling yours.

You’re left in your underwear and bonnet just the way Happy likes it—occasionally in your Mumu’s (don’t knock it until you try it ladies!) too but for tonight’s purposes? This would be his first choice to keep locked in his memory. He’s reaching over you again, rough fingertips grasping the bowl to tip it right over your skin. You don’t predict it to be warm and it almost makes you flinch but it’s soon smoothened out once happy’s touch is applied.

He starts at your shoulders first, where there seems to be the most tension. Just the right amount of pressure had you squirming but he knows you can take it, knowing just when to ease off, trailing his touch down your arms and interlocking his fingers with yours that are buried beneath the pillows. Then he’s back at it, tackling the knots and backing away towards your spine and going right back to make sure he’s doing his job.

Happy’s always loved your legs, especially when they’re slamming back against his, but this time he has to make sure they’re ready for what’s to come. You’re always on your feet showcasing homes or hunched over a desk so he knows your shoulders and legs would be the most problematic but it’s not like he’s worried.

“Hold on for me, lady.” He warns you just as he jams his thumbs over your upper thighs, making you groan and lift your foot up in protest.

He smacks it back down against the bed, noting that he would get to that later. However he knows your body pretty well so he attempts to keep your mind off the soreness that releases, “…want to tell me about your day?”

Happy’s not the biggest talker but based on research and with his own experience with his mother, he knows directing the conversation elsewhere helps people get through it. Which is a huge contrast when it comes to his job of getting some answers if you get what I’m saying…

“Only if you tell me about yours,” you huff twisting your body to the right in pain but Happy has no problem sitting right on your ass.

Happy snorts, “know i can’t tell you all those details, lady.”

You laugh a bit, “not sure id want to hear the graphics anyways,” relaxing a bit as he switches to his right and your left, which seems to be less painful, “Manny’s back and wants to attempt a relationship with Aya but I don’t want to be the bitch that keeps her away when he’s the one who pushed us away at the start. Yet he has all these standards and preachings with the damn club but couldn’t acknowledge his kid because he screwed around on his wife with me multiple times. I’m scared and don’t want Aya to grow up getting her heart stomped on by a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Happy is listening but he doesn’t respond right away. He couldn’t care less about manny the shitty Mayan to be honest and Happy honestly never saw himself being a father—if that’s what you and Aya considered him as! he was more of a pet dad, and even fell in love with your pet snake, Bingo first before having the chance to meet the curious light hearted toddler with the wide doll-like eyes and pretty long eyelashes who had wind chimes for a laughter box. Granted Happy’s only been around for almost a year but as much as he cared about you, caring about Aya was just a bonus.

This manny punk missed out and you were better than happy. If happy had a woman that didn’t step up for their kid, she’d probably be six feet under—in pieces. However he was the killer out of the couple whereas you said your peace and expected that to be done while still hurting over situations. If situations kept being pressed? That’s when things had the potential to go left on your terms.

“We’ll make sure it won’t,” happy says running his hands down to your ankles now and you’re almost sinking into the bed at his words.

“You genuinely mean that, hap?” Your voice wavering and that makes happy do a sharp turn to glance at you.

He’s moving now, gripping your shoulder and flipping you over to meet your gaze which slowly opens, body aware that you need to have eye contact as he speaks with you. Happy’s hovering over you, palms down by the side of your head as his dark eyes pierce into yours, “have I ever shown you any different? I’m nowhere near that motherfucker and I don’t plan on leaving you…either of you…at least not on purpose.”

There’s that honesty you couldn’t hate.

Your mother and step-father didn’t know exactly what Happy was into but they knew it was anything but good. Of course they opposed the entire thing and also didn’t want him around Aya, which you took precaution of since you were unaware if this would last but it has so far. There was only one way this relationship would end and that’s something the both of you vowed. Something the both of you swore to take seriously. There was also an age-gap just like you and manny but the difference was: love was actually in the room.

