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polaroidpascal · 7 months

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lunch box || joel miller

AO3 || MASTERLIST || FREE PALESTINE

pairing : joel miller x f!reader

summary : joel’s stubbornness has him working at ungodly hours on your saturday morning. you decide to do something nice for him, but of course he would realize your absence in bed, especially so early when you’re supposed to be off…

tags : M-18+, no use of y/n, reader briefly gets picked up and carried, no outbreak, domestic life with joel, sarah and ellie briefly mentioned, joel is mid-to-late-30s, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v sex (practice safe ofc!!), joel being big slightly mentioned once, lots of talking and praise (my man cannot shut up), creampie, cum eating (reader teasing joel lol), general sweetness from them both <3

WC : 2.7k

a/n : this is the first fic i've ever written and posted so enjoy !! :)

Ever since you met, you knew that Joel was the one. Talking with him is easy, like your souls have known each other in every lifetime. Being in his presence is safe and comforting. He feels like home. On top of that, after you had been seeing each other for a while and he let you meet Ellie and Sarah, they made you feel so welcome in their family. Life just makes sense with them.

Joel has been a contractor all his life. Even though he can set his own hours, he prefers to start working early so he can be home with his daughters when they finish school. Today — a Saturday — was weird, though. The project he had been working on needed to be rescheduled because of weather, but Joel decided to keep his hours the same. You could tell he didn’t really want to get up so early on a Saturday, but his stubbornness forbade him from changing that. Last night as you drifted to sleep in his arms, knowing he would probably not have time to get lunch tomorrow, you decided you would do something nice for him.

Sarah and Ellie spent their Friday night away at a friend’s house (which you and Joel definitely took advantage of the night before), and the house is eerily quiet when you stir awake in the wee hours of your Saturday morning. You can feel Joel’s sturdy arms draped over your sides, his entire body pressed against your back as if he’s scared you’ll float away if he doesn’t keep you close. You hear his slow, sleepy breathing in your ear and you know he’s still dead asleep. Carefully, you lift his heavy arms from you and slip out of his grip, kindly replacing yourself with a pillow, and resting his arm back down.

He stirs to adjust a bit and settles once again. Success.

You head to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, Joel's life support in a cup, and pull out the things you need to make his lunch. After, you head back to the bedroom to grab a comfy change of clothes. You wait out the brewing with a quick shower hoping it’s less noisy than you think it might be.

While you shower, Joel stirs awake a little before his alarm. He shuts it off to avoid the noise and turns back over seeking your figure — but you’re gone. Confused and still groggy, he gets up searching for you. He hears the shower running and…

Is that… singing?

He puts his ear up to the door and hears you faintly singing the songs he plays on his guitar for you, trying to be as quiet as you can. His heart swells at your beautiful sound and he almost opens the door to join you, but then the smell of coffee begins to fill his nose. He walks into the kitchen to see the last drips fall into the pot and the ingredients for a hearty sandwich sitting on the counter. Putting two and two together, he nearly tears up realizing your plans and decides to sit to the side and wait for you, not wanting to ruin your surprise.

You throw on your comfy silk pajama shorts and one of Joel’s old band t-shirts that swallow you up and return to the kitchen.

You don’t notice Joel at all.

He watches silently from the dark living room as you pour a glass of coffee for him into his favorite owl mug and glide around the kitchen putting his lunch together. He admires your freshly washed hair, already air drying a little bit, the way his t-shirt, oversized on you, drapes over your curves perfectly, and how you continue quietly humming his songs. A small fire ignites deep inside of him, and as you turn around to pack his food, he rises from his chair.

He silently saunters over stealing two big sips of the coffee you poured for him. You hear the cup clink lightly on the counter and turn around just as his big hands glide over your hips, embracing you from behind. “And here I was thinking I was surprising you,” you tease as his face buries into your neck, his naked torso pressed completely against you.

He chuckles. “You did, angel. I just saw it before you were ready, ‘s all.” He kisses and nips your earlobe and you mewl at the sensation. He trails down to your neck while his hands gently guide your hips back into his, feeling him start to grow through his plaid pajama pants.

“Joel…”, you whisper as you turn around in his embrace to kiss him. You find his hungry lips waiting to invite you in. He tastes deliciously like the coffee you made for him and you hum contentedly at it. Your hands trace his bare sides and chest all the way up to his hair, and you run your fingers through his messy locks.

As if he’s not stiff from sleeping, he hoists you up from the floor carrying you as you straddle him, hands still dancing through his hair, and brings you to the couch. Without breaking your kiss for even just a second, he puts you down laying on top of you as you descend, a comfortable weight that he knows you love to feel. His kiss melts into yours and your lips feel like they become one. He breaks away despite your protesting whine and quietly teases, “You know you didn’t have to get up so early on your day off just ‘cause of me, right? I’d probably have time later to pick somethin’ up,” and his lips fall back to yours, one of his hands coming up to tease your breast.

You moan softly, “Well, with your luck, today would be the one day you wouldn’t find time. Besides, I felt like surprising you.” You smile coyly at him and watch as his pupils grow somehow even bigger at you.

He stares for a second trying to figure out how he got so lucky finding you, and a smile threatens to erupt at the corners of his mouth. “You’re so sweet, you might give me a cavity.”

Your chuckle is cut off by a small gasp as he kisses a line down your neck, his beard ghosting your collarbone. Once he reaches the collar of your — well, his — shirt, he descends lower, sticking his whole head under the shirt that engulfs you. He kisses up your stomach until he reaches your chest, taking one nipple into his mouth and you gasp again. His tongue moves firmly over the growing bud at a quickening pace. “Yes, Joel…” you whimper, then suddenly whine as he bites you, quickly soothing the mark with his tongue.

His free hand rises up to replace his mouth as he moves over to give your other side the same treatment. You pant from both movements happening simultaneously, him drawing out more whimpers and moans from you. You squirm underneath him accidentally grazing his own growing member and he groans, already painfully hard for you. His sounds send a sudden rush of heat straight to your core. He continues at your nipple, one bite in particular causing you to cry out and you could swear you feel his cock twitch against you as he moans in reply, another rush of arousal already flooding within you again.

He kisses a line down your chest, down your stomach, until his hands find the hem of your shorts. Your legs spread making room for his broad frame as he drags your panties and shorts down, seamlessly replacing them with soft yet hungry kisses where they once sat. He tosses them to the side, licking and kissing his way back up your thighs, nipping at the sensitive inner skin.

Joel’s eyes practically look pitch black, his pupils so blown out with lust, when you see him eyeing your throbbing core and he groans.

“Good lord, sweetheart,” is all he can manage as he admires you glistening for him. His eyes trail up your body. He could come just from the sight of you: legs spread eagerly, eyelids heavy, pupils just as blown as his own, desire written on your face in big bold letters…

And you see how desperate he looks for you, but a sly smirk quickly spreads across his face, “Bet you taste even sweeter than you act.”

Unable to control his hunger any longer, he fiercely licks one broad, flattened stroke up your middle, tasting the fruits of his labor. He moans at your taste, sending vibrations over your clit. You let out a cry of pleasure and his hips subconsciously rut into the couch, desperately seeking some relief for himself. His tongue glides through your folds, broad strokes accompanied by tight circles around your clit and the occasional dip inside…

“Fuck, Joel!” you cry as he focuses at your hole, his thumb replacing his tongue at your clit drawing tight, fast circles as his tongue dips in and out of you. “Oh my god… yes, please… feels so…”

He can only moan in response, sending lightning through your body with every sound he makes. “Please… oh, my g-… don’t stop, Joel… I’m so close…”

He can feel your impending release and between gasps for air, he practically begs, “Let it go, angel… that’s it… come all over my face… doin’ so good for me…”

His words send you hurdling over the edge as you come — hard. Your hips drive up into his face, head dipped back, crying out in pleasure. Joel refuses to let one drop go to waste, lapping up your slick like an animal. He licks you through your orgasm until the aftershocks and twitching die down some. Then he rises back up to your face. “Taste so good for me…” he says as he kisses you deep, lips and beard soaked. You moan from his taste; like coffee but with a sweet hint of you mixed in, and he swallows every little sound.

He breaks from your lips, your foreheads touching and lips barely ghosting over each other. “I’m gonna fill you up so good, darling,” he whispers as he reaches down to free his cock from his pajama pants.

“Please…” you beg, eyes lazily gazing into his own. “Fuck me, please.”

He looks deep into your eyes as he rubs up and down your heat, coating himself and he slides in without any problem, going slow when you gasp so your body can adjust to his size. But your body seems to draw him in, swallowing him whole and pulling him into you deeper and deeper. “My god…” he gasps as he feels the lingering spasms of your soft walls choking his cock.

You can only manage to whine in response, your eyes silently begging him to move, and he obeys. He begins slowly moving in and out, already embarrassingly close to his own climax, but he desperately wants to feel you unravel on him. Gradually, he finds his pace, bottoming out inside of you over and over and over. Refusing to break eye contact with you, his free hand dips down seeking your clit as he furiously traces tight, swift, calculated circles round and round.

Your eyes bolt shut at the feeling of him filling you up and teasing your clit. You’re well past the point of forming full sentences, and he can tell. Breathlessly, he tries to coax more from you, “Look so pretty taking my cock, angel… so good… fuck, you feel so good… ‘m not gonna last, sweetheart…” His pace is unpredictable, plowing into you for a few thrusts and then slowing down to a near stop to avoid finishing too early. “Need you — oh, fuck… god, almighty… n-need you to come for me, darling… please…”

As he begs for your release and his hips begin to falter, he finds that spot that only he has ever been able to find within you, rapidly sending you over the edge again. Your walls constrict suffocating his cock. You writhe and whine, almost unable to even make a sound.

He works you through your orgasm, his own rapidly approaching as he watches your eyes roll back from pure bliss. “Yeah, just like that, gorgeous… shit, you’re soaking me… fuck me, dripping everywhere… fuck… Oh my god, I’m—”

He cuts himself off with his own grunting and groaning as he begins to paint your walls with his come. He whines and gasps, bottoming out with every wave of his orgasm until his cock twitches for the last time. He collapses over you, crushing you in the best way with his weight as he tucks his face into your neck. You’re both panting, your chests crashing into each other as you come down from your highs and try to recover.

Joel finally softens enough to pull away without completely overstimulating himself, grunting as he rolls off of you and brings you to your side, spooning you and leaving small, tender kisses on your neck. His hand rests over your waist just as it did when you awoke this morning, and you lay there for a little while your heartbeats return to a normal pace.

You feel his come slowly leak out with his absence but you don’t even care. Being in his embrace washes away any other thought from your brain. All you can care to think about is the strong man clinging to you as he comes back down to Earth, holding you close and never letting go. You’re listening to his breath trying to fill his lungs once more and feeling his raging heartbeat through his chest and against your back. This is your personal heaven. Wishing you could live in this moment forever, you close your eyes and savor the feeling in all its glory.

You feel your body threatening to drift back asleep, but one particularly deep and content sigh from Joel reminds you that he is, in fact, supposed to be leaving for work. Glancing at the clock, you gently remind him of the time, your smile audible as you say, “You have just enough time to clean up and put on your clothes. Good thing your lunch is already packed.”

He gives a breathy chuckle and hesitantly gets up with that classic dad groan he always gives. Even though all he would really like to do is spend the rest of eternity lying right here on this couch in this moment with you, duty calls. He glances between your legs and sees the mess he made. You catch a glimpse of his look, his ferocious blushing visible even in the dimly lit room as he stares quite obviously at your middle.

Feeling particularly mischievous, you reach down to collect what you can, scooping it up as it coats your fingers. Joel’s mouth drops open in a stupor, watching in disbelief as you bring your fingers up to your mouth and lick your digits clean. You unmistakingly see his breath hitch at the sight and know that if time weren’t the major issue right now, he would pounce on the opportunity for round two.

“Goddamn, angel…” he says shakily, still in utter disbelief. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy. You’re lucky I have a job to go do,” he tells you with a dazed, fucked-out look and tone as he retreats to the bedroom to attempt to get ready for work. You get up and slip into the bathroom to clean yourself up some more before returning to the couch exactly the way he had left you.

Emerging from your bedroom dressed with lunch in hand, he spots you drifting off back to sleep and walks over to plant a soft kiss on your cheek. Before you completely succumb to the drowsiness, you manage a soft and sweet, “I love you.”

He smiles and bends back down to plant another, longer kiss right to your lips and whispers back, “I love you more.”

He sees you smile at that before he turns for the door and quietly leaves for work, already counting down the minutes of his shift left before he can come back home to you.

>> PART 2

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #tlou #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou one shot #joel miller one shot #this is what happens when the mental illness gets WAY too out of hand

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martyrlamb · 11 months

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✶ when the clock strikes / leon kennedy

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: you’re starting to think a certain agent might be faking his injuries to see you.

tags: sfw, pure fluff, a bit of angst as a treat, love at first sight basically, silly workplace love story, nurse!reader, 1 year post re4r!leon, no use of y/n, extremely mildly passively suggestive, leon takes his shirt off twice (woohoo!), kissing, swearing, leon is awkward as hell, you are too though so it’s okay, description of bruises, cuts and a muscle knot (not detailed), medical talk, slight mention of gore and blood, reader has a backstory, reader has a mother.

note: i blinked and suddenly there were 8k words in my doc idek how that happened. im actually so nervous to post because this is my first one shot ever!! my cherry has been popped… but also apologies if things are kind of all over the place bc im still trying to get the swing of it all. trying to write in the present tense was like being beat over the head repeatedly so im sure theres many grammatical mistakes in that department

word count: 8.5k (got possessed sorry)

Everyone thought you were crazy when you accepted the offer.

It is crazy—but you aren’t stupid. You knew what you were getting into a long time ago as a nurse; people get hurt, and then you save them. Clockwork.

Years ago, you started studying to be a nurse in some middle of nowhere midwestern school. You remembered the rolling hills and the ungodly heavy blankets of snow that fell during the winter months, the fallen leaves that the snow covered. It was all so peaceful for a while… until the outbreak.

You never saw it coming, no one did, really. At least, you hope no one predicted the atrocities that were about to be witnessed by thousands of innocents without warning.

Gnashing teeth and hands with dried blood that streaked down arms like veins plagued the memory of that point in your life. It was surreal to believe that you got up that morning and made your breakfast like any other day, you slid your shoes on and grabbed your keys, and then your foot hit the front porch and the trajectory of your life changed permanently.

The virus started as a woman with red-ringed eyes and pallid skin that reflected off of the blinding overhead lights—she looked visibly ill. That’s all that mattered at the time. You were actually the one who situated her and her husband in their room, he smiled at you and thanked you for your time and you scribbled down notes before hanging the clipboard and leaving the room for the doctor. The screeching horror music plays when you get to this part of the memory.

A type of calm before the storm. You hold your breath every time.

A few hours later people started screaming, and someone—something ran out of that room and wrenched its grip on the first person it saw. Blue scrubs dyed a nasty crimson, like crushed raspberries on cloth. The next part is a blur of running, watching your coworkers die, and using your medical expertise to help anyone who needed it. People were hurt. You saved them.

Like you said, clockwork. You try not to think about it too hard.

By the time help came, you had cramped a large handful of survivors—albeit, injured survivors—into a small house that was a mile or two from the hospital. Your quick thinking protected many people that day, and your skills were recognized.

A week prior, you were a simple nursing student who was lucky enough to be placed in a hospital, and by the next Sunday, you were being offered a position as a medic with the Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation Team. You finished your schooling, you got your specialized training, and now you’re on your way to your first assignment out of the country.

So, granted, maybe you are a little crazy for accepting such a prestigious and dangerous position after your humble beginnings. Your mother never ceases to remind you of this, with what little information you were allowed to tell her.

Iceland? she said, pulling her lips into a line. Are you crazy?

You begin to think that you are now that you stand in front of the base, arms tucked around yourself and teeth chattering as a sergeant points you around like one of his troops. Between the hustle and bustle of agents hurrying around and the amount of civilians sitting beneath the large, brown medical tent, you understand why they needed all the help they could get.

Things in Iceland were bad apparently; Umbrella thought the remote location would protect what little was left of them, and their research, from being exposed. Unfortunately for them, (and fortunately for everyone else) the AUPIT caught wind of what was happening and vowed to put a stop to it. You, freshly out of training, were sent to help with the sudden influx of displaced non-combatants and wounded agents.

Within the hour of the helicopter landing, you settle in and pull your cold weather scrubs on.

There aren’t many other nurses—only two—and neither of them seem to be very fond of you. The head nurse is older and straight-laced, following procedure, not mingling with you unless she has to. You don’t think you’re ever going to be put on a shift with the other nurse, but they spare you a few ireful glances. It’s like they could smell the fresh blood, and the scent made them turn their noses.

Nonetheless, you weren’t there to socialize, so you rolled up your sleeves and did your job, trying to ignore the passive aggressive looks being thrown at you from left and right. This kind of mutual ignorance worked for about three days, until you were placed on the night shift… every single night.

Before you came along, it was determined that the night shift could be manned by one person, as injured civilians were sent to the safehouses by nightfall and nearly all of the agents were either out on work or taking a much needed rest. There was no reason for both nurses to be awake when one could conserve their energy and rest while the other worked. So, most nights you spent alone, sitting by the fire in the back of the tent as you waited for the sun to come up.

One of those nights crept up on you again. You bounce your foot against the ground until your ankle aches, sitting in a lawn chair next to the fire with a wool blanket draped over your shoulders. Nothing chirps in the distance like the environment you’re used to, the only noises that float through the air are the wind rustling bare-armed bushes and your own breathing. There was a rip in the tent whistling, too, but you’d be damned if you let the incessant noise drive you insane. You were scared of the eerie silence for the first few days, but that quickly became replaced by the complete boredom that followed it.

You blow a raspberry as you spin a pen in your ungloved hand, fingers numb and stretched stiff with cold. I’ve ought to ask someone for a book, you thought to yourself, or a new job. You immediately push the second contemplation out of your head like it was something dirty and sat up a little straighter; your annoyance made sense, but this is what you wanted to do with your life. You want to help people in need.

Not that there were many people around.

In the distance, like divine intervention, you hear the crackle of wheels against snow, and a black mini-van rolls to a stop in front of the tent. A scuffle inside ensues for a moment, then the doors open and a man comes hobbling into the shelter with his arm over another man’s shoulder.

You nearly fall out of your seat with how fast you stand up and stride over to the men, assisting the injured one onto a cot.

“What happened?” you ask, pushing a cart of equipment to his bedside.

The uninjured one remarks from beside you, “Some snow gave way and he went down this hill with some pretty nasty bushes at the bottom.” His voice is quick and clicky. He looks young.

Clearly, they’re two agents, judging by the leather holsters strapped around their waists and shoulders. You purse your lips and place a lantern on the cart, gently inspecting the injured agent. There’s thorns lodged along the entirety of his left side, looking a bit like a child’s crude attempt at art with toothpicks and styrofoam.

He grunts when you gently lift his arm to check underneath, and you mutter an apology before you turn to the other agent. “I can take this from here.”

The agent nods and spins on his heel, disappearing into the darkness once he stepped out into the open air.

You turn your attention towards the man in front of you and pull on a pair of gloves, the latex makes a sharp snapping noise when you let go. His intense gaze follows your movements with great intrigue—or suspicion… you couldn’t really tell. You pick up a pair of tweezers and set them on the cart. You also finally got a good look at the wounded agent.

Blue eyes that strike down what little defenses you have and brows that spend their time permanently creased, almost erasing the space between them while he inspects you. His ability to make you feel thoroughly grilled with a simple fixated stare would have made you squirm years prior, but now you merely stare back with your eyebrows lifted. The blonde—possibly light brown haired, the darkness didn’t give much way in the form of colour—man averts his eyes first, as if he is caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t attractive, but that’s not your focus right now.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, flicking on a flashlight to check his pupils. Healthy, good. He squints at you through the beam.

“Like I fell into a thorn bush.”

Looks like someone feels funny. You deadpan at him, unamused with the sarcasm while you try to help. Your expression beckons a better answer and he backpedals.

The man’s head bobs subtly, like a scale in his mind is weighing his thoughts on either side, and then he says, “I’m just fine.”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Fine.”

“Okay,” you reply, blowing out a not-so-inconspicuous huff of annoyed air that swirls above you in the cold. The agent raises his brow at your reaction but doesn’t seem too keen on speaking on it. “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, but it’s going to be a lot of poking and prodding.”

He lets out another grunt that could have possibly been an Mhm… but you aren’t sure. You hold the tweezers between your fingers and begin to pluck them out, placing them on the metal pan on your cart. Clink, clink, clink. They fall from the tweezers with tiny noises.

To your surprise, he doesn’t writhe or make much noise, only occasional grunts and sighs and Shit’s under his breath when you pull at particularly deep thorns lodged in his arm.

Even for an agent, his arms are an impressive size, which means a lot more surface area to extract from. Not that you really mind, as you would have helped him either way, but surely you would feel differently if you were in his shoes.

However, the silence is… awkward; sitting there with your face inches from his huge arms—he could definitely feel your breath fan across the surface with how his skin dances with warmth and goosebumps and you do not want the attractive agent to focus on that. So, you break it with a question.

“You weren’t wearing a jacket?” A valid query, all things considered.

He blinks at you like it was obvious. “It came off.”

“Oh,” is all you say until you extract the last thorn from his arm and begin to slide the leather shoulder holster off of him. “I just need to take this off.”

He frowns slightly, and you realize his brows had been furrowed this whole time because that was all his face seemed to know how to do. When his expression changes, you stop.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Taking it off so I can look under your sleeve.”

“Why?”

“You could’ve pulled something and I need to bandage you,” you pause. “Is that okay?”

Maybe you wrongly assumed that he had done this a million times. Don’t get you wrong, you know how resilient agents had to be and how good they were at their jobs, so it isn’t like you thought he got hurt often… But with a short glance into his eyes, you could tell he’s a hardened delegate with years of experience under his belt. Wasn’t he bound to need help occasionally?

The man gives you a slight nod and shrugs off the holster; it falls to the bed with a soft thud from the weight of the knife tucked into the leather.

His muscles tense under your fingers when you roll the black sleeve over his shoulder. The feathered, pale edge of a bullet scar peeks out from beneath the dark clothing and it makes you wonder how he managed to get it. A mission? Probably. It looks old. You’ve seen scars of all kinds at that point, and each of them held a story that ended in pierced flesh.

They remind you that they will never not be where they came from—your own scars will never not be where they came from. You shake the thought out like a stubborn rock in your shoe.

“Lucky you, it doesn’t look like you pulled anything in your shoulder,” you comment under your breath.

“If this is luck, I’d like to see what happens when I get unlucky.” For the first time, there’s humor in his tone—so faint you nearly miss it, but it makes you chuckle. When he isn’t huffing out responses, his voice almost sounds kind.

You rotate his shoulder slowly and inspect the length of his side, finding fewer thorns than the amount anchored in his arm. Still, your lips press into a line, pitying the fact that his bare skin will be exposed to the frigid, below-freezing air so you could remove them.

“Well, you should’ve knocked on wood,” you reply, “I’ll need you to take your shirt off so I can get the rest of the thorns out and check your ribs.”

Silently, the man hikes his shirt up and over his ribs for you, snaking his arm out of his sleeve and then laying on his side.

As he comes down, stretching, he groans. You see his muscles tense under his skin when he inhales, the dips and divots of his torso flex involuntarily when the squall of air nips at his newly exposed skin. The surface holds blossoms of red and deep purple that litter themselves across his ribs like splotches of messy watercolor dripped onto paper. Scarlet scratches bleed pebbles that drip onto the fabric of the cot.

You suck in through your teeth as you inspect the area. Even without the damage from the thorns, it doesn’t look good.

“Not good?” the agent questions as if he could read your mind. From over his shoulder, he turna his head to look at you.

“Not good. You bruised your ribs, I’d be surprised if one of them wasn’t broken.”

“I didn’t hear a crack.”

“It should be monitored for a day or two, at the very least.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Look, I understand—“

“I’ll be fine.”

You sigh softly and remove one of your gloves to rub your face in exasperation. Unfortunately, this wasn’t your first rodeo with stubborn patients, so you slide on another glove and begin to pluck at the thorns in his torso. “You won’t be doing much work if you permanently damage them.”

He twists his head away from you again and grunts softly, muttering a short, “Okay.”

How articulate. You guess he doesn’t get paid to talk to people.

“Okay? As in…?”

“As in, fine,” he replies, then pauses for a moment as if to prove a point. “But I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You laugh at this, then stifle it into your elbow so he didn’t think you were laughing at him. He still rolls over a little to look at you, confusion laces his eyes that dart around as they go from your face to the rows of empty cots behind you. Busy? You begin to laugh again.

He can’t be serious, you think as you fan your face. You let your laughter dissipate like it was being dissolved into water. “Sorry… no, you’re right,” you snort, “I was drowning in work before you arrived, agent.”

“I’m sure,” he chirps back, the ghost of a smile haunts his lips.

“I think I can squeeze you in, though. Might have to clear some of my schedule, but… I’ll make it work.”

The pleased look that graces your face is involuntary. You find it endearing how worried he is about becoming too much extra work for you and the other nurses, despite the fact that there isn’t any reason to gather that he would and—believe it or not—it’s your job.

The agent lets out an amused breath through his nose. “Should I be flattered?”

“Oh, of course.”

You place the last of the thorns onto the metal pan and tend to his wounds with gauze and bandages and nimble fingers that have done this hundreds of times before. Sometime along the way his body relaxed—just a little—and you think he fell asleep until he sits up like a puppet that had his strings yanked and puts his shirt on properly.

The sudden movement makes you blink, and he stares at you for a long pause filled with dead air and an expectant look in his eyes. That damn rip in the tent whistles.

Finally, his eyes flicker down to your badge, then back to your face. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I started here not too long ago,” you inform him honestly, a little embarrassed to admit your newbie title to a seasoned employee of the organization.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you take the reins.

“Well, I think we’re set,” you say, rolling the latex gloves off of your hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Agent…”

You never asked him his name?

“Leon Kennedy,” the agent, now with the name Leon Kennedy pinned to his face, finishes for you.

His name twirls around your head and makes you dizzy to think about. I should have known, you think to yourself once he bids you farewell to report to his superiors.

From what little time you spent at the base prior to meeting Leon, you had heard whispers during dinner drift from mouth to ear of the elusive agent. That he was a man of few words (immense understatement, you consider it more socially awkward, but true); that he had half of the base swooning every time he walked by (you don’t want to comment on this); and that he was immensely attractive (that is also true). You have to admit… you see why he had such an air of intrigue around him. To be so quiet after such successes he’s accomplished—people were on the edge of their seats trying to figure him out.

You also had to admit that you weren’t immune to it either.

During your meals and breaks you found yourself playing Where’s Waldo? with Leon, attempting to catch glimpses of him in his natural state to confirm or deny these claims. Which was impressively difficult for absolutely no reason other than that he did it for his own benefit… the motive for this was lost, and still is, on you.

The few times you did spot him, he had the same clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows. He never stayed in the same place for very long and frequently you only spotted him—or rather, his broad shoulders and white-knuckled fists as they turned corners and disappeared to do whatever he did all day. Important agent things.

Regarding your coworkers… it hadn’t improved much, either. The head nurse, who you later learned was named Winona, loosened up on you a bit—which was practically nothing when both she and the other nurse had been so cold to begin with. However, your determination to help those around you seemed to impress her… most days.

(Peeks of Leon’s ashy blonde hair stolen from cracks in the tent. His fur-lined coat hangs off of his sizable frame, enveloping his arms in the thick fabric—it makes them look even bigger. Not that you care, per say, but—

“You aren’t getting paid to stalk agents,” Winona jeers, jolting you back to Earth from your subject of stolen attention. You swear she smiles at you wryly. “Should’ve tried for one of their jobs if you wanted to do that.”

She turns on her heel and goes over to a trio of injured civilians with her cart, the knot of hair tied taut at the base of her neck stares you in the face. You’re left hot faced and embarrassed for the entirety of the next check-up with your patient.)

The endless night shifts never seem to cease rolling in and you’re afraid it’s begun to catch up on you. By the end of breakfast, when you could finally drag your corpse-like body to your quarters and into your bed, your head drooped comically into your bowl of oatmeal and some of the newer agents had a blast laughing at you. Whatever, assholes.

(You were deeply embarrassed.)

So, you opted for allowing a short nap in here and there during your shift—ten minutes at most—whenever your eyelids began to feel itchy and weighted and you couldn’t help but close them. You really couldn’t. Being sat by the fire with a hot drink made you so warm and the sounds of blowing wind lulled you to sleep in the darkness under the moon.

Truly, a terrible work performance from you, but no one was around to see and surely you’d be awoken by even a hint of an emergency.

Tonight, you count sheep with your wool blanket tucked up to your chin and your head lolls against your shoulder like it’s about to fall off its hinges. One, two, three. They mock you as they hop into their pasture and curl up into white, fluffy spheres, falling asleep within the warmth of their home.

From a distance, your ears almost register the sound of footsteps that approach the tent, crushing the crunchy top layer of snow under their feet as they stop in the entrance. It isn’t enough to completely wake you until they clear their throat and say, “Hello?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head so fast you think it might go flying across the room. Really smooth of you, considering Leon is the one to get your attention. By the smug look on his face and slight chuckle that wracks his frame, you know he isn’t fooled with your act awake performance.

He stands there, towering and rigid, unlike the night you first met him, with his palm outstretched flat like he’s trying to show the world something.

“Oh, hey, what do you need?” you reply quickly, standing from your chair as you let your blanket fall off of you.

Leon glances at his hand and then at you. “I, uh, got a papercut.”

