#dignity and i are not well-acquainted

[hyperactively-me]

regency era!ghost x reader au (part 1)

oops my fingers slipped oh nooo. I just watched Pride and Prejudice (2005 of course) and finished the first half of Bridgerton season 3, and this just fell out of my head sooo here ya go

In the heart of debutante season, the grand halls of the manor glittered with an optimistic opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung in every room, and the laughter of the ton mingled with the notes of lively waltzes and invigorating English country dances. Simon Riley, the newly titled Duke, stood at the edge of the ballroom, a stern figure amidst the merrymaking. His eyes scanned the room, but they held no warmth; they were as cold and unyielding as the battles he had once fought in wars. 

Duke Simon Riley had gained his title through his distinguished military service, a feat that made him both revered and feared. His demeanor was hardened, his interactions brusque, and he regarded social gathering and balls with a thinly veiled disdain. He considered balls and galas a different kind of battle, one he navigated with nearly the same stoic resolve as he had the warfront.

Across the room, you move with effortless grace, the hem of your gown bustling around your feet. You are the embodiment of elegance and propriety, your every movement reflecting your strict upbringing. You were popular amongst the ton, your dance card nearly always full. You didn’t really mind, to a certain extent; yet, you’ve never had a dance partner who went past superficial conversation. It was something that irked you, but you had resigned yourself to it a long time ago.

Your father, a Lord, had made it a point earlier in the night to introduce you to the Duke. You glide through the sea of silk and satin, approaching your father’s proud smile in the corner of the ballroom. Next to him was the Duke; a tall, broad man. Quite handsome, you thought to yourself.

“Ah, here she is,” your father said warmly, taking your hand and leading you towards the Duke. “Allow me to introduce Duke Simon Riley. Your Grace, may I present my daughter.” 

You curtsy deeply as your father announces your title and name, your eyes fluttering open to meet the Duke as you offer a polite smile. 

Simon turns his steely gaze upon you, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgement. “My lady,” he said, his voice as cold and formal as his expression.  

“Your Grace, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard much about your service.”

“Indeed,” Simon replies, his tone clipped. “I hope the reality does not disappoint.” 

You tilt your head slightly, maintaining your composure at his bluntness. “On the contrary, Your Grace, I find the tales of your exploits quite fascinating. It must have required immense strength and courage.” 

“It required duty,” he said forthrightly, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And an ability to see through distractions.” 

Something in his tone struck you, a subtle but clear implication that left you momentarily speechless. You clear your throat, smoothing out of the front of your dress. “Well, we are all very fortunate that you were not distracted, Your Grace. Otherwise, who knows where we might be?”

Simon’s lips twitched, standing straighter than ever, but his eyes remained hard. “Yes, distractions can be dangerous. Such as a ballroom, where idle chatter and trivial pursuits often mask the true nature of one’s character.”

He eyed you up and down as he spoke, and you feel as though the wind has been knocked out of your lungs. You feel your cheeks heat up with anger at his veiled insult. 

“Your Grace, I must respectfully disagree. A ballroom is where one’s true character is often revealed; most often through grace, kindness, and the ability to navigate society with dignity.”

Simon raises an eyebrow, his expression unmoved. “It is easy to speak of ‘grace and kindness’ when one has never faced true adversity, my Lady. Perhaps your perspective would be different if you had seen the world as it truly is.”

Your temper flares at his condescension, your grip tightening on the skirts of your dress as you step closer. “And perhaps, Your Grace,” you hiss, “if you had ever taken the time to understand the world beyond the battlefield, you might see that strength and bravery comes in many forms. It doesn’t give you the right to belittle the lives and joys of others.” 

Your father steps forward, sensing the need to intervene. “Now, now,” he says, his tone conciliator. “Let not a misunderstanding spoil the evening.”

But the damage had already been done. Simon’s eyes remained fixed on you, eyebrows pinched and eyes cold. He had offended you greatly, swiping at your character even though he knows nothing of you. 

With a final cursory glance at him, you excuse yourself with as much dignity as you could muster, your heart pounding with anger and hurt.

As you walk away, you could feel Simon’s gaze boring into your back. You do your best to shake off your emotions, trying to regain your composure. An evening that had started with hope and lightness had turned bitter. And while the Duke might have won many wars, he would find that you were not one to back down easily. You were determined to show him that in the realm of society, you were just as formidable an opponent as he was in war.

> part 2

[happyhauntt]

a touch of colour — eddie diaz.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: eddie and chris' home is freakishly empty. you decide to redecorate a little.

─── pairing: eddie diaz x reader.

─── warnings & notes: fluffy fluff. no use of y/n, this was just supposed to be a short drabble but it ran aay from me and eddie might seem a little ooc but i don't even care it's so cute.

─── word count: 2.7k.

     “BUCK, CAN I BORROW YOUR KEY to Eddie’s place, please?”

     Your arrival at the station house isn’t preceded by any warning, and though it isn’t your intention to sneak up on Buck, he doesn’t seem to hear you coming. A panicked shriek tears itself from his throat as he drops what he’s holding, and the spray bottle full of cleaning fluid clatters to the floor at your feet.

     An amused smile curls at your lips as he tries to play it off, ducking his head to hide the embarrassment blossoming in bright red spots across his cheeks.

     “Uh, hey.” The words stumble out of Buck and he coughs, trying to recover what remains of his dignity. “You know, sneaking up on people isn’t good for your health. What if I’d panicked and thrown a punch or something?”

     You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You did panic, Buck. Seems like it’s worse for your health than mine. Key, please?”

     “Eddie’s just up in the loft, I can grab him if you want.”

     It’s your turn to look a little sheepish. “Please don’t. It’s a surprise. Or it will be a surprise, if you let me borrow your key. I’ll return it tomorrow, I promise, and I’m not going to let a bunch of raccoons loose in there or anything━”

     Buck blinks. The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, just enough to let you know that he’s teasing. Mostly. “I wasn’t worried, but now I am.”

     “I’m saving the raccoons for your apartment, actually,” you tell him, and now you’re not even really asking anymore, know that Buck will inevitably break because you’re Eddie’s girlfriend, and he actually likes you, and most importantly, his insatiable curiosity will not allow him to deny you. Hand outstretched, you wiggle your fingers expectantly. “Key, please.”

     He huffs at you as if you’ve asked him to scale Mount Everest in nothing but swim trunks, rather than the perfectly reasonable request you’ve actually made, and makes a show of tugging the key to Eddie’s house off the keyring before passing it along to you.

     “I have only one condition,” says Buck, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he presses the key into your palm.

     You watch him warily. You’ve been dating Eddie, and subsequently been acquainted with Buck, long enough to recognise that look. “What?”

     “Whatever you’re doing, make sure you film his reaction. I’ve got a funny feeling he’s gonna freak out.”

     A nervous laugh bubbles in your throat, and you can’t help rolling your lips together as you pocket the key. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Eddie Diaz isn’t overly fond of surprises, but… fuck, you hope this one goes down well.

      “I’ll keep you posted, Buck.” You offer him a two-fingered salute and turn on your heel, hurrying out of the firehouse before Eddie catches you sneaking around.

      What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?

     Here’s the thing.

     The first time Eddie invited you back to his place, you hadn’t really seen it. A euphoric haze had clouded all rational thought in your brain, because this brilliant guy you’d fallen head over heels for was so obviously guarded, and you’d been so happy the day he’d kissed you and invited you back to his place for coffee.

     You’d been dating for three months by that point, and you’d wandered in and out of his house without really seeing anything except for him.

     Meeting Christopher had gone much the same way. On the drive over you’d been rattling with nerves so much that you’d had to pull over on the freeway and shake out the cramp in your hand after white-knuckling the steering wheel. Your heart had thudded so hard in your chest that you worried Eddie would be able to hear it from the other side of the room.

     There had been nothing to worry about, in the end, and almost a year on, you’re certain that neither of these boys can be pried out of the space they’ve created in your heart. Somehow, without really noticing, the pair of them have made a home there, built on a foundation of blood and muscle and all the love in your body.

     You’re not sure your heart would know how to beat without them now.

      And you love them, you love them, you love them both with everything you have…

     … but this damn house is driving you insane.

     There’s nothing wrong with it, in particular. It’s small and functional, perfect for the little family it shelters. Beige walls, basic furniture, sparse decorations that Eddie definitely had nothing to do with, and that’s sort of… it.

     Now, you’re not an interior decorator, and you’d managed to miss it the first few times you visited, but now it’s like the blank walls are mocking you. Now you’ve seen it, you know, and the stark bleakness of this house has become a glaringly obvious problem that you’ve finally decided to tackle.

     Unlocking the door with Buck’s key, you manage to nudge it open with your hip, hands and wrists weighed down with Target shopping bags that you dump on the floor the moment the door is closed. Tucking Buck’s key back into your pocket ━ Eddie gave you a key almost six months ago, but you’ve managed to lose four of them since, so it’s widely agreed that it’s best you borrow Eddie’s or Buck’s or Carla’s whenever you need to ━ you turn to the sparse open space of the kitchen/diner.

     Hands settling on your hips, a slow breath escapes through your teeth as you survey the house. Christopher’s room is the only one with any personality, and you wouldn’t dare intrude on his privacy in that way anyway. Eddie’s room, similarly, feels off-limits.

     But the rest of the house? Fair game.

     When Eddie stumbles through the front door at the end of his shift, he doesn’t notice it right away. Not your bag hanging on a hook by the door, or your shoes tucked neatly against the wall. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton after a twelve-hour shift, and he’s simply grateful that Carla offered to drop Christopher off later, rather than have Eddie come pick him up after his shift.

     He doesn’t notice you lingering in the kitchen with a bottle of beer in your hand until you clear your throat, and then he looks over, and a tired smile spreads over his face.

     “That for me?” he asks, as hold out the beer bottle towards him, drops of condensation soaking your fingers.

     “It’s definitely not for me.” You wrinkle your nose playfully as he accepts the drink, and you lean over the counter to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. You hand over Buck’s key, and with it, all the anxiety you’ve felt since it first landed in your possession that morning. “Give this back to Buck for me? If I lose another one, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

     Eddie chuckles and tucks the key into his pocket. “Buck didn’t mention you came by the firehouse.”

     “I asked him not to.” Your voice wavers, just a little. The way you’re picking at a loose bit of skin near your thumb lets him know you’re nervous, and he reaches out with his free hand, curling rough fingers around your own. Unable to help yourself, a deluge of words start to babble out of you. “I did a thing. And I’m aware that you may not like the thing, and it almost certainly wasn’t my place which I’m realising now, but it seemed like a pretty harmless idea at the time?”

     “Baby━”

     “And if you hate it, I can take it all away! We can pretend I never did it, it’s just that your walls were driving me freaking insane, like which decorator decided that beige was a good base colour because I would like to have a word━”

     “Hey!” A gentle squeeze of your hand grabs your attention, and when you look back at Eddie, the sight of him knocks the breath of you. You never knew eyes could be so big and brown and full of love, and even though there’s a little humour glinting in there at your expense, you still find it a little difficult to breathe.

     Fuck, you love this man.

     “What am I supposed to hate, exactly?” There’s a lilt of laughter in his voice, a gentle quirk to the corner of his mouth.

     You want to kiss him until it blossoms into a full-blown grin. You hope you’re lucky enough to make this man laugh forever.

     The look on his face helps to ease the tension in your shoulders. Slowly, you reach out and take the beer bottle from his grip, setting it on the counter. Instead, you replace it with your own hand, threading your fingers through his, a little chilly where the bottle pressed against his skin.

     “Let me show you.”

     Guiding him by the hand, you lead him through to the living room, and at first, he’s not sure what’s changed. There’s still the couch, and the TV, and the coffee table he knows you’ve always hated because it’s glass, and who has a glass coffee table, Eddie, you're a firefighter and this feels like a recipe for disaster!

     (You’ve seen way too many movies where characters end up crashing through a glass coffee table but you still think it’s a valid point.)

     And then he sees them.

     He spots the first one next to the television; a picture of Chris from a few months ago, the first time all three of you went to the beach together. He’s grinning at the camera and there’s a dab of ice-cream on his nose from where you swiped him just a moment before. Eddie remembers taking this and sending it to you.

     It wasn’t the first moment he realised he loved you, not by a long shot, but he hadn’t said it yet, and that day on the beach had cemented your place in his heart even further.

     The picture is small, sitting in a quirky silver frame that you’ve glued a few seashells to.

     The next two are over on the mantel. A photograph of the 118 in Bobby and Athena’s backyard last summer; Bobby’s frowning in the foreground, having been bullied into wearing a Kiss The Cook apron by Buck and Hen, while the rest of them are howling with laughter behind him. The other is a picture of Christopher and Shannon cuddled together beneath the Christmas tree.

     Tucked between them, bizarrely, is a little wooden figurine of a runner duck wearing galoshes. This one, he knows, came from your personal collection.

     Eddie’s heart stutters in his chest as he turns, finally, to the big thing. The wall behind the couch has always been depressingly bare, a dull expanse of beige paint that he’s always sworn he’d do something with, eventually.

     Hell, the whole house is bare. And depressing. This, he’s ready to admit, even if the reason for it used to sting a little bit.

     Before now, the only personal touches in his home belonged to Christopher. Report cards and drawings stuck to the fridge with kitschy magnets from tourist spots. An ever-changing pile of video games stacked on the floor next to the TV. A dinosaur-print throw that was dragged from Christopher’s bedroom on a lazy Sunday that hasn’t quite managed to migrate back there yet.

     It was never that way on purpose. At first, he thinks, it was a reluctance to put down roots. Life was hectic enough, with his work schedule and Christopher switching schools. Before Carla, Eddie hardly had a moment to breathe, let alone think about decorating their home beyond the bare minimum required to get by.

     And then, he thinks, it might have been guilt.

     He doesn’t dare to dwell on that for too long. He feels your hand in his own, steady as a rock, and stares, glassy-eyed, at the wall you’ve managed to transform into something… something that feels like home.

     A collage of wooden picture frames are scattered over the surface of the wall, in varying hues of warmth that contrast nicely with the beige that peeks through the cracks. A beige that, formerly, kind of made him want to scratch his eyes out. He hadn’t quite realised that until now.

     Dozens of smiling faces peer down at him. A handful of memories he holds most dear, and each of them sends a flush of warmth through his chest.

     There’s the day Chris was born, and he’s staring at this tiny baby in his arms as if he’s holding the sun and stars themselves. There’s Buck and Chris at the zoo, posing near the penguin exhibit. There’s Eddie, on the day he was certified as a full-fledged member of the LAFD, shaking Bobby’s hand. There’s even a picture where he’s fallen asleep on the couch, and his sisters are brandishing Sharpies like the little demons they are, drawing a moustache and beard that took days to properly fade away.

     It’s such a little thing, really. They’re just pictures. But his throat feels tight and his eyes are wet and it doesn’t feel little to him. Not at all.

     “You thought I’d hate this?” He’ll never admit that the words come out a little choked up.

     You shrug. “You’re not a fan of surprises.”

     “I might be now.”

     And you both know it’s not true, that Eddie will never be that guy, but this is fine. This is perfect, and he’s damn sure it might be the nicest thing any girlfriend’s ever done for him.

     He turns to you, a thousand more questions on the tip of his tongue, when he notices you’re holding your phone up with your free hand. A confused furrow appears between his brows.

     “Buck,” you tell him, and it really doesn’t require further explanation, but still you add, “He thought you’d freak out. Asked for evidence.”

     “Ah.” Eddie nods. You put your phone away as he winds his arms around your waist, pulling you close enough to kiss the tip of your nose. “I’m not freaking out.”

     “I noticed.”

     “Thank you,” he says, and kisses you again. This time his mouth slides against yours and lingers there for a few seconds, slow and gentle. “I can’t help but notice you’re not in any of the pictures.”

     Your cheeks turn a rosy pink. “That would have been a little presumptuous of me, Mr. Diaz. And I was already hijacking your home for my own selfish agenda, so…”

     “Wanna hijack it some more?”

     The question slips out without any warning, and you blink up at your boyfriend in bewilderment. “Uh?”

     Eddie smiles, wide and wonderful, and even though it’s not possible to fall more in love with him, you think you do.

     “I talked to Chris about it a while ago,” he tells you, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. “I was just waiting for the right time to ask you. And then you went all House Flipper anyway━”

     “I did not go all House Flipper!”

     “━ so it feels like the right time to ask.”

     You watch him for a moment, all soft at the edges. “You want me to move in with you?”

     “I think you’ve got a tartan throw that would look great in here,” he says teasingly, “and that little duck is part of a collection. He might get lonely.”

     “He might,” you concede with a hum.

     There is enough space on that mantel for the whole family.

     You feel like there’s a tiny sun in your chest, like you might honest-to-God be glowing from the inside out right now, and when you pull Eddie down so you can kiss him again, you know without a doubt that the answer is yes.

     There are a hundred things to figure out. You have a lease to get out of, and an apartment filled with enough clutter to furnish ten houses, and you’ve really got to figure out a solution for the key situation, because it’s getting ridiculous.

     But in this moment, none of that matters. It’s you, and Eddie, and Chris, and a bare apartment suddenly filled with a lifetime of potential, and you just know everything is going to be fine.

     And you hope, for a moment, that he’ll let you replace the couch next.

[lunarw0rks]

Too Old For You // Part Two

Summary: You've been crushing on him for a while now, even going as far as taking a stab for him. But it isn't enough for him to notice you; you're too young, too nice for someone like him.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), strong language, age gap [reader is early twenties, ghost is mid/late thirties], mild injury/blood, sexual harassment, hurt/comfort, smut, oral sex, face sitting, p in v sex, unsafe sex, oral fixation, medic!reader, fem!reader

Word Count: 5.5k ˖⁺‧₊˚ A/N: This took FOREVER, but I think it's worth it. Not Proofread! ₊‧⁺˖

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ˗ˏˋ ASK BOX | AO3 VER | PART ONE .ˎˊ˗

To be honest, you were making your best effort to forget about yesterday. Sure, it was a loss of your dignity to be rejected — but you hadn’t done anything truly wrong. What could he do to publicly embarrass you? Tell everyone he walked out on the person who took a knife wound for him? What a prick he would be, then.

Plus, Simon was never the type to air out his dramas. Especially involving you, who deserved to move on and find someone better. If only it were that simple.

There was little time to dwell — a trauma was coming in.

The second you were focused on a patient; any other life problem was pushed to the back burner. After the other day, that was a blessing. Sure enough, seconds after you got the comm, the infirmary doors swung open. It was a typical sight; the wounded soldier fighting the aid of the medics, on the verge of being sedated to ensure his care was given without mistake. You sterilized your hands briefly, finding the nearest box of disposable gloves and slipping them on. Whatever happened to the man, it sounded agonizing.

However, the grunting and complaining sounded familiar, too familiar. It was Simon.

