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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months

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“Humans in the loop” must detect the hardest-to-spot errors, at superhuman speed

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me SATURDAY (Apr 27) in MARIN COUNTY, then Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

If AI has a future (a big if), it will have to be economically viable. An industry can't spend 1,700% more on Nvidia chips than it earns indefinitely – not even with Nvidia being a principle investor in its largest customers:

https://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=39883571

A company that pays 0.36-1 cents/query for electricity and (scarce, fresh) water can't indefinitely give those queries away by the millions to people who are expected to revise those queries dozens of times before eliciting the perfect botshit rendition of "instructions for removing a grilled cheese sandwich from a VCR in the style of the King James Bible":

https://www.semianalysis.com/p/the-inference-cost-of-search-disruption

Eventually, the industry will have to uncover some mix of applications that will cover its operating costs, if only to keep the lights on in the face of investor disillusionment (this isn't optional – investor disillusionment is an inevitable part of every bubble).

Now, there are lots of low-stakes applications for AI that can run just fine on the current AI technology, despite its many – and seemingly inescapable - errors ("hallucinations"). People who use AI to generate illustrations of their D&D characters engaged in epic adventures from their previous gaming session don't care about the odd extra finger. If the chatbot powering a tourist's automatic text-to-translation-to-speech phone tool gets a few words wrong, it's still much better than the alternative of speaking slowly and loudly in your own language while making emphatic hand-gestures.

There are lots of these applications, and many of the people who benefit from them would doubtless pay something for them. The problem – from an AI company's perspective – is that these aren't just low-stakes, they're also low-value. Their users would pay something for them, but not very much.

For AI to keep its servers on through the coming trough of disillusionment, it will have to locate high-value applications, too. Economically speaking, the function of low-value applications is to soak up excess capacity and produce value at the margins after the high-value applications pay the bills. Low-value applications are a side-dish, like the coach seats on an airplane whose total operating expenses are paid by the business class passengers up front. Without the principle income from high-value applications, the servers shut down, and the low-value applications disappear:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

Now, there are lots of high-value applications the AI industry has identified for its products. Broadly speaking, these high-value applications share the same problem: they are all high-stakes, which means they are very sensitive to errors. Mistakes made by apps that produce code, drive cars, or identify cancerous masses on chest X-rays are extremely consequential.

Some businesses may be insensitive to those consequences. Air Canada replaced its human customer service staff with chatbots that just lied to passengers, stealing hundreds of dollars from them in the process. But the process for getting your money back after you are defrauded by Air Canada's chatbot is so onerous that only one passenger has bothered to go through it, spending ten weeks exhausting all of Air Canada's internal review mechanisms before fighting his case for weeks more at the regulator:

https://bc.ctvnews.ca/air-canada-s-chatbot-gave-a-b-c-man-the-wrong-information-now-the-airline-has-to-pay-for-the-mistake-1.6769454

There's never just one ant. If this guy was defrauded by an AC chatbot, so were hundreds or thousands of other fliers. Air Canada doesn't have to pay them back. Air Canada is tacitly asserting that, as the country's flagship carrier and near-monopolist, it is too big to fail and too big to jail, which means it's too big to care.

Air Canada shows that for some business customers, AI doesn't need to be able to do a worker's job in order to be a smart purchase: a chatbot can replace a worker, fail to their worker's job, and still save the company money on balance.

I can't predict whether the world's sociopathic monopolists are numerous and powerful enough to keep the lights on for AI companies through leases for automation systems that let them commit consequence-free free fraud by replacing workers with chatbots that serve as moral crumple-zones for furious customers:

https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0747563219304029

But even stipulating that this is sufficient, it's intrinsically unstable. Anything that can't go on forever eventually stops, and the mass replacement of humans with high-speed fraud software seems likely to stoke the already blazing furnace of modern antitrust:

https://www.eff.org/de/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby

Of course, the AI companies have their own answer to this conundrum. A high-stakes/high-value customer can still fire workers and replace them with AI – they just need to hire fewer, cheaper workers to supervise the AI and monitor it for "hallucinations." This is called the "human in the loop" solution.

The human in the loop story has some glaring holes. From a worker's perspective, serving as the human in the loop in a scheme that cuts wage bills through AI is a nightmare – the worst possible kind of automation.

Let's pause for a little detour through automation theory here. Automation can augment a worker. We can call this a "centaur" – the worker offloads a repetitive task, or one that requires a high degree of vigilance, or (worst of all) both. They're a human head on a robot body (hence "centaur"). Think of the sensor/vision system in your car that beeps if you activate your turn-signal while a car is in your blind spot. You're in charge, but you're getting a second opinion from the robot.

Likewise, consider an AI tool that double-checks a radiologist's diagnosis of your chest X-ray and suggests a second look when its assessment doesn't match the radiologist's. Again, the human is in charge, but the robot is serving as a backstop and helpmeet, using its inexhaustible robotic vigilance to augment human skill.

That's centaurs. They're the good automation. Then there's the bad automation: the reverse-centaur, when the human is used to augment the robot.

Amazon warehouse pickers stand in one place while robotic shelving units trundle up to them at speed; then, the haptic bracelets shackled around their wrists buzz at them, directing them pick up specific items and move them to a basket, while a third automation system penalizes them for taking toilet breaks or even just walking around and shaking out their limbs to avoid a repetitive strain injury. This is a robotic head using a human body – and destroying it in the process.

An AI-assisted radiologist processes fewer chest X-rays every day, costing their employer more, on top of the cost of the AI. That's not what AI companies are selling. They're offering hospitals the power to create reverse centaurs: radiologist-assisted AIs. That's what "human in the loop" means.

This is a problem for workers, but it's also a problem for their bosses (assuming those bosses actually care about correcting AI hallucinations, rather than providing a figleaf that lets them commit fraud or kill people and shift the blame to an unpunishable AI).

Humans are good at a lot of things, but they're not good at eternal, perfect vigilance. Writing code is hard, but performing code-review (where you check someone else's code for errors) is much harder – and it gets even harder if the code you're reviewing is usually fine, because this requires that you maintain your vigilance for something that only occurs at rare and unpredictable intervals:

https://twitter.com/qntm/status/1773779967521780169

But for a coding shop to make the cost of an AI pencil out, the human in the loop needs to be able to process a lot of AI-generated code. Replacing a human with an AI doesn't produce any savings if you need to hire two more humans to take turns doing close reads of the AI's code.

This is the fatal flaw in robo-taxi schemes. The "human in the loop" who is supposed to keep the murderbot from smashing into other cars, steering into oncoming traffic, or running down pedestrians isn't a driver, they're a driving instructor. This is a much harder job than being a driver, even when the student driver you're monitoring is a human, making human mistakes at human speed. It's even harder when the student driver is a robot, making errors at computer speed:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/01/human-in-the-loop/#monkey-in-the-middle

This is why the doomed robo-taxi company Cruise had to deploy 1.5 skilled, high-paid human monitors to oversee each of its murderbots, while traditional taxis operate at a fraction of the cost with a single, precaratized, low-paid human driver:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

The vigilance problem is pretty fatal for the human-in-the-loop gambit, but there's another problem that is, if anything, even more fatal: the kinds of errors that AIs make.

Foundationally, AI is applied statistics. An AI company trains its AI by feeding it a lot of data about the real world. The program processes this data, looking for statistical correlations in that data, and makes a model of the world based on those correlations. A chatbot is a next-word-guessing program, and an AI "art" generator is a next-pixel-guessing program. They're drawing on billions of documents to find the most statistically likely way of finishing a sentence or a line of pixels in a bitmap:

https://dl.acm.org/doi/10.1145/3442188.3445922

This means that AI doesn't just make errors – it makes subtle errors, the kinds of errors that are the hardest for a human in the loop to spot, because they are the most statistically probable ways of being wrong. Sure, we notice the gross errors in AI output, like confidently claiming that a living human is dead:

https://www.tomsguide.com/opinion/according-to-chatgpt-im-dead

But the most common errors that AIs make are the ones we don't notice, because they're perfectly camouflaged as the truth. Think of the recurring AI programming error that inserts a call to a nonexistent library called "huggingface-cli," which is what the library would be called if developers reliably followed naming conventions. But due to a human inconsistency, the real library has a slightly different name. The fact that AIs repeatedly inserted references to the nonexistent library opened up a vulnerability – a security researcher created a (inert) malicious library with that name and tricked numerous companies into compiling it into their code because their human reviewers missed the chatbot's (statistically indistinguishable from the the truth) lie:

https://www.theregister.com/2024/03/28/ai_bots_hallucinate_software_packages/

For a driving instructor or a code reviewer overseeing a human subject, the majority of errors are comparatively easy to spot, because they're the kinds of errors that lead to inconsistent library naming – places where a human behaved erratically or irregularly. But when reality is irregular or erratic, the AI will make errors by presuming that things are statistically normal.

These are the hardest kinds of errors to spot. They couldn't be harder for a human to detect if they were specifically designed to go undetected. The human in the loop isn't just being asked to spot mistakes – they're being actively deceived. The AI isn't merely wrong, it's constructing a subtle "what's wrong with this picture"-style puzzle. Not just one such puzzle, either: millions of them, at speed, which must be solved by the human in the loop, who must remain perfectly vigilant for things that are, by definition, almost totally unnoticeable.

This is a special new torment for reverse centaurs – and a significant problem for AI companies hoping to accumulate and keep enough high-value, high-stakes customers on their books to weather the coming trough of disillusionment.

This is pretty grim, but it gets grimmer. AI companies have argued that they have a third line of business, a way to make money for their customers beyond automation's gifts to their payrolls: they claim that they can perform difficult scientific tasks at superhuman speed, producing billion-dollar insights (new materials, new drugs, new proteins) at unimaginable speed.

However, these claims – credulously amplified by the non-technical press – keep on shattering when they are tested by experts who understand the esoteric domains in which AI is said to have an unbeatable advantage. For example, Google claimed that its Deepmind AI had discovered "millions of new materials," "equivalent to nearly 800 years’ worth of knowledge," constituting "an order-of-magnitude expansion in stable materials known to humanity":

https://deepmind.google/discover/blog/millions-of-new-materials-discovered-with-deep-learning/

It was a hoax. When independent material scientists reviewed representative samples of these "new materials," they concluded that "no new materials have been discovered" and that not one of these materials was "credible, useful and novel":

https://www.404media.co/google-says-it-discovered-millions-of-new-materials-with-ai-human-researchers/

As Brian Merchant writes, AI claims are eerily similar to "smoke and mirrors" – the dazzling reality-distortion field thrown up by 17th century magic lantern technology, which millions of people ascribed wild capabilities to, thanks to the outlandish claims of the technology's promoters:

https://www.bloodinthemachine.com/p/ai-really-is-smoke-and-mirrors

The fact that we have a four-hundred-year-old name for this phenomenon, and yet we're still falling prey to it is frankly a little depressing. And, unlucky for us, it turns out that AI therapybots can't help us with this – rather, they're apt to literally convince us to kill ourselves:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/pkadgm/man-dies-by-suicide-after-talking-with-ai-chatbot-widow-says

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/23/maximal-plausibility/#reverse-centaurs

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #ai #automation #humans in the loop #centaurs #reverse centaurs #labor #ai safety #sanity checks #spot the mistake #code review #driving instructor

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alexa-fika · 6 months

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Hello! Ok so can I request a whitebeard pirates x child reader?

Basically reader has this big fat crush on shanks and everytime that shanks visit the Moby dick reader would give shanks flowers, cards, and candies

Shanks also has this huge ego boost often making comments how he's reader favorite which anger the whitebeard pirates

Ace was so ready to strangle shanks but reader gets between them and there like "Stop fighting! if you keep this up I'll go with Mr shanks and his crew!"