“What if you just up and decide you wanna go back to Tacoma, cutting all ties with us? People change their minds all the time you know?” You hated being vulnerable like this but having your heart on your sleeve shouldn’t be a crime.

Happy shrugged, “then I’ll take you guys with me. home doesn't feel like home anymore. you feel like home now."

Your eyes flick back up and a watery smile is present as Happy brushes his lips against yours. Before he reaches up to yank the bonnet over your eyes, “even this raggedy bonnet feels like home.”

He’s grinning while you laugh a bit then lift it up and peek up at him, “not too much now—but I love you anyways.”

Happy dips his head in agreement.

Which makes you reach up to caress his head as if it were your own personal crystal ball and Happy knows just what you’re thinking, wiggling his head from your grasp. “Since you want to be grabby…why don’t you let me massage something else?”

He pats just below with a delivish smirk, “ain’t love day tomorrow?”

“Is it now?” You curl your hand behind your head, “Was this your whole plan?”

Happy shrugs, “I’d get you under me one way or another regardless.”

“Look at you being so damn sure of yourself!”

“Yeah I am. No toddler in the house, a nice massage, me tending to our pussy, and a second meal afterwards? Sounds good to me.” Happy ticks off with his fingers.

You snort, “well when you put it that way? Oh how romantic!”

“I did good though?” Happy questions, a flick of doubt appearing over his face before it’s gone.

You reassure running your thumb over his cheek, “Yeah you did, you’re great with your hands.”

“And I still want to use ‘em.”

“Only if you get my Valentine’s Day gift for you?”

Happy frowns, “That bouncy heart headband?”

“How did you?” You started but shake your head knowing not to question it, “that wasn’t for you that was for Aya.”

“Then where is mine?”

“See, that’s what happens when you go snooping.” You laugh.

Happy slaps your thigh, “well?”

“It’s nothing big but it’s under Aya’s bed because I knew you wouldn’t look there.”

Happy sharply exhaled through his nose and backs away with you. “Don’t move,” he warns stomping out of the room and up the few steps to Aya’s room.

Snuggling back into the bed, you await for Happy’s return with the glitter red box. It’s already open as he tosses tissue paper onto the floor, and holds up one rubber item.

“Pound town ticket,” happy is smirking at you and tosses it right on your body watching as it lands on your torso, “don’t mind if I do and I get two? We’ll use the second one tomorrow.”

You laugh as you pick up the item and give it a kiss before placing it on the night stand. Sitting up on your elbows and you smile as Happy keeps digging through the box to find the personalized boxers.

“Oh shit, look at these!” Happy holds them up, showing the black underwear with hearts printed all over front and back with the middle having your face and a drawn body hugging around where his junk would be.

Asking the man, “You like the cheesy little gift?”

“Hell yeah, it’s stupid but I’m gonna wear these—

“Now?” You pry.

Happy sucks his teeth, “no not now! I’m trying to get out these jeans and into my home.”

Laying back, you lift your feet and spread your legs, peering at Happy, “come on in then.”

The darkening of Happy’s eyes means you don’t have to tell him twice as he chucks the box to the side, licking his lips as his eyes remain locked on you. You enjoy the view as well as Happy hooks his hands through the belt hoops of his jeans, his v-cut being prominent that you have to bite down on your bottom lip, watching him get out of them just as fast as he’s charging over to the bed.

Squealing you welcome him into your arms after he yanks on your ankles, toppling right on top of your body. You always love when he puts if not all but most of his weight on you, burying you into the sheets while he nips at your shoulder and places an open mouthed kiss against your neck. He loves the way you smell naturally or even fresh from a shower. Always like the fresh start of spring, like a harsh rain, cucumbers, and floral—like your favorite flowers that you’re allergic to, lilies.

You always smell soft despite the resting bitch face you have. And he always cares for you just right. That same feeling is evident when he spends time on your breasts, caressing the roundness of your face while sucking and biting. He even runs his tongue over the fresh scratch on your chin and that almost makes you pry your eyes open but your focus is always directed elsewhere once Happy has his hands on you. You’re at his mercy before he’s even inside you but Happy times everything right.

