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alwaysmicado · 9 months

Text

No broken hearts

8.3k | 18+ MDNI | fwb!Joel Miller x f!reader | pt. 6

Warnings: no outbreak AU, implied age gap, public sex, fingering, choking, unprotected p in v, creampie, Joel being a menace, pet names, degradation/praise, pregnancy (not reader), heavy drinking, reader hurts her hand, blood, emotional hurt/comfort Summary: After Joel fucks you against a gas station wall, you run into an old friend. A bottle of wine and a smashed mirror later, you make a late-night call from your bathroom floor. A/N: I'm so excited about this part!! There's so much going on in this one: kinky sex, wine, reader confronting her past, Tommy, and some good old angst (I had to, okay?). Not to worry though, reader laughs through the tears...kind of. Enjoy and let me know me what you think! 🖤

more public sex ・Laura ・last part・ masterlist ・ AO3

It’s Saturday, the heat’s cranked up to ‘inferno’ and you’re so prepared to just kick back and have a relaxed, blissfully lazy night in.

Your day so far has unfolded in a symphony of self-indulgence: finally tackling that book that’s been giving you the side-eye for a year, getting green with some new kitchen herbs, and breaking a sweat with yoga in front of the TV. Your soul feels rejuvenated already.

The only thing missing now is the perfect dinner to munch on while you sink into your sofa, get comfy, and dive into a Netflix marathon. You already have all the ingredients for your favorite pasta dish at home, you just need to get the essential partners in crime: a nice red—or three—and some snacks. Lucky for you, there’s a gas station a few minutes down the block from your place and the weather’s all sunny.

So, you throw on a comfy shirt, some shorts, your trusty worn-out sneakers, grab your bag, and head out.

Stepping outside, you’re met with a wave of heat that wraps around you like a snug, invisible blanket. The air feels thick and sticky, a relentless sun beating down with an intensity that turns the pavement into a makeshift oven. It’s the kind of hot that makes you think of ice-cold drinks and the cool water in the gym pool.

A grin tugs at the corners of your lips as your mind wanders to the last time you had the ingenious idea to cool off in there, but just ended up hotter and more sweaty.

The entrance bell jingles lightly as you push open the gas station door, a subtle melody signaling your arrival to the air-conditioned oasis, a welcome relief from the oppressive heat outside. Fluorescent lights hum above, casting a cool, artificial glow on the neatly arranged shelves. You catch the clerk’s eye, a charismatic smile on his face as he takes you in. His gaze, appreciative and lingering, meets yours with a playful spark.

You offer a polite smile in acknowledgment as you make a beeline for the wine section. The cool chill of the fridge greets you, and after a contemplative moment, you choose a robust red with an intriguing label. You always choose your wine depending on the aesthetic of the label. Bonus points if it contains an animal.

With the wine securely in hand, you turn your attention to the snack aisle, your eyes scanning the colorful array of options. The shelves are stacked with a tempting variety of chips, candies, and treats. You settle on a mix of savory and sweet delights after evaluating your options carefully. If there’s one thing you take seriously, it’s your snacks.

Wine? Check. Snacks? Check. More wine for good measure? Check. Approaching the counter, you’re met with a friendly grin from the clerk, a handsome face with a name tag that reads “Chris”.

“You find everything alright?” he asks, his tone dipped in a hint of flirtation.

“Yeah, I think I got everything I need,” you say, putting everything on the counter for him to scan.

“Good choices. Looks like you’re in for a great night.”

You chuckle, handing over the cash and putting everything in your bag. “You gotta treat yourself sometimes, you know?”

Chris hands you your change, his eyes holding yours for a moment longer. “Well, if you ever need someone to share that wine with, you know where to find me.”

You offer a nonchalant smile, shrugging off his subtle advance. If you weren’t set on being alone tonight, you’d entertain the idea, but alas, you stay the course. And yes, that’s the only reason. You’re not still thinking about the polaroid or Joel’s words — If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you — and why would you? It doesn’t mean anything.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Have a good one!”

Exiting the gas station, the door closes behind you with a jingle, and the oppressive heat engulfs you once again. The air is thick with humidity, and despite the forecast promising rain, the sky stretches above in a flawless canvas of unbroken blue. It’s a serene sight, almost too serene, leaving a lingering sense of anticipation, as if something is about to shift.

Shrugging off the uneasy feeling, you prepare to walk back home, reaching for your sunglasses to shield your eyes from the unrelenting sun. But just as you’re about to put them on, a familiar voice cuts through the stillness.

“Need help with those, gorgeous?”

How?

How does he manage to appear seemingly out of thin air wherever you go?

“As if there weren’t enough sleazy guys hanging around gas station parking lots already,” you sigh deeply and turn around to find Joel leaning casually against the weathered brick wall, arms crossed, biceps bulging, his face bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun.

An amused grin spreads across his face as your eyes meet. He looks effortlessly handsome in his jeans and brown t-shirt, his dark hair perfectly framing his face, the grays in his beard illuminated by the sunlight.

“You think I’m sleazy?” he flashes his irresistible smile and tilts his head in curiosity.

“I dunno, Joel,” you scoff and shake your head in mock annoyance. “Some people might consider lurking behind a run-down gas station to pounce on the next best woman that steps out pretty sleazy, you know? Just a heads-up in case you’re planning on spending the night here. I hear mace is pretty unpleasant.”

Joel snorts, his eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners. “Hey now, I’m not after the next best woman,” he tuts, the look in his eyes changing subtly as his gaze lingers on yours. “But you already know that.”

His tone of voice catches you off guard. Your face heats up and you look away bashfully, unsure how to respond.

Joel eyes you curiously, expecting your trademark smart response, but you stay uncharacteristically quiet. He takes you in carefully, appreciating your side profile and the way your shorts hug your thighs. You look so beautiful in your casual outfit, so beautiful without even trying. Always.

The unbearable urge to hold you close, to feel you, to smell you, to show you how beautiful you are to him, takes over his body and mind within a split second.

“C’mere, darlin’.”

“Why?”

He rolls his eyes and tries to hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “Get your tight little ass over here or watch what happens.”

You sigh deeply and shuffle towards him, acting like it’s the most inconvenient thing in the world, like your panties aren’t already damp from his command alone.

As soon as you’re within reaching distance, Joel grabs you by the arms and pushes you against the wall on the back of the gas station, caging you in with his body.

“Careful, fuck,” you hiss when you hear the wine bottles hit the wall, but Joel ignores you, too busy kissing your neck greedily while groping your chest.

You let your bag slide down onto the floor as carefully as possible, trying to take advantage of the last few seconds of clarity you have left before Joel’s touch shuts your brain off completely.

“How do you always smell so good?” he mumbles more to himself than to you, his lips trailing sloppy kisses up and down your neck, and along your jaw. You shudder at the sensation, surrendering to the heat of his breath, the electrifying caress of his scruffy beard, and his rough hand massaging your breast. You’re putty in this man’s hands and you love it.

“You know there’s a—mmm, that feels so good—there’s a security cam pointed directly at us?” you whisper between soft moans.

The parking lot is all fenced in by hedges, but you’re still outside in broad daylight. Plus, the camera.

“Don’t care,” Joel whispers into your neck, then pulls up your shirt without skipping a beat. You laugh at his nonchalance and just hope that there’s no live feed broadcasting your…impropriety. There probably is though.

Coming here for late-night snacks or tampons when you ran out was super convenient, but what can you do.

Your pussy wants what it wants.

“God, I love your perfect tits,” Joel leans down to suck one into his mouth while massaging the other with his calloused hand. You bite your lip to hold back a moan, running your hands through his soft hair and arching your back as he licks and sucks on your soft skin.

He releases your tit with a pop when he’s had his fill, but not before biting down on your nipple harshly. “Ow, Joel!” you cry out and shove at his chest, but he just smirks at your adorable tantrum, pressing your hands against the wall over your head, his intense gaze locking with yours.

“Such a delicate little princess,” he taunts you with a chuckle, pressing his bulge against your core so the rough fabric of his jeans rubs your clit perfectly. You furrow your brow and whimper at the feeling, instinctively moving your hips to get the most friction.

“You like that, baby?” he rasps before pressing his lips on yours in a messy, needy kiss — the type of kiss that leaves you breathless and lets you forget who you are.

“Uh-huh,” you moan into his mouth, swirling your tongue around his, so far gone already that you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you right now. As if reading your mind, Joel lets go of your wrist to slide one of his hands down the inside of your shorts and panties, groaning against your lips when he can feel how wet you are.

“Goddamn, angel,” he chuckles, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’ll never get tired of you being a complete whore in public.”

Joel lets go of your other wrist, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck, tilting your head up, so he can look into your glazed-over eyes. “You keep those beautiful eyes on me,” he orders as he starts drawing tight circles on your clit with his fingers, applying just the right amount of pressure. You nod and can’t hold back your moans this time, feeling your muscles tense and your thighs tremble with every movement of Joel’s hand.

“You want more, baby?” he asks, eager to feel your pussy around his fingers, and to prepare you for his cock as well as possible given your time-sensitive situation.

“Please Joel,” you moan, your breath quickening, “I want you.”

Satisfied with your answer, the pleading look in your eyes and the wetness seeping out of you, he slides two fingers inside your warm cunt, curling and pumping them while continuously stimulating your clit with the heel of his palm. You dig your fingers into his broad shoulders in response, needing an outlet for the pleasure building up inside you since you can’t moan as loud as you want. His dark eyes never leave yours, reveling in the facial expressions and noises he can draw out of you.

One of your hands wanders from grasping his shoulder to gripping his bare arm. You let your nails dig into him, not caring that you’re leaving marks. Joel doesn’t seem to mind either as he keeps going, his eyes locked on yours.

“God, you’re gorgeous, baby,” he whispers, upping the pace and adding a third finger to work you open some more. “Fuck, that’s it,” you groan as you feel yourself getting close already, your walls constricting around Joel’s fingers, making it hard for him to move.

“You better not come until I tell you to,” he growls, wrapping his hand around your neck and squeezing just the right amount. You’re so close that you almost come instantly when the diminishing flow of oxygen to your brain intensifies every sensation.

Joel can see the desperation in your eyes, can feel the pure need in your quivering body, can smell your arousal on your skin. His cock is straining painfully in his jeans and grinding against your hip only relieves so much tension.

He needs to fuck you – badly.

“You’re such a good girl,” he praises you, the vein on his neck pulsating. “Come all over my hand, baby, let me feel you.” He keeps his eyes on yours as he feels you tensing even more, trying your hardest to keep quiet.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you choke out as the tension finally snaps and your pulsating walls clamp down around Joel’s fingers.

“That’s it, baby, you’re so fucking hot,” he pants before loosening the grip on your neck and pressing his lips on yours in a hungry kiss, absorbing all of your moans while you ride out your high on his hand. Your hips stutter as you try to draw out your orgasm for as long as possible, and you grip Joel’s hand in your pants to hold it in place while you do so. When you feel yourself come down again, you release his hand and let your head fall back onto the wall, your chest heaving.

“Still think I’m sleazy, hm?” Joel nudges your nose with his, the grin on his face too wide, too cocky, too irritatingly beautiful.

“You’re such a dork,” you chuckle breathlessly, wiping away sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand. “And yes, very much yes.”

“Oh, really?” he purrs, caressing your cheek with his wet hand, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb slowly. “Says a lot about you then, doesn’t it, angel? Getting off on some sleazy guy’s hand behind a gas station.”

You can’t stop the grin spreading on your face as you wrap your arms around his neck, your gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips and back again. You’re whole body’s aching for him to finally fill you up.

Joel takes you in for a moment, a tender smile on his lips, loving how you look at him with your big, needy, glazed-over eyes, like he’s the only thing that matters to you — like he makes you happy. He knows this moment is fleeting, delicate, precious, so he holds onto it for as long and as tightly as he can.

He kisses you, hard, desperate, pressing you against the wall with his body, moaning into your mouth. Your hands explore each other’s bodies feverishly, grabbing, pulling, mapping the contours of shoulders, necks, backs, while stealing each other’s breath.

When you can’t take it anymore, your aching pussy screaming at you for relief, you move your hands down Joel’s belly hastily until you arrive at the waistband of his jeans. You look into his eyes as if asking for permission and he nods quickly, his cock twitching at the thought of finally being inside you.

He helps you open the button and zipper of his jeans before quickly pulling them down together with his boxer briefs to free his cock and balls. He lets out a labored breath when you spit on your hand and start jerking his cock, your left hand massaging his balls a little harsher than you usually would.

Joel’s strangled groans let you know that he’s loving every bit of it.

“You keep that up—fuck, that feels good—and I’m gonna come all over your shirt,” he chuckles against your lips, grunting when you increase the speed of your strokes. “Turn—oh shit—turn around for me, baby.”

You do so eagerly, and Joel loses no time pulling your shorts and panties down in one swift motion, exposing your ass and pussy to the light breeze that’s dancing through the air. You lean against the wall on your forearms, arching your back a bit, and wiggling your ass in anticipation.

With one hand guiding his cock through your wet folds a few times before nudging your entrance, Joel presses his other hand against the wall to better brace himself. When he’s sufficiently coated in your juices, he pushes into you slowly, watching in awe how your body swallows his cock inch by inch. You whimper a little too loudly at the delicious stretch, unable to keep quiet now that you’re feeling him inside you.

“Shh, I’m not even halfway in, angel,” he purrs, tracing your neck with his lips. “Be a good girl and shut the fuck up.”

He then pushes all the way into you in one harsh thrust, immediately clasping his hand over your mouth to muffle your scream. You ball your hands into fists and close your eyes, getting lost in feeling him deep inside of you.

You moan softly into his hand as Joel keeps thrusting up into you, his strokes rough and desperate. “Feel so fucking good, baby,” he groans, leaning back a bit to watch your ass jiggle with every snap of his hips.

You whimper and clench around him as a particularly deep stroke brings about a more intense wave of pleasure than before. Joel smirks and leans his head in closer to you, his lips grazing your ear. He removes his hand from your mouth, wanting nothing more than to hear your pretty little noises unfiltered.

“You liked that one, huh?” he growls into your ear, his husky voice making you shudder. “Uh-huh,” you nod eagerly, desperate for more.

He adjusts his grip on your waist and uses his new leverage to pull you back onto his cock harshly, allowing himself even deeper access to you. You respond immediately, the frequency of your whimpers and restrained moans increasing.

“Faster,” you gasp.

Joel responds with a groan, but he obeys happily, picking up the pace. You hum contentedly as you can feel your second argasm building deep inside you, the tension winding tighter and tighter, climbing higher and higher with every calculated movement of Joel’s hips. You bite your lip to keep yourself from crying out in pleasure and reach back to grip his forearm.

Beads of sweat run down his face and back as he tries to hold off until he’s gotten you there again. Luckily, he doesn’t have to hold out too much longer, as it only takes a few more hits to your G-spot to send you over the edge.

“Let go, baby, I got you,” he rasps into your ear, desperate to feel you fall apart one more time. “Thaaat’s it. Fuck, you’re such a good girl.”

He talks you through your high, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your walls clamp down on him, and waves of pleasure course through your trembling body. A cry begins to wrest itself from your throat, but Joel turns your head and presses his lips on yours just in time to keep you from being too loud. You kiss him back feverishly, the taste of him an intoxicating blend of urgency and tenderness.

He lets out a low, guttural groan against your lips as he finally lets himself go, hips stuttering as he fills you with his warm cum.

“Fuck me,” he pants breathlessly as he lowers his head, nestling it between your shoulder blades, soaking up the feeling of being this close to. He trails the nape of your neck with his nose, taking in your scent, and pressing a few soft kisses on your hot skin before pulling out of you.

You both lean against the wall with your backs, still gasping for breath as you continue to come down from your highs. Joel’s the first to break the silence, turning his head and gently rubbing your arm.

“You’re seriously gonna kill me one of these days.”

You giggle and lift his hand to press a kiss on the back of his hand. “There’s worse ways to die. Plus, I’d give a helluva eulogy.”

“Oh yeah?” he gives you a soft smile before taking some tissues out of his back pocket and handing them to you.

“Mhm,” you nod while cleaning yourself haphazardly. “The title: Eight firm reasons why I was happy to know Joel Miller.”

He snorts and looks at you with his jaw dropped in mock offense. “Why are you the way you are?”

“What? It’s gonna be cute and I’m gonna do a whole powerpoint presentation and everything,” you say as you pull your pants and panties back up.

He sighs deeply and pulls you closer by your waist. “I’ll take it. If you promise to wear that little dress you wore when we met.”

You put your hands on his chest and look into his eyes, his heart beating steadily under your palm. “Its a deal. Now, will you finally tell me what you’re really doing here? Or was I right all along?”

“I’m actually working today,” he chuckles, clasping his hands behind your back. “We’re remodeling a guy’s house a few blocks down the street, and I just came here to fill up the gas tank, not thinking about anything until I saw my favorite pair of legs.”

“Charming,” you scoff, cocking an eyebrow. “What a gentleman you are.”

“Would it help if I said that I also saw my favorite smile?”

“Well, yes. But it’s okay,” you smirk. “Can’t blame you for noticing these babies. They’re pretty great.”

Joel nods in agreement, leaning in to draw you closer and slowly kiss up and down your neck, his hands flattening against your spine. You close your eyes and hum at the sensation of his soft lips meeting your sensitive skin, letting yourself sink into his embrace and feel the reassuring touch of his hands.

He smells like home.

“You wanna come over later?” you ask while softly scratching his scalp. “I got some primo wine that I’d graciously share with you and I don’t wanna toot my own horn, but my pasta’ll knock your socks off.”

“Hmm, that sounds wonderful, darlin’,” he murmurs into your skin without stopping his kisses. “But I can’t tonight.”

“Oh?” you pull away from him far enough to look into his eyes. “What important business does Mr. Miller have on a beautiful Saturday night? No, wait, don’t tell me. You’re gonna play bingo at the senior center. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Very funny, you little brat,” he rolls his eyes and pinches your butt playfully. You grin at him, but furrow your brow slightly when you notice a subtle change in his eyes.

“What?”

“I’m, uh,” he clears his throat, “I’m actually going on a date.”

Your face falls. “Oh,” you say quietly.

“It’s not–” he cuts himself off before putting his hands on your arms, squeezing them gently. “We could meet up tomorrow if you want.” He gives you a hopeful smile, but you don’t hear him.

“Darlin’?”

“Huh?” you look at him, confused. Your chest feels tight.

“Are you free tomorrow? I could cook for you. And not to toot my own horn, but I look pretty damn good in an apron.”

“I got plans tomorrow,” you say, taking a step back to pick up your bag. You grip the handles so hard your knuckles turn white. “How did you meet?”

“Tommy set us up ‘cause he thinks I don’t get out enough,” Joel sighs, shaking his head slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Smartass gets married and thinks he suddenly knows everything.”

“Tommy set you up,” you repeat, your left eye twitching.

“Yeah, and she’s nice, so I figured why not.”

“Yeah, why not,” you say with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“What are your plans, sweet–”

“Are you going out or…?”

“There’s this gin bar she really likes, so we’re going there. Sounds fun from what she described.”

“Didn’t peg you as a gin drinker,” you scoff, absently kicking the cigarette butt in front of your feet.

“Yeah, well,” he rubs the back of his neck, “trying new things is good sometimes.”

“I bet,” you nod.

“Darlin’, I–” Joel trails off when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He exhales deeply, his brow furrowed. “Tommy. I gotta get back,” he murmurs regretfully. “Can I drive you home first?”

“No, thanks,” you shake your head. “I need to run a few more errands and you surely wanna take a shower before you, uh, before you go out.”

His gaze lingers on you for a few seconds before he nods, “Okay, sweetheart. But promise to call me if you need anything, hm?”

“Will do, Joel,” you close your eyes when he cups your face and kisses your forehead.

“Be good, okay?”

“You know me.”

He winks at you, gets in his car, and you watch him drive away.

-----

With your sunglasses on, you put one foot in front of the other as you make your way down the street. Going straight back home isn’t an option, so you decide to stroll around and indulge in a bit of window shopping until you don’t feel your heart in your throat anymore. It’s annoying as fuck.

Feeling Joel’s cum pooling in your panties isn’t helping either.

“What did you expect,” you murmur to yourself as you come to a halt in front of your favorite antique shop. Opening a bag of chips, you start eating one after the other while perusing the pieces on display. Kind of like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s — just much less classy, and much more covered in crumbs.

You exhale deeply and let your thoughts wander.

This shop means a lot to you. You got the lamp on your nightstand from here a few days after moving into your apartment. It was expensive, but Tommy encouraged you to get something special, something that would remind you of how far you’ve come and how this was your start into a new life. He was right. You love your lamp and what it stands for.

Maybe, one day, you’ll finally splurge on that one little glass figurine of a sleeping fox you’ve been eyeing for so long. It’s pretty pricey and, at this point, you appreciate that it remains a special treat, something to anticipate and savor when the right moment comes.

You put the half-eaten bag of chips back and haphazardly wipe your fingers on your shorts before deciding to move on. There’s a thrift shop you’ve wanted to check out for a few months now, so you quickly check in Google Maps where it is, then walk in that direction.

You don’t get too far, though.

Just as you turn the corner, you hear a voice call your name. It slices through you, sending a chill down your spine, stopping you dead in your tracks. You never expected to hear that voice again. Paralyzed, unable to run away, you gather your courage and take a deep breath before slowly turning around.

Your heart stops when you see her. She looks…different.

She walks towards you briskly, her dress billowing and fluttering with each step, a nervous energy evident in her movements and her smile.

“Laura.”

“I, uh– hi” she says, her voice slightly shaky. “Would you, um, wanna grab a cup of coffee?”

There’s a dark cloud in the sky.