Ace is heartbroken, thatch is sobbing on the floor, while everyone else is stunned LOL

-👻 anon

Puppy Love (Shanks x gn!child!reader x Whitebeard pirates)

Part two

A/N YALL GET YOUR GRILLS READY CAUSE I COOKED HERE, I loved making this im not really into crack fics so I wanted to keep it as real as possible but while still adding that spec of dramatics of it and I think I found the perfect balance

Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika

At first, the Whitebeard pirates thought it was normal. Dokucha was quite the amicable child, after all, and it was not unheard of for them to give small gifts to guests who came on the ship.

The first time Dokucha had seen the red-haired Captain was when the yonko was visiting the Moby Dick on business. Upon spotting the man Dokucha was quick to sneak into the clinic and steal some candy to hand to him.

“Here, Mister Shanks,” they said shyly, handing the candy to said man

Shanks took the candy from the child and thanked them for it

“For me?”

They nodded, a faint red hue blooming on their face as they fidgeted, their upper body spinning back and forth to keep their nerves down

He chuckles softly, giving the kid a small smile and ruffling their head

"Thank you very much, kid," he said as he turned to leave

They squealed happily once he had stepped off the boat, the red hue now taking over their face entirely as they replayed the event on their heads

The Whitebeard Pirates looked on in confusion at the small kid who had grown so fond of the red-head captain

“Ne, is he coming over again?” Dokucha questioned, lying their head on the railing watching as the Red forced slowly sailed away

“Pops needs to discuss some more loose ends with him, so he will be back soon,” Jozu answers absentmindedly

“How soon?”

He looks at the little one before shrugging

“A couple days, maybe a week.”

“Why are you so curious, Dokucha?” Izou asks with a raised brow at the child’s sudden interest

“Nothing!” They said, grinning ear to ear as they went into the ship a skip to their step on their way

The pirates brushed it off as the kid simply being excited at the fact that someone out of their family was coming to visit; they were very wrong.

On the next visit, Dokucha had begged Vista to make some flowers for them and had even sneaked into the kitchen to steal some of the edible flowers to make a small bouquet.

“Here Mister Shanks”

“For me?” Shanks asked with a slight grin on his face as he took the small bouquet and gave the little one a thankful look

“Dokucha, did you make this?”

“Yeah, I made it for you,” they mutter shyly with a shrug

Shanks bends down to the child’s height

“Thank you very much; it looks like you worked hard to make it so pretty.” he takes one of the flowers and tucks it behind their ear

“Here, now you look pretty as well.”

Their face explodes with red at the gesture, a lovesick look on their face as they watch him go

The crewmates raise their eyebrows at this behavior; Ace is the first to speak up

“Hey, that idiot is trying to steal Dokucha!” mutters Ace as he elbows Marco

“That’s just how Dokucha is; you know how friendly they are,” he says with a grunt at the hit

“No, No, Ace is onto something here; he’s definitely up to something,” agrees Thatch

Marco rolls his eyes as he leaves the two to talk their conspiracy out

Turns out he should have heeded their words as he now felt the same feeling crawling up his skin as he watched his youngest sibling yet again approaching the man with another small gift, a small golden coin they had found on their last island

By now, Shanks had started expecting it, so when the kid approached them, a smirk appeared on his face

“What do you have for me today?” he said, scooping the small child up

“I found a pretty coin for Mister Shanks!”

He backs up slightly to look at the coin the child had raised

“You’re spoiling me here, kid. What has my favorite Whitebeard up to?”

They shrug

“I played with my brothers again.”

He chuckles softly

“You’re adorable; I might have to steal you; we need some of that energy in the red Force,”

Dokucha’s response was stopped as they both turned at a hot feeling enveloping them

“Red-haired Shanks,” Ace growls, a tight grin on his face as his fire flickered around him

“Don’t get me wrong, I'm still eternally grateful for you saving and taking care of my brother, but I won’t sit still and watch you steal Dokucha.”

“Would you be so kind as to put my dear sibling down?” Thatch says, a similar tight smile on his face as he swings around his kitchen knives

Marco stared at the confrontation unfolding before him, his eyes drilling into the opposing captain, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in

“Stop! If you hurt Mister Shanks, I will be mad at you forever! And I will go on adventures with Mister Shanks!”

Thatch gasps at their words

“Dokucha…you are breaking my heart!” He said, grasping at his chest at the sight

“Ah, Thatch-nii!” They said, jumping off Shanks's hand and running to their brother

“Is you’re heart okay?! I’m sorry! I'm not mad at Thatch-Nii!” They cry

Thatch rushes forward to the kid, embracing them in a hug

“Don’t you go running off with anyone else, okay? I won’t allow it.”

“Is your heart okay, Thatch-nii?”

He chuckles

“Don’t worry, I‘m fine. I would just miss you too much if you were to leave.”

“That being said, you are not going with Shanks.”

Shanks chuckles at this, a sly smirk growing on his face

“I don’t know. I might just steal the little one.”

“You-

“Stop” A commanding voice booms

“Ace, stand down,” Whitebeard mutters

Ace’s flame flares more as his jaw tightens

“Fine…”

Whitebeard turns his sight to the Red-Haired captain

“Boy, stop taunting my commanders.”

Shanks raises his hand in a forfeiting motion

“Couldn’t help myself,” he chuckles

“Well then, are you done messing around?” Thatch asked after a moment of silence, scooping up the child and putting them on his hip

“I think it is time for me to take my leave,” sighs Shanks, a small smile growing as he says this

“Hey, kid, say hi to Luffy for me, will ya?” He said, glancing at Ace

Ace rolls his eyes at this but grumbles out an agreement his way, a similar smile on his face

Shanks nods at this and takes his leave, jumping back to the Red Force and preparing to set sail

Dokucha whines at this, struggling against Thatch’s hold to try to follow after the redhead

Thatch looks down at the child struggling against his grasp

“Don’t.” He said bluntly

Marco glances at the small struggle before sighing and crossing over, pulling the kid from Thatch to sit on the other side of his hip, nodding at the chef in assurance

Dokucha tries to take advantage of the handover to wiggle their way out of their grasp but is unable to escape their brothers’ firm hold

“There isn’t escaping, you little troublemaker; no use trying,”

“But I want to see Mister Shanks off!”

“I know, bud, but you can’t run off with every stranger you see,” he said, ruffling their hair

They pout

“But it’s a handsome stranger!”

“And what if they're bad people? They could steal you away, you know?”

“Mister Shanks can steal me any day,” they sighed with a dopey smile

He lets out a small chuckle

“Your something else, kid,” he says, giving their head a light pat

“No, Marco-nii, Shanks is something else! So handsome and strong!”

He scoffs at that

“What are we, invisible?” he grumbles, walking into the ship

Ace and Thatch watched them walk away, the latter looking up at his Captain

“Hey, old ma-

“You’re not going after him.”

Guys let’s be honest Dokucha is just voicing much of you are thinking, I think they are intrusive thoughts voiced out, honestly I keep re-reading and I keep laughing cause I just think of you guys doing that

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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CH10. Cheque, Please! | The Menu [2.2K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

ONE YEAR LATER

The diner was packed.

Tables were full, the large room a buzz of chatter and music, the speakers playing an old sixties bop. It was a familiar sight, one that happened more often than not since Jim sold the diner. The new owner ripped the place apart, down to its old bones before he put his life savings into it.

New floors, new tables and chairs, artwork on the walls that were signed by Argyle, a photo of the whole staff taken and framed by Jonathan, Jim Hopper at the forefront, a wide smile on his face on the last day before his retirement. The bulbs in the neon sign outside had been replaced so it no longer flickered, the green and blue glow of it now announcing the diner’s new name, proud and bright for everyone to see.

Eddie’s Slice Of Chicago.

“Door! Behind!” You yelled out as you entered the kitchen empty plates piled high in your arms and Jonathan took them from you with practised ease.

Steve was on the grill, still hesitant and not as fast as Argyle, but he was flipping burgers quicker than he had last week. His chef whites were brand new, his name badge shiny and his front of house position taken over by Nancy. Everyone was in new uniforms, freshly pressed and a sage green, aprons still without stains and a pocketful of pens that didn’t run out of ink too quickly. Robin was taking orders, laughing with a family from out of town, letting their toddler grab at her finger as she promised them to return soon with their pizzas and shakes. Dustin was helping Max run a large order to a table of backpackers, a border collie under the table at their feet, getting its ears scratched by the new start, Mike.

There was a sign on the staff notice board, up beside the employee of the month, a piece of ripped paper with the words “SIXTY FOUR DAYS SINCE THE LAST FREEZER BREAKDOWN.” The rest of the space was filled with staff photos, polaroids and prints of the group at a fourth of July picnic, a barbecue at Jim’s in the summer, huddled around the kitchens countertops in the winter, drinking from mugs filled with Argyle’s homemade horchata, the frame that held Billy’s scrawled termination letter, an old napkin that held a small conversation in pen.

It felt more like home than ever. Even when Eddie wasn’t there.

Everyone answered to you in his absence, unofficially in charge when the boss wasn’t here. It had taken some getting used to, hell, you’d even tried to pawn off the responsibility to Nancy, or Steve, anyone who’d been at the grill longer than you had. But Nancy was part time, back at college during the week, taking Robin on dates in the evenings and Steve was too busy being trained as a new prep chef to worry about invoices and deliveries.

So you stepped into the role cautiously, softening to the idea when Eddie kissed you something fierce and told you that there wasn’t anyone else he trusted to do the job. His acceptance letter had come the month after taking over the diner. A thick, white envelope that lay heavy on your doormat because he’d finally moved in, sharing your small apartment with you like he did everything else.

Clothes. Jewellery. Books. Records. Food. Kisses.

Vincennes University offered Eddie the chance to do what he hadn’t been able to before. Refining his craft, learning new skills, working in a state of the art kitchen with equipment he’d come home and gush to you about. The diner was doing well enough that tuition wasn’t a worry anymore and suddenly, the long commute into Indianapolis for classes four days a week seemed worth it. Eddie was passing with flying colours, receiving accolades and opportunities at every given moment and when he came home, exhausted but happy, he came home to you.

Bone tired, he’d slip into the apartment, socked feet padding gently over the floorboards, Tupperware full of something delicious to be stacked in the fridge. He’d find you curled up somewhere, a black cat called Basil in the nook of your bent legs. He’d kiss you sweet, he’d kiss you soft, warming you up to a simmer until you forgot how much you’d missed him that day.

It was all worth it.

“Table eighteen wants extra hash browns and booth six needs two pepperoni’s and the Hawkins special, chefs,” you called to Steve as you slapped the orders onto the bar.

“Got it,” Steve and Argyle called back, one a little more nervously than the other but it was okay, ‘cause Eddie was home soon.

Eddie was home soon.

He’d called from a pay phone outside of the school, voice buzzing with excitement, with pride, and yours mirrored his back. He’d be on the train soon, he’d meet you at the apartment, if you could get away early. So you handed your keys to Nancy and she grinned, knowing there was a cause for celebration waiting at home for you. You drove Eddie’s van back along the road, coming into town on the familiar stretch, passing Wayne’s, the trailer park you both visited every Sunday for dinner.

The apartment door was unlocked, dimly lit in the early fall gloom, already smelling like garlic and tomatoes, like fresh bread and the scent of Eddie cologne that lingered on his jacket that hung in the hallway. Eddie’s records were in the shelves by your books, his guitar hanging from a hook in the tiny office room, his shoes on the bench by the door. He’d transformed your kitchen when he’d moved in, a decision that had been all too easy to make. There were pots and pans hanging from the rack, shiny, sharp knives that he was scared of you using without him there, jars and tubs of ingredients stacked high in the fridge and the pantry. There were fresh herbs in planters on the window sill. The radio always played.

