#she recognises the noises the car is making from | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

too-deviant · 5 months

Text

strategic manoeuvre.

— WITH…ART DONALDSON!

contains...babysitter!reader, age gap, 18+ MDNI, art cheats w reader but it is lowkey implied that tashi planned the whole thing, car sex, semi-public sex, head (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, inspired by this post from @traumatrios

You had never been interested in tennis before Art.

You weren’t interested in sports at all, really — you just wanted to buckle down and focus on your college work, earn some money with an easy part-time job. You didn’t have time to follow sports, or anything else.

But then you got a call. You had been in the middle of a lecture when your phone buzzed against your notebook, a California number shining up at you and enticing you to pick up. Normally you would’ve let it go to voicemail, but you had recently gone around some of the fancier hotels in your city with flyers, asking for babysitting jobs and posting your number, so you excused yourself with a wave and took the call in the hallway.

You didn’t know who Tashi Donaldson was when she introduced herself, but the hotel she’d asked you to come to later that night was fancy enough that you didn’t question it. You had done an extensive google search afterwards, of course, but simply raised an impressed brow at her repertoire.

Then you met Art, her tennis player husband and the father of the lovely little girl you would be taking care of, and suddenly you were pretty interested in tennis.

It started when Lily had a bad nightmare and you couldn’t get her down — well, it started when you met the guy, palm sweaty in his own as he introduced himself, but it didn’t really start until you had to put one of his old games on the TV for the girl to watch until she fell asleep at your side, tear tracks from her bad dream dry on her cheeks.

You had been planning on carrying her back to her bed when she was down for the count, but you had been so fixated on Art’s movements; his determined look, his arms, his legs, that you ended up dropping out too. You woke up a few hours later with a blanket over your body and Art standing quietly at the kitchen island behind the sofa.

“You looked peaceful. Didn't wanna wake you.” He’d said, sipping at his tea, and you knew you were done for.

Now all of a sudden you had time to watch a tennis match in the morning, play one as background noise while you studied. You had started following his tennis journey right from the Junior Open in 2006 — you didn’t think you'd ever actually see him again, but you could fantasise about it whenever you remembered the smell of his cologne as he thanked you for taking care of Lily, promising a big tip would go straight into your account in the morning.

(The money went in fifteen minutes after you’d left).

It came as a pleasant surprise when Tashi’s number popped up on your screen once more, a few months later. You had been in your kitchen, and took the call the moment you recognised the digits.

“We’re a little ways out of town.” She’d said, “But Lily raved about you for days after last time, and we know you better than a stranger. If you can’t make it out here, don’t worry, but we still wanted to try our luck.”

We she’d said. As in her and Art.

You cursed yourself for lusting after a married man in the uber to the hotel.

From then on out, you became their primary babysitter. Since they travelled a lot, and Tashi’s mom was with them most of the time, you only really sat for them once every couple of months. The town you lived in was sunny and had a huge private sports centre for professional athletes — a fact you weren’t aware of until Art told you over a cup of tea — so they always came back. You were glad you could count on them coming back — it was like magic, the way your phone lit up with Tashi’s now saved contact whenever the late night bingeing of matches and interviews stopped fueling your infatuation.

The guilt was almost enough to make you ignore it, say you were busy or just get a new number all together. But you never did. As much as you knew it was wrong, you always dropped what you were doing and drove to that cushy hotel where the receptionist knew your face and let you in with a smile. You travelled that same memorised route to the master suite, knocked on the door and made sure you were standing far enough away from the peep hole that you didn’t look weird and distorted when Art would look through before letting you in.

It was always Art now. Tashi had greeted you a few times but lately it had always been him — a sick part of you thought she might’ve known about your crush on him, played with it for fun because she couldn’t play tennis anymore. But that was crazy, and you really needed to sort yourself out.

You would greet him with a smile, push through the small talk, lean up against the kitchen island and watch his shirt stretch around the planes of his back as he made you coffee (On those unlucky days he would be wearing a shirt. Sometimes he would be just done with warm ups and physio and would answer the door half naked and covered in sweat. Those were the good days). Then Lily would come running at you from her room, hug you around your waist and pull you in to play; Art would laugh and grin at you, sliding the coffee cup in your direction and holding your eyes before heading to his room to get ready.

You would be knee deep in headless barbies and chewed up polly pocket clothes when he and would return, dressed up and ready to go. He would lean down, kiss Lily on the forehead, and press his hand to your back in a silent goodbye. Then he would leave, and you would spend the whole day trying to pull yourself together.

He was married. He was ten years older than you. He had a child, and was paying you to look after her.

But he always made you coffee when you arrived — just how you liked it because he remembered. He always checked in on you, asked you how your life was while you nursed the mug that was warm from the beverage and his hands. He would tell Lily to behave for you because We like her, and we don’t want to scare her off. He would let his land linger on your back half a second longer every single time he left.

But.

But Tashi was the one who would call you. She was the one who made you coffee the first time, told you it was the least they could do for you. She would walk out of her room with Art, smile at you and tell you how beautiful you look in that shirt. She would grin at you before leaving, waiting patiently by the door for her husband to take his hand off your back.

You were evil. Truly. The guy was married.

But as evil as you were, you always made sure there was an old game of his playing on the TV when they would return — because then Art would prompt you to stay and listen to him talk about it. And you would have an excuse to lean up against that island and watch him make tea while Tashi excused herself to bed. Hours would pass before he was checking his watch and hissing out an apology for keeping you so late, and then letting you leave.

The first couple of times he’d simply make sure you got in your uber safely. Then he started calling cars himself, the same ones that would drive him and his family to and from matches, press events. The same sort of service celebrites used, not their babysitters. You didn’t mind — it was a thrill, listening to him ask the person behind the wheel to make sure you got back safely.

(The bar was under the court at this point, but at least you were aware of that).

But tonight was different. In more ways than one.

In the beginning, all was the same. You were left sitting on the plush carpet of Lily’s room surrounded by lego pieces, a burning in your gut and guilt in your heart. You played doctor, you made dinner, ordered room service after her relentless begging, put on a movie, carried her sleeping form to bed, came back and watched Art play tennis until he returned.

You had started to run out of games to watch, ones you hadn’t already seen, so settled for an old game from 2006. He was playing against his old partner, Patrick something, and you wondered where the lesser known second half of Fire and Ice had disappeared to after that night.