Knows when to tease and get you ready for him. Majority of the time its difficult to have these times together with a young child in the house, Ope trying to cock block, or both of your jobs getting in the way but when you do, it’s best to savor these moments.

With your legs in the air like the letter V to match his hips, body shuddering with Happy holding you right against him at the edge of the bed, he isn’t quick to move like normally. He wants you to feel every inch and he wants to feel just how you were made for him.

Only him.

𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢𓏲𝄢

February fluff anthology prompts continues here.

#Spotify #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy x reader #happy lowman #happy Lowman x black reader #happy lowman x reader #Mayans mc #mayans mc x reader #manny mayans mc #manny mayans #manny mayans mc x reader #manny mayans x reader #manny mayans mc x black reader #david labrava #manny montana #February prompts #February fluff #queued

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crowborn666-nsfw · 2 years ago

Text

Spring Fever

Hawks x Reader

Tags: whiny Keigo, biting/marking, reader has AFAB anatomy, riding, breeding press, one mention of birth control pills,

~~~~~~

“(Y/nnnn).” Met your ears as you answered Keigo’s phone call. Your eyebrows rose in surprise, swallowing down your drink before speaking.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Need youuu.”

“Oh Kei.” You breathed, glancing at the clock, “Your patrol’s almost over, yeah? Can you hold out til you get home?”

“I think so…” Keigo spoke pitifully.

“Alright, you go be everyone’s hero, and when you get home I’ll be yours, how’s that sound?”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

The call ended, and you immediately set about preparing for Keigo to get home.

Keigo got home quickly, as the door opened five minutes earlier than it usually did.

“Lovebird?”

“In the bedroom dear.”

You could hear him shucking off his boots, and by the time he had gotten to the bedroom doorway he had pulled off his jacket and gloves.

His face was flushed upon seeing you, and he all but fell into the bed as you moved to be rid of the rest of his clothes.

As Keigo’s back met the mattress, he finally took notice of the lacy underclothing you wore, a lazy grin forming on his face as he ran his fingers over the red lace.

“You like it?” You asked, rubbing circles into his shoulders that most surely ached from the day.

“Yeah.” Keigo groaned appreciatively, tugging you down in order to reach your skin, kissing and biting at your neck. He plucked at the edge of your bra with his teeth, hands resting comfortably at the small of your back.

“C’mere.” You hummed, urging him to kiss you as your hips pressed to his, gently grinding down in small circle motions.

Keigo broke the kiss with a whine as you moved just right. “Need you… oh fu—please! Please please please.”

“Okay okay.” You hushed him gently, kissing his forehead as you moved to help him remove your underwear and bra. You were quick to tug his pants down, giving him a look of sympathy at his small whines and pleas.

Spring was the hardest time of the year for him, it amazed you that he could do hero work at all with you in the back of his mind.

You positioned yourself above him, carefully sinking down with a groan leaving your throat. Keigo on the other hand was a moaning, whining, flushed mess. His skin was red, sweat and hair sticking to his brow as his hands found your hips, squeezing to try and ground himself.

“Y-You’re on the pills right?” Keigo asked, a slight look of panic crossing his features, as if the thought just crossed his mind.

“Yes, I am, baby. Don’t worry.”

Keigo nodded, whining in earnest as he bucked his hips upward with a small “please…”.

You were quick to start moving up and down on his cock with a steady pace, hands bracing yourself on his chest.

“Like this, Kei?”

“Yes!” Keigo moaned, head thrown back, eyes shut, brows pinched. He was panting as if he had just run a marathon, his moans pitching. “(Y/n), I’m—!”

“It’s okay baby, I can go all night for you. Just let go love.”

Keigo released then, a high pitched moan leaving his throat as he dumped his load into you, hands pawing at your hips. He chanted your name, his hips stuttering as they continued to buck upwards, and you moved at a slower pace, helping ride out his orgasm.

Soon you both settled, panting in tandem with each other.

“Feel better, love? Do we need to go again?”

Keigo nodded, and then quickly flipped you onto your back. “Yeah,” his hands found the back of your knees, “just need,” he pushed your legs up, setting them on his shoulders, “a better angle.”

You moaned at the new angle, feeling his cock hit all the right spots as your back arched. Keigo wasted no time in moving once your hips began to move against him, a few grunts leaving him with his thrusts.