That sentiment about forgetting about your problems when tending to a patient? It vanished at the speed of light when you peeled back the curtain, seeing that it indeed was him bleeding out on the table. He didn’t want the help, but he needed it.

Maybe he really didn’t want to see you — to the level of finding hemorrhaging more preferable than letting you tend to him, let alone speak to him. Though, it seemed more likely he could not show weakness, even when he had a bullet in him.

You peeled back the privacy curtain, greeted with a well-acquainted scowl of distaste. He didn’t want you here, to see him like this. Unlike him, you could separate personal feelings from your work. Simon should know how to do that by now, but it’s clear he doesn’t.

“You need to relax and let me help you.” He rejected you — doesn’t mean you’re going to take pleasure in watching him writhe. It was your sworn duty to treat everyone, unfortunately.

Simon wanted to argue. It was obvious with the way the fabric of his mask moved, failing to conceal the clench of his jaw. You sat across from him, wheeling one of the trauma case carts beside you, “I need you to relax.” His heavy breaths weren’t from pain, he was cursing himself for catching a bullet and ending up here. He was more enraged at himself for forcing you into tending to him. He was the last person you wanted to see right now… right?

Oh, how he despised being vulnerable, even when there was no other way. With a sigh, he removed the hand putting pressure on his shoulder. He was extremely fortunate — it had missed his arteries, and from what you could see, had an exit wound.

By the time you had your eyes on the hole, you had inserted a local anesthetic to keep the area numb. Strangely enough, Ghost flinched more when you leaned in to inject the needle than when you touched the tender area. He recoiled but wasn’t going to decline medicated relief.

“Can you feel that?” You asked, pressing the pad of your gloved fingers to the outer edge of the wound. It seemed that even if he did, you wouldn’t have gotten an answer. With a shake of your head, you merely began the routine of disinfecting the wound to start. Though you were careful, you wanted this ordeal to be over.

Once you moved on from dabbing at it with swabs, you met his gaze again, finally reciprocating the stare that hadn’t broken. “You’ll be fine.” You said, moving with haste as you got a suture kit ready. Any other day, the stare would send chills up your spine. Not today.

“Not why I was looking,” Simon grumbled, now instead watching the needle thread through his flesh. You didn’t even try to hide your eye roll at the sudden mood change. It wasn’t endearing anymore; it was irksome. Your sutures were about halfway done on the entrance wound, and you couldn’t have been more thankful for that.

The med bay went silent again, except for the occasional hiss from his clothed lips, or the creaking on the stool you were sitting on. The area around the wound was pinkish and inflamed, but not a tear, luckily. If he took his antibiotics, you wouldn’t have to see him much after this. You eventually found yourself behind him to examine the exit wound, a rinse and repeat of disinfecting and then stitching.

Only, this time, the infirmary wasn’t silent for long.

His words came after the last stitch when you placed a bandage over the now-healing wound, “look, ‘m sorry for yesterday, alright?”

Simon watched your scowl intently. It wasn’t one of distaste, not even irritation — it was loathing for yourself. You didn’t deserve to feel that way, especially at his expense. But no apologizing would make the initial sting of rejection go away. You weren’t a child, nor were you a fool; you wouldn’t have pursued him if you weren’t sure of what you wanted.

With a small ‘hm’ in response, you finished the last of his dressings, ripping the disposable gloves off your hands and tossing them into the trash. Your feet darted across the tile floors as you disposed of the contaminated linen and instruments, merely moving around the Lieutenant like he was an object. An inconvenience, for making you want him so badly. You voicelessly went over to the counter in the infirmary, resuming the charting you were occupied with before he was rushed into your care. Still, with your back turned to him, his eyes were boring holes into you. He didn’t need to be there; he was free to go. But he didn’t, and it was aggravating.

One minute you were beaming for the exit, the next his hand clamped around your arm, preventing you from making your exit. “Just… stop. For a minute.” He says, releasing the hand when you look down at how tightly he was gripping you.

“Hold this against me all you want, alright? Hate me, I don’t care.” Simon sighed, rolling his injured shoulder slightly from the strain of getting up too quickly. His feet dragged slightly as he made his way toward the door, standing by the exit of the med bay.

“One day you’ll wise up and realize I’m not what you need, Kid. Think about it, at least.” The door to the infirmary came to a slow close behind him, a disheartening contrast to the slam he left you with yesterday.

『♡』•『♡』•『♡』•『♡』

Weeks passed and the initial sting of the Simon situation had begun to dilute itself.

You spent most evenings passing up a night out; instead, you were working on the piles of charts that needed filling out, or something as mundane as taking inventory for the infirmary. Tasks that are mind-numbing enough to keep your mind on work, and only work. If your goal was to forget your feelings, you failed. If it was to spend enough time alone to truly know what you wanted, you won that one.

For the first time in a while, you were caught up on the workload. The bliss of free time wouldn’t last long, so perhaps that’s why you decided to go out for drinks. Maybe you just wanted to wallow in self-pity; the root explanation didn’t matter.

It was the least they could do — considering how often you’d kept an artery from spurting blood or the number of times you’d had to fight their squirming while attempting delicate sutures. Sergeant MacTavish especially, if you were being honest. He was the worst of your patients, except for the obvious masked brooding one.

Now, you found yourself perched on a bar stool, where you’d remained stoic for about two hours now. So deep in focus, you didn’t even recognize the drink in your hands. One of the guys had asked if you wanted one, you nodded, and now here you were. On your third one. The third time you merely took what was slid across the bar top and sipped on it, no matter how much the bitter taste made your taste buds cringe.

“Can I top you off?” The bartender made his rounds again, using a rag to wipe off the surrounding countertops. Your eyes looked off to the side, observing different levels of intoxication from both the 141 and the other rowdy patrons.

The night was coming to a close, another drink wouldn’t be wise. You weren’t here to get hammered; you were here to be somewhere other than a sterile room. “No, thank you,” you slid your empty glass in his direction, then a healthy tip for the good service. He didn’t once ask why you weren’t interacting with the party you came with, or why your eyes barely looked up from the varnish on the bar. To explain to him why would be downright mortifying, and you were never good at coming up with believable excuses. Therefore, he’d earned the cash tip and then some.

Price and Gaz were the first to leave, after neatly stacking all the empty glasses that covered their booth, of course. Next, the very drunk Sergeant stumbled out of there, making the short walk to his flat to sleep off the intoxication. Surely, he’s going to require a banana bag at the base tomorrow. Around them, the servers had begun stacking the chairs and collecting the tickets to finalize the rest of the unpaid tabs. The perfect time to slip away — right when the mob of drunks huddled around the front door. No questions, no awkward conversations about carpooling; no chance of being in a cab with him again.

The universe must’ve been on your side because there was no sign of Simon currently. Not that you two would have interacted, but it was much easier to walk by an empty seat rather than one occupied by him. The warm lighting dimmed slightly as the lights in the pub were shut off one by one, prompting you to scoot off your stool and get going finally.

Behind you, the door to the men’s room closed with a small squeak, and there he was. His frame cast a large shadow over the dim light the dated sconces produced, as the two of you made brief eye contact. It wasn’t a returned gaze of unnerve or upset, just… nothing. That’s what prompted your final exit from the bar, pushing open the glass door and starting down the pavement. You didn’t mind the walk, either, not after nearly an hour and a half of sitting motionless on an uncomfortable stool.

The streetlights were faulty and had a constant dim flicker. Your only guide was the lights of the few businesses still open and the cool-hued moonlight casting feeble rays on the damp streets.

Your coat was wrapped around you tightly, yet it did little against the chill in the air. So bitter, it felt like it was seeping into your bones. Paired with the unsavory anticipation of walking these streets at night, no amount of warmth could reduce the unease.

From the depths of the darkness, came an unwelcome sound — the crude whistle of a passing car. Your heart skipped a beat, the pace of your steps quickening involuntarily. The eyes on you were that of a malevolent force, one that quite literally came from the shadowy roads around you. As the car crept with wheels at a crawl to remain alongside you, you dared a glance.

A trio of jeering faces with smirks plastered across their lips like badges of dominance. One in the backseat with his upper body hanging out, the man in the passenger seat the worst of them all. Every remark, every innuendo reduces your already fragile sense of security. Your arms folded across your chest as you kept your head down, watching your legs carry you in any direction to get you out of this, no matter what road you ended up on by the end of it.

The harsh glare of the car’s headlights felt like a spotlight, illuminating your vulnerability. In a matter of seconds, you had been reduced to an object. Merely an unwilling participant in their twisted game.

Click—click.

The distinct sound of someone racking the slide of a pistol immediately behind you. “Piss off.”

His familiar voice rang stern and commanding. Your head turned to face Simon, seeing his gun indeed unholstered and held at his side, paired with his puffed chest and furrowed brows. The car's windows rolled up immediately, followed by the whiz of it speeding down the street. Simon watched until the headlights were no longer visible, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

One minute, the echo of words and phrases you never wanted to be repeated. And now, nothing but the woosh of the wind and his heavy labored breathing against his balaclava. For just a moment, nothing that happened between the two of you mattered.

It was just you, astounded and allayed, and him — the savior who wouldn’t have hesitated to crack skulls against the pavement.

“You alright?” He asks, though his eyes remain glued to the sketchy streets around him, searching for any sign of threats. You merely nod, following the motion of his fingers as he flicks the safety back on, placing the piece back into his jacket holster. Nothing sobers you up like the sight of a loaded gun, that was obvious.

It wasn’t exactly your first ordeal with predatory men, but this instance was particularly bleak. Perhaps it was your buzz, perhaps it was the sight of Simon with his pistol at the ready, perhaps it was your adrenaline.

That was just a series of questions better left unanswered.

Silence was the best conversation for someone like Simon, especially given the circumstances. Neither of you was going to complain, nor were you going to force the clichés of fussing over the other. His hand found the small of your back, steering you in the direction of his hotel. He didn't have a flat in town, his only homes were the base or moderately priced suites.

Tonight, it was the latter — the room he booked in anticipation of a night of heavy drinking, even a hookup if the events of this evening were less grim. Though, he hadn’t drunk much of anything, which was rare for him.

The light buzz was the only component you two seemed to have in common, at least from what you could take note of.

His shadow was a looming one; large and overtaking yours as he took meaningful strides down each street, still a guiding hand either hovering or clamping down when you crossed the street. You could protest and insist that you stick to your original plan of walking back to the base. But it was a futile argument to have with Simon, not after the sickening degradation you made it through.

Those men were nothing but large shadows emitted from small men. They would’ve driven away, most likely. However… something happening to you while you’re in his sights? That’s not a gamble the Lieutenant had to consider for long. The only reason he hadn’t stepped in sooner was because you had made it so far down the street in an attempt to avoid him. But when he heard the engine slow to a hum, observing how it matched your speed, those were his brief moments of thought.

Seconds following, the echo of their voices dripping with violent, impure implications — he had unholstered his pistol and power-walked down the street before his mind could catch up. There wasn’t a moment of it he’d do differently.

Not even now, as he’s approaching the door to his room. Not as he’s ushering you inside, espying as you shiver from both the cold and the unease of it all. There wasn’t a chance in hell you were walking that distance.

“The bed’s yours,” Simon mutters, slipping his jacket off his broad shoulders. Though, you’ve made no effort to respond. You’re too lost in focus, palming the icy zipper of your coat and slowly splitting it open, until the weight of it is off you. It’s tossed onto the floor, a defeated crumble — as if even your wardrobe is mocking your numbness.

Your head finally perks up at the sound of Simon sliding the keycard along the oak entry table, followed by the sudden realization that he had said something to you. “I’m sorry, what did you say before?” You sigh, eyes squinted in forced attention.

His head nods in the direction of the bed; plush white sheets that were still fresh and untouched. “I can take the pull-out.” It wasn’t a suggestion, either. Though his tone is as blunt as ever, his gaze is uncharacteristically amicable.

“It’s your room, Ghost. I’m not taking the bed.” You let out a scoff, pulling off your shoes next. The pity wasn’t necessary, nor was it going to be accepted with eagerness.

He let out a lengthy sigh, cringing when you used his callsign. Mainly at himself for being so sharp with you weeks prior and insisting you refrain from using his name. “Don’t argue with me. Take the bed.” He shuffled over to the nightstand, collecting the few belongings that were resting there, then placing them on the entry table.

Well, you had your orders, and you knew by now it was easier to follow them.

Your eyes scanned the suite in front of you; beige walls throughout, a small kitchenette in the corner, one bed and couch, a dated box TV posed in front of the space, and of course, a bathroom. It was clean, which was good enough for both of you. Especially you, right now. “I’m gonna wash up first,” you set down your bag and trudged to the washroom, letting out a defeated exhale when you were finally faced with the reflection in the mirror.

Eyes glossy and foggy with melancholy, hair askew from the unforgiving breeze outside, fingers still shaking as they grip the faux-marble counter.

After wetting a cloth and running some cold tap water along your skin, it was the spark your senses needed to realign. With a deep inhale and exhale, you exited the bathroom, wearing the hotel robe as your nightwear.

“How’s the shoulder?” The question came suddenly, but there were very few topics to discuss with Simon. You stood in between the bed and the pullout couch, the one he had yet to make with the spare sheets. And he, who was in the kitchenette pouring himself a glass of whatever from the fridge's pitcher.

Within the time you were washing up, he had changed into his version of nightwear — sweatpants and a charcoal athletic tee. “Healed just fine. You did well.” Simon makes a show of it, rolling and stretching the shoulder that was once tender and inflamed.

His praises fell short when masked with his scowl. No matter his bluntness, you still felt like an intruder in his evening. He was never one for company, especially in his private space, but here the two of you were. It was a toss-up; should you mention the obvious? Could things get much worse between you and him, by this point?

You leaned against the closest wall. “I’m not a child, you know that right?” Though it sounded confrontational, it was merely a nonchalant utterance. All frustrations spilled out nearly as a defeated mutter.

Simon scoffed heavily; eyes hooded as he blinked a few times to ensure he would articulate himself properly. He lifts his mask and takes a sip of his water, shaking his head as you continue to stare him down. You were persistent, that was apparent.

“You’re right,” he set down his glass, taking a few steps closer. “But you’re a good person. A good doctor.” His hands cupped your cheeks tightly to shake some sense into you. His last-ditch effort to convince you to move on from your feelings. You felt a rush of emotions pumping through you at once, watching intently as he spoke with such vigor. A potent mix of tenderness and firmness — all embodied into one man.

“You can find so much better than me, than this place.” Your lips slumped into a frown as his words persisted as if letting them bounce right off of you. There were so many parts of you that he saw in himself, so violently he couldn’t stay frustrated. “Quit getting in your own way, and you might see it.” His thumbs gave a small caress, and then his eyes glanced you up and down with softness. The irony of it was striking, considering Simon was his own worst enemy, especially right now.

His calloused fingers were like your own personal rush, palpable enough to make your hair stand up. “There’s nobody else I want, Simon.” You replied with a match of firmness, yet your expression was anything but frustrated.

The close proximity was saccharine and keenly awaited by both of you, though only one party was making an effort to show it.

Simon shuddered slightly, his hands running from your cheeks to the base of your neck, then back up once more. “That want is going to be the death of both of us, love.” He said softly as if he was finally accepting the reality of his feelings.

The wise decision to break it off wasn’t weighing on him anymore, not even a little bit.

You stared at him through your lashes, a hint of a smile on your lips, “I’m used to death, Lieutenant, aren’t you?”

This generated a small snicker from him, this time one you could actually see. There had been plenty concealed by his mask over the months. Every bit of you was screaming to lean in, but the longer this banter went on, the better for him. There was no sense in rushing an act that didn’t need to be rushed, especially if it was doomed to happen at some point.

“I wouldn’t even know how to… You— you haven’t done half the things—” His fingers tightened around the base of your neck slightly, head tilted as he made his best attempt at retorting. For someone with such conviction every other time, he was noticeably beating around the bush. It was amusing, to say the least.

He mutters something under his breath, something of an expression of defeat, then leans in until his parted lips are an inch from yours.

“Then teach me.” You breathed, finally allowing your hands to hold onto his wrists as he cupped your face. Simon’s eyes blazed as they met yours — smoky with the intense burn of lust.

Within seconds, his lips found yours with brazen desire. It was everything you pictured it to be and more; every last bit of ego-driven pettiness fizzled out at once. The scent of his last cigarette, his aftershave from that morning, the faint stench of bourbon on his breath — all surrounding you like an enslaving cloud. His fingers roamed again, this time from your shoulders down to your waist until he could fumble with the tie of the robe.

Simon’s feet gave yours a nudge in the direction of the bed behind you, a silent guide until the backs of your knees finally found the edge of it. An arm snaked downward until he could lift one of your legs around his waist, settling his weight on the bed so you were on top of him. Every action was mended with a prolonged, calculated kiss on his end.

The robe had opened entirely, revealing you in nothing but your panties underneath. With more movement, it drooped down your arms until it was eventually thrown off in haste, the same quickness when you slid your undergarments down. But Simon was in no rush, at least not while he was savoring the foreplay. “Scoot up for me,” he mutters, nodding his head upwards subtly. His request is met with a look of confusion, but you do as he says, shifting upwards until you’re straddling his upper torso.

“No. Up.” Simon clamps a hand around your hip, maintaining eye contact as he readjusts you further until your bare cunt is hovering over his face. Now, the realization of his idea strikes you like a bolt of lightning.

There was nothing to be embarrassed about, but that didn’t make the request less daunting. “No one’s ever…” You whisper it as if attempting to admit it without him actually hearing you. But he did, and it made your face head up. Especially now, seeing the mouth to match his eyes — even the tip of his nose, squished slightly from the fold of the fabric.

“Ever what, sweetheart?” He bites down on his bottom lip lightly, rubbing circles on your thighs. Though his eyes are darting from yours to your heat, back and forth as you feel a desperate shiver consume you.

You gave up on answering him, which was only met with a playful scoff. “Relax, and sit.” Once again, instead of letting you move, he’s taken matters into his own hands. There would be no debate about his airflow or whether he could handle your weight on his head. Simon pushed you down until you had successfully straddled his face, slick pooling against his tongue.

Your breathing hitches as he so suddenly thrusts you upon him, wasting no time to lap at your sex. He begins by circling your clit slowly, eyes fluttering shut in focus so he can maintain a pattern. Second by second, you’ve produced more than enough slick for an audible squelch with every plunge of his skilled mouth. It’s a new feeling to get used to — plagued by pleasure and reliant on every flick, yet you’re in the position of power. Bucking your hips against his tongue, using the headboard to brace yourself the longer this goes on.

By the time your breaths have gotten heavier and the moans have escaped you, Simon began delving his tongue inside you for a few turns, before devouring your nub once more. It was methodical, every switch of his pace, every roaming digit heightening your pleasure. He cupped your breast, thumbing your hardened nipple with every grind. The other hand maintained its tight grip on your thigh, merely to keep your trembles under control — which were only increasing as your climax approached.