Then Art came back, Tashi right behind him, and you smiled at them both over the back of the sofa. Tashi watched the game, something unfamiliar glinting in her irises, before blinking back at Art, “I’m going to bed.”

He responded a little slower, kissing her goodnight and looking back at you, “Tea? This game was one of my most memorable.”

“Even though you lost?” You teased, leaning against the marble.

He paused, looking back at you. He blinked, “Yeah.”

You drank your tea. You pretended like you weren’t full of shame for standing that inch closer to him. You let him talk until he had nothing left to talk about, and watched him check his watch. You waited for him to pick up the phone and call the car — only he paused by the phone, hand floating just before it, and retracted his steps to the kitchen, “I’m gonna drive you back, if it’s not too much trouble. Saves waking up my driver.”

“Oh.” Your fingers twitched, and you told them to stop. “Sure, of course.”

Art’s car wasn’t what you had expected. Thinking back on it, he didn’t seem like the sports car type, but his status and riches led you to assume you were about to get into one of the two seats in his Bugatti — you didn’t. The black jeep was expensive enough for someone like him, but close enough to home that you didn’t feel like an outsider climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive wasn’t all that far — twenty minutes both ways, so Art would’ve been back before Tashi fell asleep if he hadn't pulled into a parking lot five minutes out.

Your lips parted, eyes following his hands as they slid slowly off the wheel and into his thighs. His chest rose with a deep breath and his jaw constricted when he swallowed. Then he was looking at you, eyes piercing.

“Lily likes you.”

You were unsure, feet shifting beneath you, the sound encasing the silence of the space and forcing you to stop and blink, “I’m glad. I like her.”

“Tashi likes you.”

You weren’t too positive that she would like you if she could feel how you were feeling now — that all too familiar heartbeat pulsing between your legs with every one of Art’s breaths.

“I like you.” He finished, tilting his head until his temple rested softly on the headrest of his seat. His smile was almost taunting when he undid his seatbelt, “Which is your favourite?”

“What?”

“The games.” He clarified, knowing his question was too broad and that you would have to ask, “The ones you watch every time you’re over. The ones I assume you watch even when you aren’t sitting for us. My games. Which is your favourite?”

“Oh. Um —“ Slightly distracted by the way he shed his jacket, dumping it in the backseat. He’d lent all the way forward to take it off and his eyes didn’t leave yours once. “I don’t know.”

“The one you were watching tonight.” He asked then, “What’d you think of it? Honestly.”

“Honestly?” You swallowed, mortified that you were even entertaining this, “You looked a little distracted.”

He huffed a laugh, finally looking away and letting you breathe. It didn’t last long, because he was then getting out of the car and rounding the front of it.

The breeze was cool when it hit you, Art blocking most of it from where he stood in the gap. His hand was still on the handle, but you were busy unbuckling your own seatbelt — the message had been received, you had crossed a line and he was kicking you out of his car.

But when you turned, legs swinging carefully into the cold, his hand on your knee stopped you from really getting out. Your eyes snapped up to his, and you realised you had been caged — with one hand on the door and one hand on you, Art Donaldson had you right where you had been dreaming of him having you. It felt surreal.

“My opponent. In the game from tonight.” He breathed, glancing around casually like you were having one of your simple conversations over tea. “He slept with my wife.”

Out of all the things…

“What?” Your eyes darted between his, but the rest of your body otherwise remained still. Even when his hand on your knee travelled upwards.

“He’d slept with her before. In college. We weren’t together then.” He was now watching his hand move, like he wasn’t the one moving it, “But then he slept with her again, in Atlanta. After I’d already married her.”

“Wow.” You breathed, mainly because it was the easiest word you could slide out of your mouth whilst holding your breath. His fingers reached your thigh, begged to dip between them. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was quick to respond. Your legs parted on instinct, and at this point you had surrendered to being an awful person — although maybe you’d fallen asleep on the couch and this was all a dream. You didn’t think you’d be able to face Art if it was. You couldn’t even face him now.

He took the newfound space for granted, stepping between your legs and holding them open with his body. His hand on the door followed him, taking its new place on your other leg. He rubbed up and down your thighs, but you couldn’t look away from his face.

“I don’t want you watching him play.” He spoke lowly, tracing his fingertips around your waistband, “I’ve seen enough of his games.”

“Okay.” You didn’t hesitate to let out, swallowing the hungered saliva that had built up in your mouth.

He unbuttoned your jeans, pulled the zipper down — painstakingly slow, but it allowed you time to brace your hands on the seat and the dashboard so you could raise your hips and let him slide them off you.

You were stuck in your head, but Art didn’t seem to notice since he was too busy folding your jeans and hanging them over the open car door. You dared question it through a heavy breath but he just moved on to your panties, throwing them precariously on the dashboard and exposing your glittering cunt to his bright eyes.

“We shouldn’t —“ It was a half-assed attempt at reconciling with your guilt, but the fact that you were half naked and spread eagle made it lose its meaning.

Art shushed you, kneeling down so he was looking at your pussy, “We can, and we will.” Then he glanced back at you, brow arched, “Unless you don’t want to.”

Any sense of rationale had fucked off when he put his hand on your leg, so you swallowed and said, “I want to.”

He wasted no time, licking a thick stripe from your asshole to your clit. You knocked your head back with a gasped moan, bucking into him and hissing when the gear stick poked you in the back when you led back too far.

You let out a shaky breath as he lapped you up, tongue dipping inside of you before travelling up to that sweet spot and sucking at it gently. You gasped and moaned, hands scrambling between holding yourself up and holding him down. His own were resting on your thighs — his calm and collected demeanour was a drastic contradiction from your own.

His head nodded calmly between your legs, relaxed in its position — yours, shaky and tense all at once, neck bracing whenever you fell back. His hands tapped soft melodies on your skin whereas yours tightened around whatever was in their old, whether that be the leather of the seats or the blonde of Art’s hair.

When he finally came up for air, his chin was coated in your slick, and he licked his lips clean before straightening up above you. You watched, paralysed, while he unbuckled his belt, threw it over the door with your jeans, and sent you a look under his lashes that you’d only seen him wear during his tennis matches.

You had been keeping quiet earlier, but when he bottomed out inside you and started to piston, your mind went wild. Choruses of Oh my God and Fuck!, shouts of Art’s name and whimpers under your breath — it all came tumbling out and you couldn’t even try and stop it.

Not that you wanted to; your vocality seemed to make him go faster, harder. It made him vocal, no longer calm and relaxed as he had been when eating you out, but loud and gruff. Grunts and moans you had dreamt about hearing outside of a television screen, now being huffed into the air you shared.