You blinked up at him, seeing those golden eyes holding a lustful fire behind them.

“‘M all yours, Kei dear.” You spoke, reaching up to tug him down. Keigo wasted no time in pressing deep kisses to your mouth, trailing his lips down your jaw and to your neck where he began biting down hard enough to make marks.

You sang your praises for him, listening to him whine and moan and grunt with each thrust into you.

Your back arched off the bed again as your release hit you like a freight train, hands digging into Keigo’s hair as you moaned his name. Keigo bit down into your shoulder, muffled his whiny moan as his orgasm chased him down.

His hips stuttered, whines leaving him with each one as he panted into your neck.

“Feel better?” You asked him, trailing your fingers through his hair.

“Yeah…” he sighed, pulling out of you with kisses left on your jaw. “You know what sounds good?”

“Hm?”

“A hot bath.”

#bnha #bnha smut #bnha x reader #mha #mha smut #mha x reader #hawks x reader #hawks smut #keigo smut #keigo x reader #keigo takami

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yoomiwrites · 5 months ago

Text

My boring love

Summary: (Y/N), a reserved shop worker, catches Hawks' attention as he seeks distraction from his hero duties.

Note: This is a story quite different from my other work. It's 3rd person and F!reader got some characteristics like glasses, for example. I just had the idea some days ago and wanted to give it a shot. The chapters will be longer than most of my usual work, more like you read a book, I guess? Anyways, this is me trying something new for a character that I really, really like. Happy reading.

𓆩⚝𓆪

His point of view.

Keigo Takami, better known to the world as the Pro Hero Hawks, leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the edge of his desk. Papers, neatly stacked but entirely untouched, lay before him, each one filled with the kind of bureaucratic nonsense that could put a hero to sleep faster than a tranquilizer dart. Reports, evaluations, approval forms—all demanding his attention. But paperwork was never his forte, and today, he felt particularly allergic to responsibility.

Instead, his sharp amber eyes wandered toward the wide windows of his agency office, drawn, as they often were lately, to the building across the street.

It was an unassuming store tucked between more modern establishments. The faded sign hanging above its door read “Whimsy Wonders: Décor and More,” and its window display was a riot of seasonal decorations—wreaths, ceramic snowmen, and string lights that didn’t quite match. But none of that held Keigo’s interest. It was the woman who worked inside who had captured his attention.

He spotted her instantly, the way he always did. She stood behind the counter, her posture straight but not rigid, as though she’d long since resigned herself to hours on her feet. Her uniform—a simple blouse and skirt—was a little too plain to be memorable, but the small ribbon in her hair, frayed at the edges, added a hint of personality. It was red today. Or at least, it had been until the knot slipped loose earlier in the morning.

Keigo watched as she reached up, yet again, to brush a stray lock of hair out of her face. She muttered something to herself, though he obviously couldn’t hear it from this distance, and then pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It was a motion she repeated often, as though the frames refused to stay in place.

The bell above the door chimed, and she straightened immediately, a polite smile springing to her lips as a customer entered. Keigo couldn’t make out her features in detail, but there was something genuine about her expression as she greeted the elderly woman who shuffled in. Her smile was small and quiet, but it reached her eyes.

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, as the two exchanged a few words. The customer gestured toward a shelf, and the woman nodded, guiding her toward a display of porcelain figurines. Keigo watched the exchange with mild amusement, noting the way the woman moved—graceful in a way that spoke of habit rather than effort.

When the customer left a few minutes later, bag in hand, that smile vanished. The woman turned back to the counter, her shoulders slumping slightly as though the effort of being cheerful had taken a toll.

“You’re a mystery, aren’t you?” Keigo murmured to himself, tapping a finger against the glass.

He had no idea why he found her so fascinating. She was ordinary in a way that most people weren’t these days. No flashy quirk, no dramatic flair. Just a woman running a shop full of knick-knacks that people bought on a whim. And yet, he couldn’t seem to stop watching her.