Your nails scraped against the wooden headboard, until your tensed fingers finally found his ashy blond locks, gripping his scalp for dear life. When he hummed against you, there was an involuntary spasm of your hips, unleashing the minutes of swirling in your abdomen.

His tongue bullied you through your climax, and then some. His slobbers turned into minute licks, merely playing with the wetness coating his chin and reddened lips. When you recuperated enough for the grinds of your hips to slow, you ascended your weight off his mouth — ogling a string of spit and arousal still connecting the two organs, until it eventually snapped and soaked into his shirt.

Simon pants for a moment as his lungs take in the air again, and then his fingers start circling your hips. “What did we learn, love?” He asks with a hint of bluster, both in his oral skills and his callback to you saying ‘teach me’ while eye-fucking him. Just like before, he wasted little time answering his own questions, only this time your excuse for lull was bouncing back from the orgasm of a lifetime.

“Next time I tell you to sit,” he flips the position so you’re flat on your stomach, “you’re going to sit, right?” Simon whispers into your ear wantonly, all while his fingers find the waistband of his sweats and briefs at once, rolling them down to his mid-thigh.

You turn your head to the side against the mattress, letting out a slight chuckle. “I’ll never make the same mistake twice.”

He chuckles dryly, taking note of your coy attempt at humor. “So you’re sayin’... we’ll be doing this again?” He’s leaned closer now, warm breath tickling your earlobe. In your blind spot, he’s lined up with your entrance and palming himself. The prospect of getting together again wasn’t one he was going to refuse, perhaps even after he was done thinking with his dick. It was apparent even this early on that it wouldn’t be a series of dispassionate hookups, not with you.

“Maybe,” you retorted, nibbling on your lip, “think I should be the judge of that?”

“You’re right,” Simon replies, slowly inching his way inside of you with little verbal warning. But, judging by your mouth agape in rapture, he has done something right so far. He lets out a guttural moan, bending one of your legs slightly to get better access. His whole weight is practically pressing on you, containing your urge to twitch as his thrusts become mindful and calculated.

His hands haven’t left you once; whether they’re gripping your hips, your shoulders, or the nape of your neck. “Oh, fuck.” He quakes, slowly rolling his head to the side as your walls tense around him with each deep grind. By now, he’s bottomed out inside you — a sinful, tight compress of your pussy that almost restricts him.

He’s not rushing now, either, but every rock of his hips does gain some intensity. They’re well-spaced enough to keep you on your toes, yet quick enough to make your eyes roll. By now, the sensitivity of the first orgasm is spilling over onto your second like a violent riptide jostling your senses around. Every urge to savor this moment, to let your body take its time, is utterly abandoned. 

Simon leans forward and begins nipping and licking along your shoulder blades, making a pattern of it. Jawline, to nape, to the blades — coated with a line of his saliva and teeth marks. It’s the only humane way he can keep himself contained.

Your walls are clenching around him rapidly now, once he’s teased that gratifying spot deep within you, “gonna cum for me again, sweetheart? Keep takin’ me so well?” His words are nearly more addicting than his cock; the British rasp that gets thicker the closer he is to finishing.

The nod you supply is pathetic, at best. It earns you a few fingers in your mouth; hollowing your cheeks and slobbering as you sob around them from your fast-approaching climax. The pace is agonizing, but enough when he uses his other hand to thrust your body onto his length, angling your cunt in a way that finally hits a bullseye on that spot.

Your throat clenches, as does the rest of your muscles when you dissolve into pleasure. What was once a tight coil of tension in your abdomen, was now waves of ecstasy coursing through you — prolonged by his now sloppy thrusts. You go limp against the mattress as he rides out the rest of his, your ears feasting on the curses Simon’s muttering.

With a halt, the fingers in your mouth are withdrawn. Both of his hands reside on your hips, holding you in place as he drains every last drop of his orgasm within you. For a few seconds, all you hear are his quivers and the shuffle of the skin-to-skin.

Then, every ounce of his restraint shatters once the climax passes. About half his weight lands on you as he slumps forward, pulling his length from you and wilting against the creased sheets. “Was that a yes?” He asks, snaking an arm around your shoulders until you roll over to face him.

“To what?” You huff a few times whilst running your fingertips along his arm scars. To say you were in shock, was an understatement. He was everything you were expecting—and more—in the sack. All the pandering, all the ‘getting in your own way’ on both sides erupted into a climax. Or multiple, for that matter.

“Doin’ this again?” Simon replies, pushing your head against his peck.

“Hm, I think I might need a few more test drives before I come to a final decision.” You say, raising your brows to match your playful tone. It was a stark contrast to the weeks prior, even if the events leading up to sharing a hotel room with him were less than pleasant.

And to him; he lost all sense of control when you took a stab for him. He just had a way of hiding it—the keyword being; had.

At the thought of it, his thumb finds the now healed scar where the knife penetrated, reflecting in his mind about all the events that led up to this. Two different bodies, two different ages, two different persons, yet both are thinking about history.

“I think that can be arranged, Doc.”

TAGLIST: @hyperfixationwhore @starlettemoony @sapientiia @igotmajordaddyissues @kyuupidwrites @ansaturn @bb-ss-ll @delilah-grimes @ajordan2020 @certified-lana-del-rey-lover (it won't let me tag some of you properly)

[f1fnatic]

SCRUTINY ⤿ f1 grid

→ ( in which. . . ) you are a woman on the f1 grid. you face criticism and digs almost every day from toxic fans, specifically the men. but, you shut them up after a rewarding race.

→ ( fanfic genre. . . ) written

→ ( pairing. . . ) 2023 f1 grid x female!reader

→ ( content warnings/disclaimers. . . ) cyberbullying, misogyny, sexism/sexist comments, overall a shitty environment. not based on this year's monaco grand prix or the season so far just has the drivers of this year's grid at this moment except alonso he is a reserve for aston martin, jumps around a little, not a completely solid plot, other pilots make subtle mentions, but mainly reader focused.

→ ( author's note. . . ) i enjoyed writing this one a lot. with being a woman myself and seeing how we are perceived in sports, especially a male-dominated field like motorsport, it was not very difficult to keep writing. anyways, i hope you enjoy! see end for more.

→ ( masterlist )

sunday, pre-race interview ↴

scrutiny. a word that you are familiar with. a word that has so much meaning but so little at the same time. you had recently joined your dream team, aston martin. after a challenging run in f3 and f2, you finally got recognized for your talent. you knew the comments would only get worse as you moved up the ranks, but you didn't expect them to be this bad.

it was the monaco grand prix. your least favorite track to race. the tight corners haunted you. without fail, you always almost crashed and cost your team everything. but it mainly cost you your dignity.

you were sat along a crisp white sofa that sat your teammate lance stroll, along with charles leclerc, lewis hamilton, lando norris, daniel ricciardo, and lastly max verstappen. you had all become acquainted when you first got to f1. lance and you got along swell and were close to inseparable. the rest were like brothers to you. these types of conferences were your personal least favorite. you enjoyed being with your friends, but the questions that were asked were downright embarrassing.

"y/n, coming over to you." the interviewer voiced, all attention was shifted onto you. "monaco in the past years has not treated you well, do you think you will have another devastating grand prix? and do you think your difference has to do with your performance?" you felt the scoff bubble in your throat. was he serious? you knew what he was playing at. your difference being your gender.

"well, first of all, i do not think my quote en quote 'difference' has anything to do with my performance." you start, putting finger quotes to emphasize the word difference. "if anything, it would be a difference in the car. in past monaco grand prix's the aston martin car has struggled. there are no real straights for the car to get its usual speed from. the differences in the care have nothing to do with me as a driver." this was unbelievable. were they really questioning whether you could hold your own as a woman in motorsport?

"you are starting p7 in today's race. do you think you performed well enough in qualifying? what could you have done differently?" finally. a normal question. you were excited to answer.

"uh, yeah. i think considering the conditions in qualifying and the nature of the track i did well. i am happy with how i performed but there is always room for improvement. and i am open to that." you answered, smiling. you looked over to lewis and saw him smiling at you. he knew how the media worked. he himself was getting pushed under the bus with racist remarks and 'concern' around his piercings. he was always supportive of you, and you were supportive of him. there were often times when you would text or call him ranting about how unfair it was that you were being treated the way you were. he would join in with his own stories and you would listen.

"y/n, i am sure you have seen the scrutiny online about being a woman competing in the pinnacle of motorsport. do you believe you should be here competing with men?" another reporter asks.

you are stunned. you couldn't believe what you were hearing.

"are you serious?" lance scoffs beside you. "what is with these questions?"

"why do we get questions about normal things like our literal jobs and y/n's questions are always about her gender?" daniel adds. the couch breaks out in murmurs. the reporters visibly get uncomfortable with what has happened and end the interview.

standing up you walk out of the office and to your drivers room, ignorning the voices calling after you. these interviews were always bullshit. daniel was right, why were you always getting questioned about your gender and how that effects your performance? what does gender have to do with racing?

this was only the beginning.

sunday, day of monaco grand prix ↴

you were exhausted. exhausted by the comments, the bullshit interviews, and the stupid prick men that felt the need to voice their opinion about a woman in f1.

you could this year's grand prix was going to be a tough one. mentally and physically. you wanted to be done. done with the bullying, the sexism, the misogyny, everything. you knew you worked hard to get where you are, and you will continue to. you dreaded the after-race interviews. no matter your result, you would always get at least 4 sexist remarks.

you didn't know what else you needed to do to be able to prove yourself worthy of your seat. you shouldn't have to prove yourself anymore than you have. you are in f1, and all of these assholes are not.

your pr manager, bless his soul, had to listen to your rants after interviews. lewis always got brunt end of it as well. he had experience with degradating comments. he always knew what to say and when to say it. fernando has been a huge help as well. he was like a father to you, always there when you needed someone. he would defend you when you needed defending. he always knew what to say and when to say it.

race start, p7 ↴

p7 was not a bad place to start, at all. but the internet and crowd thought differently. you were sat in your car, ready for the formation lap when someone yelled at you, "c'mon pretty lady! get back to cleaning! this is a man's sport!" you resisted the urge to quip back at him, instead you raised your left hand and flipped him off. your pr manager would have your head later but you couldn't care less. you needed to do something to voice your annoyance.

concentration is what you needed, but you couldn't seem to gain it with more comments being shouted your way. "hot momma!" followed by a cat call whistle, "sweetheart take off that suit! let's see what's underneath!", "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THIS JOB!" were only some of the handfuls thrown at you. they also seemed to be the ones that bothered you the most. your grip on your steering wheel tightened, anger bubbling in your gut. these people knew nothing. they don't know how hard you work. they don't know how much blood, sweat, and tears you poured into achieving your dream. and they never would.

before you knew it, the formation lap started. it went quickly. you got back into your respective starting positions and stared down the lights. you took a deep breath to attempt to ground yourself. it is just a race, you have done this before y/n.

the lights lit up red, until they didn't. you flew forward in your aston martin, pushing it for a decent start. you ended up gaining two positions, going from p7 to p5. the rest of the race was uneventful, until it wasn't.

"y/n, caution on the chicane. hamilton, perez, and leclerc crashed. yellow flag, safety car." your race engineer voiced over the radio. "that moves you into a fortunate p2."

"okay, copy." you were ecstatic. this was your chance to prove yourself to everyone. to those men who scrutinized you before the formation lap, to the trolls online, and to those misogynistic pricks known as reporters. this was your moment.

"gap to verstappen 1.6 seconds, push." you did as you were told. you pushed, and you pushed hard. this was for all of the girls that wanted to be you. "oh my days y/n! p1! p1! you just won the monaco grand prix!"

"yes! oh my god! fuck me! we did it!" you had done it.

you did your victory lap and parked behind the p1 tower. when you got out of your seat tears stung at your eyes. you ran over to where the aston martin team was and hugged them over the barrier. team members were banging on your helmet. lance had managed p2 and came up behind you and hugged you, along with the team.

the podium was a blur. you could not describe the emotions you were feeling. pride, excitement, and most of all, happiness were swirling within you. you stood tall as aston martin's anthem played and even taller when yours sounded shortly after. the champagne spray was the best part. carelessly spraying lance as giggles sounded on the podium. you also sprayed your team below, this would not have been possible without them. you would never forget this moment. it is forever engraved into your mind.

this was it, this was what you needed to prove them all wrong.

not feeling super happy w this one. i like the beginning but i feel it gets away from me in the middle and end. feedback and requests are welcome! make sure to leave a comment and kudos as well, only if u want to tho! lmk if you like it :)

[diabolicalacid]

birds of a feather— the head and the heart

warning/s : nsfw (smut), minors DNI.

atsumu’s hand reaches for the dial to turn off the sound system of his car. the soft music in the backdrop of him and you fades as his fingers rotate the dial to zero. he puts his foot on the break, halting the car in front of the gate to your dormitory, exactly where he had parked it when he received you in the morning.

you surmise this is your cue to leave. today has been fun, not it’s time to end the day, go your separate ways. you don’t want to, but that’s what the deal between the two of you was. a day full of fun, then it’s all over.

you take a look at your cellphone, checking in the time. it’s half past ten, a little before your curfew. if you don’t hurry, they won’t let you in. you twist your body in order to take hold of your belongings from his backseat, but he quickly makes an effort to grab your shoulder. he stops you in your tracks.

“wait.” he orders, opening the door to his car.

he alights, voice fading in a distance, “i’ll get it for you.”

atsumu quickly opens the door to the backseat and grabs all of your stuff, including the bouquet of flowers he offered you this morning. he proceeds to make his way to the door to the passenger seat. he swings it opens it for you, holding out his hand for you to take. for a moment, you find yourself hesitating.

you wonder if a few more moments of proximity with this man might cost you your dignity. if you let him hold you at the end of day, you’d start thinking it’s unfair how this good thing has to come to an end, and you’d beg for him to make it last longer. you’d lose your footing, end up looking extremely desperate, but you’d want him to have you regardless. despite deductions, you’re quick to accept his offer.

you place your palm over his. he wraps his hand around yours, helping you out of the car seat. you push the car door behind you. he hands you your tote bag and the bouquet of flowers. you receive it, offering him a gentle smile. he doesn’t let go of your hand, and you find it difficult to hold everything using one hand.

atsumu notices, relieving you of your tote bag. your hand is still held by his. you gulp as he pulls you closer to him. his hand releases your own and finds your waist, and he’s smiling softly at you. he really isn’t making this easy, if anything, you think you’re about to combust into a thousand burning flames. you’ll just take the liberty to pretend you haven’t been feeling the exact way since the beginning.

he takes the initiative, “i’ll drop you off to your room.”

“you don’t have to.” you’re quick to refuse his kind offer, coming off rather impolite.

you need to consider that amane san must be on rounds right now, and the last thing you want is to get caught sneaking in a perfect stranger into your room. as far as things with tobio went, amane was well acquainted with him, so she stopped taking things seriously after one point. but atsumu is a completely new entity, and you don’t want to wreak a havoc.

his hand that is enveloping your waist, tightens it’s hold around your figure, drawing you closer to his body, and you seek support, holding onto his arm. he insists, “but i want to.”

you want to deny deny deny, but his hold on you is making you so damn weak. your heart is a gullible child not even your head can convince otherwise. then there’s also the second surprise you prepared for atsumu, staying up all night yesterday. you were planning to discard it, since you thought you overdid yourself. but in the end you surmised that it would be best to hand it over.

though you intended on making him wait by the car so that you could make your way to your room and grab the gift to bring it to him, now it seems it wouldn’t hurt to invite the man to your room. whatever follows this bold decision of yours will be purely as intended by destiny.

as much as you’d like to shift the blame on the gift you prepared, deep down you know that your heart is the full fledged culprit. you’ve never been a bold person, but right now, you’re overflowing with courage you never knew you had.

you’ve snuck in tobio plenty of times without ever getting caught, so atsumu shouldn’t be a problem either. you’ll just have to play it safe. you’ll have to make him follow your instructions to the t, and it’ll be just fine. nothing to worry about per se.

“okay.” you grant him the permission to take you to your room, taking a step away from him. you don’t mention that you plan on inviting him inside.

atsumu’s smile widens and gaze locks into yours. It’s so contagious, you find yourself smiling back at him. he chuckles, mentioning a crucial point, “not sure where you stay, you’ll have to be the one to guide me, cutie.”

he pokes your cheek, you swat his hand off your face, glaring at his action. you growl, “let me go.”

but he isn’t swayed. so you request, “please?”

atsumu withdraws the hand placed around your waist. you try to encase his hand in your own, but yours is just too small to cut the deal. you drop his huge hand in frustration.

atsumu chuckles at you. your glare intensifies furthermore. you decide not to entertain him, commanding as you start walking toward your dormitory, “follow.” and so he does.

once you reach the lobby, you find yourself at crossroads once again. whether to invite him in or not to invite him in. it’s a pressing matter that needs to be thought through.

the possibilities are endless, and you aren’t sure which amongst them is the most favourable for you, or if you’ll ever reach the ending you so desperately desire for.

you think for a moment or two. he isn’t sure what the hold up is. now that he’s safely escorted you in, the next obvious thing to do should be to say your goodbyes and go your own ways. the one day contract between him and you should officially end as of right now, and you should be treading your own separate paths, never colliding again.

you give in. your heart gives in. you decide you want to invite him to your room. whatever may be the consequences, you’ll come to face them bravely when you have to.

you muster the courage to speak up. nervously rubbing the skin of your arm as you ask him, “i’ve prepared something for you. do you mind coming to my room?”

it isn’t an understatement to say that he’s shook. you’re quite bold to bring that up, and he wasn’t expecting it. neither were you. but here you are, asking him to come over, and here he is, contemplating whether it’s a good idea to go over.

he doesn’t give it much thought. he thinks for a second, then decides to go for it, agreeing, “alright, i don’t mind.”

“but no naughty business, cutie.” he winks at you, teasing as he pulls you in his embrace, hands casing your waist, bodies hanging only a few centimetres apart.

your cheeks instantly flush a deep red shade, and your gaze drops to the floor. you mumble, rolling your eyes, “i don’t know which one one of us needs the warning more.”

atsumu moves a loose strand of your hair out of the way, and tucks it behind your ear, inching in closer to your face to whisper to you, “exactly what are your intentions with me, cutie?”

you cannot take it anymore, it’s too much. the tension between atsumu and you is far too much than your fragile heart can take, and in the moment, you vacillate, quickly taking a step back to free yourself from his grasp.

you clear your throat, breathing in a haste, clarifying oneself, “i have no intentions of doing what you’re thinking of.”

“and exactly how do you know what it is that i’m thinking of, cutie?” he smirks, cupping your chin to level your eyes with his so as to hold your gaze, “you don’t read minds, or do you?”