“A paper cut,” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.

“Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, mouth agape as his words register as something he was actually saying to you.

“Well, get comfortable, then. I’ll patch you up.”

In reality, you’re terribly confused about a special forces agent needing first aid for a paper cut, but how could you complain? He needs help and you’re there to offer it.

The blonde sits on a cot near the fire—not before picking up your blanket from the ground and placing it back on the chair, though—and you situate yourself on a stool facing him.

You take Leon’s hand in yours gently and inspect the wound. It’s fairly shallow, but placed in the center of the webbed skin between his index finger and thumb. Tough spot. When your digits graze his rough knuckles he inhales sharply and you glance at him due to the sudden motion.

He doesn’t expect a reaction from you because he pauses for a second then asks, “You think I’ll live?”

“I dunno,” you answer, sucking your teeth. “Could be a close call.”

“Yeesh.”

“I know. My condolences.”

“For myself?”

“Uh-huh.” You turn his hand over so his palm faced the sky. “This’ll sting.”

When you disinfect the injury, Leon’s face twitches into itself but he keeps quiet, opting to focus his gaze on your face while you patch him up. You try not to shift under the intensity.

“What made you want to do this?” he queries, his voice cuts through the silence and startles you a bit. Leon looks pleased with himself and you roll your eyes.

“You’ll laugh.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s corny.”

Admittedly, it was—the original story as to why you wanted to be a nurse. You’ve had people laugh at it before and you mostly don’t want to repeat history with someone you find rather charming, but something in Leon’s face softens and he shakes his head briefly.

“Try me,” he challenges.

“Oh, fine.” Like there was a fight put up when you relent, smoothing a bandaid over his cut. “You know those things you’d fill out as a kid? Where it’s like, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leon nods.

“Every single time, I would write superhero,” you laugh sourly because you got used to other people laughing when you said this, but he listens as if you’re the only sound he’s ever heard. “I’d draw myself with a little cape and all that. Then at a certain age the teachers start telling you, pick a real job, pick something that exists. And, I dunno, I thought: there are real superheroes. They save people every day because they want to.”

“I mean, I always knew I didn’t have all the right assets to be the one rescuing people from burning buildings and punching the bad guys. I wanted to help people when they couldn’t help themselves, you know? I can't carry the weight of the situation—it’s just not in my nature—but I can carry them. That’s why I started doing this, I guess.”

The look he gives you when you finish speaking is indescribable. He gazes deeply into your face like he’s trying to find a new feature he missed the first time. Something akin to pulling apart your mind with his eyes as if it’s clay made for the shaping and a load of a melancholy that’s too heavy for him; like he’s asking you, how do I carry it? Tell me how to carry something like that.

Your hand still lingers in his, over the bandaid you placed on him; you slide yours so the curves of your thumbs interlock and you grip the hilt of his palm. A hidden embrace.

Leon’s eyes dart toward your hands and he makes no effort to remove you from his grasp, his fingers relax against your wrist. He feels your heartbeat. You feel his. When he looks up again, all he sees are your eyes.

You don’t know why you went on that anecdote in the first place, not really. Only that you were finished patching him up and wanted—needed—him to linger for a bit longer.

“What about you?” you ask, voice hushed close to nothing.

“I wanted to help people, too.” He sounds uncharacteristic—sheepish? “That’s it… I can’t follow up with something as articulate as you.”

“It matters just as much even if you can’t express it,” you assure him, your head tilts.

Leon clears his throat and nods, slipping his hand from yours and looking anywhere that isn’t you. You created a shadow in front of his face, back facing the fire, but you can see the subtle dark tinge of his cheeks when he avoids your eyes. He chooses to look at his feet. There he goes, being endearing again, you think.

The harsh edges of his face are lit up with an orange glow, darkness shoots somewhere in between in a soft gradient, and he looks positively ethereal. If you reached out and cupped his face, you know it would be warm to the touch like laundry right out of the dryer. It makes him look all the more delicate and this feels more natural than the pointed looks and pinched expressions he usually wears.

You look back down at his hands. You’re trying to memorize the way they felt against yours (coarse and hot to the touch) and you get the picture of how hopeless you are—even an idiot could see you have a crush on him.

That doesn’t stop you from protecting your pride and you keep it to yourself. You stand up to put the disinfectant supplies and box of bandaids away without a word.

Leon stares at his hand like it’s missing a piece.

You have your head buried too deep into the cabinet to think much about that. Screaming at yourself was an understatement for what you’re doing in your head… a better description would be begging the floor to swallow you entirely with one gulp.

Surely, Leon has someone at home. He’s an attractive, intelligent man with an arguably stable job that pays him oodles more than he would ever need; not to mention how well-built he is, but again, for what seems like the millionth time you push this thought to the back of your mind. You could not focus on that.

“Are you okay?” his voice carries from the cot.

You take a moment’s breather and shut the cabinet door. “I’m good. How are your ribs?”

“They’re good.” Leon pauses, then adds. “Thanks.”

The shake of your head comes faster than your words; muscle memory. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“You do a good job.”

“I’m just a medic.”

“A good one.”

As you utter your gratitude for his comment, you hope he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your face from so far away. You weren’t one to get shy from such simple words, but you find your eyes glued to your boots because of his gentle bonniness. Damn you, you curse at him in your head—it held no weight.

The blonde stands from the cot and walks over to you. He bends slightly to catch your eyes in his. “I have to go now, but... yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course, Agent Kennedy.”

“Don’t start using formalities now,” he half-laughs, half-breathes. His face contorts when he stretches back, and his hand came up to massage his right shoulder—you even go to comment on this movement, being a medic and all, but he beats you to it with a smirk. “Stick with Leon.”

And then, in a few strides, he’s gone as fast as he came.

Your entire body deflates when you let out a guttural sigh. How come every time you watched his back, you were left reeling?

Unfortunately for you, that blasted man had ingrained himself into your head, sitting pretty in your thoughts as snug as a bug in a rug while you tried to do your job, or attempted to focus on anything other than your feelings for him. On the contrary, he returned to clearing out Umbrella facilities for the time being, which meant he was out of the base for days, or even weeks, considering he was one of, if not, the best agent they had. This saved you from the embarrassment of being caught trying to catch glances of him from inside the tent or during meals.

This, however, did not stop you from daydreaming when work got slow.

You wondered how someone like Leon behaved domestically, if he was completely different outside of the AUPIT, or if he was still just the sweet, reserved man who needed your aid often. Did he have any pets? What music did he listen to? You guess you’d have to ask him later, but you imagined that the pieces would fall into place and suit him. They’d be so perfectly Leon that when he told you, you would think to yourself, huh, why didn’t I think of that?

The amount of daydreaming you did was not lost on Winona, and occasionally she snapped her fingers in front of your face and grumbled under her breath, “I’ll kill that boy.” With no real threat to her tone.

Please, you can’t help it. He has arms with the muscle definition of a god and he told you-you were a good medic; you were a goner before you even realized it.

On the other hand, your family never let up with their pleas for you to return home, despite the fact that it simply wasn’t possible unless you had a very good reason for it. Which you didn’t, and you didn’t want to—people just didn’t get it through their heads that, yes, your job was difficult, and yes, patients got on your nerves sometimes, but no, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. This meant more to you than anything else you could fathom. You knew the fear these people felt first-hand, and you knew they needed a saving grace; just like you had.

(“Just come home,” your mother coos into the phone, her voice static-y and chopped from the poor signal. You could imagine her face right now, all worried and exhausted like you’re a child balancing on a wet playground. “There’s a hospital not too far from here… I’m sure they’d take you.

You promptly spend the next hour explaining to her that it isn’t that simple, even if you wanted to, and you remind her every few minutes that you aren’t going to leave, either. You’re happy, all things considered; which is why you make the executive decision to leave out all of the bad parts of your work so far.)

As for the efforts against Umbrella, you hear whispers of successes during dinners and fewer agents appeared at the medical tent’s door in need of assistance than when you arrived. So, you think things are going rather well for your organization. Less tired eyes and solemn faces; the fight wasn’t over, but everyone could rest a little easier with every night that passed.

And yet, those damned night shifts. You swear Winona and that other medic were scheming against you for no reason other than pure spite, on the basis of simply because they didn’t feel like doing it. It has to be funny to them by now, seeing you half-asleep at breakfast and looking all mussed at dinner because you woke up ten minutes prior. You let them laugh all they wanted because frankly, you began to enjoy the night shifts. The world went to sleep, and you enjoyed some peace and quiet.

You kick your feet up onto a stool and drape a blanket over your legs, book in hand. The soft sounds of Icelandic pop music crackles out of the radio and floats throughout the tent. You mouth the noises of the songs, unsure of the lyrics, but you’ve heard it so often by now, you could recognize the tune from the first few beats. You scat a few of the instruments, tapping your foot along. You don't notice the figure that stopped in the doorframe.

“Enjoying yourself?” Leon. You shut your book and turn to look at him, embarrassed. “I always feel like I’m coming at a bad time.”

“Never,” you reply with a haste that humbles you further. Worried about his sudden appearance in the medical tent after being gone on agent duties for nearly two weeks, you ask, “Are you okay?”

The corners of his mouth upturn and you barely see a flash of uneven teeth between the slit it creates, cute. This distracts you from how smug his face is. “I think I have a fever.”

“A fever this time?”

“Yep.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Leon.”

A paper cut, then a fever. You begin to think of his inability to soothe his minor maladies as an excuse to visit the tent. Your stomach flutters at the thought, but you have to make sure… just in case he’d fallen ill out there in the cold.

You find the thermometer and placed it in his mouth gingerly. It hangs crooked from the corner and he watches you with a certain keenness that makes you smile. After a few minutes, you check his temperature: 98.7. An amused hum escapes your lips without meaning to.

“Dying?”

“I don’t think you have a fever,” you answer, using the back of your hand to press against his forehead and cheeks. The first cheek is cold, then the left cheek warms under your skin—Leon’s expression falls bashful. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were looking for reasons to come see me.”

It’s his turn to hum in thought. “Maybe.”

“You could just come talk to me.”

“You’re on the clock,” the blonde reminds you, grunting. In a swift movement, his hand presses into the curve of his neck and he rotates his right shoulder, face straining.

You see an opening. “That I am. What was that?”

“What?”

“Your shoulder.”

“I was stretching.”

“Does it hurt?”

Leon grumbles a response under his breath, unimpressed that you might have found something you could actually treat him for. You raise your brows. “I’ll take that as a yes. Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Agent Kennedy.”

He pretends not to hear you.

“Leon.”

“Fine,” he gripes like a child being forced to get a shot and maneuvers to lay his stomach flat on the cot, his back faces toward the ceiling. He takes off his brown, fur-lined jacket and discards it onto the next cot over. You get a whiff of musk and cinnamon from the breeze it makes.

The shirt that clings to him left nothing to the imagination—a tight, black compression shirt stretches snugly over his muscles. You spread your fingers like fans to warm them up, then begin to run them over his shoulder and along the meat of his back.

You tsk, full of knots. This man needs a masseuse. You make a mental note to refer him to a good one you knew.

With the issue at hand, though, you find an impressive knot in his shoulder, which is likely the cause of his discomfort.

You huff, your work cut out for you. “There’s a big knot in your shoulder, Leon. How are you living like this?”

“I wake up and roll out of bed.”

“I need to get this out.”

Leon turns his head, his cheek presses to the cot. He gives you a look that says nothing short of, are you serious? You smile as sweetly as you can at him, an attempt to coax him. To your surprise, he averts his gaze fast and relents. The blonde agent sits up and shrugs his shirt off. It’s tossed next to his jacket.

Under the fire light and the dim glow of lanterns that hang in a line down the center of the tent, strings attached to the ceiling, you see the way chills prickle over the surface of his skin. Goosebumps, like rolled carpets being kicked open, unfurl down his arms rapidly and he lays down on his stomach once again.

Your face burns in the dark—you’d be surprised if you aren’t glowing like one of those lanterns from the amount of heat it exudes.

You use a dollop of skin cream to keep the area relaxed and pliable as you work out the knot with your fingers. You push it in the right direction until you got it in a better spot, then you knead it firmly. It crackles within his body.

“Fuck…” he groans in relief, nestling his head into the fabric of the cot as he sighs. “They teach you massages in nursing school?”

“That might be just a learned from life thing,” you state in total honesty. You wipe the excess lotion from your hands on a rag.

Curiously, he peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You have someone back home you do that to?”

A laugh falls from your lips, though your face feels even hotter than before (if that is even possible). “No—not at all.”

Leon lets out a pleasant hum and sit up from the cot. Good, he says without saying it.

He snatches his shirt and tugs it over his head; you pretend to make yourself busy so you have somewhere other to look than at him. You hear him sigh with great reprieve as he rolls his shoulder back and forth, it must’ve felt like a freshly oiled hinge.

He comes up behind you, his shoulder skims the back of your neck when he peers down at what you were doing on the counter. Which is a whole lot of nothing; moving cotton swabs from one container to the other, counting how many rolls of gauze you had left for the hundredth time. Mindless hand ministrations to distract you from the heart that pounds in your chest.

“Is this what you do all night?” he questions, mildly amused.

“Sometimes.”

“Must be glad I showed up.”

“Something like that,” you tease, glancing up at him with a coy smile.

You watch his withstraint break a little inside of him. He inhales sharply, losing the words you said somewhere between your eyes and your lips—he couldn’t focus with your faces so close to each other and neither could you. Leon reaches for the hand that rested on the other side of you and drags you in between him and the counter, twirling you to face him. Then he pauses and appears lost, like he doesn’t know which way is left and right.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to do, you think. You don’t really know either, so you go on about what you do know.

“You should probably use kinesiology tape on your shoulder,” you comment, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of all of your limbs. His eyes don’t leave your lips. You’d be a liar if you say yours left his.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The man’s body heat radiates off of him and it’s magnetic, pulling you closer, away from the bitter cold. Your breath hitches. His hand hovers over the curve of your neck, then it decides to rest on the side of your jaw, thumb pressed against your flushed cheek. You remember the texture of his warm palm, coarse and calloused from years of wear.

You try to memorize every fine line and crease that scuffs your face as he beckons you to close the gap with the slight tilt of his head. I’d make a terrible agent, my resilience is slim to none, you theorize when your body moves before your mind does. His mouth hovers over yours, his breath traces your cupid’s bow. You close the distance enough that your lips graze each other until someone clears their throat from a few feet away.

Winona stands like a judgmental statue, thin brows raise expectantly. You, and Leon, jump away from each other. It rocks the counter with a loud clatter that echoes.

“Agent Kennedy,” she acknowledges him first as a sign of respect. He nods back awkwardly. “You two look like you’re enjoying yourselves.”

Neither of you talk for a moment and you find yourself desperate to create any word that could explain what that was. Leon’s eyes dart around the room.

Finally, something solid comes to your tongue. “I’m sorry.”

And then she laughs in both of your faces. Her hand waves like it’s fanning your words away from getting inhaled. You and Leon glance at each other, brows knit in honest confusion.

“Kids,” she exhales. “Stop distracting my medic, Kennedy.”

Then he speaks, but it sounds more like a nervous cough. “Yes, ma’am.”

Winona shoos him with a gesture of her wrinkled hand and he musters a sheepish, apologetic smile for you as he hurries away from the tent. You don’t make much of an effort to move as you prepare your ego for the chew out it’s about to receive.

“And you. Try to keep the fraternization out of the tent.” With that, she continues past you to search through some files, snickering to herself and shaking her head.

You aren’t about to push your luck. You get to keep your job and ego intact, and that’s enough for you. So, you whisper a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.” And go on with your day.

The encounter with Leon left you feverish and all tingly in every limb whenever it crossed your mind over the following days. You saw him out and about around the base, and during meals he offered you frail waves that faded in a breath.

Truth was, you’re too afraid of rejection to ask him about that night—go figure. Maybe you’re a cliche. Maybe you’re both cliches. Who cares? Well, you do, and you thought the ruffled, pink-tinted expressions on Leon’s face whenever you crossed paths meant that he did, too, but neither of you made a move to approach the other. You questioned if you would rather be told that his only plans for you was a short work fling with no strings attached, or if he felt the connection that you did. A terrible predicament, really, and soon your desire for a straight answer outweighed the fear of hearing something you didn’t like.

When you went to find him in the meal tent, sitting alone in one of the back corners, he wasn’t there. Okay. You waited, then decided to check the nooks and crannies of the base where you knew he hung around, and nothing. Leon vanished into thin air the moment you gathered enough courage to speak to him. Somehow you thought he read your mind and planned for this to happen, just to be able to tease you without being present. But that was simply ridiculous. He had to go to work, just like you had to do yours.

A week went by, then two; no sign of Leon’s reappearance cropped up and you began to worry you wouldn’t get the chance to speak to him at all. The only reminder that soothed you was the fact that you knew the organization was on the home stretch for completely wiping Umbrella’s power in Iceland. This reassured you for many reasons. Mainly, that you’d be able to sleep in your bed again at a proper time that didn’t leave you exhausted; but you also found comfort in the idea of finally getting a word with the blonde agent that clung to your brain like a disease once everything was over.

Of course, you had fleeting thoughts that he died and you’d forever be left wondering about what could have been. But, that was just ridiculous—he’s Leon Kennedy, the agent that saved the president’s daughter from certain death. So, you chalked it up to your anxiety being built up as doubt about the succession of the mission began to be put to an end. That yes, you would all return home soon, and no nothing terrible and tragic would happen just as you were about to win.

Eventually, you all received the verdict of the mission. Success. The sun shone through the clouds brighter that day, in ribbons of gold that elevated all of your senses to something dreamlike. Another catastrophe prevented. More people saved—clockwork. To say you were pleased with the conclusion of your first ever out of country operation would be an understatement; you were ecstatic.

Still, you find yourself fretting over that thing with Leon as you help pack up the equipment in the medical tent.

Winona, who has grown increasingly engrossed in your love life, gives you a knowing look when your lips tug downward and you send a pointed glance toward the entrance of the tent for the tenth time in the last hour. She tsks and shakes her head. It gains your attention.

“Just talk to him,” she insists, shoving a couple boxes of bandaids into the case. She’s unimpressed with your antics and just wants you to get a move on.

You sigh and preen your hair like he’ll walk in at any moment. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Hopeless,” she grumbles in response. “Hopeless. If you won’t do something about it, stop looking at the door like a kicked dog and help me.” Winona retreats further into the tent and you succumb enough to follow her.

You must glower the whole time because she won’t stop sending you dirty looks while she tapes the cardboard boxes with a tape gun. Her movements are threatening. You try to fix your expression when the line of spokes reflects off of the bright horizon outside the tent as it slices the tape.

After the innards of the tent are packed into a dozen or so boxes, you’re the person left to pick them up one by one and drop them off with the rest of the cargo that needs to be shipped. Your back is sore from the sorry excuses of beds you have and your arms ache from hours of cramming things. Kicking snow with each shuffled step, you heave out a lengthy sigh and pause to breathe. There’s a reason I’m not an agent.

“Need a hand?” Leon asks from behind you. You’re wondering how he’s always sneaking up on you.

Still, you nod and can’t help but be relieved. “Please.”

Like it’s filled with air, he takes the box from your hands and cocks a barely-there grin at your awed expression. Smug and content, he marches ahead with you in tow. You don’t really know what to say to him, if anything at all.

You walk alongside him for the first time in the daylight, and you take in his features now that they aren’t muddled in the darkened firelight or blurred by distance. He’s chiseled, sunken cheeks and high cheekbones with that intense look on in his eyes—but there’s something else—boyish, is what you think. Soft jaw. Moles and freckles litter themselves across his face.

Leon is beautiful and you would like to kiss him right now.

He stops at the drop off point, places the box next to the others and turns to you. Suddenly, he looks nervous and you feel some resolve escape your mind. He’s about to ask you something. He opens his mouth, rosy lips parting and you break—you pull him behind a tall stack of boxes and kiss him.

The collar of his jacket is clutched between your fingers in a moment and your lips are on his; the fur tickles your skin. His lips are chapped and cold but you create warmth within him, you could be a summer’s day in this frigid air. His hands come to your waist, then your hips and his fingertips make indents when he holds you tight like this was always supposed to happen. When you part, you’re both breathless.

He searches for his words again, the question he was going to ask. “Would you—dinner? On me.”

You hum in faux thought and peck him on the lips again, then again, and a third time for good measure. He smiles into the last one.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t start that by saying you stubbed your toe and needed my help.”

Leon chuckles. “I thought about it.”

He pulls you in again, tongue grazing your bottom lip. You lean in further, desperate for connection until you both go slipping like baby deer. The thin layer of snow on the ground left everything icy. He tumbles into some supplies and you land on top of him. You’re both laughing into each other’s mouths. You’re both happy.

You chime together, like clockwork.

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bambiimutt · 11 months

Note

Hello, I loved your writing, and I wanted to request some relationship headcons with Masky

Relationship Head cannons

I wanted to do this for everyone I write for cuz I want them to get some attention too!! I hope that’s okay!

TW!! Mentions of stalking, talking of perverts but not super heavy, possessiveness, if I missed anyway let me know!!

Masky/Tim Wright

-Honestly at first he’s a bit awkward, i see him as socially awkward in general so him being in a relationship? Oh my fuck. And it’s not the Awh such a cutie patootie he’s so awkward. No like he’s so awkward he doesn’t know what to do with you. He’s so awkward he goes silent. Awkward babe.

-once the relationship grows into something deeper he’s better. He definitely still has his moments, but it’s now more how he landed you. How he was able to find someone that cares for him and puts up with him. He’s not much honestly just his random outbursts and waking up with no memory of his nights before.

-speaking of. A lot of trauma lays on his shoulders. After jays death who you don’t know much about and everything leading up to the events of marble hornets. All you knew was that he was supposed to be in this student film.. but shit happened. And he refuses to talk about it. You’ll ask him sometimes if you can watch the tapes but he tells you time and time again. No. More because he knows what he is and he doesn’t what you running from him. He’s with you yea but he doesn’t want to expose you to the operator.

-as mentioned in a few of my other posts. He’ll leave for weeks on end and if it’s not for weeks its almost every night. He’s leaving and coming back at ungodly hours. Most of the time you’re asleep and he waits till your asleep to do this. There’s been a few times his mask is left out because he comes home so drained that he kinda forgets to hide it.. and when you question it sometimes he does remember, and most times he doesn’t. But when you ask he’s stammering. He knows why he has it but doesn’t know how to tell you, doesn’t want to.

-he’s not the date night kind of guy but he doesn’t mind spending some time with you from time to time. He doesn’t want you to think he’s ignoring you or just not care for you because he leaves for weeks.. he wants you to know he loves having you around. It’s just. He can’t tell you about his life fully. When it comes to a date night it’s probably lots of time at home, watching a movie on his couch, cuddled up against him. If you fall asleep he’ll make sure you have all of the blanket. He can fully not be as tense, relaxing into you as you sleep against him.

-very very very sarcastic, it earns him smacks to the arm like 10 times a day.

-he’s alright with public affection but again he’s awkward.. sooo maybe don’t be so affectionate in public. But at home, he’s all over you, sleepy man, cuddled up to you, following you around the house. He seems so big and tough but he hates being away from you.

-Tim’s not crazily over protective. Maybe insecure at times but deep down he knows that you are with him because you truly love him. So if anyone ever approaches you he trusts that you can handle it yourself, if not he will 100% help you.. by torturing the guy the same night, and he’ll come back having that be his only memory.

Tobias Rogers

-ARF ARF ARF BITCH IS A FUCKING DOG. I’m telling you that mother fucker IS ALL OVER YOU. Now I’m not saying he isn’t one scary mother fucker. But he tries to keep his shitty ass fucking life out of his love life. Because really.. this isn’t what he wanted ever. He didn’t want to be part of this operator shit. So he tries to be normal? As normal as Toby can get.

-you actually help him a lot with his tics. If he can focus on something for long enough they don’t get as bad as they can get, they actually become more tame, so if he ever has a really bad tic attack, you’re always the one to talk him through it, to calm him down and to focus on your voice. And he’s better in no time.

-TALK ABOUT BEING A PRETTY MOTHER FUCKER.. YOU NEVER GET OVER HOW PRETTY THIS BITCH IS. messy brown hair, brown tired eyes, nicely shaped face, pretty fucking smile. He never used to have one but he ended up growing a semi beard. More of a patch on his chin. And what does he love the most? Hearing you tell him how pretty he is. Running your hands through his hair, kissing his face all over. God he could eat you right up.

-he’s a closeted pervert. But like not to the point where it’s unbearable but like he’s all over you. He’s grabbing your thighs.. he’s leaving hickeys all over. He’s a boob/chest guy. He just wants you close. So close you could fuse into one. He likes you in panties.. he also likes taking them whenever he has to be on a mission for weeks.. and we all know what he’s using them for.

-socially awkward mf. When you’re both out in public he’s so quiet. And he can’t do it alone anymore, not since he’s met you. If you’re ever on the bus, he’s as close as possible, hands fidgeting with your fingers, and staring down at them so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with others. Though there’s been a few times he’s had to interact with the people who complain about how much space he takes. He’s tall and lanky but the man manspreads like there’s no tomorrow. You have to grab his leg and pull it in because he’s just glaring.

-he kinda forgets that you can feel pain. Because he grew up not feeling pain he’s learned to be gentle with the things he cares about. But if you ever want to play fight he can sometimes forget, and get a little rough. So when you get hurt he’s pulling away instantly. “Fuck.. i.. I didn’t t-think that would h-hurt. Baby let me see it..” he’s babying you the rest of the night.

-now even though he’s a pretty good boyfriend he can be a bit much.. at times. He doesn’t mean to trust me. But he can get agitated quite easily. Certain tones can make him start to overthink, he can grow angered, upset. Just try to be reassuring and he should be okay.

-Toby is one of the overprotective ones. He will do anything and everything to go make sure whoever was all over you is not longer waking the fuck up. He might even steal you a little gift to make you feel better.

Ben Lawman/Drowned

-you might wanna buy some shit to keep the house from smelling like weed. And I mean it. He tries not to go crazy because he knows you don’t want the apartment smelling like it, but he can’t help himself sometimes.

-I’m not gonna lie to you, he most definitely watches you through cameras and your computer and shit. He’ll send pop up messages to you just to freak you out, etc. he thinks it’s so silly seeing you get so spooked out.

-he’s typically at home often. He doesn’t really go anywhere, aside from chilling in the fucking computer. So you get to have him around a lot.

-except it can get so fucking annoying. All in all he’s a really calm person, and keeps to himself but when you come along.. he’s all over you. Like suffocating. He wants you on his lap, he wants you sitting between his legs, cuddled up underneath his shirt, please just BE CLOSE. He’s much like Toby in that aspect. He just likes the physical love. Anything physical. I think it kinda brings him comfort too to be honest.. finally feeling the touch of someone. Something.

-like Toby he’s a fucking pervert. But like it’s hella known. He doesn’t keep that a secret. He’s a dirty motherfucker. Like I’m talking footjobs, cosplay.. but like that gamer girl, slutty look.. you name it he likes it.

-he likes to game so a lot of your time is probably spent watching him or playing with him. If you play with him though, be warned he’s a sore loser. He doesn’t rage but more or so finds excuses to show he should have won. But all in all, he’s just fooling around.. he enjoys that you can play with him, he likes that you like what he likes.

-immature. Not all the time but most definitely immature at times. To be fair when he died, he was still fairly young so sometimes his humour can be a bit.. questionable. Even if you aren’t laughing, he’s slapping his knee and pissing himself laughing, looking at you so that he can see your reaction. Just smile.

-he’s not overprotective. Like Tim he’s just really fucking insecure and I mean really. Really insecure. He sees other couples. How normal they are. How alive they are. And he can’t be that. He feels bad that he can never keep you warm because he’s an actual freezer. He feels like compared to others.. you could do so much better. So when someone hits on you.. he’s sulking. He’s walking further away from you. He’s just insecure. And scared to lose you. But these boys are also.. murderers. So knowing Ben.. well. That person shouldn’t have done that.

Jeffery Hodex/Jeff The Killer

-Asshole. Asshole. Asshole. Dickhead. Did I mention he’s a fucking asshole. He may seem like he doesn’t care about you. But I promise you he does. He just has weird ways of showing it..

-an actual fucking bully. I’m sure he’s made you cry time and time again, but you don’t do it in front of him, you don’t want him to think it hurts. Oh but if he knew.. if he knew how much it hurt you he’d beat himself up over it.

-he may seem like a fucking hard ass but he hates when you cry..he’s never one to show his emotions but it’s when those tears fall that he could break right there.

-hates public affection.. but at home? Different story. “Play with my hair.” “Jeff no, I’m busy.” “Please.. pretty please” there’s a moment of silence before you’re rolling your eyes and his head is on your lap.

-talk about sec when he’s angry. It’s a good way for him to get out his pent up anger, or if something happened he just needs you. So really what I’m trying to say is underneath all that hard exterior.. he does need you in many ways. Wether he likes to admit that or not.

-even though he’s an asshole.. he makes up for it with his rare sweet moments. To me. Jeff is.. not like others? I just mean, look wise he was always the odd one out not that he was ugly but like because he didn’t look like every other normal kid there. So having a metal head boyfriend..? With some kinda cool scaring by his lips in the form of a slight smile. Pale skin long black hair, tall and fit…. You know he’s playing the guitar to you. Yknow the room is gonna be filled with a bunch of black shit, band stuff, his weird collection of knives. On the note of he makes up for it with his sweet moments. Sometimes he’ll go through his collections with you. He will play the guitar for you, he’s also quite a good singer so expect some of that. (He most definitely sings you to sleep.. but he makes sure you’re half asleep first so you don’t remember it.)