Another customer entered, and the same routine played out—the warm smile, the helpful demeanor, and then, once the door chimed shut again, the quiet retreat. This time, however, something different happened.

As she turned to restock a shelf, her foot caught on a small step stool, sending her stumbling forward. Keigo sat up straight as she flailed for balance, his instincts kicking in despite the distance. But before he could so much as consider moving, she caught herself, gripping the edge of the counter with a frustrated sigh.

She glanced around, checking to see if anyone had noticed, and for a moment, Keigo thought he saw her mutter something under her breath. Then, to his surprise, she smiled—an amused, self-deprecating smile that softened her entire face.

Keigo found himself grinning in return.

“You’ve got more to you than meets the eye, huh?” he mused, his wings twitching behind him.

The idea of diving back into his paperwork felt even more unbearable now. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he pushed himself up from his chair and stretched, his crimson feathers catching the sunlight.

Maybe it was time to take a break. After all, he had been watching her long enough to know her schedule. She always closed the shop for a quick lunch around this time.

And with that, Hawks stepped out of his office, already plotting his next move.

Her point of view.

(Y/N) liked her job. It was predictable, routine, and quiet—everything she preferred in life. The shop, with its slightly musty smell of old wood and dusting of glitter from seasonal decorations, felt like a little world separate from the hustle of the city outside.

She adjusted her glasses for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, sighing softly. The frames never seemed to sit right, no matter how many times she fiddled with them. Her ribbon wasn’t helping, either. The knot had come loose early on, and now her hair kept falling into her face. She’d meant to buy a replacement weeks ago but hadn’t gotten around to it. Maybe today.

The bell above the door chimed, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced up, smoothing her expression into the polite, practiced smile that came as naturally as breathing.

“Good morning!” she said brightly, her voice warm but measured.

The woman who entered gave her a small nod, her pace slow but steady as she approached the nearest shelf. (Y/N) stepped out from behind the counter, gesturing toward a display of porcelain figurines.

“Let me know if you need help finding anything,” she offered.

The woman murmured her thanks, and (Y/N) returned to the counter, giving her space to browse. She busied herself rearranging a small display of seasonal knick-knacks—ceramic snowmen and tiny wreaths that were cute in a generic way. She couldn’t imagine buying them herself, but people seemed to like them well enough.

When the woman eventually made her choice and approached the register, (Y/N) rang her up with quiet efficiency.

“Would you like this gift-wrapped?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

The customer shook her head.

“Alright,” (Y/N) said, slipping the figurine into a paper bag. “Have a great day.”

She watched the woman leave, the bell chiming softly as the door swung shut. The smile dropped from her face almost immediately. She didn’t dislike people, not really. Customers were fine, in small doses. But the act of being “on” all the time—the smiling, the pleasantries, the polite chatter—was draining in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

She sighed, brushing her hair out of her face again and reaching for her glasses. They were slipping, of course.

A quiet, irritated mutter escaped her lips. “Stay where you’re supposed to for once, would you?”

The shop fell silent again, and she took a moment to savor it. These were the moments she liked best: the lull between customers, the stillness of the shop with only the faint hum of the heater to keep her company. She moved to restock a shelf, carrying a small basket of knick-knacks over to the display near the window. Her foot caught on a step stool she’d forgotten to move, and she stumbled forward, barely catching herself on the edge of a shelf.

“Of course,” she muttered under her breath, a wry smile tugging at her lips despite her irritation. “Because why wouldn’t that happen?”

She glanced around to make sure no one had seen, then straightened, brushing off her skirt and righting the step stool. She knew she wasn’t graceful—not in the way some people seemed to float through life without effort—but she’d learned to laugh at herself when these moments happened. It was better than the alternative.

When the clock struck noon, (Y/N) closed the shop temporarily for her lunch break, flipping the sign on the door to Be Back Soon! before heading to the backroom. It was just another day at Whimsy Wonders. Ordinary, uneventful, and quietly satisfying. Exactly how she liked it.