You came with a whine and Art followed not long after, and you settled there for a moment — legs spread in his passenger seat with him standing between them — until you could muster up the strength to push yourself up.

Five minutes later and you were both dressed, Art’s black jeep parked outside of your apartment building. You hadn’t exchanged any more words, but when you turned to slam the door once you had jumped out, you found his eyes on yours.

“I have a game this weekend. Two hours out. Tashi wanted you to come. A gift, for all you’ve done for us.”

(You went to the game. Art won. Tashi grinned like she’d made it happen and then offered to buy you a drink).

divider by @cafekitsune !!

#art donaldson #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x reader #art challengers #art donaldson smut #babysitter!reader #challengers #challengers movie #@lia’s works #tashi duncan

4K notes · View notes

lukesaprince · 5 months

Text

Ruin Me H.S

Summary: When the good girl / bad boy trope is just as hypnotic and addictive as everyone says it is OR y/n decides to get Harry's handwriting tattooed on her thigh (badboy/gang LHH trope?)

Warnings: SMUT!! oral (f receiving), edging, spanking (with hand and belt), hair pulling, squirting, masochism, dom!harry, mocking/degradation, dacryphilia, bondage (with a belt), Injuries (black eye, split lip, gunshot wound & wound cleanup)... I think that's it 😅

Word count: 13.7k+

Author's note: This is loosely and I mean SO loosely inspired by Guilty As Sin by Taylor Swift and yeah I know what that song is about but this is based off literally one line in it... I definitely got carried away with the story hehe

- Find my General Masterlist here -

You never liked the bad boy, good girl narrative. The power imbalance and toxicity that came with someone so ruined and so problematic trying to heal his soul in someone that deserved better. She would always think she could change him, that he was just misunderstood and needed someone to love him. That his soul could be healed.

It was bullshit. Until you found yourself in that exact situation, believing just that. That he was misunderstood and so kind underneath his rough exterior. You even found yourself loving the hidden hookups and midnight cleanups. A knock on your door at all hours in the night to be let in for some charged, desperate fuck or to be fixed up because he got in a fight.

You didn’t even know how it started, really. Harry was an enigma. A shadow in the wind that appeared one moment and disappeared the next on a dark bike just as mysterious as he was. That was how you met him, in a fleeting moment which at the time meant nothing. Until it meant everything.

He drove by the cafe you worked at. You were closing up for the night and locking the door when the loud purr of his bike filled the entire street. You were already on edge being by yourself after the girl closing with you had to leave sick so your head whipped around to follow the loud noise.

That’s when you saw him for the first time. He drove through the quiet street with a girl on the back of his bike that you had never seen before, both dressed head to toe in dark clothing and leather. They each had a black helmet covering their heads and yet you still knew that they were both looking at you.

It was unnerving and an interaction that had you walking a lot faster to your car in case they circled back and decided to give you trouble. Your town was used to damaged, dangerous shadows. People like Harry who came in for a night or a weekend for something illicit, only to never return.

You weren’t sure why your small town attracted people like that, but only being a 45-minute drive from the closest big city made it the go-to place for affairs, romantic getaways, illegal meetings and everything in between.

Harry was meant to be like that too. Someone who just passed through. Until he met you.

The very next day he found himself visiting the cafe in hopes you were there. Harry wasn’t sure why he felt the need to go there since he was meant to be driving back to the city the morning after his rendezvous, but there was something about your eyes that he couldn’t get out of his head.

He didn’t even know if you’d be there and yet by some chance or fate, you were. Your back was towards him, busy on barista duty making coffees for the many customers waiting for their orders. He recognised your hair first; pulled back in two long braids down your back. You wore the cafe logo on your t-shirt and this pair of jeans that made your ass look incredible.

You had no idea what the mystery man from last night looked like but you spent the night filling in the blanks of what was hidden beneath his helmet. Your brain seemed to be fixated on the stranger with some magical pull like you knew him already. Your body definitely seemed to like him already, that’s for sure.

“Harry? Americano two sugars.” You called out, sliding the takeaway cup to the edge of the counter before moving on to the next coffee. When the figure approached the counter, you went into your automatic greeting, “have a nice da-”, but the words got caught in your throat when you looked up and locked eyes with the same stranger last night.

You knew it was him instantly. There was no rhyme or reason to explain it, but you knew and he was even more good-looking than you ever could’ve imagined. With piercing green eyes and a strong jaw, plump pink lips and tattoos running up both arms that had your core clenching. The most unexpected feature of all though, was his long luscious curls pulled back from his face and running just past his shoulders.

Harry smirked, visibly seeing the wide-eyed, freeze response your body had just at the sight of him. It was a reaction he got often. He was tall and handsome and the dark clothing he wore made him appear far more intimidating than the usual curly-haired white boy.

“Thank you, love.” He smirked, grabbing the takeaway cup before casually slipping a $100 bill into the tip jar. He was walking out of the cafe without another word, looking at you over his shoulder before he was walking down the street and out of your view.

That night it wasn’t just his face you were dreaming about.

You never expected to see the handsome stranger, who you now knew as Harry, again but as the weeks went by he came to visit the cafe time and time again. It was always the same order and the same ‘thank you, love’ that had your head spinning and then he was gone with no idea of when he’d return again.

Then one day he took things a step further and asked you when your break was. It was the longest you heard him speak and the more words that came out, the more you found yourself hypnotised by the way his mouth wrapped around the syllables. Your coworkers warned you that men like him were dangerous and not worth the excitement and pleasure they always offered.

Time and time again you had helped your friends through some shitty breakup or worse with one of the travellers that rolled through town and you always promised yourself you wouldn’t put yourself in a situation like that. It was clear from the very first night that he was trouble but as much as you wanted to keep your distance, you just couldn’t.

You had never felt so mesmerised by another person before. That initial burning attraction hot enough to take your breath away. In only one sit down with him, you were ready to risk it all. He was so gorgeous and charming and sweet. The epitome of that misunderstood bad boy.

Just like his frequent cafe visits, your lunch breaks soon became his. You two would sit and he’d always ask you about yourself. You did most of the talking and he did most of the listening, never giving much away of himself. He’d show up with bloody knuckles or a bruised eye but would mask the pain and simply shrug when you asked him if he was okay.