-he’s not as horrible as he seems, he just.. doesn’t like showing his true emotions. He likes to look like the big bad tough guy. But really.. that scared little kid that hates the world is still in there. So what he needs is comfort. And you provide that. Just give him some time.

-overprotective. And if that was an understatement it would be far more then that. He is wayyyy too overprotective, possessive. You’re his. And his only. Nobody should speak to you in any form of flirting, nobody should look at you, touch you. You. Are. His. Now he keeps the killing out of your knowledge… as much as possible. Sometimes almost getting caught by you.. anyway. The person that looked at your ass and you didn’t even know? Yeah dead by 11 pm. You most definitely find out.

-type of motherfucker to have pictures of you on his phone with his hands around your throat, sitting on his lap, etc. post it. He wants you to. He’ll send them to you just to do it. He likes to show off what’s his.

-when I mentioned he was an asshole. I meant it. Because he doesn’t know how to handle his own emotions he can’t handle yours either. He internally freaks out. So what does he do? Does what he does best. Shuts you out and gets angry at you for showing your emotions

-please don’t be too upset.. he’ll be wandering in some point that night to hold you. He just doesn’t know how to tell what he’s going through.. so just hold him. It’s his way of being vulnerable with you.

Brian/Hoodie

-to be honest. He may be One of the more normal ones. Though when he leaves for weeks on end and comes back for a good while he’s just not himself. He’s quiet. He wants to be alone. He hates being touched, he snaps so much easier. But other then that. Brian tries to completely forget about everything he does and focuses on you.

-a lot of the time, he likes to spend quality time with you. Walking in the local park, doing art, helping him edit his “silly” little videos as you call them. Oh how oblivious you are. He’s a sweetheart, kind, caring. He’s gentle. He knows your likes and dislikes like the back of his hand. He knows what makes you tic, what makes you sulk, what makes you smile. You can thank him stalking you for that.

-yeah remember what I said about him being the most normal, he may have a few quirks. He stalks you from time to time. Not that he doesn’t trust you.. he just. Can’t take his eyes off of you. Ever. Because he doesn’t know what the operator could do.. and well. He just wants to see you, but more to keep you safe.

-he can’t sit still unless he knows where you are at, if you’re okay. And once he knows he can be at peace. So you can only imagine how fucking hard it is for him to be gone for weeks. He ignores all text messages he gets aside from yours. He’s constantly talking to you, making sure you’re okay. he just needs some reassurance and he’ll be okay.

-his camera is full of videos of you. He likes to take these home styles videos of you. Cooking in the kitchen in you’re underwear and his hoodie, you dancing in the living room, sleeping. He likes to look back at them from time to time.

-he makes sure to keep his pills and if you take any medication, organized and separated. He’d freak the fuck out if you accidentally took some of his. That and he needs a specific dosage.. one a doctor didn’t prescribe for him. Ahem. More his dosage of what he pleases. Don’t worry he claims he’s okay time and time again.

-he’s not like Tim with his memory loss, but he can forget things from Time to time. So if you can, if you were there just try and sit with him to help him remember. All he needs is to know that you’ll be patient.

-he likes kisses. Give them to him. Immediately. He wants them all over. His lips, cheeks, forehead. He’s such a sweet man.

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b14augrana · 2 months

Text

The End Of The World

Alexia isn’t well post-breakup

Alexia Putellas x reader

masterlist

Warnings: angst, mutual breakup, yearning and heartbroken alexia, no happy ending

A/N: listen to the song for max effect! ‘right where you left me’ is another good one that fits this story. this is only a short fic, but i hope you enjoy :)

You and Alexia breaking up was for the best. She knows that.

Her career is demanding, and you just weren’t willing to pursue that lifestyle yet; it was glamorous, being the girlfriend of a professional footballer, but it also meant there were rarely any opportunities to spend quality time with her and that wasn’t the relationship you wanted. She understands that.

So why does it hurt worse than ending on bad terms? Actually, that’s a stupid question. Alexia knows why it hurts. If she had a reason to hate you, it would be easier to move on, but she cannot think of a single thing worth hating you for.

That’s what she hates the most — the lack of cruelty, toxicity, infidelity behind the breakup. There isn’t a single proper reason for her to stop yearning for you.

The first week after the breakup, she finds herself seeking out any signs of you wherever she could. It hurts, and she doesn’t have an excuse or a reason. She swore that your perfume lingered in the air, following her, taunting her. Whenever someone walks past, she notices; everyone smells like oranges, earth, and incense. Everyone smells like you.

On every street, there is something of yours. A mural you posed in front of for a photo, a flower bush you once pointed out on a walk because the budding flora stood out to you, a restaurant you introduced Alexia to without knowing it would quickly become her favourite. She sees apparitions of you in places that you would’ve been in right now, if you were still here. Still with her. Still part of her life.

Everything seems pointless and from the moment you declare the love story of her life to be over, Alexia thinks that everything should cease to exist. Why does the sun shine through the gaps in her curtains, when you aren’t laying beside her in the mornings to compliment it? Why does her heart continue to beat, when it cannot be listened to on sleepless nights, with your head on her chest?

Nobody works up the courage to ask her what’s wrong when she walks into the gym with dull under eyes and little to no energy in her movements. Alexia’s signature enthusiasm to be in the gym and improving herself is gone, and her teammates only look on with inconclusive questions as to why their captain is so… different. She watches them go on with their lives like nothing ever happened, and she’s so offended and bitter. They’re completely unaware that the end is here, at least for Alexia. The world has been at its inevitable end for longer than they know — the world ended when you stopped loving her.

Alexia isn’t one for letters, so it’s incredible that she finds herself sitting at her dining table, hunched over at an ungodly hour, scrawling words in her best handwriting onto a piece of paper.

She seals it in an envelope, running her thumb along the smooth surface for a second. She still knows your address by heart, and despite your house being much like a prison for her in terms of trying to avoid it at all costs, she finds herself navigating streets and turning corners to end up there.

Alexia passes a bookstore, and in the short moment she stands in front of it, she recalls standing in between aisles with you while you chose a book to buy. Clothing shops line the roads, and she can point out shirts in their windows that you own. A restaurant sits on the corner of the street, and she can point out the table you two had eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner at…

But she can point something else out — you.

You’re there, in the window, sitting at the table in the same seat you always chose. It makes her wonder if those memories were lost on you. Magazine in one hand, tea in the other. She knows it’s tea, because you hate coffee.

Alexia becomes acutely aware of the letter in her hand, and her plans have changed.

When a waitress comes up to your table with a little white envelope in hand, explaining that someone had just come into the restaurant and asked her to give it to you, you’re confused. When you unfold the letter and read it, whatever you’re feeling is inexplicable.

‘Mi querido,

I probably shouldn’t be calling you ‘mi querido’, or writing this letter in the first place, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t tell you how much I love you one more time. I cannot imagine a life where being happy and being without you are able to coexist. If I knew that my career would’ve been the end of us, I would’ve traded my first love for my forever love, in a heartbeat.

Sincerely yours…

Your head lifts and you crane to look out of the window. Streaks of blonde hair disappear down the street, further than you can see from your seat.

…Alexia.’

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peachesofteal · 1 year

Note

That nurse au? Devoured it and it lives in my brain rent free. If Simon and Johnny notice the bruises on Nurse do they share looks? Maybe Johnny tries to gently ask about them? I loved this so much.

Anon is referencing this. The way nurse x ghoap has spread through my brain like a flesh eating bacteria is insane. And I can't actually answer this ask because I'm writing it as a fic but I'm happy to give you a little possible snippet/glimpse/ramble down below:

The tablet in your hand chimes, drawing your attention away from the vending machine and to it's far-too-bright-for-this-ungodly-hour screen, to where it displays a status change in red.

268: 38.5 degrees.

Fuck. You abandon your sub par dinner options for nearly sprinting to the room, slowing to a walk to take long, deep breaths before your knuckles are rapping on the glass. Get control of yourself. Simon is too perceptive. He will panic. It could be nothing.

You don't even bother acknowledging your thought process there, the truth that is starting to bleed from your heart, through your body like a disease. The reason why you check on them so often, the reason why you can't stop thinking about them, even when you're off shift. The reason why, when you go home in the morning to go to bed, you drift off thinking about Johnny's sleepy smile, or Simon's voice, humming in your ears.

"Hi." You whisper when you slip inside. He straightens a bit in the armchair, but you're happy to see he's using it as a recliner now, progress from last week when he wouldn't even let himself lean backwards, or fall asleep willingly.

His brow furrows above the black mask.

"Hey, everything alright?" Shit. You're not surprised, you were just in here, after all. Spending too much time sitting in the chair opposite him, next to Johnny, on your break before your patient fell asleep.

"Yeah, I ah... have to draw some blood." You really do not want to wake him up, or alarm Simon, but you also refuse to lie to either of them. You fire off a text to the attending on call, just to advise him of Johnny's temperature and the impending labs that he can expect, before sliding a drawer open as softly as possible and pulling out everything you'll need. You can feel his gaze burning a hole in your scrubs, his ever present scrutiny impossible to escape. Sometimes you think he might be reading your fucking mind.

"He just fell asleep." He protests, and you think, you imagine, that he's frowning behind the mask. You think you almost know what it looks like, strong mouth pulled downwards in consternation, wide jaw gnashed tight.

"I know, but he's running just a bit of a fever." He jolts, and you hold up a hand in caution. "It's not too high, so I'm not super worried, but we'll need to check his white cell count, just in case okay? And then we'll go from there."

"Post op fever is common." He repeats the words you told him last week, after Johnny's second surgery, the one where they went in for the pneumothorax complication, and you nod to reassure him.

"Right. So, just going to do a quick blood draw and get it downstairs so we can find out what's going on." Simon shifts uncomfortably, but nods. You squeeze Johnny's shoulder softly, before swabbing the spot on the inside of his elbow.

He blinks, eyes opening slowly, confused brow smoothing when he looks from his partner, over to you.

"There's our girl." He mumbles softly, and your face heats, eyes widening in surprise before you regulate your reaction. Simon coughs, loudly, and you shake your head with a nervous smile.

"Such a flirt, MacTavish." You tie him fast, fingers a little more clumsy than usual, off balance from hearing him say 'our girl', like you mean something to them. "I just need to get some blood and then I'll leave you in peace." He shrugs, but Simon grabs for his hand and squeezes it.

"Ah come on, Si." He slurs, but reaches to cup Simon's cheek over the mask, rubbing a thumb over the fabric.

"You're runnin’ a fever, Johnny."

"Ach. 's nothing." He brushes it off, but you watch how his eyes are slow to track Simon's movements. You casually glance at the monitor, noting his blood pressure.

"Could be." You assure him. "But can't be too sure, so we're going to check a few labs, alright?" He nods, sleepy, already falling back under, and you pull the needle, taping a small patch of gauze over the puncture in one fell swoop. “Alright. Let me run these down, and I’ll be back up to check on you in a bit.” You turn, stripping your gloves off into the trash.

“We’ll miss ye.” He whispers, and you roll your eyes playfully, even as your stomach clenches.

Simon’s eyes don’t leave you for a single second, not until the door is shut and you’re out of sight.

#nurse x ghoap #idk what we're calling this #peaches asks #peaches writes #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghost x soap #simon riley #john soap mactavish #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader

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pia-nor481 · 10 months

Text

Champion of the world

Max Verstappen x reader smut

3.1k words

Max had preformed so well this year. He won races and was on the podium often and yet he couldn't help but feel anxious. Max was one of those people who often bottled their feeling and thoughts up, thinking it was the best idea, when in fact, it was not. They were sat in his red bull drivers room before the start of the race. "Max it will be okay, you'll do amazing like always. You've spent so much of your life racing and preparing for racing, it's your time." Her words didn't soothe him all that much, no matter how right she was, nothing would get through to him. "That doesn't mean I'll win, anything could happen on the track, no matter how good of a driver I am. There could be a safety car, someone could crash into me, the engine could fail or a really slow pitstop." He always made it worse for him self, yes all those things were possible, but it didn't mean it was all going to happen and ruin the race. He still had a chance of winning the championship. She looked up at him, trying to hide her disappointment in his statement, he was sat above her on top of what was the most uncomfortable 'bed', while she sat with her legs crossed on the floor, she enjoyed max looking down at her, regardless of the context.

They where in this position often, every race she turned up to, Max was on the top step of the podium, he knew it was superstitious, but he felt as though she was a good luck charm. Monaco was the first race she attended, rushing down from their flat towards the paddock after spending a little too much time in bed with Max. They'd ended up in his drivers room once again, her pulling the zip of his race suit up, not without him running his hands over her body. They quickly made a rule, if she was dressing him, he could undress her. It often lead to her freezing adorning just underwear. It made max relax, and she'd do anything to ensure that. But it max didn't win, even if he left covered in champagne and walking away with a trophy, it didn't seem to be enough.

So Max would lock him self in his so called 'office' of their shared flat and worsen his eyesight by staring at a screen. He would spend said time analysing data and strategies, or watching previous races trying to see where he would lose time, and then use the sim for hours on end. Max would barely leave the room, Jimmy and Sassy would often scratch at the door wanting their owner's attention, but would hardly get it. She would be left to look after his cats, and try to look after him. She would try everything possible to make Max leave those four walls, mainly make him some sort of meal, depending on the hour. First she'd call out to him, and get no response, then she'd text, again no response. Finally she walk straight into the room and just place the plate on his desk, hoping he might actually acknowledge her. But he never really did. Of course Max appreciated everything she did, he just wasn't overly connected. Most nights she'd go to bed with out him, and be woken up at an ungodly hour upon feeling the bed dip slightly, but when she would reach out in the morning, his side of the bed would be cold. Although the dishes she left in the sink last night were washed, there was no trace of her boyfriend anywhere. Not even in the sim room.

Around three hours later, Max would come back drained, clearly coming back from what was a particularly difficult training session. His kissed her on the lips before promptly walking toward the bathroom. She knew that he wouldn't be seen again for a while. This became a cycle for the couple. Until it was Saturday, post qualifying was always a fun time. Max usually felt better about racing when he was starting on the front row. This usually fixed the slight drift in their relationship; Max became a lot more aware for what he was doing, the proper term would be neglecting, but it would take him a while to come out of this hyper focus and begin to look after himself, and his girlfriend of course. He wouldn't leave her side, man felt so debilitated because of his actions, then he often would feel his heart thumping loud in his ears. His cortisol levels would have been sky high, a long with his disappointment in himself. He couldn't believe that she would still be loving and caring towards him, after all he had been putting her through this year. She must have felt so lonely, so unloved, and yet she would still kiss him like there was no tomorrow. She never turned him down because she loved him dearly.

"I love you, thank you so much for everything, you honestly don't know how much I appreciate it, appreciate you." It seemed like a simple sentence that would be written in cursive inside of a birthday card, yet Max meant every word. It would clear the stress of points was getting to him. He was so irritable and angry, he couldn't sleep and constantly had headaches even paracetamol could cure. It was daunting to see her boyfriend in such a way. "Max, just come to bed, please, I'm struggling to sleep without you here." She already had to settle with out cuddles, max felt as though he got too warm in bed, but now having to sleep without him. It was becoming too much. "I need to win the next few races, I don't want to get far behind in the points." Receiving 12.5 points in Belgium wasn't particularly helpful in this situation.

"Give me a kiss before you go." She almost begged as Max stood up, the national anthem was going to start soon and so he needed to be out in the pad ok by now. So he pulled her closer by the waist and connected their lips. She gripped his upper arm in the process, just wanting to feel him once again. They stayed like this for a few minutes, not wanting to let go, she may have not realised it, but Max felt most relaxed in her presence, feeling her helped the most though. "I love you"

The race was horrifying. Abu dabi was already a tricky race, that coupled with a safety car was not great for Max. He was however, capable of over taking Lewis Hamilton, and thereby won the race. Elated was all Max could feel, finally he was able to take a full breath and smile, he finally felt relaxed in away; stress free. He was practically screaming down the radio. Max was the world champion and he was ecstatic. After coming down from the high of a win, max decided he wanted another. You wouldn't think Max verstappen would be overly fond of a quicky, due to his nature of trying hard and making things perfect, that should take time, but it was something he enjoyed, the thought of getting caught was such a turn on for him. "Come here." He stated, grabbing her, not overly rough, that however was not his thing. Covered in champagne, Max pulled her back towards his drivers room, and as soon as the door was shut he pulled her close. His mouth immediately attacked her neck and she moaned out, running her hands up his body and into his hair, tugging on it slightly. "Don't start, baby."

Max was angry, the fact he had to ask on multiple occasions if they were sure he won was most likely the cause. He liked to be dominant, he always was, in every aspect of his life. He slid his hands over her back and under her ass, pulling her up so she could wrap her legs around his hips, he gently, as possible, placed her on the bed of the room. Max didn't let go, he was being possessive. His hand constantly made contact with her skin. Just as he slid his hand between her thighs she moaned out, "Please Max." Everything he did always felt good, she felt it through out her whole body. She pulled the zip of his race suit down and began palming his cock, he groaned at the feeling, becoming a little more loud than usual. "Please Max, just fuck me already." She knew they were running out of time, he had places to be.

As Max slid in he felt as though he was losing all control of himself. With every thrust of his hips he got closer to ecstatic, he reached down again, putting pressure on her clit, making sure she was getting as close as he was. Her moans echoed through out the room as Max sped up, rubbing faster circles on her skin. "Feels so good." She was losing the ability to form coherent sentences, thoughts too, Max knew she was close and wouldn't leave the room until she was satisfied. "Cum with me, love" He practically moaned out, leaning closer to her body. With her eyes still rolled to the back of her head, Max pulled out slowly, almost rushing to pull his clothes back on properly. She sat there for a while, watching Max, she was so happy to just be around him, that much was clear with the smile on her face, she was so blissed out, not that Max was surprised. They'd not had sex for a few weeks, so she'd not cum in a while. Once he didn't look disheveled, he began to kiss her lightly, wanting to provide some form of comfort before he had to disappear for interviews and debriefing. "I've got to go, love" he spoke softly as he shifted closer to the edge of the bed, and so, he kissed her and help do the buttons of her top up. "I know, I'll go back to the hotel and get ready, it seems like we have a lot of celebrating to do." With one final kiss to the forehead before walking towards the door. She knew that going to a club tonight wasn't nonnegotiable, they would all be getting immensely drunk.

Once they got off of Max's private jet, they practically rushed towards their flat. Max hooked his arm around her neck as they approached the front door, he was yawning the whole ride over, Max was exhausted, not physically but mentally; the stress of the season was really affecting him. "Talk to me, please, love." She looked over to him as the words left her mouth, she placed her phone and keys on the table and looked at him again. "About what?" Max looked a little on the pale side compared to normal, yet he still tried to give her everything he had. "How you are actually feeling, I hate to say it, but I'm going to because I love you so much, you seem to be so worn out, you need real rest, and yet I know you will be in that sim room, trying to improve your already amazing performance." A small trace of defeat laced her words, Max did become a tad bit displeased with the statement, but he didn't have the strength to be more than so. "Everyone thinks I cheated, as if there's a point of racing. There's no point in winning if I didn't try for it; and I know I've put in so much effort. I spent the better half of the year on the sim, I've had to get new glasses I've been staring at that screen for so long. But that's not even the worst part... I've driven you away in the process. I've been an awful boyfriend and no doubt made your life so much harder. I'm so sorry,love."

He felt so relieved having got that off of his chest, with rather loud sigh and a fall of his chest, Max walked towards her again, He rested his head on top her. "Oh Max, I love you, I'm not going to leave just because you were busy. You wanted to win and you definitely deserve it. You're right in the sense that locking yourself away for so long wasn't fair on me, but I knew how much you wanted this. And if it was going to make you happy, then it would make me happy." He was almost in tears. There wasn't anything they wouldn't do for each other. "You need to relax." She said, feeling his finger tug on her top slightly, before his hand slipped all the way up her chest. " I think I know how to relax." He smirked, grabbing her wrist and lightly pulling her towards their bedroom.

She pushed his chest lightly, forcing him to lay down on the bed, she enjoyed the feeling of warmth against her finger tips, Max's touch was divine. He began to sit up, reach out for her body. Her hands made contact again, while she spoke, "I don't think so." Her tone was teasing, she wanted him to feel good, he wanted to feel good, but she would control the when. "Oh, please, love. Don't tease me." Her hands slid over his torso, feeling every divot and muscle, the sensation was intense; max let out an exasperated sigh. As she climbed into his lap, she could feel his hard cock, it was almost painful. She palmed him once again, changing pressure to ensure he would be on the edge. He was practically moaning, the loudest she had ever heard him. "Be good." She whispered out, as his cock jumped. They had never discussed the possibility of Max having a praise kink, although he definitely deserved all the praise in the world after this season. "Did you like, hm? Do you like me calling you good? Or do you like when I tell you what to do?" Max's chest was rising and falling rapidly. "Answer me, Max." It didn't come across as aggressive, yet it was still demanding. He was shocked with himself, never did he think giving someone else completely control of his body would be so marvellous. She began to stroke his cock faster, slowing down every few moments to tease the tip, edging him further. "Yes, yes to all. Please, Love. Let me cum." He was virtually begging as she liked along the underside of his cock; the precum leaked heavily, and so she began sucking him dry. "Uh, yes." He could feel the sensation through out his entire body, and could hold back, her mouth quickly filled with his cum.

Max was panting as he sat up, making eye contact with her in the process. She leaned forward, kissing his neck, giving him as much attention as possible, he didn't cheat, never, not in any aspect of his life, he loved everything too much. He loved her. Her so called kisses left bright red marks all over his pale skin. "Sit back, baby." Max moved back towards the headboard, still blissed out and a little coherent; in the meantime, she slowly stripped of her clothes, giving him a little show while he caught his breath. Max's gaze shifted back towards her and he felt his cock harden again almost immediately, blood was rushing through his body rapidly. A lazy smirk dawned his face as she straddled him again, stoking him a bit before sitting down fully, taking him whole in her cunt. Her eyes rolled back temporarily at the feeling, it felt like he was in her stomach in this position; his hands rested firmly on her hip while she got used to the feel of the stretch. Max didn't have to say anything, she could tell by the look on his face, and the hunger in his eyes, that he felt euphoric, just being inside her.

"Fuck, Max, feels so good." He felt almost cocky at the statement, he didn't even have to do anything and she was already moaning. Max shifted slightly, bending his knees in an attempt to thrust his hips up, but her hands came down from his chest to stop his movements. "No, why won't you listen to me? I said you're not doing any of the work, and I mean it." As much as Max like control, he also liked to please. She began to lift her hips up and then down rather slowly, easing Max into it, without overstimulating him. She was already squeezing him tight, so it was hard for max to resist, he was desperate, desperate for her, desperate to cum. Her hands gripped the headboard for support, allowing her to fuck him faster, he moaned out as she leaned forward, almost coming off his cock completely. It all felt too good, they were both edging on ecstasy, so much so that Max's grip only tightened, leaving marks on her skin. Her hands came down from the bed and onto his chest as she began to ride him even faster, his eyes closed and mouth agape, he felt his legs start to shake slightly. "That's it, so good for me." She practically huffed out as his breath hitched. Max came hard, he could feel it through out his whole body; legs shakes, head thrashing with his eyes rolled to the back of his head, a choked out moan bounced off the walls in the process.

After riding out his high, her arms came down as she went to rest her head on his chest, silence filled the room for a moments as they both caught their breath. Her hands trailed over his body once again, this time, in a slightly less erotic way, a more comforting act. His hands slid up her back and into her hair, playing with it, this was an act they both enjoyed. "I love you." She knew that. “I’ll be better, I promise.” Light laughter filled his ears, “Max, I love you so much, don’t doubt that.” A smiled covered his face, he not only promised her, but himself; he felt terrible for what he did and so would never do it again. He could not treat her in such a way.

#f1 x reader #f1 x reader smut #f1 smut #33 max verstappen #max verstappen x reader smut #max verstappen x you #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #MV:33

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safination · 5 months

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Partners in Death...And Life

Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You: Part i

|Part 4: The Radio Stars' Co-Host Just Wants To Do The Dishes| |Part 5: Gimpse of me and you: Part ii| |Masterlist| Ao3| Taglist| Pairings: Alastor x wife! Reader Tags: fem!reader, established relationships, Asexual! Alastor, Reader is in hell for a reason Warning: Blood and dead bodies <3| A little bit suggestive Series summary: After a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping...*checks notes*... the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason. Now, I know what you must be thinking. Part 1? Yeah…this chapter is supposed to actually be much longer, but the second part of the fic isn’t complete yet and I have like two more exams. And biochemistry isn’t something to laugh about. I am slowly losing my mind. I close my eyes and I see aldehydes and hemiketals. Anyway, part two of this will be posted in like two or three days. It’s already drafted, just need to edit it. So here’s a bite size chapter. It contains marriage years 1930 and 1931. 1932 isn't complete yet, sadly. It was quite long, so part 2 will just be 1932.

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1930

That blasted car is too far.

With each step, the tip of your heels scrape the pavement. Shoe maintenance tells you that dragging the rubber tip shortens its lifespan, but your toes pinch when you lift your shoe. Alastor takes long strides, walking with the pace of a man with his ass on fire. Pick a struggle. One either walks fast but takes short strides, or walks slow but takes long strides. It’s unethical to have both.

Streetlamps illuminate the sidewalk. The dried leaves scattered around catch on your shoe, and the city’s smog particles stick on your skin.

The city sucks ass.

Alastor will have to drag you by the hair to force you to take another step on this cockroach infested streets. One taste of that fresh air surrounding your shared home, and suddenly, you’ve gone soft. Gone are the days where second-hand smoke reminded you of home. Now, home is the radio’s volume turned up in ungodly hours.

Alastor tightens his arm around yours, pulling you closer to him.

He’s wearing his favorite bowtie tonight. Everything from the shine of his shoes to the way he combed his hair screams fancy…except for that bowtie. It’s not something meant for exquisite dinners with your wife. You didn’t understand his instance. It was something you picked up on your way home one day, a measly scrap of fabric you purchased back when you didn’t know what good quality bow ties were. Alastor should know of its poor quality, yet he calls it his favorite.

Alastor lowers closer to your ear. “Is this your way of telling me you wish to visit the city’s zoo?”

“Zoo…?” you echo. These shoes are going straight in the garbage bin once you get home. “Why would I want to go there?”

Alastor presses a kiss on your cheek. “I thought you were doing a penguin impression. It's a rather fabulous one, might I add.”

“Ha…Ha…Ha. It’s because I’m walking like a penguin. Not your best one, dearest,” you say, patting his biceps. They’re firmer than they look. “That’s a little bit on the nose. Is it an off night for you?”

“Your feet are hurting,” Alastor tells you like you don’t feel the way your toes slowly lose blood circulation. “I wonder…. Will you deny it? Or are you willing to humble yourself before me, and ask for a seat? There’s still a few more blocks until we reach the car.”

Now, there’s absolutely no way you are going to tell Alastor how your feet pinch and your ankle wobble. With a bright smile, and sheer acting, you continue walking. “Did you do this on purpose?”

Alastor raises his eyebrows. “You were the one who insisted on accompanying me.”

“Well, my feet feel perfectly normal,” you say as your toes buzz. “This is nothing. You should see how long I’m on my feet during work.”

“Yes, because that is a perfectly acceptable thing to happen in workplaces, dearest.” Alastor tightens his arm once more. His thumb brushes up and down your arm. “I would say it pains me to say this, but we both know that would be a lie. I told you so.”

“You did not, actually,” you say, shaking your foot to dislodge the leaves sticking to the bottom of your shoe. “You barely took one glance and said, ‘Those look lovely, dear!’.”

Alastor pauses his steps, and turns to you with a smile. The night does little to dull how bright his brown eyes shine like stardust to you.

He reaches out towards you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He tugs on your ear, and you slap his hand away. Alastor massages his hand. “That hurt, you know,” he says. “But I meant about waiting. You should still be enjoying your drink.”

“And leaves my dearest, darling husband out here? Alone?” you snort, pulling him to continue walking. “I think I remember someone telling me that thieves don’t dissolve in the sun. Imagine them in the dark!”

“And what would be your plan if we both get robbed?”

You show Alastor your biggest smile. “It’s a good thing I have such a big and scary husband to protect me …. .You…You would protect me, right?”

Alastor’s laughter rings across the air. It’s breathy and light and absolutely everything to you.

Alastor grabs your hand and intertwine his fingers around yours. He leads you further into the streets. Soon, smooth pavements replace the pot holes. Leaves replace the scattered beer cans. Grass replace the asphalt roads. Treen replace the buildings. Alastor pulls you deeper into some tiny park where the streetlamps are brighter, and the air smells closer to home.

You follow him, squeezing his hand.

Alastor squeezes back.

At the corner of this park, a children’s playground stands.

The dark does little to dull the bright colors of the seesaw and monkey bars. In the middle, a pirate-shim themed deck connects to a slide. The swing sways lazily with the nudge of the night’s breeze. There’s not a single living soul except for you and him. It’s eerie to see such a place empty when it should be filled to the brim with the life of children’s laughter.

Alastor’s strides become longer, and his pace even faster as he pulls you closer to the playground’s swing.

He releases his grip, and suddenly, your hand belongs to you once more. Alastor brushes the sand off the swing, and offers you a seat with a bow and outstretched arms.

You take the seat. The pressure lifts from your buzzing toes. It’s almost heavenly.

Alastor slides his coat off his shoulders. With soft giggles and a stupid smile, you watch him pull his arm out. Sleeve garters are worn for practical uses, but as a fashion piece….Hmmm, it’s a great look on him. It’s a shame Alastor often hides how those garters compliment his biceps with a coat. How long would it take to hide every single coat he owns?