-----

“I’m visiting a friend for the weekend,” she tells you, deftly adding creamer to her coffee. “It’s so nice here. Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“I do, yeah,” you say, your hand planted firmly on the wooden table next to your cup.

The gentle hum of conversations in the small coffee shop blends with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee — an atmosphere that you’d usually enjoy, but feels claustrophobic right now. You feel like you can’t get enough air into your lungs.

“It’s such a lucky coincidence that we ran into each other,” Laura continues, a soft smile on her lips. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your new hair.”

“I’ve had it for a while,” you respond curtly, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Well, it suits you,” she says softly. As she absentmindedly caresses her little bump, your eyes fixate on the subtle movement.

“How far along are you?” you ask with a tight-lipped smile, still unable to meet her gaze.

Laura’s features soften further, grateful for your question about her pregnancy. “I’m eighteen weeks and thr– no, four days today.”

“How are you feeling?” you circle the rim of your cup with your finger, your leg bouncing continually.

“Oh, um, I’ve had pretty awful morning sickness up until a few weeks ago. It’s, uh, it’s been fine apart from that. I’ve had lots of help, thankfully,” she tells you, taking a sip of her coffee. “My mom got clean about a year ago—unbelievable, I know—and Simon’s been doing good as well. He, um, he got a job at his dad’s firm and we’ve moved into a house with a garden. There’s a forest nearby and I’ve seen all sorts of animals already. You’d absolutely love it.”

She reaches out to you, her hand gently touching your arm as she notices your grip tightening around the cup. “Beanie?” The nickname and the warmth of her touch make you flinch.

“Please look at me,” she whispers, her request carrying a weight of emotion that transcends the simple act of looking at her.

You bite your lip and reluctantly meet her watery eyes — eyes that were once the embodiment of home for you. You’ve tried so hard to let go, to get over your pain, to heal. But now that you’re looking into Laura’s pleading eyes, it feels like you’re right back where you started, the pain in your chest resurfacing like an old wound, a dull ache that intensifies with every beat of your heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say quietly, shaking your head.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” she chokes out, reaching across the table again to take your hand in hers.

“Laura–”

“I’m sorry every day, Beanie. I can’t take back what I did and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I–I just miss you so much.” She wipes away her tears with the napkin on the table. “I miss you.”

“Are you sure you wanna do this right now?” you ask with raised eyebrows, searching her face and pulling your hand out of hers.

“I–yes,” she sniffles into her napkin. “I’m so happy I ran into you, I really think it was meant to–”

“You know what, Laura?” you sigh, fed up with this charade. “Just spare me, okay? I’m over you pretending that you care even the least bit about me. This,” you gesture with your hand around her face, “this whole innocent act you’re putting on right now, it got old three years ago. I was blinded enough to believe it back then, but that version of me is long gone, dead. So, if you’re just here to try and manipulate me into feeling sorry for you, I got bad news for you.”

“That’s not–I know I’ve hurt you, and I’m so incredibly so–”

“How dare you even say that you’re sorry?” you hiss, unable to grasp how a person can be this deceitful. “You’re not sorry for what you did, Laura. Come on, admit that it was the best thing you ever did and that you go to bed every night being proud of yourself for it.”

“Beanie, please,” she whispers. “I am sorry and not one day goes by that I don’t regret what I did. I–” she cuts herself off and takes a sip of her coffee, her hand trembling terribly as she sets it back down. “I know I was a horrible friend to you and that I hurt you, I do. Please believe me.”

You turn your face away and exhale deeply. Why is this happening?

“You were more than my friend, Laura,” you say quietly. “You were my sister. The only person I confided in, the one I fully trusted.” You ball your fist on your thigh, the physical pain of your nails digging into the flesh of your palm helping a little. “To this day, I haven’t told anyone else why I cut ties with my family or how I broke my hand. I only ever told you. Because you were there for me. Because that’s what we did — be there for each other.”

You hear Laura sniffle, but she’s seemingly got enough decency not to interrupt you.

“I told you what was going on with me and Simon and you fucking took that and jumped into bed with him. You broke my trust and lied to my face for months.”

You rub your temple, closing your eyes for a few seconds.

Laura says your name gently and you reluctantly turn your head to look at her. Her eyes are red and tearful, her hand trembling as she tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I should have told you what was going on, I know I should have. I was such a coward and then–then I just didn’t have the guts to do it after you told me you were–”

“Don’t,” you sharply lift your index finger and glare at her.

“Look,” she exhales, a pained expression etched on her face. “I can’t take back what I–what we did. It wasn’t fair to you and I can assure you that Simon feels bad about it, too. Especially for not being there, you know, in the hospital.”

Is she for fucking real right now?

“How do you still think this has anything to do with Simon? I don’t give a shit about what he did or didn’t do. I didn’t trust him for a second while we were together. He’s an asshole who’s never gonna change, but you–“

You’re startled by the tears running down your cheeks, wiping them away quickly with your hands. You hate her for making you cry. And you hate her for giving you this pretentious empathetic look.

“I was bleeding to death and couldn’t reach you,” you whisper, your voice trembling with anger as your eyes pierce hers. “I tried Simon, too, but deep down I expected him not to care about me actually dying. I was just surprised that you didn’t care either. Don’t you dare look away right now. You need to hear this. I–I saw my life flash before my eyes before they put me under and the only thing I saw was you. You, Laura. My body was dying and the only thing my stupid heart cared about was to see you one last time.”

A hiccup interrupts you, momentarily breaking the flow of your words.

“I was scared to death and you weren’t there. I fucking needed you and you weren’t fucking there,” you whisper.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for not being there that day. Please, believe me, I am. It just–” she runs her hands through her hair, a new set of tears rolling down her wet cheeks. “I was so fucked up back then. I–I tried to get love from wherever I could and then I saw all your texts and calls too late and I didn’t know what to do. I was so overwhelmed with everything and didn’t know how to be better or how to help you. I’d give anything to be able to go back and change that,” Laura sobs, her voice barely intelligible.

Pathetic.

“Why didn’t you reach out to me once in the past three years, then?”

She takes in a deep breath through her nose, then exhales through her mouth before wiping her nose with her wet napkin. “I had to get my own shit together,” she murmurs defeatedly, “and that wasn’t easy. I dunno what to tell you other than I’m sorry that I fucked your life u–”

You abruptly get up from your seat, the chair protesting with a loud creak against the floor. You pay it no mind, nor the heads turning to look at you. All you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears, and all you can see is the woman who broke your heart.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” you spit at her, leaning on the table and glaring into her eyes. “You don’t have the power to fuck my life up. My life’s been fucking great since I got rid of all the people trying to drag me down with them. I’ve never been this fucking happy before, so fuck you and your sorry apology. I don’t fucking want it or need it.”

You grab your bag and rummage through it for cash. “I feel sorry for you, Laura,” you murmur before walking past her and tossing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table in front of her.

“Why?” She doesn’t look at you.

“‘Cause you have no idea what you’re in for,” you laugh mirthlessly and shake your head. “You really believe he’s gonna be there for his kid and stay with you?”

“Yes.”

“What in the world would make you think that,” you ask incredulously.

“Because we’re married,” she blurts out, turning in her seat to look up at you.

You feel your soul leaving your body, hovering over you and watching your lifeless body standing there – shocked, paralyzed, heartbroken.

“What did you just say?” you whisper, your words barely audible.

“We got married after we found out I was pregnant.”

You’re about to say something in response — how can you be so stupid, why would you bind yourself to that man, you know what he did to me — but your eyes fall onto her bump before finding her gaze again, and you decide to keep your mouth shut. It’s no use. She’s made her decision.

“Good luck, Laura,” you turn around and make for the door. “You’re gonna need it.”

You welcome the rain that pours onto your face, washing away the fresh tears that roll down your cheeks. It doesn’t bother you that a car honks at you when you cross the street without looking. It also doesn’t bother you that your clothes are sopping wet and sticking to your body within a few minutes of your legs carrying you back home. You’re not allowing yourself to feel anything right now.

You’d break if you did, so you keep it together.

Until you walk by the gas station.

-----

“You’re not that trashy,” you murmur to yourself just as you’re about to drink straight out of the wine bottle.

Instead, you shuffle into your kitchen, get out your fanciest wine glass and pour yourself a generous amount. Your drenched clothes cling to you like a second skin. If you cared, you’d take them off to not end up with pneumonia, but the discomfort is soothing somehow.

You eye your sofa, but shake your head. You can’t sit on it like this, especially not with red wine in your shaky hand. You’re still coherent enough to care about materialistic bullshit like your pretty sofa. Priorities, right?

The wine goes down smoothly and the bottle is empty in no time.

It’s not enough to stop the heaviness in your heart or the suffocating thoughts and images flooding your mind, though. You’re helpless in halting the relentless surge of them as you find yourself bent over the kitchen sink, fingers gripping the cool edge of the countertop, your head bowed low between your tense shoulders. Your eyes are shut, and your breaths come out short and ragged.

You see Joel leaning against a wall, beer in hand, looking a bit lost among the other housewarming guests happily chatting. That is, until you step in and your eyes meet. The spark in his eyes and the soft smile he gives you make your heart flutter. You talk about your lives, you flirt, you laugh, you go outside for fresh air, he lends you his flannel.

Your first kiss feels so familiar it hurts.

He wraps his arms around you and you wrap yours around him, pulling him close, clinging to him as tightly as possible. Your heartbeats synchronize and his warmth envelops you in a soothing embrace. You lean your head against his chest. You feel at peace.

“I could never be with someone like you,” he whispers, his nose grazing your ear. He kisses your cheek softly, his hands running up and down your back soothingly.

“What?” You lift your head in shock and look into his eyes. They look different.

“You’re broken, darlin’,” he says softly, his eyes showing genuine pity. “I could never love you.” He cups your face and kisses your forehead.

“No one could.”

The mirror shatters, shards of glass scattering like stars across your living room floor.

11:26 p.m.

You sit on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest with your left arm tightly wrapped around them, your head resting on your knees as violent sobs wrack your body. You’re not really sure how it happened, or why, but it did.

The bathroom is filled with beeps as you wait anxiously for the call to connect, blood steadily dripping from your right hand.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” you whisper desperately.

“Darlin’?” you finally hear a raspy voice respond from the other end of the line.

“She’s fucking pregnant, Tommy,” you sob into the phone, your slurred words barely intelligible.

“Hey, hey,” he says with a soothing voice, laced with concern, “who’s pregnant?”

“She’s fucking pregnant and she ma–married Simon and now they’re the perfect fucking family,” you slur, your sobs making it hard to get out what your jambled brain is telling you to say.

“Where are you, sweetheart?” you hear Tommy’s soothing yet firm voice in your ear.

“Ho–ome,” you sob, “on, um, bath–bathroom floor.”

“Did you take something?”

“Jus’ alco–hol,” you sniffle. “Wanted to, um, stop my stupid brain.”

“Alright, darlin’,” he says calmly. “Can you tell me what you see?” You look around with unfocused and tearful eyes, trying to focus on your spinning surroundings.

“Can see the sink and my, uh—fuck, it’s bleeding,” you hiss as your bleary eyes try to focus on your bloody hand.

“What’s bleeding?” Tommy asks, his eyes widening in shock, as he immediately sits up straight and quietly exits the bedroom so as to not wake his sleeping wife.

“Jus’ my, uh, hand I think,” you mumble, moving your injured hand in front of your face, then looking around if you can spot blood coming from anywhere else on your body.

You can’t hold back a chuckle when you remember why you got a bloody hand.

“Listen to me,” you hear Tommy’s uncharacteristically stern voice. Did he sound like this when he was in the army? “I need you to turn on your camera and let me see your hand. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I– wait a sec,” you mumble and finally press the video call button after a few clumsy attempts.

You change the direction of the camera, so it shows your hand and not your face, and you try your best to hold your phone as steady as possible with your trembling left hand.

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy gasps at the picture you’re presenting to him, shock and concern etched on his face. He expected a scrape or maybe even a cut that was bleeding a bit, but he wasn’t expecting this. Your whole hand is stained with dried and fresh blood, your knuckles are bruised, and there’s a two-inch cut on the back of your hand that’s gushing blood.

“What?” you giggle deliriously at his shocked face. “‘S not that bad, issit.”

“How did it happen?”

“Punched a mirror.”

You don’t tell him you punched it a second time when it was already broken, and that’s why you cut yourself so badly.

“I’ll send Joel over to help you, okay? He lives closer to you than I do.”

Your brain has never sobered up faster than at the thought of Joel seeing you like this.

“No,” you shout into the phone, startling Tommy and yourself alike. “Please, please don’t tell Joel, please. I–I’m fine, I’m sorry I called, I’m so fucking sorry, Tommy,” you start sobbing again. “He’s on a date,” you blurt out, “and I– please, Tommy. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for everything.”

“Hey, hey, shh,” Tommy tries to calm you, glossing over how you know about the date. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not telling Joel and you don’t need to apologize, sweetheart.” He gives you his signature smile — the smile that made you feel safe the first time you saw it.

“Can you clean the wound yourself if I tell you what to do?”

“Mhm,” you answer, placing your phone on the floor and wiping your nose on your wet shirt.

“Alright, very good,” he coos. “Do you think you can get up and look for a first-aid-kit in your medicine cabinet?”

His words take a few seconds to register in your brain, but you manage to understand them and get out a quiet “Yeah”. You look up at the mirror cabinet above your sink before shifting your weight to get up. When you automatically put your weight on your right hand, you cry out in pain.

“What happened?” you hear Tommy’s concerned voice. “Talk to me, darlin’.”

“‘S okay,” you groan, clutching your wrist with your left hand, a new set of tears making their way down your cheeks.

“Tell me when you got the kit.”

You get up slowly by pulling yourself up by the rim of your bathtub, then hold on to the sink with your uninjured hand. You take a few deep breaths before opening the cabinet door, looking for the first-aid-kit. Fortunately, it’s bright red, so you see it fairly quickly.

“Got it,” you mumble loud enough for the speaker on the floor to pick it up.

“Okay, darlin’,” Tommy says softly. “Take the kit and open it. Tell me if you can see the gauze.”

“Mhm, can see it.”

“Alright, now run your hand under cold water first. When most of the blood’s cleaned off, you press the gauze directly onto the cut. You understand?”

“Yeah, got it.” You turn on the faucet, hissing as the cold water irritates your cut and all the scrapes on your fingers and knuckles. Your blood pools in the sink, mingling with the water, creating a macabre dance of crimson tendrils that gradually dissolve and swirl away.

“You okay, honey?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, sitting back down, your left hand firmly pressing the gauze onto the cut. You close your eyes and shake your head. “I’m so sorry, Tommy,” you whisper. “For dragging you into my bullshit. Again.”

“No need to apologize, sweetheart,” he coos. “You know I’d always drop everything to help you.”

“But that’s so fucked up, Tommy,” you blurt out. “You shouldn’t have to help me ‘cause I just can’t get my shit together. You got your own life to worry about and you got the most wonderful wife in the whole world and I’m this fucked up little gremlin calling you at night ‘cause I punched a fucking mirror like a kid having a fucking temper tantrum. Why the fuck would you put up with that?” You inhale and exhale deeply. “Sorry for my language.”

He can’t hold back the genuine laugh escaping his lips.

“What the fuck, Tommy,” you try to say in your most offended voice, but it’s kind of unconvincing since now you can’t hold back your own laugh.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says softly, clearing his throat, “but you’re being ridiculous. Get it through that thick skull of yours that there are people who genuinely love you and care about you. I don’t have to be there for you; I want to.”

“Thanks, Tommy,” you murmur, wiping your nose on your shoulder. “For everything.”

“You wanna talk about what happened today?”

“It’s, uh,” you sigh deeply, “it’s been a strange day.” You look at your injured hand and suddenly feel beyond exhausted. “I think the bleeding has stopped.”

“That’s good. Let’s continue, then, hm?”

He guides you through applying antiseptic to the cut and all the little scrapes on your knuckles and fingers, and through bandaging your hand correctly.

“Can you move every finger?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you rotate your wrist?”

“Fucking hurts, but yeah.”

“You’ll go see a doctor tomorrow, so they can give you an x-ray and make sure the wound is clean, you hear me?”

“Mhm, will do.”

“Now, go to bed, sweetheart. Your back’s gonna thank you tomorrow.”

You drag your feet to your bedroom, phone in hand, turn on your bedside lamp, then suddenly hear Tommy say “There she is!” when you accidentally change the camera direction.

You laugh defeatedly and shake your head at his beaming smile as you plop down onto your bed. “Can you believe I punched a mirror? So dramatic, my god.”

Tommy chuckles and looks at you with adoration. You look like a complete mess with your disheveled hair, cracked lips and blood-stained shirt, but all he sees are your eyes and the smile on your lips. He wishes you‘d be kinder to yourself. But he knows better than to push you. He’s confident you’ll find your way.

“I’m gonna turn the camera off, okay?” you murmur. “Don’t want you to get nightmares.”

“Sweetheart, you’re the most beautiful little gremlin I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey, you’re supposed to be nice to me right now,” you pout, eliciting a chuckle from Tommy. Turning off the camera, you let your phone fall onto the bed. You strip off your pants, panties and socks, shrug off your shirt and grab a fresh one from your drawer.

“Tommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Could you, um, could you stay on the phone with me?” you ask as you put on a new pair of panties. “Just for a bit?”

“Of course, sweetheart. You just close your eyes and go to sleep. I’m here.”

You slide under your covers, turn off the lamp and close your eyes.

“Tommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Thank you.”

-----

Thanks for reading, guys!! 🤍 part 5 || part 7 || series masterlist

tagging: @paleidiot @pattwtf let me know if you want to be added!

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milunalupin · 7 months

Note

Could you do some regulus for valentines writing?

thank you for your patience, hope you enjoy :) and happy valentine's day to everyone <3

— candy grams

regulus black x reader ★ 772 words

The end of January was a cold and quiet time at Hogwarts. The holiday cheer has gone and winter truly makes itself known. Regulus Black found himself sitting in a empty nook in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower, going over his Ancient Runes essay. Shoes squeaked floors below as the other students ran outside to play. Fluffy snowflakes fell past the tall windows, Regulus' eyes flickering out the window every few minutes to watch the snowfall. If he allowed himself to, he might admit to liking this time of year. Winter meant cozy sweaters and hiding out in his dorm, reading muggle poetry books charmed to look like a spell book.

The chattering and laughter of students exiting their classes began to fill the halls, Regulus sighing softly as his peace and quiet had come to an end. He collected his things and stored them back in his satchel, making his way down the stairs past the Charms classroom. The way down to the Slytherin common room was a longer one but Regulus took his time as he was in no hurry.

A girl with a white ribbon in her hair rushed past him, but stopped and turned when she realized he was there, a smile quickly making it's way onto her face. Regulus had seen her around, a muggleborn witch with an affinity for all magical things.

"Hi! Sorry to bother you, I know you may be on your way to class or something important, but I'm selling candy grams for the upcoming holiday if you're interested in one?"

Candy gram? What the hell was a candy gram? Regulus supposed this is that 'dumb lovey muggle shit' Barty was talking about the other day. Walburga would be nothing less than disgusted if she found out he spent a single knut on a muggle object. He gives her a weird look and shook his head, declining silently.

"No worries! Have a lovely day!"

Her pretty smiled faltered but it came back up just as quick as it fell. She waved at him before dashing back down the stairs.

Regulus blinked, feeling his chest tighten slightly, shaking it off and continuing his path down to the dungeons.

Days have passed an Regulus is still wondering what a candy gram is. His mind continues to wander back to the girl and the ribbon in her hair as he leaves his last class of the day, spotting his brother's friend walking alone down the hall. He looked around to make sure no one of importance was watching him and quickly caught up to the tall Gryffindor.

"Lupin."

Remus turned in surprise as his best friend's little brother stands beside him. He notices what he believes to be nervousness masked by his composed stature.

"Regulus, can I help you?"

"What's a candy gram?"

Now Remus is truly confused. Why has Regulus Black stopped him and asked him what a candy gram is? He must have been making a strange face because Regulus glared up at him and crossed his arms.

"You're a half bre- blood, aren't you? If you don't know, then just forget any of this happened." He scoffed, waving his hand dismissively and turning to walk away. He only made it halfway down the hall when Remus called after him.

"It's for Valentine's Day. You buy candy for someone you care about, usually your friend, partner, or a crush."

Regulus' ears burn Gryffindor red as he walks away silently.

Regulus sees her again a week later. She had just returned from the Hogsmeade trip, white snowflakes sprinkled in her hair. Checking his surroundings, he carefully walked up to her as she spelled the snow off of her, quickly fixing his hair.

"Would you still happen to be selling those candy grams?" He asked, entranced by the small hairs framing her face that started to curl due to the snow.

"Absolutely! They're 15 sickles." She beamed, digging through her bag and pulling out a piece of candy with a little card attached. He handed her a few coins and opened the card up, following her finger as she pointed to two lines on the inside.

"You just write your name here, and then the person you're giving it to, here."

He stared down at the empty lines, then back at her with a small smile.

"I'm going to have to get your name then."

Her eyes widened, and Regulus had hoped it wasn't just the cold that turned her cheeks pink. Safe to say he's found another reason to like this time of year, and she wore a white ribbon in her hair.

#marauders x reader #marauders era #marauders #regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus arcturus black

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blkgirl-writing · 6 months

Text

Refuge for the Wicked

"Sharing a Blanket" from flufftober (In march)

Gale Dekarios x Durge!reader

Summary: You can't escape the faded memories of your haunted past, and sleep is nothing but a nightmare. Gale can't seem to sleep either. Maybe some extra warmth will help.

A/N: Prompt from @flufftober

(spring), I started late so I just started on 6! I might go back and write the first few. Also writing alongside my wonderful friend @ficbrish who made this fic happen, thank you! Also thanks to Jane Eyre for being my background audiobook and reminding me of big words.