The bell above the door jingled just as her break was over, and (Y/N) glanced up from her notepad. Another customer—not unusual for midday, though most who wandered in around this time were either lost tourists or office workers on their lunch break.

This one, however, wasn’t the usual type.

He was tall, with blond hair that looked like it had been styled by the wind itself, bright red wings and red jacket that stood out sharply against the muted tones of the shop. Sunglasses sat perched on his nose, making it hard to read his expression. She recognized him instantly—there wasn’t a single person in the city who wouldn’t.

Hawks.

He didn’t introduce himself, but he didn’t have to. His body language gave him away, as did the faintly amused grin on his face, like he already expected some kind of reaction.

“Welcome to Whimsy Wonders,” she said, her voice steady and polite.

He paused near the entrance, his gaze sweeping across the shelves in a way that suggested curiosity rather than intent. After a moment, he approached the counter, hands in his jacket pockets.

“Nice place,” he said, his tone light.

“Thanks,” she replied, offering the same polite smile she gave every customer. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Nah, just looking around,” he said, turning toward one of the displays.

(Y/N) didn’t linger on him. Instead, she returned to her notepad, jotting down inventory notes. If he needed something, he’d ask. Most people did eventually.

Still, she couldn’t help noticing the way he moved—casually, like he was killing time rather than shopping. His jacket was expensive, she thought absently, though it seemed well-worn, as if he wore it often.

After a few minutes, he returned to the counter, holding up a small ceramic bird. “This is cute. What’s the story?”

She glanced at the figurine. “It’s part of a collection,” she said. “Hand-painted by a local artist.”

“Nice,” he said, turning it over in his hands as though genuinely interested.

Her gaze flicked to his sunglasses. She supposed he probably wore them for privacy, though it didn’t seem to be working. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, standing there with his wind-swept hair and that self-assured grin.

“You get a lot of people in here?” he asked casually.

“Depends on the day,” she replied. “The holidays are busier.”

He nodded, setting the bird on the counter. “I’ll take it.”

She rang him up without further comment, slipping the figurine into a paper bag and folding the top neatly.

“Here you go,” she said, handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

She glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Anything else you need?”

His grin widened slightly, but he shook his head. “Nope. Just…nice shop.”

“Appreciate it,” she said evenly.

He hesitated for a beat, as though expecting her to say more, but when she didn’t, he finally turned toward the door. The bell jingled again as he left, the sound fading into the hum of the heater.

(Y/N) picked up her pen, making a quick note about the sale in the ledger. Hawks or not, he was just another customer. She had work to do.

Some hours later.

The key stuck in the lock, as it often did, and (Y/N) jiggled it a few times before the mechanism finally gave way with a reluctant click. She pushed the door open, stepping into her tiny apartment and nudging it shut behind her with her foot. The air inside was colder than she’d hoped, her breath fogging faintly as she exhaled.

“Still broken,” she muttered, setting her bag down on the chipped countertop that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the room. She flipped the light switch, and the single overhead bulb flickered to life, casting a dim, yellowish glow.

The apartment was small—a single room that held everything she needed, though “needed” was a generous term. Her bed, unmade, was shoved against one wall, piled with mismatched blankets that did little to keep out the chill. The closet door hung slightly off its hinges, revealing a jumble of clothes inside. A small desk, cluttered with papers, books, and an old laptop, sat beneath the room’s only window.

She shrugged off her coat, draping it over the back of a chair, and rubbed her arms to warm them. The heater had been out for over a week now. She’d called the landlord twice already, but he hadn’t answered.

Digging into her bag, she pulled out the phone and checked the screen. No signal. Not that she’d expected anything different. The last bill had gone unpaid, along with a few others. She sighed, setting the phone down on the counter.