The kitchen always felt like the heart of the home.

That’s where you found Eddie, sweater sleeves rolled up and grinning at you from the stove top, a large spoon in hand as he mixed in some fresh rosemary to the pot of sauce. He greeted you with a glass of wine, the cheap stuff that you liked best, catching you in a kiss before you could bring the cup to your lips.

He kissed you soft, kissed you sweet, humming when you laughed into his mouth, his free hand slipping inside of your shirt to ghost his fingers over your ribs.

“Hi,” you whispered. You’d never tire of this. This warmth, this kind of greeting, this feeling of coming home. “Good day?”

Eddie nodded, stealing another kiss, catching the corner of your mouth. He gazed at you, eyes shining with excitement and you could practically feel the buzz in his bones for what he was about to say.

“I got it.”

You blinked, once, before your smile turned into a grin and it stretched wide. You barely had the common sense to place your wine on the countertop before you launched yourself at the boy, your arms wound round his neck as your crushed your face into his curls. Eddie whooped, a joyful thing as he lifted you off your feet and grinned against your throat.

“You got it,” you whispered back to him, everything in you frilled with awe and pride.

“I got it,” he repeated again. His voice sounded thick.

The internship with Chef Emmelie was something that everyone in Eddie’s class was vying for. Eddie had spent an insane amount of time on his application, using you as his own personal taste tester in both work and home. New recipes were concocted, old dishes were reworked and it had all paid off. Eddie had been hand picked to work alongside one of the country’s greats, assisting in setting up a new restaurant, a fine dining establishment that promised to deliver nothing but the best cuisine to the masses. Eddie would help create the menu, and hopefully, maybe, eventually, take over as head chef.

It was another level of surreal.

“I knew you would,” you mumbled into his neck, pulling back only to crush Eddie’s cheeks in the palms of your hands and give him a kiss that ducked his breath away. His lips tasted salty, but perhaps that was your own tears you could taste. Eddie just held onto you tighter, his stew mix bubbling away without any attention. “Where is it? Have they told you where you’re setting up?”

You’d held Eddie’s hand as he clutched his application letter and promised him that no matter where they sent him, you’d follow. The only thing that tied you to Hawkins, was the boy and Basil was easy enough to smuggle into a cat carrier, once you could catch him. Wayne had squashed any hesitancy from Eddie immediately, waving him off and saying that there would be private jets for each of you once he hit the big time as the new celebrity chef. And of course, there was the diner.

Eddie laughed then, a breathy, disbelieving thing and he finally shuffled to settle you onto the small dining table that sat in the corner of the kitchen. He nudged his way in between your legs, sniffling when Basil appeared to wind around his own ankles and the only sounds were the purring of the cat and the simmering of dinner. You held your breath, brows raised, expectant.

London? Dubai? Paris? Los Angeles?

“They wanna set up in Chicago.”

—————

Going back to the city you left was a lot less daunting with Eddie by your side.

Wayne moved out of the trailer park and into your apartment, something that made leaving a little easier for Eddie. He still owned the diner, and promised to stop by at least a few times a month if scheduling around the new restaurant would allow. He’d found a new manager, a woman from town called Joyce who loved to bake and knew enough about taxes and accounting that she didn’t fuck up order and invoices. She loved the place like Eddie did, promised she’d do it proud.

(She met Jim on Sunday in summer and after she served him her famous cherry cheesecake, one date in the park had turned into three, into five and now they were inseparable. They spent most of their time walking around town, visiting farmers and Jim enjoyed his retirement by helping Joyce create new desserts for the diner.)

Eddie’s internship came with an apartment in the suburbs, a small townhouse that was far enough from the hustle of the city that you felt more at home than before. It was less bright, less loud and Basil had a garden to roam in, a bench beside a vegetable patch he could bathe in the sun from.

It had a pantry and old oak floors, a huge window that looked out onto the street that was lined with cherry trees, and a nook in the living room that you liked to read in. You found a job, pretty easily, a vintage bookstore on the edge of town that smelled like coffee and cinnamon, old pages and older stories. It was owned by an old man who let his dog sleep under the front desk, who brought in pastries for breakfast and made you sweet tea in the summer.

The restaurant opened in the spring. Hit headlines the following day, praising the special on the menu made by newcomer chef, Edward Munson. By the summer, the heat was climbing and so was Eddie’s popularity. He was running the restaurant, got to create a new menu every six weeks and the waitlist was booked out until Christmas. He told you he loved you every time you paid him a visit, on your lunch break, a whisper between a kiss hello and goodbye in the kitchen, coy whistles from his staff that he burned pink at.

And when you both drove back to Hawkins for long weekends and holiday stays, you crammed yourselves and Basil into your old apartment with Wayne, packed his freezer full of food and tried to convince him to take in one (maybe two) of the strays from the trailer park to keep him company.

You spent the Fourth of July with the diner crew, in the backyard of Jim and Joyce’s new home, sharing Polaroids and newspaper clippings of the restaurant, of your new home, Eddie’s menu. Steve was in awe but nothing could beat the look of pride on your boyfriend’s face when Steve told him he’d mastered a French omelette. Argyle was running the kitchen, Nancy had been promoted to assistant manager, part time or not, and Robin had helped Jonathan in running a Sunday morning coffee club, where Hawkins residents got to taste test new bean flavours over a pastry breakfast and some town gossip.

Eddie didn’t scowl much, not anymore.

And when you next bumped into Chrissy, you waved at her from under the tuck of Eddie’s arm, diamond ring glinting on your left hand in the sun. She didn’t have much to say to you, not after that.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff

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unholyhelbig · 10 months

Note

Part three of loan shark natty

Title: The Oversight [Part 3/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Wordcount: 3465

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, guns, blood, death, sort of dark nat if you squint, horrible grammar

[A/n: If you guys haven't picked up on it yet, this will be slow-burn. Also, thank you so much for the positive response to this story, it means so much!]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

It had been two weeks since the incident that you had deemed ‘the business proposal’, though, if you were being honest, you knew exactly what it was. The bruising against the side of your face, fading from a deep dark purple to an ugly muddy brown reminded you of the encounter. The faster you healed, the more your nerves started to prickle dangerously.

Each time the brass bell above the diner’s door would ring, your eyes would flick to the entrance. With bated breath, you’d study the tired businessman, the English major running on nothing but burnt coffee, or the single mother just looking for some reprieve. Much like yourself.

Clint Barton was the last person you expected and wanted to see. He was certainly the last person you wanted to see, despite the sheepish smile on his face. There was shame etched into his features and a strange softness to his eyes that starkly contrasted the man who had nearly broken your jaw.

His hair was sprinkled with droplets of water, a sweatshirt dotted from the persistent drizzle that seemed to plague the city. He dutifully wiped his feet on the mat and made his way over to you. Instead of his usual booth, Clint sat on the last stool and scratched the stubble on his chin.

He glanced at the menu as if he were going to order something different than his usual. Maybe he wouldn’t order anything at all. But, you had a feeling you weren’t going to escape the conversation at the tip of his tongue, nor the obscenities at the tip of yours.

You poured him a cup of coffee and set it in front of him without being asked. Clint could swallow down a whole pot of extra caffeinated without a second thought. For now, you urged him to pace himself silently.

“You got a couple of minutes?” He asked behind the rim of his cup.

The diner was mostly empty. It was the middle of the workday and had been a slow four hours thus far. There was only so many times you could wiped down the same table and replace the salt in the shakers.

The cook made eye contact with you as he poured alcohol from his flask into off-brand orange soda. You got a short shrug in response. Otherwise, the place was empty. Clint had timed his arrival perfectly.

“Sure. You’re not going to beat the shit out of me again, are you? Those cameras aren’t hooked up, but this is still a public place.”

“Look, I wanted to apologize for that. Bad information breeds bad reactions. I was doing what I was told. You’ll learn that that’s the only way to get anywhere in this practice.”

He stated it plainly as if you weren’t silently inducted into a criminal ring. You weren’t exactly sure what they did but if it was half as bad as what they’d done to you, it was trouble. Clint could sense your unease. He placed his mug down and lifted a bandaged eyebrow.

“Hold your grudge, y/n. I sure would. Natasha simply told me to collect you after your shift. So, you can sit here and glower at me like a grumpy little monster or you can make conversation and we can become friends.”

You hated how good the second suggestion sounded. He was charming in an annoying type of way. You’d never clicked with anyone in the diner before, certainly not the only other employee that stood behind the grill.

Clint was staring at you like he knew you’d already folded. He covered his smirk with another sip of coffee. You wanted to wipe the cocky grin off his face. He had effectively taken a shot at you, that much was true, but you had crumbled just as easily under Natasha’s wishes.

“Friends is a stretch.” You sounded out.

“Acquaintances, then.”

You conceded with a small nod and Clint smiled in a way that could only be genuine. He swallowed off the rest of his coffee and made small talk with you as you hustled around the restaurant. There was a small rush after classes at the community college let out. But you were able to carry on a conversation, learning a little more about him.

He’d been friends with Natasha for a long time. That much was clear by the way his eyes crinkled along the edges when he’d recall memories that stretched past their current affairs and into childhood.

“We met when we were twelve. I’d just moved to town and was this scrawny, awkward mess of puberty and acne. An easy target is what I’m saying. A lot of neighborhood boys would target me, but I was faster than them. It usually worked in my favor, but there was one day when it had just snowed and it was impossible for me to get any headway.”

Clint regaled you as you filled up his mug for the third time. You lingered behind the counter, chin on your hand as you listened intently.

“Six of them cornered me at a construction site. I didn’t even know how to begin to fight back. I was beaten close to death and then I heard Nat. She ran head-first into danger, tried to take on every single one of them. Of course, she got the shit kicked out of her too, she was just a kid there was no way for her to win. But that didn’t’ matter because she got back up every single time. Eventually they got cold, or bored, probably both.”

You didn’t want to admit that you were impressed. “Shit, that’s quite the meeting.”

“She’s tough, y/n. Not someone you want to fuck with.”

“So, this is a warning, then?” You smiled.

He shrugged his shoulders “A cautionary tale.”

He drove a 1970 Dodge challenger that smelled like cherry leather polish. It was the nicest car you had ever seen, that is, until he pulled up the iron-gated mansion on the outskirts of the city. There was a brilliant view of the harbor, the water a deep and dark blue that seemed endless, an orange sun casting delicious shadows against the docks.

The house was brick, built in a southern style with a large wrap around porch and a stone fountain in the center of a circular gravel drive. It was three stories of decadence, surrounded by large oak trees and the deepest green grass. This was the home of a Politian, or of someone who had one under their thumb.

Three black SUVs were parked in tandem outside. An equally pitch Corvette Stingray was parked directly in front of the steps. You struggled to muffle the thoughts of Natasha in the front seat. The vehicle suited her, and while you most certainly were not a car person, you knew the value of a ride like that.

Clint squirmed with pride, that same smile on his face. It was one that often accompanied him, you’d learn. He took the steps two at a time and waited to open the doors until you’d caught up. He removed his jacket and draped it over the coat rack just by entryway. You, however, were preoccupied by the elegance of the home.

The floor was a checkered black and white, stretching all the way down a corridor to open storm doors, letting in a crisp spring warmth. Light danced against art that cost more than your entire apartment building. White stairs clung to the wall and curved to the second floor. To your left, a dining room. To your right, a living area that had the softest white carpet, and a cream grand piano that your fingers twitched to run over.

There was a sour scent of bleach that reached your nose, and it was only then, did you realize the blood. It was distilled, a quiet pink color, that had been diluted by diligent scrubbing. The girl, the one that was often at Clint’s side herself, was on her knees a few feet away.