TW: Dark Urge reader, (vague morbid thoughts, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of anxiety attacks), fluffy overall dw.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

In the dead of night, when the fireflies and stars lit up the sky, the air was too quiet to stand. Your head buzzed like frantic bees in a fallen hive, trying everything to get out, the brutal bloodied images flashing across your vision. No refuge for the wicked, You'd told yourself over and over, when sleep couldn't take you. But, You had been proven wrong.

Gale hadn't had the best rest either, used to the comforts of his tower, his warm tressym on his lap, and endless books to ease his mind into sleep. He had seen you turning in your sleep, and laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, whispering an invitation to his own tent. You had refused, worried about your cruel hands during slumber. but gods above, any sound had to be better than bitter silence, and one thing you knew about Gale, was that there would never be stale air.

It became pattern, after a few nights. The others would sleep, and you'd sneak away to his cozy corner, and Gale would talk. About anything, really. Gale shared his fondest memories, read a chapter from his small stash of literature, and even teach you a few simple spells. Your favorite was when he'd recite the most romantic poems. They felt warm, somehow. stirring something deep within you. Those nights, you'd rest peacefully, no dreams or nightmares, just darkness. Gale's voice became the only comfort in your world. And even nights he could sleep effortlessly, you found yourself wandering into his tent, curled up in the opposite corner from him.

This night, however, neither of you could sleep, and yet there was still quiet. It felt like hours,

"It's certainly cold tonight," Gale muttered.

"I can start another fire closer?" You offered.

"No no no, let me." At a snap of his fingers, a flame appeared in the dirt just in front of his tent. Never wavering and never moving, just taking the edge off the nipping air.

A few more moments passed, and you tucked your knees to your chest, hands cupped over your mouth to stop the numbness from climbing further up your fingers.

"Come here, you're freezing to death," Gale pulled the blanket over, opening up a space for you right next to him. Maybe he saw your hesitation, or maybe he wanted you next to him just as much as you wanted him, but he outstretched his hand to yours, his soft but calloused fingers wrapping around your frozen ones, and ever so gently pulled you towards him. Knowing it wasn't just an empty offer was enough for you to settle into him, his arm wrapped carefully around your waist, your head nestled into his shoulder, and finally, warmth enveloping your body underneath his big, heavy blanket.

"Thank you." This...was nice.

"Any time." His fingers played with a loose thread on the blanket, just by your hip. "You're more than welcome to keep your things here."

"Oh," Was all you managed, eyes fluttering away from his face for a moment. this closeness was something to be afraid of, you knew deep down you were supposed to be alone. But in his arms, you felt a calmness that you'd never known before. But you felt like you didn't deserve that bliss. "I don't need a tent or anything."

"I'm very sure you could manage on your own, but you don't have to." Gale spoke softly, almost like he was telling a secret, a small smile forming"You've spoiled me, I can't quite sleep right without you next to me."

You blinked, staring into the flicker of the fire before you. All you could think about was the soft fabric on your skin, so opposite from the biting that ran through your blood, and the warmth he brought from his touch, his body comforting and steady against yours. "Are you saying you miss me, Gale?"

"Quite a bit, actually." You could feel his eyes on you, but you hadn't dared to look, not yet. You knew there was kindness in his stare, it sent shivers down your spine, a sign that you didn't deserve the caring offer he implied, asked of. Your body rejected that but gods above did you want nothing but it. Because with him, Your mind was free, heart full, body light.

"I would really love that." You replied. Finally, a smile, from happiness, and not morbidity. You leaned further into him, intertwining your legs with his, Gale resting his head on top of yours, placing a barely noticeable kiss on your forehead.

"I'm glad you spoke to me."

'Hm?" Gale spoke, voice low and gravely, clearly between the realm of wake and sleep.

"I'm glad, that you spoke to me, to come to your tent that night."

"Oh," Gale rolled further into you, getting more comfortable, "I wish I had sooner." and with that, he drifted into sleep, the fire extinguishing in a wisp. Leaving you to think about his words, and your thoughts. You truly did love, that he invited you once, and again to stay, and he really meant it.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

just before sunrise was when you silently awoke from more night terrors. Astarion still off in the woods, surely feeding. otherwise, everyone was sound asleep. Or so you thought.

You had a few minutes in your own thoughts, sitting up and staring blankly into the dim glow of the distant campfire. Gale, with his big heart and smart mouth, won you over, no denying it anymore. It was clear when your small respite of nightmares, dreams filled with him, almost fighting to keep you sane.

"Good morning." Gale leaned on his hand, looking at you with a groggy fondness, like you were the sunrise and sunset, beautiful and full of life. His eyes nearly glimmered when he looked at you through his sleepy eyes.

"I thought you were asleep." You smiled, cozying back into the warm blanket, the cold morning air still too crisp, or you just used it as an excuse to be close to him again. And as if he read your thoughts, he drew you closer to him with a gentle touch.

"Stay" He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, oh gods above his voice sounded like warm whiskey and the smoothness of turning new pages. "-please"

Well, there was no denying that. You couldn't pry yourself away from Gale. You held him tight, as if he'd wake up and realize his mistake, you had mistaken his words and actions and never felt this comfort again. His warm breath tickled your lower neck, his head on your chest, eyes barely open, but fixated on you. under the blanket, shielded from the light of the day, heavy eyes not daring to look away from his.

He smiled. A soft smile, but full of light. His lips were slightly chapped, eyes tinted red, details you missed upon his face at a distance, now fully on display as you tilted down. lips inches from his.

Your eyes flickered closed as he sank further into you. Gale enveloped you, body and soul, connecting in a sleepy haze, melting into a kiss. Only stopping for air, a mumbled word, and another kiss. Countless kisses, ending in peaceful slumber.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚❋ ❋ ❋˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

TAGLIST

Please reach out if you wish to be added!!

@shyminnie07 @makers-breath @claryvoyantfray @black-sapphic @fapqueen

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wri0thesley · 8 months

Text

cycle - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (4.3k)

it all comes back. again and again and again.

as before: if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!

cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con, physical violence against reader. reader is fem, referred to as 'good girl' and is implied to be chubby.

this was a commissioned work.

You have gotten good at pretending.

It is far easier for everyone if you pretend you have always lived here; that Lucas’s cabin, and the woods surrounding it, the chickens outside and the old dining table and the cosy decor are all you have ever known.

When you had first come here, in those first few weeks, you had tried desperately to hold onto all of the vestiges of your old life. You had squeezed your eyes shut in the shower and tried to recall the scents of your own shower gels and shampoos and not the mixture of half-empty bottles that sat on shelves in Lucas’s bathroom. You had crawled beneath blankets and pillows and hugged yourself and tried to remember the feel of your own mattress and your own threadbare teddy bear. You had been terrified that they would slip away, and you would find yourself forgetting all of the things that made you yourself--

Now, you think it would be easier if they had.

If you had been granted a blank slate, you wouldn’t have to worry about the things you’ve been given and the things that adorn the cabin and their provenance. When you pulled a blanket over yourself on the sofa, or laid the table with a new embroidered tablecloth, or looked through the shelf of curling old paperbacks, you wouldn’t need to think about how many other hands that they have passed through.

So you pretend that you have it instead.

Things are just things, after all; merely objects, not people, not memories themselves. Who is to say that when Lucas goes into town, he doesn’t take an hour or two to wander into thrift stores? That he doesn’t have a weakness for things that have already passed through many hands before his own? Out here, in such a solitary existence, perhaps he even enjoys the reminder that there are other people in the world--

Well. From what you’ve seen of Lucas, and heard him mutter beneath his breath on days where his eyes go dark and angry and his face sets into a scowl . . . from what you remember in flashes of the night that you and he crossed paths. . . You don’t think that’s it.

But it’s still a comforting lie to whisper to yourself when you find a pair of initials stitched into the napkin you delicately wipe your mouth with.

Lucas himself is more than happy to help you lie to yourself, even if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. He’s a man of few words already, but even fewer of those words ever seem to concern anyone aside from the two of you. To listen to him sometimes, you would think this cabin was the last place standing on earth - that you and he were the only two human beings who lived.

He mentions, once or twice and only off-handed, a childhood. He says something about milking cows on the farm growing up; he mentions his mother’s apple pie when you make an attempt to bake one after finding a recipe in an old cookbook.

(You do not mention the careful handwriting that occasionally interrupts the recipe; the crossed-out ‘half a tablespoon’ of cinnamon into ‘a tablespoon and a half’. The note to the writer, for future reference, that the oven is finicky and to give the pie crust an extra ten minutes. You convince yourself that those, too, are simply the echo of some secondhand store that Lucas picked the recipe book up in).

So you know at least that he did not spring into being fully-formed, though the thought of this huge hulking man as anything other than scarred and gruff seems almost laughable, when you see him going out in the middle of the night with an axe swung over his shoulder.

(“Go t’bed, angel,” Lucas had said, without even turning around to see your form silhouetted in the doorway. “It’s late. I’m just checkin’ on things.” He had said it like a man who had said the exact same thing a hundred times before, though as far as you could remember this is the first time that it had happened to you.

Waking up in the bed and not feeling the solid, warm form of Lucas himself beside you had made you nervous; made you felt as if there was something missing. And, of course, there was a horrible kind of sickness in that feeling too; that you have become so comfortable with your kidnapper that you are more perturbed to find him not there.

No. Easier to forget that. To whisper over and over to yourself that Lucas is not your kidnapper, he is simply your . . . Your lover? Your boyfriend? Your husband? You don’t let the thought get that far. He is simply Lucas.)

He does not seem to think much of nostalgia. A practical man through and through - though he smiles, a few months in, as one of the little plants outside of the windows sprouts into bloom.

“Daffodils,” he says. “Your dress had them on, that first night.”

You amend the mental note. He has nostalgia only for things that concern you--

You try not to think of it, but the thought floats to your mind unbidden anyway like a blight on a field of flowers. If Lucas has had others who he has professed his love to . . . has he remembered those things, too? One day, will you fade into the rest of them and Lucas will not be able to remember if you were daffodils on a dress, or larkspur behind an ear, or a daisy chain around a neck?

You turn away from the flowers and force yourself to smile at him; to let him wrap his arm around your waist and pull you against him and press his mouth against yours in a motion that you convince yourself is fine.

Time passes. Lucas trusts you more; lets you wander about the cabin at will. Lets you into the kitchen without him despite the sharp knives - and, in return, trusts you to give in to him whenever he wants you. You let him kiss you and hold you and murmur sweet nothings and take you to bed, as you continue to chant to yourself that this is right, this is fine, this is how it is supposed to be--

There are no ghosts hovering above your heads.

As it turns out, the ghost is hovering in the spare room, inside the drawer of a desk with an old typewriter sitting on it.

Lucas has gone into town for supplies; you’re running out of milk, and you had gone to him, flushed and awkward, and asked if maybe he could try and pick up some body wash in your favourite scent; you had said ‘please’ and looked at him hopefully and Lucas had barely even needed you to finish before he’d been smiling at you and kissing the top of your head and adoringly telling you that he’d get you anything you wanted, so take a think about it for ten minutes and bring him back a list.

(You hadn’t pushed your luck too far, but you’d made a modest little list anyway - a fantasy book, if he could, because so many of his books were crimes and thrillers. A bar of chocolate or two. The aforementioned shower gel. Lucas had even smiled at you and told you what a sweetheart you were, how he’d keep an eye out for a surprise--)

But you were allowed in here, now, so you hadn’t felt bad about looking for something to do. You can only bake so many pies and cakes; Lucas had mentioned that there was probably stuff in here for drawing, if you wanted, or even sewing or embroidery, a jigsaw puzzle or two . . . You’d picked up a few options and discarded them (neatly) before you’d even gone near the desk. If you hadn’t - if you’d decided, actually, you would sit and do this cross-stitch kit of ‘home sweet home’ instead - perhaps things would have turned out differently.

But you don’t. You open the first drawer and disregard safety pins and discarded post-it notes (one of them has ‘help’ scrawled over it in black ink, over and over and over - you definitely disregard that one). You rifle vaguely through stubs of pencils and a manual for a sewing machine before you open the second.

The second drawer contains only one medium sized sketchbook; the spiral-bound kind with a wooden kraft cover that people like to draw straight onto. This cover, though, is totally free of any stickers or drawings or even a name - so you assume that it’s empty and fish it out of the drawer, wondering if maybe taking up drawing to pass the time might help (you see plenty of wildlife and fauna through the windows, after all). You even sit down at the desk before you open it and get one of those stubby little pencils, just to draw some circles and exercise the wrist before you become unavoidably disillusioned by your inability to draw even the simplest blob of a bird or flower.

And then you open it, and you feel your heart plummet directly into your stomach.

It is so much easier when the ghosts that haunt the cabin are faceless; when you can pretend. But whoever had this book before you and floated about this cabin before you and had your side of Lucas’s bed . . . they were using it like a scrapbook, and you’re faced with a Polaroid picture smiling directly up at you, the backdrop very obviously the sofa of the cabin.

(Lucas holding the camera, then).

You shouldn’t look at her. You should close the book and forget this ever happened and go back to pretending - but some kind of roiling fear in your stomach means you cannot do that. You stare, instead, directly into her eyes - and you’re struck by how much she looks like you. How even her body language is similar to yours. She has the same shade hair, the same figure-with-a-little-too-much on it.

(Lucas has a type, then).

She has a name, written there plain as day. You read that too, and wish you hadn’t.

Once you have opened the flood-gates, you can’t stop yourself. You flip to the next page - it’s some kind of scrapbook-come-diary, and the date (six years, three months earlier) is written neatly in the corner. A drawing of a robin, in a shaky but careful hand - a pressed flower that the note says Lucas picked for her, with a smiling face. You can’t breathe.

The next page details a day spent baking. The next one, excitement that Lucas had let her go with him to see if the chickens had laid. The days aren’t one after another, but they’re close together - and they’re sickeningly similar to the days you spend with him, trying to fill the stretches of time without going mad. There are even direct references to things that you’ve seen and touched and handled - the sewing machine was bought for her, it was her hand that embroidered the napkins, the half-empty bottle of the rose scent perfume that you hadn’t liked had once been hers.

There’s a pause in days. A few empty pages, where she’s half-heartedly tried to draw a chicken pecking at her feed, a snowy landscape.

The ninth of September.

“It would have been my dad’s birthday today. I wonder if he’s thinking about me? I wonder if he’s looking for me. I tried to ask Lucas if I could at least send a card.”

She does not bother recording Lucas’s answer.

The twenty first of September.

“It’s like being a dog on a leash. I asked him if I could go for a walk into the woods; I promised him I’d come back, but he broke the glass he was holding and I didn’t ask again.”

He’d have the same reaction to you asking, you know it. Your stomach writhes, bile rising in your throat. There are no more drawings on the pages now; weeks between entries, her handwriting getting looser and wider, like she’s writing in a rush afraid of being caught.

There’s frustration and anger and sorrow bubbling in her words. She talks about being trapped. She mentions the blood on his clothes, the sharpness of his axe, that she knows exactly what it is she’s eating when he brings her meat from his freezer.

The eighth of November.

“I think he’s getting tired of me. I think I pushed him too far. I think I’ve been bad; I think I’m not what he wants. He still says he loves me but . . . maybe he loved the others too.”

She mentions the pyjamas in the drawers; the different sizes. She asks the notebook who else has lived in these walls and who else has wanted to run. It makes your heart ache.

The twenty-seventh of November.

“i want to go home i want to go home i want to go home i want to go home’

Here, you recognise the handwriting and you know that it was her hand that had scrawled ‘help’ so many times, and you can no longer disregard it like you wanted to.

The eighteenth of December.

“He’s going into town. Before he gets back . . . I’m going to do it. It’s snowing. It will cover my tracks. I’m going to do it. I’m going to go home.”

There are no other entries.

It gets harder to pretend.

Snippets from that scrapbook float to the front of your mind unbidden, at the most inopportune of times. Lucas notices you’re shivering and insists he’ll make you a steaming hot cup of tea, and as you raise it to your lips you can’t help wondering if she drank from this cup. How many other mouths have lingered on this rim, how many other hands have cradled this porcelain?

Lucas tells you that he loves you, his eyes tender and the smallest smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and you wonder how many others have heard the same three words; the same inflections, stood in the same place?

He brings a present out, the week after his trip into town, that he tells you he was saving for you - another book. Ordinarily, you’d be thrilled to have something to fill the time - but instead, as he passes it to you and smiles and waits for you to thank him, you can’t stop thinking about all of the other things that he’s bought as presents for people who are not you, that still sit here unused in this graveyard of a home.

He never even mentions them.

Maybe if he did, that would be better.

But Lucas treats you like the two have you always coexisted; like neither of you had too much of a life before this. Oh, he doesn’t mind hearing about your far-off childhood - but you have the distinct impression that if you mentioned your job (the one you have not returned to for months), the man you were having the briefest flirtation with, the wedding of your cousin that you missed because you were kidnapped by a murderer in the woods . . . that would not go down so well.

The thoughts won’t stop coming; the reminder that Lucas is, for all of his gentle kisses and low voice when he speaks to you and his careful touches so he doesn’t hurt you, more monster than he is man. That you are eating people, when you take a bite from the end of a fork that has surely been in other hands.

(How long does human meat last, you wonder. The ones who did not make him happy . . . do they end up in the freezer? Are you eating someone who once laid their head upon your pillows?)

And if he has done it before . . .

Who is to say that he won’t grow tired of you, too? That one day you will say the wrong thing, and the cycle will begin anew? You have never thought of yourself as ‘special’ before - you have always been secure in the knowledge and comfort of your own ordinary existence. So what is it that Lucas sees in you, that makes you any better than the rest of them?

(The thought of other people wearing the things Lucas has picked out for you, of someone else rifling through your fantasy paperbacks or lathering their hair up in your shampoo haunts you at night).

You think about asking Lucas.

He never misses a chance to compliment you; he tells you how beautiful you are, how much he adores you, how he would kill for you and protect you with his last breath. So perhaps, if you worded it well enough, he would explain to you why you have not yet found yourself sizzling in a frying pan or bleeding out in the woods--

No. You can’t.

You are walking a fragile tightrope already. Your spine stiffens whenever you say something to Lucas, in case you say the wrong thing - you lie awake in bed next to him, his arms wrapped around you as tight as a vice. You stumble over yourself to please him, just in case--

You feel the way that you’re running yourself ragged. The ache in your bones, in your head - the dark circles beneath your eyes, the way your hair dulls as you begin to forget what any other setting other than ‘stressed’ feels like. You hope that Lucas doesn’t notice.

Your hopes are dashed.

It’s before bed, one night. Lucas has pulled you into his arms and peppered your face with kisses, has insisted that you let him brush your hair (the monogram on the brush shines in the light of the bedside lamp; it is not your initial). And he says to you, turning you to face him, his voice very soft and cajoling and just a little awkward;

“Darlin’? Y’mind if I ask you a question?”

Your heart races; hammers against your chest, tries to crawl into your throat.

“N-no,” you manage to squeak out. “Of course not.”

“I ain’t trying to offend you,” he says to you, his voice still awkwardly gruff. “But . . . sweetheart, you ain’t been looking well recently.”

“I--”

You grasp wildly for a way to respond.

“If you need anythin’ . . . You ain’t been sleepin very well, have you? You need a hot water bottle? Some . . . pillow mist, or somethin’? Onea those fancy drinks you have before bed to get you to sleep? You name it, sweetheart, I’ll get it from somewhere--”

He sounds so concerned.

Had he sounded like that to all of the other people? Had he noticed that their nerves were fraying and tried to soothe them, like he actually cared? How much of the concern that leaks into that warm Southern grit is real; how much of it is an attempt to hide that he’s mad at you, that he’s getting sick of you, that he’s already wondering what you’d taste like?

It tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it; a bitter little bite of a question.

“How many others have there been?”

You regret it before you’ve finished the last syllable.

The air changes between you; a charged fizz that tells you just how dangerous the ground you’re treading on is. Lucas’s eyes narrow; his mouth sets.

“Others?” He asks you, and you know that you can’t get out of this now. Sometimes, when you’ve said something that has set his senses on high alert, you’ve managed to apologise and backtrack enough that he’s calmed. But now, his eyes are like keen green searchlights, and there is no way to avoid the question.

You swallow.

“How many other . . . people?” You say, lamely, not sure how to word it. “How many other people have lived here?”

His own voice is clipped, too. He doesn’t like this subject.

“Why does it matter, sweetheart?”

There’s a barb to the pet name that makes you feel sick, but now you’ve opened the floodgates of your own paranoia.

“How many others have you loved?”

There’s a barely perceptible twitch of his mouth. His words are infuriatingly even. Usually, his temper flares at the smallest things; you don’t understand how he isn’t hacking you into pieces.

“None of ‘em who deserved it, except you.”

Your breath begins to shorten; you can hear that you’re panting, when you next speak. Your chest is heaving.

“A-and what if you decide I don’t deserve it any more? What are you going to do to me?”

“Angel--”

“I’m not - there’s nothing special about me! What if you decide that you’re sick of me and you . . . you killed them, didn’t you? What if one day you kill me? What if you--”

“Darlin’.”

This one is more forceful; it’s clearly intended to stop your panicking diatribe where it’s already going off the rails. But you are too far gone to be stopped now. Your voice just keeps going, the words like a flood, your entire vision blurring at the corners with the tears that you hadn’t even realised you were crying.

“What if you kill me and eat me and you get someone else and they live here and wonder about me--”

If nothing else makes him kill you, it will be this; outright telling him that you know what the meat is, and what it is he’s doing when he goes out in the evenings with an axe glinting in both his hand and his eye.