It was starting to feel like he knew everything about you and you knew nothing in return. You wanted to know everything about him. After weeks of these little interactions, he never tried to fuck you or pursue things with you or make you feel like you owed him for all the $100 tips he left. All he wanted to do was talk and if anything, that made you want him more.

Then one night… everything changed.

You were woken in the middle of the night by a crash in your living room. That would be scary for anyone, but it was even scarier when you were on the top floor and the only access points to your apartment were the front door and the fire escape out the window.

You went into immediate panic mode, snatching the steak knife you had tucked under your pillows between your top sheet and your fitted sheet in case this very thing happened. Living alone had its challenges and one of them was the intense fear someone would break in in the middle of the night. By now you could recognise the sounds of your apartment and building so not every little creak freaked you out, but anyone could recognise the sound of broken glass and your pot plant being knocked over.

Sticking the knife out in front of you, you tip-toed out of your bedroom and down the hallway to your living room where the noise came from. Your phone was clutched against your chest, the three-digit emergency number ready to be called in case it wasn’t your cat, Mouse, knocking things over. Mouse was a fragile little thing and sometimes got scared by the smallest things. Even setting a mug down on the bench too hard could have her jumping out of her skin.

You prayed it was only her being skittish.

When you made it to the end of your hallway, you pressed yourself against the wall and tipped your head out ever so slightly to look into your living room. A whole wave of emotions rushed over you at once at the sight. It wasn’t your cat, but rather a tall dark figure holding your purring pet.

It was a figure you recognised immediately, even with his strong back facing towards you.

“Harry? What the fuck?” You hissed, turning your phone off while turning the lights on at the same time.

“Hey, bunny.” Harry flashed a sly smile, turning to look at you. You noticed the dried blood on his lip and eyebrow instantly and the swollen ball forming on his cheek. Fucking hell.

That smile instantly dropped when his eyes ran over you, taking in the ratty loose t-shirt and tiny underwear you were wearing. The t-shirt had a worn-out collar making it slide down to expose your collarbone and one shoulder. Your nipples were pressing through the thin material, all pebbled and hard from the cold air now blowing in from the window Harry accidentally broke on his way in.

Getting dressed was the last thing on your mind before venturing out here and you suddenly regretted not putting pants on at least. To be fucking fair though, you never would’ve guessed Harry would break in through your window when A. you had a very suitable front door, B. he didn’t even have your number and C. you never told him where you lived.

“What the… how do you know where I live?” You asked a little shakily, crossing your arms to cover your chest while still keeping the knife on guard in front of you.

Harry set down Mouse and she immediately ran over to you, purring while sliding her body against your calf. He walked over to you slowly and the closer he got, the worse his injuries appeared. A split lip and split eyebrow and a deep purple hue starting to form around his socket. He looked awful.

“Are you going to stab me, bunny?” He drawled, almost mockingly. You stood your ground, trying not to show your shaking as your hand tightened around the handle of the knife. His eyes were dark and he allowed himself a final drag over your body, stepping so close to you that the tip of the knife pressed into his stomach while he towered over you. “Gonna cut me open? Give me another scar to add to my collection?”

Even though you knew you should be scared, you weren’t. He found your address and broke into your house and yet physically, you weren’t the slightest bit worried that he’d hurt you. You knew nothing about him, didn’t even know what illegal venture he did for work and yet you trusted him.

Because you trusted him, your shaking was for a very different reason. Having him in your apartment all bloody and bruised and still as handsome as ever had you completely worked up. The thought of… of doing just what he teased, of giving him a scar that reminded him of you forever… god, it was so fucked up how horny that made you.

You were obsessed over a man who hadn’t even kissed you, yet knew every single thing about you. It was ridiculous. That felt even more ridiculous than playing off this entire interaction as a somewhat normal experience.

“I’ve got a perfectly fine front door, y’know.” You whispered, looking over to the broken window. You kept your knife against his stomach, even testing the waters by pressing it harder ever so gently into the toned muscles beneath his shirt. “And you’re paying for that to be fixed, by the way.”

Harry laughed, wincing ever so slightly at the tinge of pain in his face. But still, he laughed. And it was golden. “I’ll pay for whatever you want,” He murmured, smirking while looking down at the knife. “I’m sure you’re very skilled with a blade, bunny, but will you put it aside for now and clean me up instead? Need a pretty girl to make me feel better.”

You looked between your knife and his eyes, reluctantly dropping your hand beside your hip. “Come on.”

Saying nothing else, you spun around and walked into your bathroom. Harry followed closely behind, looking around your apartment with curiosity before his eyes fell on you. You pulled your t-shirt down as far as it would go, but it still rode up as you walked and he found himself unable to look anywhere else.

“Sit.” You pointed to the closed toilet and set your knife down on the bench, crouching down to get the first aid kit from the cabinet below the sink.

Harry did as told and shrugged his leather jacket off, setting it down on the bench before sitting on the closed toilet lid. He watched you intently, saying nothing as you set up your tools to sanitise and clean his wounds.

After grabbing some gauze and betadine to clean the open wounds, you soaked the material and started to clean the small gash on his eyebrow. Harry kept completely still, barely feeling the pinch. Your touch was so soft, so gentle. He found it more relaxing than anything else. Once that wound was clean, you moved onto his mouth which Harry found a lot more sensitive.

“So how did this happen?” you asked softly, dabbing his lip with the small cloth. His eyes closed as he tensed, hands fisting on his knees to stop himself from getting too worked up. Pain didn’t affect Harry, at least not in a normal way. Every sting and bite at your hand was turning him on in an inappropriate way. You were his bunny, his girl. He couldn’t get hard around you when all you were trying to do was help him.

“Oh, y’know...” He shrugged, keeping his eyes on you but not giving anything away.

“I don’t, actually.” You responded.

“It doesn’t matter how it happened, just that I’ve got a pretty girl fixing me up.” He attempted to smooth it over with a soft smile and a loving tap on your chin. It was the most he ever touched you, a little tap on your chin or a graze of his fingers on your cheek. He never touched your knee or your hand or anywhere else. It was infuriating.

“It does! You show up here in the middle of the night and break in. I don’t even know how you found my address but I’m cleaning your cuts and you won’t even tell me how you got them. How is that fair!? I know nothing about you Harry.” Your voice bordered on a sigh and a yell, exhausted with him showing up out of nowhere and charming you before disappearing again. You weren’t sure what to make of it and he wasn’t giving you any ideas on what he actually wanted from you.