She held a scrub brush that looked like the ones used to clean the grout at the diner. Her forehead was damp with sweat, a few stray strands of dark hair falling into stormy gray eyes. The front of her shirt was stained in the majority of the blood. You failed to see how she would have much to clean from the floor. Yet, the bucket of water next to her was a frothy mess of red.

“An hour,” Clint tsked, shaking his head “I left you alone for an hour. I specifically said that I was coming back with a guest, and it was imperative not to freak her out.”

“I’m not freaked out.”

You were absolutely freaked out. But you were quick to realize whose home you were in. The scrubbing of a crime scene was startling, and you wanted to turn tail and run. However, you had seen worse before and your life had been spared once. You weren’t going to get squeamish now.

“You sound freaked out.” Clint turned his attention back to the girl “And its bad manners. If I were the police?”

“You wouldn’t have gotten through the gate.” She stood, dropping the brush into the bucket with a defiant splash. She was taller than you thought, the deep red of her collar harsh against her skin. There was a smile on her lips, and she reached out a hand to you. “I’m Kate.”

“This is y/n and she’s not going to shake that.” Clint batted Kate’s hand away “Who was this?”

Kate rolled her eyes. It was an action that you yourself would never do. Clint may be a bit aloof, but you had seen him in action. Namely when he was three seconds from snapping the bones in your face. She had no fear of him, though. There was a cockiness, a charming attention, to her stance. He didn’t’ seem to mind, or he had gotten so used to her attitude that seeped into him instead.

“I don’t know. Yelena brought them in. If you’re so concerned about the mess, maybe you should take it up with her.” There was a grin that mirrored Clints. She knew she’d won. “I can go get her if you want.”

“No need. Where’s Nat?”

“Out back by the pool. It’s a lovely day.” She leaned close to you, smelling of cleaner, of tin and of the slightest bit of chewed mint. “It’s great to meet you, y/n.”

You were careful not to lose your footing on the slick floors. Clint nudged the bucket with his toe as he walked by, sloshing about the soiled water. Kate cut him a look that only you saw, but it was one that was almost playful. She shook her head and went back to her task.

There were two things you had picked up from the conversation; Clint was afraid of Yelena, and there was somewhere soundproof in this house that she had taken someone that had lost a lot of blood. You shoved both thoughts to the back of your mind when you exited onto the back porch.

Natasha was stretched out like a cat in the sun. She wore a black bikini that left very little to the imagination. You could feel the blush against your cheeks as you averted your eyes to anywhere else, though, you swore she arched her back from the chair at the sound of your footsteps.

Her hair, still slightly damp, was cascading down her shoulders. She wore a pair of sunglasses, a book that was marked halfway through rested on the table next to her. She had clearly given up on reading, instead fully devoting herself to the sun.

Clint didn’t acknowledge her current state, nor did he have an adverse reaction to it. Your mouth was dry, and you shoved your hands into your jeans to keep them from trembling. It was a mix of fear and attraction that caught you off guard on a mostly empty stomach.

She moved her glasses down the expanse of her nose as you approached. Her stare was a startling green, raking across your form. She quirked an eyebrow. The specter of a smile on her face. Clint had noticed something you didn’t, his body language changing into something unreadable.

“y/n,” Natasha purred your name. You fought back a shiver. “You’ve healed nicely.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“ma’am? What manners you have. That’s severely lacking around here.”

Clint rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. You did the same, partly out of fear. But mostly, you were distracted by the scars against her stomach, on her arms and down her back. It wasn’t something you had noticed at first, nor did you permit yourself to stare. Whatever had been done to you when they’d first taken you was nothing compared to what Natasha had been through. Her body told a story, one that you longed to learn.

“Hey sharpshooter,” She turned her attention to Clint “I think Yelena might need your help downstairs. Y/n. Stay.”

It was a clear dismissal, and one that he didn’t’ take lightly. He patted you on the shoulder before entering the house once more. You listened to his footfalls for a few moments, holding your breath until you started to feel your vision falter.

You’d been alone with Natasha before. But this felt different. Heavier. The questions that you’d had these last two weeks were meant to be answered. She gestured for you to sit on the opposite chair, which you did carefully, body tightened to make yourself as small as possible. She removed her glasses entirely, a strand of russet hair falling into her gaze.

“You’re going to quit your job at the diner.” She said.

“I can’t do that,” Your response was automatic.

Natasha sat up, placing her bare feet adjacent to yours. Her knees were pressed against your own. She easily could have pushed your own open and she stared at you as if she contemplated the fact herself. Instead, she lilted her head and peered at you.

“What I mean, ma’am, is that’s my livelihood.”

“Oh, I understand. I wasn’t perfectly clear. You work for me, now. You’re on my payroll. I’m sure it’ll be quite an upgrade.” She leaned closer. “Do you know what I do, y/n?”

You swallowed hard and shook your head. There was an inkling. But it was just speculation. Someone with a home like this had a good handle on business. Natasha certainly conveyed fear, and commanded respect. So did the people who worked for her, willing to take a bullet in moment’s notice.

You weren’t there yet, but you were sure with a little persuasion, you would be. Part of you had felt slighted. They’d pulled you from your life, from your daughter, and threw you into this without any type of explanation.

“The harbor behind you is a center of trade. Whoever controls the harbor controls the city, and for generations my family has had a monopoly when it comes to what comes in and out. There is not a single freight that can dock here without getting past me. Recently, that’s been threatened.”

She sighed and worked a hand through her hair. Her stare flicked past your shoulder, focused on the expanse of water that had been a staple in your life. You’d walk along the docks, chat with the vendors on the way to work. It seemed like a friendly place.

“There are two prominent families in this city, Y/n. The Romanov’s and Danver’s. For the past three years they’ve been pushing back against the real leadership, getting creative. Looking for change. But we simply can’t allow that to happen. Things work as they are.”

You had a feeling that this was the core of her beliefs. Things how they were weren’t so bad. Each person had their own struggles but when it came to integral crime on the streets, in the boroughs, you hadn’t noticed anything and that was the way you liked it. Ignorant, maybe. But it was none of your concern. Not until now.

“A lot of people work for me, but my numbers are dwindling. It’s hard to find good help anymore. You know how it is.”

You didn’t.

“There’s something… in you that I admire. A perseverance to live and protect and you’re going to do exactly that for me.” Natasha stated this plainly. “The Winter Soldier will be predisposed. Not permanently. But I would like you to replace him.”

There must have been disbelief written across your features because Natasha laughed, actually laughed, as your jaw fell open. It was a lovely sound; you must admit. Bucky was well known in the neighborhood. Even without being knee deep in mafia sludge, you had heard of him. You feared him. And the thought of stirring the same reaction seemed unattainable.

“I… what about Clint?” You asked dumbly. He seemed like the natural choice.

“He’s got his hands full with an heiress who, I’m sure you can tell, is a bit aloof. But extremely valuable. Much like yourself.” She quirked an eyebrow “if it’s experience, you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ll train you myself.”

She stood and tapped your leg with her fingers, arousal shooting straight to your core at the slight contact. Your body almost refused to move, but you were quick to snap out of it when she smiled wolfishly down at you. “Now, have you ever killed anyone?”

Your voice was pinched. “No.”

“We’ll have to change that, darling.” She started to saunter away, grabbing her silk cover-up from the back of a nearby chair. She slid it over her shoulders, and it hugged her form with just enough ferocity as the bathing suit. “Come, dear. I have just the person in mind.”

The basement was significantly cooler than the rest of the house, bathed by the sun. As you descended the stone steps, you fought the urge to smooth your fingers over your skin to quell the frigid air.

Natasha seemed unbothered. She led you into a large room that you assumed was soundproof. It was a fairly empty room, lit with artificial bulbs that reminded you much of the warehouse they’d kept you in for the weekend. This seemed more malicious though. Not something to extract information exactly. A form of punishment.

A man was strung up from a low hanging rafter, his feet barely touching the ground. Rope was tied around his wrists, his hands above his head. Blood dripped like syrup from his lips, from a wound against his side. His left knee looked unnatural and broken.

You fought back a groan at the sight, at the smell of him. One eye was swollen shut, his fingers curling when he noticed Natasha’s presence.

Clint’s back was to you, his fingers dancing over an array of tools. He hummed a Metallica song, stopping at a pair of pliers. Yelena had her arms crossed over her chest, walking a slow, predatory circle around the man.

“No,” Yelena took the pliers from Clint “He will need his teeth to talk.”

Your throat tightened. This was the same woman who had sat next to your daughter in the diner. The one who had complimented her art and your job at raising her. She was easy to have conversations with, charming in the purest sense.

She turned towards both of you. “Natasha, you shouldn’t wear open toed shoes here. It is unsanitary.”

The woman next to you was not admonished in the slightest. Not by the cold or the harsh words of Yelena. Instead, she studied the man in front of you. He was in rough shape. If he hadn’t talked yet, he wasn’t going to. That much was clear.

This felt like the first time you served without following around an older, more experienced waitress. Your fingers were trembling and there was a wild nervousness that was in the pit of your stomach. Eventually, you learned, and it was second nature. You wondered if that’s what Natasha wanted. For you to learn not to cringe away from things like this. Just like the Winter Soldier.

As if to prove your thought process, Natasha said “Which one of you has your gun?”

They both pulled them out of various places at the same time, without hesitation, to the question. It made sense that Natasha didn’t have a weapon on her, not with the outfit that she walked around in. The cover-up was too tight against her skin, too revealing.

Yelena was closer, so Natasha grabbed the weapon from her. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

“I have.”

Your second foster father was a deputy sheriff in Minnesota. On half-frozen nights, he’d return home from the local bar reeking of sour alcohol and sweat. The door to your bedroom would creak open and he’d drag you from bed, barefoot and in your pajamas.

Most of the time, he had cans set up on an old picnic table that had rotted through. At first, it was your job to set the cans back up and fight off hypothermia. But after three or four sleepless nights, he taught you how to shoot. His body was warm against your back and the first time the gun kicked you had nearly broken your nose.

You considered yourself a good shot when it came to cans, wild turkeys, and even the occasional buck. This was different. This was a human being that was taking in heaving breathes and fighting to pull himself up to give his bad knee a break.

“Do you know how to aim?” Natasha asked.

“It’s been years.”

“Okay,” She breathed.

You flinched when she moved behind you. Her warmth was all encapsulating. She smelled of sunscreen, and vaguely of the salt of the ocean. Natasha’s fingers pressed against your hip, giving you a small squeeze, signaling for you to take a step back.

Her other hand dropped the pistol into yours, heavy and warm. Her hand trailed up your arms, giving you goosebumps, fingers tightening around your own until you held the gun towards the man. The stranger.

Natasha’s chin was on your shoulder, her breathe hot against your cheek. Her voice came out in a whisper. “Right there. When you’re ready.”

She’d aimed the tip of the gun directly between his eyes. You could hear your heartbeat in both ears, vibrating through your body. It wasn’t hesitation, exactly. In this moment, it was his life or yours. Clint and Yelena watched you carefully, with intent.

You took a deep, shaking, breath and clenched your eyes before pulling the trigger. You expected some sort of blow-back. The same throbbing pain that you recalled from shooting at the cans. The scent of gunpowder mixing with cold.

None of those came.

Instead, there was a small click. The safety was on, and though you had squeezed the trigger with the intention to kill, it simply did not fire. You inadvertently slumped back into Natasha and the hand on your hip snaked around your middle, holding you close.

“You won’t have to kill often,” Natasha explained “But it’s good to know you’d do it without question if I tell you to.”

“Oh, Natasha, do not play with her. It is not nice.”