He reaches out for you and you try to slap his hand away, your movements erratic and awkward. You’re flailing and more nonsense is falling out of your mouth, the world around you a blur. Lucas is reaching out still, undeterred by the way you’re trying to push him away as you helplessly wriggle and struggle.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says, and there’s a note of panic in his voice. His brow pinches. “Poor baby, angel, you’re cryin’ - shit, you’re gonna make yourself ill carrying on like this--”

There’s that fake comfort. You are so far gone that you forget the thing that makes Lucas feel softest at all; you, helpless. You forget that he likes the crying and the sniffling, that he likes to protect and coddle and care - because all you can think about is what it would feel like for an axe to slam through your ribcage so your innards are strewn out on the floor.

“Please, calm down-- breathe, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself--” He’s still talking to you all soft and sweet, and you’re still utterly lost in your own sleep-addled anxiety induced spiral as he tries to restrain you; he reaches for your arms, to pin you down so that your thrashing doesn’t impact you--

One of your flailing arms catches him, right across the face.

There’s a sickening noise; the slap of flesh on flesh, the hard noise of a bone meeting another bone. You don’t think it’s hard enough to really hurt him, but it’s like a trigger has been pulled in Lucas’s mind and the air changes again. The fizz deadens where it was hovering; and instead, a heaviness settles over you.

You stop thrashing. You stop jabbering out nonsense. Lucas has you on the bed, pinned beneath him, and his face when he looks down at you is like thunder. You think it must be the same face that his victims see, before they die.

You’re about to be added to their number, you think. You wish you’d left something as tangible as that scrapbook behind. A guide to survival, perhaps. Advice on how to try and break the cycle.

“Oh,” Lucas says, and that one syllable practically quakes. “Darlin’. You shouldn’t have done that.”

Lucas tells you, afterwards, that you’re lucky he didn’t lose his temper.

He’d been infuriatingly calm, even though every movement blistered with unspoken anger, as he’d dragged you up and off the bed and you had trembled and quaked and waited for death. He’d been infuriatingly calm as his work-roughened, calloused palms had slid over your bare forearm, the soft inner flesh of your elbow, to grip your upper arm with both hands.

“You can scream,” he’d said, with that terrifying flat-and-angry-and-calm all at once tone again. “It’s goin’ to hurt. It’ll be clean. I know what I’m doin’. But it’s gonna hurt anyway.”

And he’d twisted his wrists and he’d snapped.

Your humerus, he’d told you, afterwards. A break that won’t need surgery; that you’ll be able to recover from in the cabin. A sling and someone to take care of you is all that you’ll need, he’d said, and then he’d said;

“It’s for your own good, angel. It’s a warnin’.”

He tells you that he’ll cut up your food for you, carry on brushing your hair, and help you in the shower. He lists off all of these things calmly - all of the things you’d once earned the ability to do for yourself, because you’d been so good and he’d loved you so much and wanted you to be happy.

You fucked that up, didn’t you?

“It’ll hurt for the rest of your life,” he tells you. “It’ll remind you.”

You wonder just how long ‘the rest of your life’ is.

“Hey,” Lucas tells you, after you’ve stopped sobbing and whimpering and screaming. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.”

Your eyes are puffed up and swollen; your nose is dripping, your throat feels raw. But Lucas still looks at you like you’re unbelievably beautiful. Like he’d kill for you. There’s a steel in his eye that hasn’t been there for some time, but . . . He gives you a small smile.

“Ain’t you beautiful.” He wipes an errant tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Be a good girl for me now, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t lose my temper.”

It’s almost bizarre enough to frighten a laugh out of you.

You wonder how many others were given this kind of warning; broken ankles? Broken wrists? Broken fingers? Is it possible that you’re an echo of them down to Lucas’s violence?

If this is him not losing his temper . . .

You dread to think what will happen - what has already happened - when he really loses control.

#oc posting #yandere for ts #writing #cannibalism cw #it was SO SO exciting and flattering to get a comm for one of my ocs btw waaaaaaa #lucas #please read warnings #commissioned work

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lick-me-lennon22 · 5 months

Text

Paul McCartney X Insomniac!Reader - Dream Weaver 🌠

(requested by anon!! John version will be posted soon 💞 enjoy, dearies)

☆☆☆

Paul sat in his cozy study surrounded by stacks of books, a dim desk lamp casting a warm glow on his delicate features. The night was still, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze from beyond the room's large stained glass windows. He sighed, glancing at the clock ticking away the hours. It was well past midnight, and it was par for the course for Paul to stay up this late. After all, he'd slept in until nearly noon - as usual.

For you, however, it was a different story. You'd spent last night tossing and turning, desperately trying to soothe yourself to sleep. Your eyes burned with exhaustion, a testament to the restless energy that consumed you. The following day you had trouble staying alert, despite the fact that you'd been wide-eyed and wired just hours ago. You willed yourself to push through your work and studies, groggy and uncoordinated in your movements. You were sure Paul had noticed your decline.

And notice he had. Paul couldn't help but imagine of you, lying awake in bed, struggling in your battle against insomnia. This wasn't new for you, simply another bout of sleeplessness, but it had been particularly brutal as of late.

With a determined sigh, Paul closed his book and made his way to the kitchen. He began to brew a fresh pot of chamomile tea, recalling its calming properties. He listened closely to the soft hum of boiling water, a comforting presence in the quiet of the night. As he waited for the tea to steep, he rummaged through the cupboards in search of a small jar of honey he'd purchased from the farmer's market only days before.

Armed with the tea and honey, Paul shuffled quietly to your shared bedroom and pushed the door open with his shoulder, the stiff wood creaking as he stepped inside. He is welcomed by the sight of you staring up at the ceiling above, your brows furrowed in frustration. You turn to look at Paul, your gaze softening as you smile weakly at him. He walks to the bed and takes a seat beside you, setting the mug and and jar down on the nightstand.

"Struggling to sleep yet again?" he asks gently, stroking your hair. You nodded, a faint frown marring your features.

"It's been tough lately."

Paul nods in understanding.

"I thought you may want a little something to help calm the nerves," he says, stirring a spoonful of honey into the steaming mug of tea and offering it to you.

You smiled gratefully and accepted, closing your eyes and sipping the fragrant brew. "Thank you, Paul. You didn't have to do that."

He shrugged sheepishly, crossing one ankle over the other as the two of you sat in comfortable silence. After a few moments you settled back under the covers, the warmth of the tea seeping into your bones. Paul began to hum a lullaby, a soft and soothing melody that wrapped around you like a cocoon and momentarily eased your stress.

You continued like this for a while, eventually closing your eyes. But inevitably your mind began to wander, your worries returning with more tenacity than before and gripping your mind with the same dreadful anxiety. You shifted positions a few times, grappling for solace in Paul's melodious voice. But finally you sat up, overwhelmed, and placed your head in your hands with defeat.

Paul halted his song abruptly and turned to your hunched-over form, a somber look on his face. "Not doing the trick?"

You sighed and shook your head wordlessly. Paul placed a sympathetic hand on your shoulder and started to brainstorm. After a few moments, his face lit up with playful inspiration.

"How about I tell you a story?"

At first you were taken aback by the suggestion, finding it a tad childish. But, realizing it may be just the thing to occupy your spiraling mind, you nodded and laid back to cozy up once again.

And so, Paul began to spin a tale, weaving a tapestry of adventure and wonder that transported you far from the confines of your bedroom. His voice sweet as the honeyed tea he'd brought you, a soothing balm for your restless soul, each word a brushstroke painting a vivid picture in your mind.

As he spoke, you felt the weight of the world lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of enchantment and awe. When Paul reached the end of his story, you found yourself smiling, the edges of sleep beckoning you with gentle hands.

"Thank you, Paul," you murmured, your voice hoarse with exhaustion and barely above a whisper.

Paul smiled back, his eyes sparkling with warmth.

"Anytime, love. Sweet dreams."

At last you drifted off to sleep, cradled in the comfort and magic of a fantastical realm. You felt a sense of peace wash over you, knowing that with Paul by your side, even the darkest nights held a glimmer of hope.

#the beatles #beatles #beatles x reader #beatles imagines #the beatles x reader #paul mccartney x reader #paul mccartney imagines #paul mccartney #macca #reader insert #insomia #LMLBeatles

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sharkboywrites · 9 months

Note

Hihihi!

Could I request a Dammon (bg3) x GN! Reader?

More specifically, a fluffy piece where Dammon has been overworking himself since getting his forge in the Lower City. Maybe it's him trying to prove himself to the Bauldarians. Maybe he's just so excited to finally have a proper forge again? The Reader/Tav has to physically drag him to bed by the back of his shirt because he keeps saying he'll be there, and he just has to shut down the shop, but he keeps getting redistracted.

Overall, it's just a cute domestic scene.

Thank you for taking the time to read this! Have a good day/night, and remember to eat something and stay hydrated❤️

Take a Break

Dammon x gn reader

A/N: I love Dammon so much, developers please make him romanceable 🙏 anyways I made this more of a full writing rather than headcannons like I usually do

Two and a half hours. It been two and a half hours since the time Dammon told you he’d be home from the forge.

You’ve been sitting on your shared couch, in the shared hime the two of you had gotten a few months ago, reading a rather interesting book, but you found as the time it became harder to focus. Your mind wandered more as the time passed, worrying about where he could be.

Two hours wasn’t enough time to start panicking though, he could have been held up by something at forge. It probably wasn’t an emergency. You tried to keep distracting yourself, but the book became just words on a page, and you had to find something else to do.

For a bit you paced back and forth, then cleaned a bit, then paced back and forth again. After another half an hour, three hours past the time he should have been back, you decided this was the time to go and look for him.

A simple walk to the forge to check on him, nothing drastic, you didn’t live far away after all, him needing to go there almost daily for work.

You soon found yourself at the forge not long after leaving your house. It also didn’t take long to find Dammon, over his craft, looking frankly exhausted.

His breathing was labored and he was covered in sweat, it wasn’t hard to tell how tired he was, but he kept working, pushing himself through it.

“Dammon,” you call out “What’s going on? You were supposed to be back home three hours ago…”

Your tone isn’t mean, but more concerned. He looks up at you, clearly suprised, not expecting to see you while he was working.

“Honey, what are you doing here?” He asks before he even processes your words, but once he realizes a confused look crosses his face. “What? What time is it?”

“It’s almost eight, you were supposed to be off a long time ago Dammon…”

He immediately starts to panic, packing up his things and apologizing to you profusely. You’re out of there in no time, assuring him it’s alright on the walk back home. When you enter the house, you encourage him to go wash up, and he does. You lay on the couch, now able to return to your book without worry.

He comes back in a bit later, clean but still looking a bit stressed out. You motion for him to sit next to you, and he does. You lean your head on his chest, looking up at him and admiring his features, resisting the urge to reach up and caress his horns.

He, on the other hand, looks straight ahead, head clearly full of thoughts. You decide you need to address what’s clearly bothering him. “What’s wrong?” You call up to him.

He looks down at you, confused. “What do you mean?” He looks more confused for you rather than himself, as he usually is.

“You’re stressed out. Worried about something.” Your tone is blunt, no dancing around the issue.

He hesitates for a moment. “I just… I feel like I need to be better, faster. I need to make better products and faster. Karlach had to wait so long for me to fix her engine… I need to be faster next time…”

His voice is full of guilt, even though he had fixed the issue, he somehow feels like he still didn’t do enough. You can’t help but furrow your brows in concern “Hey… it’s alright, you fixed the issue after all, and she’s so grateful, she’s not mad about the time that it took…”

He nods. “You’re right…” He agrees with you, but it’s clear he needs a little more convincing.

You sit up, and he looks at you confused, a hint of disappointment from the lack of your touch. He doesn’t have to worry about that for long though as you lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you, I hope you know that…” you mutter to him.

He’s shocked for a moment, before softly smiling. “You…” He pulls you into a hug and holds you close.

You lean up and kiss him again. As you start planting kisses across his face, he can’t help but laugh a little.

The house is full or giggles as you comfort him in the best way you know how, and for him it’s working.

It’s not long before you fall asleep on top of him, and while he’d prefer to sleep in your bed, he doesn’t have the heart to wake you, your weight making him drift off himself.

Maybe he doesn’t need to work so fast after all.

I’m exited to see how this turns out because usually people like my headcannon fics more than my will writing fics, ty for reading and have a nice day

#sharkboywrites #gn reader #bg3 x reader #dammon bg3 #dammon #dammon x reader #bg3 dammon

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iamnot-crazy · 8 months

Text

Stowaway Chapter 4

Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader

Info: This is my first time posting a story on Tumblr and my first time writing a x reader.

Summary:

The reader is a slave to a nobleman due to her devil's fruit ability which allows her to control the emotions of the people around her. She flees to bump into Trafalgar Law and boards his ship.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11

After a few days, you built up enough courage to face the crew you finally came out of the medical room. Law was doing his best to calm the crew's worries and fend them off from crowding the medical door. They didn't ask Law another question about your past after his response earlier sent shivers of guilt down their spins. But they continued to ask him how you were currently fairing which he would respond with a very short, "She doing fine." to them that could be a mountain of things and their worry continued. Law was the only one allowed into the medical room constantly coming to visit you to give you food and to update you on the crew.

When you opened the door you were surprised to find the hallway empty for the past few days you have been feeling at least one person by the door at all times. You quietly make your way down the hall heading for the cafeteria. As soon as you opened the door you were showered with "WE MISSED YOU!" everyone jumped up surprising you which caused your heart to begin racing again. You took a step back only to feel a strong arm on your back. You whipped your head around to find your Captain smiling kindly at you.

"I told you not to scare her!" Law immediately disciplines his crew scowling at them.

All their faces fall, "We just wanted y/n to know how much we missed them and care for them." Bepo spoke up looking the sadist of them all.

You just laughed and ran in to hug the giant bear. The rest of the crew join in putting you in the center of the group hug. You smile brightly feeling the love and comfort the heart pirates provide.

***

Over the next couple of weeks, you began having nightmares of your master taking you away from the crew or taking the crew away from you. Either way, you woke up in a cold sweat every night. It doesn't help that your gloves have appeared to stop working and you can feel everyone's emotions. If you accidently woke someone up during your nightly terrors you would be hit with their concern. So you tried your best not to wake the other crew mates and would find yourself wandering the halls at night to avoid your dreams. A few mornings Law would find you in his office curled up on your beanbag with a book in hand after he knew he had walked you to the bunks the night before. During that morning he would carefully close the door to allow you to rest while he took care of another task around the ship occasionally using shambles to quietly retrieve items from his office.

Some mornings the crew would find you sleeping in the cafeteria and not know what to do. No one wanted to wake you from your much-needed sleep but everyone's stomachs were grumbling. Law would see the gathering of people in the doorway of the cafeteria and would speak into you sound asleep. Each time he would shamble you to the office on your beanbag and your figure in the cafeteria would be swapped with whichever book sat on your bean bag at the time. He would go to retrieve the book while everyone flooded into the cafeteria. He would return to the office to find you comfortably sleeping on the beanbag.

When you wake up you pretend like nothing happened and nothing is wrong and continue to do your daily tasks but the dark circles under your eyes grow almost matching the ones your captain wears.

Eventually, Law had enough of hearing the crew's concern behind your back and seeing the state you have become. That night he staked out in the office waiting for you to return to avoid your sleep. You predictably entered the office 2 hours after you promised to go to bed. You turned on the lights only to be met with a grouchy captain sitting in your beanbag awaiting your return.

You turn to leave but he uses shambles to swap places with you now standing above you while you huff in the bean bag. "you are worrying the crew." he crosses his arms and leans on his desk. "why haven't you been sleeping?"

You cross your arms in a pout, "I can't sleep." you respond not meeting the eyes of the captain.

"I know that better than anyone. Why don't you tell me about the nightmares." he pried.

You slouch deeper into the bean bag, "I keep seeing Master taking me back or destroying the crew." you admit still refusing to look him in the eyes. "every time I go the sleep he's there, and if I wake someone up then I not only have to deal with my emotions but theirs as well. Everyone's emotions have been so high lately I feel their concern and curiosity. Everyone wanted to know who that man was and why he was threatening me. But if I tell them then they are just going to become more worried for me and I don't want to feel that."

"Have you been wearing your gloves?" he asked concerned.

You tore off the gloves and threw it to him, "They broke."

Law stumbled to catch the gloves to investigate them. He placed them on his hands and felt how light they felt compared to the last time he wore them. He summoned a room that was still extremely small but was much bigger than last time. He peeled off the gloves and looked closer at the stitching the woven sea prism had snapped in a few places limiting their powers.

"So you have been feeling everyone's emotions for the past week?" he finally spoke and you just nodded.

He bent down and placed his hand on your shoulder, "Y/n, you can come to me for anything and we can work out a solution together you don't have to do this alone." you sniffled slightly but nodded. "can you feel my emotions right now?" you turn to meet his eyes and began to absorb his feeling of calmness and confidence. You take a deep breath as your emotions start to mimic his and you can feel yourself calming down. Your eyes shift to grey answering his question. "good you can use my emotions to ground yourself until I can fix your gloves. I promise I can control my emotions enough to remain calm and collected for you."

You smiled gratefully and gave a soft nod. He got up and began to work on your gloves to find a way to stitch the lace prism back together. You watch as he does so as he keeps his promise to remain calm. Feeling his emotion take over yours you begin to fall asleep peacefully for the first time in over a week.

***

Law had a harder time fixing your gloves than he thought he would. The sea prism would start to affect him as he began to stitch and he would have to start over. He eventually had to give up and ask Ikkaku who doesn't have a devil fruit ability to take over the project. Ikkaku had a lot of questions seeing the sea prism laced in your gloves but decided not to pry and happily took on the project.

You followed Law around everywhere as he kept his promise to remain calm. Even in situations where he would usually be stressed he would look over at you and force himself to calm down. When night came he would sit in the office with you until you fell asleep before he would leave you in your peaceful slumber.

Everyone now seeing the bags under your eyes began to clear and the captain's calm nature began to relax again and ease their worry for you happy that you seemed back to normal.

Finally, after a week, Ikkuka finished the gloves. Law tested them confirming their ability to restrain your powers before happily gifting them to you. As soon as you placed the gloves on you could start to feel your own emotions but you couldn't help but miss feeling your captain's emotions and his occasional slip-ups of remaining calm.

You thanked him but continued your new routine of following him around the ship and crashing into the office. Every so often you would remove your gloves to feel your captain's emotions which mostly remained confident when around his crew but the moment behind closed doors is when you could feel his sadness and grief. When you began to feel his sadness rise when he would close himself in the office you would knock on the door and feel his emotion shift to calm and relaxed after seeing your face.

One night while you sat in the office you felt his sadness rise as he spaced out reading a book. You finally asked, "Why do you feel so sad and guilty?"

His head snapped up at your question pulling him out of his zoned out state. His emotions jumped around from startled to confusion until he looked at you and relaxed. He sighed knowing he can't lie to you when your gloves are off, "I have lost a lot of people in my life." he admitted avoiding your gaze. "sometimes I feel guilty because I am still alive when there are so many people who aren't because of me."

You could feel his emotions mixed with sadness and relief finally getting it off his chest. You get up and approach him with a hug from the back making sure not to touch him with your hands. You feel his emotions become surprised followed by relaxed and... Love...

He reached for your hand placed his fingers on top of your own and forced himself to share all his emotions with you. You were taken aback by his feelings for you.

You release from the hug and he turns to face you and watches your eyes shift to pink. Instead of responding you hold your hand out for him to touch and you share your similar emotions with him. The two of you smile before he grabs you by the waist and pulls you in for a kiss.

***

(Technically you can stop here if you want a happy ending. I just didn't know how to stop writing and decided to keep going. )

***

Next Chapter

#trafalgar law #trafalgar d law x reader #one piece #one piece x reader #fem!reader

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kumabeom · 10 months

Text

this love - kang taehyun

letter 2 ; in which , you become my hydrangea love 💗

synopsis: what happens when soccer player!kang taehyun, who isn’t focused on school but is smart enough to pass, sees yn walk in the hallways nearly everyday after homecoming. taehyun’s new hallway crush begins to grow into something bigger, but what happens when he has to make a choice between yn or continuing to fail school ? will taehyun be able to focus on sports, classes, and trying to win yn over ?

taehyun’s coach, coach lee, led him to the school’s library. no sight of a single person due to the late hours. the sun was still up, rays of sunlight entering the library through the large glass windows. taehyun’s feet led him directly behind coach lee, who guided him towards a table. taehyun’s eyes wandered throughout the room, taking in each and every little detail. he focused back in on what was right in front of him. a wooden circular table with a single student sitting down, which seemed to be the only person there aside from him and his coach.

he had been so excited to go home, tuesday afternoons were the perfect time to go home and play games with his friends. typically his friends and himself would go to gaming cafes and spend sometime to relax after worrying so much about soccer practices and a few future games that they had coming up in the upcoming season. instead here he was spending the afternoon with his coach and his new tutor in the library which was practically a new place to him. after all the years he had spent in the same school, he had never really gone into the library. it wasn’t exactly what he had expected, he thought it was going to have a more older kick to it, but it was quite a cozy place.

“taehyun, this is yn.. lin yn. yn, this is kang taehyun, he is the soccer team’s center back and captain.. although if he fails to improve his grades then i’m afraid that his role will go to yeonjun, which i, myself, don’t wish to do, simply because he’s a good captain. but i hope he will improve and i don’t think i’ll have to worry much if he’s receiving your aid.” coach lee smiled, attempting to not put too much pressure on the two of you. however, his words worked in a completely opposite manner. a small huff leaving taehyun’s mouth. the news of him being removed as the captain of the soccer team was completely unexpected to him, it wasn’t until right now that taehyun had found out that possible punishment.

“right, i’ll try my best to take care of him. i wouldn’t want him to get in trouble.” you smiled, putting on the nicest tone you could. you truly had no desire to continue your tutoring ‘job’, but whenever coach lee had approached you earlier and told you about the things that would happen if he wasn’t able to get his grade up, then it really guilted you into taking the time to tutor him.