“It’s better that way, y/n.” He looked away from you, leaning back so your fingers weren’t holding his chin anymore to keep him in position. “You don’t want to get involved with me.”

“That’s not fair and you know it. You show up constantly and-and what? Have lunch with me? Get to know me? You can’t do that and not expect me to want to know something back.” You expressed frustratingly, shoving the first aid items into the small bin beside your cabinet.

“I want to keep you safe, y/n.” He stood from the toilet, sighing when you refused to look at him. “The less you know about me, the safer you’ll be.”

“So why do you even keep coming back if you don’t want me involved with you? It’s killing me!” You snapped, looking up at him accusatorily.

“Because I can’t stay away from you.” He whispered, sliding his hand over the side of your neck. Your breath hitched at the touch, your body automatically leaning into it as he rubbed his thumb over your jaw and towards your mouth. Oh. “I’m so fucking obsessed with you it’s unhealthy. I think about you all the time. All the fucking time, y/n.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Tears pricked at your eyes, “you’re so confusing Harry because you look at me like that and say things but you don’t even touch me. You haven’t kissed me or-or anything. Just tell me what you want from me so I know where to set my expectations.”

“You think I don’t want to kiss you?” He cocked his head, turning your bodies so your back was to the basin. His hand looped to the front of your neck and it was like every cell in your body suddenly put their focus onto him. You couldn’t breathe or think or move or anything. Not when his large ringed fingers were wrapped around your neck like he was carrying a trophy. A prize to claim. “You think I don’t want to touch you?”

Harry pressed his hips into you, eliciting a gasp when you felt his long, hard cock pressed against you. He used his hips to nudge you against the cabinet, pinning you there so you couldn’t go anywhere. “All I think about is kissing you. Kissing your lips and your neck and… everywhere. The things I want to do to you y/n are so unsavoury your pretty little head would explode.”

He always thought you were this pure… innocent angel. One of the rare people in the world with no ill intentions. You were polite and sweet, even after Harry significantly brought you out of your shell since he met you. You were studying to be a nurse for Christ’s sake, some of the purest of the pure.

He wanted to ruin you. He wanted to take that innocence away more than anything on this planet. It was his built-in fucked up default program. To want what he couldn’t have. To want to destroy everything around him.

But he couldn’t do that to you. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you, even if it hurt him in the process. Harry had no light in his life, no hope until he met you and he knew that the moment this became real he would destroy you. His life would destroy you or Harry would do something to fuck it all up and he’d hurt you.

He’d break your heart.

“It won’t.” You rushed out, “It won’t explode. I… I want it.” You could barely articulate yourself. Not when his whole body was pressed to yours. All you had been thinking of for months was having him completely dominate your body. Just to touch you and please you. Even if it was only one time before he disappeared from your life forever.

You needed it.

“I’ll ruin you.” He promised, leaning in closer so his nose bumped against yours. He breathed out a ragged breath, feeling so close to completely giving in to his desires. All of them. “I’ll destroy every good thing about you, y/n. You don’t want that.”

The scariest part of all… was that you did want it. You were becoming the exact person you didn’t want to be. A good girl sacrificing herself to save the soul of someone who might never be saved. But you believed Harry would be saved. You could fix him. Help him to get away from whatever life he lived that made him hurt so badly inside.

You wanted to save him.

“I do. I do want it.” You nodded desperately, grabbing his other hand to guide it towards your clothed mound. You pressed your hand over his, using your own fingers to press his against the silky wet patch on the crotch of your underwear. He swore under his breath, taking the initiative to stroke his fingers along the wet material. “Ruin me. Please.”

So he did.

He ruined you over and over again that night and for many nights after. It completely changed everything for you two. Like it was the last barrier stopping you two from being completely open with each other. You had always told him the things you told everyone else. Your likes and dislikes, the show you were watching, your workplace drama.

But your desires… your needs and wants. They were reserved for no one but yourself. Until he came along.

Harry told you he’d ruin you and he stuck to his word. The things you did together were dirty and depraved and left you with such a feral need for the man, you would’ve let him do quite literally anything to you. As would he, you. And you practically had. Every desire or curiosity was sated and he was willing to do anything to satisfy you.

Harry became as violently obsessed with you as you did him and even though it was a hell of a trip to see you, he did so as often as possible. He couldn’t help himself. Not when he had such a pretty girl waiting to please him and take care of his heart, body and soul. You filled the hole in his life in all aspects, which is what he feared would happen when he saw you that very first night.

Someone so magnetic would ruin him and he was enjoying every moment of it.

You had no idea he traveled from the main city just to see you until you two started sleeping together. He continued stopping by for a coffee or to disturb your lunch break but very quickly, your time spent together turned into an after hours activity. He’d come to get fixed up and then he’d ruin you. Or… his sole intention was to ruin you all along.

There were many sleepless nights because of him. Not that you minded. He opened up to you more and told you more about himself and what he did. When you started to learn small things, you realised that he was probably right in you being better off left in the dark. It was a lot more elaborate than you could’ve imagined and it made sense why he did so much to keep you protected.

Running an elaborate drug smuggling operation wasn’t exactly the safest job out there, nor did it give you much opportunity to switch careers. Somehow, though, you weren’t deterred by it. Maybe it was because you were already in love with him the second he ruined you for the first time.

His high job security didn’t stop you from fantasising about a different life with him. Harry leaving that life for you. The only part of the job Harry liked was the financial stability and the power. The control he had. But you felt like Harry was destined for so much more, that he could live a much happier, safer life. With you.

“Have you ever thought about running away?” You asked, playing with his long hair. It was unruly and sweaty and you were threading your fingers through the knots formed from the midnight hookup. You were still hot and sweaty too, but Harry quite liked the sticky feeling of your skin and the lingering scent of sex in the air.

“Running away? I couldn’t.” Harry breathed through a laugh like it was unfathomable. “You couldn’t either.” He looked up from his work, reaching for your hand to bring it to your mouth to kiss your knuckles. “You’ll be a nurse soon and you’ve always had your heart set on Mercy. You’ll get a job there and it’ll be everything you want.” He smiled softly, guiding your hand back to his hair so you’d play for it while he finished the artwork on your upper thigh.

The thin marker was steady in his hand and he only had one letter left before the piece was complete, not that four letters took a particularly long time to write. But he wanted it to be perfect, for the permanent marker to last as long as possible on your pretty skin. You’d never do it permanently, after all you were still his good girl and no good girl would be as rogue as to get her lover's handwriting tattooed on her thigh after only a few months. Or ever. Permanent marker and baby powder always did the trick to make a design last a while, though, and Harry hoped it would still be there the next time he snuck through your window.