Walking to the window, she pulled the curtain aside and peered out at the city below. It was a beautiful view, in a way—rows of glowing windows and neon signs stretching into the distance. But she didn’t linger on it. The cold seeped through the glass, and she let the curtain fall back into place.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since her rushed breakfast that morning. She opened the tiny fridge, which hummed loudly in the otherwise quiet apartment, and surveyed the sparse contents. A carton of eggs, a block of cheese, and half a loaf of bread.

“Toast it is,” she said to herself, pulling out the bread.

As she cooked, the sound of the toaster and the faint sizzle of butter and eggs in the pan filled the silence. She’d grown used to these evenings, the quiet monotony of coming home to an empty apartment. It wasn’t ideal, but it was manageable.

Money had always been tight. She’d left her home country years ago, full of dreams and ambitions that hadn’t quite panned out the way she’d hoped. Her studies had drained her savings, and moving here had only added to her debt. She worked hard to stay afloat, budgeting every yen and cutting corners wherever she could.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was enough.

The toast finished, she ate standing up, leaning against the counter as she stared at the stack of unopened bills on the desk. She’d get to them eventually. One thing at a time.

When the food was gone, she washed the plate and placed it carefully back on the drying rack. Then she wrapped herself in her thickest sweater and crawled into bed, piling the blankets high around her.

The room was still cold, and the chaos of it surrounded her—papers she needed to file, clothes she needed to fold, boxes she hadn’t unpacked since moving in. But she didn’t mind. She was used to this, too.

(Y/N) curled deeper into the cocoon of blankets, her eyes growing heavy as the cold, chaotic little apartment faded into the background. The muffled sounds of the city outside—distant horns, the faint hum of traffic—blurred into white noise. Sleep came slowly but surely, pulling her into its quiet embrace.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she woke abruptly, her heart racing for reasons she couldn’t immediately place. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the thin curtains.

A noise.

She sat up slowly, the blankets pooling around her waist. There it was again—something faint, like a rustling or a scraping sound. She turned her head toward the window, her breath catching as her pulse quickened.

For a long moment, she stayed perfectly still, listening.

Probably just the wind, she told herself, but her feet were already swinging out of bed, her bare toes curling against the cold floor. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders like a makeshift shield and approached the window cautiously, her heart hammering in her chest.

The curtain was thin, the outline of the city visible through the fabric. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for it, pulling it aside just enough to peer out.

At first, she saw nothing—just the familiar sight of the street below, quiet at this hour. No movement, no figures.

And then—

She jumped back with a yelp as a pair of glowing eyes stared back at her, unblinking. Her blanket fell to the floor as her heart leapt into her throat, a small, strangled sound escaping her lips.

It took a moment for her brain to catch up, to process what she was seeing. A cat.

A scruffy, orange tabby perched on the narrow ledge outside her window, its tail flicking lazily.

“Seriously?” she muttered, pressing a hand to her chest as she tried to steady her breathing. “A cat?”

The feline didn’t seem remotely phased by her panic. It blinked at her slowly, then turned its head as if bored by the entire ordeal.

(Y/N) sighed, shaking her head. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

The cat, naturally, didn’t respond.

Still, the sight of it was oddly comforting now that her heart rate was returning to normal. She opened the window slightly, just enough to shoo it off the ledge, but the cat remained stubbornly in place, as if claiming the spot for itself.

“Fine. Stay there,” she said, closing the window again. “But no more creepy noises, alright?”

She returned to bed, her blankets wrapped tightly around her as she tried to relax. It was just a cat. Nothing to worry about.

And yet, as she lay there staring at the ceiling, something about the night still felt…off.

The cat, she thought absently. It had to have climbed up somehow. The ledge wasn’t exactly close to the ground.

Her eyes darted toward the window again, her mind racing through the possibilities. But the street below was still empty, and the only sound was the faint hum of the city in the distance.

She shook her head, willing herself to let it go. The cat was just a cat, and the night was just another night.

Probably.

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha hawks #bnha hawks #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami

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