“because then you’d know i’m thinking no pure thoughts.” he sneers, pecking the corner of your lip, then your neck.

you tremble as you feel his heavy breath against your neck, a wise thought dashing to your mind, wondering if it’s still a good idea to invite him in. your hand pushes him away, and you separate yourself from him before it becomes detrimental for you.

you fix your eyes to the floor, relenting to spare him a look, as you’re still too nervous to allow yourself to hold his gaze. you mutter, grimacing, “i didn’t know if i knew what you wanted back then, but i do now.”

“good.” atsumu walks over to you, cupping your chin once again, coercing you to look him in the eye, ridiculing you, “and you still think it’s a good idea to invite me over?”

“i don’t want my gift to go to waste.” you hiss, grabbing his hand in order to force him to release your chin, but his grip is too strong for you to negotiate.

annoyed, you drop the effort, menacingly fixing your gaze elsewhere so that you don’t have to meet his. it would be too much for you if you stare into his eyes any longer. you’re already faltering as it is, you don’t know what consequences this will lead to. you’re sure none of them will be holy. next thing you know, you might kiss miya atsumu like there’s no tomorrow, allowing him to take you whole.

he lets go of you, asking as he looks in the direction of the entrance to the building, “where to, cutie?” he spanks you, jolting you in the direction of the entrance.

you jibe at him, “don’t get too freaky, miya.”

“you aren’t getting anything out of me.” you warn, and atsumu scoffs. you’re glaring daggers at him.

you roll your eyes, “be respectful, will you?”

“alright, lead me, my liege.” he requests, bowing down to you.

you moue at his terrible theatrics, stepping into the building, looking around for amane’s presence on the ground floor.

you confirm amane’s absence and take his hand, jolting towards the stairs to climb to your floor. you’re careful with every floor you ascend, avoiding amane like a pro. once you’re on the third floor, having successfully avoided her, you peep around to discover a suitable spot for him to hide until you can scan around to make sure the coast leading to your room is safe and sound.

“there.” you point at one of the pillers, gesturing him to take a spot behind it, “hide.”

“don’t come out until i wave my hand.” you state sternly, then inform him, “once i reach my door and wave my hand, you’re to run at your fastest speed.”

you question, making sure he’s understood every instruction that has been pushed his way, “clear?”

he nods, then raises his thumb at you, a cheeky smile painting his face. a confirmation that your instructions were clear enough, and he’s to make no mistakes until your mission is successful and done for.

you carefully tread, neck craning around to look for amane’s presence, as you actively trail in the direction of your bedroom. once you’re at your door, you’re quick to unlock, enter and wave to atsumu.

catching your gesture from where he is hiding, he rushes in your direction in response, and before amane makes it down the stairs to your floor, you quickly pull him inside your room, locking the door shut.

you breathe heavily, sighing in contentment that the two of you didn’t get caught pulling this off. you look up at atsumu who’s already looking your way, a hearty laugh ready to burst through. you both end up laughing in unison, taking in the moment, digesting whatever just happened.

then, you pause together. for no particular reason. there’s a few moments of unexplained silence. you aren’t sure what brought this on, but neither atsumu, nor you dare to speak a word. but you find him wavering his stare between your lips and your chest. that doesn’t make you uncomfortable per se, but your hand instinctively moves to cover your chest.

you’re pressed against the door, and atsumu moves a step closer to you, close enough that you can hear his heart beating faster than usual because of the short cardio session your little stunt put him through. but that’s all he does.

he doesn’t make any further efforts. you aren’t sure if you were expecting him to, and if you wanted him to. maybe it’s the way you shielded yourself that made him stop in his tracks. maybe if your hand wasn’t covering your chest, he’d have done what he intended to.

you place your hand on his chest, requesting, “please, move.”

“i need to go in.” you tell him, hinting, “the present won’t bring itself out.”

he doesn’t budge. you apply some force to move his body to the side, and enter your room. once you’re inside, you invite him in as well, “come on, take off your shoes and get inside.”

“you know, i have a gift for you.” you stretch your lips into a smile, highlighting your dimples. his eyes are instantly caught by the particular sight, prying him to stare in the direction of your lips.

“you’ve only mentioned it a few times now.” atsumu shakes his head as he sighs.

he gets rid of his footwear and walks into your dorm room, coming to stand right in front of you.

you walk up to him, stand on your tip toes to quickly peck his lips, and praise him, “good boy.”

you turn around and dally your way towards the mini refrigerator to acquire the cake you prepared for him last night. once you’ve taken it out, you turn around, holding it out to him.

“tada.” you make a sing song voice.

you approach him, while singing a birthday song, pushing the cake in his direction, hoping he’d accept your offering. you look at the blueberries and lemons decorating the cake, pointing, “it’s cute, isn’t it?” no response.

you pout, expressing disappointment, “why won’t you take my gift.”

“i spent so much time preparing it for you.” you whine, cheeks puffed out.

atsumu sighs, unsure of what he is thinking of. the more he looks at you, the more it seems he wants this night to lead the two of you to someplace he’s sure neither of you were expecting it to lead to. to think this way when he’s already made it so obvious to you is rather stupid.

he isn’t sure if he should be thinking these thoughts at all. they shouldn’t be whirring around his head to begin with. after all, this is only supposed to be a one time thing, and he was specifically warned by bokuto san not to lead you on.

he’s led you on enough as it is. he really shouldn’t take this any further. it’s bound to make things worse for you as well as for him. he knows this well, he can put two and two together to decipher the pros and cons of his unideal thoughts. his head and his heart cannot reach reach a comprise.

in the battle between the two, the head loses, and atsumu let’s go of the remains of his rationality. he takes the the cake out of your grasp and puts it on your desk, returning to stand face to face with you. you’re left swarmed by confusion.

but before you can interrogate him, he puts a lip to your finger, inching his body closer to you. once he’s close enough, he pulls you further in by the waist, until your chest is pressed firmly against his. you don’t retaliate. you just let him take control.

“the cake can wait.” he smirks, speaking in a breathy voice, wrapping an arm around your waist and resting the other against the nape of your neck.

he tells you, his lips only an inch apart from your own, “right now, this is what i want to do, cutie.”

your cheeks are burning, your body is trembling, your mind is fogged, and your palms are sweaty as they wrap around his shoulders for the balance. he can feel your body shaking against his. you’re nervous, he knows. he’s making you nervous, he knows. he’s at an advantage, and he likes it.

“you alright?” atsumu loosens his hold on you, asking out of concern when he notices the state of your body. you hum in response to him, granting him a green light to proceed.

just to make sure, he inquires yet again, “are you sure you’re okay with this?” you hum once again, confirming your agreement regarding the matter.

“great.” the corner of his lip raises as he voices, fain.

atsumu pulls you closer to him once again, clashing his lips against yours. his tongue entwines with your own, exploring around your mouth. you can taste the strawberry from his froyo swishing around your mouth as his tongue swarms around. you like whatever it is that you’re feeling. you grab his blonde hair and press his face against your own, urging him to continue further.

soon enough, breathless and quite uncomfortable, you’re quick to interfere, and you step back. he isn’t sure what warranted your reaction, but he’s willing to be patient.

he rubs your back, asking worrisomely, as he leaves a trail of kisses in the region of your neck, “did i do something wrong?”

“it’s me. i’ve never done this before.” you admit, moaning as you feel his hot breath condensing all over your neck, enticing a reaction from your end.

you mumble, embarrassingly, gripping his hair to move his face off your body, “sorry, i’m a spoilsport.”

“that’s all?” atsumu laughs, twirling his finger around a strand of your hair, playing with it.

he stoops lower and uses his teeth to pull your dress off your breast, placing a quick kiss on your cleavage through your brasier, reassuring, “don’t worry, cutie.”

“i got you, i’ll be gentle.” he looks up at you, winking, as he raises himself back up, proceeding to press his lips against your own once again.

atsumu’s frisky hands rummage around your back to discover the zip to your dress. he unzips your garment while his lips are still glued to yours. he pulls himself apart from you for a moment, swinging your body around as he presses you against a wall, the impact making your paints fall to the ground, painting the floor around you in a myriad of shades.

his hands mischievously, and quite easily undress you, completely revealing your brasier and underwear, two different colours. not a set. you really didn’t think it through before making your pick, and you really weren’t expecting to be fucked by atsumu miya on your first date.

your cheeks glow red in embarrassment, but frankly, atsumu doesn’t care if it’s a pair or not, he just wants to get those pieces of fabric off you and eat you out. he finds himself releasing his belt and loosening his pants while you stand there, hands covering your brasier and your underwear like it matters at this point.

he inches closer, finding himself pushing his lips against yours for the third time today, finding himself rock hard down there, ready to go. his arms envelope your body as he lifts you up. you cross your legs around his waist, putting your arms around his neck.

atsumu throws you onto the bed, hovering over you, with his large, throbbing cock erect underneath his loosened clothing. you’re desperate and you want him to put it inside of you this instant. he reaches out to get rid of your underwear. you can’t help it but let out a loud moan when you feel his hands prancing around your private parts in an attempt to rid you of your undergarment. you’re sure you were loud enough for your neighbours to hear, and they’ll know you’ve been a naughty girl tonight, but you don’t seem to care. you just want his cock inside of you, is all.

you’re hasty enough pull off his pants and his undergarment, revealing his large, veiny, aching cock ready to be inserted into your vagina. you throw the piece of cloth to the ground, spreading your legs wide apart for him, smirking.

“you really want me, don’t ya, cutie?” atsumu teases you, cupping your chin to catch a hold of your wavering gaze.

“too bad i don’t have protection on me.” he purses his lips, shrugging as he lays on top of you, pinning his chin against your cleavage.

his large hands cup your boobs, stimulating the nerve endings around your nipples, irking you to let out a vague cry.

your voice cracks, as you plead to him, “it’s okay, i need you inside of me.”

“atsumu.”

he commands, taking your chin into his hands, shooting a coy smile at you, “look at me, cutie.”

“hold my gaze.” he orders, assuring, “and you’ll get exactly what you want, cutie.” you nod, following his order, forcing yourself to look right into his eyes.

you’re already sweaty and he hasn’t even started yet. you don’t know what to expect from the process, but your instant reflex is the shut your eyes when you feel his cock sliding against your walls, inside of you. he’s too big for and it’s too painful. when he breaks through your hymen, you feel sharp, lancinating pain, warranting you to let out a loud moan as you bleed a little, “a-ah.”

“stop.” you speak up, huffing for air.

atsumu withdraws his cock from inside of you, caressing your cheek, inquiring, worried, “are you okay?”

“it hurts.” you cry, still in the midst of catching your breath.

you permit him, “try again.”

accepting your request, he inserts himself into your vagina once again. as you feel his large dick sliding against your walls, you scrunch your face in pain, whimpering, “o-ouch.”

“do you want me to stop?” he asks.

you refute, shaking your head, wanting him to continue pleasuring you. you scratch your nails against the bedding when you feel him thrust his cock inside you again, and again and again, making you groan and wail in pain because his size is just too big for you to take. as you feel his cock glide in and out of your pussy rhythmically, your moans get louder and louder, and the pleasure of having him inside of you intensifies tenfold. you find yourself gasping for air.

you feel yourself about to cum. atsumu drags his dick out of your vagina. his lips move away from your neck to your ear. he nibs your ear, while he inserts his fingers inside your pussy, letting your cum drips over his fingers, tainting them slimy white.

“you’re leaking, cutie.” atsumu states, chuckling, as he inserts his dick inside your cunt again, licking your ear, prying you to let out a scream when you feel the friction of his girth against you as he slides in and out.

smiling proud of himself, he kisses your neck, relieving you momentarily when he removes his cock out of your pussy, but only after he cums inside you. his fluid drips down your thighs, mixing with your own. he finds himself pressing his head between your thighs, tongue reaching to lick your walls to cleanse them of the filth of your act. as you feel his tongue brush around your lips, you can’t help but ask him for more.

“n-need more.” you stammer, breathless, overwhelmed with guilty pleasure as you grab his neck to make him face yourself, smiling tiredly at him, “tsumu, gimme more.”

atsumu lays right beside you, rubbing your cheeks as he teases you, sliding his hand down slowly and steadily, with fingers that tread over flesh, from your cheeks to your neck down to your stomach, leaving behind a ticklish sensation on your skin.

he places his hand over your mons, whispering as he bites the cartilage of your ear, “want more, cutie?”

you nod, signaling him to continue.

atsumu inserts his fingers into your vagina, curling them up and down, rubbing the area between your inner and outer labia, slowly stimulating your clitoris. you feel a pleasurable sensation wash all over your body. the motion of his fingers demands you to moan. he’s so good as he rubs your inside, you feel yourself cum all over his fingers.

satisfied with your response, and proud of himself, he inserts his fingers deeper, curling them in a come-hither motion, coercing you to whimper quite loudly. you’re sure were loud enough for your neighbours to hear you. once again. but you simply do not care. you’re too busy bathing his fingers with your cum.

tonight is going to be a long night, you think to yourself, closing your eyes shut, moaning over and over again as atsumu’s fingers twist and curl inside of you. he finds himself entertained, hearing you mewl and watching your squirm as he pleasures you. you cum over and over again, every time you’re stimulated, as his fingers move methodically within your walls, drenched in your fluid that you can’t seem to stop the flow of.

atsumu retrieves his fingers, holding onto your waist as he raises himself to hover over you. he brings his lips closer to you body, designing a trail of feathery kisses from your neck all the way down to your desperate pussy. he presses his face against your folds, inserting his tongue, licking you on the inside. when his tongue brushes past your clitoris, you whimper, cumming all over his face.

he laps it like a street dog, asking for more, “give me some more, cutie.”

you’re heaving for breath as atsumu explores your throbbing pussy with his tongue alone, hitting the spot every chance he gets, obligating you to wail over and over again. you’re profusely cumming, with his mouth covered in your fluids. he loves it, you love it. he’s too good.

“we’re about to have fun tonight.” he sneers, raising his head to look at the state of you.

atsumu shuts your legs close, giving you a break. he puts his body on to you, feeling your chest rise and fall evidently while you’re breathless. he snakes himself upwards. he kisses you on the lips, allowing you to get a quick taste of yourself.

“i- i think i want a r-round two.” you stutter, pushing him off you. your hand slides down to grab a hold of his penis. you start to fondle with his tip, doe eyed as you look at him with pursed lips and an expecting expression, “you’ll be gentle, just like the last time, won’t you?”

his eyes widen when he feels your soft hands playing around with his cock, moving upwards and downwards, stroking it. he likes the feeling of your soft skin feeling his penis, your fingers prancing around like you own his cock, and what was drooping becomes rock hard once again, aching to be slid inside of your pussy that’s clearly asking for more.

atsumu climbs on top of you, lacing his sticky fingers with your own, pinning your hand against the bed, his other hand rubbing the skin of your cheek as he prepares to enter your cunt. you grab the nape of his neck, dragging his face closer to yours.

he feels your heavy, needy breath dissipate against his cheeks as he bites your nose. with his lips brushing against yours, as he presses his dick into your cunt, he mutters, “want this, don’t you?”

you feel him cum inside of you, filling you up. as a stream of his semen trickles down your inner thigh, you shoot him a wide grin, huffing, “yes, w-want this.”

“s-so good, tsumu.” you groan, feeling his cock rub against your lips, inciting you to squirt all over his cock.

atsumu is so proud of himself for pleasuring you so good on your first time. he presses his dick deeper inside of you. you’re a wailing, crying mess as his large dick inserts itself further inside you, making you ache. but the feeling of his cock being thrust inside of you is too good to make him stop.

he chuckles at your sweaty face painted crimson, with a weary but satisfactory smile lining your pink lips, smirking at you as he kisses your lips, then your neck, “alright, cutie, it’s time we have more fun throughout the night.”

౨ৎ yn and atsumu got along too well for his own liking, and he actually ended up having a great time with yn.

౨ৎ yn lost her v card to atsumu, meaning this is the first time she even hooked up with someone.

౨ৎ the security guards saw yn sneaking atsumu into the dormitory, but they just assumed it’s tobio.

౨ৎ tobio definitely cried on his way to practice.

౨ৎ you’re going to hate me for the next few chapters.

previous : d day

masterlist | next : rebound sex

🐰 i want you to be real scared for the upcoming chapters, that’s all.

taglist— @wolffmaiden @kafkassexchoe @luna-mothii @bomjug @le000xxgrd @dazqa @ineednanami @iluvaquaphor @debussy42 @choizzn @bunninio @empress-pug-pug @karasunoya @sereniteav @yuminako @reooreo @loveelylacey @nbcvs

[darsynia]

Surprise blurb bomb!

You’re at a conference and a little worried because your boss has enlisted you to present. You’ve got about a day to go, so you’ve been in pacing in your hotel room rehearsing. However, the frustration mounts every time you hear yourself make a little mistake. Your next door neighbor has heard all of this, so they come to knock on your door, checking that everything is alright. When you explain what’s going on, they nod sympathetically, having to present as well. They kindly offer to help you practice, which leads to the two of you falling asleep collapsed on top of each other on your bed. What happens after that? Who’s your babe?

Thank you so much for this!! I chose Steve, and this is teeth-rotting fluff with my signature little characterization moments. I hope you enjoy!!

gif from @askthesuperhusbands

Notes: Pre-Ultron, no warnings, 2,447 words, first draft so I get it out without fussing

Excerpt:

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

Always On

“The idea of ‘public relations’ has fallen into disrepute, just like ‘human resources’--and I think their tarnished reputations are related,” you say, hands clutching the edges of the wooden desk chair ‘podium’ precariously balanced on the hotel bed. “I know everyone in this room is well-acquainted with the concept of finding common ground with a myriad of people-- Argh!”

You frown, feeling the judgment of the rumpled sheet hanging on the wall. It’s covering the mirror that had pulled your focus away for the first twenty minutes of this practice exercise, but you still know it’s there. At this point, the sheet is a fig leaf covering your dignity and your inability to stay focused.

It’s past midnight, and the long day is getting to you. The introductory paragraph of your presentation is in the bag, but paragraph two isn’t working at all. It’s your thesis statement, the crux of the whole project, and you know you’re fighting an uphill battle. Without help from the well-respected UNITY Project, the governments of the world might try something extreme to keep the Avengers in line. Each year the group of philanthropists, aid workers, humanitarian lawyers, and other notorious do-gooders meet and choose ten groups to endow aid or oversight on. You’re hoping for the oversight, but it’s a long shot. The group has a sterling reputation, and their clout might be enough to get Secretary Ross to back down.

Your hands ache from where you’ve been clutching at your makeshift podium, but you square your shoulders and try again. “What we’re seeking is a partnership, a way to celebrate this team’s efforts and smooth over their rough edges.”

The sheet is mocking you, so you close your eyes and picture the faceless group you’re going to be appealing to.