Smoothly, Natasha worked the gun from your hand and switched the safety off before you could blink. She fired two shots in succession, not releasing her hold on you. Your ear was ringing and the man in front of you slumped in his bindings.

“Okay. Very effective. You owe me bullets.” Yelena took her weapon back. “You are cleaning this up.”

“That means I’m cleaning this up.” Clint said.

Natasha hummed in agreement, finally pulling herself away from you. “I think this a job for two, don’t you, y/n?”

There wasn’t room to disagree with her. Not when you could only hear out of one ear, your skin still buzzing from her lingering touch. You could have sworn you felt her own heartbeat against your shoulder blade.

But you’d never bring that up.

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grillpartshub-blog · 6 days

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 12 days

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Continuity Error 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you are the resident tech and fly on the wall, until you're not. (short!reader)

Characters: Thor, this reader is known as Stormie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Everything is neat and tidy and separate. Like everything in your life. The bento box divides rice from even slices of grilled chicken, another unit of edamame and some greens in a section of their own. Right on top of your desk with the pen cup of black pens only and the organizer with post-its sorted by colour and size, along with a tin of mint and a single notebook. Orderly.

Unlike the rabble around you. The office is chaos. It’s noisy. It’s annoying.

It’s not where you wanted to be in life but you never really figured out the alternative. You just try to get by. Wake up, go to work, do your job, go home, eat. Everything is precise and routine. You don’t miss a beat. Just keep going.

That day is no different than the ones before. Fefe makes eyes at Mr. Odinson as he walks in with one of his clients. They’re all the same. Sometimes you suspect they aren’t there for business with the way they chat up the assistants. It’s not your concern; you only care when they open a spam link or forget to plug in their monitor. Work is simple.

You mind business and people mind theirs. They don’t remember you’re there until they need help. They don’t make small talk. You don’t either. What good is that? Just wasting time when you can fix their problem in less than a minute. You learned your lesson when that guy in the glasses keep winking.

You chew your chicken. You forgot lemon juice in your sauce. A rare oversight.

You take small bites. A bite of chicken. Then rice. Then edamame. And finally greens. It’s a parade of flavours. You keep the order; chicken, rice, veg...

When you finish, you get up with the lid and reusable cutlery, stacked on top of the container, and go to the break room to rinse it all out. You take your tip; washing each corner and crevice. You dry the pieces thoroughly and put it all back together.

“That’s an interesting container,” a deep voice startles you from the doorway.

You turn as you click the lid firmly into place. You put the container against your chest, hiding it. It’s him. The big burly blond that runs the floor. You wiggle your nose. A compulsion you have yet to unlearn.

“Sir.”

“May I see?” He asks.

As he comes closer you tense up. You don’t like people touching your stuff. You’ll have to resanitize it all and your hands.

“Unless you’d rather I not,” Mr. Odinson relents and stops a few feet from you, “I only came for a top up.”

He doffs his mug. The stains of his early brew still around the brim. He goes to the sink and rinses it out. He doesn’t scrub or soap it before he wipes it dry quickly and puts it on the tray of the single-serve machine. That’s exactly why you don’t touch the coffee station. You bring a thermos with cinnamon tea; it keeps warm all day long.

You nod and head for the door.

“Are you the replacement?” He asks. “I recall you looking much different.”

You stop and shake your head, “tech, sir.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now. The one in the corner,” he says as he clucks and squints at the selection of boxes. “Would you a recommendation?”

You waver. You just want to go to your desk. Your nose twitches again.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Tea? My brother is preferential to it as well.”

You’ve dealt with his brother. Down a few floors. Not very pleasant but asks a lot less questions.

You nod. He looks at you and brushes his fingertips along his golden beard. He’s a very large man but you suppose next to you, anyone is.

“I should go back to my desk.”

“And who says so? I am the boss, so far as I know,” he muses.

You pause before you can flee. Your nose wiggles. His blue eyes catch on the movement. You stare back, unsure what to do.

“Hm, this Colombian roast looks interesting,” he plucks out a pod. You stand there blankly. You don’t like this. He’s making you feel dumb. He’s getting in the way of your routine. “Are you available to have a look at my computer? It seems I’m having some error with the secure connection. That is, if you can make time for me?”

As the machine grinds loudly to push your shoulders back. “It is my job, yes.”

“Perfect, go ahead and wait for me in my office,” he says coolly, his focus on the spout.

You retreat through the door and flit over to your desk. You open your drawer and shove the container in your bag. You turn and look over at his office door. You slowly make your way between the desks toward it.

You pause across from the name placque on the door and glance over as Sierra watches you. You cross and push the handle down. You enter warily. You leave the door open and near his large desk. You go around and roll his chair aside. You hate touching other peoples’ things; you prefer to remote in.

You stand as you wake up the computer. You step back and wait. It’s locked. That’s good. You shouldn’t leave your device accessible.

Odinson enters with a waft of coffee. He smiles at you and your nose scrunches. “You will need to sign in and you can show me the problem.” You step back.

He comes around the desk and sets the cup down carelessly. A splash overflows the brim and leaks onto the desk, the coaster forgotten by his mousepad. He pulls his chair closer and sits in it heavily, the wheels squeaking.

It takes him several tries to login as his thick fingers are almost too big for the keys. When he’s in, he clicks around. You watch him bring up the server portal. He types again.

“Sir,” you say. “The two-factor authentication requires you to confirm on a secondary device. You need to type in sms and it will send a passcode to your phone or whatever else you’ve set up with the system.”

“Ah!” He snaps his fingers. “I knew it would be obvious. Clever rabbit.” He pops his index up.

“Problem solved,” you say and check your watch. Lunch is over.

“Thank you,” he beams.

You leave him without another word. You find it hard to believe he was locked out when the security protocol has been in place for well over a year. He needs it every day so why is it suddenly an issue? You shrug.

Like you said, problem solved. You can go back to your corner.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #bad bosses #au #mcu #marvel #series #avengers #continuity error

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crispyeagleenthusiast · 4 months

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skbeaumont · 5 months

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Texas Heat | Joel x Reader

Chapter 4 – The Barbeque

Series masterlist

Chapter Summary: Saturday brings a barbeque, a whole lot of flirting, and a perfect storm of tension that might just push you and Joel to the brink of something new. Rating: Mature Tags/warnings: flirting, sexual tension, smut, age difference (reader is 25, Joel is 37), AU!No outbreak. Word Count: 3.1k

Taglist: @mysterialee@amyispxnk @ghostofzion-blog

The Texas heat is almost unbearable even when you wake at just past seven the next morning. Laying in bed, you can still feel the ghost of Joel’s hand against your jaw, the gentle way his fingers tangled in your hair, the delicate fan of his breath mingling with yours. The memory keeps you in bed a little longer, has you pressing your own hand beneath the waistband of your shorts. You come hard to the thought of Joel’s expression as he looked at you from the doorway of the garage, the intoxicating pull of his eyes. You wonder how his fingers – that trailed so dexterously across your cheek not twelve hours ago – would feel pressed against your core, if they would dip inside you, laying pleasure upon pleasure as he watched you with that same dark, intense expression.

Eventually, you force yourself to get up and dress. You pull on the bikini your brought with you – white, with sculped edges and long ties that you double knot – and then don your favourite sundress, one that you’ve been saving for a special occasion. Examining yourself in the mirror, you can’t help but feel a little nervous, your stomach squirming uncomfortably. Last night, Joel had been seconds from kissing you, his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you up to meet his hungry lips. And God, the thought of it makes your toes curl, your thighs press together.

But there’s anxiety there, too.

It’s been months since you broke up with your boyfriend back home, the same one you’d been with throughout your entire time at university and the gap years between. The thought of starting something new with someone else feels terrifying in so many ways. What if Joel decides he doesn’t like you, or want you? What if he’s hesitant, or unsure, and it ruins all of the hard work you’ve done over the past few months, convincing yourself you’re deserving of love and affection?

You close your eyes against the image in the mirror, refusing to let yourself fall into old habits of self-criticism, and take a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly. You focus on thinking about Joel’s easy smile and his calloused, warm hands. You think about his broad, strong shoulders and the dark lock of hair that always falls across his forehead. The nerves die away a little, replaced by anticipation and excitement. You open your eyes again, look yourself in the eye and repeat the words Diana said to you on Wednesday. “Flirt your ass off.”

Five hours later finds you and Danny lugging a slightly rusty beer cooler over to the Cuthberts’. Theirs is the biggest lot on the road, a sprawling house surrounded by a flawlessly mown front lawn and backed by huge garden, complete with a patio – almost certainly larger than your entire flat back in London – and a tiled, picture-perfect swimming pool. You let out a low whistle as you and Danny round the house into the garden, taking in the two-tiered, five-grill barbeque in the centre of the patio and the array of chairs, sofas and tables laid out on the decking. There are no other guests yet, but you find yourself searching Joel out anyway, peering around the potted palm trees and oversized plant pots.

Mr Cuthbert, a large, jovial man in a bright Hawaiian print shirt, slaps Danny convivially on the back and introduces himself – “call me John”, he says, offering you a wink which you steadfastly ignore.

You and Danny put the beer cooler in a shady part of the patio and help John fill it with the beers from his drinks fridge – a separate appliance than his usual fridge, he proudly informs you as he hands you bottles of wine, premixed cocktails, sodas, and beers. By the time you’re done, a few guests have trickled into the garden, all carrying more drinks and food.

Slowly, the garden and deck fills up with neighbours and friends. You stand near the kitchen in the shade, leaning against the cool stone of the house, your eyes fixed on the gate, watching with anticipation as each newcomer arrives. You hear Sarah before you see her or Joel, catch the end of a shout of her infectious laughter as the two of them come into the garden.

Joel’s in tinted sunglasses that reflect the garden back at you, his hair brushed back from his forehead, dark and thick and streaked with a few errant greys. He’s wearing a loose-fitting linen Henley and a pair of shorts that show off the tanned vee of collarbone and chest, the bottom of his thick thighs. He says something to Sarah, points her in the direction of a group of similarly-aged kids and she darts off, leaving Joel to survey the garden. When his eyes find yours – or rather when his sunglasses reflect your own figure – he breaks into an easy sideways grin, holds up one hand in greeting.

You told yourself you would play it cool, ease into the flirting, but before his hand has even returned to his side you’re darting towards him, sidestepping a toddler and two middle aged women. He meets you halfway across the garden, taking large steps that cover the distance to the deck easily.

“Hey,” You say when you meet.

“Hi.” He replies, and he draws his sunglasses up off his face to rest on the top of his head, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he does.

“I’m disappointed,” You say, gesturing at his shorts and shirt, “I was promised a toolbelt and workmen’s boots.”

He laughs at this, a deep, throaty chuckle that comes right from his chest.

“Toolbelt’s just at home, if you want me to go and get it.”

“Maybe later.” You reply, smirking.

“You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

You follow him to the beer cooler and watch as Joel plucks two bottles out of the icy water, opens the tops with one hand. The simple gesture shouldn’t be so goddamn attractive, shouldn’t make blood rush to your cheeks and heat pool in your belly, but it is and it does. He hands you one of the beers, and your fingers brush his warm knuckles as you take it. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches in response, his eyes flashing in the bright sunlight. You can feel the blush hot on your face just from these tiny, pathetic touches, slick already pooling in your core, dampening the bikini bottoms under your sundress. You clear your throat and Joel nods to a quiet corner of the deck where a loveseat lies unoccupied. You follow him to it, sink into its plush cushioning. Joel sits beside you. He's so broad that he takes up more than half of the sofa, his shoulder bumping against yours as he settles. You both look out over the garden, at where Sarah and the other kids are having an intense discussion in a tight cluster.