Alastor slides his eyes to you. It lingers. “Stop that.”

You offer him your most innocent smile as a reply.

Alastor inches close enough for you to inhale his scent. He drapes his coat over your shoulders, pulling on the lapels to secure it around your shoulders.

You press your lips on the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”

Alastor kneels on the ground. He pulls your ankle towards him, sliding off your heel. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

You kiss his cheek. “Was there something else I needed to say?” you ask. “That seemed like a proper response.”

He glides his thumb over the reddened parts of your skin, massaging your foot. “Exactly….It was a proper response,” he tells you. “Aren’t you going to question me? Demand to know if I’m going to kill you?”

“I think what you’re doing is rather obvious.”

Alastor stores your shoes to the side, and leaves your feet hanging out in the air. He circles behind you, hovering close enough to feel his presence, even with the coat. He wraps his hands around the metal chain connected to the swing, and sways you back and forth. “Did you enjoy the restaurant? A co-worker recommended it to me.”

“And in the off chance I don’t, will I be seeing that co-worker lying in the middle of our basement?”

Alastor smiles at you. “That depends,” he says. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

You tilt your head backwards to catch his eyes. “Is this a trick question? Am I supposed to say that nothing can compare to your cooking, or something along those lines?”

Alastor shakes the chains, jerking the swing. “You’re supposed to give me an actual answer,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We can come back if you liked it.”

You lean on Alastor’s leg, using it as a backrest. “Every meal is enjoyable when I am in your company, my love” you say. “But that crab was something else. It looked expensive.…We’re, uh, not suddenly going to become poor, right?”

Alastor stares at you. “I’m going to push you off.”

You wrap your hands around Alastor’s, keeping his hold around the chains firm. “What did I do this time?”

Alastor sighs, and swings you gently. “I can afford nice dinners with you.”

“Just me?”

“Only you.”

Alastor pulls you to your feet. Sand pools around your toes. You pull his coat closer around your shoulders as he drags you closer to the pirate-ship themed deck. He releases his hold on your hand, and your fingers brush against each other.

He walks to the platform. The entrance was made for children, so Alastor has to crawl and duck underneath to access the slide.

You fiddle with the lapels of his coat. “What are you doing?”

Alastor glances back at you, smiling as he crawls underneath the entrance. His ass sticks out when he does. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“If your ass gets stuck,” you begin, crossing your arms, “I’m going to leave you here.”

Alastor rolls his eyes, shimmying further into the entrance. “How lucky then that it’s, apparently, horrendously flat,” he says. “There’s nothing there to get stuck.”

“There’s nothing horrendous about it,” you say with a smile. “I see you’re wearing the pants I like.”

Alastor snorts. “Oh, shut up.”

“Not a chance.” Your smile twists brighter.

Alastor grabs the railing, and pulls himself up. His biceps contract when he does. Sleeve garters and railing are for practical uses, but the only thing echoing through your mind were impractical uses right now. Un-practical but exciting....You need to get it together.

“…Flirting,” Alastor says, pulling your mind from wherever it wandered off to. “Really?”

“That was hardly flirting, dearest.”

Alastor ducks into the slide. His ass lands on the sand, and he curses into the air. You cough to stifle a laugh.

He hops to his feet, brushing the sand off his pants. His lips twist and his eyebrows furrow as he cringes in pain. “This is a hazard,” he says, glaring at the slide. He turns to you and smiles. “You should try it.”

“How brave of you to risk a shattered tailbone for me,” you say. “But I’m not sliding down that thing when you just called it a hazard.”

“You are an incredibly boring person,” he tells you. “Is it not a fad nowadays to be loose and goofy against these depressing times of economic downfall?”

Your raise your eyebrow.” You want me to crawl up there and slide down in this outfit?”

Alastor leans on the side of the slide. “I don’t see any good reason not to.”

“If you wish to ogle my undergarments, there’s no need to concoct such a scheme,” you say, smiling at him. “You merely need to ask.”

Alastor’s lips twist. “I’m not—”

“Oh, calm down, I’m just pulling your leg,” you say, snorting. “You would need to think of someone besides yourself to do such a thing. So, there’s no need to get your perfect little head into such a fuss.”

“Stop it.”

You smile innocently. “No.”

Alastor walks closer to you. “And you wonder why no one wanted to play with you as a child.”

You take steps to walk closer to him as well, meeting him halfway. “Everyone wanted to play with me,” you say. “I’ll have you know that I was quite the delight.”

You stand before each other, inches apart.

Alastor stares at you. What do those eyes tell him as he watches you stand before him, buried into his coat? He leans closer to you. “I doubt that.”

You take a step closer and slide your arms around him to bury yourself into his hold.

“How rude,” you say with a smile. You look up at him to hold his gaze, propping your chin on his chest. His arms tighten around your back. “I was such a delightful child that I would have played with you, even when no other kid wanted to do so.”

Alastor leans down, pecking your lips. You inch upwards to chase his lips, but self-control takes over. “You are and always will be a nerd,” he says. “You were probably the type to read during the afternoon.”

You tighten your hug on him. “What an incredible assumption to make.”

Alastor places a hand on your head. “Am I wrong?”

“I’m not telling you that,” you say, leaning your head into his chest.

Alastor pulls away from the hug, grabbing your hand to drag you to the monkey bars.

He climbs to the very top, and swings his legs to sit between the bars. He offers his hand, and you take it. His thumb brushes over your fingers and you climb up the steps and onto the bars. It’s difficult to maneuver with such a fancy outfit. Alastor keeps a steady hand on you, and the other goes on your waist as you slide to sit next to him.

The whole playground can be seen from the top of the monkey bars.

“If you weren’t a nerd,” Alastor begins, bumping your shoulder with his, “then you were probably a bully.”

You grip the bar, leaning back to stare. His hair brushes over his eyes. Alastor runs a hand over the strands to push it back. You reach out and push his glasses up his nose. “What makes you say that?”

Alastor boops your nose. “You’re a pretty little thing who works in healthcare. Isn’t there a stereotype for that?”

You blink at him a bit dumbly, cheeks flushed and tingling. Heat trails up your skin, and you have to turn away to hide from his gaze. “You think I’m pretty?” you ask rather idiotically. Deep breaths are needed to calm yourself. “Look…look who’s flirting now.”

Alastor hooks his legs on the bar, and swings backwards. He hangs in the air, the force of his legs the only thing keeping him from falling.

“Don’t do that,” you say, hissing. “You could break your neck.”

Alastor catches your eye with a wild smile. “I won’t.”

“And I’ll be sure to tell that to my next husband as we’re spending all your money,” you tell him. “Now get down from there before you make me a widow!”

Alastor releases his legs from the bar, and his body smacks on the ground. He lies motionless on the sand.

With a sigh, you carefully climb down the monkey bars. You nudge Alastor’s bicep with your foot when you reach him. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Silence.

You fold the skirt of your dress, and sit across him. You slam your head onto him, using his chest as a pillow.

“Oof!” Alastor curls into you a bit, eyes twitching. He drapes an arm over your stomach, and draws spirals with his finger.

“I think we could have been friends when we were children,” you say, smiling as you feel the way his chest rises up and down with each breath he takes.

Alastor studies the sky. There are no stars to look at here in the city. It’s covered by the lights and the smog. “We wouldn’t. I probably would have hated you.”

“You—Hate me? Impossible!” you say with a laugh. “You think I’m pretty.”

“Ha. Ha,” he says. “You think you’re so clever.”

You intertwine your fingers with his, tracing the ring on his finger. “Sadly, I think I’ll have to agree,” you say. “I probably would have hated you as well.”

“I’m impossible to hate.”

“I'm sure I, of all people, could find a way,” you say with a smile. “Kids can be mean. And you were probably a really weird one.”

Alastor raises his hand to the air, studying his ring against the dark sky. You do the same. Both rings shimmer in the night. “Yet…,” he starts, “here we are, married.”

“I can’t believe we actually got married.”

“I can.”

“Is this where you’ll tell me all about how you fell in love with me at first sight?” your snort. “That my smile and incredible stitching told you I was the woman you were going to wash dishes with for the rest of your life.”

Alastor laughs and his chest rises and falls. “Well, it wasn't flirting.”

“I did not flirt with you.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“On our third meeting, you told me we walked to the wrong house, just to spend four hours with me in the rain,” Alastor says, and you see the smile creeping on his lips. “You were so entrapped by my very being that you couldn’t bear to spend another second without me. You looked like you wanted to kis—”

You slam your head down into his chest. “Oh, shut up.”

Alastor glances at you. “Not a chance.”

“Okay then, well I remember two people underneath that umbrella,” you say with a huff. “You accepted my invitation.”

“I did,” he says. “Although, I had the excuse of needing to gather information on such a suspicious person. That was purely professional.”

“And you decided that an additional four hours of walking was necessary,” you say. “You could have stopped entertaining me in the first hour or even the second, but you spent all four hours getting your shoulders wet.”

“I did, indeed.”

Laughter rings into the air. With each and every of Alastor’s laugh, your head bounces up and down. You bury your face deeper into his chest, laughing against it.

“We’ve been married for more than a year,” you say. “How has it been for you?”

“Nothing much has changed, surprisingly,” Alastor says, shrugging his shoulders. “The only thing that’s different is I get to say the most ridiculous thing like how completing it is to be able to just exist with you.”

You take his hand, bringing it closer to your mouth to brush a soft kiss. “There’s nothing ridiculous about it, my love. I enjoy how completing it is to be able to just exist when you are with me,” you say, and Alastor caresses your cheek, trailing the back of his fingers down your skin. “Shall we head home?”

There’s a brightness in Alastor’s eyes when he smiles. “Not yet,” he says. “Let’s stay like this for a moment.”

Maybe the city isn’t so awful. Alastor could ask you to stay in this park forever, and you would happily breathe in the smog. Later, you will have to stand and grab your shoes, and finally head home to prepare for the next day. But that’s later. This is now.

You giggle against his chest. “You think I’m pretty.”

Alastor groans, placing a hand over his eyes.

There will be a lifetime of moments like this waiting for you in a world where you both just exist.

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1931

The needle pierces through the fabric. You tug on it, pulling the blue thread up and then around to create a simple back stitch. The cat’s outline pieces together. Later, you’ll fill the cloth with grass and flowers, and a little butterfly to give the cat a friend. Should you gift this to Alastor? Well, either way, he’ll find a way to display it around the house sooner or later.

The radio crackles, and music fades into the background.

Soft taps sound on the speaker. “Before I leave for the night,” Alastor’s voice rings from the radio, “I would like to call any attention to any wives out there, especially the one married to me.”

It doesn’t matter that Alastor is all the way at work, miles away, you still roll your eyes at him…but you turn the volume up, listening closely to what he has to say.

“I know my voice can get, oh, so, entrapping,” he says, and you swear you can hear him smile. “Thus, this is a gentle encouragement to complete any tasks you are putting off. For example, you could take out the trash like what was agreed upon.”

You glare at the radio, flicking its wood. “Oh, I hate you,” you mutter. “I hate you so much.”

“Now, now, dearest, we both know that is a lie,” Alastor says. “Don’t wait up!”

The music fades back in, and the broadcast ends for the night.

He likes to think he’s so clever. Let’s see how clever he’ll be when you kill him in his sleep. It will be easy, barely an inconvenience. You’ll drop a pillow right over that handsome face of his, and laugh as he chokes on his own ego.

However,…with a sigh…you take out the trash…like what was agreed upon.

The air is cold at this time of night. The moon looks beautiful tonight, it’s light illuminating the garden. It would be a shame to waste such a breathtaking sight. A part of you wishes to share this with Alastor, that he could be here, right now, and stare at the moon next to you. And the two of you will exist in each other’s company.

You grab the unfinished art piece, and continue on the rocking chair, stitching and listening to the crickets.

It takes hours of stitching and sore fingers, but Alastor’s car finally pulls up the driveway. The engine dies, and he hops out of the car, circling to the trunk and popping it open.

You drop your things, and take a seat on the porch steps to watch him, the moon no longer being the most breathtaking sight.

Alastor’s still wearing his favorite bowtie. It’s too dark to see clearly, but you think he’s pulling out a body from the car’s trunk. He grabs the straps of the obviously filled cadaver bag, letting it drag across the floor.

A good wife would help their husbands carry a very heavy and very dead body. But…if it means being able to sit and stare at your husband hauling a very, very dead person, then maybe, being a good wife is overrated.

Alastor pauses when he sees you, dropping the straps of the cadaver bag. “What are—Is something wrong?”

You smile at the urgency in his voice. “No, not one bit,” you say, leaning on your head on your hand. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“You should be in bed,” he says, crossing his arms. “I told you not to wait for me.”

Your huff, blowing strands of your hair off your face. “Did you? This is the first I’m hearing of this.”

“I did,” Alastor tells you. “Did you not catch tonight’s broadcast?”

“It was a rather busy day. I had things to do, people to see, and all that.”

Even in the dark, you see the way Alastor’s grin widens. He steps towards the garbage bin, opening the lid to check its content. “You are such a horrible liar,” he says, snorting. “I see you got my message.”

Alastor steps into the light.

Part of his hair slicks back. It’s different from its usually neat look. His sleeves are pulled up, folded until his elbow. There are several red stains on him. It’s on his hair, stains his clothes, and paints his face. His eyes have never looked so brown before. How does Alastor manage to make murder…into…into…. You clear your throat a bit, already counting the day until the next time he goes on his hunts.

“Why, hello there, stranger,” you say, not bothering to fight the smile on your lips. “It’s rather cold tonight. Would you mind keeping a lady company?”

Alastor rolls his eyes, brushing back his hair. “I’m a mess.”

“Red’s a great look,” you say. “The seat next to me is empty.”

“Flirting, really?” he says, but he sits next to you. “You’re getting shameless these days.”

You press your lips on his cheek. “For you?” Another kiss. “Always.”

Alastor takes off his coat. The fabric pools around his broad shoulders and down his back before he pulls out his arms. He throws it at your face, smacking you with it. “I hope you don’t go around saying stuff like that to every man you see,” he says, smiling at you. “I might get jealous.”

You peel off his coat from your face, wrapping it around your shoulders. “Only the one married to me,” you tell him. “You should see how I flirt with my husband.”

Alastor props an arm on the steps, leaning back to meet your eyes. “How disappointing to hear you’re married.”

“Don’t be! This current one won’t be alive for very long, so there’s going to be an open spot,” you say, waving your hands. “Are you interested in taking his place? I hope you are—you’re much more handsome than he is.”

Alastor flicks your nose. “Funny.”

You rub your nose a bit. “So…,” you begin, propping your legs across Alastor’s lap, “what is a charming thing like you doing in these woods?”

A strong breeze sways his hair into his eyes. Alastor pushes the strands away, smiling at you like he always does. “What an honor it is to be called charming by you.”

“Oh, not just charming!” you say, clutching your heart as you swoon. “Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?”

Alastor laughs, and his glasses slide down his nose. You push it up for him. “Not nearly enough,” he says. “Maybe I should take your husband’s open spot, afterall. My wife never compliments me as much as you do.”

He traces circles on the skin of your legs. You give him a little kick for what he said. “Maybe she would say it more if your ego didn’t inflate every time,” you say. “I would go as far as to say she’s doing God’s work by keeping you humble.”

Alastor pushes your legs off his lap.

He reaches into his pocket and takes out his handkerchief. Your eyes catch on the little design embroidered on the fabric. “Since you insist on keeping me here, you should at least help clean me up,” he says, offering the cloth to you. “I would do it myself, but there’s no mirror here.”

“Why clean such a masterpiece?” you say, but accept the handkerchief anyway. “May I?”

Alastor nods, inching close enough for the smell of rusted copper and iron to hit your nose. Intoxicating. It was just plainly and simply…divine. Like a rose that fell straight from heaven’s garden.

You wipe blood off his face. Some of the streaks had already dried. There’s a stubborn spot right on his jaw. You brush the back of your fingers down his cheek, trailing it down until you hook it right under his chin.

How does your face look right now for Alastor to stare at you with wide eyes?

The smudge line of blood that paints his jaw isn’t clearing. It’s too dry. You inch your face closer, brushing your nose on his skin as you inhale the dangerous combination of Alastor mixing with the strong undertones of iron. Soft exhales land on his skin. Your lips part, giving way to moisten that dried spot with your tongue, trailing it up his jaw.

The hints of metal tingle against your tongue. It was sweet and salty, and it combined with Alastor to create something akin to aged fine wine. But not even the most expensive wine could be as intoxicating as this.

Alastor grabs your face, pulling you to meet his eyes. He squishes your cheeks. “That’s unsanitary!” he says, hissing. “You don’t know what type of bacteria mixed in it.”

You pull your face away from his hold, giving him your most innocent smile.

Hopping to your feet, you circle around the dead body that lies in a very dead position on the ground. You kneel, heart thumping, and pull the zipper down.

“Oh…,” you say, taking in the violence this man experienced, “…wow.”

Alastor was not kind to this man, for this one died screaming.

Alastor leans his arms on his knees, smiling at you. “ I got a little carried away,” he says. “Will you still be able to use him?”

“I think he’ll agree that got more than a little carried away,” you say, snorting as you zip the body back into its bag. “Shall I fetch the bone saw?”

“It’s that bad?”

You walk over to where Alastor sits on the steps, climbing to hover on top of him. The only thing keeping you from crashing down on his chest are the way your hands grip the wood behind him. Inches of space separate your bodies. How far will Alastor entertain you?

You smile down at him, trapping him on the steps between your arms. “I can have this one in pieces by sunrise,” you say, voice barely a whisper. “You can grab the spare, and we can call it a date.”

Alastor tilts his chin up to meet your eyes as he smiles at you. “And tell me,” he begins, voice just as soft as yours. He settles his hands on your waist to steady you above him, “how do you plan on achieving his?”

You trace his shoulder, trailing your fingers up his clavicle bone. “It’s like cutting a chicken,” you say. “All I need to do is take my knife and pound the edge across the joints to disconnect his limbs in one swift motion. Smaller pieces would require the saw.”

Alastor pushes himself upwards, and presses a kiss on your cheek. “And you would spend all night cutting this man for me?”

You hum with delight. “Only for you.”

Alastor tugs your waist, and you come crashing on top of him. You curse as your hands slip, and your face lands on his chest. Alastor hugs you, his laughter ringing in the air, breathy and light and so full of delight. “You are the most ridiculous person to be able to exist with.”

You laugh, accepting how Alastor is the one doing the trapping now. “I’m honored you think so.”

“I think that was the most romantic thing I have ever heard in my life,” he says. “I think I could kiss you right now.”

“Don’t let your wife catch you saying that.” You snake your arms around Alastor’s back, tightening the hug he shares with you. “I hear she gets extremely jealous, and it’s never a smart idea to cross a woman who owns a bone saw.”

Alastor’s back digs into the edges of the porch steps. If your added weight lodges the wood deeper into his back, then he makes no complaints. “That’s truly an idiotic thing to do.”

You press yourself deeper into his hold. It’s quite ridiculous. Hugging you on top of the steps must be uncomfortable, but Alastor does so anyway.

In the end, it’s you who pulls away first, but only to save him from an aching back.

Grasping the steps, you climb higher and press your lips on his forehead. You take the seat next to him. Alastor reaches for you, adjusting his coat around your shoulders to secure you from the night’s cold breeze.

“Bad day at work?” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder.

Alastor leans his head on top of yours. “I’m better now.”

You press deeper into him, laughing against his dress shirt. It’s stained with blood, but you don’t mind. “So, tell me, who is this unfortunate fellow that was on the receiving end of your stress,” you say. “And should I be jealous?”

“I don’t know if I should answer that—Do you happen to own a bone saw?”

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes as you do.

Alastor presses his body closer against yours. “I would love to hear you guess.”

“Hmmm….Well, this is Larry, and he comes from humble beginnings,” you tell him. “He’s a self-made man who met this pretty little thing.”

Alastor takes your hand, thumbing the ring on your finger. “You’re getting better at this.”

There are too many stains on Alastor’s shirt. It’s beyond saving. You’ll have to burn his whole outfit. “Larry met this most darling belle. They were happy until tragedy struck.”

Alastor pulls off his gloves, intertwining his bare fingers with yours. “I do love a tragedy.”

“They fell in love.”

“That’s not tragic,” he says, snorting.

“Then you are a fool, dearest. Love can kill in a way no one has ever been able to describe. Not even the greatest poets can describe the true depths of loss,” you tell him, squeezing his hand. “Homes have been burned in its name.”

Alastor kisses your cheek. “And how did Larry suffer?”

“His darling got taken away from him, in more ways than one,” you say. “Even on her deathbed, she could not recognize him.”

Alastor clutches his heart. “How truly heartbreak!”

You glance up at Alastor. He’s looking at the moon. “Yet, here you are smiling.”

“That’s because you are the most fantastic story teller.”

You pull away to stand, and your fingers brush as it slips out of his.

The porch stairs creak with every step. You reach for the radio on the windowsill, turning the knob until a faint click. Alastor’s lips twist when you change his pre-set station for softer melodies. That man and his radios—Always so particular.

You offer a hand to Alastor, giving him a small bow. “Dance with me?”

“I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion,” Alastor tells you, yet he takes your hand in his.

“There’s no need to worry about such trifling things,” you say. “I think you look divine, like a rose straight from heaven made just for me.”

Alastor wraps his hand around your own, and settles the other on your waist. Dancing can barely describe what you’re doing, not when the both of you only had the energy to sway to the music. But nevertheless, Alastor takes the lead on this dance.

He raises his arm, twirling you underneath. Your eyes lock together when you face him. “Hi.”

You smile at him. “Hi.”

“I’ve been wondering…How did you know work was stressing me?” he says, as you dance to the radio’s music. “Why say work specifically?”

You tilt your head, motioning to the window behind you. “That radio over there,” you say. “The one you keep by your chair. You were listening to it this morning when I gave you coffee.”

You hum the lyrics of the song that plays on the radio. It’s quite nice. Maybe you’ll ask Alastor to play it during his broadcast as a dedication to you. But knowing him, he’ll take this opportunity to become a nuisance made for you, and find something to poke fun about.

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t understand.”

“You listen to that specific radio when you’re happy,” you say. Those brown eyes of his shift to you. In your most humble opinion, they shine brighter than the stars. “You were fine when you left but somewhere between leaving and coming home to me, your mood turned sour.”

Alastor presses a kiss on your fingers, brushing his lips over your skin with each word. “I would love to hear more about this.”

“The one in the kitchen, that’s for when you’re tired,” you say, chuckling. “The one in the office is for when you’re bored. You listen to the one on our nightstand when you’re thinking or upset.”

“Then what about the radio in the basement?” he asks with a smile that could rival the moon. “Tell me when I listen to that one.”

“That one is for me. You leave it there so I have something to keep me company,” you say. “The saxophone, on the other hand, is for when you’re frustrated.”

“And now, you’re just a master of what I’m feeling.”

“Not at all,” you say with a shrug. “I don’t know how you feel right now.”

Alastor inches closer, leaning down to meet your eyes. “Would you like to know?”

“Sure.”

Alastor places a hand on your cheek, caressing you with his thumb. You lean into how gently he traces your face. He leans closer, nudging his nose against your own. Alastor brushes his lips over you, and the cracks on his lip prick you. Why he decided to torture you with soft touches and hovering inches away exceeds your understanding.

The strong scent of copper and iron on his skin intoxicate every molecule that makes up your body. He’s unfair. Too unfair of him to hold such power over you. Alastor would love to know how he makes your skin buzz with each and every glance of those too brown eyes that shine brighter than starlight. This is a fact you will take to your grave.

Your eyes flutter to a close. Alastor decides to show you mercy, finally kissing your lips.

Open!

The demand drums across your mind.

Your eyelids stay shut as you kiss him back. The need to look at Alastor’s too brown eyes shout at you. What face is Alastor making right now? How does he look? What do those eyes see?

But he kisses you gently. Oh…so…gently. Alastor kisses you like he had something to say. There are words being whispered across your skin as your lips move together. His thumb brushes your skin, and you can’t open your eyes.

Kissing him makes you wish you spent your youth studying poems and soft metaphors instead of the role of hexokinase in turning Glucose into Glucose-6-phosphate. This wish comes suddenly and out of nowhere. Not once have you ever wished for a different pursuit. But you would forfeit all your knowledge to be able to describe the way Alastor’s lips strike you to your very soul.

That thought disappears quickly, mind too preoccupied with the overwhelming sensation of soft lips placing kiss after kiss. The arm around your waist pulls you close, your body pressing against his own as if it was the most natural thing to place you there, as if the Seraphim creating your bodies carved you to belong.

Alastor pulls away with a soft smile.

It takes every ounce of your self-control not to chase after his lips and pull him back to you. Heat flushes your face. You can’t find the strength to open your eyes, not with how much he makes your cheeks tingle.

“You’ve been observing me.” Alastor brushes your eyelids with his thumb. “Open your eyes.”

Your eyes flutter, heeding to his demand. There it is, your favorite sight looking straight at you, holding a beauty that the moon cannot compete against—his eyes. “Hi.”

Alastor’s smile widens. “Hi.”

There are words that bubble on your lips. Words that are begging to be said. Three words that could very well make this man run when he understands just how deep those words mean for him.

And there it is again, that wish to become a poet because those three words can never truly describe what is imprinted on your soul’s very essence. Those three words are not enough for a man who deserves poems full of soft metaphors and sweet analogies.

“That’s because I…I…,” you trail off, hiding your face in his chest. “I think that’s just called marriage, and I always was weak to such radiant beauty.”

Coward…You are a coward.

That’s okay.

You don’t mind the word being shouted to you by your heart, not when it means you can guard it with walls.

It’s okay to be a coward, because it means there will always be a tomorrow. There will always be another chance, another moment, another day to be brave. Another tomorrow. Another next week. Another next month. Another next year.

There’s no need to tell Alastor the word your soul desperately wants him to understand. Not right now, at least.

Not when the evidence is already there: You and him.

There will be a lifetime of moments like this waiting for you in a world where you are his.

Next Part: |Glimpse of Me and You: Part 2| Don't be shy to talk to me. I don't bite at all! I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter. And all comments really motivate me to work <3. 1932 will be posted in a few days. 1933 on the other hand….Well, let’s just say that such a grand year needs its own chapter. As I was writing this, I kept going back to the idea that Reader can flirt, but can't handle being flirted back. It was too funny not to add. And like I swear heart appears in my eyes, as well as Reaader's eyes everytime Alastor does anything just slightly unhinged. That too was too funny not to add. Taglist: @mybrainautocorrect @ray-rook @teavibesaf @valentique @qardasngan @alastorssimp @aestheticgals-blog @slaggylemon @reikamasama @obessivlyonline @okay-babe @lyralibra @holymusicalmothman @amoraneuro @tobyisher3

#alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor the radio demon #alastor x wife!reader #alastor x you #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin imagines #alastor x wife reader #human alastor #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel headcanons #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel fanfiction #Hazbin Hotel #hazbin hotel imagines

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wandagcre · 1 year

Text

my pumpkin | sam carpenter 🔞

(Sam Carpenter x AFAB ! reader)

Sam wants to try something new with you.

WARNING: smut, dark dom! ghostface! sam, dark sub!reader (they're both crazy), can be interpreted as intersex!sam or cumming strap-on sam, mentions of blood and murder, knife play, possessiveness, breeding kink, slight degradation & humiliation, aftercare +18 / men & minors dni.

Words: 5.5k | [ AO3 ]

In the middle of your night routine, you hear a thud somewhere in the apartment. Deciding to investigate, you left your glass of water in the kitchen. Like on autopilot, your feet already dragged you to approach towards the living room, and your gut was right: there was a tall figure that had caught your attention and a smile made its way to your lips with ease.

There stood Sam, in your unlit living room, her dark thick robe pooling by her combat boots and she was taking off the bloody Ghostface mask. Her hair was haphazardly tied up and she's left with her wifebeater tank top and dark sweatpants — bronze skin currently dripping with sweat. Sam had a blank expression on, maybe a hint of bloodlust glint that lingered on her face, which turned you on — imagining how it must've been so good to see her in the act, especially this one.

You spot a few bruises and cuts on her upper body. You already expected this, walking away for a second to retrieve the first-aid kit and mentally taking note to ice some of her bruises later.

Sam's hazel eyes lit up soon as she met yours, arms opening for a hug.

"Love. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?"

"You too, Sammy." You affectionately murmur and nestled deeper in the embrace and Sam tightens her grip in return. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

There you were with Sam in the small bathroom in your shared apartment. She sat quietly by the closed toilet, her arm brought up to you. Moments like this were your favorite, having to tend her cuts and bruises. There was something about Sam appearing as both vulnerable and vicious post-murder during the ungodly hours.

"Wanna tell me how it went?" You start as you wipe the remaining blood on her skin then you dab the cotton with alcohol feather light. The curiosity was eating you.

In return, Sam smiles at how your eyes twinkled as you asked, she pulls away slightly, her hold on you moving to your waist to pull you closer in between her legs. The faint smell of peaches and cigarettes immediately filled your senses.

She sighed, "He was all talk. Pissed me off a bit with that foul mouth he got running whenever he saw a woman..." Sam’s grip by your soft waist tightens at some thought, "It made me think of how rude and disgusting he must have been to you, princess. And that angers me so much."

"But you took care of it, I know you did good." you respond with much appreciation in your tone, as if the conversation that had transpired was casually about the weather. Your hands find their way on top of Sam’s hair, your thumb gently caressing through them.

The corner of Sam’s eyes crinkled. "Anything for my baby. He squirmed like a useless pig."