“thank you, i should leave the two of you alone, enjoy your ‘get to know each other’ session.. oh- and i can see if you leave early taehyun.” his coach yelled out as he left the library. taehyun turned over, fully taking in the student that sat still, waiting for him to take a seat. although, he also took in the recognizable face that he had been spotting in the halls nearly every day since homecoming.

he noticed as the golden rays that the sun released were reflecting beautifully off of your glowy skin. a notebook occupying the spot in front of you, atop of the table. taehyun felt himself beginning to blush as he realized that he had just been standing there.. staring right at you for the past few minutes. he finally took a seat across from you, placing his book bag on the floor.

“..hey.” taehyun wasn’t a person to typically be nervous, but he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t help the way that his heart was beginning to beat like crazy.

“hi, umm- do you mind sharing your phone number with me ? i think it’s better to have each other’s contact information so we can schedule sessions.” you mumbled, your shyness beginning to get to you. it was easier to communicate with an extrovert, but currently taehyun seemed to be playing a more introverted way of communicating.

taehyun nodded, looking for a pencil in his bag and a piece of paper. “oh- i have a pencil.. and a sticky note.” you spoke up, handing over your pink and rather cutesy mechanical pencil over to taehyun along with the pink stack of sticky notes. he wrote down his number unsticking the piece of paper and sliding the stack and paper over towards you. as you grabbed the stack of paper, gliding your hand across the paper and gently handling it over towards taehyun.

and taehyun couldn’t help but realize, that you, the school’s sweetheart.. has him, the school’s most best athlete, completely wrapped around your finger. and yet, you didn’t even know it.. how could you. if he hasn’t even admitted the fact that he likes you to himself. he can’t even be 100% sure of his feelings for you. but you sure did make his heart go crazy, make his cheeks heat up just by keeping eye contact with him. he was so unprepared, he didn’t think his tutor was going to be the person who he had only showed interest in for nearly the past month or two.

you on the other hand, had barely noticed the boy, other than the times that you had gone out to see a game. to be fair, you were quite familiar with the school’s soccer team.

“is everything okay ?” you questioned, breaking the inevitable silence that rested in the air. taehyun nodded, completely turning his attention towards you. his head tilted as he attempted his best to pay attention towards you, but to be honest, your words were going in one ear and out the other. “did you even catch anything that i said ?”

“hmm ..? of course.. i did..”

“can you repeat them to me ?” you challenged, you had gone through this multiple times, after all it wasn’t your first time tutoring someone who didn’t even pay attention during your first meeting which you considered to be the most important meeting, after all first impressions are quite important.

“umm-“ taehyun paused.. what did you say ? he didn’t expect for you to be the kind of person to put him on the spot. especially since you had been so kind to him.. until now. but it wasn’t your fault and he knew that, it was his. he wasn’t paying attention and he was facing the repercussions for not doing so.

“it’s fine… just be sure to get here on time every time we meet up, which is every tuesday and thursday.. oh- and what exactly do you need help with ? i like to go through any material myself before tutoring so i can grasp the details and concept..”

“i’m.. not sure what i need help with.. everything is kind of easy.. but i’m kind of just behind on a lot of work..” taehyun confessed, feeling a bit embarrassed to confess that he doesn’t do anything during his classes. he wasn’t usually embarrassed about it, in fact he typically joked about it with his friends, but it was you.. and he had been crushing on you for the past few months.

“then, instead of tutoring, why not do a study session. i do my work, you do your work.. and if you need to.. you can ask me questions. doesn’t that seem fair ?” you asked him, tilting your head. a soft smile resting on your face. taehyun nodded. his heart quickened, your gentle smile softening up his heart. he never thought he would’ve been in this kind of situation, the kind of situation where he felt like he was head over heels for someone else.

taehyun had dated throughout his high school career, but never had he ever felt so strong emotions towards someone. and you weren’t just anyone, but before this meeting, he hadn’t even talked to you and he already felt so much adoration for you. he didn’t really accept his feelings or acknowledge them, mainly because he was worried that it was weird. he felt weird that he had such a crush on someone who he hadn’t even known, for all he knew, you could’ve been someone rude and he was already liking you so much.

“that seems good to me…” he agreed, hand fiddling with his other. his focus on you, ignoring any thoughts that he was having, mainly because he already felt like he deserved a scolding for not listening to you earlier, so now he had to be better than he was earlier.

“oh.. and is there anything else that you want me to know ?” taehyun rested his head on his hand, listening to your question. slowly beginning to grow his confidence back.. how ? well, he just knew he had to take advantage of the situation he was in. when would he ever coincidentally have a tutor that just so happens to be his hallway crush.

“what’s your favorite kind of flower ?” he asks, sending a rather smug smile at you. he loved catching your rather taken aback reaction. sure he may not have been doing any of his work in his classes, and he decided to take a bit of nap during those classes, but ! he was a curious person, and to say the least, he had quite the knowledge of flowers.

“… hydrangeas.. pink hydrangeas.. why do you ask ?” you look at him, giving him a look full of curiosity. brows furrowed, eyes filled with curiosity as your mind wondered.

“nothing, i’d just like to know what kind of flowers to put in the bouquet that i’ll be giving you.” he smirked.

“taehyun, that’s not really necessary.. you don’t have to give me anything..i’m just your tutor.. i don’t need a bouquet.”

“and why not ? it’s completely appropriate and necessary, you and i are both students who will be spending quite some time together. plus, just because nobody else you’ve tutored has given you a bouquet, doesn’t mean that i can’t.” he responded, standing up from his chair, pushing it in as he stands right next to it. you simply watch as he packs up his things, hanging his bag on his shoulder.

“what about you ?”

“me ? i like gloxinias.” he smirked, taking one last look at you before making his way out of the library, “see ya’ on thursday, get home safely.”

you watched his figure as he made his way out of the school, completely in shock. you felt as though taehyun was communicating with you in floral language. shocked that he was so behind on work but had managed to memorize the meanings of flowers.. maybe he was communicating in floral language..

©️kumabeom

this love taglist : @run2seob @soobadooba @soobnuuy @pockychuwu @crazynyctophilia @rencarnationofangel @esther-kpopstan @mrsyawnzzn @matcha-binz @michinri @hanstarrs @ariam-96

an: hehehe tyun was 100% responding to yn in floral language 🤭🤭 kind of want to incorporate a ton of flowers in this smau, and i know that you guys might not feel like looking all of that up, soooo i will leave a chart anytime i mention a flower.

gloxinias : love at first sight ; proud spirit.

pink hydrangeas : love and sincere emotions.

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calmcoldevening · 1 year

Text

Dance

TW: no

Characters: Vincent Sinclair

Description: just a little comfort from this pretty boy.

English is not my native language, so sorry about misspells.

The night always seemed like something forgotten and beautiful. Magical. The sky binds its entire boundless being into the embrace of a light black mantle decorated with a scattering of shining stardust; the wind begins to play with a bit of inexplicable tenderness, winding calmness and inner satisfaction; gentle songs of chirping insects and night birds hover in the air. You can also see something mysterious in the silent, cold light of the moon: the thrill with which silver rays encircle the roofs of houses and streets, wrapping the gloomy shadows of familiar things in beautiful unobtrusive images. There is something unearthly and painfully delightful about it. And to all the oddities that may seem to our wandering mind at this mystical time of day, we will certainly give one name, 'sleep'.

You were sitting in the kitchen, with your head propped up on your hand, with your other palm wrapped around a striped mug. The clink of a metal spoon occasionally hitting the ceramics cut the crystal silence. The tea has been cold for a long time, but you didn't pay attention to it, continuing to periodically sip the sweet liquid. The moonlight from the window gently outlined the features of your face when you once again looked at the wall clock; it's 00:30 a.m. You were sitting in the kitchen for a long time, continuing to burn through the impenetrable darkness on the other side of the window. Bo and Lester had been sleeping with full bellies and happy smiles for a long time, satisfied with tonight's dinner. In principle, they liked that there was a person in this house who could take care of them, as my mother once did.

The only thing that worried you and prevented you from falling asleep in every possible way was Vincent lingering in the workshop. At this time, and usually even earlier, a few hours after dinner, he was already in your room and listened to your measured reading of some book that you particularly liked. The man did not delve into the text, he was only interested in your pleasant, caressing voice, echoing in his head.

But for some reason, today he decided to break this peculiar tradition, and you were worried about it. Having gathered all your thoughts in a heap, you decided to visit the culprit of your inner anxiety. After all, if he's avoiding you on purpose, you should talk about it, shouldn't you?

Putting the mug in the sink, you look at the clock again and go towards the stairs. Climbing to the second floor, you tiptoe to your bedroom with Vincent, trying once again not to step on particularly creaky floorboards. You've been in this house for a long time, so you knew some of its features: for example, that the third step of the stairs is quite flimsy and makes a nasty creak to the point of trembling, as if you were forcefully rubbing a dry rag against a mirror polished to a shine; or that the farthest light bulb in the corridor has been blinking unpleasantly for a week, but no one dares replace it.

Closing the door tightly, you walk past the double bed and stop over the hatch. It was nice that a kind of doctor's or scientist's office was converted into a bedroom for the two of you; you are sure that the initiator was Lester, who immediately saw in you a really nice girl who would certainly take care of his older brother.

As soon as you opened the hatch cover, an unpleasant piercing creak of unoiled parts rang through the room. A pleasant enveloping warmth flows up from the basement, as well as from Vincent himself when he leaves the workshop: his body was so saturated with the smell of old wood, moisture and something else that distinguished this man from millions of others, what you really liked about him.

Going down the stairs, you wiped your sweaty palms on your t-shirt. Taking clothes from Vincent's closet turned out to be a good idea, at least you weren't so hot in it. When you got to the door, you covered the wet wood with your palm. The warmth touched your cold fingers, pleasantly calming and giving quite tangible confidence. The door, surprisingly, opened easily under your slight pressure, without making a sound.

It was even hotter in the workshop. How could Vincent work here in a sweater and a tight jumpsuit? It seems that the boiler was recently stopped: threads of steam were still streaming over the vat of hot wax. The room was spacious enough to accommodate all the equipment a man needed. Now the couch, habitually located in the middle of the makeshift office, was pushed to the wall, freeing up most of the room. An old radio was playing somewhere, giving out classic songs.

At the very end of the workshop, Vincent was hunched over a table. Now he was without his usual overalls, but in simple trousers and a long-sleeved jacket. No new 'guests' have come to Ambrose for a long time.

You quietly approached the man from behind, towering over his tense body. His entire desk was littered with a variety of sketches, ranging from projects of future figures to simple sketches of everything that caught Sinclair's eye. But most of all there were drawings with you. These were all kinds of portraits, both in full growth and in various poses.

"Vinnie."

You whisper, and the body under you shudders, straightening up to its full height. You step back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," the man hurriedly puts the sketches in one pile, "Hey, don't. They are very beautiful."

You grab one of the most eye-catching drawings and see yourself sitting on the windowsill in your bedroom. The image was fuzzy, rather more like an unfinished work, just a sketch, but it already looked impressive. Pictures immediately appeared in my head, hanging on the first floor of the museum. You chuckled briefly. The next sketch that came into your hands was your portrait in profile. You were struck by the accuracy with which Vincent depicted all the outstanding features of your face: the shape of your nose and lips, the softness of your gaze and the moles on your skin. The last drawing you managed to get out of Sinclair's possessive grip was a sketch where you and a man were spinning in some kind of dance. You were dressed in a light light dress, playfully developing at your feet, he was wearing a classic suit and leather gloves, which he gently wrapped around your smaller fragile body. He must have fantasized when the right music was playing.

"It's beautiful, my love."

You hear a quiet, lingering whine under the mask because of a pet name. Cutie. You'd like to tease him a little longer.

"It's true."

You smile at him affirmatively. Vincent's eyes are barely visible under the mask. You look at the drawing again. Did he want to dance? You pay attention to the music playing for a moment. Something like a waltz should have come up. At least you're familiar with this dance because of a few years in music school, so it shouldn't be a problem.

You put the drawings on the table and cover Vincent's massive hand with your palm. He looks at you questioningly.

"Would you like to dance?"

You give a man a gentle smile, holding out your hand to him. He looks back uncertainly. You wait patiently, rolling from heels to toes in longing. Finally Vincent makes up his mind and puts his hand in your palm. He gets up from his chair and, putting his arm around your waist, leads you to the middle of the room. The man squeezes your hand, interlacing his fingers, puts his free palm on your side. You touch his broad shoulder with your fingers.

Only now do you see this difference in height, which is why you have to lift your head to see his eye through the mask. You hear this wonderful music, and the beating of your heart echoes the pleasant notes. Your breathing quickens, and you look at Sinclair with eyes shining with anticipation.

A particularly strong note sounds, and Vincent begins to lead you. The man gently squeezes your supple flesh, you modestly look away, trying to focus on the music. Vincent grins at your sudden shyness. Your feet move quickly and skillfully on the hard floor; the sole of your favorite sneakers rubs against the stone slabs with force; you hear the light click of Sinclair's heels when he once again, holding your palm with his, spins you around. You can't see his face, but you can feel his gaze watching the movement of your body with fascination. A man strokes the delicate skin of your palm, and you feel goosebumps running down your back. His every touch or glimpse makes your heart flutter wildly in your chest, and long-lost butterflies come to life in your stomach. It is at such moments that your inner rhythm gets lost and your feet begin to slide incoherently on the floor, causing Sinclair to chuckle. You try to regain your inner composure when his big hand presses you especially hard against his body behind the small of his back.

Finally, the waltz ends and is replaced by some light melody. Probably just a few minutes, but it felt like hours to you. Vincent wraps his arms around your back, hugging you to him, and you wrap your arms around his neck. You put your head on his chest and press your ear to his fast-beating heart. Now you can clearly smell his body. The gray turtleneck is soaked with a light aroma of smoke and oil candles that you gave Vincent for Christmas, his sweat-soaked skin smells of citrus soap, and his tousled hair has the smell of your shampoo. You close your eyes, enjoying the moment while a man rocks your couple in an impromptu dance.

He gently runs his palm along your spine, and you shudder, a satisfied laugh comes from under the mask. Small electrical impulses seem to run through the body, they burn, but they do not carry pain, but rather a strange warm feeling accumulating in your stomach and chest. His fingers, rough from constant work, touch your hot skin and gently massage, from which you relax in his arms. Sleep begins to exert its direct influence.

"Shall we go to the bedroom?"

You ask, and Vincent nods, touching the mask of your forehead with his lips in a simulated kiss. You giggle, and he picks you up in his arms, heading for the stairs.

#slashers x reader #vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair x reader #drabble #fluff #comfort

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notroosterbradshaw · 2 years

Text

The Relationship Experience - three

part of: The Boyfriend Experience universe

two.

Rooster was already at the bar when you and Natasha arrived later than the rest of your friends, the guys all gathered around the pool table, talking shit and making useless bets. He noticed you immediately in your willowy sundress. He cursed under his breath. “You gotta be shitting me,” he muttered to no one in particular.

The dress.

Beer paused at his lip, Rooster’s gaze never left you as you and Natasha said hi to some of his co-workers before joining your group. He raised an eyebrow in greeting, exactly as he would have before everything changed.

“Beer?” he asked so coolly, the pads on his fingers grazing your wrist. It said everything you expected, and you gave him a simple ‘no, thanks’ in reply, moving past him to Penny at the bar, who smiled the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen as she assumed your order. Thanking her politely, she nudged her head in Rooster's direction.

“How'd the wedding go last week?”

"Good," you shrugged casually. "Was a long day - "

"Pen, can I get another beer, please?" Rooster cut in, hovering over you, his body heat radiating in his close proximity, and you were immediately overwhelmed by his cologne. Sweet Jesus, you were a mess for him, and you weren’t sure you would be able to hide it around other people if this was what you had to get used to.

"Just talking to our girl here," she told him gently, reminding him of the golden rules with a casual thumb over her shoulder and you hummed in taunting agreement. He pursed his lips shut and stood back, his booted toes tapping on the base of the barstool you’d parked at. It was quite infuriating, you realised.

“Yeah, can’t you wait your turn?” you smiled at him wide as he sighed, trying not to meet your eyes. He knew you were going out of your way to tease him, and on most occasions, he would be down (even in your friendship) but he waited a few more moments of small talk before Penny went to make the pink fluffy thing you liked that she refused to make for anyone else.

“Nice dress,” he murmured.

“This old thing?”

He squared his eyes, but there was no malice to them. “Couldn't help yourself?" he asked, resting his elbow on the sticky bar, his body curling around you while no one watched you both particularly closely.

“It’s a warm night, I believe I have dressed accordingly,” you replied cordially, trying desperately not to meet his dancing eyes. “You don’t like it?”

“Don’t recall sayin’ that.”

“No, I don’t believe you did. It was the opposite, wasn’t it?” you asked him thoughtfully. “You liked it if I recall.”

“I’d like to see it on the floor of my bedroom.”

“Well, you don’t have a bedroom I can access here so...” you responded evenly, although you were quaking.

Chewing his lip and straightening up, he said, “You truly love the game, don’t you?”

“I kinda do, yeah. Am I any good at it?” you asked as he hummed and accepted his beer. He nodded, chuckling quietly, and wandered away to play pool with Payback.

“Suppose you are.”

“That’s what I thought too,” you said just loud enough for him to hear as he shook his head, looking back with an amused shake of his head.

Penny came back a moment or so later with your drink. "Went well?” she prodded.

With a slight shrug, you replied, “It went well enough.”

“You two had fun?” she grasped your hand in hers. There was no way that Penny hadn't figured you out in a millisecond. Women's intuition, you figured. You nodded, a little emotional that she could read you like a book. She had known you as long as you could remember, friends with your mother and the Naval connection strong. “You look lighter,” she told you. “This could be good for you - good for both of you. But don’t worry, I won’t tell your mother,” she petted your hand before winking and moving to serve another patron.

Oh, yeah. Mom.

Mom will want to know about this.

Oh, fuck. Fuck. It’s not that you didn’t love your Mom, you couldn’t have asked for anyone else to raise you better. She just… ‘wanted what was best for you’, and that sometimes meant she got a little excited about hmm… what’s the word? Prospects. Yes, your prospects.

“You good?” Natasha asked, joining you.

Forcing a bright grin, you replied, “Yes. Waiting for someone to cheers with,” you lied expertly as she laughed and raised her bottle to you.

“Cheers,” she said, glasses tapping and you both took a welcome drink. Your throat was dry and needed something to loosen you up.

Penny caught Natasha’s eyes and she motioned for a round of tequila shots for the team. Penny nodded, collecting the glasses as she called her friends and colleagues over. Sweet Bob, you smiled as he gave you a boyish grin in greeting. You felt a warm hand on your lower back, the pad of an index finger tracing the pattern on the material. “Cheers,” Natasha said as the crew around you tossed back the shots. Reaching for the lemon before you, Rooster pushed it out of reach with a single finger.

“Not for you,” he muttered.

“What?” you reached again and he skirted just a little farther out of your reach. “Roost – ” you tried as he reached for a slice and crammed it gently in your mouth before you could protest, fingertips grazing your lips.

“Yes?” he asked, taking the last dribble from his glass. Spluttering, you tossed away the skin.

“Asshole,” you muttered as he handed you a napkin to rid the lemon juice from your fingers.

“I can’t help you can’t take your liquor,” he tutted.

“I don’t like shots. I’m not 18 anymore,” you admitted as your friends dispersed. “I like to be in control.”

“Well, we can’t always have what we want,” he shrugged simply. “Can we?”

“I’ll say,” you sniped as Natasha joined you, seating herself on the stool beside you.

“Friends,” she smiled widely, leaning against the bar.

Rooster squinted as you dropped your gaze. “Phoenix,” Rooster replied, sipping his beer.

“So, what’s new with you two?” she wasn’t even trying to hide her shit-eating grin.

“Your friend here just telling me she can’t drink shots anymore,” Rooster repeated.

Natasha grinned. “Aww. And did you help her, Rooster?”

“No, don’t believe I did,” he smirked and joined Bob at the darts.

Natasha’s eyes flashed to yours. “I like that Rooster.”

“You can have him,” you replied, some condensation from your drink spilling onto your skirt and you quickly dusted it away. “Dammit.”

“You’ve made a mess of him,” she noted quietly, watching him still. “I saw it the second you walked in; he looked like some kind of slack-jawed idiot. Pardon me, I’m watching you both like a hawk because if I don’t get some proof of life between you both, I might spontaneously combust.”

You had to laugh. “What are you expecting from something we don’t know about yet?”

“I dunno. I mean, there is some tension there. For sure, sexual? Probably, but you just look uncomfortable around each other.”

“Because he’s being a dick,” you hissed.

“And you’re not provoking him?”

Pouting, you gave her a sideways glance. “Mebbe.”

“Maybe? What kind of fuckin’ answer is that?” she howled as Hangman joined you to order another round. “Bagman, Rooster seem out of sorts tonight?”

His gaze went over to his friend, and he shrugged. “Looks his usual repressed, douche-y self to me,” he replied drily and ordered another round for the team.

You bit back a laugh, the delivery was absolutely perfect. As much as he drove you (and most people he encountered) around the twist, Hangman’s wit was impeccable and often at Rooster’s cost. They lived to spar with each other, in the air and on the ground, but as seriously as it appeared, they were kind of friends and trusted each other implicitly. “There you have it,” you muttered to Natasha.

She rolled her eyes as he collected his beers. You pretended you didn’t notice her eyes trace him and ordered another round for yourself as he left you both.

“I must stop. I want to be as sober as a judge tonight.”

Natasha smiled. “Drunk sex is fun.”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “But I do not need the hangover tomorrow morning for work.”