“She really enjoyed that math lesson you gave her,” he says, musingly, “won’t stop goin’ on about it. Never seen her so keen to be over at Connie’s before, either.”

“She’s really bright.” You reply, turning to him.

“No idea where she gets that from.”

You roll your eyes at him, cross one leg over the other, watch as Joel follows the movement with his eyes, drags his gaze up your bare thigh to the hem of your dress.

“’s a nice dress,” he says, the drawl of his accent stealing away the first syllable.

“Thanks. I’d been saving it for a special occasion.”

“This a special occasion?” He asks, gaze flicking from your bare thigh to your face, the trace of a mischievous smile playing on his plush lips.

“You tell me.” You reply, letting your own mouth curve into a grin.

There’s a splash from the pool and you both turn to see Sarah emerging from the water, face cracked into a wide smile as her friends jump in after her. Joel shakes his head, laughing.

“Always gotta be the first one in.” He says, and you laugh too, watch as Sarah splashes another girl.

“You going in?” You ask, as a few adults start sitting at the side of the pool to dip their toes in and slowly climbing in after the kids. “Not a chance.” He says, “I ain’t a swimmer.”

“That’s a shame.” You say, standing up and pulling the sundress up over your head, “Would’ve been nice to have some company.”

Joel’s eyes travel over your body, taking in the curves of your breasts and waist, the swathes of bare skin. His gaze makes you feel self-conscious, but his expression is awe-struck, reverent, like he’s looking at something sacred. His pupils are blown wide despite the bright sunlight, cheeks reddening. The hand clutching his beer is white-knuckled, the other twitching where it rests in his lap like he wants to reach out and trace the path of your curves. He swallows, Adam’s apple rippling in this throat.

“I’ll be jus’ fine watchin’, darlin’.” He says, his voice hoarse.

You waste no time sliding off your sandals and darting towards the water. It’s immature, maybe, but you’ve never been able to resist diving headfirst into water. The pool is cool, fresh: perfect in the intense Texan heat. Sarah giggles as you resurface, splashes you with a back hand. You spend the next half-hour messing about with her, having handstand competitions and lying on your backs to float idly. Every time you let your gaze wander to where Joel is sitting, he’s watching you, his expression intense. He looks away the first few times you catch him, but after the fourth time he lets himself watch you, raises his beer to his lips and takes a sip. When he draws the bottle away, there’s a droplet on his lip. His tongue darts out to catch it, and you have to press your legs together in the water to dull the ache. This man, you think, watching him wipe his mouth with the back of one large hand, veins standing out on his toned forearms, is going to be the death of me.

After a few more minutes you’re starting to feel the cold, fingertips wrinkling in the water. You float over to the side of the pool and push yourself up onto the side. Droplets run down your stomach and legs as you stand up, goosebumps rising in their wake. You turn to look for where you left your bag and towel, but suddenly warmth is engulfing you, a soft, fluffy towel wrapped around your shoulders.

“Here,” Joel’s voice from behind you, his hands on your shoulders, draping the towel over you.

“Thanks.”

He steps back, lets his hands fall back to his sides.

“Water nice?” He asks, as you start to pat yourself dry.

“Refreshing,” You reply, looking up into his face.

“Looked it.” He’s standing close to you in the busyness of the garden, people milling around you both.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Looked… good.” He swallows again, tendons in his neck shifting. You want to put your lips to the flesh there, bite down onto rough skin, lick the stubble covering his jaw.

“I should go and get changed,” you say, nodding towards the house.

You step around him, start towards the kitchen door, turning to look behind you as you pick up your bag from where you left it by the beer cooler. Your eyes meet and the heat in his is almost palpable, rolling off of him in waves. You feel his gaze follow you as you step through the door into the cool air of the kitchen. Inside, you find the Cuthbert’s downstairs bathroom, shut the door behind you and lean back against it, your head spinning, heart pounding.

By the time you’ve changed back into your sundress, food is being served. You take a paper plate and let John load it up with chicken and a burger from the grill, then go and find a seat at a table with Danny, Connie, Joel and Sarah. You slide onto the bench next to Joel, letting your thigh brush against his and offering him a chaste smile when he raises a single eyebrow in response.

“How’s work, Joel?” Danny asks, swiping a blob of ketchup from his cheek.

“Oh, fine, thanks. Busy, at the moment.”

“Tommy alright? Not been getting into any more trouble?”

Joel laughs at this, shaking his head as he replies, “No more’n usual.”

Danny offers an understanding nod in response, and Sarah giggles, catching your eye across the table.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a happy, hazy buzz of food and conversation. Joel remains beside you, your legs pressed together on the bench seat. At some point, as Danny regales you all with a story of a traffic incident he witnessed last week, Joel stretches out, raising his hands over his head. When he brings them down, he lays his arm along the back of the bench behind you. You lean ever so slightly into him, imagining how it would feel if he slipped his arm down from the wood onto your shoulders. When you lean your head back to look up at the clear sky, you let it rest on his forearm, feel the heat of him seep through the hair at the nape of your neck through to your skin. The garden has started to empty now; the sky is slowly turning a pale, picture-perfect pink as the evening draws in. Danny lets out a long, steady sigh and pushes himself to his feet.

“We should get back to Nana,” he says to Connie, who nods and stands, “but you stay on as long as you like.” He adds to you, helping Connie pull on her cardigan.

You and Joel wave them off. Sarah leaves too, tired from the day, a little bored now the other teenagers and kids have left.

“Shouldn’t stay too much longer,” you say, looking around at where Mrs Cuthbert is collecting glasses up.

“No,” Joel agrees, but neither of you move.

His arm is still across the back of the bench, your neck now leaning against it. He flexes his hand, lets the tips of his thick fingers trace the skin on your bare shoulder, pulling up the strap of you sundress where it’s fallen down. The feeling of his hands on you is exhilarating and you shift in your seat, subconsciously begging him to keep touching you, to let his hand trace your shoulder to your collarbone, to dip down beneath the neckline of your dress to your bare breasts. He doesn’t, of course – there are still plenty of people in the garden – but he does leave his fingers where they are, just resting against your shoulder. Minutes pass. The tension between you seems to be building irreversibly, all the flirtatious banter and playful teasing from earlier gone, replaced by heavy silence and a kind of buzz in the air that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

Joel clears his throat after maybe ten minutes, runs his free hand up the leg of his shorts, wiping his palm which, if he’s feeling anything like you, is sweaty with a heady combination of anticipation and nervous energy.

“Should get back.” He says, his voice low, face turned to you so that the words are said against the shell of your ear.

“Yeah,”

This time, you both move as one. You stand, slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you do, while Joel picks up his sunglasses from the table and slides them into the vee of his Henley. You both call hasty goodbyes to the Cuthberts, thanking them for the food and hospitality. And then you’re leaving the garden, stepping out of sight of the deck into the small alley between the house and the fence. You’ve hardly taken more than two or three steps before you both break.

Joel rounds on you as you grab him by his shirt. Crowding you against the wall of the house, he fists a hand in your hair and draws your mouth up to his. The kiss is frenzied, passionate right from the moment your lips meet. He groans from somewhere deep in his chest, licks his tongue into your mouth, his teeth grazing your lips, bruising them. His hand caresses your jaw, fingers spanning your face, cradling it as he kisses you. It’s intoxicating. You reach up to thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pushing yourself up onto tiptoes to card them through his curls. You moan into his mouth, let your tongue lick into his mouth, his stubble tickling your face, harsh and scratchy in contrast to his soft lips.

He pulls back, rests his forehead against yours, both of you panting.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He whispers, leaning down to place open mouthed kisses on the underside of your jaw. “I can’t stop thinking about you, I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate.”

“Joel…” It’s all you can say as he nips at your collarbone, runs his fingertips down your sides, hands searching out the flesh of your ass, pulling you to him, bending so that he can slide one thick thigh between yours. The movement brings his hips flush with yours, the line of his hardening cock pressing into your stomach, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. You grind against him, pressing your cunt into his thigh, seeking out friction. He hisses into your open mouth as he drags his hips against yours, cock trapped between your rutting bodies – a hot, thick line against you.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he breathes, nipping and pecking at your lips, dragging a hot hand up your side to squeeze your breast.

“Please don’t stop,” You reply, gasping as his fingers find the hard nub of your nipple and pinch, pleasure coursing through you like adrenaline.

The whole thing is ridiculous: you’re pressed against the wall of your neighbour’s house, Joel’s hands mapping out the curves of your body as he kisses you. Anyone could see, anyone could come round the path from the garden but neither of you seem to be capable of caring. The dam has burst and it’s all you can do to cling to each other, rocking your hips together, seeking out friction. It’s only when you slide a hand between your bodies, seeking out the hard line of Joel’s cock that he pulls back. His lips are swollen, eyes entirely black in the low light.

“We can’t do this,” he says, “not here.”

And then you’re both laughing, the absurdity of the entire situation overcoming you. When you calm down, still breathing heavily, Joel draws your face between his hands and presses another kiss to your lips.

“I want to,” he says, stroking his thumb along your cheekbone, “Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.”

“Me neither,”

“Sarah’s staying at Tommy’s on Friday.” He says, “Come over. I’ll cook dinner, or take you out. I’ll treat you right, like you deserve.”

“Friday?” You say, “That’s a long way away.”

You push yourself onto tiptoes to kiss him again, draw his bottom lip into your mouth and he groans against you, his hips canting forward so that his cock drags against your hip.

He pulls away, rasps, “Shit, darlin’. You’re making me crazy.”

“I’ll be over on Tuesday, for Sarah.” You say, “I’ll stay until you get back from work.”

“You make it really hard to say no.”

“Then don’t say no.”

“Okay. But I’m taking you for dinner on Friday too. Don’t say I don’t know how to treat a woman.”

“Joel Miller, I don’t think anyone could ever say that.” And you press another kiss against his lips, smiling into it.

When you get home a few minutes later, your lips bruised and your head buzzing, there’s already a text in your inbox.

I’ll leave the toolbelt on for Tuesday. J

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller au #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #AU!no outbreak #joel x reader #joel x you #the last of us fic

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daycourtofficial · 6 months

Text

Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor - Part 10

Summary: Out of an act of desperation, you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother who lives next door.

Author’s note: yall. I love this part. It’s all Azzy baby.

(Masterlist)

Cassian: I feel weird doing this

Cassian: it feels like an invasion of privacy

Rhys: just let me know, one way or the other, how she feels about Az

Rhys: it’s not really an invasion. They invited you.

Rhys: this way, if she doesn’t like him, we can help Az move on

Cassian: they’re grilling her about Az

Cassian: if she doesn’t like him she’s an incredible actress

Cassian: shit, the movie’s starting - talk later

You wake up sometime close to midnight, throat dry and in desperate need of water. You groan into your pillow, reaching for the glass on your nightstand only to not find it.

Cursing yourself for washing the dish and not replacing it, you push off the bed, not quite opening your eyes fully in the hopes of going back to sleep quickly.

You open your door, padding through the dark living room toward your kitchen. You grab a glass from the cabinet and open the fridge, filling your glass from the carafe.

Your legs start growing cold in the night air as you slide the pitcher back in, closing the door with your hip as you walk back to your room, only to stop short at a phone screen lighting up the living room.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, sitting on the couch at Azriel’s feet. He bends his legs, pulling his feet towards him to let you sit down.

He looked incredibly cozy - he was wrapped up in a massive blanket that showed the night sky, his tiny stuffed bat was perched on his chest. He locks his phone, putting it on the coffee table, giving you his full attention.

“Rhys and his dad were arguing over the phone, and those fights can last ages. I wanted to give him some privacy.”

To accent his point, you can hear muffled shouting through the wall, Rhys’s anger permeating the wall between you two.