“Citizens around the world trust your judgment and their heroism. Together we can ease fears and--” You stop, struggling to remember the word you’d thought up in the rental car on the way to the hotel. No amount of squinting at the note cards does any good. Your notes are rain-splattered and ruined in exactly the wrong spot, of course.

Throwing your head back, you let out yet another miserable groan.

Seconds later, there’s a gentle tap on the door. You recognize the pattern.

“Go away Steve, I’m busy dying of frustration!”

There is silence for over thirty seconds, but you’re not fooled. After counting to fifty-five, you stride over and throw the door open right before Captain America’s knuckles strike the wood again.

“Yes?” Your withering glare doesn’t faze him. Steve just raises his eyebrows and holds his hands up in a ‘surrender’ gesture.

“Three ‘arghs’ in fifteen minutes gets a visit, you should know that,” he tells you with mock sternness.

Hot embarrassment has you stepping back in dismay. “You could hear that?”

“A few words of the speech, too,” he nods, prompting another ‘argh’ from you.

Your choices are to spontaneously develop superpowers so you can drop through the floor, or do as you always do in this friendship--or let Steve Rogers be the hero. Your dilemma must show on your face, because for once, he doesn’t wait for you to ask for help.

“Something tells me the board of United International Continuing Acronym won’t be convinced by those noises,” Steve says, using Stark’s nickname to cover for the way he pushes past you into the room. For a few seconds, the fronts of your bodies brush against each other, and the heat from those few seconds burns through you.

By the time you recover, Steve’s already across the room, clearing his throat. “I sympathize, believe me. Doesn’t matter how much public speaking I’ve gone through, it still ties my stomach into knots.” He turns and gives you a look of teasing determination. “I have a few suggestions, but I’d have to swear you to secrecy.”

Your crush surges up to color your voice with maybe a little too much affection as you say, “Captain America has secrets?”

The look he shoots you has the same sort of heat from seconds ago. “Here,” he says, pulling a folded page from his pocket. “This is a new one, but back when they first put me in tights, I practiced my script in a room set up with some of these.”

Steve hands you a drawing of a crowd of people, some smiling, some frowning, some turning to their neighbors instead of looking forward. It’s got all of the charm of his usual drawings, despite being more simple than usual. When you look up at his face, his sheepish expression tells you why. He must have drawn it right before knocking on your door.

“Steve,” you breathe, touched by the gesture but also the way he’s captured the spectrum of audience reaction. It reminds you of everything he’d gone through to be the man he is now, the man you’ve fallen for as inevitably as a crowd cheers for a brilliant performance. You couldn’t help it.

“Not now, all right?” he whispers, a kind of pleading in his eyes. “Speech first.”

You blink at him. Did he just acknowledge that something’s different between you? What is it about this corporate hotel hundreds of miles from the home that’s turned everything deliciously sideways? He’s already on the next Act, and you shove those feelings aside to focus like he’s asked you to.

“My place was a quarter this size, but maybe we can…” Steve trails off, propping his drawing on the draped wall sheet and flipping off all but the lights above the bed. Somehow it works, limiting distractions and changing the covered mirror into an easel for his thoughtful drawing.

There’s only one problem.

“Are you planning to lurk behind me?”

“Well, I’d sit in the chair, but--”

“Steve!” You can’t even glare at him, because all you can see is the glint of the fluorescent light reflecting off of his shined shoes. He pushes off the wall and steps forward just enough so you can see the kind look on his face.

“I get it. Public speaking is hard enough when it’s important, but it’s even harder when there are no friendlies in the audience.” Steve smiles wryly. “That won’t happen here, I promise. I’ll be in the room, because just like with the war bonds, I’m a symbol of what you’re fighting for.”

There’s no way he could know how romantic that sounds, so you swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat and nod at him.

You start again, and suddenly it works. The chair is a podium. The crowd is real. Steve is somewhere out of sight, rooting for you. You get through the whole thing, and it feels great. You can hear Steve clapping for you through the relieved buzzing in your ears.

Then it all falls apart. When you let go, the chair falls over and smacks you in the face, and the little breeze from your flail of pain knocks the drawing down. Steve rushes over to help, but he bumps into you, and you both fall sideways onto the bed.

The giggles last for a glorious few minutes, and then he says, “Okay, since everything went sideways, can I make it worse?”

You’re lying on a bed with Steve Rogers and his smile is like an early sunrise, so you say yes.

“The concept is good, but you sound like you’re using big words to impress. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not really us. Tony’s irreverent, Clint’s the salt of the Earth, and Bruce is the kind of scientist that puts everyone at ease, at least until he turns green.” Steve turns onto his back, but he doesn’t get up, which feels consequential, despite his criticism. “Nat’s public persona is standoffish but not pretentious, and I’m--”

“You’re folksy,” you interrupt, still stinging from the unfortunate truth of the word ‘pretentious.’ “The epitome of ‘plainspoken.’”

Steve shoots a look over at you, and you realize those two words are exactly what he meant.

“The guy next door,” you add. Inside, you’re crumbling a little bit. Does he think you’re pretentious? Are you pretentious?

Steve rolls to face you again, reaching out to brush his thumb gently across the place the chair had struck you. It’s covered by your hair, but he somehow knows exactly where it is.

“You still have a full day left of the conference before it’s your turn. I could have colored that drawing and given it to you tomorrow, but that wouldn’t have helped tonight.” He pulls his hand back, but sets it on the bed between you. “That’s what makes us a team.”

You’re confused, but comforted nonetheless.

“You paint with words. It’s not that different from art, and every artist chooses how much effort to put in each piece,” he explains patiently. “It’s the same for this. You’re representing everyone, and that means you have to save some of that energy for the physical part of it. Not everyone realizes that.”

“Oh, God,” you blurt out, sitting up. “You are a symbol, just like you said. You’re always on, even at the Compound! How much energy does that take?”

He looks up at you, and the truth in his eyes is painfully intimate. “It’s not as bad now. When I came out of the ice, it kind of felt like I was still in tights. Always exposed for the greater good.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It’s your job to book him for events. You’re the one shoving him onto the stage.

“No, no, don’t do that,” Steve says, sitting up and framing your face with his hands. “It was worse before, when it was Tony or some random person at SHIELD sending me out. I trust you. This conference was your idea--”

You scrunch up your face with guilt at that, and Steve gets this look of determination on his face. The next thing you know, he’s leaning forward and kissing you. It’s electric, stage lights blaring, orchestra in crescendo, and the velvet curtain rolling closed on the triumphant final scene to the roaring of the audience applause.

Then he’s pulling back, standing, and running his hand over his face. “That was out of line, I’m sorry.”

“It was a masterpiece,” you say, looking up at him with your hands clutching the blanket and your heart in your eyes.

The way his nervous tension completely leaves his body is even more reassuring than the softly-spoken “Oh. Good,” he lets out. His encore wins all the awards your heart has to give: “I didn’t practice that at all.”

Joy colors your voice. “You’re a natural.”

Steve’s ears turn red, and he says, “Well, I should let you get back to it. It’s past one--”

“You could stay,” you rush to say, standing up and stepping past him to pick up the drawing. Behind you, he makes a strangling sort of coughing noise, and you realize what you’ve said. “To practice!”

That just makes Steve gasp your name, clearly amused and scandalized in equal measure, and you groan in frustration. Feeling giddy just destroys your cognitive abilities.

“The speech! What is it about this hotel??”

“A new medium. Canvas instead of watercolor paper. A speech instead of short stories,” he says, setting the fallen chair back upright.

“You know about those?” you ask, surprised. You’ve made a point of working on them only during your downtime.

He has the grace to look apologetic. “Tony made a comment once, that I’d turn up in one of your stories if I offended any world leaders, when I was sent to the UN Grand Assembly.”

“Shit, I forgot I threatened him with that one time when he was being an ass.” Your grumble ended in a colossal yawn. “What time does breakfast start tomorrow?” The conference is a multi-day affair, and missing the early meal had not set you up to stay awake through the panels today. “I won’t have any time to practice this tomorrow night and you’re right, I really need to clean up the wording,” you add, feeling your elation at the kiss drain away with worry.

“Then let’s keep at it,” Steve says, taking the drawing and setting it back up on the sheet. He turns and gives you as wicked a look as you’ve ever seen on his face. “The speech, I mean.”

You wake up to the alarm with a sore neck, your dress pants digging into your hip, and a bed partner. He’s the farthest from a pain in the neck as a man can get, but falling asleep fully dressed with your head on his shoulder wasn’t the wisest decision you’ve ever made. You pull in a deep breath, trying to clear out the mental cobwebs scattered in happy glitter, and Steve tenses up under your head.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately.

“Don’t be. I’m the one who should have left you to sleep.”

You sit up so he can slip out of bed, knowing that he needs to put distance between you for his own peace of mind.

“Be honest: have you ever voluntarily abandoned a woman who needs your help?” you tease. “In all seriousness, you were a huge help last night, and I’m sure that was outside your comfort zone. That was probably the most I’ve ever seen you talk outside of lecturing Stark!”

“I didn’t even notice,” he says, pulling the sheet off of the mirror expertly folding it over in the corner of the room.

He’s faced away from you, so you indulge in a back-arching stretch while muttering under your breath, “You have no idea how hot that is.”

“Right back at you,” Steve retorts, looking back at you with the sheet in one clenched fist. “I need to get going. Want me to pick up breakfast for you?”

You’re off script and floundering, trying to reconcile the sexy rasp in his voice with this attempt at professionalism. It’s exactly the kind of relationship you’ve always dreamed of, and you find your heart slipping further into romantic oblivion.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Thank you,” He says, holding out a hand to help you up. Once you’re standing, Steve holds your gaze and lifts his eyebrows in a very clear question. Heart pounding, you nod, and he takes your lips in a brief but fervent kiss. He moves back, pausing at the door. “I just thought of something, but it’s--”

“Tell me anyway,” you interrupt. “You don’t have to alter your wording for me.” It’s maybe too symbolic and cheesy, but you’re sleep deprived.

“I’m looking forward to another collaboration,” he says, flashing you a brilliant smile.

Note: I may have to write a sequel with what happens AFTER, given that I impulsively wrote this and missed that the prompt was 'what happens after that' I feel so dumb haha

[queenofallimagines]

Bruce Wayne x Fem reader

Shuffles in nervously 👉🏿👈🏿 hiii

A/N: listen,,, I’ve been writing fic fie the requests and then I was dragged kicking and screaming into Bruce Wayne’s arms. Nothing I love more than a tired depressed Dilf✨ got a lot more things sitting in the drafts because it’s SO good to do a character study on them and Damian is next I think he should have a cool stepmom. Bruce Wayne I can read your mind🗣️

Cw: ambiguous age but not explicable age gap so imagine what you will, the batfam are WEAK to black women but it’s pretty ambiguous in writing, fellow vigilante reader, Bruce is shit at feelings and can’t communicate, Fem reader, Bruce thinks with his dick before his trauma, his kids are nosey as fuck. oh and like mentions of aphrodisiac chemicals used but only once or twice.

Summary: Bruce could only internally groan at his predicament. He wasn’t to say he’s not sure how he got here but he knows exactly how he ended up here. He’s too grown for a one night stand.

Bruce Wayne:

"—told you they stayed the night!"

Bruce wakes to the muffled voices of giggling adolescents. Terrible timing. Dread settles into his gut as his bleary eyes snap open.

Bruce's biggest mistake was bringing you home. Blaming it on the chemicals he and his fellow vigilante crashed into last night would be convenient. But truthfully, both of you consented before those substances burned through your inhibitions, landing you in his king-sized bed, engaging in activities that his hyper-aware mind keeps replaying. Now is not the time to reminisce, not with the voices of his kids echoing outside. He swallows a groan. You'd think he trained all that boyish cheek right out of them, because that is not how one conducts reconnaissance. He'd do the shameful thing and sneak out, but alas, this grand manor belongs to Bruce.

….Maybe he can politely kick you out without incurring Alfred's wrath and enduring hours of lectures on dignity and respect—two things Bruce has little of at the moment. The scent of coffee and toast wafting in from the doorway indicates that Alfred set up a snack cart outside his door—a subtle reminder to behave. Bruce grimaces. Damned Englishmen and their inane concept of manners. Shifting on the bed, he keeps his eyes fixed on your head and not the bare expanse of your skin that he touched. A lot. He left—his dignity won't allow him to call them 'hickeys' because grown men don't do hickeys—various passion marks on your skin.

This time, Bruce can't quite stifle his groan. He's too old for a one-night stand.

"Christ," he grunts quietly, knowing divine intervention won't be coming.

No one said Bruce Wayne ever had a proper love life. Still, he'd take any endless rant from Gordon about Nightwing's countless motor vehicle violations over his children confronting him. At your groan, Bruce's tense shoulders relax slightly. Part of him expected you to be one of those people who woke up ready to take on the world—another reminder of Bruce's age. When you shift, his muscles tense again. Bruce clears his throat, voice gruff. "Morning," he rumbles, before he's tempted to do something less than honorable. The noise, followed by shifting sheets, pulls attention to you stirring. In the soft light, you look soft and relaxed in his bed, like you belong here.

He knows that's a dangerous thought to entertain.

Bruce says and does nothing as your eyes flutter open, blinking blearily and trying to piece together the circumstances of the previous night. He looks at you for a moment, contemplating whether he can get away with offering you money to keep quiet.

“Mmmmorning..”

That yawning stretch is both distracting and endearing. It's unfair. Bruce watches your movements, taking in every detail from the slight dip of your spine to the flutter of eyelashes. It's a sight he'd become intimately acquainted with.

"Sleep well?"

He asks, already knowing the answer. Even if you slept like a log, your body would be sore from being tangled in him all night.

“Mhm.”

If you weren't so drowsy, you'd notice his jaw clench at the sight of the sheets pooling around your hips, exposing your bare chest. Like most things, it's unfairly alluring to Bruce.

"You've got a choice of coffee or orange juice," he says, nodding at the cart a couple steps from the bed. His voice is still gruff.

“Orange juice please.”

Bruce rises from bed, unashamed at his own nakedness. He crosses to the cart, ignoring the faint twinge in his muscles, and pours you a glass of orange juice. A glance back reveals you sitting up against the pillows, wrapped in his sheets like a makeshift toga. He's never seen a more enticing sight in his life. Bruce ignores the impulse to push you back down and take you again.

"Here."

He returns to the bed and offers you the glass.

“Thanks.”

Bruce watches you drink. Another mistake. He can't help imagining how that mouth felt on other places, wrapped around and- Gods. Not the time. He should've given you a robe or something. Those sheets aren't hiding much and your sitting against the pillows has the fabric slipping lower and lower- He clears his throat, trying to rid his mind of dirty thoughts as he sips his coffee.

"You're welcome," he mutters. There's a satisfied, primal part of his soul that preens knowing that you're still in his bed, his sheets draped over you like a claim.

"Did you...have fun last night?"

He cringes almost immediately afterward. Bruce's pillow talk is abysmal.

“what…?”

The events slowly coming back to you, playing behind your eyelids like a movie. A noise of realization leaves your throat as you nod. Under usual circumstances you’d would be embarrassed beyond belief but after having slept so good and still being tired you can’t really find it to care

“oh yeah. I did. ‘t was ‘fuckin amazing.”

Bruce can't help it when his lips curve in response to your praise. You're still in his bed, still wrapped in his sheets, and now telling him he was amazing in bed—damn his ego for being so smug.

"Mm, I'm glad," he hums, taking another sip of coffee. He sets the cup on the bedside table and leans back against the pillows, eyeing you appreciatively.

"Are you... sore anywhere?"

“Nah, just all over.” Bruce can't help the satisfied smirk that crosses his face at your answer. Knowing he left you in a state of boneless bliss has that primal part of him preening again, like a pleased cat.

"Good," he murmurs, a hint of male pride in his voice as he gazes at you. "It... wasn't too much, was it?" Bruce swallows thickly, the urge to touch you growing. The kids are just outside the door. He shouldn't. He won't.

But maybe he can have just a little taste.

“It was, but in all the ways I like it so you’re good.”

Bruce can't stop the quiet groan that rumbles in his throat at your admission. You look a bit like a fallen angel, all debauched hair and sleepy eyes. The sight is almost too much for his self-control, more than you realized. He shifts subtly, adjusting himself under the sheets.

"I suppose that's a good thing, then."

He keeps his tone even, casual, but his gaze is hot and intense as he drinks you in. Bruce's gaze darkens at your answer. If it weren't for the kids and Alfred, he'd be on you in a heartbeat, pressing you into the bed, and leaving marks all over you that claim you as-- His jaw ticks at the possessive thoughts. No. Not the time. Later.

"Good," he repeats, voice gruff. Still, he makes no move to leave the bed. "You... don’t have anywhere to be?"

Bruce already knows the answer. It's a Saturday, after all.

“Aside from the mission last night my schedule is fully clear to my knowledge.”

Bruce nods in understanding, taking another sip of coffee. The image of your previous mission- that you both stumbled into- flashes in his mind: chemicals, a haze of lust, the taste of you on his lips. He pushes the memories aside as his gaze flicks to your exposed shoulder, then back to your face.

"So you can stay for breakfast," he says, keeping his voice steady even as he desperately fights the urge to pull the sheets off you and devour you. "Alfred is making pancakes."

“Mmm, I haven’t spoken to him in a while it will be nice to see his face again.”

Bruce's smile is a subtle, soft thing as you mention Alfred. The older man has served as a sort of parental figure in Bruce's life. Alfred and Bruce are like family, and hearing you mention his name sparks a warm sense of familiarity.

"He'll be happy to see you."

Bruce hesitates for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze. "Do you... want to get up?" he asks, his meaning clear: ‘or do you want to stay in bed a bit longer?’

“….Not gunna lie I’d rather stay in bed a little longer. It’s so warm and comfortable the thought of getting up and putting on clothes sounds like torture.”

Bruce gives an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as you speak. Part of him expected you to get up the minute he mentioned getting dressed. But you don't. You didn’t. You want to stay in bed, and you have no idea how happy you just made him. With a smirk, Bruce reaches out, sliding his hand under the sheet, and grabs your hip, pulling you closer. He doesn't miss the way the fabric slides farther down your torso, revealing more tantalizing skin.

"You are very articulate in the morning."

“Mmm I’m like barely awake right now honestly. Less of a filter or any sort of shame.”

Bruce smirks at your admittance. You're clearly still half asleep, your guard down, and more unfiltered than he expected.

"You're normally more stoic, less open," he muses, tracing his fingers lightly over your hip. "I like it. It's refreshing."

His eyes take in every inch of skin visible to him, making a mental note of the various passion marks he left behind. It makes him want to see how far down they go.

“I’m more relaxed now. And in a hell of a good mood.”

Bruce chuckles, the sound deep and rich. His hand continues to explore your skin, mapping every curve and contour with gentle, yet possessive touches. His thumb brushes over a mark on your skin, and his gaze darkens a fraction.