“Oh, that,” she muttered. “I dunno how you do it. Teaching all those rugrats not to drown themselves.”

“It’s a life skill,” you replied, good-natured. “The kids aren’t that bad. It’s great to see them learn something as vital as survival in the water. You should know that.”

“Yeah, but things come out of them,” she said, face revealing repulsion.

You laughed heartily, making Natasha grin with you.

“I get it now,” she snapped her fingers.

“What?”

“When you laugh, like really let it go, your face is just the most beautiful thing.”

Just like Rooster had said.

Rolling your eyes, you settled back against the barstool. Never great with compliments, you mumbled a ‘thanks’ and begged for your drink. “You know?” you said to her quietly. She raised an eyebrow at you and hummed in reply. “I’m really nervous to sleep with him,” you confided softly. “I know the last few nights have been amazing… just the whole – ”

“Going from friends to lovers?” she turned her face to the bar, sliding your chair to do the same. God forbid the team catch a whisper of what you were talking about. “Yeah, I know. It’s definitely weird.”

“How did you two go about it?”

She snickered a laugh. “Well, we were really drunk. And I swear, the first time was hate fucking but it was the most intense sex I’ve ever had. It won’t be the same for you two. You guys have genuine feels which are probably why it’s terrifying. But he won’t make you uncomfortable. You know he’s a good guy. He respects you.”

“I don't want to be treated like glass.”

She nodded, sipping her beer. “I know. Just use your words. He will appreciate it.”

Sighing as you received your drink, you took an eager sip before Javy lured you to the pool table just to have your ass handed to you. You weren’t sure why you put yourself through this mistreatment, did you honestly think you could beat these people?

“Next time,” he teased. “I’ll go easy.”

“There won’t be the next time,” you told him, excusing yourself for the bathroom as he laughed after you. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” you stammered, crunching squarely into Rooster’s chest as he rounded the corner. He caught you by the wrists, steadying you with a gentle smile gracing his features as he realised whom he poleaxed.

“M’sorry,” he laughed quietly. “You okay?”

“I just heading to the bathroom,” you told as he stared over your shoulder, before pursing his lips together and fastidiously dragging you around the corner out of the prying eyes.

“I’ll join you,” he nodded, backing his way into the ladies' room as stealthily as a 6’1” mountain of muscle could.

“Rooster, nooo,” you hissed as he peered in. Deciding the coast was clear, he nipped you into a stall and locked the door behind you. “You cannot be serious.”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” he murmured, easing you back into the door, his hands smoothing down your sides, you could melt happily in his arms for the first time today.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you warned pathetically.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But I cannot be this close to you and not touch you. I have been watching you all night and I am not in a good way,” he confided.

Breaking into a small smile, you admitted, “Me either. This is fucking torture.”

Pushing his knee between yours, you pressed your hands into his strong chest and reach to kiss him, his lips smiling against yours. He used a strong hand to pin your hands above you, returning your kiss deeply, tongue, teeth, wet and warm. It was messy and deliberate and perfect. You could say you were officially obsessed with the tickle of his moustache. He pushed closer into you, his thigh pressing between your legs, and you couldn’t refuse. You were so pent up and leaned into it, desperate for the pressure.

“It’s okay,” he breathed, his mouth devouring your pulse as you reached and pulled into his soft curls. His free hand bunched at the skirt of your dress and tilted you into him, the roughness of his jeans was incredible. “I’ll take care of you. Do what you need,” he almost begged against your skin as you couldn’t fight it anymore and rocked against his powerful thigh. “Good girl,” he rasped, his voice in stereo as his teeth sunk into your earlobe. “Don’t stop.”

“Fuck, that feels good,” you said, in complete surrender. You couldn’t fight, couldn’t fuss, couldn’t move your arms. All that was left was to…

Give in.

“Let me take you home…” he pleaded with you. “Enough with these games.”

Eyes closed and body scorching, you nodded. “I need you,” you told him as he nodded and kissed you again. The situation was painfully uncomfortable for you both.

“Come on, baby. I’m here. Lemme see you cu - ”

Hearing the door squeal open and your name called, you both froze, staring at the other one, wide-eyed. Natasha. “We’re heading out. You okay?”

Rooster bit back his grin and nodded at you to reply. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to drop you back? I can’t find Rooster out there.”

“Dunno where he is,” you said as he shuddered with laughter. You freed your wrists and smacked your hand over his mouth to shut him up before he sold you out.

“I’ll give you a lift back. Typical Rooster ghosting away.”

“Typical,” you grinned at him as he gave you a pitiful glance. “I’ll be right out. Just gimme a minute.”

“Okay,” and she was gone again.

“The moment passed?” he nodded to your position as you nodded slowly. His hands draped down your sides and he dropped his leg, standing to his full height. “I guess I’m being ditched.”

“It will cause a lot less curiosity if she takes me home.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said honestly. “Does she… know?” he figured since he’d been named.

“She knows. That okay?” you asked, shyly.

“Of course. Makes sense why she was on my ass all day asking if I was taking a date to Harvard’s wedding next month,” he chuckled quietly, and you smiled. His heart clenched and kissed your smile off your face.

“What did you say?”

“Said I could probably call in a favour,” he said smartly as you rolled your eyes. “You sure you want me to come back?”

“So badly,” you kissed him as his hands caressed your ribs and the underside of your breasts.

“I’ll meet you at your place,” he exhaled. “Go,” he released you, swatting your ass as you made your getaway, straightening the creases on your clothes as best as you could. Scooting out, you wandered back to the bar where Natasha was laughing at a joke that seemed to only be for them with Hangman. Yeah, just as friends do.

“Back,” you announced.

“Last call?” Hangman asked.

“No, I can’t. I gotta get this one back,” Natasha said.

“I can call an Uber if you guys want to stay,” you reassured her. “Don’t worry about me.”

“No, I’m done. At my limit,” she grabbed her purse. “See ya,” she told Jake as he gave a single nod, sipping his beer with absolutely no qualms that he was the last man standing. It was so cool and calculated, it was no surprise to you no one had a clue what was happening between them.

Following Natasha, you gave him a friendly wave that he gave a cheeky wink in response, eyes scanning the room to see if you could see Rooster, but he was so clever at that. He could just disappear, and no one was ever the wiser. His Bronco wasn’t in the car park, and he was gone.

Checking your phone for the first time in a while and getting in the passenger seat as Natasha got into the driver’s side, you chewed the inside of your cheek, desperate to get back to your apartment.

Rooster 🐓: Can’t wait to finish what we started x

You pressed the tap back, giving him a heart - no, thumbs up - in reply. Argh, thumbs up. The cringe you had to hide.

“Rooster coming over as soon as I drop you?” she teased, starting the engine.

Giving a gentle shrug, you replied, “Yeah.”

“I hope you two have the hottest sex,” she said sincerely. “Because I think you deserve Rooster Bradshaw's body.”

Holding your heart, you replied, "You're so sweet to say," you said. But you didn’t disagree. If Rooster wasn’t naked within minutes of his arrival, you thought you might erupt. The nerves were gone (for the moment) and all you could think of was what he could do with that body.

It was only a short trip back to your place, and you weren't surprised to see Rooster's truck out front with him sitting against the hood, shapely arms crossed across his broad chest. Jesus Christ, he was like a movie and he was coming up to your apartment. Was he always this handsome, your head screamed.

“Bold,” Natasha huffed a laugh. “Does he know I know?”

“He knows.”

"I hope you have really good sex tonight," Natasha said as she put the car in park to let you out. “Rooster, we know how you got that callsign. Take care of my girl, or I'll sic Hangman and Coyote on to you,” she continued as you got out of the car, and he smiled.

"Goodnight, Phoenix. Tell Bagman I said hello," he replied as you stood with him. She gave you a glare that you pretended not to see and she waited for just the slightest hint of the two of you together.

“Hold hands!” she ordered.

“No,” Rooster replied.

“Kiss!”

“We’re not circus monkeys,” you added.

“Show some affection. Please?” she begged as you finally caved, covering your giggles with a palm over your mouth and Rooster had to admit, it was hard not to do the same as he rumbled a laugh also.

When what she needed didn’t come, she rolled her eyes, gave the bird and drove off.

When her car disappeared around the corner, you looked up at him accusingly. “Jake and Natasha are a secret, remember?” you hissed at him as he made a face and pulled you into his arms. “Like you and me. She’s keeping our secret, it would be nice if you did the same.”

He rolled his eyes, mirth dancing freely in them and sighed. “Come here, you fuckin’ tease,” he kissed you deeply. “You’ve had me on a damn string all night,” he placed single kisses on your lips as you jerked back. “What?”

“How did you get your callsign?” you looped back, realising you’d never heard the story.

Shaking his head, he replied in no uncertain terms, “That is absolutely something you are not getting outta me tonight. Well, unless you ask nicely,” he figured, biting back his torment but he knew the story would blow your mind. Hopefully.

“Well, I know it’s usually based on unfortunate events, right?”

Sighing, Rooster nodded. “Mostly.”

“So…”

He shook his head again, an amused, tight-lipped smile on his face. “You’ll find out, I swear.”

Pouting, wide-eyed – fuck, don’t pout, Rooster begged. That look would lose him so many disagreements and it would probably lose him this one too. If he knew you had his sussed already, he’d be a dead man. “Please?”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed, quietly as you batted your lashes and he rubbed his tired eyes. “Knock it off.”

“Will I think badly of you?” you wondered, stroking his chest.

“I hope not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You can find out at an appropriate time.”

“I’ll just text Natasha,” you said simply.

“She won’t tell you,” he guaranteed self-assuredly.

“Rooster,” you grunted, incredibly frustrated at his refusal to budge. You wanted to stomp, but he didn’t need to know how petulant you could be.

Staring at the stars above, Rooster prayed for patience and virtue. “I’ve known you thirty years. Why am I just learning you don’t take no for an answer?”

“It’s to my detriment,” you shrugged easily, trying to hold back a smile. He knew you knew you were breaking him. “It can be a problem. Especially when I want something.”

“I’m just beginning to realise.”

Grinning, you asked heading towards your apartment, “Coming?”

“Fuckin’ hope so,” he muttered to himself, his eyes drifted up and down, the curves of your body reminding him of what was hopefully on the other side of the door. “Just taking in the view. Please don’t mind me,” he called to you, licking his upper lip.

Rooster was an ass man? Never would have picked it from the women that he entertained at the bar. You'd be lying to say your hips swayed just a little more, solely for his benefit. Rooster held his heart and looked at the stars above.

“Sweet Jesus, you’ll put me in an early grave,” he mumbled, before running to catch you in his strong arms, making unlocking the door a little uneasy, his large hands rubbing circles across your torso.

You paused and turned back to look at him. He pulled back a little surprised at the reaction. “Before we go in, I have to tell you something.”

“Okay?” he said uncertainly.

“I know we know where this is going.”

“I hope so,” Rooster crossed his fingers and toes.

“I have to admit, I am…”

“You’re what?” Rooster licked his lips. “Sexy, because yes. Incredible? Yeah. Gee, you think so highly of yourself,” he joked, desperate to break the tension but you didn’t see his humour.

“Nervous.”

He nodded gently. He figured. “About what?”

You considered your words, heart rate rising as he turned you to face him. He gripped your wrist and brought it to his lips to kiss tenderly. “I felt a little rejected the other night when I asked you to sleep with me… and you didn’t.”

“Ahh, the night I showed the greatest restraint of my life,” he said with a hint of humour.

“Rooster…” you sighed.

“Sweet girl,” he straightened up. “After the wedding, I know you were so overwhelmed. I didn’t want you to be pressured to sleep with me. I gave you a lot to process,” he reasoned. “You will have to hold me back now. I know you want me, you know I want you. But if you aren’t ready, that’s okay too. I can give you as much time as you need,” he shrugged although it killed him to say.

They were the right words though, and your apprehension eased.

Your neighbours must have hated you over the last few nights… your entire life was being played out at the front stoop. You breathed and turned the key, pushing the door open and giving Rooster a shy smile.

“If you need some space… I am happy to give you that too.”

You wandered in, looking back over your shoulder, curious if he would follow. “I don’t need space. Are you joining me?” you asked as he gave a small smile and quietly closed the door after him. He followed you to the living room, making himself comfy on the couch. “Not in here, Bradley,” you told him, continuing towards your bedroom.

“Fuck yes,” he said under his breath and bounced back up, quickly catching you in his arms, crowding your body as he joined you in your room. You loved that he enveloped you with his entire being, enjoying feeling so tiny in his arms. He’d done it a few times and you’d grown quite accustomed to it. “Hmm, so this is where the magic happens,” he teased, taking in your room. Again, light and airy like the living room. Linen, white, candles. Neat. He let you go and went to sit on the edge of your bed.

“I guess,” you shrugged, the nerves still very much bubbling under the surface as you watched him making himself so comfortable in your space. He gave a half-smile, and he held his calloused palms out to you, begging you to his lap.

“Come here. I gotta kiss you.”

“Just kiss?” you asked, approaching him and raking your fingers through his hair. He exhaled deeply. You stood over him, waiting for his answer.

“Tell me what you want and I’ll do it,” he looked up, his eyes dark. “Anything.”

You smiled, swirling his sandy waves around your fingers before grasping his face to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you to join him on the bed, both falling back on the soft mattress and in a moment, he was on you. He dragged your leg over his hip, bringing your bodies so fucking close. You could feel how hard he was, you knew how wet you were but the kisses, as amazing as they were, weren’t cutting it anymore. You wanted to feel his skin, trace the muscle and ridges of his body, strong, tanned, immaculate. “Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?” he asked, eyes opening to you.

“We need to get rid of the clothes.”

“Yes, we do,” he agreed eagerly. “Turn around for me?”

At his demand, you turned your back to him to loosen the zip. He hummed, making light work of it as you stood and let the dress fall to your feet. He swallowed roughly, just gazing back at him in your navy lingerie, desperate to be touched, taunted, turned inside out.

And just as he suspected, you were absolutely beautiful. Every curve demanding to be adored, and cherished. Prayed to, just like he promised.

He reached out and pulled you to his lap, lips found yours again as you groaned into his mouth. Fuck, he loved the start of whatever this was. Learning about someone was one thing, but he'd be lying to say that he was desperate to see how your body worked. He’d sure as shit thought about it enough.

Desperate. Two ice-cold showers today desperate.

But it felt kind of amazing to just throw caution to the wind, learn about the other's body, learn how they liked to be kissed, where they want to be touched, and what their pleasure sounded like (and just how deep Rooster's voice when he was turned on).

"Can we level out please?" you asked quietly as he nodded and raised his muscular arms. Finding the hem, you pulled his plain white tee up slowly and even though you'd seen him shirtless countless times before... this was another level of sexy as he adjusted his dog tags down his chest, proudly. Holding his tee to your face, he urged you closer to him, patting his knee but let's be real. You didn’t need an invite. “Come finish what you started.”

“I just need a second,” you told him, kind of entranced by just how good his body was. How sexy the scars on Rooster were, they were entrancing to you although you knew he felt uncomfortable with them so closely scrutinised, but they looked very different with his flushed skin. The smattering of freckles across his shoulders and chest, the masculinity of his strong pecs and brawny shoulders and as he sat back lazily, his abs still glaringly obvious in his relaxed state.

“You okay?” he asked and quirked an anxious smile.

“More than okay,” you told him. “Trust me, I want this. Your body is incredible. I’m a little speechless,” you touched his soft skin, the smidgeon of dark hair on his chest and your hands drifted to the button on his jeans. His gaze dropped to watch your fingers pop the button undone. He wondered if there was anything sexier than being undressed by you.

He breathed, sitting up and reaching for you again, “I am aching for you, baby.”

Nodding, you smiled softly. “There is no need for games – ”

“Fuck no,” he wrapped you up with one arm, the other digging into his back pocket to remove a sleeve of condoms, tossing them on the pillow, loud and proudly on display. The size on the foil didn’t surprise you in the slightest.

Your phone ringing interrupted the revelry. “Sonova – ” you said together, frowning at each other. You sighed, reaching over him to pick up the phone but he beat you to it, reading the caller ID.

"Arron," he told you, a bit perplexed. "Who's Arron at 11pm, sweet girl?"

Grinning sardonically, was Rooster insinuating this was a booty call? The tone in his voice was muddled with confusion, a little malice… and maybe just a little demanding, because he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else, and kind of expected that you weren’t either –

"Ew. Rooster, gross,” you made a face and snatched the phone, and he eased back on his palms, watching you through a confused, lidded gaze. “It’s Annie's husband. Just ignore it, Annie has gone into false labour already this pregnancy," you tossed the phone away and tried kissing him again as the phone stopped ringing. Sighing in relief, you focused on tracing a scar on his left shoulder with your lips as he shuddered. It felt powerful and wonderful to watch Rooster wilt under your touch.

He relaxed a little and held you again, his hands groping your ass boldly.

“Look, are you sure?" Rooster asked, finding it difficult to concentrate as you traced his gnarliest scar. "She's pretty far along," he tried, breathing shallow and head desperate to lull,. He started to lay down, taking you down with him.

"She's fine," you brushed him off, your lips moving to the scar on his throat, and he swore blue, swallowing hard. He was finding your sweet lips were his goddamn kryptonite and jolted as your palms started for the zip on his fly. “Please stop thinking about my sister.”

He laughed, shaking his head. "Sorry… that feels so good," he told you, rasp thick and you carelessly dragged your palms over his hard cock. “Fuck…” his hands moved to your bra, fiddling momentary before it popped open. Anticipation building to a fever pitch, he sat you back and brushed the straps off your shoulders as the FUCKING PHONE RANG AGAIN.

"Jesus Christ!" you exclaimed, a rage blackout immanent, as he breathed and reached to hand you the phone again, this time Annie calling. “Annie, what the fuck?” you answered, Rooster bit back a laugh at your frustration, his head collapsing back against the soft mattress and resisting to show his own irritation.

He was glad to know he wasn’t the only one.

“The doctor is recommending I go into for a c-section, you asshole,” she sniped back. “I've been in labour since last night.”

“Oh,” you said, taken back as you rested your palm against his chest to steady yourself. Suddenly panicked, you gently pulled your bra back over your chest and straps back over your shoulders, demanding a little modesty like Annie was in the room. “Are you okay?”

“Well, aside from dealing with a baby that doesn't want to come out of my vagina, I'm on gas and morphine that hasn't touched the sides, and now about to be cut in two, I've had better days.”

“Okay, okay. Do you want me to come in?” you took in Rooster's dejection and smiled sadly as he forced a smile himself, telling you silently it was okay. He sat up and kissed your shoulder and moved his hands to your back to try and re-do your bra, bless him. You smiled into the crook of his neck and he held you tenderly.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into your ear.

“I need Arron. Arron is home with Oscar. Can you go over and sit?” Annie almost begged. She sounded worried, she sounded scared and it only made you feel the same.

“Of course,” you told her. "I'll be right there. Whatever you need,” you massaged the nape of Rooster’s neck as he shrugged into it, gripping your hips, getting those last-ditch touches in before the night was cut short. It wasn’t the first time this week he’d be taking matters into his own hands.

“Thank you,” Annie said, you heard the agitation in her voice. “Love you.”

“Love you. I’ll be right there,” you said as the line died.

"So, your sister is having a baby?" Rooster reckoned.

“Yeah, they're going to have to operate,” you told him softly, and he looked up, concerned. “I'm going to go stay with Oscar so Arron can go to the hospital. I'm so sorry, Rooster.”

He smiled lightly. “It's fine. Duty calls, I completely get it,” he declared. He helped you to your feet and stood himself.

“I’ll just get some jeans and a shirt,” you told him, sadly stepping away as he retrieved his shirt and whipped it over his head, mussing his sun-kissed curls further. Gosh, you loved his hair so unruly like that and gently sprayed your fingers through it, teasingly making the situation worse as he gave you a hopeful smile before he lightly moved you to arm's length. You ventured to find a tee and your jeans on the day chair, and frustratingly, you were both dressed again. Pent up and nothing to show for it.

“I'll go so you can get organised,” he said softly. “Looks like you’ve got a few big days coming up.”

“Mom was planning to come over and stay with Oscar and spend time with Annie and the baby, but obviously it's all happened a bit sooner than expected,” you tried.

"You don't have to explain it to me," he reassured you. Taking both your hands as he led you to the door, Rooster sighed. “Call, text, when you know what’s going on, okay? If you need me, I’ll be right there.”

Moving to your tiptoes, you kissed him deeply, forcing as much apology and passion onto him as you could. He willingly accepted it and wrapped you into his strong arms, lips as forceful against yours, his large palms pressing into your back and down your spine, grasping down your ass and between your legs as sighed against his lips. God, all you could think about was finally fucking him and you guys were so close. So damn close.

He pulled back with a sigh. You could sense his disappointment as he could yours.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. Go take care of your family.”

“Okay,” you said as he unravelled around you and let you slip away from him. “Goodnight, Bradley.”

“Friday,” he said simply and wandered away.

“Friday,” you said quietly after him and closed the door. “Fuck,” you muttered, biting your lip and the emotion that threatened to spill if you gave in to it.

Rooster lumped himself on a bench as he went back to his locker. He was drenched in sweat, aching and exhausted from his flight. He found his phone and checked over his shoulder, seeing your name. The last thing he needed was Jake or Javy spotting it and it would be on for young and old.

Sweet girl: I’m an aunty again! Ava Rose was delivered at about 1am this morning, she’s fine, Annie is fine, but pretty banged up and sore. I’ll be with Oscar until Annie and Aaron are home. It could still be a few days as Annie recovers. I’m sorry about last night again. I hope you had a good day x

He breathed, just your name made his pulse rate jump again. You’d texted hours ago, so he responded quickly.