“And to be somewhere more quiet.”

He pauses, then looks at you, hazel eyes glowing in the darkness, “I’m sorry, I should go, I kind of auto-piloted over here-“

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s fine,” you say, nestling into the couch.

“Does he have a name?”

He knits his brows at your question, until he follows your eyes to the bat in his arms.

“Uh, no, he doesn’t.”

“That’s a shame,” your gaze lingers on the bat as Azriel sits up. You two fall into a peaceful quiet, until he tells you, voice soft, “I uh - Cassian got me this plushie. When we were kids, my uh step-brothers lit my hands on fire.”

You turn to him, and he’s not sure if it’s how big your eyes are peering at him, or the way your hair is mused with sleep, or just how small and vulnerable you look, but he continues.

“Cassian bought it for me when I was in the hospital. He didn’t have much money, but with his last damn dime he bought me this stuffed bat.”

He looks at it, the thing that has brought him such comfort from such a horrifying experience. It was worn, its color inconsistent across the fabric from where his hands and arms have constantly held onto it.

“Sometimes in my dreams I’m that kid again, and they’re pouring the gasoline on my hands again. But the - the bat helps.”

Hence why he brought it over, you think.

He keeps talking, unsure why. “The bat can also be warmed up and it helps when my hands hurt.”

“Do they hurt now?”

“A little,” he tells you.

“May I?” You nod towards his hands, and he can’t hide the shock on his face at your question.

He’s never had anyone ask. Everything about this is so new. For someone to let him come to them when he was comfortable, instead of feeling entitled to his trauma.

He reaches his hands out to you, placing them gently in your hands. Your hands are cold, but soft. Your thumbs begin stroking softly, working their way into the muscle, and he moans at the sensation.

His cheeks redden, but you continue your task at hand, rubbing into his hands, soothing the dull ache that always accompanies them.

He almost misses your words, too focused on the way your fingers feel.

“I wish the world had been kinder to you.”

You don’t look up, your eyes focused on his hands as you continue your work.

“But at least you had Cassian and Rhys to be there. I know it doesn’t stop what happened, but at least you weren’t alone.”

His lips part, and his fingers twitch, the urge to wrap yours in his stronger with your kind words.

But he doesn’t, not yet. He lets you continue your work, massaging his hands, and a comfortable silence settles over both of you.

He shifts his legs as you turn to face toward him, and he cages you in with his legs. He pushes forward a bit, resting his forehead on yours as you continue massaging his hands.

“Was it hard? Having to let your hands heal?”

“Mm, yes. It was a pain, especially having to relearn everything. I dropped so many cups and plates because my grip would just give out.”

You’re quiet as you let him ruminate on old memories, your touch making him feel so calm. He feels so far away from that boy who had to learn how to grasp doorknobs, to put on socks, to hold a brush.

He thinks about those months and how Cassian and Rhys’s love carried him through those years. How they helped rebandage his hands every day, how they would massage his hands, how they would ensure he did his daily exercises.

They were the most important people in his life, but maybe you’ve wiggled your way into getting that descriptor too.

It’s quiet in your apartment, the only noise the humming from your throat.

“What are you humming?”

You squint your eyes, trying to remember the name of it. “It’s by Mitski, I think.”

He pulls his right from your grasp, pulling his phone back out, along with a pair of headphones. He opens the Spotify app on his phone, typing in ‘Mitski’ into the search bar.

“Oh yeah, it’s that one,” you point at the screen, as he plugs in the headphones, offering one to you. You move closer to him, leaning your head on his shoulder to be close enough to share the headphones.

You nestle it into your ear, the soft sounds of “My Love Mine All Mine” playing into the earbuds that connect the two of you.

Azriel looks down at you, how soft and content you look. He wraps an arm around you, holding you to him as he moves his legs underneath you, stretching them out against the sofa. His hold on you causes you to shift with him, your body half on his, an arm around his waist as your face is buried into his neck.

Your eyes grow heavier, the soft melody of Mitski’s voice and Azriel’s fingers stroking through your hair lulling you back to sleep

Cassian opens the door to his room, ready to head out for this godforsaken 8 AM class he had to sign up for. He’s heading towards the kitchen to grab whatever fruit you two have, he thinks there’s either a banana or an orange, when he stops in his doorway.

You and Azriel are asleep on the couch. You’re on top of Azriel, your face tucked between his chest and the couch. Cassian looks closer and sees that your arm is wrapped around the bat plushie he bought Azriel all those years ago. Azriel’s arms are wrapped around you loosely, keeping you in place.

He laughs at the pair of headphones that are wrapped between the two of you, tangled amidst arms and hair, music still playing from them.

He pulls his phone out, snapping a quick photo. He opens his messages, searching for the chat entitled they’re idiots, which included Rhys, Mor, and Feyre, and sends the photo. He grabs an orange, heading to the door trying to be as silent as possible.

As he reaches for the doorknob as his phone starts vibrating with new messages.

Feyre: they look so cute tho 🥰

Feyre: omg Cass wake her up

Feyre: she has class early today!!

Rhys: and risk the wrath of Azriel in the morning?

Rhys: don’t do it

Rhys: he’s a cranky bastard in the morning

Cassian types out a response, shutting the door softly behind him.

Cassian: maybe he won’t be today

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #azriel x y/n #acotar writing

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megamindsecretlair · 8 months

Text

Thinkin' 'Bout You, Part 2

Pairing: Big Stunna x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Infidelity. FILTH. PWP, cursing, PIV, fingering (female receiving), oral (male receiving) teasing/mocking, cum play and swallowing, spanking, dirty talk, degradation kink, breeding kink if you squint, all consensual. Use of n-word. Referring to female anatomy as "she".

Summary: As a sneaky link, Stunna is highly demanding of your time. He doesn't care if you get caught; when he wants you, he wants you. He pops up just as your man leaves for the day and as much as you want to resist, you can't.

Word Count: 3,749k

The Secret Big Stunna Files | Part 1 | Part 3

A/N: I planned for this being a one-shot. While I would NEVER condone cheating in real life, Stunna just screams perfect sneaky link to me. And it's rotting my brain, so enjoy back to back pieces of filth! Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Taglist: @planetblaque @blackerthings @browngirldominion @we-outsiiiide @thecookiebratz @iv0rysoap @notapradagurl7 @sevikasblackgf @miyuhpapayuh @xo-goldengirl @kindofaintrovert @flydotty @judymfmoody @slippinninque @soufcakmistress @henneseyhoe

You were finally free. You loved your man to pieces, but it was rare that you got the house to yourself. Like truly to yourself where you could run around naked without fear of someone creeping up behind you. And you could watch your stories on Lifetime in peace without a certain someone making fun of you for it.

You sat on the couch in one of his T-shirts, absently folding laundry while you watched the premiere of the week. Something about an obsessed paramedic over a high school girl. Well, they were always obsessed in some kind of way.

Your mind drifted as you watched and folded, appreciating the serenity of the moment. Knocking from your back door pulled you back to conscious thought and you growled. If it was those neighbor’s kids again asking about some ball in your backyard, you were going to pop it in their little faces.

All your life growing up, you didn’t kick balls in others’ yards half as much. You knew your parents weren’t going to replace that shit. You got up, grumbling like an old lady and padded your way to your back door.

You opened it, ready to cuss out little kids when Stunna turned and smiled at you.

“Stunna!” You yelped. You looked behind him but obviously, it was just your tiny backyard and nothing else. “What are you doing!”

“Saw that nigga leave. We got plenty of time,” he said. He pushed into your home and you closed the door behind him. Mostly, so your neighbors wouldn’t hear you yelling.

“Stunna, no! You cannot be here!” You yelled. Yet even as your mouth was saying no, your pussy was already growing damp just from how he was looking today. He wore a Black T-shirt and light jacket, dark jeans and boots. His grills flashed as he smiled and looked you over.

“Easy access, my favorite,” he said. He pulled you by the shirt until he could capture your lips with his own. He moaned as he collided with your lips. “Sexy ass fuckin’ lips.”

You gripped his arms, muscles flexing under your fingers. “Stunna, be for real!” You said. You were in deep shit. You promised yourself that the last time he was at your place would be the absolute last. You had cut it entirely too short, getting dicked down in the kitchen while Stunna made you his famous omelet.

There wasn’t an inch of space in your home that you hadn’t been bent into a pretzel and it had to stop. At least here.

Stunna’s hands ran up your thighs and you shivered as if you were freezing. Your body couldn’t feel more overheated. You were breathless already. You knew he promised untold pleasure but you were at constant war with your mind.

“Come on, babygirl. Been feenin’ for this pussy,” he said.

“You always say that, nigga,” you said.

“And I mean it. How I’m supposed to go about my day when I’m hard as shit thinkin’ ‘bout you?” He smiled, knowing you were weak as hell for his smiles.

You found your shoulders dipping and your body relaxing against him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and breathed him in. No one smelled as good as him. The scent drove you wild, like an animal going into heat.

You ached. And right now, only his dick would solve that particular ache. “Aight, hurry up then,” you said with a grin.

Stunna grinned and kissed you. His hands went up further and glided across your damp panties. He growled against your lips as his hand slipped underneath your panties to play with your damp slit.

“Talkin’ all that fuckin’ shit while you wet as fuck. Take them panties off and let me see,” he said. He scooted away from you and moved you over to the kitchen table. There was nothing on there but bills, mail, some coupons and a bowl of fruit. Yet now, you had thoughts of being eaten out like a meal on that table.

Your hands shook as you reached under your shirt and pulled down your panties, kicking them off. You lifted the shirt until it was around your hips. Stunna hissed in appreciation, light glinting off of his grills as he looked you over.

He turned you around and bent you over the table roughly, slapping your ass. “What you always fightin’ me for? Like you don’t be cravin’ this dick. I see them messages you send me,” he said.

He bent down so your ass was in his face. He spread your asscheeks and marveled at your wet core. “Mhm, that pussy miss me, don’t she?” He asked.

You tried to remain silent. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of caving so soon. He had to earn his way in there. You should have known better.

He smacked your ass, hard, and you cried out. “I was reading a nasty book before you came over, nigga. Don’t flatter yourself,” you said. You smirked since he couldn’t see you. Stunna hated when you pretended like he wasn’t God’s gift to fucking. But that was when he blew your back out the hardest.

Without warning, he slipped two fingers inside of you. Your essence soaked his fingers and he hummed, finding you so wet. Your knees buckled. “Ion know why you try to lie when I can feel how wet you are,” he said.

His deep, melodious voice was a physical caress all its own. It reached your ears but you felt him everywhere, all at once. He pumped his fingers in and out of you slowly, torturously, and you whined, needing more stimulation. You needed more than just his fingers.

“Use your big girl words and tell me what you want,” he said. He continued to slide his fingers in and out. He had long, thick fingers that almost did the job. Almost. Two of those weren’t nearly the size of his dick. That was what you wanted most of all.

“I need you to fuck me,” you said. You were beginning to move your hips in time with his fingers. You didn’t want it nice and slow. That wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to fuck your brains out and leave you well satisfied.

“I’m already fucking you,” he said. You heard the grin in his voice. Bastard.

“I need you to fuck me with that dick, Daddy,” you said. You pitched your voice lower, more sultry, as you dared risk a glance behind you. He was so tall. He loomed over you with a predatory glare.

“Was that so hard, babygirl?” He asked.

“Yes, nigga,” you said and rolled your eyes.

In all honesty, you did not expect him to smack the air from your lungs when he smacked your ass. Heat and pain blossomed on your ass and you struggled for air. You gasped, mouth open like a fish as you tried to stay standing.

“Nasty fuckin’ mouth. C’mere since you think we playin’ games,” he said.