"And whose fault is that?" he muses, his voice a low rumble, the sound more intimate without the Batman modulator.

“Yours obviously. Haven’t felt this sore in a while. didn’t know I needed an attitude adjustment that bad.”

Bruce's smirk spreads into a wolfish smile as you mention your soreness. A sense of pride swells in his chest. Knowing he made you feel so good last night that your entire body aches from it makes that possessive part of him purr.

Bruce's touch wanders to your thigh, his hand trailing higher and higher up your skin, his eyes fixed on yours as he speaks:

"I’d be happy to give you another one."

“Yeah? jeez going to tire me out before it’s even noon? Didn’t really expect that from you, B.”

Bruce’s expression is somewhere between a cocky smile and an affectionate smirk. It's almost like he's challenging you. The way you say his nickname in such a low, sultry tone is driving him insane. He continues stroking your skin, his fingers tracing a path up the inside of your thigh.

"If it gets you moaning and crying my name again," he murmurs, his voice dropping in register, "then I think it’s worth it. Besides..."

Bruce's other hand reaches out, his fingers gently grasping your chin as he looks you in the eye.

"You underestimate me.” he rumbles, his hand still stroking your thigh. "I have excellent stamina."

“Ooh wow just like that huh? Ready to go in the morning again? Can’t even enjoy the next morning soreness before you need to start all over again. I won’t be able to walk downstairs to breakfast if you’re that insatiable….Never expected you to be the frisky type. Aside from the sexual tension breaking in the air last night I never got that vibe from you.”

Bruce laughs lowly in response, his hand still tracing over your skin. The sound vibrates through his chest. When your hair falls into your eyes, he gently moves it out of your face. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his gaze dark and intense. Your words make him smile, and he leans closer, his thumb brushing over your jaw.

"You're a tease," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. "You have no idea how much restraint it's taking me not to flip you over and show you just how frisky I can be..."

“Lord, don’t say that. My insides are getting flashbacks.”

Bruce’s laugh is sultry and almost sinister. Your words only feed his hunger. You’re right in front of him, skin bare and marked by his mouth, and still he can’t touch you the way he wants. The way he craves. He can’t give in. Not now. His lips brush over your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"Mmm,” he purrs, nipping at your pulse point. "I can still taste you. All over my mouth. It's driving me feral."

“Jesus Christ B. You sure those weird chemicals we got hit with aren’t still in effect?.”

Bruce smirks against your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse point. His hand continues to stroke your skin, his touch like a caress. His voice is low and rough with desire:

"I can promise you, it's all me."

He nips at your earlobe before pulling back, his gaze roaming over your marked body. He wants to add more. Leaving you marked, bruised, sore…

“With you talking like this, it’s a wonder we made it back here last night.”

Bruce releases a low, dark chuckle at your comment. The memory of last night, of stumbling into the manner, shedding clothes and tearing at each other’s skin, flashes in his mind. He doesn’t reply immediately, instead leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses up your neck. His voice is a warm, gruff whisper against your skin:

"It was a close thing, I won't lie."

“It still feels unreal almost, but you’ve got that same look in your eye you did last night. starving. I didn’t think my teasing would make you snap like that not gunna lie.”

Bruce hums against your skin, his lips trailing over your shoulder. The way you tease him is going to be the death of him. The sounds of your chuckles only add fuel to the fire. He can still feel the ghost of your nails digging into his skin, your moans echoing in his ears. He pulls back, eyes dark and glittering as he speaks.

"It took a lot of control, trust me," he says, his voice a low rumble. "If it were up to me, we never would have left that lab."

“Pfft, if it were up to you we’d never leave this bed.”

Bruce chuckles, his hand continuing to roam over your skin. The thought of spending hours, days, in bed with you is incredibly tempting, but he can't. The kids are right outside, and Alfred is waiting in the kitchen. Besides, he has work to do. He sighs, his thumb tracing a lazy circle on your thigh.

"I'd love to stay here forever," he admits, his voice low and rough, “But I'm afraid there are other responsibilities to attend to."

“There usually is-…. There are children behind that door.”

Bruce hears the hushed giggles and whispers on the other side of the door. He knows exactly what’s going on. He can feel the kids’ heartbeats through the wood, like a bat detecting its prey. They’re excited, curious. And they’ve likely been listening for the past hour despite him doing his best to keep his voice low to mask the conversation. Bruce sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he acknowledges the reality.

"Yes," he says, his voice dry. He glances at the door, then back to you. “There are kids behind that door.”

“I guess we have to get up then. Wonder if I can actually find all my clothes…”

Bruce’s lips twitch into a smirk at the thought of your clothes. His eyes trail over your naked form, taking in every tantalizing inch, then glance down to the floor. There is a trail of crumpled clothes leading to the bed. No doubt, you’ll have to walk through the minefield of evidence at some point if you want to get dressed. He sighs, sitting up in bed.

"Considering how fast we undressed, I’d say it’s going to be difficult.” He chuckles.

“Yeah I bet.”

Bruce’s eyes rake over your naked form, unabashedly appreciating the view as the sheets fall away. God, you’re beautiful. He has to force himself to look away before he snaps, ripping the sheets off the bed and pinning you back down. His voice is a gruff rumble as he responds.

"No fair," he mutters, reluctantly sitting up on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he tries to reign in his need to touch you all over again.

Chuckling you glance over your shoulder at him as you pick up your costume and start putting some pieces back on.

“Hey,don’t start pouting now. I agreed to stay for breakfast yeah? Can’t get rid of me that easily Bruce.”

His name rolls off your tongue teasingly. It had definitely been a surprise to find out Batman was Bruce Wayne last night but in the haze of trying to rip each others close off the surprise was lost. Even now looking at him like this you can’t help but see Batman and want to tease him. Saying his name felt forbidden in a way,making you want to say it more.

“Anyway, you should get dressed too.”

Bruce's shoulders tense slightly at the sound of his name falling from your lips. Hearing you say it is an odd juxtaposition. At this moment, sitting on his bed, he is Bruce Wayne, but the mention of his name has hints of Batman, Gotham, the mask. He glances over his shoulder at you as you get dressed. Bruce bristles at your teasing tone, his hands clenching into fists in his lap. The way you say his name in that sultry tone makes him want to throw everything aside and drag you back into that bed. But he doesn’t. He stays sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you, his eyes fixed on the floor. He takes a deep breath before responding, his voice low and rough.

"Trust me, the last thing I want is to get rid of you.” he mutters, his jaw clenching. “I’m getting dressed.”

Bruce listens to the sound of clothing rustling, his back still to you. Part of him resents the fact that you’re getting dressed, leaving him here alone. He watches as you put on your clothes, covering up the marks he left on your skin. It sends a primal pulse of possessiveness through him. But he resists the urge to reach out and pull you back into his lap, or at the very least, make sure his mark is still clear on your neck. His jaw clenches as he speaks:

"I’m surprised they haven’t tried to barge in yet.”

“Hah! Even in a drug induced haze of lust I still remembered to lock the door. I wasn’t about to take that chance.”

Bruce huffs out a quiet laugh, a small smile on his lips. You’re as smart as you are beautiful. Locking the door was a wise decision. If you hadn’t, the kids would have been listening to a very different conversation for the past hour. He glances over his shoulder at you, taking in your now clothed form. It seems less appealing now that you’ve covered up the results of their night together.

"Impressive," he rumbles. You had the presence of mind to do that? While his brain was full of nothing but the smell and taste of you? He almost finds it adorable that you think you have such self-control. His lips twitch with a smirk, his voice a low rumble:

"You definitely have more control than I do."

“Once you have a situation happen like that once the anxiety never lets you forget. And doing it inconspicuously while not ruining the mood just was dumb luck on my part.”

Bruce snorts, a chuckle escaping his lips. You’re not wrong. One time was enough to learn that lesson. He knows that from experience. He should be grateful that you’re more reasonable than he is. It’s no wonder things with his previous conquests always ended the way they did. There’s a long, heavy silence as Bruce considers his next words. Instead Bruce sighs, standing up from the bed. He stretches his arms over his head, his bare chest on full display for you. He can feel the marks you left on his skin, stinging slightly in the air. He smirks at the memory of your nails raking down his back. He’s going to have a hard time keeping his hands off you in front of the kids, especially now that he’s had a taste of how good you feel. He groans quietly, running a hand through his messy hair.

“What’s up? I can tell you’re thinking thoughts with that look in your eye. Say whatever it is you’re thinking so hard about.”

Bruce notices your stare, the way your eyes drink in every inch of his exposed flesh. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on his body, appreciating the view. His lips twitch into a smirk, a flash of possessiveness coursing through him. But he’s snapped out of his thoughts as you ask your question. He knows exactly what you’re asking. He looks at you, his gaze intense. He’s thinking of all the things he wants to do to you, all the ways he wants to touch you. But instead of saying any of that, he simply responds with a low hum. He should be grateful that you’re more reasonable and straightforward than he is. It’s no wonder things with his previous conquests always ended the way they did. There’s a long, heavy silence as Bruce considers his next words. He finally speaks, his voice a low rumble, his back still to you:

"You… You didn’t expect to see me again after this, did you?”

“Eh? I… don’t know what you mean?? We work together as vigilantes so it would be kinda stupid not to mention difficult to avoid you especially when you could find me anywhere I managed to hide in Gotham. You’re not exactly easy to run from. Even if it was some awkward tension i wouldn’t let that stop me from doing my job. I feel like that’s a dumbass question even for you B.”

Bruce clenches his jaw at your response. He knows you’re right. Working together as vigilantes would make it near impossible to avoid each other, especially in a city like Gotham. And even if you did manage to run, he’d find you. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at you, studying your nonchalant expression. He can’t tell if you’re being oblivious on purpose or if you’re just dense. His eyes searching your face for any hint of… something. What? He doesn’t know. But the way you answer his question with such plain honesty throws him for a loop. Usually, the women he sleeps with would want to forget about him. It was less messy that way. But here you are, talking about the work you do together like a conversation about the weather. Either way, his tone is a little sharper than he intends when he speaks.

“You’re not getting what I’m hinting at.”

“Please elaborate then because I didn’t understand that at all.”

Bruce huffs, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. You’re being intentionally obtuse. It’s pissing him off, yet he can’t stop the surge of jealousy and possessiveness that he feels towards you. You’re still standing there, looking at him like you don’t understand what he’s saying. Part of him wants to grab you and push you against the wall, to make sure you understand his point clearly. But he doesn’t. You’re forcing him to be direct, to be open and explicit, and he doesn’t like feeling this vulnerable. He turns to face you fully, his arms crossing over his chest. His eyes are intense as he looks at you, his voice a low, tense rumble:

“You didn’t expect to still be speaking to me after tonight, at least not for anything other than work-related business. Right?” He lets out a long sigh, struggling to keep his voice even as he tries to make you understand.

He can just barely make out you tensing up in surprise for a second before shifting your weight to the other foot, expression not giving anything away.

‘You resist the urge to grit your teeth or give away any other actions on how you’re really feeling. It’s silent for a second before you exhaustedly roll your eyes.’

“Do we run into each other at all outside of work? I’m not changing my schedule.”

You’re internally sighing at the back of your mind. You’ve know better than to push against his typical self sabotaging nature. If he was going to push you away. You’d let him until he eventually comes back before the guilt of his actions eat him alive. You have seen him do it enough times to the people around him including the justice league and his kids. Mindful not to start an argument with his kids having their ears pressed up against the door probably trying their best to hear despite you both speaking lowly. You respond back in an equally sharp none keeping an air on nonchalance to mask the hurt.

Bruce clenches his jaw, a mix of frustration and jealousy coursing through him. You’re being infuriatingly stubborn, just like usual. He knows he should back down, let it go. But he can’t. Your words are like a barbed wire around his heart, tightening the more you speak. Your nonchalant attitude is irritating the hell out of him but also causing a wave of desire to shoot through him. How badly he wants to reach out and press you against the wall, to make you understand. But he doesn’t. Is it this annoying for others when he close’s himself off?

“No. You’re right, we don’t-“

“So then that answers your question. Wow you sure do overcomplicate everything.”

Your response only pisses him off more. He wants to grab you and shake you, to make you understand the point he’s trying to make. Yet, a part of him is surprised, impressed, and amused by your stubbornness. It’s just like you to take everything he says literally and not get the hint. His eyes narrow, a hint of annoyance and humor in his tone:

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. Don’t play dumb. It’s not a good look.”

“Boy, If you don’t speak plainly and make your point already.”

Bruce scowls back at you, not backing down from your glare. A part of him wants to back down, to avoid a fight. But the more stubborn part of him, the part that wants you to understand, won’t budge. He lets out an annoyed huff, his voice low and intense:

“I meant that, after tonight, I wouldn’t expect to see you again - on a personal level. As in-” He hesitates, struggling to find the right words. “Not just for ‘work related business.’ ”

“Wait you- Jesus Christ you are needlessly confusing and it’s so aggravating. That wasn’t my intentions at all. Like not even a little bit. At what point did you come to this conclusion in your own brain if I never said anything like that? I know your ass can’t read minds so who gave you this information? Because it’s wrong.”

Bruce scowls, his irritation peaking, his body tensing under your glare. His eyes narrow, the sharp edges of his jaw clenching. He’s annoyed by your stubbornness, by your inability to see what he’s trying to say. Your frustration makes his heart ache and his irritation flare. But your question catches him off guard. He doesn’t think before he speaks.

“No one had to give me that information. It’s just logical. How many of your one night stands do you see again afterwards?”

“Do you think you’re the same as them?? because this is a vastly different situation if you haven’t noticed.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow further at your response, his irritation growing. Part of him knows you’re right, that this situation is different. But his doubts and insecurities are flaring up, causing him to be more defensive and closed off than usual.

“It’s still a one-night stand, isn’t it? They usually end up not talking afterwards for a reason.”

“Bruce. This isn’t a regular one night stand. You’re jumping to hella conclusions, because I’m already thinking of the next time I can wake up in your bed.”

Bruce freezes, his body tensing at your words. He’s caught off guard by your bluntness, but also secretly pleased, excited even. He can feel something stirring in his stomach at the thought of you wanting to be in his bed again. He tries to hide it with a scowl, to keep himself under control. But your statement makes him want to grab you, to feel your body against his again. He doesn’t want you to see how much he’s affected by your words, so he grunts gruffly:

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Aawww, don’t go shutting me out now! We just had a lovely night together followed by a soft morning after. Don’t start getting scared of being vulnerable now. I’ve already seen every inch of you nothing left to hide from me, love.”

Bruce huffs in irritation, his scowl deepening. He knows you’re right - you’ve already seen him in his most vulnerable state. His body, his scars, the pain and pleasure he’s felt in your arms. But he can’t shake off the feeling of vulnerability, of baring his soul to you. It’s not something he does lightly.

“I’m not scared, I’m being practical. It’s not healthy to get emotionally attached.”

“Ugh and here you go with that again. Humans aren’t meant to just go through life alone superhero or otherwise. It’s okay to admit you care about people. And too bad I’ve already gotten attached. After my attitude adjustment I’m going to be in the most pleasant mood for the next 5 business days.”

Bruce glares at you, his irritation growing with your nonchalant attitude. He’s frustrated by your stubbornness, your damnable optimism. He wants to push back, to make you understand the danger of getting attached. But your words cause his heart to skip a beat, his chest tighten with emotion. He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep himself in control.

“This isn’t a joke. Relationships don’t work for me. I can’t afford the risk-“

“Blah blah blah. Yeah, I know and I’m not letting your paranoia self sabotage yet again. Go ‘head and schedule me in for 11:30 on Tuesday by the way. You can’t escape me or my affections, not that I was stingy in giving it to you anyway.”

Bruce lets out a frustrated huff, his scowl deepening at your dismissive wave. How easily you just brush off his concerns, ignore his past experiences. He doesn’t want to admit how much he’s tempted to give in to you. To hold you against him, to taste your skin again, to feel your body writhing under his touch.

“It’s not paranoia, it’s experience. It’s logic, practicality. The city need-.”

“The city needs you to get laid. You think people wouldn’t immediately vouch for Batman to get his dick wet?? Like why jinx it? You and your annoyingly exhausting self sabotage destructive tendencies are truly tiring for everyone around you to constantly be the victim of. And then you feel guilt which makes you repeat the cycle all over again. You deserve to be happy too?? Not sure anyone’s told you that before.”

Bruce’s irritation turns to frustration as you list off his flaws. As if he’s not fully aware of his own issues, as if he doesn’t hate himself for them. As if it’s a choice. He clenches his jaw, his body tensing further as you continue your lecture.

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know I’m the one that causes problems, that hurts people? You think I’m not living with the guilt every goddamn day?”

“Yeah and it’s making you go through this exhausting cycle. Allow me to at the very least snap you out of that for a while. Normalcy would be good for you….Also me and Alfred have been talking about you needing it for ages now-“

Bruce’s irritation immediately turns to surprise and embarrassment as you mention Alfred. Of course Alfred would be behind this. He can’t help but wonder what you’ve been saying to him and what you’ve been scheming. The thought of you two talking about his personal life causes his heart to skip.

He scowls, his voice frustrated, defensive, and mildly defensive as he crosses his arms over his chest:

“What exactly do you two talk about?”

“You and your shenanigans.”

Bruce lets out a huff, his irritation growing once more. It’s bad enough that you’re pushing his boundaries and questioning his decisions. But the fact you’ve been talking to Alfred about it, that you’re both ganging up on him behind his back, makes him feel outnumbered, vulnerable.

He glares at you, a mix of frustration and vulnerability evident in his voice:

“I do not have ‘shenanigans’.”

“Yes the hell you do. Also do you like dark blue? Or black better?”

Bruce’s scowl deepens at your persistence. He doesn’t like being ganged up on, and now you’re talking about colors? He looks at you, slightly bemused, still frustrated but also curious.

“What does it matter to you what color I prefer? How did that even come up in conversation?”

“Because I’m thinking of what to wear for Tuesday. So what color?”

Bruce’s irritation eases slightly at your question. He’s momentarily thrown off guard by the realization that you’re already planning for the next time you see each other. He looks you up and down, taking in your appearance, his gaze lingering on your curves longer than it should.

“Black.” he grunts out, trying to hide the hint of desire in his voice.

“Got it.”

Bruce swallows, his gaze not leaving your body. He notices the way your curves fit your clothes, the way your muscles move under your skin. He can barely restrain himself from wanting to reach out, pull you close, and feel your body pressed against his again. His voice is low, a hint of desire in it as he speaks:

“Why are you even asking me about colors?”

“Because. I want to wear nice lingerie under my clothes so I figured I’d ask what color before I go choose an outfit myself.”

Bruce’s heart skips a beat, his body tensing at your words. The image of you in black lace under your clothes is almost too much for him to handle. He swallows, trying to keep his composure but almost failing.