“I want you, Harry.” You whispered, finding his concentration both adorable and so damn sexy you were getting all worked up again. If he looked a little to the left to where your bare cunt was so so close to his fingers, he’d probably be able to tell too. “And the good thing about being a nurse is I can do it anywhere. I can…” you swallowed your nerves, unsure what his reaction would be to your suggestion. “I can work anywhere and-”

“It wouldn’t work, y/n.” He interrupted curtly, leaning back to observe his work while putting the cap back onto his pen. Harry rarely used your name, he was too fond of his pet name for you. “You will always be mine. Always. But I think we both know that what we have is temporary.” Your heart broke at his words and you felt the pain fizzle through your body like a burning liquid. He looked up at you as he blew on the temporary tattoo. “When I inevitably break your heart, bunny, you’ll move on and find someone who can love you the way you deserve. I’ll never move on from you, but you will and you’ll be happier for it.”

“That’s not true.” You all but whimpered. Harry ignored your plea, tapping against your skin to test whether the marker was dry. “You always say that you’ll break my heart, Harry but that’s not true.” He looked up at you for a moment, trying to hide the heartbreak he felt at seeing how sad you were. Grabbing the little bottle of baby powder, he sprinkled it over the little word, massaging the surrounding area of your leg. “I… I love you and I know you love me. If you loved me you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Bunny, I love you more than anything else on this planet.” He assured, shifting up onto his knees in all his naked glory. He spread his hands over your belly, rubbing his thumbs a little harder into your skin. “I would never do anything to hurt you but this life… it follows me wherever I go. There’ll be a time where I need to sacrifice my love and happiness to protect you. But you’ll always be mine. Until the day I die.” He smiled softly, looking back down to the pile of powder on your upper thigh. He ran his thumb over it, rubbing away from the white substance and leaving the matte four-letter word.

Mine.

“See?” He smirked, looking down at the ‘tattoo’, “I can’t promise you forever, bunny. But I can promise you that I’ll be yours at least until this fades. Who knows what could happen by then.”

You sat up, pressing your hands behind you on the bed for balance as you looked at his artwork. There was something so sexy about being branded like that, even if it was temporary. Your otherwise empty skin now looked complete with his mark there. In his handwriting.

What other sign could be more clear that you belonged to him than his handwriting on your thigh stating just that?

“I love it.” You whispered, tracing over the cursive letters. “Will you be back?” You settled on asking, pausing for a moment, “before the tattoo fades?”

That was one thing that troubled you about your relationship with Harry. The fact that you never knew when you’d see him again. You both openly professed your love and obsession for each other and yet you didn’t go on dates or text or call. Harry just showed up.

He told you it was to keep you safe. It was the very same reason he snuck through your window instead of knocking on your front door. There was less chance of anyone finding out about you. Whoever ‘anyone’ was.

Harry nodded. “I should be. I’ve got a job this weekend though so it might not be for a little longer than usual.” He plastered a soft smile on his face to calm you and reached out to cup your face. “Better make sure it’s still here when I get back. Okay, bunny? Unless you want me to mark it on your skin another way.” That smile tilted to a smirk, promising you foreplay that both of you knew would have you begging him for release.

This time you nodded, “I’ll be good f’you.”

Shit.

“Good girl, Princess.” Harry cooed, looking down briefly at his own cock, already hardening even after filling your mouth and pussy with his cum. He couldn’t help it really. Not when your naked body was so gorgeous and now marked with his handwriting. “now c’mere.”

You smiled, shifting up on your knees to join him halfway in a searing kiss. It was nearly 2 am already but you knew that you wouldn’t get any sleep at all.

The days that followed were restless. You kept looking at those four letters on your thigh and thinking of all the things you had and hadn’t done together. The many trysts you shared with hushed conversations and messy top lip kisses. How his hands felt on your body and his lips on your skin.

You had no idea how long it would be before he came to the cafe or broke into your apartment again. There was no word from him or rumour that he was passing through town. The shadows that liked to drift in and out became known the moment they visited more than once and Harry… well he had become a regular now.

The next time Harry snuck into your apartment, bordering on an entire week after he wrote ‘mine’ on your upper thigh, you were ready. You weren’t sure why you knew because sometimes you had no idea until you felt his presence in your bed. Mouse didn’t even meow or run in fear when he entered through the window anymore, making his entrance sometimes as silent as wind whistling through an empty street.

But tonight… you knew.

There was a shift in the room temperature and a lingering scent of tobacco in the air that had your core clenching just at the thought of him visiting you. Of him seeing the surprise you had for him. It was all in your head of course, a delusion brought on by obsession. Still… you knew.

And just like clockwork, you heard the sound of your window sliding upwards just past midnight. He thankfully hadn’t broken the glass since the first night, but for him to just slink in you had to keep the window unlocked. Before meeting him you obsessively checked every lock on every window and your front door every night, fearing that one of the shadows coming through town would try and hurt you.

You’d think that getting involved with someone like Harry would make that fear worse and yet… it didn’t. Somehow you felt safer. Harry once made a passing comment about keeping an eye on you, that he always knew if you were alright. He didn’t have to elaborate for you know that meant he had hacked into security cameras or had someone he trusted watching your apartment at all times.

6-months-ago-you would’ve been creeped the fuck out. Scared for your life that you’d allow one of the shadows to get you so hooked on him, you’d let him have a security guard of sorts around you 24/7, or even just the fact you let him so casually break into your apartment. It made total sense to you somehow because with all the theatrics and abnormal parts of your relationship came the love and happiness you got when you saw him.

Even though it was most likely your lover opening your window, you still fished for the knife under your pillow, now replaced with something pink and shiny and far more deadly. Harry decided that if you were going to protect yourself, you needed something more dangerous than a serrated kitchen knife. You treasured that pocket knife and you and Harry have had a lot of fun playing with it.

“Harry?” You whispered, creeping down your hallway.

“It’s just me, bunny.” His voice echoed, low and husky.

You smiled, rushing out to find him pushing your window back down and locking the latch. His hair was pulled back into a bun, sitting messily at the back of his head and he was wearing his classic leather jacket and dark jeans. God, you had missed him.

“You really need to start locking your window, y/n.” Harry drawled, turning around to face you. “A madman might try to break in and hurt you.”