The cold room was filled with laughter. It was easy to say that the two of you were truly match made in heaven. The person in question was your boss, who thought he was being sly with his provocative comments and uncomfortable staring at you while at work. He was insufferable to say at least. Even the last interaction you had with him was you trying to play along with one of his nauseous comments because God knows given your position, he’ll always have his way.

Sadly for him, he doesn’t even know it'll be his last day to live.

Because you didn't even have to tell Sam because she was there to witness, right outside your workplace to pick you up and his sleazy gestures unfolded in front of your waiting girlfriend. Your boss just had to outwardly say that ‘he can’t get enough of your good and shapely presence’ within Sam’s earshot.

Now? He's nothing but a fresh butchered meat fed to a bloodlust Loomis.

You left your girlfriend in the bathroom for some privacy. For a few minutes, you heard water running. To your surprise however, as you plop down to your shared bed, Sam was across you and there was a pensive look on her face as she leans by the door frame. Her hair remains to be haphazardly tied on, her hands a bit wet.

“I wanna try something on you, baby.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What is it?”

“This.”

Sam retrieves a familiar dagger from her back – it was the one you managed to get your hands on and gave it to her as a birthday present. Back then, you didn’t know yet whether the Ghostface version of her had existed yet; but you did this anyway after she opened up about her previous encounters given by the reputation that precedes her, to provide her with some sort of an easy to carry and hide of a self-defence weapon. With her words and the dagger on her hand, you were confused to say at least.

“I need you to elaborate, Sam.” you ask, to which Sam bit her lip and sauntered towards you.

"I’m going to mark you with it. Nothing too deep and crazy, trust me. And you can also say no! I promise I won’t be mad. It’s only a thought, baby.”

“Alright.” You exhale, sitting with crossed legs, looking up to her and see Sam visibly becoming relaxed. “But can I ask why you want to do it? I genuinely just want to know your reason behind it. And how…exactly?”

Sam’s eyes softened as her eyes were pierced onto yours, "It’s basically just carving a small thing to your body. I… I want to mark you in a way that’s personal and close to who I am. Also, I want to remember us – this being my first kill for you.”

You understand now, pulling Sam by her thighs who still stood tall in front of you for a hug. The scent of peaches and cigarettes fill your nose once again, it was oddly addicting and comforting. It was distinctively very Sam.

"So, it's about owning me... in your terms?"

“Yes.” she whispered.

You decide to lighten up the mood, “And you’re sure this is your first kill for me? Not my old friend from my hometown?”

Sam frowned, almost not getting get your joke – but soon she heartily chuckles as the realization dawns upon her. There was another case you suspected, an old friend whom Sam felt very territorial over you when you told her that they confessed when you returned home. Suspiciously, they disappeared, but you find out a year later that they only travelled on a spontaneous trip.

“No. But... maybe I almost wanted to.”

You bite your bottom lip and Sam nudges you with her finger by your shoulder, motioning for you to make space for her in the bed. Now she joins you beneath the sheets, standing on her knees, looking down as she’s still towering over you.

“That’s hot.”

Sam shakes her head and closes the distance between you two, “Only you would say that…” She holds the dagger on her dominant hand, the sharp metal pointed away from you.

The cold night is coming to a close, barely feels like one, as the room starts to become heated. Especially with your girlfriend’s eyes unashamedly trailing over your body, like you were a delicious prey served as a five-star meal just for her.

“And that’s exactly why you love me.” You say with ease, lips now ghosting near hers, feeling her ragged breath increasing.

"Exactly, baby. No one compares.”

Sam tucked a stray hair behind your ear. Your face heats up at the gesture. You didn't feel any different around her, like any other day around her you remained to feel safe. Secured. Not even her retelling stories of her vivid killings can even change that. Perhaps, you were as sick as her, but you couldn’t give a single fuck about it.

With an exhale, you give her the green light.

"Okay baby. I trust you."

A wolfish grin appeared on her lips, changing so quickly like a mere switch. With that sight, a shot of arousal started to stir on your stomach.

"Remember your colors, baby. Say red and we’ll stop immediately. How do you feel right now?"

The dagger made its presence known as Sam dragged the pointed end on your bare right thigh with slight pressure startled you – not enough to draw blood – yet it was sharp and daunting, completely contradicting the gentleness in her tone.

"G-green," you stuttered out.

“Good girl.” Sam says and tilts your chin up using the dagger. “Now strip for me.”

Your breath hitches once again. The lust is heightened as you feel Sam’s piercing eyes on you, watching you wiggle off your skimpy shorts first, eyes following and so attentive to the growing damp spot on your underwear. Her dagger remained on your chin until it was time for you to strip out of her old loose shirt that you chose to wear earlier and Sam audibly groaned when she found out that you weren’t wearing any bra at all, she zones out in the sight. You feel her scoot on the sheets closer to you – to say that she was a big fan of your tits would be an understatement.

“Fucking irresistible,” Sam lets out a groan and starts to busy herself, already moved onto a different agenda – mouth and teeth getting involved as she marks and sucks all over your tits, your skin becoming thoroughly wet and littered with hickeys. For a few minutes she stayed on worshipping your upper body. While it turned you on, the ache in your cunt was also becoming an issue, making you squirm. “That’s already an appetizer and dessert for me, shit, you’re just so good…”

Now her thighs have your almost naked body trapped, Sam remains hovering above you as you laid down. You get a closer look of her taut muscles flexing through the wifebeater she wears as she moves, a few scars coming to light on her body. You realize that she’s about to take you while in her post-murder outfit, making you squirm your legs once again trying to find ease in your arousal. She’s still sweaty and sticky but you honestly can’t care any less. Not when you have her sculpted body ready to pounce on you at any moment.

“Aren’t you supposed to shower first?” You joke and her expression didn’t falter.

Sam only smirked. “We were going to change the sheets, anyway. I planned on having you either way for tonight.” Her hot breath was so close, tickling your exposed skin.

Your body felt warmer, opposed to her cold free hand that slightly startled you as she roughly palmed a cupful of your tits, giving it another good squeeze.

“Fuck…” you moan, her moves to affect you were rapidly increasing.

Sam teased again by her slow hands going for a sharp tug on your nipple. “We’re getting into it, princess.”

She lowered herself and finally met your lips for a kiss, the slow and softness of a start quickly dissipated as she grew hungry for more. Still kissing you, both hands trying to cup your face, occasionally darting her tongue on your mouth. Sam moved fast and rough, as though she was quenching her thirst and your lips were the only water left for her. You wouldn’t be surprised if your lips actually bruised. You were starting to feel breathless and lightheaded, trying to match her pace and she pulled away to tug on your bottom lip. She swiped it with her tongue for good measure. You don’t feel her close anymore and yet you still tried to chase her lips again, only to find out that she looked smug as soon as you opened your eyes.

“Just for me.” Sam murmurs to no one.

You dazedly acknowledge her, “Yes, only yours.”

“God, If you only know how you endlessly drive me mad...”

Sam had her palm pressed on the mattress, resting on the side of your head. You meet her halfway by having your elbows propped up, carrying your upper body’s weight. Yet, you don’t know how long it’ll last – not with Sam’s mouth leaving open mouthed kisses on your body; from your cheek, affectionate and soft, to your neck where her nose tickled you and mouth that met where your jugular vein rests – lingering to suck and bite. You don’t even try to conceal your moans to your girlfriend’s delight, the sounds loud enough to make her eager as ever. Your eyes roll on the back of your head, immediately lost to the sensation. With the tip of the knife pressed on your plush stomach all at once and scratching you lightly, though lifted quickly, it made your stomach twitch and you whimper.

You feel unbearably soaked, clearly wanting for more. Completely certain that you're damp enough for your Sam to smell your arousal. Your girlfriend smirks in confirmation and when she moves her hip low enough for yours to meet. When you pushed your core closer against your girlfriend's, Sam already has your ass cupped, squeezing your flesh, and it only made you grind hard enough to feel something hard —

Oh.

You feel her.

The walls of your cunt started to rapidly clench on nothing. Sam detaches her hips away from you after a little teaser and your fingers make their way to her hair, then caressing on Sam's nape and your girlfriend arches her neck, groaning in response. She moves lower, wanting to give you wet kisses placed on the soft rolls of your stomach which slightly tickled you in the process. You were about to protest, beyond needy, but it seems that Sam has already read your mind.

"Here it comes."

You take a deep breath and feel the sharp knife moving in ragged curves as Sam draws with it. She pushes it down a few millimeters more on your stomach. You groan in each line she makes, it stings a little as she continues marking.

"Wanna know what I marked, princess?" Sam regains your attention by tilting your chin up to look at her using the knife, you open your eyes, seeing the metal now painted with red specks of blood.

"Y-Yes.”

"It's the first letter of my name. So every time you take a look in the mirror naked, you'll always be reminded that you're nobody else's but mine."

"Oh fu- fuck, fuck!" you whimper, although now you feel turned on more than anything.

The knife resumes in contact with your freshly marked area again, Sam drags it as if she's tracing it for the second time on your skin. your eyes are screwed shut — you can't explain the sensation, walking in the line between pain and pleasure. It stings yet it's so addicting. You think that a huge chunk of it was maybe because it was Sam doing it with her honeyed voice and dark tunnel gaze onto you.

"You're doing so good, baby." She praises you, voice deeper than ever.

Sam crawls down lower onto you and you try your hardest to keep your eyes open, curious of her next move. The spot now feels wet as you feel your girlfriend licking your fresh wound and you let out a strangled moan in response.

“Oh god!”

When you made eye contact with your girlfriend, her eyes were heavy lidded more than ever. It’s evident even in the room that’s barely lit, only the lamp on, and you see her wet lips tugged in a smirk. The color red is slightly evident from having to sucked off the trail of blood that trickled out of your fresh wound.

Sam meant it when she said that it'll leave a scar enough for you to see even right after this session. In theory, you should be terrified of how precise your girlfriend is with the weapon, but you aren't at all. You are thrilled in reality, as you know that Sam is using a special dagger to brand you, different amongst the one she uses to kill her victims; this one was shorter and unused, not actually meant to kill. For you and only you.

After all, who doesn't like being proved to be her princess and a special exception?

The aftermath of the knife's stinging hasn't left just yet. As you reel into the sensation, you feel the mattress dip and you see Sam adjusting.

“Sit up for me.” Sam orders and you quickly scramble into position, legs folded, facing your girlfriend. “Color?”

“Still green.” you whisper, eyes becoming watery. “Can you please touch me now?”

Sam doesn’t respond. Instead, there was the dagger, the side of it being dragged across your tits down to your pelvis. Your girlfriend had set your underwear aside. You close your eyes again to flutter out the teariness, then something plunges inside of your core. The object feels foreign against your spongy walls and it's coming in fast and intrusive. It makes you moan unadulteratedly loud, heat spreading all over your body. It was the most relief your cunt has received had felt this entire session; evident in the way your wetness seeped more, yet you’re becoming slightly embarrassed of the sloshing sounds that fills the room as the thing continues to move in and out of your flesh.

"I wish I had recorded this, princess. Look at you taking it all in..." Sam murmurs huskily and her words feel hot on your body.

“Record?”

Your girlfriend tilts her head, “Maybe next time,” She winks at you.

You’re a putty mess under her touch. Sam finds utmost joy seeing you unravelling into this form, unable to form coherent sentences as she has her way with you. You meet her entranced look – mouth quirked up and eyes more lust filled. As your eyes trail lower over Sam, you notice that your girlfriend’s dominant hand has the dagger’s flat base carefully held – the handle being plunged in and out of your pussy. The bed creaks more.

"Your pussy is so fucking greedy, taking my dagger so good... I can feel you pulsating in it. Maybe I'm gonna fuck you right after then cum inside of you, as a reward, huh?" she changes the angle of the dagger’s handle, pushing deeper and faster into you and you feel yourself leak even more, grasping on her hair.

"Oh yes! yes! A-anything you want, S-Sam!"

"Knew you'd agree. My princess who's a whiny slut for me," Sam continues her ministrations, hand remaining precise, and you feel her free arm snake around your soft waist, as if she's trapping you. "you're making a mess in the bed, honey. Are you not embarrassed?"

You feel a twinge of embarrassment, realizing you were lost on riding your girlfriend’s dagger alone while she was simply thrusting the dagger’s handle in and out of you, all with ease, looking like a desperate whore while dripping and making a mess on Sam’s hand at the same time as your pussy overflowed with wetness.

"N-No, because I love being a slut for you," you whisper truthfully, now growing desperate to chase orgasm. "I'm so so close,"

“For me only.” Sam growls in response, making her thrust it more forcefully as if she was actually stabbing.

You let out a throaty moan and your hands moving so frenzied to alleviate the release by clawing all over Sam's back – anywhere you can reach and balance upon. Sam deliciously grunts at the action.

Like a cold bucket poured down on your then burning body, Sam dislodged the handle completely from your desperately soaked cunt. Now you’re back to clenching onto nothing, the ache between your legs becoming a real challenge for you to hold yourself for much longer.

"No, no, no! Fuck, I was about to cum, Sam..." you complain, feeling sensitive, tears running on your cheeks.

Sam comforts you, cupping your cheeks and wiping the tears away with her thumb.

"Patience, baby." your girlfriend hushes you and you find her looking completely lost as you are, giving you comfort. She had her free hand sprawled on your lower stomach. "Suck this for me first. Then I'll let you do whatever, baby."

Sam then raises the knife that was glistening off your own wetness from earlier, making your cheeks heat up. Goodness, it’s coated ridiculously with a copious amount of wetness... which you're supposed to suck. Not that you were new to this – sucking something off for Sam – but the thought still makes you a tad shy.

You’re starting to think Sam enjoys humiliating you this much.

"All of it. C'mon, baby, get to work so we can finish you sooner."

It's affecting Sam so much based on her raspier voice now. You comply with her order, making sure to put on a show; your free hand gripping on her shoulder and lips now on the handle of the knife, sucking all of your wetness that once coated it. You made sure to look directly at Sam's heavy lidded eyes, who was now completely hazy and her mouth open to your delight. You wanted her to lose her mind as much as you did, making sure that your cheeks were hollowed and moaning along the action, even making your tongue twirl around it. Your girlfriend exhales loudly at the sight you presented her.

“Fuck. You’re teasing me back, princess?” Sam tilts her head, questioning you. She discards the dagger, object clanking, and now somewhere on the floor.

You were more than happy to see that it got onto her. “Just putting on a show for you…”

Sam has enough, having a taste of your arousal as she grabs you for a bruising kiss. She seems to savor it as her tongue gets involved, as though she’s eager to taste her favorite flavor. "My little slut. Still green?"

"Yes."

"Does it hurt?" Sam traces lightly the now marked letter S wound that resides on your lower stomach.

"No," Your girlfriend smiles at your response and you close your eyes. The ache between your legs makes itself known as you squirm over Sam’s touch. You bit your lower lip in frustration. "Want you inside of me now, please, Sammy."

“Okay. I’m going to make you choose,” She looks you straight in the eye, “Do you want to lay down or to ride me?”

A moan already escaped your throat, “W-what would you like?”

“Don’t answer me with a question, baby. I am asking you.” Her voice is deep and stern, waiting for you.

You look at her still completely dressed – unlike you, all bare for her. You start to feel a little conscious so you decide to immediately change that up.

“Want to undress you and ride you.”

You were more than ecstatic, seeing Sam nod in agreement – you absolutely waste no time in removing her wifebeater tank top, sweatpants, and boxers immediately, appreciating all of Sam’s muscular and sweaty glory. It doesn’t help that she’s got a few specks of blood still somewhere on her body, the eroticism of it all is not lost on you. Her tits were hypnotizing and to see it paired with her hard on, makes you lick your lips in anticipation. You start to understand more why your girlfriend loves body worshipping so much, because you feel just the same as her.

Sam was amused at your dazed expression, so lost that she has to snap you to reality by pressing a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Ride me now, pretty girl.” She rasps out and you quickly get on Sam’s lap. Her length is pressed against your stomach, making your breath ragged and she isn’t even inside you yet.

You align yourself onto Sam, who glides her cock first into your wet folds. Your hands were on a deathly grip, squeezing over your girlfriend’s broad shoulder, and Sam is becoming more unrestrained with you. She huffs, snakes her arm by your waist then to your hips – continuing her motions until she is satisfied with how your wetness thoroughly coated her cock.

“Fuck, I’m going in now, baby…” Sam’s hazel eyes peer over you, searching for any sign of discomfort. She was only met with your lust filled eyes and opened mouth, easily one of her favorite sights when it comes to you. The tip teases your clit making you moan and finally, she pushes inside of you, making you both groan at the sensation. She's big and girthy, even if it’s only half of her cock that was fully in, and your walls were still adjusting to accommodate all of her. Sam understood this, hence her careful movements, afraid of hurting you by accident.

“Tell me whenever you’re ready, princess.”

You profusely nod your head in appreciation, “Y-yes, shit, give me a minute.”

As your walls were processing her length, Sam soaks in the feeling of being inside of you. It was so warm and comfortable; both of your single nerves felt like it was throbbing and clenching, and by God, the fucking clenching — you were gripping her cock in a way that felt delicious and so par with her possessiveness — the entirety of you, soul and body, are no one’s but hers. It was a feeling that Sam would never get tired of.

You’re now fully sinked into Sam’s entire length, eyes getting teary in pleasure.

“You can move now,”

Sam presses a kiss on your cheek and doesn’t waste a minute to move; Both weights being unminded given the position, the bed creaks louder than ever as you ride her. Your pussy is sopping, feeling soaked as a waterfall. In comparison to your throat, it feels dry with all the screaming you’ve done for Sam, already anticipating that you'll sound hoarse later. Maybe you won’t even have a voice to speak at all.

For a split second you think about the complaints you'd get the next day.

But being sunk deep in your girlfriend's cock, the thought vanishes quickly and you’re filled with so much desperation, hips rolling along with Sam's movements — so fucking close. The burning feeling of the cock against your walls soon dissipated, evident with the faster pace, the skin to skin slapping vibrates throughout the bedroom, your sheets are definitely mixed with wetness and stickiness.

One of Sam's hands was steadying you by holding on your soft and plush sides, the other kneading roughly on your tits. When you look at Sam, you see her eyes moving down and up in appreciation, drinking in your sight. you only moan louder as the sensations in tandem were driving you dripping and insane.

"Gonna fill you to the brim and paint your walls white," Sam’s promise vibrates delectably against your neck, the skin to skin slapping resonates louder than ever and she was pulling half and pushing in the whole of her cock in a rigorous motion. You feel helpless and reduced to a piece of dumb moanings.

"Look at you now, baby. fuck I’m gonna breed you. Not a single drop is going to drip out of this pretty pussy. I bet you'll like that, huh?"

"Y-yes, yes, yes!"

"With the sounds you're making alone, shit, ‘m gonna cum. You're driving me mad, baby,"

Sam’s fingertips were hard and rough in circle motions against your engorged clit. It was enough to drive you to be equally mad as her, you already know that you’ll be driven over the edge. She indeed filled you to the brim, your pussy welcoming all of her now. The knot in your lower stomach finally untangles – which was much deserved – you had cum hard with Sam’s relentless thrusts, and the relief immediately washed over your body. Now you're heaving on your girlfriend’s shoulder, trying to catch your breath, yet she hasn't stopped her actions still. With a few more thrusts and grunts, you feel your girlfriend finally shoot ropes of warm cum inside of you.

"Don't move just yet." Sam moans against your neck, but it's more of a command. you still feel your pussy pulsating like crazy from your high, thinking that Sam is only doing it to ride it out, squeezing all of the cum that both of you have to release. To your surprise, she only picked up the pace and started to thrust her cock onto your pussy once again.

"F-fuck, fuck, Sam! I'm still sensitive!" You try to slightly push her away by the shoulder.

Sam won't budge, knowing you'd say your safe word if it were the case.

"Shh. I know you can do more, princess,”

Your eyes were screwed shut and your neck thrown back, lost and savoring the pleasure. You feel how Sam's completely using your body for her pleasure, as she pulls almost her entire length out, tip of her cock still in, only to sink all of her suddenly in a fast manner. Your pussy walls were clenching, afraid that you’ll actually grow another type of heartbeat, as the pressure flows deliciously into you. You seep more wetness in the process. With Sam’s unforgiving pace, you can’t even say that you didn’t like that, being responsible for such insane fueled lust, so you let her.

The cum inside of you from earlier was getting messy as it was starting to leak along with the damp of your wetness in the sheets. If Sam's goal was to actually break the bed, you fear that it'll come to fruition as your girlfriend only continues to move her cock in and out rougher and faster than ever.

"These fucking pretty tits… all for me," Sam says in stupor, licking her lips at your sweaty and red figure. She lets her thumb and forefinger roll and tug on your nipple, then meets your mouth open in pleasure to swallow all of your moans.

Your grip on her moves to her tangled hair, barely tied now, tightened and tugging on her scalp to her pleasure. Sam grunts as she meets your hips rolling, now messy and slowly becoming uncoordinated, and gives a final few thrusts. Soon again, a relief washes over you so soon and you feel so full and insanely warm — Sam had just cummed for the second time inside of you and you just released your high as well.

"I told you," Sam huffed out, lips smirking as she looked up at you. "That I was gonna fill you up like crazy. What do you say about me marking you more, with a heart beside my first name letter this time?"

The feeling of the dagger both it’s sharpness and how she plowed it inside of you flashed quickly and familiar, the sensation still fresh. Your pussy throbs at the thought.

"You're insatiable." Sam chuckles at your words, combing your sweaty mess of hair as you whine half-heartedly at the equally messy appearance of your girlfriend’s suggestion. "And so cheesy. Like, a heart? Seriously?"

Although Sam wasn't affected at the jab in the slightest. She raises an eyebrow instead.

She cups your ass closer to her pelvis, as if there remains to be a distance between the two of you. Your cunt couldn’t help it but pathetically clench around her.

"Says the one who won't get off my cock still." Sam cockily retorts at you as she feels you adjust.

"Touché."

You remain in that same position until Sam notices that you're startled as she brushed her thumb against the fresh S wound.

She exhales and affectionately pats your plush thigh, "Let's get up before another round, princess. We have to clean that mark up, just in case."

You tighten the grip of your thighs now wrapped around her sweaty lower back refusing to get up.

"Don't wanna. I'm comfy in here."

You make it a point by keeping yourself snug as she's still inside of you and you clench your walls once again on her cock. Every time you do the action, the mixed fluid inside of you gushes even more, making a squelching sound and you drip a little more not only at the sheets, but as well as Sam’s thighs. Sam moans at this, her neck arched as she reels onto the feeling.

"C'mon you little tease. Say, I'll lift you through it?"

You look at her eyes seriously, "you'll stay inside?"

"Yes, doofus."

From a distance, you hear the television.

Man, 48, was found dead and stabbed twenty-six times, suspect remains unconfirmed but suggests the Ghostface’s brutal pattern….

“I guess no work for me tomorrow…?”

“And more time for me to ruin you. It’s totally a win-win.”

Sam laughs heartily at your joke and you find yourself joining along with her. You pay no mind, letting your girlfriend scoop you with ease as you make your way towards the sink and she takes care of you. It was safe to say it wouldn't be the last time that they'll be playing with the knife.

(please practice safe-sex!)

do not repost/translate on other sites. © wandagcre

#gg.writes #sam carpenter x reader #scream vi #wlw #lesbian #sam carpenter smut #ghostface #ghostface sam #samantha carpenter #sam carpenter x fem reader #scream 6 #sam loomis #sam carpenter x y/n #sam carpenter x you #sam carpenter

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strangersatellites · 2 years

Text

second installment of the eddie knows tarot-verse

decided to flesh out this post !! enjoy !! xoxo

part two is posted!!

edit: look at this AMAZING art by: @amethyst-crowns !

“What are these?”

Steve is gesturing to Eddie’s deck of tarot cards on top of his dresser.

Today has been just like every other Saturday has been for the past several months.

At the ungodly hour of nine a.m. Steve knocks on the trailer door to summon the boy out for their standing Saturday breakfast at the diner. After several cups of coffee and a rather mediocre stack of pancakes, they find themselves back at Eddie’s where the rest of the day is typically spent with Eddie strumming at his guitar and jotting down song lyrics and melodies while Steve entertains himself by either listening, interjecting with questions, or rummaging through Eddie’s things.

Today, he’s spotted Eddie’s deck.

Shifting in his spot on the floor he props his guitar against his bed and stands to walk to the dresser and retrieve the deck.

“I knew you were gonna ask that,” Eddie jokes as he pulls Steve to sit on the bed with him and starts shuffling with the cards.

Steve’s eyebrows furrow and he lets out a questioning hum making Eddie huff a laugh.

“They’re tarot cards,” he starts, dropping his voice low for dramatic effect. “Set aside your skepticism and allow the cards to tell you your fortune.”

Steve chuckles, “Don’t think I would call myself a skeptic, ya know, given the circumstances of the last several years of my life. But I’ll bite. What kind of future can they tell me, oh wise one?”

And see, as of late, Eddie has been working on not running away from things that scare him. Has been the reason he has run directly toward danger in situations severe enough to nearly cost his life.

Point is, one would think that by now he would know which scary things are hills worth dying on.

He doesn’t.

His big, fat crush on Steve Harrington clouds his judgment and drives his own morbid curiosity and self-destructive tendencies to have him saying, “Well, my favorite is the soulmate reading. Let's do that one, yeah?”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “They can tell me that?”

Eddie starts focusing his energy more intentionally on his card shuffling. Furrows his brows in an attempt to convey his seriousness.

“They can tell you anything, sweetheart.”

Decidedly dragging his eyes from the pretty flush covering Steve’s cheeks at the pet name, Eddie gives Steve a quick lesson in what he’s doing.

“So, basically, I just focus my energy-”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Shush!”

Steve giggles.

“I focus my energy on communicating to the universe what I am asking the cards. So this time, I’m asking them to tell me about the soulmate of the great Steve Harrington.” He catches the card that jumps out of the deck and into his lap and places it face down between them. “And that, Stevie, is how we pull cards.”

Steve looks questioning but not dismissive. “So you pick the ones that fall out?”

Eddie scoffs as he pauses his rapid shuffling and pulls a rogue card from where it’s peeking out from the deck. “Ones that fall out. No, Steve! I pick the ones that speak to me.” He resumes his shuffling and is immediately gifted with another two cards spinning out between them both.

Lifting his hands in a gesture of innocence Steve mutters apologies as Eddie stacks his remaining cards and sets them to the side.

‘Okay, pretty boy. Last chance to back out before all is revealed,” Eddie whispers, lining up the four cards he pulled.

Its an out for Steve if he was just feigning interest, and it's a copout for Eddie. Eddie who is actively psyching himself up to face disappointment at the task of telling Steve allllll about his dream girl.

Steve shoves his shoulder. “Shut up and tell me about them.”

Before flipping the cards face up, Eddie points at each one and tells what it is going to represent based on the reading format he chose.

“Alright, this first card is going to be representative of how your soulmate views you. The next one tells you who they are and how this person comes into your life, and the last two are descriptors of your soulmate.”

Steve takes a breath and gives a resolute nod.

Eddie steels himself and flips the cards.

Freezes.

Instantly his mind is running a mile a minute, both in shock and what the fuck he is going to tell Steve.

Let it be said that Eddie is nothing if not quick on his feet. And Eddie Munson knows for a fact that Steve doesn’t know anything about tarot. What’s he going to do? Correct him?

He claps his hands together and plasters on his most predatory smile.

“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie,” he tuts. “Now this is no surprise,” he starts.

And you see, the best kinds of lies are ones that are based in truth. That’s the reason that Eddie taps a finger over The Magician and says, “Your soulmate sees you as a person of great power and influence. King Steve, if you will.”

True.

Steve bristles a bit but nods along.

Pointing at the next card, “The King of Cups,” Eddie tells him, “Now this, this is a good one. This one says you’re going to be a great boyfriend-”

Not quite true.

“- and that your soulmate is a new person in your life. You meet a new girl and not tell me, Stevie? I’m hurt.”

Steve laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, I don't think so, no. Haven’t really had much time since the apocalypse, ya know,”

Eddie’s brain short circuits a bit at the idea that he is the newest person Steve knows. Right.

He opts to press on. “Ah this is interesting. The reverse King of Swords. Well, typically this represents someone abrasive. Brash, even.”

True.

“But since it's reversed, it means the opposite,” he says.

Not true.

“She’s going to be gentle and kind. Aw. Isn’t that sweet, Stevie.”

Even the thought of it makes Eddie’s heart flip over and twist with discomfort. Despite the fact that he’s lying out of his ass.

Steve is getting really into it and picks up the last card himself. “What’s this one? The Tower.”

Eddie twirls a piece of his hair around his finger and thinks for a split second before responding with the first thing that comes to mind.

“It’s a landmark. It means you’ll meet her somewhere you’re familiar with. Maybe that farmer’s market you like to go to on Sunday’s! That seems like a good place to meet someone.”

Steve wrings his hands together and then takes Eddie’s notebook from the floor to jot down what he’s learned.

If Eddie wasn’t already trying valiantly to hold back his own impending panic he might find his enthusiasm cute. As it is, he’s experiencing the heavy feeling of dread settling low in his stomach of the realization of what this reading actually says.

The Magician actually says that Steve’s soulmate had to learn to use their intuition to get to know him. Had to look past his power and influence, his King Steve persona.

The reverse King of Swords actually says that it's someone abrasive and blunt. Someone who uses words as a weapon and easily finds themselves in harm's way.

The Tower actually says that this person comes close to chaos, destruction. Has had their life turned upside down. When pulled with the reverse King of Swords it implies that this person nearly fell victim to their own rash decisions.