He scowls, trying to hold on to his stubborn resistance, his voice gruff and strained:“Why do you care what I think?”

“Huh? Because if I’m going to show up to get fucked stupid I want to at the very least look nice.”

Bruce lets out a huff of frustration, his annoyance returning in full force. He can practically hear the eye roll in your voice. How are you so damn confident and stubborn at the same time? It drives him crazy.

“You always look nice. You don’t need to wear fancy lingerie or anything for me.”

“Yes, but I rarely have a reason to wear them so let me have this and just enjoy it when you see it. And thank you.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, still trying to resist giving in to you. But the image of you in black lace is still stuck in his mind. It’s making it increasingly more difficult to not act on his desire for you.

“Fine. I’ll look forward to it. But don’t get too cocky just because one night together went well.”

“I’m confident the next night will be equally if not more electrifying.”

Bruce lets out a huff, his irritation fading once more. Your confidence and stubbornness are exhausting, but he can’t deny they’re also endearing. He’s starting to question his own resistance to this situation.

“Cocky, aren’t you?” he grumbles softly. His heart is beating too fast for comfort, his thoughts swirling with images of you, bare and writhing under him in lace.

“Absolutely. If you think I can’t feel your eyes burning a hole through clothes from here you’re dead wrong.”

Bruce doesn’t answer immediately. He’s caught, guilty as charged. His gaze has indeed been roaming over your body, taking in every curve, every muscle. He can’t deny he wants you again, badly. Your confidence just makes him want you even more, and it’s driving him crazy. He scowls, pretending to look away as if he wasn’t just mentally stripping you with his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“mhm, let’s go get breakfast. I’m actually hungry now and teasing children will not deter my stomach.”

Bruce grunts, still a little flustered and frustrated with your confidence and stubbornness. But he admits that he’s a little hungry too.

“Fine. We can go to the kitchen. The brats will be there and we’ll have to deal with their stupid comments.”

He stands and starts heading out of his room, with you following behind him.

“And quit calling them children. They’re like 18-26 years olds.”

“And yet they were outside the door giggling and whispering like 7 year olds.”

Yeah, this will be a long morning indeed..

This was the cute version. The other versions is longer and Bruce fucks you like a man possessed😔✊🏿 wasn’t sure if I should post that one or this so here’s a little snippet of that:

“Mkay…. next time leave it in when we go to sleep. Feels ‘snicer that way.”

Jesus Christ-.

Bruce's breath hitches, a low growl slipping past his lips before he can stop it. He forces himself to focus on your sleepy glance, watching you nuzzle into his chest like a content puppy.

He shifts his body, trapping your hips with one muscled thigh, his grip on your hip tightening.

His voice is roughened, filled with desire.

"That an invitation, sweetheart?"

“mhm. You can do it even when I’m asleep I trust you.”

Christ, you're going to be the death of him.

Your sleepy admission to trust him makes his chest ache, a pang of something he refuses to acknowledge hitting him right there. You sound like you mean it, too. Bruce lets a low, strangled moan slip, nuzzling your hair and wrapping his free arm around your middle.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand going even lower, possessive and greedy.

"Can I, right now?"

“Yeah.”

God.

He’s going to start calling you a vixen instead of sweetheart, with those bold little words. Every breath of yours against him feels like a flame to the gunpowder that’s his body. He lets out a hoarse sound, part of him still in disbelief that this is happening.

“You drive me insane,” he grumbles, his low voice filled with unbridled desire. But even after everything, even after a night of letting instincts take over, a night of being completely open and vulnerable with someone, Bruce hesitates.

He needs for you to be sure, for you to want this, even if you’re only half awake.

He keeps his hand on your hip, his other hand gently tilting your chin up so he can look at you, his eyes meeting yours.

“Tell me you want this, sweetheart. Tell me you want me.”

“Bruce if you don’t fill me up and stop waking me up from sleeping I’m going to be real irritated.”

His breath hitches. Hard.

Bruce grits his teeth as he growls, feeling the last of his self-control drain away. He can’t hold in his possessive desire anymore, not with you looking up at him, needy for him.

He’s not a good man, he might even be a bad man. But you look at him like he’s your everything, and it drives him over the edge. His grip on your hip tightens, his breath hot against your ear.

“Can’t have you irritated, sweetheart.”

His voice is deep, roughened, the sound of it sending shivers down your spine.

He grabs your leg, slinging it further up against his body. His eyes are dark, nearly feral as he kisses right below your ear, his teeth nipping your skin. His voice is deep, roughened, the sound of it sending shivers down your spine.

“I’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Gonna make sure you feel good.”

He tightens his grip on your hip, his other hand tilting your chin up. His lips brush your ear as he growls between ragged breaths,

“Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’ll make you feel good .”

“Bruce’s heart clenches at your sleepy little nod. How did he end up here, this morning, in bed with you, feeling more real than he has in years? He doesn’t know, but he’s not going to question it.

He tightens his grip on your hip, his other hand tilting your chin up. His lips brush your ear as he growls between ragged breaths, “Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’ll make you feel good.”

Your surrender, even in your sleepy state, makes his chest tight. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this wanted.

He presses his lips against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses across your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“Good girl. Stay just like that.”

His hands glide and roam across your body, touching and caressing you, wanting to re-familiarize himself with the curves of every inch of you. He’s possessive, a bit rough, even. He needs to remember every inch. He needs to touch you, to make sure you’re real and not a mere dream that’ll disappear the moment he wakes up. His mouth never strays far from your skin, as if starved for the taste of you. He’s almost feverish in his desire, his hands and mouth working to find every sensitive spot that makes your breath hitch and your body arch. He’s hungry, needy, desperate to keep you in his arms, to make everything else fade away besides the feeling of your skin against his.

Feeling a familiar ache in his core he sucks more bruises into your skin. keeping your leg resting where it is he shudders as he reaches down to press into you. an unholy sound crawls out of his throat as his entire body shudders. it feels like his entire body is engulfed in flames and he doesn’t mind burning up. Biting down on his lip hard as he feels you react in your sleep, he distracts himself with kissing your scalp and holding you close. He can’t comprehend how you’re so cute and So sinful hair a mess on his pillows and you dead asleep.

His teeth leave dark marks on your skin, claiming you as his. His fingers dig into your hip, holding you close, anchoring himself to you as the fire burns hot between his legs. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, the sound of your name on his lips like a prayer.

“I can’t… I need…” He doesn’t even finish his sentence. He just moans, low and guttural, his breathing ragged and rough. His teeth leave dark marks on your skin, claiming you as his. His fingers dig into your hip, holding you close, anchoring himself to you as the fire burns hot between his legs. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, the sound of your name on his lips like a prayer.

“You’re so good, sweetheart. So perfect. So goddamn mine, whether you realise it or not.”

He nuzzles your hair, his eyes closed as he relishes the feeling of your warmth against him. He nuzzles your hair, his eyes closed as he relishes the feeling of your warmth against him.

[moonsaver]

how would sunday react to Reader having a Deep accent? Like she cant pronounce words correctly and some rude people make fun of it (definetely not me 🥲 with yandere sunday if possible

Hello anon. I relate to the accent and feeling embarassed about it. Dont sweat it. I think accents are cool. Its just another flavor of a language.

---

Sunday generally would come across a variety of accents, it's nothing new to him for the most part. He's the representative of.. practically Penacony itself, and it's a huge tourist attraction with a lot of significance due to how high-profile it is. I imagine he's met a lot of people with many different kinds of accents, although most of them are probably the forced kinds.

So when he comes across you, it's strangely fascinating. Its a 5050 on whether or not he understands you, but he does make a genuine effort. He's honest, and will let you know if he's not very acquainted with that kind of an accent, and can't understand, but does insist on trying to learn and understand. He would most likely look into your background, the languages you know and make a sort of guess from that information alone on what kind of an accent you have, unless you already tell him beforehand. Otherwise he just asks after a bit of guessing.

Yan!Sunday does not take kindly to anyone making fun of you, and rids them of their dignity swiftly. He justifies it by "an insult to you is a slight against me. And a slight against me is a slight against The Family." Kind of way. Anyone who comments on your accent is already on his watchlist, unless they're compliments of course. If they're insults, however.. they can't save their skins now. They might as well try to lighten the punishment by asking for your forgiveness directly because they insulted you, if they even figure out that was why their reputation took such a staggering hit.

[skyeventide]

the amazon tolkien show was already pretty bad for a number of writing, characterisation, and thematic reasons, and profoundly mid the rest of the time.

then, in the last few weeks they proceeded to publish a magazine cover with barrow wights that are an orientalist caricature that looks like it came out of pre "don't dress up as sexy cleopatra for halloween" discourse. it's cursed wraiths bedecked in coin jewellery, sporting a belly-dancer outfit that is not sexy just because they're undead. that of course birthed the most insanely stupid discourse you can imagine. on one hand having the racists bemoan that the anglo-saxon-inspired burial sites magically transformed into middle-eastern-looking monsters because of woke. on the other hand, the "akshually the lore" people, trying to prove that, in the second age, these humans might well have been remnants of those who came from the east and not the shire-adjacent barrow wights we're all acquainted with, so, gotcha racists! par for the course for insanely stupid tolkien discourse. the point, as usual, being that it doesn't matter whether it's possible by lore. rather, what if we look at the reason why, in this day and age, a magazine SO ironically called "empire" puts on the front page the first glimpse of aesthetics/concept art that are markedly not western, and that art showcases a known orientalist look that doesn't even get the dubious dignity of being put on people and is instead sported by undead monsters? diversity win!

then yesterday they dropped a narvi look and a dwarf poster. we already knew they barely moved past the scottish dwarf stereotype set by peter jackson, a director with whom this series is continually in conversation. we already knew the prosthetic noses of the dwarves in the hobbit movies were silly at best. yet again, narvi is given a fake nose of such proportions that you might think he was about to play cyrano de bergerac. and then there's the poster, where a ring with a giant gem glinting gold in the foreground, in the company of the other rings, stands against a darkened background where a shadowy dwarf grasps forward with clawing, avid hands. of course, after doing some orientalism, it's time to throw some antisemitism in and make sure to hit every box in the bingo. if that poster hadn't appeared on the official account, I'd have thought it a parody.

I've never posted about the show because as a rule I don't feel like wasting too much time on things I think are bad. I sure hope I never will again. I'm also not looking forward to the next bit of corporate diversity we'll certainly be graced with soon enough.

[warnersister]

“Tea in the Cotswolds” Michael Gray x Reader

Michael Gray x Reader

When Thomas has business with Archibald Wentworth, a prestigious delegate in the Cotswolds, Michael is tasked with occupying the man’s adult daughter - getting more acquainted than expected.

The Blinders had expanded their business - all the way to the Cotswolds, Tommy had taken John and Michael for the ride; leaving Arthur back in Birmingham as he didn’t find this the right environment for any sort of negative articulation to be breaking out; especially at Wentworth Family Manor.

The houses became progressively larger as the carriage rolled down the cobbled street, some with drives too large to be able to see the house it belonged to at all. But eventually, the vehicle came to a stop at the looming house; substantially larger than all others. In his head, the only similar build Michael had seen to this was Buckingham Palace - large and awe-inspiring enough to be the encasings to a proud museum, contents sacred and protected.

But potentially Michael’s imagination wasn’t too far from reality.

“Right,” Tommy began, eyes flicking between the two men whom had accompanied him. “Today is a very important meeting. And i need to leave a good impression on the Wentworth’s. So we leave our egos and our guns in the car.” John’s brows creased in confusion. “Leave our guns?” “They’re not dangerous. This is legal business; real estate - dabbling a bit in the illegal side of things but not enough go start a fight. Mr Wentworth is an extremely prestigious man, as is his wife and daughter.” He told them calmly. “I’ll talk with Mr Wentworth, John you’ll talk with his missus and explain what we do: nicely. Michael - I’ll leave you to get acquainted with his daughter, yn.” “You’re leaving me with the child?” He asked, confused. “Yn is twenty.”

They were welcomed into the home by several butlers, two to open the grand doors - three to take their caps and the others to lead the family to their guests. “Thomas Shelby.” They heard, and a dignified gentleman descended the stairs, an unnecessary cain in one hand, the other wrapped around his wife as they descended the central staircase to the visitors, a young lady trailing behind.

“Archibald Wentworth.” Thomas smiled at the man and nodded out of respect. The man walked up to him and shook each of their hands firmly. “How longs it been old chap?” He asked Thomas. “Too long, old friend.” Thomas replied, and they engaged in friendly conversation as neither had seen each other since their fathers dealt with similar business in their own youth. The elder woman approached John who kissed the back of her hand and she curtsied, him remaining respectful as their shared introductions. You however, approached Michael who looked back at you fondly. You curtsied to him and he bowed slightly. “It’s a pleasure Mr Gray.” You say, voice soft and unbroken. He took your hand and kissed the back of it gently. “All mine, Miss Wentworth.”

“And please, do call me Michael.” He told you, smiling gently. “Well in that case you’re compelled to call me Yn.” Michael studied your face; never in his twenty one years of existence had he seen such beauty before. Your skin was fair and undamaged - soft to the touch. Your nails were clean and manicured with a neutral colour. Your hair was cascading down by your ears, as if instructed to sit perfectly, framing your face. You eyes were innocent yet appeared all-knowing - your mouth formed into a graceful smile. And you carried yourself with such proper dignity; it was admirable.

“Yn my darling?” Your father spoke from beside him and you turned to face him on command - trained to do this. “Yes father?” “Please will you accompany Mister Gray into the living area? I’m sure you’ll both be quite comfortable in there.” You nodded once at the man. “Certainly, father.” “It was a pleasure to meet you gentleman, and see you again Mister Shelby.” You say to the other two, before leading Michael into the living area - which was nothing short of double the size of his childhood home.

“May i offer you some tea?” You ask, as you settle in the room. “That’d be lovely, thank you.” You nod as the maid by the for stepped out to grab tea. “Normally I’d make it myself, however it is improper to leave your company unaccompanied.” You joke and he laughs in response. Soon, the tea arrived and you served it for Michael, who took the cup and saucer thoughtfully and nodded in thanks.

“It’s a lovely home you have.” You smile up at him. “Thank you, I’m sure my father works tirelessly to afford it.” “You’ve no job?” He asked, awaiting the words that he was utterly and totally in love with you. “No, I’m trained in etiquette - to be polite, to cook and to clean.” Michael listened to you thoughtfully. “So you’re kept awfully busy then?” You nod. “Busy however I don’t mind it, I get to live in this glorious building with a loving family and life skills. What more could a girl want?” You confirm and he was sure his eyes were forming hearts.

“And I’m sure you have quite the line of suitors with your beauty.” You giggled but tried to compose yourself. “No sir.” His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Surely you’re already married, how has a man not captivated a lady such as yourself. I’d do it myself if it wasn’t for the line of men ahead of me.” You looked down, blushing, before looking back up at Michael. “There is no line and there are no suitors. It is simply me, myself and I.” You tell him.

“And you Michael? Have you a wife?” You asked, batting your eyelids. “No, in your words it is simply… ‘me, myself and I’.” “And what business do you do yourself, Mr Gray?” You ask. “That is not the sort of information for a lady’s ears. It is not good business.” He almost scolds and you nod. “Oh I understand, my father is not too dissimilar. Staying safe in your business, I hope?” He basked in the way you simply understood, didn’t pry. “Not quite.” He said, raising an eyebrow. He rolled up his left sleeve slightly and you gasped. “Oh you poor man,” you say. “You must treat these with oil, that way they shall heal better.” You scold, touching his skin gently. “Well if you were my wife you could sort it out for me.” “Oh certainly Michael, I wouldn’t allow you to come home damaged as such without properly patching you up.” You say, seriousness written all over your facial features.

“And what do you do with the rest of your time, this afternoon per se?” He ponders, sipping his tea. “Well as you said yourself I’m quite a busy person regardless of what I occupy my time with.” You peer down at the dainty wristwatch wrapped around your wrist, Michael estimated the small device at a hefty sum. “At two o’clock I have etiquette lessons.” You say “and at three?” “At three I read in my library” “how about four?” “At four I have a date.” His face dropped. “A date? With who?” “William Wordsworth.” You giggled at his expression which sighed a breath of relief. “Oh I see, she lives the poems she could not write.” He says, quoting the famed poet. “More like she writes the poems she could not live.” You reply, and Michael notices a longing stare as you probably imagine the life you would have, if not the heir to an infamous delegate.

“And no man has yet compared me to a summers day.” You admit. “You have not yet met your Shakespeare.” You smile, enjoying how he understood your references. “Nor my Victor Hugo” “ah but you have not yet died so nobody may quote ‘Demain, dès l’aube’.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “For I am always the poet, never the poem.” You speak; in words of your own. And Michael cannot stop himself from reaching up with his free hand to caress the soft skin of your cheek gently. “It is impossible. How can a man write anything short of a novel about a maiden so fair?” He question, and you find yourself absentmindedly leaning into his light touch.

“You’re a charmer, Mr Gray” you speak, voice barely above whisper “I’m no charmer, just a man who knows what he wants” he leans to whisper in your ear “is it working?” He meets your eyes with a cheeky grin on his face. “Certainly.” You both finished your tea and the trolley was taken away, miscellaneous chatter arising from each of your lips.

“Madam?” A voice squeaked from the door behind you both. You spun on a pivot to look at the young maid by the entrance. “Yes Beth?” “Mister Wentworth has requested you and Mister Gray return to the foyer” she said, avoiding your stare. “Thank you Beth, we shall be there shortly.” The woman nodded before clicking the door shut behind you to allow you to make your own way there along with the company. Michael’s face contorted: annoyed, but relaxed it when you faced back to him.

“I believe it is time for us to depart.” You tell him. “When may I see you again?” He asks, holding your hands in his own. “Whenever you wish, Mister Gray; should my father allow.” You tell him, before slowly leading him back to where you originally met. There, the rest of the men along with your parents stood as you’d left them - engaged in unwavering chatter. “Ah, Mister Gray - treated well I hope?” Your father asks and Michael nods at the man. “Certainly.”

After some goodbyes and a hug for your father’s old friend Thomas, Michael smirked at you and kissed the back of your hand and whispered promises that you shall meet again.

The men walked back to the car in silence, Thomas lighting a cigarette once inside. “How’d you like her?” He asked, eyeing Michael before nicotine smoke billowed from his lips. “She’s a lovely young lady.” Michael tore his eyes away from his cousin and back to the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of you as you drove away; but to no avail.

“She’s a gentle lass. Innocent and proper.” Thomas continued and Michael squinted at him, wondering what the man was getting at. “Doesn’t need corrupting.” “I know that Tommy, what you on about?” “We’ve come to a business agreement with Archibald Wentworth. They in exchange for protection and a good deal of Shelby business, his daughter would marry a gentleman.” Thomas stubbed the last bud out on the leather of the car. “I trust you can fit that role?”