Rooster 🐓: Congrats, I’m glad it went as well as possible. I hope you’re okay, looking forward to Friday x

It was short and succinct. He wasn’t cross but knew you wouldn’t have the time to talk, fussing over little Oscar. He tossed his phone back in his locker, ready to rid the day from him. Tired, aching and hungry, he just wanted to get the days over until he saw you again. Friday.

four.

masterlist.

a/n: hi team, thanks for all the love on the last chapter, especially those who commented and reblogged, you’re the true mvp’s. Hope you enjoy, send an ask on anon with your thoughts (no one will ever know it’s you!) x I hope the tags also work! because these fics are dying a slowww death.

#notroosterbradshaw #rooster #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x oc #rooster x female reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster fanfic #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster fluff #rooster imagine #rooster bradshaw fic #top gun fluff

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bluejaysandblackbats · 6 months

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Eyes and Ears

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: An AU where Barbara finds Jason instead of Bruce.

Chapters: 2/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Barbara Gordon, Jim Gordon, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Sheila Haywood, Original Character(s)

Relationship(s): Jason Todd/Original Character(s), Past Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Older SIbling Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd-centric, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Jason Todd is NOT Robin, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Has a Crush, Adopted Siblings

Chapter Two: The Dewey Decimal System

Jason got out of bed early in the morning, looking for Jim. After a few minutes of looking around, he knocked on Barbara's bedroom door. Barbara opened her door and put on her glasses. "Where's your dad?" Jason asked.

"Good morning," Barbara mumbled. Jason stood there for a while, trying to figure out what he wanted. "He didn't change his mind. You can still stay here... But I think you should come into work with me."

"On the motorcycle?" Jason asked. Barbara laughed and shook her head.

"We're taking a cab," Barbara explained. Jason pushed a hand through his hair, and Barbara noticed a few circular-shaped burns on the back of Jason's hand and on his arms. Some were old, some were new. "Hey, where'd you get those burns?"

Jason shoved his hand into the pocket of his pajama pants. "Don't worry about it," Jason mumbled as he turned and rushed back to his room and shut the door. Barbara's shoulders dropped, and she cursed under her breath. Barbara was hoping that he'd just tell her. She took her shower and got dressed for work, and by the time she was ready, Jason was in the kitchen making breakfast as if nothing happened.

Jason poured himself a glass of orange juice. "Your dad is gonna lose it when he finds out how many days of school I've missed," Jason mumbled.

"Well, that gives you something to do this summer while I'm at work. You'll get caught up soon enough," Barbara replied. Jason put half of his bagel on her plate. "Thanks."

"It's the last one. I just didn't want to be a jerk," Jason replied. Barbara took a bite and smiled at him. He wore a striped sweatshirt that he found in the closet. It was far too big, but he liked it.

After Barbara finished eating breakfast, she went through the fridge and prepared lunch for both of them. Jason washed his hands and sat on the couch. "Want some eggs?" Barbara asked. Jason shook his head and turned the tv on. "So, just half of a bagel?"

"I'm full. Hey, what do I call you? Do I just call you Babs?" Jason asked.

"Or Barbara. You can call me Barbara," she answered, and Jason nodded.

"Barbara," Jason repeated to himself. She plopped down next to him on the couch, and Jason glanced over at her. He could still see glimpses of his mother in her, and it made him a little bit sad. He took a deep breath and lay his head on her shoulder.

"Did you sleep?" Barbara asked, her voice soft.

"Nope," Jason mumbled. She looked over at him.

"You know it's okay for you to go to sleep here," Barbara whispered. Jason nodded. "I'm serious, Jason."

"Yeah... It's one thing to say that. I've tried staying with people before, and it just doesn't work," Jason whispered.

"Well, you've never stayed with us... It'll be different," Barbara reassured him, "Come on, I'll call a cab when we get outside."

Barbara put her shoes on and grabbed their lunches. Jason followed her outside, and by the time they got to the library, Jason was half-asleep. Barbara nudged him.

"Do you know how the Dewey decimal system works?" Barbara asked. Jason shrugged, and Barbara went behind the desk and wrote a list. "Do you have a library card?"

"Nuh-uh..." Jason answered. Barbara shook her head and clocked in. She got him signed up for a library card and gave him a login for the computers. "Barbara?"

"When you find those books, you can come back here and read down here," Barbara whispered. Jason cocked his head. "There's a bean bag chair down here."

Jason nodded and waved before wandering the library. Jason hated to admit it, but he liked having someone care about him. He found the books in a short amount of time and joined Barbara behind the counter. As people came in and asked questions, Jason would playfully nudge her. Barbara kept her composure, only allowing herself to laugh when it was just the two of them. "Jason, stop," she chuckled as she playfully kicked at him.

Jason grinned and went back to reading. After a while, Jason grew silent, and Barbara almost forgot that he was there. She nearly tripped over him on her way to the book chute. Barbara opened her mouth to apologize, and he lay fast asleep in the bean bag chair. She took off her sweater and draped it over him. She continued to work as Jason slept, and when lunchtime came around, she crouched down and nudged Jason. He covered his mouth and yawned. "What happened?" Jason mumbled.

Barbara took her sweater and helped him up. "You fell asleep. It's time for lunch. Wanna come outside with me?" she asked. He nodded and let her lead him outside. Barbara carried their lunches in her other hand.

They sat on the benches behind the library, and Jason started eating his sandwich. "Barbara?" Jason asked.

"Hm?" she replied as she took a bite of her boiled egg. "What's wrong?"

Jason didn't say anything. Barbara chewed her lip. He finished eating the first half of his sandwich, and he sighed. "They're cigarette burns," Jason mumbled, "So, yeah."

"Did your parents do—?"

"My mom would never—." Jason paused to lower his voice. "My mom would never hurt me... I don't want to talk about that. I just didn't want you making stuff up in your head."

"It must be hard to talk about people who've hurt you—."

"It's not just—. It's not—. I did some of them," Jason whispered, "I don't want you to think I'm weird."

"I don't think you're weird. I mean, I look at you and I just sort of see a kid... I don't really know you yet. I do know that there's something special about you," Barbara answered, "I don't know what it is, and I don't really care at this point. Just know that I like you... And that I'm gonna look after you." She reached to touch Jason's wrist, and he pulled away.

"People promise things all the time, Barbara... But, it doesn't mean you'll keep your word. People change their minds," Jason whispered. Barbara didn't argue with him. She just nodded and went back to eating.

Jason put his food away and went back inside. She didn't follow him. After Barbara finished eating, she went back inside to look for him. Barbara nudged her coworker and asked, "Max, have you seen a little boy with dark hair and blue eyes?"

"YA. Are you babysitting?" Max questioned in return. Barbara shook her head and went back to looking for Jason.

He sat on the floor reading, and she looked down at him. "Mad at me?" Barbara asked. Jason shook his head. "I hope you stick around long enough for me to make good on my promise."

Jason wanted to smile, and he wanted to believe her, but he just couldn't. He wouldn't look at her. Barbara crouched down in front of him and tapped him on the nose. She knew it'd take a while to earn his trust, but she was willing to wait. "Thank you for telling me. You didn't have to, but I'm glad you did," she softly thanked him, opening her arms. Jason embraced her, and she sat across from him.

Jason showed her the inside of the book in an attempt to change the subject. "The Statue of Liberty was a gift from the French?" Jason asked.

"Cool, huh?" Barbara replied.

"It's all ancient history to me," he joked. Barbara shook her head and messed up his hair.

"Wanna come back behind the desk? Max is harmless," Barbara offered. Jason hesitated before joining Barbara on her way back to the desk. "Max, this is Jason. Jason, this is Max... No personal questions Max, just know that he'll be coming to work with me sometimes." Jason shook Max's hand and plopped back down on the bean bag chair.

Barbara clocked back in and worked the front desk while Max put books back. Jason tugged her pant leg and asked her for a bookmark. "Going back to sleep?" Barbara asked. Jason nodded.

"I mean... if that's okay," Jason mumbled. Barbara nodded.

Jason drifted off to sleep quickly after their conversation ended, and he slept until the end of her shift. "Do you want me—?"

"Don't wake him up yet. I'm just gonna check out his books, and I'll get him. Don't worry," Barbara whispered, "Um, Max... Remember you told me about your girlfriend's little brother?"

"Is that who this is? Dick doesn't have a little brother, though. Unless," Max turned around to look at Jason, and Jason took a sharp inhale of breath and woke up.

"He's not Dick's little brother... He's um... He's my—. Jason, do you wanna check out your books so we can go?" Barbara asked just as her cellphone vibrated in her pocket. "Sorry, Max, I gotta take this. It's my dad." She told Jason she'd be out front, and she stepped outside to answer her phone. "Hey, Dad."

"Is Jason with you?" Jim asked.

"Uh... Yeah, he went to work with me. I just didn't want to leave him alone. Why? Is something wrong?" Barbara responded.

"To get guardianship of him, I would have to notify his parents—."

"His parents aren't alive. He told me himself last night—."

"But that's just it. I think Jason believes that. I did a little digging, and I found out I did take his father in a few times, and during that time, Jason was in the care of Catherine Todd. She legally adopted him when he was an infant, but his birth mother's been missing since shortly after he was born," Jim explained.

"What do you mean birth mother?" Barbara asked. Jason came outside carrying a stack of books. "Dad, we'll be home in a little bit. I'll talk to you then... Bye." She hung up and took a few of Jason's books from him.

"Is he mad at me?" Jason asked. Barbara shook her head. "I can't stay there anymore, can I?"

"Jason, you can stay with us as long as you want," Barbara reassured, "It's nothing like that..."

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togamest · 5 months

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ARIIIII may i request a nanami blurb (nsfw or sfw i'll leave that up to you :3) based on the song killshot by magdalena bay please? <3

-> hit me with your killshot, baby. (x) | 2,276 words. afab!reader (no pronouns used but female anatomy included), slight yandere obsession if u squint, alcohol consumption, fingering, cunnilingus, implied penetrative + protected sex, nanami calls reader “sweet thing”, “darling”, higuruma cameo. nanami might be a lil ooc but bear with me here.

a/n: oh salem, this was DELICIOUS to write. what a banger of a song too omg i gotta listen to them more!! i took a more obsessive!nanami approach, i feel like he'd get off on how easy some people are to fall in love with him, but not necessarily in a bad way. it's almost like a confirmation that he's good, he's not rotten like the rest of the men he works with; he's respectful so he deserves rewards in a way??? anyway i'm not sure what happened but here we are LMAO

The speakeasy was quiet this evening.

You sip on a lovely gin and tonic, mixed together just right as your eyes drag across the people dotted around the space. Your business shirt has been unbuttoned slightly, enough to tease as your drink steadily makes you feel warmer and fuzzier. Your heels are long gone, tucked away in your bag as you opt for chunky boots, which tend to be much comfier after a few drinks.

It was a cozy atmosphere; one of your favorite places to go after work to unwind without having to worry about seeing those you know. Which, unfortunately, has happened before and almost turned you off from coming back completely.

But you couldn’t.

Mainly due to the man you’re staring at now, half-hoping he can’t feel your burning gaze.

He’s stunning, and he’s been coming for the past few weeks now. Always on a Tuesday, for some reason, but you ignored the choice of weekday and instead decided to have your gaze wander across his features. His blue office shirt is unbuttoned at the top, just enough that light blonde hairs poke out of the revealed opening. His suspenders are tight against his chest, brown, connecting to his tan slacks. Shiny office shoes adorn his feet as he leans back, crossing his foot over his knee as he takes a sip from his own drink (something dark) and fixates on the book in front of him.

He’s beautiful. Tempting. Like forbidden fruit, except he doesn’t seem to be married.

Even better.

The one thing you do pick up on is how incredibly tired he looks. He normally comes in with another man, this one’s palette almost inverse from your muse’s; dark suit, white shirt, dark hair, but the same bags underneath his eyes and tired facial expressions. They don’t typically speak to each other that much, due to how quiet the rest of the venue is, and choose to read together instead.

However, today, his companion is not here. He has come alone.

One of your fingers, complete with a perfectly manicured black nail, rubs against the edge of your glass as you watch him. He wears glasses, the golden rims catching the lowlight every once in a while as his eyes scan across the words in front of him. He hasn’t noticed you staring; he never has, which is somewhat of a shock to you. Whenever someone is staring at you, it feels like there’s fire alight on the back of your neck. He’s either completely oblivious, or he knows and he doesn’t seem to care.

Something about that makes your thighs clench together. The song in the background, playing gently against the velvet walls, does nothing for your growing yearning for the man.

Something chronic, bit demonic I been on the late shift All alone, staring at my phone

Sin and tonic Stupid promise Something like a death wish All alone, stare into my soul

You’ve never been one for one-night stands, but for him, there is a chance you’d make an exception.

You down the drink, drawing on the courage of the gin as you stand, making your way over to him. You identify his book, first; ironically, it’s one of your favorites, and a smile tugs at your lips as you approach. He looks up in surprise, before his expression smoothens into something close to neutrality. “Well, well, the voyeur finally decides to encounter their muse, eh?” he says, and his voice washes over your ears like silk. It’s gorgeous, with a low pitch and a rasp that makes the ache in your stomach only strengthen.

You take a seat, smiling and blushing to yourself that you’ve been discovered. “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice,” you admit, and he smiles back, folding a worn bookmark into the page he's reading and shutting the book, placing it on the table before turning to you, taking another sip of his own drink. It’s whiskey, made neat; you can tell from the smell across the table.

You sit awkwardly for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire behind you, before he breaks the silence, his smooth voice taking up space once again.

“Come here often?”

You can’t help but chuckle. “More than I will admit,” you respond, “but it’s nice here. Gives me a chance to slow down after work, and the drinks are lovely.”

He nods, agreeing. “Yes, it’s a good place. Higuruma and I come here often after work; he also enjoys unwinding in a quieter atmosphere.”

Higuruma. That must be his companion. “What do you both do?” you ask, your elbow appearing on the table as the side of your head rests on your open hand. He leans forward then, fully facing the table, and sighs. “He’s a lawyer. Ironic, since he’s just finalized his own divorce as well. I stick to the salary business. It’s boring, but it’s something. Pays the bills at the end of the day.”

You hum. “If I may be honest, you don’t look as if you’re happy there at all.”

He laughs at that, a jovial laugh that isn’t obnoxiously loud; it’s just enough to be between the two of you. “Yes, well, dealing with finance is never an enjoyable activity, but I’ve been in it long enough now where I can find my own pleasures. Especially outside of work when I can look at such a pretty lady, if I do say so myself.”

The blush that appears on your cheeks is bright red, you can feel it as you look down bashfully. “Oh, don’t get shy on me now,” you hear him say as he reaches across the table, lightly touching your chin and raising your face to look back at him. There’s a softness in his gaze, one that you’re not used to. The touch is gentle as well, and you’re praying that he can’t feel the spark you felt as soon as his fingertips touched your skin.

Instead, you opt for teasing him.

“That was a bit forward, wasn’t it?”

He pales, moving his hand away. “Oh, God, sorry, I just—”

You grab his hand, a smile on your lips again as you hold it between your own, rolling your eyes. “Kidding. Promise,” you reassure him as his face relaxes again in relief, “I’d have said something much faster if you crossed a line, don’t worry. Although to me, it seems you don’t enjoy doing that very often. Salarymen are always so by the book.”

He nods, rolling his eyes as well. “I try not to be. Hence me attempting to read books more,” he gestures to the book on the table, “and being here. It’s not as public as many people have dragged me to, but it’s intimate enough where it feels nice to unwind.” He takes another swig of his whiskey, his cheeks dusted a light pink from the alcohol.

You both chat about other things, such as the books you’re reading, what you do for your job, your favorite drinks and what speakeasies and intimate bars you’ve both been to. Before you know it, it’s dark outside, and you’re fumbling for your bag and your keys, cursing at how long you’ve stayed. “I know it’s Friday,” you say, standing, “but I always like to be home a little early. That way I can pour a glass of wine after being here and relax even more.”

He’s standing up with you almost mechanically, tucking his book into a briefcase you didn’t notice before. There’s a flash of black-and-white print inside of the case, but you don’t get a good look before he shuts it and locks it, smiling at you and offering his hand.

“Well, I can’t allow for a stunning woman such as yourself to walk home alone, yes?”

You’re tempted to say no. You know for a fact this is a decision you’re either going to regret or enjoy, but at the point you are at with knowing him better than some of your own coworkers who you’ve worked beside for years, your better judgment is shelved for an impulse decision.

You take his hand.

“Well, well, Kento, I will take you up on the offer. What a kind gesture to someone who's been staring at you for weeks. How do you know I don’t have terrible intentions?” you ask him as he walks with you to the door, hand in hand. He looks back at you with a smile, crinkling the edges of his eyes.

“I’m quite good at reading people.”

“Need you, Kento.”

The plea comes out as a whine, the blonde man’s head between your thighs as he laps at your center. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, and you feel your obsession roaring in your ears as he smirks against you. “How do you need me, darling?” he whispers, and your hips buck into his face, forcing him to return to sucking on your sensitive clit.

“Anywhere. Everywhere. Forever.” It’s all coming out as senseless babbles, your hands deep in his hair, tugging on the strands and scratching at his scalp as his strong hands hold your legs apart, your thighs twitching against his grip. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing; he doesn’t seem to mind your comments, either, even if they do seem a little intense at the moment. It seems he either knows his effect on you, or he enjoys hearing about it.

The latter makes you wetter just thinking about it.

You’d had him walk you home, sharing a glass of wine on your couch as you discussed your favorite pieces of literature, the books strewn across the floor in the flurry of motion instigated by Kento himself. “Please do not take this the wrong way,” he had whispered, before placing the wine glass on the coffee table, “but I cannot stand staring at your lips and doing nothing about them.”

You’d kissed him then, whiskey and wine and a calming feeling flooding your veins as your lips moved against him, his large hands cupping your face so gently as if he didn’t want to harm you. But little did he know, that was what you craved; you wanted him to devour you, to make you think of nothing but him. If you were hung up on him for the rest of your life, you would be satisfied.

Come and get that honeySweeter than I ever knewTell me that you love meLove me till my lips turn blue

“K-Kento—”

He leans back, his fingers having been added to the mix, squelching as he scissors you open so deliciously well that your back is arching. His thumb, locked onto your clit, keeps it under a steady rhythm as you cry out. Every brush against the sensitive area is tightening that coil in your stomach, your whole body trembling beneath him. You can feel it, the climax roaring into you like a shockwave. “Gonna c—”

He leans over you then, his lips centimeters away from your ear, and growls.

“Cum for me, sweet thing. Cum all over my fingers, I know you can do it.”

The explosion of emotions that comes out of you, the noises, everything feels like a dam bursting as your soaking pussy twitches and drools all over his fingers, dripping onto the couch as you cum harder than you ever have before. The whole world seems to fall away except for Kento’s face, a haloed silhouette, like an angel coming to deliver you from everything that’s harmed you.

He looks down and grins, as if he’s proud of his handiwork, and as he looks back at you, you cannot help but watch him as you ride out your high.

I love you falls from your lips, but he doesn’t bat an eye. He doesn’t even flinch; in fact, his motions only get more aggressive as he fucks you into overstimulation, tears pricking at your eyes and breaking your lashline, sliding down your cheeks.

“Say it again.”

“W-What?” it comes out choked as you shudder underneath him, his fingers only continuing their movements.

“Say it again.”

“I love you?”

“Say it more confidently. Come on, sweet thing.” He sounds exasperated, and in your vulnerable state, all you want to do is please him. Make him want to stay with you, make him live inside of your bones.

“I love you. I will love you forever if you’ll let me, I—”

“Fuck, that’s good,” he whispers as he finally relents, removing his fingers from your center. He doesn’t wipe them on his slacks, however…instead, he chooses to prod at your lips, his other hand brushing away your tears. You obey within a beat, sucking on your own juices underneath him, watching his pupils dilate. His gaze is dark; it’s like his own obsession with you is forming, a mutual delusion you both can share.

His hand removes itself from your mouth, before his belt clinks and you hear the zipper of his pants echo around the room, clearing the post-climax daze and fluff that had been stuffed in your head. You clench as you feel the head of his fat cock brush against your abused opening, and he leans down close to you, his broad, bare chest flush with your own.

“God, you’re everything,” he whispers as he slides in, and your mind goes blank.

If I fall in every time Wicked love will leave me blind Yeah, I knew it I been through it

Oh god Can you make my heart stop? Hit me with your kill shot, baby I mean it, so serious

divider credit: @/benkeibear

networks: @thehoneypotserver @enchantedforest-network

disclaimer: DO NOT copy or repost my works for any reason. translations are acceptable, but please ask for permission first!

#kentophilia #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #hooo boy this song was SO delicious to listen to. and research about as well. i love a good obsessive love #ari's autographs #ari's got mail!#after hours

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sendothetaurus · 5 months

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Scaramouche deserved better

This is kind of a hot take on chapter III of the archon quest.

I love theorizing and picking things apart, so please don't come for me bhfwlahwlxnfl.

It might be useful to have some knowledge about what has happened so far. (This post is very long, also SPOILERS)

Remember, this is an opinion, not a fact or an offence against anybody. This has nothing to do with the cn drama. This is just me nitpicking at the story lol

The erasure of Scaramouche’s past was unnecessary.

In hindsight, it is a repetitive plot line, already established with the “death” of Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. She ceased because she eliminated the forbidden knowledge and therefore stopped the withering in Irminsul. In context, her disappearance made sense. With Scaramouche, however, it doesn’t: All the carefully thought through occurrences, all the relationships and connections between characters are annihilated in the process of changing Scaramouche’s past. Did it matter that Ei left her almost literal son alone? No, because she doesn’t remember. Did it matter that Niwa and Mikoshi Nagamasa accepted and perhaps loved the Kabukimono? No, because they are long dead and they have forgotten that he even existed. Did it matter that he found out the truth about Dottore’s murder? No, because Niwa died in the furnace instead, or so everyone believes. Why let everyone forget he killed hundreds of swordsmiths only to retell the truth? It would have made more sense if it wasn’t even erased in the first place. The only thing remaining for the Wanderer is the agony that nobody remembers except for a chosen few and himself. If anything, he only brought suffering upon himself. In the end, a very huge part of character development is lost this way.