He pulled you by the arm to a standing position. Then he pulled you into the back bedroom and sat down on the bed. His hands flew to his pants and unzipped them.

“Knees,” he growled.

You dropped to your knees and planted yourself between his legs. He was so hot when he was like this. When his words were clipped, barely expending the air to get them out. Only because you weren’t a mind reader. Not yet. You weren’t sure how long this could continue, but until then, you were going to enjoy the ride.

He pushed his pants and briefs down far enough to slap your mouth with his dick. It was already leaking precum and you licked your lips as you stared at his thick head.

“Mhm, gon’ stuff that mouth since you ain’t got no manners,” he said. He pulled your head down onto his dick and moaned when your lips wrapped around him. “That’s it, like a good little bitch, huh?”

You nodded. It was hard to fit all of him inside but he didn’t care. He continued to face fuck you. You watched his face as he did so. Jaw slack, eyes closed. You sucked harder, running your tongue over his mushroom head and tasting the precum there.

“Fuck, suck that shit,” he moaned. He cracked one eye and saw you staring at him. He grinned. “Lookin’ so fuckin’ cute with your mouth closed.”

Your pussy clenched from the unexpected praise even though it was wrapped in such a nasty package. You got off on being his little slut. His nasty little bitch that took whatever he dished out. Took whatever he gave. Yearned for it. Thought about it. Got off to it too many times to name.

You moaned around his dick as he pushed in deeper. Pushed past your natural resistance to take him deeper. Your hands were planted on his thighs just so he wouldn’t fuck you into the back wall, but you moved one lower to fondle his balls.

His hips jerked and he laughed. “Oh, you want me to feed you early today I see. What was all that shit you was talkin’ earlier? Huh?”

You couldn’t talk because his dick was still in your mouth. Yet he kept talking to you as if you could respond.

“Mouth made to take this fuckin’ dick. My god,” he moaned. His hand palmed your scalp as he pushed you up and down on his dick. Your spit and slobber ran down the length of him. He pushed you down a little too far and you gagged and choked on his dick.

“Gotta fix that attitude with this dick, huh,” he said. He slipped out and slapped his dick on your face. On your chin, on your lips. He pushed you back down on his dick until he groaned. “Say ahh,” he said with a snicker as he busted inside of your mouth.

You greedily sucked him down. He moaned as you did so, trying to wring all of it out. Your gulps were filthy, lewd but music to his ears. He said as much as he shook his head and sighed with deep relief.

You reluctantly let his soft dick go with a final pop. He used his thumb to swipe run away cum from your mouth. He shoved his thumb inside and you sucked on that too with pleasure. Your head was pleasantly numb. You just wanted to please him in whatever form he wanted.

You liked being his stress relief. You liked that when his mind was going a mile a minute, plotting against Malcolm and this war between them, he found solace in between your thighs.

“That’s all you needed, was something in your mouth to shut you up?” He asked. You nodded, still sucking on his thumb.

“Good. Always talkin’ shit,” he said. He got up on wobbly knees and hefted you up by placing his hands under your arms. He moved you to the bed where he flipped you onto your back and you yelped.

Couldn’t he use his words like a big boy? Damn. Always manhandling you. But you knew better than to catch an attitude now. He was focused. And he needed no further encouragement to rock your shit.

He fell to his knees and then opened your legs, staring at your dripping essence. He licked his lips and looked at you, before descending on your pussy. You cried out, hands flying to the back of his head.

Mercy was not in his vocabulary. His wide lips latched onto your clit and sucked hard. “Ouue shit,” you wheezed out and gyrated your hips. You tried to scoot away from him. Where did he pull this shit out from?

He’s eaten you out, quite spectacularly before, but this was something new. This was “I haven’t seen you in a year” type of desperation.

“Fuck you going?” He asked. His speech was a little slurred as if he was getting high off of your essence. He wrapped his big hands under your knees and yanked you back to the edge of the bed. You squealed, your hands grabbing onto your bright green covers.

One of his hands held you open while his other slipped down your folds and entered you. “Oh shit! Wait! Stunna, fuck,” you moaned.

He licked his lips while he pumped his fingers into you. Then his mouth joined in and your body was bowing off of the bed. Your whines and whimpers did not assuage him. He kept it up, licking and sucking.

He swirled his tongue around your clit until it was a swollen little bud practically reaching out for him. He slurped up your essence and moaned when more oozed out of him. He licked everywhere and then flicked his tongue against your clit.

“Shit!” You moaned as you finally came on his tongue. Your thighs snapped shut over his ears but he was undeterred. He kept licking and sucking, wet noises that flicked a switch in your brain.

You trembled and cried out, riding that orgasm like a big wave on the ocean. Your lungs burned from panting so hard.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned.

Stunna placed wet kisses to both of your thighs. He stood and leaned up so he could plant a sloppy kiss to your forehead. He ran his thumb across your lips before pulling you into a kiss. It was a slow, sensual kiss. The kind that made your toes curl.

You were breathless by the time he pulled away. “You gon’ have to make up for that attitude, princess,” he said.

“Wait! I’m sorry!” You whined.

He chuckled as he shed his clothes. His shirt and jacket went flying, followed closely by his shoes, pants and briefs. He grabbed your hands and pulled you into a sitting position so he could take off your shirt.

He groaned as your titties bounced. He fingered one of your nipples, tugging on it, and it had you biting your lip with pleasure. “Stunna, please!” Wasn’t the incredible orgasm enough?

There was no way you could take him now.

“Stunna, please!” He mocked and laughed. He climbed onto the bed and got on his back, making himself right at home as if he was your main. He patted his thighs and waved you over.

You were shaking as you climbed onto him, reverse cowgirl. There was no love in his heart or eyes as he stroked his dick through your sensitive folds. You hissed and sat up, but he pulled one of your arms to make you sit on his dick.

He nearly slammed you onto him and you cried out at the full pressure of him seated inside of you. “Fuck!” You yelled out.

He chuckled behind you and smacked your round ass. “Don’t start crying now. I still gotta feed you,” he said.

He began to rock his hips but he smacked you for you to understand his little lesson. He wanted you to ride him. And God help you if you weren’t doing it properly.

You placed your hands on his long legs and began to bounce on his dick, slowly. The tap, tap, tap had you seeing stars.

“Guess you ain’t that hungry,” he said. His wet thumb encircled your ass and you flew up and off of him. You moaned at the sensation. He pressed his thumb in further, to make sure you knew who it was that was plugging you.

“I’m sorry!” You moaned.

“Fuck that mean to me? Move this ass,” he said and punctuated it with another smack to your ass. At this rate, you wouldn’t be able to sit down all night.

You bounced on his dick in earnest. You were a moaning, writhing mess on top of him. In this position, you felt him more intensely. You felt the slide and glide of his long dick as he fed it to you. His thumb was still in your ass and he used his other to smack your ass periodically. He just liked watching you bounce.

“That’s it. Nasty bitch,” he moaned and smacked you again. You cried out but he only answered with another smack. “I wish you could see the way you grip my shit. Creamy and nasty as fuck. All that lyin’, but yo pussy know who she belong to.”

You contracted around his dick and he moaned again. His moans were driving your pleasure through the roof. The feedback that you were doing a good job was a precious thing that you held close to your heart.

“Ouue, fuck. Ouue fuck,” you moaned as your belly tightened. You were getting so close, he was hitting it so deep inside of you. You slid on his dick until you were leaning back and began convulsing on him.

You screamed out your pleasure, eyes tightly shut and digging your nails into his legs. Your thighs were trembling on his. Your arousal flooded his dick and he groaned from how painfully you were squeezing his dick.

He pushed his hips up and unloaded in you. The hot, wet pulses of his cum coated your insides. You moaned from the sensation of him literally pumping cum.

“That’s it. That’s what that pussy wanted, huh?” He asked.

“Yes, baby,” you moaned.

“Why you gotta make it difficult?” He asked. He stroked your back as you calmed down. Sweat ran down from your temples without abandon.

“I can’t help it, baby,” you said. You slipped off of him and he groaned, watching his cum leak from your pussy. He didn’t let you go far. He immediately pulled you into cuddling with him. You sighed as you rested your head on his chest.

“I need to clean up,” you said.

“Naw, keep it in there,” he said.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the nigga was trying to get you pregnant. You could see it now, growing that life inside of you knowing fuck well it wasn’t your mans. You hadn’t discussed babies yet, it was too early in the relationship. You could not have a baby with your sneaky link. That went against every single rulebook out there.

“Nasty ass, no!” You said and giggled. He nuzzled your neck, licking your collarbone. His hand came up to squeeze your titty and you sighed.

“Baby, I can’t,” you said.

“You always saying that shit and I always prove you wrong,” he said against your neck. He placed sweet kisses there, enough to make you giggle and shy away from him.

He kissed a hot trail down your neck before he placed the same sweet kisses against your chest. He squeezed your titty until your nipple puckered and then he wrapped his warm mouth around it. You moaned. You were already fucking sore, your ass stung, and you were greedy for more.

A ringtone went off somewhere in the otherwise quiet room and you both groaned. You were always interrupted by someone calling either one of you.

Stunna disentangled himself from you, sat on the edge of the bed and dug his phone out. “Yeah, nigga, what?”

You tuned out his side of the conversion. You didn’t want to be involved in that world. He hung up and hung his head for a moment, before cussing under his breath.

You got to your knees and crawled over to him, wrapping your hands around his neck. You kissed his cheek.

“What’s wrong baby?” You asked.

“Been fuckin’ dying to get over here and now I gotta go deal with some bullshit,” he said. “Man fuck!”

You hid your grin. He was so damn insatiable. In a perfect world, you two would be together all of the time. And he would spend every moment he could buried inside of you and rearranging your guts.

“It’s okay, I gotta clean up the mess you made now,” you said and playfully rolled your eyes. He was starting to really fuss, so you leaned over him, grabbed his chin and turned him to face you.

You planted a small kiss on his lips. “Hey, we’ll just look forward to next time,” you said.

He sighed and nodded, getting up but still cussing under his breath. You watched him throw his clothes back and was mesmerized by the simple domestic act. First his briefs that covered up his long dick.

Then his pants. The zipper enclosed his thickness and your pussy throbbed just thinking of getting another hit of it. Next went his tank, shirt, and jacket and finally his shoes.

“We need some rules about this, Stunna,” you said quietly, not wanting to ruin the moment but also knowing that your heart couldn’t take this extra stress. “You can’t just pop up whenever you want.”

He checked his pockets and grinned at you. Those fucking golds making your stomach do somersaults. He pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a band for you. He kissed your forehead and placed it in your hand. “Buy yaself somethin’ cute I can rip off later,” he said.

“Stunna, I’m being serious!”

He grinned and grabbed you by the throat. You grabbed his wrist, but he had grabbed you in the perfect spot. It made your eyes roll back and your head go numb.

He placed a soft kiss to your lips and grinned down at you. “I can’t keep my hands off you, babygirl. It’s yo fault for havin’ such a fat, wet pussy.” He kissed you again and released your throat.

“Corny ass nigga,” you muttered.

“What was that?” His hands flew to his pants as if he would take them right back off and dick you down again. As much as you wanted to, your body was weak.

“Nothin’ baby, I’ll see you next time.” You made your voice super, extra sweet and he grinned.

“Fuck I thought.” With that, he was gone. You heard the back door slam again as he disappeared and fucked off down the street to his car. You could imagine that walk of his and it only made you shiver with horniness. You had to get your libido under control.

When he came around, your body had a mind of its own. And that wouldn’t do. You groaned as you pulled sheets off of the bed to wash and replace them on the bed. So much for a quiet day watching your stories.

The Secret Big Stunna Files | Part 1 | Part 3

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