If that wasn’t enough, it's the King of Cups that really put Eddie over the edge. Because it tells us that Steve’s soulmate is someone older than him who came into his life with a bang.

It also says it's a guy.

But Eddie just agrees with Steve’s request to join him on a trip to the farmer’s market tomorrow and puts his cards back on the dresser with a ringing static sound in his ears.

He’s content to join Steve on his quest to find his nice girl at the farmer’s market if it means he never has to tell him the truth.

That the cards said Steve’s soulmate was him.

_________________________________________________

It's Tuesday night and Eddie is nose-deep in some book Gareth recommended to him. Truth be told it's boring, but he’s reading it because his friend liked it. He can never say Eddie never did anything for him.

A firm knock on his door frame has his eyes shooting up.

Wayne is standing there, hands in his pockets. He nods Eddie’s direction.

“Got a call from that Buckley girl, kid.”

Eddie furrows his eyebrows as he walks to the phone in the living room.

He answers with a question in his voice.

“Hey Bird. You okay?”

He is cut off from asking anything else when Robin launches into one of her rambles.

“Well honestly I feel like I might be going crazy because like a year ago- well I guess it was two years ago. Anyway- this one Summer our tv went out and I had to find other ways to entertain myself, and you know I’ve already read every book I own and Steve was working on his house and was busy all the time so no one could drive me to the library-”

“Bird! What’s going on? Why did you call?”

She groans dramatically, “I was getting there Eddie. But fine. I learned how to read tarot and I don’t know what you said to Steve about the soulmate reading you did for him, but I know for a fact that The Tower has nothing to do with the farmer’s market.”

And isn't that just it? All of Eddie’s carefully crafted lies coming back to bite him.

“I- Robbie. You can’t tell him. Please?”

Her voice drops in a show of sincerity.

“Of course not Eds. I won’t tell him.”

He heaves out a breath of relief.

“Thank you, Bird. I owe you one.”

She giggles.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” She pauses before she speaks again.

“Not with Steve though. He’s the one who taught me how to read the cards.”

#Eddie knows tarot #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie ficlet #Steve harrington #Eddie munson #Steve is causing problems on purpose #Eddie is going to have to go into hibernation after this stunt #robin is a ride or die #gin writes #shot of gin

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honey-words · 1 year

Text

spider boy — spider-man!midoriya izuku x reader

synopsis: you’ve talked to your neighbor a few times before and have waved at him on campus. But you’ve noticed he keeps really weird hours, sometimes hearing him go into his apartment at ungodly hours of the night. So when spider-man enters your apartment one night, it’s easy for you to connect the dots from there.

content warnings: mentions of blood/injuries, hints of angst, hurt/comfort

wc: 3.1k

author’s note: I believe in spider-man!deku supremacy :)

part 1 of the spider boy series

“Spider-man does it again! Only three blocks from the UA university campus, the masked hero—”

“You’re a spider-man fan?”

You jumped, almost dropping your phone and falling off of the bench in the process.

“Midoriya! You scared me.”

He laughed and you paused the video you were watching, a news clip from this morning. He settled down beside you on the bench, taking a sip of his iced coffee as he did.

“Yeah, I guess I am a fan,” you said. “Campus PD sucks and I think it’s funny a spider guy is more reliant than all of them put together.”

You both shared a laugh.

“I have to get to class,” Midoriya sighed, not making any movements to get up from the bench. “How’s Moony?”

“She’s great, thanks for asking,” you said, smiling back at him. Because Midoriya was the definition of a perfect neighbor. He had introduced himself when you first moved in and he saw the small cat carrier with a little black kitten, Moony, inside of it. From there it had been a pleasant acquaintanceship between the two of you.

“I’ll see you later, then,” he said, really standing up this time. “Bye!”

You waved goodbye as he left, then turned back to the video.

A thief had been running loose on campus for the last week, snatching cell phones and wallets from unsuspecting students on their way to class. Campus PD had found the thief this morning, literally on their doorstep with a sticky note that had a spider sketch stuck on his face.

A smaller feat of Spider-Man’s, but a good one nonetheless.

During your first lecture of the day you could see other people were watching the same video and reading the accompanying article. It was the first time Spider-Man had acted so close to campus, practically on the grounds of it considering where he had turned in the thief.

The person in front of you had a Reddit post pulled up, and you had to bite your cheek to refrain from laughing as you read the title. Spider boy or whatever is totally a UA student. Here’s my proof!!!!

Finding the professor’s lecture increasingly dry and dull, you decided to pull up the Reddit tab on your own laptop so you could read it, too.

By the time the lecture was over you had read the entire post (it was surprisingly long) and all of the comments underneath it, half-convinced of the theory yourself. It made some reasonable arguments—Spider-Man stuck to the surrounding city, usually went around at night, rarely seen throughout the day—keeping with the schedule of a college student. Sticking to the surrounding city pointed to the fact that he lived near campus. And the latest crime he’d solved was the cherry on top, because the alerts about it had gone out to all campus members since the incidents were contained to the campus.

The dull lecture came with dull readings, which you idly flipped through later that night. It was nearing 1 am, but sleep had not yet found you, and even the reading was not putting you to sleep.

You must’ve dozed off on your tiny kitchen table, Moony curled up on the chair next to you, because her surprised meow and the sound of a door closing close by woke you up a few hours later. Your phone lit up with an email notification (professors were truly unhinged with their work hours) and you were able to see the time without lifting your head up from the table. 4 am.

The door that had closed and woken you and Moony up had been Midoriya’s, you realized even in your half-asleep state. Occasionally the sound would wake you up, but you never minded it much and usually rolled over and fell back asleep.

This time you had to drag yourself over to your bed, and you could vaguely hear Midoriya moving around next door. What business he had this early in the morning you never knew. He seemed pretty normal, and you always assumed he was fond of late library study sessions. Even if it was not exactly exam season. But then again, he was a biochem major, you mused.

You fell asleep wondering about this and woke up five hours later to the sound of your blaring alarm. It snapped you awake, enough to hear a thud from next door. Did Midoriya fall out of bed?

The day passed as usual. You went to class, took half-hearted notes (it was hard to focus at this point in the semester—everyone was already burnt out) came home and ate dinner with Moony, and cuddled up on the couch together to do your readings.

This time you were ready to pass out outside of the warm embrace of your bed, so you’d done your nightly routine and brought over blankets to the couch, ready for sleep to come whenever it was ready.

The sound that woke you up this time was much louder. And Moony hissed.

She never hissed.

You froze from your curled-up position on the couch, eyes still heavy with sleep and senses scrambling to catch up with your brain and racing heart. The coffee table was right across from you, and by some miracle, you’d been sipping on a lemonade earlier—one in a glass bottle.

As swiftly as you could, you untangled yourself from the blankets and grabbed the lemonade bottle, wielding it in front of you like a sword.

It slipped from your grasp when you saw who was standing in front of you, next to your open window you always kept closed, scared Moony would climb out.

As if on reflex, as if he expected you to drop your weapon, Spider-Man shot a web just as it slipped from your fingers, catching it in his hands before you could even register you had dropped it.

Moony, who had been very annoyed at being woken up just a minute ago, was now rubbing her head on his shins affectionately.

“Moony,” you whispered. “Get away from him.”

“It’s okay!” Spider-Man said, mirroring your whisper. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then why did you break into my apartment?” You looked around for your phone, or another potential weapon. Instead, your gaze found the small digital clock you kept on a shelf near the door, the bright green numbers clearing away the fogginess of sleep.

It was 4am.

You could not help the gasp that escaped you.

“Midoriya?”

The effect was instantaneous. Spider-Man’s entire body language changed, that much you could tell, even in the dark. He took a step away from you, back toward the window, shoulders tense.

“What?” he said. Trying hard to keep his voice steady, even deepening it a little. But you knew it was him.

“Did you think this was your apartment?” You were connecting the dots now. “This is why you always come back so late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, inching towards the window. “I just got a little lost. Thought this place was empty.”

“You’re bleeding,” you said, pointing at the gash in his arm as though he had not noticed it himself. “Why’re you bleeding?”

Moony meowed, as though echoing your question. She was still close to him, and leaned forward to rub her head against his shin again.

This seemed to break him—his shoulders drooped and he let out a long exhale. He reached up and pulled the mask off, and you gasped again.

The left side of his face was covered in bruises, his eye starting to swell a bit. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, glancing down at Moony.

“Smart cat. She recognized me.” You winced and instinctively moved toward him when he tried to smile and grimaced at the action.

“Sit down, please,” you said, remembering to speak quietly. “You can’t die in my apartment. You can’t.”

“I won’t,” he said, letting you manhandle him into sitting on the couch. “Promise.”

“If you thought this was your apartment you’re definitely concussed,” you said, reaching up to move his curls aside, careful not to touch his face. The bruises covered his entire left side, also the side his arm was bleeding. “What happened to you?”

You snatched your hand away when he realized he was frozen, eyes to the side where your hand was.

“I got thrown into a wall,” he said, smiling again. A smaller grimace this time. “I’m really sorry.”

“You’re sorry for being thrown into a wall?” You shuffled to the kitchen to grab the tiny first aid kit you kept there. It was dusty and unused and consisted mainly of bandaids, something you started laughing at a little hysterically as you opened it on the couch, in between you and Midoriya. He’d leaned back onto the couch, breathing evened out. He was lying so still you thought he was sleeping, until he turned his head to see what you were laughing at.

“I only have bandaids,” you said, still laughing a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, I didn’t mean…” he started laughing. Quietly, then a little louder until you were both giggling and suppressing loud laughs.

“It’s okay,” he said, catching his breath again. “Can you help me get to my place? I’m used to patching myself up.”

It took five minutes, but eventually, you both managed to get out your front door, coaxing Moony to stay inside. Midoriya had one of his arms draped around your shoulder, keeping him upright. He had reassured you plenty of times as you both shuffled out the door that he was fine, he had been through worse. Which only made you feel worse.

His apartment was the exact same layout as yours, though a little messier, which he apologized for. There were notes all over his kitchen table, his couch was covered in blankets. You had a feeling he was prone to falling asleep all over his apartment like you did.

“Thank you,” he said once he had settled down on his couch. “I’m really sorry, again.”

“I know,” you said, sitting down beside him. You stared at the clock directly across from you, above his small TV. “I’m sorry for figuring out who you are.”

Another small laugh from him. “S’okay.” he shifted to look at you, and you mirrored him. It would have felt awkward being this close to someone you knew more in passing a day ago, but you felt as though this entire experience had automatically made the two of you friends. A trauma bond, of sorts. “You won’t tell anyone?”

You smiled back at him. “Promise.”

You didn’t remember getting back to your apartment, only that it took a lot of convincing on Midoriya’s part. The second you woke up (on your couch) you rushed to get out the door and knock on Midoriya’s until he opened, if anything to confirm you had not dreamed anything that had happened. But before you could get your slippers on, you saw a small note on the floor in front of the door.

Two spiders drawn holding hands, with “friends?” written underneath.

You slid it back under his door with your own addition — a drawing of a cat and “friends” written underneath his question.

——— * * * ———

“Trauma bond?”

“Yeah,” you said, shoving at his shoulder and ignoring his fake wince. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” he agreed, petting a meowing Moony in his lap. He was frowning down at her, and you had been around him long enough to know something was wrong.

It had been over a month since the break-in incident (which Midoriya was still apologizing for) and you had grown used to each other’s company. It had started off small—seeing him in the library during the day, studying quietly next to him. Stifling your laughter when he slid a spider doodle across the table to you.

After that, you noticed him around campus more often. You had always greeted him when he crossed your path, stopping to make small talk. But now you actually talked about things of substance. Setting up study sessions, inviting him over to play with Moony, exchanging recipes and even starting to cook at each other’s apartments.

“Is my pasta not good?” you said. Moony meowed, echoing your question from his lap.

“It could use some pepper,” he said, smiling teasingly at you. “No, it’s good. Just a rough night.”

“Wanna talk about it?” you said.

“S’okay,” he said. “We’re trauma bonded enough.” You felt a pang of guilt at the sadness in his tone.

“Midoriya—”

“Thank you for the pasta,” he said. “I can help with the dishes.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “You know we’re friends friends, right?”

He nodded. “I’m messing with you.”

“You little shit!” he laughed as you set your dishes down in the sink, shoving him slightly. He smiled slyly at you. He seemed like the perfect boy next door, but he was really a little shit. And he was the perfect boy next door.

“I haven’t heard you come back late in a while,” you said. He turned to look at you from his place at the sink, eyebrows raised.

“You wait up for me?”

“No!” you said indiginantly. “It just used to wake us up.”

“Really? I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” you said. “But you have to wake me up if you’re hurt really bad, okay? Even if it’s just to sit with you.”

A small noise of acknowledgement from Midoriya.

“What was that?”

“Promise.”

Satisfied, you got up from your place at the table, letting him finish up the dishes. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry in advance about the early morning wake up call.”

He still would not tell you where he went. But the news reports the next day served as the answers to your questions. A crime solved here, a criminal turned in there. The Spider-Man news page, ran by dedicated fans, was bookmarked on your computer and one of your most visited tabs. On nights when you couldn’t sleep and didn’t know where he was, you would refresh it every few minutes, waiting for an update.

Sometimes he would go during the day, and when you would get back from class he would be there on your couch with Moony, napping. You would sit on the opposite end and wait for him to wake up, then decide on what to make for lunch together. Not talking about the new bruise on his arm or the new cut on his leg. If he brought it up you knew it was okay to talk about it, but usually you both talked about normal topics. Avoiding the giant spider in the room.

“All done!” he said, falling down on the couch beside you. Reaching to pet Moony, who was cuddled up on your lap. Arm muscles flexing, hands softly running through Moony’s fur. It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore how jacked he was. Especially when he was literally always stripping in your apartment, changing from his suit into his regular clothes. Letting you sneak glances at his back, his chest.

“Take a nap,” you blurted. “If you’re going to be out tonight. You need to rest.”

“I will,” he said, smiling up at you. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not!” you said, huffing. “You better not visit me tonight. I expect you to kick ass and come back with no injuries.”

“‘Kay,” he said. “See you tomorrow?” You nodded and watched him dramatically sigh, throwing his head back on the couch before getting up and shuffling to the door.

The rest of your evening was spent anxiously trying to distract yourself. There was a nagging feeling in the back of your head, in the pit of your stomach. After finishing your homework and realizing it was hours before your usual bedtime, you cleaned your apartment. Reorganized, moved things around.

You decided to settle on the couch for the night. Better place to hear Midoriya come back.

The sound that jolted you awake a couple hours later was louder than usual, and it woke you up quicker. A quick glance at your clock let you know it was only 1am.

“Midoriya?” you said quietly, sitting up. “You okay?”

He was standing near your window, at almost the exact same spot as a month before, when he had first broken in.

“No,” he said. Voice hoarse and almost too quiet for you to hear.

You were up and leading him over to the couch in an instant. His mask was already off, clutched in between his fingers

“Are you hurt?” you said, patting down his arms and running your fingers over his face softly, scared to touch a bruise or aggravate a cut. A shake of his head.

You gently took the mask from him, setting it down on the coffee table with one hand, the other gripping his hands tightly. “Want to talk about it?”

He nodded, squeezing your hands back. “Later.”

“Okay,” you said, scooting closer to him on the couch so your shoulders pressed together. “I’m here, okay? It’s okay.”

You were ready when his shoulders started shaking and he slid into your hug, staining your shirt with his tears. You ran your hands through his hair, rubbing your fingers along the nape of his neck. Repeating the phrase over and over until it felt like you were trying to convince yourself of the same thing.

The bruises were on his side this time—no cuts deep enough to warrant him going back to his apartment to patch himself up. You helped him get his suit off slowly. The tears hadn’t stopped, and yours had started fifteen minutes after his. It hurt to see him like this and not know how to help. Knowing all you could do was help him get back to his apartment and keep his secret.

“Can I stay?” he said. He was holding the top half of his suit to his chest, hugging it.

“Yeah, course you can,” you said. “I’ll get you some clothes.”

Moony walked out of your room with an annoyed meow. She had been sleeping, but once she spotted Midoriya she happily sauntered over, already purring.

Once he had changed into the clothes his eyes started to droop, and you started convincing him to sleep in your room. He kept shaking his head, until he finally told you, “Don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay, I’ll stay with you,” you said. Slipped out so easily you had no time to realize you had said it until he nodded and you were walking into your room and settling under the covers, Midoriya turning to face you, lashes wet with tears.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, reaching to intertwine your fingers with his. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”

He blinked slowly at you, sleep making his eyes heavy. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

masterlist

#midoriya izuku x reader #midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku x you #mha x reader #bnha x you #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoriya x you #deku x reader #midoriya izuku x oc #spiderman deku #bnha fanfiction #spiderdeku

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nostalgicnarrator · 5 days

Text

𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚊𝚠𝚖𝚎𝚗

───── ☾ ⍟ ☽ ─────

Word Count: 7736

Parings: Thorn X Bilbo

Description:

Thorin has had it with this outlaw.

───── ☾ ⍟ ☽ ─────

1 / 2

Note:

I put my cowboy hat on first this one, let me know if you want to see more. I might make it into a AO3 book if people want it enough.

⚠️Warning⚠️

Mature content.

───── ꧁✪꧂ ─────

The sun wasn’t even over the horizon when the knock came, loud and persistent, and far too early in the morning for Thorin’s liking.

He was in the middle of a deep, dreamless sleep. The knocks started quietly, just enough to stir him. But they didn’t stop. The knocking quickly turned to banging.

Thorin groaned loudly, dragging his hand down his face. And that’s how he found himself standing at his front door staring at a boy who shoved a paper in his hand.

Thorin half-expected some emergency, not some kid. The problem was that Ered was quiet most mornings, but it had its moments, so when someone comes banging on his door this early, it was usually serious.

Not for some paper. He raised his brow at the young man as he stood there, barely awake himself. The boy rubbed his eyes, swaying slightly as if he might fall asleep standing.

“Telegram for you, Sheriff,” the boy mumbled when he handed it over.

Thorin blinked at the offending piece of paper. It felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried some kind of unseen weight. Something in his gut told him this wasn’t good, it felt… wrong.

He quickly read the message, his brow furrowing as his tired eyes tried to make sense of it.

꧁——————————꧂

꧁𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖꧂

𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚝: 𝟻:𝟶𝟶…..𝚃𝚘: 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝙾𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚍

𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍: 𝟼:𝟹𝟶……

𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙴𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝙱.

꧁——————————꧂

Thorin stared at the telegram. “B,” he muttered to himself. Just a letter, no name. He turned the telegram over as if he might find some clue hidden on the back.

“Who sent this?” Thorin asked, glancing at the boy. Feeling about as annoyed as a wet cat.

The young man shrugged, still half-asleep. “Dunno. Just got handed it at the post office this morning. Told to deliver it.”

“Great,” Thorin muttered, running a hand through his hair. He shooed the boy away.

He all but slammed the door as he tossed the telegram paper on a table and stormed upstairs. His mind was unhelpfully loud and annoying.

He had no idea who “B” was, or why this person thought it necessary to bother him at this ungodly hour. And why a cryptic message about a train?

It wasn’t like trains were a rare occurrence in Ered. They’re not often eather, and when they did come through they had small shipments. But him getting the notice didn’t make sense. The mayor normally gets the notice about the trains, not Thorin.

He flopped over onto his bed and tried to go back to sleep. His mind rolled through thoughts of who could have possibly sent it.

At first his mind landed on Balin, but that makes no sense, first of all, Balin would’ve waited, second he wasn’t always needed when it came to deliveries. The few times he was, was when the bank got new bills in or gold shipments.

Besides, Balin didn’t deal in cryptic messages; he was direct, always to the point. So If it wasn’t Balin, then who?

He turned the letter over in his mind. Bofur? No, not likely. Bofur wasn’t much for secrets, the man would have blurted out whatever he had to say in the middle of town for all to hear. Probably would have burst into song about it if someone got a little liquor in him.

Bombur wouldn’t send it either, he got his shipments with his brother, and when he didn’t it came by wagon. Sure the man was shy but he knew Thorin and they’ve talked a few times.

Bifur? No, Bifur probably didn’t understand how telegrams worked, so it couldn’t be him. Thorin groaned and rubbed his face again roughly.

None of them would have done it. they all would’ve told him in person if they did actually need help, and at a more reasonable hour.

So it had to have come from outside of Ered. But who, in their right mind, would do this?

“First that outlaw,” Thorin grumbled under his breath. “And now this… I can’t catch a break.”

Thorin hadn’t even caught his breath from that whole disaster, the universe is out for his blood. He could feel it. Thorin sat back up with a huff, he decided to get ready for the day. It was clear he wasn’t going back to sleep any time soon.

And he could feel something was off about this whole situation. It nagged at him like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. The one thing Thorin had learned over the years was that trouble didn’t usually announce itself. It snuck up on you.

Thorin sighed heavily, he really didn’t want to deal with any more problems, he shoved his boots on and pulled his hair back before plopping his hat on his head. He was already tired, and the day hadn’t even started yet.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Thorin looked up from his desk when Dwalin walked in, the man looked as exhausted as Thorin felt, he vaguely wondered if the deputy got a Telegram too.

That thought left him quickly when Dwalin looked at Thorin with confusion. Dwalin tossed his hat on his desk, it landed with a soft thud. The man slowly walked around to Thorin before he leaned back against the table. He crossed his arms. Dwalin flinched in pain as he did.

Thorin cringed as he saw, Thorin knew Dwalin wasn’t fully healed, but the man wouldn’t stay home no matter how much he was begged, bribed or told to. So Thorin let him keep working, (more like didn’t have a choice)

“Well, I’ll be,” Dwalin chuckled, eyeing Thorin. “What are you doin’ here so early? You usually ain’t this eager to start the day.”

Thorin sighed, his fingers tapped impatiently on the desk. Without a word, he picked up the telegram card.

“I’ve been debating whether to burn this thing in the stove or not all morning,” Thorin grumbled, handing the telegram over like it was the most offensive thing in fifty miles.

Dwalin took it with a smirk, glancing at the Telegram. His eyes moved to the card back to Thorin, then down to the card again. Slowly, he snatched it up and read it.

After a few moments the smirk slipped off Dwalin’s face, replaced with something more serious.

“What do you make of it?” Thorin asked, already half annoyed by the silence.

Dwalin narrowed his eyes, holding the card up to the lamp light as if checking for anything else. “Thorin,” he began carefully, “do you have any clue who this is from?”

Thorin leaned back in his chair, throwing his hands up in frustration. “No! I’ve been rackin’ my brain over it, and I can’t figure out who this ‘B’ is supposed to be!”

Dwalin paused and slowly turned his head to squint at Thorin. He shot Thorin a look that made the sheriff pause and stare back. “What?” He asked after a beat of silence.

The deputy let out a long, exasperated sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you stupid, or are you just playin’ dumb?”

Thorin straightened in his seat, the irritation from before coming back ten fold. “Excuse me?”

Before Thorin could get another word in, Dwalin cut him off, shaking the telegram at him. “It’s Bilbo, you idiot.”

Thorin blinked, surprised. His expression darkened. “Bilbo?” Granted he had started to think the same thing but- “That outlaw’s not that dumb! And, even if you were right, why would he sign the telegram? It’s too obvious.”

Dwalin rolled his eyes, tossing the card back onto Thorin’s desk. “He clearly wants you to know it’s him! -You really think someone else is gonna go through the trouble of sendin’ your dumb ass a message like this?”

Thorin crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw clenched. “It could be anyone. What's the point then? Why tell me about a train?”

Dwalin let out a grunt, standing up and grabbing his hat. “I’ll tell ya what-he’s tryin’ to get under your skin or he’s just fuckin’ with ya. And by the look of it, he’s succeedin’.”

Thorin bristled. “Where’s your proof?! I'm tellin’ you! If it was Bilbo, I’d know!”

Dwalin raised an eyebrow as he fixed his hat back on his head. “Fuckin’ shit Thorin! Ya really think Bilbo plays by the rules? Outlaws like him, they make their own rules. Now, we can either sit here and argue about it, or we can head to the train station to see if I’m right.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, his pride burning in him. He wanted to prove Dwalin wrong, but he couldn’t deny that there was something about this that gnawed at him.

Thorin stood up, grabbing his own hat and putting it on his head with more force than necessary.

“Fine, We’ll go. If this turns out to be nothin’, I’m holdin’ you responsible for draggin’ me out there.” Thorin grumbled as he stomped out of the office.

Dwalin smirked and quickly followed. “Oh Sheriff, I’m sure it’ll be well worth the trip.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

They had been waiting for hours. Thorin checked the clock on the station wall and let out an impatient “tsk.” Dwalin, who was leaning against a wooden pole, glanced over at the noise.

“Ya gonna keep doing that every five minutes?” Dwalin asked, sounding frustrated.

Thorin got up from the bench he had been sitting on with a frustrated grunt. “We’ve been here for hours, and there’s no train. It's gettin’ hot, and I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast!”

Dwalin raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ya sound like a child.”

Thorin shot him a glare, opening his mouth to retort. Another voice interrupted.

“Uncle!” Fíli yelled as he quickly came up the stairs. “There you are! Ma got worried when you two weren’t in the office.”

“Yeah! She brought lunch for you- unfortunately it must’ve mysteriously disappeared” Kíli said as he shrugged before he came over and stole Thorin’s hat.

The boy plopped it on his head and beamed at his brother. Thorin gave the boy an unimpressed look and snatched his hat back. “Uh-huh sure it did. Tell your momma I’m sorry, but we’re waitin’ on a train so-“ Dwalin interrupted.

“I’ll tell you what we’re waitin’ on, we’re waitin’ for that outlaw, Bilbo.“ the deputy said as he glared at Thorin.

“Ohh! That explains the telegram then!” Kíli said as he nodded very seriously.

Fíli paused for a second then slowly looked at Kíli. “What telegram Kee?”

“The one on uncle’s desk! The B at the bottom makes so much more sense now-” Kíli tried to say, but he was quickly interrupted.

“What?!” Fíli shouted and whipped around completely to glare at his brother. “You saw that and didn’t think to tell ma or me?! Kee!!”

Kíli put his hands up in mock surrender “Well if I did, I wouldn’t of been able to eat lunch! And it didn’t seem like a big deal!”

“It couldn’t have been a bigger deal! What if uncle had gone out after him! No one would have known anything! You know he doesn’t tell anyone anything!”

Thorin decided to stop them when Fíli’s hands started twitching. He knew his sister would like to keep both her sons in mostly one piece

“Alright-alright! you two that’s enough-” but then there was a distant screeching noise. Thorin turned to look.

There was a low rumble too, that started to fill the air as a train moved closer, Thorin could see the billowing of smoke in the distance.

Dwalin stood up straighter, adjusting his hat. “Here it comes,” he said, he tilted his head as he watched the train. “…it’s movin’ fast. Too fast-“

Thorin frowned, watching the approaching train. The rumble grew louder each second that passed, the ground beneath them trembling as the train neared.

Dwalin was right, the train was going too fast, Thorin was pretty sure trains didn’t come barreling through stations like that, unless something was very, very wrong.

The train rocketed through the station in a blur of steam and steel, the air whipping around them as it shot past. Thorin barely had time to catch his hat as the force of the train sent a gust of wind blowing through the station’s platform.

Then, Thorin caught glimpses of human shapes through the windows of the passenger cars, people, civilians- were trapped in that train.

“Hell,” Dwalin muttered, his eyes widening. “You don’t think…”

“Were those?” Fíli asked quietly by Thorin’s side.

Thorin’s jaw clenched, his anger flared. Dwalin was right. Bilbo had sent the message, but this wasn’t just some ordinary train coming through town. This was a hostage situation.

As the end of the train sped past, Thorin’s eyes locked onto a figure standing on the roof of the rear car. His heart lurched when he recognized the figure, he was standing tall and confident despite the speed.

Bilbo Baggins, tipped his hat and bowed with exaggerated enthusiasm. When the outlaw looked back up, his eyes quickly met Thorin’s and Thorin felt a surge of anger and adrenaline. Even though he couldn’t see it Thorin could feel the smug smile on Bilbo’s face.

Dwalin let out a low chuckle that immediately had Thorin glaring at him, this wasn’t funny. “Told ya it was him.”

Thorin clenched his fists. “We don’t got time for this, Those people are in danger!”

Dwalin’s smirk faded, his eyes narrowing. “Right. I’ll gloat later.”

Thorin turned to his nephews. “Fíli your honorary deputy till I get back! Understand?”

Fíli stuttered a bit before quickly shouting after them. “What- but! Uncle wait”

“What about me!” Kíli whined with a huff.

“Tell your mother she’s sheriff if I don’t come back!” Thorin yelled as Dwalin mounted their horses.

Thorin kicked his heels into his horse’s side, urging her forward, and Dwalin was right behind him. The sound of hooves thundered against the ground as they raced after the train.

“What do you think his plan is,” Dwalin called out over the wind, giving another flip to his reins as they sped along the tracks.

But Thorin couldn’t answer, his focus was on the retreating figure of the outlaw. how Bilbo had managed this, he’d probably never know.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Bilbo dropped down onto the Gangway, his boots hitting the metal with a soft thud. He straightened, dusting off his poncho unnecessarily.

The wind whipped around him still. With a quick motion, he stepped into the passenger car. And pulled his mask down. He took a deep breath and looked around.

The inside of the car was dimly lit, the lamps flickered as the train cars swayed dangerously. Bilbo took a moment to survey the “passengers.” Each seat was filled, but not with people, no, he didn’t want anyone to get hurt after all.