You giggled, throwing your pocket knife on your rug carelessly to pounce on him. Literally. He smiled and caught you easily, letting you wrap your legs around his hips while your arms wrapped around his neck.

Your mouths joined almost instantly, lips brushing against lips in a heated exchange. You threaded your fingers in his hair and tugged until his bun came loose and his hair fell to his shoulders. He groaned at the feeling and ran his tongue against the seam of your lips, nibbling down on your bottom lip.

“I missed you, madman.” You whispered once your lips broke, shifting in his arms. His hands supported your bum, squeezing while he devoured your mouth once more. His body was sore from his weekend job, but he’d never let that get in the way of having his girl in his arms.

“I missed you too, bunny. So much… I couldn’t breathe without you.” He murmured, setting you down with a little wince. You noticed it immediately and ran your hands over his face, angling his head around to look for any injuries. He wasn’t bruised on his face for once, but you knew he was hurting somewhere.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?” The questions came out spitfire, making Harry smile down at you and set his hands on your hips. Your eyes found a dried substance at his collar and you recognised what it was immediately. “Is that blood?”

“Not mine.” He assured, “I’m fine, baby. Don’t worry.”

You ignored his assurance and started running your hands over his chest, looking for any sign of pain or visible jerk out of tenderness. When your fingers grazed his lower abdomen, he couldn’t hide the clench of his jaw. You glared up at him, pressing harder against the spot so he’d feel a little payback for lying to you.

Harry groaned and dug his fingers into your hips, ensuring it was hard and painful enough to leave a bruise. You didn’t mind though, in fact, you quite liked it.

“Jesus Harry, you got shot!?” Your eyes widened when you tugged up his t-shirt to find a bloody gauze. You knew what it was immediately. You had seen your fair share of bullet wounds in your work placements at the hospital as well as the dodgy ways they tried to mend them themselves. “When did this happen?” You decided to peel off the gauze to see the wound for yourself, not trusting the temporary mend he had done. The wound had been stitched up quite well actually, but it was inflamed and a few stitches had broken. It needed to be mended.

“Did it go all the way through? Is the bullet still in here? Why didn’t you tell m-”

Harry interrupted your second spitfire of the evening by pressing his lips to yours. It was quick to shut you up, especially when he slid his tongue against the seam of your mouth and dominated his way in. His tongue slid against yours, tobacco and whiskey heavy in the kiss.

You whimpered against his mouth, almost forgetting about the bullet wound until you felt its blood soak your fingertips. Pulling back, Harry tried to chase your mouth, needing you violently. Insatiably. He had missed your soft skin and your delicious mouth and especially missed your sweet sweet pussy. One he had a severe craving for. He could almost taste it on his tongue.

“Bathroom. Now. Your stitches are busted.” You pushed your finger to his chest and he easily backed away. He was completely whipped by you, willing to do anything you told him.

“Alright, bunny. You’re the boss.” He murmured, shrugging his jacket off to dump it on the couch before following you to the bathroom. You both followed the same routine as always. He sat on the closed toilet seat and you readied your supplies to treat his wounds.

“Top off.” You instructed, using a lighter to sanitise the end of the needle you threaded already.

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckled softly, stifling a groan as he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled his shirt off his head. “You’re feisty when you’re mad.”

“You shouldn’t have lied to me.” You shot back, sanitising the scissors next with your betadine.

“It’s just a bullet wound, bunny.” He tried to soothe, watching you approach him and rub the wound with betadine in preparation to cut his original stitches and do new ones. “Didn’t even go straight through me.”

“So the bullet’s still in there? Jesus, Harry. Why didn’t you go to the hospital? I’m not equipped to remove a fucking bullet in my bathroom.” You snapped.

“It’s not in there, y/n. One of my boys removed it, okay?” He chuckled softly, both loving and hating how worried you were. He reached up to cup your face, “I’m fine. The only thing wrong with me is a busted stitch.”

You ignored him, keeping your glare strong on your face. His hands dropped to his knees and he remained completely still while you worked on the wound. He hated that permanent crease on your brow and all he wanted to do was make it go away.

“What’s wrong?” He nudged, poking at your leg when you stayed completely silent. You were in your usual oversized t-shirt, underwear combination, but this particular t-shirt was long enough to cover your bum and the tops of your thighs. “C’mon bunny, talk to me.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“And you’re ignoring me. I don’t like when you’re cross with me.”

“Well I don’t like being left in the dark for an entire week and when you show up you’ve been shot.” You snapped, pulling the needle tighter than you’d usually do to make a knot, just so it hurt a little more. He clenched his jaw, but he was more concerned about you than the temporary pain of his stitches. “What if you died Harry? Then what? I would’ve…” you looked away to grab the scissors, trying to blink away the tears. When you returned, his gaze was soft. “I would’ve never known. You would’ve left me and I… I’d never know.”

You couldn’t even focus on his wound with how hard your hands were shaking. You managed to cut the excess thread, but the moment it was done Harry pulled the scissors and needle out of your hand and brought your shaking ones to his.

“Y/n, I’d never do that to you. Never.” Harry scanned your face, reaching up to cup you to get you to look at him. “I didn’t mean to scare you, bunny.” He wrapped his hand around the nape of your neck, gently pulling you down to rest your forehead against his. “I should’ve told you.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” You agreed, unable to stop a few tears streaming down your cheeks. “You’re an asshole.”

“I am.” He nodded, trying to kiss you until you turned your head away from him. “I fucked up. I’ll never, ever do that again. Never.” He promised, tipping his forehead to your cheek while threading your fingers to press your hand against his racing heart. “My heart belongs to you forever.”

“I’m yours, Harry.” You promised, pulling back to wipe your tears away and get the bandage to cover his wound. He sighed and grabbed your waist instead, pulling you closer between his legs so you wouldn’t go too far. “But I need… I need something. I can’t keep waiting for you to show up with nothing in between. I can barely sleep when you’re not here.”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll get a burner. Untraceable. Just for you and me.” He suggested, “You’ll never go a day without hearing from me again.” It was a promise. An oath. He never wanted to be the cause of your tears again, even if he knew he would be. It was why he didn’t want to keep your hopes up about a future, even if he wanted it more than anything in the entire world.

“You promise?” You asked, running hands over the placed bandage to seal it in place. He nodded, looking up at you with a soft smile. You hated how easy it was to forgive him. But you loved when he looked at you like that. Like you were his entire world.