[crystalskiesandcherrywine]

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x a bodyguard he did not ask for

Feyd Rautha was not a particularly patient or obedient man. His skills as a fighter earned him a reputation of a ruthless combat machine, someone who knew no fatigue in battle. The pleasure he found in honing his prowess, regardless of the cost to his surroundings, was well known beyond the lands touched by the infrared sun of his home planet Giedi Prime. 

However, when the family's mentat, Piter de Vries, appeared in his training chamber to inform him about his uncle's request, Feyd knew better than to argue. He owed his uncle a lot and knew that he clearly preferred him to his cousin Glossu Rabban. What Rabban brought in sheer strength, he lacked in political skill. And the fate of House Harkonnen would not be decided by strength alone, they all knew that. 

They crossed the halls swiftly, passing a web of sideways and starecases. Feyd Rautha did not ask, and the Mentat offered no further explanations for the command to appear, which was only sparsely disguised as a request. In the throne room of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, it was, as always, sparsely lit, the ceilings of the room were so high that they could not be seen in the darkness. As in the rest of the fortress, the harsh environment of Giedi Prime continued inside the building: The walls were kept in shades of gray, the floors lined with dark marble, evincing rather somber and sorrowful thoughts then any musings on relaxation or warmth. Shaping the rocks according to their wishes was a clear sign for the inhabitants of the planet and for any visitor unfortunate enough to find themselves here. 

Upon arrival, his uncle's seat was vacant, only a spider-like animal crouched in the shadow filled corner of the room. However, standing in front of his uncle's seat was something very surprising: a servant,  yet not dressed in the usual roughly woven gray robes, but in a tight-fitting and shiny leather, her back as straight as if she were standing guard. The mysterious figure had no customary collar, but a chrome protector on her shoulders and chest, reflecting the sparse light of the room. Her face was half-turned to him, so he could observe the fine lines of her profile, with sharp cheekbones and full lips. Under her hairband, which held a short veil in place, he guessed a tightly bound braid. 

He almost reached out to her, to consider the addition to the household. With this figure, she is an excellent addition to his pets, he thought, and was pleasantly surprised to receive such a gift from his uncle. "I ask you to refrain from that, my lord" Her voice with full with dignity and clarity that was unbecoming for a servant. The figure did not stir, so he briefly doubted whether she had really spoken. A mocking laugh escaped him 

"Since when do my pets have wants? Just for this impudence, you deserve to be punished" and with a fluid movement, he reached for the knife at his hip, only to have it just as precisely parried. The reaction, as unexpected as it was, only spurred him on further. Through every move he felt a spark of the excitement ignite In him.With a predatory gaze, he glanced up and down her body 

"Oh, I didn't know the pet was in the mood for play" He grinned, revealing his black teeth. However, the woman blocked every further attack of his, until the tip of her knife penetrated his shield and stopped just millimeters before his skin. In disbelief, he looked at the red-flaring shield at the breached spot. 

"I see you have gotten acquainted with each other," Baron Vladimir Harkonnen floated into the room, black spheres following him, emitting a slight buzzing sound. The Baron's body was becoming more and more like one of these spheres, round and voluminous. In a matter of seconds, the woman let her blade drop and her weapons found their way back to her holster. Feyd's blade, however, still aimed at her throat. In his defiant eyes, an unspoken question. 

„My dear Nephew Feyd, I want you to meet your bodyguard. You are the future of this planet and if it's up to me, of the known universe. With the journeys to Kaitain and Arrakis, I will leave nothing to chance. Feyd felt the bitter taste of bile and anger fill his mouth, his ice-blue eyes directed at the completely superfluous guard, while her gaze fixed on his uncle. 

„No warrior in the known universe is my equal. I certainly don't need protection, and even less so from her" His words were like poison arrows 

„And yet she just effortlessly penetrated your shield," his uncle laughed, the sounds like sharp bubbles in his oil bath. "Effortlessly" Feyd almost hissed.

"You are dismissed, I do not require your services" He said with as much pride as he could summon through the anger raging in his mind and body.

“My services were summoned by the esteemed Baron Vladimir. As long as he does not dismiss me, I stay where I am." For the first time, their eyes met, his blue against her dark green. So much defiance would have been allowed neither to a servant nor to a pet. "Piter de Vries, please show Lady Margot Fenring to her quarters," said the Baron, and only then did it become apparent that the mentat had never left the room. Feyd believed he detected a hint of a smug smile on his lips, but he was mentally too busy devising a plan to get rid of this new acquaintance. 

to be continued....

@afewfantasies :)

[k1ngdom-of-thieves]

Can I get a headcanon of the Pomefiore trio as vampires and Riddle as a Ghost Groom falling in love with y/n please? Gender neutral please and thank you!

I’m just gonna assume that the reader is human for this

Vampire!Pomefiore Trio and Ghost Groom!Riddle + falling in love with reader!

Vil Schoenhiet

Vil rarely goes out into the towns, there’s too many people and he would most definitely be noticed by someone. It’s fairly difficult being a famous vampire, either people flock to try to see you or people come for him with pitchforks and torches like it’s still the 18th century.

That doesn’t stop him from coming in from time to time. Which led to him bumping into you while you were taking care of a last minute errand.

At first, he was intrigued as to why you didn’t run away in fear when you saw who was in front of you. And when you looked directly into his eyes, he only grew more interested in learning more about you.

He started to come to the town more, and strangely enough he started to see you around more as well. Although his mind told him that you just happened to have a couple of errands to run, his heart hoped that you truly did want to see him.

“Oh hello there, I was hoping to run into you again. Would you allow me to walk with you to your next errand? I would love to talk with you a little more.”

Rook Hunt

Rook has always been one to watch and observe than immediately get involved right away. So when you catch his eye on a stormy night, he intended to do just that.

What he didn’t intend was for you to realize he was “observing” being a creep and started to ask him questions. Rook is a lot of things, but he isn’t a liar, he outright tells you that he’s a vampire when you ask.

He’ll be more surprised if you don’t run away screaming profanities and curses at him. Delighted, but still very surprised.

He’d love it if you’d walk with him during the nights, he rarely gets to speak with people other than vampires. He loves hearing what you think of life in the daylight.

“Oh mon ami, I adore it when you speak your mind! Please allow me to be in your presence once again soon.”

Epel Felmier

Epel never saw that many humans from where he lived. They often told stories of a “haunted farm” where the animals were fed and crops were grown without a person watching them.

These stories of course, were just ways to keep people from going to the Felmier farm. There was, as always, people who tried to get in for one reason or another.

One of those people was you. Usually Epel would just “take care” of any intruders but he was told to “have some more dignity and self-respect” by one of the older vampires so he’s been forced to trying to do that.

When he came up to try and scare you off, he noticed that you didn’t run or scream in terror. Instead you asked why he was alone on a farm. You were also petting one of his horses but he chose to ignore that.

“Oh y’know…just running the farm by myself. I could let you look around some more if you’d like.”

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle never thought he’d be able to love again. You know, because of the whole “Being left at the altar and then forced to watch others get the happy ending that you’ve always wanted” thing.

That was until he saw you. He watched as you roamed the chapel that he is frequently spotted at.

He knew that he’d just be a creep to continue watching you without at least formally introducing himself. Unsurprisingly, you were terrified when he appeared a few feet beside you.

After that initial shock, you two became very well acquainted and the two of you started to see each other more often. Although he once detested the idea of falling in love again, he figures it won’t be so bad if it was with you.

“I haven’t felt this alive since- I can’t even remember when. I suppose it may have something to do with you.”

[mcflymemes]

AS SAID BY JOSEPHINE MONTILYET *  assorted and adapted dialogue from dragon age inquisition

do kiss me again.

sometimes i must remind myself that i'm required to share you with the rest of the world.

how many outfits does one man need?

when i first laid eyes on you, i hadn't an inkling we'd become so close.

i would not object to a closer relationship between us. if that sounds agreeable to you.

i could have danced with you for hours. we must do it again sometime.

if you meant to draw a blush to my cheeks, you've completely succeeded.

i didn't wish to presume you harbored any tender feelings for me.

might we discuss this somewhere more private?

i've never thought your intentions were overly romantic.

forgive me, i don't believe i ever thanked you for helping me with this.

given that you're in one piece, body and dignity, i forgive you.

i need you! yet you threw yourself into danger!

we haven't even known each other a few short months.

how can you declare this liking for me after such a brief time together?

we cannot be seen in a compromising situation.

it was worth the struggle.

i was so worried for you, but at the same time... well, it was the most exciting thing i've seen in ages.

why do this? why risk everything we've built? why risk your life?

is there anything i can do? can i get you anything? a drink, perhaps?

we have better things to do than throw enormous parties. for now.

who left this on my desk?

if you want to attend the soiree, you must find a decent shirt.

what does that even mean?

please convey my thanks.

that does explain a few things.

we cannot replace it with velvet right now.

i'll see to it right away.

his hunches are usually correct.

how can one elf eat so much jam?

i want new locks on that room.

your penmanship is atrocious.

what did they say?

you are rarely dramatic without cause.

don't mention my name!

this is an inopportune time.

we face a dark time, [name].

we've been acquainted for quite some time.

i hope to guide us down smoother paths.

please excuse me. i've much work to do before the day is done.

i don't recall seeing you at any of them.

diplomacy is essential to our credibility.

we are becoming a challenge.

really, you give me too much credit.

while you're here, i do have a question.

if it were up to you, how would you reply?

do let me know if you change your mind.

i wanted to think it was a blessing.

does it... hurt?

i wouldn't wish to impose.

there are a few potential alliances it would be good to discuss...

who does such a thing in front of their guests?

can you not find a single overshirt without mustard stains on it?

have we been here an hour already?

i didn't intend to go on for so long.

you must think me quite the gossip.

i'm glad i haven't wasted your day.

there's no longer a price on my life.

we fought. or perhaps "scrapped" is the better word.

you can imagine the result.

i feel i'm the last to judge whether or not he would have actually used his blade.

i've been looking all over for you.

i've never witnessed such a lovely sight.

sometimes your words are so sweet, they ache.

[rottenpumpkin13]

AGSZC learn about the fact you can pinch people if they aren’t wearing Green on March 17th. (Whether or not they know why would depend on if they have an equivalent of saints in their world)

How does the chaos unfold? Who pranks another first?

*It starts when Reno sees Sephiroth minding his own business, not wearing green. He decides to try his luck, walks up behind him and pinches his side*

Sephiroth: Why are you pinching me?

Reno: You're not wearing green. It's St. Patrick's day. You're allowed to pinch people who aren't wearing green on St. Patrick's day.

Sephiroth: I had no idea.

Reno: Yeah, it's how you celebrate.

Sephiroth: You mean to say that if someone isn't adhering to the rules of March 17th and wearing the color green, you must punish them physically for disrespecting St. Patrick.

Reno:

Sephiroth:

Reno: This is why I don't talk to you people.

-

*Cloud is coming back from an assignment when Sephiroth appears out of nowhere—wearing a green shirt—and starts thwacking him with a broomstick*

Cloud: ACK.

Sephiroth: You're not wearing green. You have disgraced us all.

Cloud, confused: But sir—ow! My scarf—ow! My scarf is green!

*Sephiroth checks his uniform scarf, which is indeed green*

Sephiroth:

Cloud:

Sephiroth: No one will ever believe you.

*Sephiroth walks away with the broomstick*

-

*Angeal sits on a couch in the SOLDIER lounge after a hard day. He settles down with a copy of his favorite gardening magazine and a sandwich*

Angeal: Lazard had a point. I never take time off for myself. Why do I feel so guilty? It's not like a malicious, punishing hand will appear whenever I try to relax.

*Sephiroth pops up from behind the couch and starts choking Angeal*

Angeal: !

Sephiroth: There is nothing honorable about refusing to wear green on St. Patrick's day.

Angeal: !?

Sephiroth: You sicken me.

-

*Zack is whistling as he pushes open the door to the showers*

....

*Zack runs back out screaming. Sephiroth chases after him with a flamethrower*

Sephiroth: WHY WON'T ANYONE WEAR GREEN?

-

*Genesis steps off the elevator, Sephiroth is standing there with a bucket of green paint to throw at him*

Genesis: Ah-ah!

*Genesis points at his green earring*

Sephiroth:

Genesis: You thought I wouldn't be prepared, didn't you? You underestimated me, thinking me a fool, a careless heathen who would be bested by you once more.

Sephiroth:

Genesis: How does it feel to be wrong? Will this sensation suffice to keep you warm tonight, or must you burn your last bit of dignity too?

Sephiroth:

Genesis: I've waited for this blessed day ever since I made your acquaintance. I've been patient. The wait was long and arduous but I knew it would come.

Sephiroth:

Genesis: And now that we're here, I must say, it was well worth it. I win, Sephiroth. But please, don't let the light of glory that bathes my body blind you.

Sephiroth:

Sephiroth: You idiot. That's not even green, it's teal.

*Sephiroth throws the bucket of paint at him*

[the-impala-is-my-home]

wilmon 💜 + “Simon stumbled out of the bushes.”

Simon stumbled out of the bushes.

Well, this certainly wasn’t how he’d planned his day to go - but when his awfully persistent ex-boyfriend Marcus had turned around the corner while he was talking to Wilhelm, a (admittedly rather cute) guy from his politics course about their randomly assigned upcoming group project he’d panicked and well, what was he supposed to do except pull the other man into the bushes with him and hide?

In hindsight, he probably could have at least just jumped between the branches alone without quite literally dragging someone he’d talked to a total of two times -including today into his relationship problems as well and retained at least some sort of dignity, but it was clearly too late for that now.

“Look Wilhelm, I am so fucking sorry about that, that was totally out of line”, he starts, cursing his impulsivity, “and I totally get if you want nothing to do with me after that, so if you want, I’ll talk to the prof about switching partners”, he goes on, turning around to where Wilhelm is… huh, not looking weirded out by Simon at all but instead grinning at him?

“It’s Wille” he says, picking a leaf off his shoulder, “and you really don’t have to apologize for that, escaping from annoying people is unfortunately something I am well acquainted with after two years of going to the same university as my cousin”, another leaf is picked from his shirt, “but if you would like to, you could always make it up to me by letting me buy you a coffee and telling me all about what that guy did to make you bolt like that?”

Thank god, Simon thinks and steps closer to Wille, “I’d really like that”, he murmurs and then adds: “you missed a spot”, picking a small branch out of Wille’s hair and letting his hand rest there for just a millisecond longer than necessary.

---

Thank you for sending in a sentence! :)

[octofaewrites]

Octofae’s Fic List™️

All of my works can be find here:

I write for a variety of fandoms, so here we go - fandoms include: Bleach, Pokémon, Winx Club, and a few others!

Bleach - IchiRuki

Series

Masaki Lives! AU

Bleach, but Masaki was the parent who lived instead of Isshin.

The Noodle Saga

Crack Series involving Ichigo pining away for Rukia while Renji is trying to protect his captain’s dignity. (He is terrible at it.)

The Mystery of the Rukongai Crater

Paranormal Investigators, but make it Hallmark!AU

Conversations with the Future In-Laws

Hypothetical scenarios where Ichigo & Rukia talk to their future in-laws.

IchiRuki Month

Collection of works for IchiRuki Month

IchiRuki Week

Collection of works for IchiRuki Week

Stand Alone Stories

Performance Review

Three Casual Acquaintances™️ start a podcast as they try to solve the mystery of the sudden death of a neighbor in their swanky apartment complex.

Operation Christmas Play

Ichigo is trying to be romantic and Urahara has the connections.

Bleach - Others

Ready, Set, Caw….?

Renji/Orihime - jokefic written for a friend! Two dingdongs try to make cookies and a random crow keeps trolling them.

Through space and time, my love belongs to you (Chapter 1)

GrimmIchiRuki - Rukia is getting married to Grimmjow and Ichigo is sad because he’s hopelessly in love with them both - his life is surely over… or is it?

This story is a multi-author, round-robin project for GIR weekend!

Other Writers: kleinegirl87, AiTsuki97, Mako_After_Dark, AriadneKurosaki

Pokémon -

Pokémon: Brilliant Diamond & Shining Pearl

Merry Mishaps

Dawn, Lucas and Berry decided to exchange presents. Their starters do a bad job of being helpful.

No pairings - Written for the Pokémon Winter Wonderland Zine 2023

Pokémon: Legends Arceus / Diamond/Pearl/Platinum - VoloKari

Series

Somewhere over the Sea

The Pirate AU that no one needed or asked for.

Conversations at the Company Water Cooler

Idiot coworkers in a situationship and too dumb to admit they’re dating.

Sweet Like Honey

Friends with Benefits™️ who are benefiting across Hisui.

As the World Falls Down

Angsty Soulmate AU, where I don’t let them be together.

Volokari Week

Collection of stories I did for Volokari Week 2023

Stand Alone Stories

Déjà Vu - I’ve just been in this Place Before

I want to be cool and do a reimagining of PL:A; I’m just not cool.

Time Won’t Fly (Dead Dove - MIND THE TAGS)

Akari not in a good place.

Doll (Dead Dove - MIND THE TAGS)

Akari is not having a good time. Set in BumbleTee’s Cop AU

When My World Shakes, I Feel Alive

Sweet conversation between Dawn/Volo after getting her drunk idiot roommates to bed.

Shopping is Serious Business

Crackfic. Volo’s real punishment for trying to subjugate Arceus is having to go shopping with his daughter and her equally high maintenance friend.

Pokémon: Scarlet & Violet - Arviana

Safe & Sound

Juliana is tired from her near death experiences and meeting ghosts and gets a much needed Arven-hug.

Sucker.

Arven can’t tell Ogerpon no.

Treasure

Arven reflects on how his family is his treasure

Paradise is Nothing but a Smile

Arviana Picnic Date!

And, maybe it was ego swinging

The AU where Turo pulled his head out of his ass and was a parent to Arven.

Home is Where the Heart Is

Juliana made it back from Blueberry Academy and is beyond glad to be reunited with Arven

Pokémon: Scarlet & Violet - Draymine

I created a Discord Server for Draymine, Arviana, and Kiercey - Other ships are welcome! It can be joined HERE - (18+ Please!)

Series

You are in Love

An on-going series featuring snapshots through Drayton and Carmine’s relationship.

Stand Alone Stories

Well, this is a choice

Jokefic - Kieran sees that Crispin has awful dragon claws for feet and Drayton and Carmine’s alone time keeps getting interrupted.

Elevator Woes, Smash Bros, and Mistletoe

Jokefic - Crispin is the only single guy in his friend group and the elevator rides of Blueberry Academy are long ones. Established Draymine and Kiercey in the background.

a lot to live without

Sometimes, life doesn't go the way one wants it to. TW: Major Character Death.

Pokémon: Scarlet & Violet - Kiercey

Kieran & Lacey.

Building a Home

Just a moment in a post-canon setting in which Kieran and Lacey are quite silly.