Instead the seats were occupied by dummies, dressed in old clothes Bilbo had managed to get from whoever he could, most only being shirts or old hats.

The figures sat still and lifeless, rocking with the cars their heads slumped forward as if they were sleeping. A few had faces sloppily drawn onto their cloth heads.

Bilbo smiled to himself, the sight of the dummies filling him with a sense of satisfaction. The ruse had worked perfectly. He had to give himself credit for creativity.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” He said as he glanced at the back of the car.

Bilbo’s eyes landed on his right-hand man, who was leaning back casually in one of the seats, his arms crossed. The man’s sharp brown eyes scanned the room with an approving nod.

“As impressive as it is crazy,” his right-hand man said as he shook his head. “Are you sure it worked boss?” The man’s tone was light, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes.

Bilbo nodded, walking down the aisle between the dummies inspecting his work. “Oh, it worked. Trust me, Thorin’s the kind of lawman who can’t resist a baited hook.” Bilbo nodded to one of the Dummies as he sat down across from his right-hand man. “Especially if it involves a train full of ‘innocent’ passengers. He’ll be on board soon enough.”

“… Is this all really just to see if those stories about the sheriff hold water?” The man asked quietly as he leaned forward, giving Bilbo a strange look.

Bilbo tapped the man’s hat. He quickly moved to fix his hat with a grumble. “You, my dear friend, worry too much,” Bilbo said with a sly smile. “You know how people love to blow things out of proportion”

His right-hand man smirked back. “I don’t have anyone else to worry over B, and you happen to be the most worrisome thing in my life”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and sighed. He leaned back against the seat, the smile fading from his lips as his usual bravado slipped away. “I’m sorry.” He muttered.

His right-hand man looked over, “What for, B?” He asked, he sounded concerned. “You didn’t do anything”

“For making you help me again… I didn’t realize so much of your old life was waiting for you in that town. If I’d known- I should have known…” Bilbo trailed off, glancing down.

The right-hand man waved it off, letting out a quiet sigh. “No need to apologize for that, boss man. Neither of us knew, and it doesn’t matter now. I’d, without a second thought, go back there if you needed me to.”

Bilbo looked up at the man, He let a smile slip back on his face “I won’t make you go back there again, not unless you want to.”

They sat in silence for a beat, a moment passing between them. Then, with a sharp inhale, Bilbo stood, his grin turning more playful. “Come on, if we don’t hurry, they’ll catch up.”

“Right.” His right-hand stood up and readjusted his hat again to hide his face more. He followed after Blibo as the two men began to make their way further up the train.

“I want Thorin and Dwalin to feel… welcomed when they finally decide to hop aboard.” Bilbo looked back and smiled at his right-hand.

The man nodded. “As welcomed as they can be on this train anyway, all the muscle is in place…”

“Good,” Bilbo said with a satisfied nod. “Let’s make sure everything runs smoothly. I don’t want anyone dying on my train”

“Yes sir boss man,” the man hummed. “Paid off the conductor yesterday. He’ll take us straight through without any interruptions, if he can help it. And the thugs owe us a favor”

Bilbo nodded, “good, then let’s get moving, we need to make sure we can get to the engine to escape.”

The right-hand man shook his head. “You really are crazy Bilbo.” With that, the two of them made their way to the front of the train, the dummies sitting silently in their seats as the train rattled on through the open plains, waiting for the inevitable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The landscape blurred as Thorin and Dwalin raced behind the train, their horses being pushed to their limit. The wind howled past them, tearing through their clothes as they thundered over the open plains.

Thorin could feel his heart pounding in time with the rhythm of everything; the gallop of hooves, the rattling train wheels.

Ahead, the train barreled forward, the smoke from its engine trailing behind like a dark cloud. It cut through the open land, speeding forward.

Thorin looked ahead and saw a narrow bridge over a large river, he cussed under his breath and turned his head towards Dwalin. “Dwalin! We need to get on that train! Now!” He shouted as loud as he could.

Dwalin gave a sharp nod and spurred his horse, digging his heels into his horse’s side. His horse surged forward, cutting through the wind as Dwalin leaned low like a horse racer.

Dwalin reached out, his fingers brushing the iron handle on the back of the caboose car, he pushed himself forward, then the train’s wheels screeched loudly as it hit a sharp curve, the cars swaying dangerously from side to side.

He missed the handle and as he was about to fall, in a moment of panic, grabbed the railing with his other hand. The force pulled him out of his saddle, with a grunt of pain Dwalin hauled himself up.

The second his boots finally hit the metal platform with a heavy thud he had to use the railing to keep himself upright. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, wincing as he gripped his shoulder.

He looked behind him and turned. He shouted over the roar of the wind and train. “Thorin!” He reached out his hand and Thorin nodded.

Thorin's horse struggled to keep pace even before he leaned forward and spurred his horse to go faster. She tried to run faster but Thorin could feel her falter. He leaned out, reaching for Dwalin’s outstretched hand.

Dwalin surged forward, grabbing Thorin’s wrist, and with a powerful yank, he pulled the sheriff off his horse. Thorin’s stomach lurched as he left the saddle, but before he could process the motion, his feet slammed onto the platform of the caboose. He stumbled for a second, but quickly found his balance.

Their horses fell back. But they kept following the train at a slower speed. The train roared onto the narrow bridge and the horse broke off to cross though the river instead.

For a moment, the two of them just stood there, breathing heavily. Dwalin still leaned heavily against the railing, clutching his shoulder.

Thorin glanced at him. “You alright?”

“Yep.” Dwalin grunted, he didn’t even look up.

“You sure? That didn’t look-” Thorin tried to ask but snapped his mouth shut when Dwalin glared at him.

Dwalin gritted his teeth. “Ask me one more stupid question, and I’ll slap you upside the head.”

Thorin raised his hands in mock surrender, “Fine. Relax.”

They stood there in silence for a beat, the bridge speeding past beneath them, the clatter of the wheels filling the air. Thorin looked down at the tracks, watching the blur of the river below, before turning back to Dwalin.

“That was close,” Thorin muttered.

Dwalin let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “the word close isn’t the right word for what that was”

Thorin nodded, glancing toward the train. He exchanged a look with Dwalin, who took a steadying breath before pushing himself off the railing. “Come on, let’s move,” Thorin said.

With a little difficulty, they managed to budge the door that leads inside open. The car was a mess, crates and tools had been thrown around. They carefully made their way through the clutter, checking any would-be hiding places before heading into the passenger cars.

The moment they entered the passenger car, Thorin’s instincts kicked in as he dodged a fist, pulling Dwalin with him. The man was burly, his face set in a seemingly permanent sneer.

he swung again, his heavy fist straight at Thorin. He barely had time to react before the punch connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards. He forced himself to recover quickly.

The sheriff squared himself up and threw his own punch, landing a solid hit to the man’s gut. He quickly dodged the next punch and threw another.

Meanwhile, Dwalin found himself face-to-face with a different goon on the opposite side of the car, he was a lanky man with a crooked grin. Dwalin tried to square his shoulders but hissed in pain instead.

He grabbed at his shoulder but the goon lunged didn’t even give him a second to breathe as he swung at Dwalin hard, he quickly put his arms up and blocked.

Thorin, after a few rough exchanges, managed to kick the man in his stomach to force him on his knees before landing a hard jab at the back of the man’s head. The man dropped like a bag of bricks.

Thorin stood there for a moment breathing heavily, he turned to see Dwalin wrestling with his own opponent. Thorin rushed over, landing a quick blow to the man’s side, allowing Dwalin to finish him off.

As they caught their breath, Dwalin let out a sudden laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

Thorin turned, confused, only to see what Dwalin was laughing at. stuffed dummies, dressed in old clothes, sparsely sat in the passenger seats. They definitely looked like real passengers from a distance.

Thorin growled and frowned. “Bilbo! Damn that outlaw! Damn him!” he muttered under his breath, stomping through the car, checking each seat as he went. He flipped over one of the dummies in frustration, gritting his teeth.

“Looks like you’ve been had, Sheriff,” Dwalin teased, his voice still strained.

Thorin decided to ignore his deputy, and he straightened up. “We need to keep moving.”

Just as the words left his mouth, the door behind them slammed open. A group of Bilbo’s thugs barreled into the car, guns drawn.

They all stood in stock still. Thorin blinked in surprise before barking, “Move!” As his hand darted to his gun. He shot at the wall behind the men and the goons ducked away. Dwalin and Thorin bolted past them and into the open car the men just came from.

They bolted through the cars as fast as they could, dodging bullets and scrambling over overturned dummies. The train jolted beneath them.

As they ran, Thorin’s eyes darted to the narrow gap between the gangway’s. He knew they couldn’t keep running like this if they didn’t shake the outlaws soon, they’d be overrun.

Thorin glanced back, then quickly shoved his gun back in its holster before grabbing hold of the lever that would uncouple the rear passenger cars. He heaved it downward with all his strength.

There was a metallic clank followed by a sudden lurch as the cars separated from the rest of the train. Thorin and Dwalin stood there catching their breath, watching as the uncoupled cars slowly drift away.

Thorin sighed heavily and turned to Dwalin, “Let’s go,” Thorin muttered, stepping back into the remaining cars. There were only a few more left now. The train began to pick up speed at the lost weight.

Inside, the car was eerily quiet. The stillness was unsettling, the only sound the faint creaking of the train as it rattled along the tracks. Thorin’s eyes scanned the room. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, was watching them.

Dwalin stood beside him, his hand resting on the hilt of his gun. “This feels off,” he whispered to Thorin. Thorin nodded and took a step forward.

Then a low chuckle echoed from behind them, sending a cold shiver down his spine.

They spun around, Standing behind them in the doorway they just came from was Bilbo, his face covered by his handkerchief. His eyes gleamed with amusement, and he leaned casually against the wall, as if this were all just a game.

Thorin’s jaw clenched as he glanced toward the other end of the car, his stomach sinking when he saw Bilbo’s right-hand man standing there, blocking their only other way out. They were trapped.

Dwalin moved closer to Thorin, their backs pressed together, as they quickly drew their weapons. Bilbo and his right-hand man drew their weapons in return, both of them moving with ease, as if they had done this a hundred times before.

The four of them stood at a standstill, guns pointed at one another, the tension in the room thick enough to cut.

“Well, well,” Bilbo said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Look what we have here. The fearless Sheriff Oakenshield and his trusty deputy, running through my train like children playing tag.”

“Fucking, god damn it,” Thorin cursed under his breath.

Bilbo’s grin widened beneath the handkerchief. “Now, now, Sheriff,” he said with a teasing lilt. “No need for foul language. Why don’t you be a good little lawman and take a seat? You look like you’ve had quite the day.”

“Not happenin’,” Dwalin growled, his voice low.

Bilbo sighs and rubs his forehead. “You two really are a headache, you know?”

Thorin kept his eyes locked on Bilbo, his mouth moved before his mind could stop him. “Why?” he asked, his voice surprisingly steady. “Why the train, the dummies? What’s your game this time, Bilbo?”

Bilbo’s eyes glinted with amusement as he let his hand drop away from his head, he raised a brow. Why?” he repeated back playfully. “I got bored, Sheriff. It’s as simple as that.” Bilbo shrugged.

Thorin felt the bubbling of frustration again. “You expect me to believe that? You risked all this just because you were bored?”

Bilbo chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving Thorin. “Well, when you’ve lived the kind of life I have, boredom is the most dangerous thing. I like to keep myself entertained.”

“Entertained?” Dwalin spat angrily. “By messing with people? By running around killin’ and stealin’ from innocent folks?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Innocent, not so innocent. It’s all a matter of perspective. I do what I have to.”

Dwalin growled and moved to face Bilbo, Thorin’s grip on his gun tightened and he shot his deputy a look. “Enough! What do you really want, Bilbo?”

Bilbo’s grin widened. “Let’s just say I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The legend of Sheriff Oakenshield. The man who never misses. So far, not impressed sheriff.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, his patience was wearing thin now. “You think this is some sort of game, but it’s not going to end the way you think.”

Bilbo tilted his head, his words taking a more serious edge to them. “Oh, I’m well aware of how this ends, Sheriff. But I think we both know it won’t be-.”

Without warning, Dwalin bolted forward, charging straight at Bilbo. Unable to move faster enough to dodge Bilbo, the deputy ends up crashing to the floor.

The two of them tumbled backward, their guns clattering to the floor as they wrestled, Throin blinked in surprise at his deputy.

The two men grappled furiously, fists flying and boots skidding on the train’s wooden floor. Dwalin, despite his shoulder, was relentless, using brute force to pin Bilbo down.

Dwalin was scrambling for his gun. He was able to snatch it up. Then, just as fast as Dwalin was, Bilbo's right-hand man pressed his gun to the side of Thorin’s head, the cold metal digging into the sheriff’s temple.

“Drop it, Deputy,” the man ordered, his voice ice-cold. “Unless you want to see how fast I can pull this trigger.”

Dwalin froze, his brows furrowed as his eyes darted between Thorin and the gun, his breathing heavy. He looked at his own gun then he muttered a curse under his breath and let his weapon fall to the floor with a clatter.

“Good boy, Now, let’s make this easy.” Bilbo sneered as he got back on his feet, he rubbed his jaw where Dwalin had hit him. Bilbo grabbed Dwalin’s gun and pointed it at him. “Move to the back, nice and slow. Don’t try anything stupid.”

Dwalin glared at Bilbo, his jaw clenched, but he did as he was told, stepping backward toward the rear of the train car.

Bilbo turned to his right-hand man who still had his gun to the sheriff’s head. Bilbo scooped up his own gun and holstered Dwalin’s

“Keep an eye on him,” Bilbo said, nodding to his partner as he took the man’s place. “Make sure he doesn’t try anything else.”

The right-hand man gave a curt nod, he trained his gun on Dwalin as he walked over to the man, his expression hard.

Thorin remained still, the different but not new weight of Bilbo’s gun pressing against his skull. He looked around trying to think his way out. “Why, Bilbo?” Thorin finally asked, just hoping to distract the man. “What’s the point of all this?”

Bilbo chuckled softly, though there was a hint of something else beneath the laugh. “Why not? It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“You call this fun? You risk innocent lives for fun?” Dwalin spat, glaring at Bilbo with open disdain.

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head slightly, his finger hovering dangerously over the trigger. “I’d be careful if I were you, Deputy. One more word out of you, and I might just throw you off this train.”

Dwalin’s mouth snapped shut, but his eyes burned with fury.

Thorin glanced sideways at Bilbo, searching for any opening, anything. “You’re not going to get away with this if you kill me, you know,” Thorin said, his voice low.

Bilbo grinned beneath his handkerchief, his grip on the gun unwavering. “Oh, Sheriff, I’m not going to kill you-” But just as Bilbo was about to say more, there was a sudden commotion behind them.

Bilbo’s right-hand man grunted in pain, Dwalin had slammed his elbow into the man’s face. The force of the blow sent them both reeling backward, and before anyone could react, the two men went tumbling out of the back of the train car.

“Dwalin!” Thorin shouted, his eyes wide with shock.

Bilbo’s face twisted in a mixture of horror and confusion. “What the hell just happened?” he muttered, his grip on his gun loosening as he stared in disbelief at the open door.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Dwalin and Bilbo’s right-hand man tumbled to the ground in a heap, the impact knocking the wind out of both of them as they rolled to a stop in the dirt.

For a moment, they both just lay there, groaning in pain, trying to catch their breath.

The right-hand man rolled over onto his side, clutching his ribs. “What… the FUCK!” he gasped, dragging himself to his knees. “Are you fucking crazy or somethin’? You just threw us out of the back of a train!”

Dwalin was still trying to catch his breath. He spat on the ground and pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his shoulder twinged painfully. “I should be askin’ you that, outlaw,” he growled, “You started this mess!”

The right-hand man groaned, clutching his side as he staggered up. “Ugh! As pig-headed as ever! You could have killed us, you idiot!” He wiped some dirt from his face, glaring at Dwalin.

Dwalin squinted at him, feeling an unsettling flicker of familiarity. There was something about this man; his stance, his voice, Dwalin didn’t know, but it tugged at the back of his mind. “Who are you?” Dwalin demanded, his eyes narrowing.

The right-hand man made sure his mask was still covering his face, by some miracle it was but his hat was long gone. He huffed quietly. “Figured you’d have recognized me by now, Deputy,” he said, “Then again, I guess I didn’t make much of an impression back in the day.”

Dwalin’s jaw tightened, “You… I know you, don’t I?” Dwalin searched the man’s face, hoping to see anything familiar. He landed on the man’s wild Reddish brown hair but, He still couldn’t place it.

“Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t.” The right-hand man said, he cracked his knuckles. “It's too late now.”

Dwalin snarled and charged at him, his injured shoulder be damned. The right-hand man dodged, Dwalin’s fists were heavy, but the right-hand man was quick, ducking and weaving as best he could despite his own lingering pain.

They grappled. Dwalin landed a solid punch to the right-hand man’s gut, forcing the man to double over with a grunt. Before Dwalin could land another blow, the outlaw lashed out with a well-placed fist to Dwalin’s jaw.

The crack echoed as Dwalin staggered back with a hiss. Dwalin reached out for the man, the man scrambled back and made a dash for the distance tree line.

“Damn it!” Dwalin shouted, shaking off the hit and trying to give chase, but his body wasn’t cooperating. The outlaw disappeared as Dwalin stumbled and dropped to his knees, breathing heavily and cursing under his breath.

Wiping blood from the corner of his mouth, he groaned in pain and frustration, how could he let that outlaw slip away from him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It hadn’t been more than a few moments since the two men had fallen from the back of the train car. Bilbo stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the open doorway, wide with shock. His heart raced, but his mind was scattered, unable to focus on anything but the image of his right-hand man and the deputy tumbling off the moving train.

For once, Bilbo couldn’t think clearly. The only thing he could focus on was the nagging concern. It was horribly foreign to him.

Dwalin and-… he couldn’t shake the uneasy worry of whether or not the two men survived the fall. He never left people behind, not if he had a choice. Even if they weren’t on his side.

Suddenly, without warning, Thorin slammed his elbow into Bilbo’s side. Bilbo yelped in surprise, the sudden pain knocking him off balance. Thorin punched him in the jaw, hard and Bilbo stumbled to the floor.

His gun slipped from his hand, clattering loudly onto the ground loudly. As it did the gun went off with a deafening bang. Thorin flinched, instinctively ducking, but the bullet never hit anything.

There weren't any bullets to hit things, Bilbo’s gun had been loaded with blanks, Bilbo could see the realization sparked in Thorin then the fresh wave of anger.

Bilbo held his face where Thorin had struck him, his mind reeling. His thoughts were muddled, he hadn’t expected this, not so soon. Pain throbbed through his jaw, his wide eyes locked onto Thorin’s.

“You-” Bilbo began, his voice rasping with both shock and disbelief, but before he could finish, Thorin was on him.

In a blur of motion, Thorin lunged forward, his hand gripping the front of Bilbo’s shirt with unrelenting force. Bilbo barely had time to react before Thorin slammed him against the nearest wall of the train car.

The impact made his brain rattle inside his skull, his back hitting the wall with a thud. A sharp, involuntary whine escaped him. Bilbo blinked rapidly, trying to catch his breath and clear his blurring vision.

Thorin’s grip on his shirt only tightened, hoisting him higher until his boots barely scraped the floor. The sheriff’s eyes were burning with a rage Bilbo didn’t expect, he could feel the anger radiating off the sheriff in waves.

For the first time in a long while, Bilbo wasn’t sure how to talk his way out of this. He wasn’t sure if he could talk his way out. Bilbo twisted in Thorin’s grip, kicking wildly as he tried to break free, cursing under his breath.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Thorin roared, his booming voice. Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes, “Do you ever take anything seriously?! Is this just some fucked game your playin’?!” Thorin’s eyes narrowed, “Answer me!” he demanded, giving Bilbo a sharp shake that left his head spinning.

But then, Bilbo felt a spark hit him. His struggling faded into nothing as he sized up Thorin, a calculating calm settling over him. He had an idea, it could either get him out of this or go horribly wrong.

Thorin loomed over Bilbo by at least a head or more, the sheriff had broad shoulders. Bilbo could feel every bit of strength in the way the sheriff held him pinned, like he weighed hardly anything at all.

There was no way he’d be able to overpower Thorin, let not like this. no way to just kick the man off him and run. So if brute force wouldn’t get him out of this, maybe charm would.

“Why, sheriff,” Bilbo purred, his voice low,“if you wanted to run me up against a wall this badly, all you had to do was ask.”

Thorin’s eyes widened, and Bilbo watched the sheriff’s grip falter, he let Bilbo down, a confused expression found itself in Thorin’s face. “What-”

Without hesitation, Bilbo drove his knee sharply into Thorin’s stomach. Thorin let out a grunt of surprise as the air rushed out of him quickly.

“Sorry, Sheriff!” Bilbo muttered, “nothin’ personal, really, your just not my type.” In one smooth motion, Bilbo scooped up his gun from the floor, even though he knew it was useless, and bolted for the door at the back of the train car.

Bilbo could hear Thorin cursing under his breath. He could also hear the pounding footsteps behind him as he climbed up the side of the train, hoisting himself onto the roof quickly.

The cold wind stung his face as he studied the hat on his head. Bilbo paused, glancing behind him, his gaze darting to where Dwalin and his right-hand man had tumbled off the train earlier.

Concern bubbled up inside him, worse than before. He didn’t want them to be hurt; he couldn't think about them being hurt.

“Bilbo!” Thorin’s voice carried over the roar of the train. Bilbo locked eyes with the sheriff, he was already running before the sheriff’s feet hit the roof of the car.

Bilbo’s heart pounded in time with the train’s wheels beneath him. His mind quickly searched for a way out. He briefly wondered if he’d survive if he jumped off. A little panic flickered in his chest as he glanced back, seeing just how close Thorin was.

Bilbo desperately wanted to push himself, to find some way out, but the roof was narrow, and there was nowhere left to go. His luck had run out, he had lost.

Thorin suddenly lunged, grabbing Bilbo by the arm, Bilbo twisted himself out of Thorin’s grip, he couldn’t just give up here, he couldn’t. He tried to duck under the sheriff's arms as he grabbed at the outlaw again.

The wind angrily whipped around them, the train car swaying beneath their feet.

Thorin managed to grab Bilbo’s poncho and gave a good yanked, dragging the outlaw backwards by the force. Bilbo twisted and kicked, but Thorin’s grip was relentless.

The sheriff had the upper hand. Bilbo grit his teeth as they continued to struggle atop the speeding train.

Then, without warning, Thorin’s foot slipped.

Bilbo’s eyes widened as he watched the sheriff lose his balance, his body teetering dangerously on the edge. Before Thorin could catch himself, he tumbled off the roof, hitting the tracks below with a heavy thud.

Bilbo froze, his breath catching in his throat as he scrambled to the edge, staring down at Thorin who was lying on the tracks. As the distance between them grew, all Bilbo could do was watch, his heart pounding in his chest.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Thorin lay on the ground, groaning in pain, every muscle in his body burned and ached. Falling off a train was as bad as he thought it would be. His mind was still trying to catch up with what had happened when, faintly, he heard someone shouting in the distance.

“Thorin!”

It was Bilbo’s voice. There was an urgency to it, one that made Thorin’s heart skip a beat despite everything. He didn’t have time to think about why Bilbo was shouting at him, but instinct kicked in.

“Move!”

Without thinking, Thorin rolled to the side, just as the uncoupled passenger cars came speeding down the tracks, rattling by in a blur of metal. They hadn’t slowed down yet, and had Thorin stayed where he was, he’d have been flattened.

As the last car whizzed by, Thorin lay still, breathing heavily and trying to steady his pulse. He wasn’t sure how close it had been, but he wasn’t eager to find out.

Finally, he took a deep breath and sat up. His head pounded, and every inch of him hurt, but he was alive. His eyes drifted down to the tracks beside him, and that’s when he saw it, his hat. Or, what used to be his hat.

Thorin groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Another hat,” he muttered to himself.

With a wince, he forced himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain that shot up his side as he stood. His eyes scanned the tracks, searching for any sign of Dwalin. His heart pounded harder as worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind.

“Dwalin…?” He called as he limped down the tracks, his pace picking up despite the pain.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted Dwalin sitting near the edge of the tracks,he held his shoulder. Thorin hurried over, kneeling beside him.

Dwalin’s face was bruised up pretty bad, he had dirt stains all over him. Dwalin lifted his head when he heard Thorin. the deputy grunted in irritation more than pain.

“You look like hell,” Thorin muttered, quickly checking him over.

Dwalin rolled his eyes and grumbled. “Cause you look like prince fucking charming.”

Thorin frowned. “…Did you get him?”

Dwalin gave Thorin a look and tried to get up. “No. Bastard slipped away.” He winced as he tried to move his shoulder. “Got a good hit on me, and next thing I know, I’m eating dirt while he’s running off.”

Thorin cursed under his breath, glancing around. The train was long gone by now and the uncoupled cars were still slowing down in the distance.

Thorin offered a hand to Dwalin and pulled the man up easily, he couldn’t help but let his mind get muddled with thoughts. Bilbo tricked them, had them play his games. What was his angel, what was his plan.

But the loudest thought was one he couldn’t even begin to answer; Why did he save Thorin?

Dwalin noticed the look on Thorin’s face and shook his head. “You think too loud, Thorin. That outlaw’s not gonna slip away forever, we’ll get him.”

Thorin nodded. “Right, let’s get home,” Thorin said, he pushed down his frustration, he didn’t have time for it now.

With little difficulty, the two men limped down the tracks. Bilbo may have gotten away this time, but Thorin wasn’t going to let him for long. He had a plan.

───── ꧁✪꧂ ─────

And also, @shantismurf. Stop it, stop being so cleverly close. You don’t understand! You nearly put the nail in the coffin. You swong and you missed twice and if it weren’t for that, you would have put the damn nail in there.

@shurikthereject @midnightstar789

[For anyone Who didn’t want to @ for this please tell me or I will continue to do so till otherwise.]

#the hobbit #bilbo baggins #fanfic #bagginshield #the hobbit thorin #thorin x bilbo #cowboy au #western #thorins company

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sassymajesty · 1 month

Note

Alycias newest post w the black pants, white button up and vest PUHLEEEEEASE !!$&! I just pictured Clarke calling out sick and Lexa coming over w that bouquet of tulips in oifan. The way Clarke would loathe the fact that she missed seeing that outfit in action all day at work 😩🤣

[grabs your shoulders] listen to me. i've been going to sleep and waking up thinking about this for the past two days. it's gotten out of hand. [grabs your cheeks] i cannot thank you enough for this.

because consider this—

—arriving at clarke's place around 4pm (ungodly early for the hectic time they're having at the company) with a target bag and takeout

raven, who by then is working with them, gives lexa her keys and tells her to let herself in because when she left, clarke was running a fever and would never get up from bed. and lexa does just that. she's been in the apartment often enough that she beelines for clarke's bedroom and finds her financial analyst/friend with benefits (yes, just that, nothing romantic happening here, no ma'am) under three blankets, barely keeping her eyes open

"oh, you're actually sick. i could have sworn you were playing rookie."

clarke's eyes get wide open, as if she's scared her fever has made her hallucinate. "lexa?" then takes her in "you brought me flowers?"

with a solemn nod, lexa places the flowers and all her bags on a dressing table, and sits beside clarke. brushes sweaty hair out of her forehead, lets out a worried hum when she feels how warm clarke is.

"you look like a dream. i can't believe i missed all this vest action."

"it's the only reason i came by. i couldn't let this outfit go to waste." but then she's digging around clarke's closet to find fresh pajamas (she knows where they are, she's borrowed them before) "can you take a lukewarm shower by yourself? it'll help with a fever. and have you eaten at all?"

clarke says that yes, she can shower by herself, she's not a child. and yes, she has eaten... some toast raven brought her before she left. it's the way lexa purses her lips that shows she doesn't like that one bit.

lexa helps clarke get up, take the sweaty clothes off and get in the shower. then she leaves her there with the door ajar just in case, and gets fresh linen for the bed, a vase with water for the tulips that go on clarke's nightstand and cutlery for the soup she brought.

when clarke gets off and finds her with cozy fleece pajamas and wet hair, lexa makes her sit down with her legs crossed and back towards the edge of the bed so lexa can gently blow dry her hair while she eats all of her soup. "yes, all of it, clarke."

once she's all fed and has taken more meds, lexa tucks her back in with enough blankets for her to sweat the fever out, and takes her shoes off before settling beside clarke and looking at her like she'll stay there all night just to make sure clarke is okay.

"do you want to take a nap?"

"i've slept all day, i'm more awake now."

then lexa reaches into the target bag, "i've brought you this. raven mentioned you used to play video games when you were sick in college. i thought it might be the cure." and very nonchalantly hands clarke a white, red and pink box.

"you bought me a nintendo switch?" clarke is in pure disbelief as she stares at the gaming console for a solid minute before opening it

"i figured the cozy games might be some comfort. and you can play from bed. i hope the color is okay."

"you bought me a nintendo switch. the animal crossing edition."

"the guy at the store said it comes pre installed. i figured it'd be a good start as any. i'm sure there is an array of different games for download, if that's not something you'd be interested in."

clarke knows that when lexa starts being super formal, it's because she's getting more and more nervous. so clarke just boots it up and turns to give her a soft kiss on her cheek in thanks, "have you ever played animal crossing?"

"i have no idea what it is. i didn't even know what a switch was until a couple hours ago."