By erasing himself, Scaramouche didn’t achieve anything.

If he hadn’t forgotten himself, there would be no rescue arc for him. He hadn’t changed his mind about the Traveler at that point in the story. In Act III, Inversion of Genesis, The Night-Bird Falls at the Curtain's Call, Scaramouche specifically states:

“...Or maybe killing me is all you can think about? But if that's the case, why haven't you done it already? [...] Sometimes it's you using them, other times it's them using you. Most human relationships are this way... certainly all the stable ones are. That's how it was between me and the Fatui, and also between each of the Harbingers. So as long as you have some value to offer, nobody will ever abandon you. But after recent events, even I have to admit that I'm not worth quite what I used to be…”

What I take from this are three things: Scaramouche acknowledges the Traveler as a threat. He uses Nahida’s deal as a backup for his own safety because providing utility to others is what he defines as a stable relationship. He also accepts his position as inferior - for the time being. This is the start of the turning point.

The Wanderer later says in Act III, Inversion of Genesis, As Though Morning Dew:

“Even if I'm completely worthless, there's nothing in the world worth regretting. [...] Utility to others is what gives me worth. So if embracing my sins is what it takes to make me useful again, so be it. [...] Sorry if I have a slightly different perspective on things. [...] Well, whatever your reasons, you did me a favor, and I'll do everything I can to pay it back. [...] Borrowing and returning are the only real relationships between individuals. I'll balance the books one day, don't you worry.”

He didn’t change his view of relationships, as much is clear. This logically drives him to “repay the favor” the Traveler did for him. Fueled by his unchanging way of understanding a true and kind-hearted relationship, it sounds like the Wanderer just atones for his sins because someone (in this case Nahida; she concludes: “In all honesty, your past experiences have made you a useful asset to Sumeru and to me. Winning you over was indeed a part of my plan.”) wants him to. This again makes him a puppet to his circumstance, instead of empowering him to make the right choice on his own. His whole life, it was the circumstance that created the scornful being he became in the end (this is a reference to the three betrayals and his relationship with the Fatui). His will to be “of use” actually hindered him in finding a path that is not influenced by others. Him realizing this would be a satisfying and meaningful way to change the tides of the storyline and would carry an important message.

The existence of the Wanderer doesn’t make sense.

It is unclear how much control Scaramouche had over the creation of the Wanderer and if he was involved in the changes that were made around Teyvat. Irminsul has its limits on what it can and cannot change. Then again, I feel like the fact that he forgot himself was merely a catalyst for the current events, speeding up the pace for him to switch sides. Did the Wanderer just wake up the morning Paimon forgot about Scaramouche? How did he exit Irminsul if he forgot everything? Where do his clothes come from? Why was he in the wilderness when he woke up? We don’t know what life the Wanderer believed to have lived before regaining his memories, which is a major plot hole that could be filled in the future. But arguably the most jarring thing about the Wanderer is his personality.

What purpose does the character serve story-wise? For sure, it’s displaying a contrast between the two entities, the yin to the yang one could say. Maybe it’s meant as a “what could have been” or as an example for gratitude and affability, traits which Scaramouche never possessed. How can it be that someone so cruel and relentless carries something so pure at heart inside of him? If it hadn’t been for all the betrayals maybe this is what we would have gotten instead. It shows how the world changed Scaramouche when he felt powerless in the face of hardship. Which is why he defined his worth as the acknowledgement and utility to others - because he couldn’t find it within himself. Because he felt inferior to everything and everyone from his birth to his procession of achieving Godhood. And in the end, he lost everything but his body.

This consequently motivates the Wanderer to seek the truth about his past. Through him we get insight on both Scaramouche’s and Wanderer’s thoughts:

“I don't think I can judge everything I've heard purely in terms of right and wrong. Each choice a person makes belongs to a specific place and time, a chain of cause and effect... a cycle of karma and consequence. [...] I'm just a puppet, with no heart and no name. There is nothing in this world for me to cling to, to fill the void within me... except maybe these sins that can never be undone. [...] I've always believed that human lives follow a set of rules, with each person being a collection of past experiences. As a puppet living in the human world, my life is subject to the same rules. [...] I've lived with a void in my chest my whole life. My creator didn't need me, and ever since I awoke, I've just drifted from one place to the next. [...] I've always felt I have an innate tendency to yearn for something more, in a way that goes deeper than for most people... But for all my soul-searching as a shugenja, I've never fully understood it. Looking at it now, it seems that I brought this curse upon myself.”

This is the first and only time the Wanderer admits this to himself; that he was searching for something that ultimately led him to his demise. After regaining his memories, he reverts to his old self, as explained above. Even if it is a very clever way to make the character consistent throughout the story, I wished we would have seen some character development, especially of Scaramouche since he’s the one filling The Wanderers consciousness.

I thought about how it would be to remember two lifetimes in one body: Even if someone told you what you did in another life, would that change who you are now? Then what if you had memories of that other life inside you, would that erase the you that is currently existing? This is why I don’t agree with Nahida’s statement:

“If you accept that he is you, just as you are you, then yes - you are evil.”

It feeds into the fact that The Wanderer’s personality later resembles the one of Scaramouche. The Wanderer accepts that he is “evil” and has to “face the music”. Again, he takes responsibility for Scaramouche’s past because his will to be of utility to others presses him to do it. Clearly, in this moment he had the chance to turn his back on his past and instead live on as the more kind and benevolent version of himself. I would have liked to spend more time with the soft Wanderer, the one that was born with a pure “heart”, the one who learned to love instead of hate. It would have left a bitter-sweet feeling because he would be content like this, never truly understanding why he inflicted these cruel things on others.

Let's look at this from yet another perspective: What if Scaramouche wanted to forget about the deaths, the betrayals at the cost of losing the memory of his friends too? Wouldn’t that have been a far greater punishment? To know that you willingly wipe out every single last teardrop and every single spark of joy? On the other hand, I understand why other people would despise this ending because Scaramouche would never really have to feel any lasting consequence for what he did. He would just be “neutralized”.

The alternation of Irminsul’s records has differing effects.

The Doctor still did the experiments, so the results must be in his possession. Despite not knowing who he experimented with, The Doctor would still have knowledge of how to create a God. This can be concluded because Paimon accidentally broke a vase when she was worried about Scaramouche. After “changing” the past, the vase is still broken. This indicates that the general memory of everyone changed, however the world remained the same. All objects are still the way they were before the change occurred. This is an interesting concept of changing the past, but it doesn’t add up with what happens in the plot. After Scaramouche’s meddling with Irminsul’s records, the Traveler meets Aqaba and Sawada, whose research was altered in favor of erasing Scaramouche. However, this shouldn’t be possible according to what we learn at the end of the story when the mysterious voice talks to the Traveler.

“History does not change easily, but human hearts can. Believe your own eyes. Only that which you see is true. What is unseen is but an illusion.”

Irminsul can change what people believe, meaning knowledge and wisdom, not real objects, occurrences and consequences - is what I suspect. Regardless, the voice also says:

“Unfortunately, the fate of Teyvat cannot easily be changed. Perhaps a god may have a slim chance, but for anyone else... who can say. When a small animal runs into a tree trunk, though the tree may sway, it is not displaced. The same is true of fate. Like a vase that falls to the ground. Whether it is broken by a cat or by a bird, the result is still a broken vase, is it not?”

The statement is true to what happened when Scaramouche tried to rescue his friends so that they would survive Il Dottore’s attack. They died either way, despite the Kabukimono “not being there”.

The Doctor’s power remains unclear.

He himself admits while negotiating with Nahida:

“A long time ago, I made a major decision in hopes of preserving all my perspectives of how I observed the world. Observation is the first step of any experiment, but observing the current world doesn't satisfy me. It lacks an important dimension — that of time. So I saved "segments" of all my ages, and made them into independent individuals… [...] What you request of me is like plucking out the eyes I have placed in the dimension of time. [...] Besides, with my abilities, it's only a matter of time until I find better "perspectives." Perhaps it's best to say... you're just temporarily ahead.”

The Travel Log specifies:

“As Nahida closes her eyes, many voices enter her consciousness: Some are young, some are old, some are angry, and some are helpless... All of them are the voices of The Doctor's segments, each derived from him at a different age.”

From what I understand, the Doctor has created segments, that each are positioned in a specific point in time to keep an eye on certain events, and with whom he can communicate. Since the Doctor is able to see through time, it would be possible for him to relive the past without the interference of Irminsul, as it merely changes the memories of the people. For the Doctor it would be possible to recount the truth because he would see it with his own eyes. This is what makes his segments all the more dangerous to the fate of Teyvat. However, the Doctor clarifies that he can find other ways to watch time, and the annihilation of his segments just set him back temporarily. With that said, he’s one of a few people who are unaffected by alternation of Irminsul, just like the Descenders. The question is if he can control these segments to even change how some occurrences took place - which would give him the power to literally change the past. With this in mind, there is a possibility that Scaramouche could be able to save his friends. It would give him a reason to pursue the Doctor and to work together with the Traveler. It would be an interesting concept for them to acquire the Doctor’s power to go back in time and to see the real consequence. But for the Doctor to be able to “alter” fate, he must become a God himself. At least, this is what the mysterious voice tells the Traveler. Another possibility is for the Wanderer and the Traveler to encounter the God of Time or an equally powerful entity. However, this is just speculation.

***

If you've read all this, thank you so much for your time ♥

#genshin impact #scaramouche #wanderer

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lupinmoonlight · 2 years

Text

Him

Masterlist AO3

Summary - You reluctantly board the Hogwarts Express to start the new school year. You fall asleep for a moment and wake up to a man sitting in front of you. You kinda fall in love with him against your will.

Note - Nothing special. I just wanted to write about the comfort character feels I have for (professor) Remus Lupin. I feel like he would bring much needed comfort, kindness, and calm in my sometimes chaotic mind.

Warnings - kinda (of age) younger person falling for an older man/professor.

Your sleeping schedule had been a mess in the past few weeks, the anxiety of going back to school creeping up on you as the big day was getting closer and closer. It’s not that you hated it, but social situations had never been your thing. People were always too loud, too obnoxious, too much. You feel yourself constantly just going through the motions, trying to exist in a world that is not made for you. You try to escape it by living in your own little universe, but sometimes the distance between reality and and chaos is simply too short.

You board the train and miraculously find an empty compartment. Thanking whatever greater power is watching over you, you settle in your seat, letting the gentle swaying of the train take you to that peaceful place in your head. You close your eyes and let the soft hum of the wheels lulling you into a deep sleep.

You lost track of time. In fact, you didn’t even know you had fallen asleep. The screams and laughters of some obnoxious students from another compartment brutally bring you back to reality. You rub your eyes, trying to get your brain to function again, and you notice someone sitting across from you. It was not a student. It was a man. A man who looked kind and gentle, with tired eyes and a smile that made you feel at ease. He had a book in his lap, which he set aside as he noticed you wake up.

"Good morning," he said in a soft voice, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

You felt your heart skip a beat at the sound of his voice. You had never seen anyone like him before. His face was lined with age and faded scars, but his eyes sparkled with a warmth that drew you in.

"Good morning," you replied, feeling a little shy. It was not morning anymore yet you felt disoriented like you had just rolled out of bed.

"Eat this, you'll feel better," he continued, offering you small piece of a chocolate bar.

You looked a him slightly confused, but nodded and accepted the chocolate. It was rich and delicious, and made you feel warm inside, the same as you felt when looking at him.

You both sat in a comfortable silence for a while, watching the scenery go by. The train was now passing through a dense forest, and the leaves were turning orange and red. You couldn't help but steal glances at the man when he wasn't looking. He looked like he had the softest touch, the kindest eyes, the most beautiful hands. You let your mind wander for a bit, escaping to that secret place of yours. His presence filled you with peace and comfort, a feeling you were never able to get with other people. As good as it felt, you started to question your sanity for having such thoughts about a strange man who appeared to be much older than you. You couldn't explain why you felt the way you did, but it was intoxicating.

As if sensing your thoughts, he handed you a second piece of the chocolate bar. You looked at him, grateful for the distraction, a bit worried about where your mind can take you sometimes, and accepted the second piece of chocolate. It melted in your mouth.

"Thank you," you managed to let out.

"A lot of life's ailments can be cured with a piece of chocolate," he replied with a soft smile.

You found yourself drawn to his gentle demeanour and wise words. He made you feel like you wanted to get closer to him, to feel his warmth, to suffocate yourself in his scent, to overwhelm your brain with his voice. You loved the way he spoke so softly, as if every word was carefully chosen to be gentle and kind. You loved the way the sun made his scars look like golden rivers. You loved how small the book in his lap looked when he placed his hands on it.

As the train pulled into the station at your destination, you felt a pang of sadness. You didn't want this moment to end. It was the most at peace you had felt in a long time. Just sitting there, in this compartment, with a complete stranger, eating chocolate. Your heart ached at the thought of never seeing him again.

He got up from his seat to retrieve his bag. You felt your stomach flutter at the sight- he was tall. You watched him intently as he lifted his bag from the rack.

Professor R.J Lupin- your heart skipped a beat.

He caught your gaze and gave you a small smile "I'll see you in class."

#remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #hp #professor remus lupin #professor remus lupin x reader

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givemea-dam-break · 1 year

Note

Can I request a Lockwood x reader oneshot with angst prompt 45 and 24?? 🥺🥺 I love your stories 💖💖

a/n: of course!! thank you for your support - I'm so glad you like my stuff! i hope you enjoy <3 this includes mentions of holly munro from the books (i love her so much) but nothing too much about her so to anyone who hasn't read the books, don't worry

warnings: angst, mild language, mentions of panic attacks prompts: "You left, you left, and now you have the gall to come back like nothing happened." and "Just give me another chance. Please." gn reader

Maybe working at Satchel's wasn't a good idea.

Having been an agent, you don't have many transferrable skills for a job beyond teamwork and stone-hard dedication, but beyond that, well, there isn't much. Like most agents, your time at school was very limited, and your qualifications are limited to 'professional ghost-hunter', making it very hard to get a job outwith being an agent.

Yes, you could've gotten a job at Fittes or Rotwell or Tendy or a thousand other agencies, but the thought of going back into the field... Satchel's is much preferable.

Except when your ex-boss, ex-best friend, ex-crush (ex most things, really) appears.

For a while, it was someone else that he sent to get supplies, and more often than not you were working in the back processing stock. When you first started working in the front, behind the till, it was still usually Lucy or George that came along, and you'd have a nice little chat with them. After all, they aren't the problem.

No, Anthony Lockwood is.

You're not sure where it all started going wrong. Maybe it was just that last case you went on, or, further back, maybe it was the slowly built-up frustration that emanated between you both for months. If you wanted to go even further back and agree with the anger that once coursed your very veins, you could say it all went wrong when you joined his company and entrusted your life in his hands.

To begin with, your day was going fine. You restocked the shelves with the products that customers could be trusted to handle safely and then went into the back to ensure all of the big stuff - the industrial magnesium flares, the heavy-duty chains, et cetera - were all accounted for. Your boss even got you a cup of tea for you to drink in between customers.

It's a shame half of it was spat out when Lockwood stepped through the doors.

Okay, exaggeration. It wasn't half, but it may as well have been.

For a moment, you believe he's a figment of your imagination, a being conjured up by the feelings of fury and loneliness and frustration you've dealt with for the past couple of months, the same feelings that make you dream of him even when you don't want to.

But, then, his eyes meet yours, and you know he's real. No dream, no image mustered up by your traitorous mind, could ever paint such eyes so accurately. Hues of burnt umber and sienna and copper would become muddled beneath your mind's hand, but here, they're so bright, so beautiful.

He strolls around for a little while, plucking salt bombs and dried lavender bunches and silver wards off of the shelves. He inspects a few different rapiers, holding them to the light and testing their weight before returning them to the rack and testing the next one until he finds one he's happy with. Trips to Satchel's often meant he'd come home with a new, fancy rapier. He wanders for longer than is necessary, almost like he's trying to convince himself to come over and speak to you.

Though you've had at least twenty minutes to mentally prepare yourself for him coming up to the till, your heart still pounds in your chest with a mix of anticipation and anger.

"Ah, (name)," Lockwood says as he approaches. His voice is entirely casual, but you know from his pacing around the store that he feels otherwise. "It's nice to see you. How've you been holding up?"

You type the products into the machine. "Fine. You?"

If the short answer takes him off guard, he doesn't show it. "Good. I'm good. I was actually hoping to see you here today."

Great.

"Is that so?" For the sake of your job, you keep your customer service voice on as you bag up the items.

The slight shuffle of his feet is something not many people would take note of, but you do. After years of knowing him, it's like a massive flag waving in your face with the word NERVOUS written in bold letters across the face of it.

But you ignore it. It's not your place to take note of it anymore.

"I wanted to ask you if you'd consider joining Lockwood and Co again."

Your heart stops beating, and your hands falter. "This is hardly the time to discuss that, Lockwood. But I can give you an answer right now: no."

You don't look up at him, because you already know the face he's pulling. It's not one he does on purpose, quite the contrary, but the way his eyes soften and his lips part in a sad manner has always persuaded you to agree with his cause, no matter how angry you would've been with him. So you don't look, because every ounce of self-respect you have left and cling onto will crumble if you do.

"If it's about that case-"

"It is." You take the owed money from his hand and pass his bag of products over. "Besides, by the sounds of it, you've hired someone new already. Holly, I think Lucy said her name is. Two months since I left - that's got to be a record. How about you get Holly to help you out with whatever has led to you crawling back to me?"

"(name)," Lockwood says, and the smallest undertone of desperation catches your notice.

It's then that you look at him, and every vestigial of your anger, the only thing that has stopped you from breaking into a million pieces the last two months, threatens to melt away under the warmth of his eyes.

"It's not the same without you at home," he continues. "We all miss you."

"This isn't the time for this conversation," you insist.

He looks around, giving you a temporary reprieve from his gaze. "I think we've got time. There aren't any other customers just now."

"I'm on shift, and I'm not getting paid to humour this dream of yours."

"Is that all it is? A dream?"

You pause, looking at him incredulously for a moment. "Could it ever be anything but? Lockwood, I almost died on that last case because you didn't do what you said you would. You left. You left me Lockwood, all alone in that room while I had the worst panic attack I've ever had, and now you have the gall to come back like nothing happened!"

"I thought you were already gone," Lockwood says. There's a defensiveness in his voice that you just can't be done with. "How was I supposed to know you were still in there? You'd told me five minutes before you were going to head home because you felt ill, and I was going to go a little after you once I'd made observations because we were going to reschedule."

"I screamed for you," you say, but your voice has dropped to such a quiet whisper you're not even entirely sure he's heard you. "I screamed as that ghost put me in ghost-lock, but you never came. I still have scars from the ectoplasm burns."

That gives him pause. "I didn't know."

You shrug. "Doesn't matter now. I'm not coming back - to Lockwood and Co, or to being an agent. I'm done with that life. Now, if you've got everything you'd like, I ask that you please leave. And, no, be quiet, you don't get to say 'but I haven't gotten you' or some corny line like that. Not anymore."

Desperation fills those eyes of his. "Just give me one more chance. Please."

"Even if I could forgive you, which I don't, I can't go back to ghost-hunting. My therapist has banned me from doing it, to make a long story short."

"Your therapist?"

You look away from him again, unable to stand another second looking at him. "Inspector Barnes... he found me the morning after the case walking around London trying to find my way back to Portland Row. The ghost messed me up pretty bad, so he organised therapy, paid for by DEPRAC, thank god. Even he's telling me not to come back."

"He did always have a soft spot for you," Lockwood says. That line should be accompanied by a charming grin, or at least a smile with a hint of teeth, but there's nothing but guilt and regret.

"What makes everything worse," you say, "is that you were my best friend. Shit, I dreamed of us being something more than friends, and I trusted you with my entire being. But I screamed for so long. There was no way you couldn't have heard me unless you'd left, too, even though you'd told me you were going to observe the ghost that night before leaving. I couldn't speak when Barnes found me. So don't come here begging me to come back, because I won't do it."

"You wanted us to -" He falters as if trying to decide which part of your spiel was the most important.

He's taking too long, so you say, "I'm asking you to leave now, Lockwood. Goodbye. Have a wonderful day."

Pain flashes in his eyes, so acute that it's almost tangible, but you grit your teeth and ignore it. He doesn't deserve to feel that way.

"Please, (name)," he says, begs. "You wouldn't have to do fieldwork. You could be an assistant or something."

"Seems Holly's got that covered for you already." You push his bag closer towards him. "Goodbye, Lockwood."

As if on cue, the bell at the front door chimes as another customer strolls in.

You ignore the agonised expression on his face, fueled by the rage you've learned to survive on. You can already feel that horrible loneliness seeping back into your bones, longing to reach out to him and agree to go back to Portland Row, back to him, but you force yourself to stand your ground. Going back there would bring back nothing but painful memories and feelings you've fought to keep away.

And, though you long to give into the feelings, to allow yourself to feel the love for Lockwood that's always lingered even through all the pain, you push it down and watch as he leaves, dejected and hurt.

But it'll never compare to what you've felt.

Once, you would've given anything to see him happy, to take away any glimmer of pain he felt, but you've got to come first. You have to.

You say goodbye to Anthony Lockwood, and goodbye to the things you've felt for him, no matter how badly it hurts.

#anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #x reader #fanfiction #givemea-dam-break

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