"then get comfortable, you're in for a long night."

and they share a pillow while clarke introduces lexa to the world of animal crossing. lexa is happy to watch clarke play, checking her fever every now and then, bringing her teas and cuddling her even with her business casual outfits.

when 8pm rolls around, lexa finally gives in and borrows a pajama set (more lightweight than clarke's) and cooks them dinner while clarke sits at the counter, still playing. they eat, clarke takes more meds, then they go back into bed. by then, clarke is exhausted again and uses the last of her energy to create a new use in the nintendo switch for lexa to play — and lexa herself has no intention of playing, but she entertains the idea for clarke's sake.

clarke falls asleep in her arms, guiding her about what controls to use. lexa doesn't try to move her, only stay there, serving as a pillow, while she checks clarke's fever with her lips on her forehead, makes sure she's warm as she can be.

it's 2pm when clarke wakes up again, her body hurting from sleeping the whole day, but feeling good as new.

and she finds lexa fast asleep, with the console on her hand, halfway through hopping islands to find a new villager. she pulls lexa closer to her, enjoying the warmth and the way lexa reaches for her even in her sleep.

tomorrow she might actually play rookie and talk her boss into doing the same so they can spend another day playing video games in bed.

#f: oifan #anon #nina's mail #i finally had the time to sit down to type it up and i want to cry this is the most i've written in one sitting in almost a year #thank you so much for this i'm late (ish) for class and i don't even care

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tsumuhours · 1 year

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AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you.

#suna rintarou #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu suna #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #suna rintarou x reader #suna smut #suna rintarou x you #suna rintaro x reader #suna x reader #suna rintarō #suna rintarou smut #suna rintaro haikyuu #suna rintaro x y/n #suna rintaro fic #✰ workie works

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freshlyrage · 2 months

Text

Running Like Water

Chapter 29

pairing: Javier Peña x OFC (written as xReader)

fic warnings: NSFW Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI) language, strained family relationships, mentions of drug abuse, discussions of insecurities and body image issues, daddy and mommy issues

fic tags: Best friends younger sister, Life-long crush, Friends to lovers, Unrequited love, slow burn, Push and Pull, Small Town Dynamics, Secret Relationships, latina MC, Fluff and Angst, OFC!Jessica Alba face claim, sorry Lorraine I'm bringing you into this, Time jumps, 2 year age gap, pre-canon

word count: 6.1k

IMPORTANT a/n: Hello! She's here....

I suggest reading The Holiday chapter I posted this Christmas, before this one.

I hope you enjoy. HEHEHE

December 1989

Javier’s uncle died very suddenly.

Escobar didn’t. Javier swears he has spent twenty years of his life in Colombia. Tainted by death, sex and drugs. What is the point of anything when you’ve become desensitized to tragedy? Time slows each time. He can't keep count of how many hours he has spent outside of various buildings just waiting for medics to roll out the victims. Hours he spent, cigarette in hand just talking about what's next while bodies are wheeled away. Days spent in bed with women racking his bills sky high. Just because sometimes he can't come home to a bed empty.

He had enough, he broke protocol and he knew that the hammer was to come down on him. He knew that the DEA was just as twisted, a fearful institution that only cared about profit. Because if there are no more cartels, there is no more DEA. The only goal was to kill the big man, capo, whatever you may have. Make the Americans proud, we did that. We killed The Drug Pin. But the cartel doesn’t just die with its leader but that's it, to the DEA, the performance is over and it's time to move on. Send them all home, leave the country in shambles. So fuck it, Javier was tired of being congratulated when he just felt like a bad guy.

He knew the government, his organization, were aware of its corruption. There hadn't been a care.

The rest of the guys were being reassigned and they asked him to resign quietly. After all he did for them. Bled himself dry. And all it took was for him announcing his disappointment for them to threaten being fired, tarnishing his reputation.

Or of course, leave quietly and tell his colleagues he was just ready to settle down.

Escobar and George Peña died on the same day. Javier wasn’t home for 3 days, he missed all the frantic calls from his father. On the third day he was asked to resign quietly.

He went home, slept and drank. Skipped a session with Dr. Hertz. Ignored the phone calls that came in. Stared at the resignation form on his coffee table. Buried himself in a different cunt each night.

Until he signed, packed his home and picked up the phone.

Chucho Peña was one of 2 children. He was the baby, his brother was twelve when he came into the world. It was a rough age gap. They weren't always very close. George was around for the big milestones: Chucho's wedding, Javier’s birth, a few birthdays and there for his brother when his wife left. But mostly, George spent his time in his high rise apartment in Houston. It's where Javier lived for a year at age 15. When he wanted to be a cop, when Chucho took a chance and paid an ungodly amount for The School of Law and Order.

George had just entered remission. He was diagnosed with melanoma a year prior, it wasn’t life threatening but still scary. Javier made sure he took his medication on time.

He didn’t, he got sick again, how could he know?

He finally called home and he was already buried. His father had to do it alone.

That's when Javier decided to see Dr. Hertz again.

“Will you be continuing sessions back home?” Dr. Hertz had a furrow in her brow since the beginning of the session. Since told her about the resignation, about the death, about how fucking stressful it is to pack. He wonders if she’ll miss him.

“Are you still married?” He uncrosses his legs and ashes his cigarette on the tray next to his seat. Dr. Hertz has dealt with him for nearly three years. She just waves off his flirtation, she calls it a defense mechanism. An attempt to change the topic, ease the waters with something he’s good at. She’s immune to his ways.

She laughs, “Yes. I am. Will you? Continue, therapy I mean.”

“Happily?” Javier tilts his head. Dr. Hertz doesn’t entertain him any longer. He chuckles, “Sorry. I’m not sure. I don’t think I want to tell my story all over again to another person. Or professional I guess. Sounds fucking exhausting.”

She nods, lips in a fine line like she’s holding back. Javier sighs in annoyance knowing that face well. “Just say it Hertz.”

“Well,” She closes her notebook and he knows he’s in for it. “I think that you have made significant progress in dealing with your past. With your mother, with Andrea, with Lorraine. But life won't stop hurting you just because you worked some things out. And I know you. Very well. I know that the second you go home you’ll be contacting her.”

“Doctor I-”

“Nope. You know that's the truth. You might go home and she might be married, or pregnant or maybe you’ll come home and she’ll want you again. All of those realities come with struggle, and with change, and growth. You are capable, and very emotionally intelligent for a man your age so I’m not saying this to coddle you. But you should continue therapy, in any form. We all need to be heard. I don't care if it's bi-monthly. Or on and off for a few years. If everyone had a therapist we all wouldn’t have such a hard time handling the ups and downs of life.” She crosses her legs and locks eyes with him. “But, do what you believe is best for you. I will miss having you as my patient.”

His eyes fall to his shoes because fuck. “You’re right. I’ll probably need a shrink for the rest of my life simply based on all the dead bodies I've seen before the age of thirty.” He chuckles but she doesn’t reciprocate. She just opens her book again and goes right back into what she does best. Getting him to talk.

“Talk to me about the resignation.”

“It’s like cancer. This fucked up institution. You know, my uncle George had melanoma at first. There on his skin,” Javier points to his elbow. “On the surface, and yes it made him sick. They removed it, and made him go through that radiation therapy. And the solution was a good one for a few years, but until it wasn’t. He was more susceptible to other cancers and years went by, and it was just everywhere. His blood, his colon. Topical solutions just don’t work like that. The sickness was systemic.” He leans back into his chair, legs spread. He hoped he wasn’t in pain. “Me, Murphy…” He pauses and thinks of the casket. “Carillo… we can’t be the medication. We don’t work. We haven’t worked. I’m aware, and I couldn’t be quiet about it. So whatever, I’ll take their hush money.” It was a lot. He can start working on the house he always said he’d build on the ranch this spring. He could have months of relaxation. Maybe get a degree, something. “I’m a part of the problem too I guess.”

“You’re human. You deserve to breathe. We worked together for a long time and you still haven’t learned how to give yourself grace”

It was what he needed to hear. She has said it a million times but today it stuck.

He’ll be home for the holidays.

“Are you in the right headspace to see your mom?”

“Is anyone ever in the right headspace to see their parents?”

You sit on the floor of your bedroom, folding clothes. Honestly, you haven't spent a Christmas at home in years. You had no intention of heading back to Laredo until spring break. But you heard about the passing of George Peña. You hadn’t known the man but you knew that many of the Peña holidays were spent up at his home. It won’t be that way anymore and you’d love to visit him for this holiday. Bring him a gift, be there for him how he’s been there for you.

Of course, you’ll go home. Your bedroom has a new bed for guests, so says your mother. You’ll see if maybe she’s interested in spending time with you. You don’t even think you’re going to try. You’re still curious if maybe she will.

Jaya walks to your calendar. “So you’ll be back… January 3rd?”

“Mhm.” You stretch out your leg with a wince. You had the nastiest scrape on your knee from this morning. You knew it’ll dry and crust by the time you get to Texas.

In a rush to catch the subway today you tripped on the last stair and split right through your tights. You tried not to cry when you settled into the cart with blood trickling down your stocking.

Jaya, who was already preparing her house sitting duties, placed cream on the scrape.

She offered to stay at your place while you go back to Texas. Which means liberal use of her spare key to your apartment even before you leave. Crashing at your place after drinks with her boyfriend in your neighborhood. Or just showing up. But hey, she’s your best friend and she’ll be watching your birds for free.

“I took two extra days off. Mr.Fyre will be covering for me.” You side eye her in anticipation for her questions. She smirks at you with a head shake.

She rolls over in your bed, “That poor man. His dick still big?”

You blush, “Yes. Too bad he finishes after ten seconds. Last week he was fucking me right there.” You point to the dresser and Jaya widens her eyes. “And he came the second he put it in. It was kind of hot. He fingered me afterwards so I forgave him.”

Mr. Fyre, Gregory Fyre. The hot new 24 year old substitute that you’ve been sleeping with for two weeks. He came in right after you cut it off with Christian. He walked in that teachers lounge and asked you to stop talking so loudly. The two of you ended up making out in the parking lot.

He had you there on the dresser, knuckle deep in your cunt. While you tense your stomach and picture another face in front of yours. Gushing on his palms in ten seconds.

Yeah. You’re fucked.

At the very least he’s a man who can take a hint. So it’s been fun and easy. Easy to get off and you know, bye, get off now.

“Your sex life is so interesting. Did he question why you were moaning the name Javier?”

You giggle tossing your panties at her. She catches it and twirls it on her finger before flinging it back at you. “That was one time, many months ago with Christian.” You cringe, “So it does not count.”

Jaya sits up again, her face changing slightly. Here brows knitting and her eyes scanning the room. The habit of no eye contact that comes before she says something you don’t want to hear. Which happens more than you’d expect. She kept it real. You tilt your head at her gesture. “What if he’s there this time?”

Brows lifting slightly you look back down at the dress in your lap and you continue to fold. You shrug. “He hasn’t been there every other time so-“

“You would purposely go home on random days of the year. It’s Christmas, Escobar's dead and you told me his uncle just passed.”

You frown at the realization. Washed over with reality. You know he hasn’t come home at all yet, you’re sure his job just doesn’t stop because Escobar is gone. But if it was anytime to visit , it would be now. You don’t respond and just place the dress in the luggage. “Will you be okay to see him?”

“Yes?” She gives you a crazy glance and you can't even convince yourself.

“No. I don’t know. I'm not like angry at him because somehow his decision was a good one. I feel like… if he asked me to see him that day I would have never left town. Which by the way, has been the best decision ever.” You smiled at her and she smiled back.

“So there’s no hard feelings.” She says it like it's bad.

You know exactly why it could be a disaster. It's impossibly difficult to be angry at a person that could die at any moment in their line of work.

She continues to read you like a book.

“It would be extremely easy to fall back into him when the only emotion you feel is sadness and longing.” You nod because she was always right. It would be so easy. So easy to find comfort in each other. So easy to see him and-“Whatever you do just promise me you won’t forget about your life here.”

You narrow your eyes and extend a pinky to her.

She leans over the bed and you interlink. Sun peaks through your window and warms the two of you.

It’s the same sun.

He knows it.

It's the same. He knows you sit and feel it too. He can see you, looking outside the fire escape of your apartment. The sun offers you warmth in thirty degree weather. He does the same except it isn't so cold. It’s warm all around, hot even. He shares a sun with you and still feels like it's different. He misses you so badly that the thought of being warmed by the same star offers him a comfort beyond comprehension.

Look where life has taken us.

Javier is at the steps of the place he called home for a few years. All his belongings already ahead of him, delivered at the footstep of his fathers ranch.

In less than a day, he’ll be dropped there just the same. Murphy has come to see him before he goes and they’ve been in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Javier clears his throat, afraid to reveal himself. He was an open wound, a live wire. Afraid to come home and not see you. Even more terrified to come home and see you.

“You tell Connie?” He asks. Murphy sniffles, holding his fists together.

“That you're leaving?”

Javi nods, “Yeah.”

Murphy exhales, “Yes. She said it was the right choice. Then told me to break the rules so I could come back too.” He laughs a hearty one and Javier follows, rubbing his chin. It was professional, sure, but Steve and Connie became like family during his years. They were older, had their shit together, they were making it work. Connie could read Javi. She was the reason he decided to just go to see someone. “Maybe I should. Olivia can walk now. Can you believe that?”

Javier purses his lips with an exhale. “Jesus.” What he wouldn't give to have a family with you. He’d leave it all, all over again at least. He’d ruin his name, leave in the most dishonorable way if it meant coming back to you and his baby. It's silent again and it's too late. His thoughts betray him. You're all he can think about. You hated the holidays with your family. There was no way you’d choose to just come home now.

The silence rang loud. Loud enough for Steve to hear his thoughts.

“You’ve got to talk to that girl. Don’t waste anymore time.”

“She wont want to.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she's stubborn. Because I abandoned her when that's all she knew.”

Murphy shook his head , tapping his knuckle on the step between his legs in frustration and turned to Javi. “But you didn't. You let her go. You needed to. She needed to heal in her own way. You needed help, you fucking got it.” Murphy’s lips twitch. “And listen man, I know we made that pact two years ago. If you go, I go. When it came to therapy, I stopped going to that shit after 2 months.”

Javi’s jaw drops, brows furrowing. He was almost there, on the verge of tears but there Murphy goes. Making him laugh. “What?”

“Yup. And I’ve been lying to you because I saw something in you change-”

“You fucking asshole.”

“You’re fucking welcome Agent Peña.”

Javi scoffs with a chuckle and reaches in his pocket for his pack. “Yeah whatever.”

“Yeah yeah. If all the stories you told me about that girl are true, there is no way she isn’t waiting for you.”

“I didn’t wait.” There it is, that guilt he felt for years. The guilt he felt after finding pleasure with others. The stomach churning pain that came with being forehead to forehead, breathless, coming down, and opening his eyes and seeing a face unfamiliar.

Murphy shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it that way. None of that matters.”

A beep has the two flinching. Looking up at the taxi. Javier's heart is suddenly loud enough to ring his ears. The two stand to their feet and hug. Tightly, a brotherly hold he isn;t used to but welcomes. “Sorry If I was ever-”

Murphy shakes his head, “Don't worry about all of that. Make sure you check in on my girls.” They part and Javier nods like it's his duty. “And you know. Be kinder to yourself and just…” He pats his shoulder, “Just reach out to that fucking girl.” Javier feels the pat like a push, like a shove.

Then he goes on his way, thinking of you like he does.

Melissa Diaz knows that it’s too late and frankly she feels like she’s too old to repair her relationship with her daughter. Each time you come home there's a thick air of discomfort. Like you're a stranger in your childhood home. Each conversation is laced with the unspoken toxicity that is your relationship with your mother. Too many years of hurt just to speak comfortably.

Which is precisely why you decide to get a hotel room this time around.

You unpack what you can, glancing at the clock to figure out if you have time to shave before driving to your moms. You promised to help her bring the gifts to Chucho’s house tonight. You had only flown in 5 hours ago. You decided those 5 hours were for your own mental preparation.

The truth is, when you remove yourself from a toxic environment the second you get back you realize that your tolerance is close to none. So you decide to not only stay away but also give yourself time to brace yourself so you don’t ruin Christmas.

And this Christmas was different. It was for Don Chucho. You knew that he’ll be over the moon to see you. Thrilled to have the kids running around his house. Javier always said that Chucho would have had 10 children if life hadn’t gotten in the way. He loved the holidays but now that his only family is gone, you knew you had to be here. You had an hour so you scurry to the bathroom and shave, wash the New York off of you and step out a true Texas girl.

Black sweater dress and stockings rubbing against your split open knee. Chanting, fuck, fucking fuck, fucker, fuck when rolling the thing on. Spritzing yourself in the orange blossom of Night Musk by Prince Matchabelli. Feeling strangely anxious to spend the holidays back home. There was a sense of excitement to see your siblings and niece. Excitement to watch the kids open gifts, yet splitting nerves at the thought of being back on the Peña ranch.

Excited to drink Coquito, listen to Hector Lavoe, dance and eat.

You grab your purse, grab the sack containing all the gifts you accumulated for your family over the month and head out to your car.

You get to your mothers house in fifteen short minutes, not even given time to get into the house and say hello before she’s out on the steps very frantic. Cursing in Spanish about Sol staining her dress. James, not taking anything seriously as always, unloading the Christmas gifts into the trunk of your rental and kissing your cheek welcoming you back home. You hardly had a relationship with your mothers husband, sometimes you wondered how a dynamic like theirs worked. He was a reserved, ultra-relaxed and goofy guy. Your mother, a tornado of frantic emotions and anxiety. It seems he was never phased by all of it. Maybe a part of you envied it. Envied being loved enough to be accepted.

Your four year old sister seemingly unphased as well by Melissa’s tirade while she’s on her knees at the doorstep wiping ice cream from her red dress. Sol zeroed in on you, waiting for her mother to quit the distressed cleaning so she could run to hug you. Her knees buckling and moving from side to side in anticipation. “Stop all the moving.”

“But it’s my sister!” She whines and you smile at her with arms crossed at the side of your rental. Your mother sighed and let her free. She patters against the driveway in tiny black flats and into your arms.

Disfunction and all, you head to Chucho’s house. Sleigh Ride by The Ronettes ringing loud on the local station. Not a flake on the ground, fifty degree weather, Frankie’s car trailing behind, homes and picket fences littered in green and red.

Christmas in Laredo was in full swing.

The moment you notice that Don Chucho’s driveway was full you begin to panic.

The second you park, Genie crowds your car. Little Annie’s face squished against her mothers shoulder. Asleep already. You hop out of the car and pull her into a hug that stirs the baby. “Sorry!” You whisper, a December breeze causing a rise of hair. Your brother joining in on the hug.

“Merry Christmas.” He whispers, kissing your cheek and his daughters who stirs again. A little girl, too big to be carried but he grabs her anyway. Spoiled little thing. “All of Chucho’s friends are here already apparently. The whole town is in there.” He laughs and you furrow your brows.

“Amazing.” You deadpan. Of course, what could you expect from a Christmas Eve in your hometown. A place where everybody's family is yours even if they don’t like you. You nod and look around to see if everyone is ready to head in, hoping they weren’t so you could breathe. But when you look up you see James picking up Sol and heading toward the house you knew you were running out of time. Frankie’s gaze is burning and he’s reading your body language like a book. How much has changed between the two of you. It took a marriage and a baby to understand you. You'll take what you can get because when he places his hand on your arm you feel the surge of courage.

Genie comes to your other side and you follow your mothers footsteps.

Despite the Chucho house being a second home to your family, your mother still knocks. Even when the holiday music is so loud it bleeds through the windows covered in Christmas gel clings. She knocks politely, of course. Then pounds after a few seconds of silence. Making her fiance snort and Sol giggle.

The door swings open, meeting a smiling Chucho whose eye’s haven't landed on you. “Que bueno! Feliz Navidad.” He brings your mother into a hug, then James, and tickles Sol. His eyes then fall to yours and he takes a step back. His brows furrowed for a moment and you wonder if he knows something you don’t. But then he smiles and pulls you into a hug at the doorway of his home. “Andrea, wow. I’m so– when did you get here?” His hold is tight and he smells like he’s been in the kitchen all day. He smells faintly of Javier.

A smell you thought you forgot until you were hit so rudely with it. It creates a pit in your stomach that you know you can’t shake. He’s excited you can tell but his body language isn’t what you expected.

“We're going to settle the girls in.” Frankie holds your shoulder for a moment and your family leaves you in the hall. You hear them in the next room giving excited hellos and cheek kisses. Giving you privacy in a crowded room. Still, with a face of worry, anticipating your response.

“I flew in this morning. You know it’s the holidays.” Which meant nothing, considering you hadn’t stayed for Christmas in the past two years. You smile weakly, afraid of his reaction. Eyes shifting across your face and he lifts an arm to hold your own. Like he’s bracing you.

His hat casts a shadow on his face in this dimly lit hallway. Behind his head is that god awful picture of you in your cap and gown. Surrounding it are baby pictures of Javier, Frankie and Genie at their wedding, images of his brother and Javier straight faced in police attire. “I didn’t know you were coming– I was going to call to tell you–”

“Papi, was it fifteen minutes for the artichoke?”

You and Chucho both snap your heads at him. Your brain short circuiting. Chucho letting out a sigh and you so desperately want to let out a sob. Your chest rises and he’s staring at you with stars in his eyes. Fork in hand, hair overgrown and a Kiss The Cook apron.

You gaze at Javier Peña after three difficult years. Three years of concern, of healing, of yearning. Of–of, fuck you can’t think. He’s here. He’s here and all you want to do is hug him. Wrap your arms around him and melt into one.

But he’s there in between the cased opening of the kitchen and the living room. Stealing the attention of your family that havent seen him in just as long. Still, his brows furrow and he takes a step forward. “Andrea.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like it’s been on the tip of his tongue for years.

“Javi!” Your brother shouts from the living room and runs straight into him. Taking the attention from your body while it floats somewhere unknown. Genie follows, and your mother. Hugging, and kissing and questioning and shoving babies in his face. Still you stare and he looks over his shoulder at you and his father at the doorway. There, you float, unable to feel, zero gravity. Soaring with your feet on the ground and your heart pounds so loud you feel it in your ears.

Chucho looks back at you. “He came home today too. If I knew-”

You frown, absolutely turning down whatever blame he must be putting on himself. “No-no. Please, it’s okay.” You wonder if other fragile things would like to be treated with less care. You suck in a sharp breath and nod. “I’ll– I just need a moment.” Your jaw clenches trying to prevent your emotions from steam rolling your logic.

Your emotions that tell you to cry and run into his arms. Or your logic that tells you to take a step back to remember the speech you practiced if you ever saw him again. You swallow and look up at him again and turn away.

Javier watched you open the front door and walk out. His heart sinking, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg you to look at him for just more than three seconds. He tunes out the questions from everyone he loves. He’ll feel bad about it tomorrow. He looks up Genie who noticed his fixation on the front door you just stepped out of and she presses her lips together and tilts her head toward the door.

Javier takes the olive branch. He just needs to talk to you. Even if you tell him to go fuck yourself or slap him, or spit in his face. He’ll invite it in. Accept it. Accept anything if it’s coming from your dear hands or delicate mouth. You rot him from the inside out, spoiled love for him. He can’t love anyone else. So it’s worth a try.

He steps away from the chattering circle with a murmur of, one second, and he walks out of the house.

The brisk December air cools his cheeks instantly. Christmas time is strange. Its the only holiday that has a distinct feeling. A feeling of stress, comfort, and emptiness only served with a red bow and yellow lights. He expects to find you right on the porch but you're at the bottom of the stairs. Arm supporting your elbow while you bite your thumbnail nervously. The string lights on the porch roof illuminating your beautifully made up face, and the tears that came with it.

Javier stands at the top, afraid to speak. Twirling the stupid fucking fork in his hand. Feeling like an idiot in his outfit. I would have dressed nicer if I knew you’d be here. You look just as beautiful, different, but still. Your natural curls framing your face, black dress high up on your neck and stockings connecting to black boots. Please speak to me.

You wipe your tears and turn your chin up. Strong girl. Arms crossed, you begin your interrogation, 5 steps between you. “How are you home?” Not a quiver in your voice.

He fights the urge to just ignore your question and run down those stairs and kiss you, wipe your tears, take you away. But he decided to stop being selfish years ago so he answers. “I resigned two weeks ago. I’m back home indefinitely.” He clears his throat. “Forever- I’m back here forever- I mean.” He rasps and you don’t hide your shock. Still you hold composure, eyes gaping a bit but shrinking in an emotion he can't read. Your brows furrow.

Licking your lips, “Your turn.”

Javier’s brows knit closely, “My turn–?”

“Your turn.” Gesturing for him to continue. “You ask a question.”

“Andrea– can we please-”

“No- This is how I want to do it. So we can fucking get back inside and enjoy Christmas.”

Don’t you know I can't seem to enjoy anything if you aren’t mine?

“Are you single?” It’s his first question and you scoff. He shrugs, finding no shame. He needs to know now, before he becomes too hopeful. Before he creates a mess because let's be real, if she’s seeing someone, she won't be after this week.

“Yes. Did you really see a therapist in Colombia?”

Javier smirked, pleased to know that you asked about him. Still you don’t crease at his growing smile. So he bites it back because it looks like you want to rip his head off. “Yes. I went every Thursday for almost three years. She’s finding me a new one in our area.”

“She?” You snap.

And lord forgive him for how the blood rushed to his dick. All of this felt like the conversation you had in 1986 when he came home. He hopes this Christmas ends with you pinned against his bedroom door and him telling you that he will do anything to make it work. His chin juts in a mocking way, playing with fire. “You jealous?”

Your nostrils flare. “You fuck her?”

“Eh. My turn.” He reminds you of the rules of your own game. You purse your lips and he likes to way they pout. “Are you mad at me for asking you not to come see me after the wedding?” It's the question that haunted him. He begged forgiveness from no one, torturing himself for pushing you away. Hoping you understood his intentions and didn’t see it as an invitation for you to stay away forever. But the more time that past, more days of no calls from you, he feared that maybe he fucked it all up.

Your eyes drop. Allowing the sounds of Christmas bells and chatter fill the wind between you two.

“I was angry for a brief amount of time. Then I just felt sad for you. Because I know–” There it was, the crack. “I know you were put through so much and you didn’t want me to pick up the pieces. I would have you-” You look up at him, cheeks stained now. And he knows.

“You would have. I couldn’t let that happen again. I was tired of hurting you.”

“My hands are still scarred. I’ll re-open any wound for you.”

His gums itch and his chin quivers at that. “Do you still feel that way?” He breaks the rules and you don’t seem to care anymore.

“Of course. It's hard being angry at someone who is so far–who was putting their life on the line of their work. Javi– I’d get so sick from worry-” Fuck it, he takes those steps down to you. Cradling your soft face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears. You fade into him. “I missed you so much.”

“Andrea, I missed you. None of my colleagues liked me because I was so riddled with grief.” He leans in so close, so close he could see the small freckles that hide in the winter. “I didn’t even want to try to get to know anyone.” He thinks of the faceless women that took him to a climax before they were on their way. Sadistically, he hoped you at least found comfort in someone.

You close your eyes and he leans in to kiss you. You turn your face, rejecting him but he doesn’t care. He kisses your cheek in earnest and tastes your tears. Planting soft kisses up your cheek.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He pauses his kisses and chuckles. “No.”

“Okay.” Eyes, opening you get on your tiptoes and wrap your arms around his neck. Nails entangling in the back of his hair and he’s in heaven. What a privilege it is to be touched by you. Kissing his cheek yourself. “I won't kiss you.”

He was in heaven, your soft lips nipping at his face and his neck. He groans, “That's okay.” You nod against him. Moving your head to the other side of his face, exposing your neck while you kissed his face. He presses his lips to your neck.

“I need time…” You moan, “To think.” Your nails scrape the nape of his neck and he’s getting harder each passing second. How the fuck did I end up here?

“That’s okay– When do you go back– fuck don’t press up on me like that.” Her belly caused a friction in his pants that would definitely spoil the holidays.

“January third– sorry.” You suck on his neck and he groans once more. “Will you sleep with me tonight?”

“Yes.” He says it like it was a no brainer because it was. Whatever mess came with this, he was fully equipped this time. Nothing holding him back. Besides the fact that she lives in fucking New York of course. You pull back from him and he feels the pit in his stomach grow darker and deeper. No, come back, bite me.

“Not like that. I just want to be in bed with you.”

He shrugs, he’ll take whatever he can get. “That's okay. My place or–”

“I have a hotel.”

He shakes his head, craning his head to press his lips against your ear. “If we get into that hotel room I’ll have no choice but to fuck you into that mattress.” he whispers but he means every word. He doesn't care if it’s too fragile to be this forward.

“Your place then.” You step away from him and he feels a great loss in his soul. Eyes roving to the door. “We are being suspicious. We should go inside.”

“I’m not hiding anything this time. If you want to use me for this week as a sleeping companion or a fuck toy or I don’t know a mortal enemy I’ll take it and everyone can mind their fucking business.” Javier snaps, he doesn’t care if you're just making an irrational decision because you miss him. He fucking misses you too, if it means two weeks of playing house- so be it.

Dr. Hertz would be so disappointed.

“Or… Maybe just a friend.” You lie straight through your teeth and he lets you. You straighten your dress and wipe the remaining tears on your cheek and walk right past him.

“Wasn’t it you that told me that you didn’t know how to be my friend in the winter?”

It rings out in the air. He can picture it, Christmas eve 1979. You half asleep at The Smithfield’s Christmas party. You had been so jittery and distant. His idiot teenage brain couldn’t comprehend that the love you had for him made you act outside yourself, especially since for the first time ever you watched him show love to another girl.

Your lips twitch in a smile, seemingly shocked that he remembers just as much as you.

“Merry Christmas.”

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