“I promise. Cross my heart.” He murmured, running his hands over your waist and hips, “now will you stop being mad at me and give me a kiss?”

Harry stood up, overpowering you with his height. Using one hand on your waist, he nudged you against the basin and used the other hand to cup the side of your neck. His gaze was dark, eyes blazing with a need to please and be pleased. He was hungry for you, just like he was since the moment he got on his bike to drive down to see you.

“Please, bunny. Let me make it up to you.”

All you could do was nod.

Harry was easy to succumb to your influence, easy to follow instructions and do whatever you wanted. But he was just as easy to overpower you, to dominate you. To get you reduced to nothing but a whimper and a nod of your head.

He was quick to duck in and clasp your lips together. It started slow and steady, a languid dance of your mouths that turned into something far more passionate. It always did. He slid his hand to the back of your neck, threading his fingers into your hair to move your face in the direction he wanted while he nibbled on your bottom lip and slid his tongue against the seam of your mouth.

You let him in easily, loving the slow, deliberate slide of his tongue against yours. That familiar tobacco mint flavour was heavy in the kiss, a mix of the cigarette he no doubt had before climbing up the fire escape and the mint gum he liked to chew on to try and curb the habit. It never did work, but you liked the taste of him trying to stop the nasty addiction.

You pulled him closer by his hips, digging your fingers into the slight pudge just above his belt. It was one of your favourite parts of him to kiss, to bite. You had dug your teeth in it so many times Harry was tempted to get a tattoo of your bite so he could remember the feeling of your teeth sinking into him forever.

“Wanna taste you, bunny.” Harry groaned, tucking his hand under your shirt to fiddle with the band of your lace underwear. Your hips bucked up to meet the touch, desperate to get him doing more than just play with your underwear. “Missed the sweet taste of you on my tongue.” He kissed you softly, dragging your bottom lip back between his teeth until he released it with a pop. “Always dream of it when I’m away.”

“I guess what’s one way to apologise.” You breathed, sighing when he pinched your thigh. He tucked his hands under your ass, hoisting you up so you’d wrap your legs around his hips.

“Mhmm. I’d happily die apologising to you. Over and over.” He had this smirk playing on his lips, but you didn’t particularly find it funny.

“Don’t talk about dying.” You reprimanded softly, playing with his hair while he carried you to your bedroom.

“Not even if it’s death by your sweet pussy?” He grinned, lowering you onto the bed. You shuffled upwards, rolling your eyes as he knelt on the bed to hover over you.

“For someone who gets shot for a living, you have the humour of a 13-year-old boy.”

“And you don’t like that?” Harry raised his brow, grinning while leaning in to kiss you. You hummed into the kiss, tugging on his hair until his groan rumbled into your mouth. He pressed his weight against you, ensuring you felt every inch of his arousal for you.

He could feel yours right back. How wet you were, how warm your pussy was pressed right against his jeans. You had properly soaked through your lacy underwear and Harry could feel his jeans slowly dampen from the way he was grinding his hips against you. It was heaven. He could hardly wait to get his mouth on your sweet little cunt, especially when you were already so worked up for him.

“Your humour is only funny…” you paused to gasp, head tilting back so Harry could nip down along your neck. “…sometimes.”

“And you’re sexy all the time.” He murmured, simultaneously pushing your oversized t-shirt up while kissing downwards. He ran his hands over every inch of exposed skin, pushing the shirt above your breasts so he could clasp his lips around one of your nipples.

You took the shirt off immediately, whimpering and bucking your hips to meet his while you scratched at his back. He scraped his teeth against your sensitive bud, tugging and sucking hard enough to make your head spin. While he assaulted your nipples, his hands ran over your belly and hips down to your thighs spread wide underneath him. It was only when his fingers crawled to your very inner thigh ready to tease you through your underwear that he felt the thin film of plastic.

“What’s this?” His movements stopped immediately as he felt over the thin plastic film. You whimpered at the sensitivity, feeling particularly sore after your adventure yesterday.

“I did something and you can’t be mad…” You breathed, watching him sit back on his haunches.

His eyes widened when he got a better look, resting his hand on your thigh while he ran his thumb over the four little letters now permanently marked on your skin. Harry was no stranger to tattoos, he was practically covered in them. But the last thing he ever expected was for you to make your temporary tattoo last longer by making it permanent.

His handwriting. His claim. Harry permanently etched on your body forever.

“Bunny…” Harry murmured, looking between you and the tattoo. “What did you do?”

“You said you couldn’t promise me forever but you could give me until the tattoo fades…” His eyes focused on you and you felt yourself already becoming pliant just with the dark look on his face. “...now it’ll never fade.”

He said nothing for a moment and just stayed staring at your tattoo. His eyes drifted upwards ever so slightly to where your pretty lace underwear was pressed snugly to your pussy. Then he looked further upwards to your soft belly and your perky tits and finally… to your face. Your pretty eyes and your lips, the lips he loved to kiss more than anything.

Harry was back over you in an instant, cupping your jaw while kissing you like he was ravenous for it. You whimpered into it, tugging on his hair until your lips parted in a gasp.

“Can’t believe you did that, bunny. Got a fucking tattoo so I’d be stuck to you forever.” He murmured, smushing his mouth to yours again. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? Force my hand so I’d be yours forever.” He started to kiss back down your body again, making sure his tongue pressed against your skin with every touch.

“I love you. I want… I want to be yours forever.” You whimpered, watching him settle between your spread legs with an evil smirk on his face.

“And you thought a tattoo was the right choice? Hm? You thought letting some other man permanently alter your body was the way to go?” He dipped his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, tearing the lacy material in two. He was completely rough with it, making sure it ached as he pulled torn pieces off your body.

“It wasn’t a man. She… shit.” You couldn’t even find the words, not when he spread you wide and stared at you like you were some fine dessert.

“You think that makes it better, bunny? You think who did the tattoo makes a difference?” He raised his brow, running both his thumbs up your outer labia to tease you.

“I told you not to be mad.” You whined, pressing your hands to your face.

“I’m not mad. I think this is quite possibly the hottest… most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.” You peeked through your parted fingers, looking down at where he was looking up at you, spreading his hands to kiss at the thin layer of plastic. “So fucking sexy.” Harry murmured, looking down at it in awe.

“So why do you sound mad?” You whispered, looking down at him.

“I’m not mad you got a tattoo, I’m mad I wasn’t there. Didn’t I always say I wanted to be there for your first one?”

“Well yes but-“

“And didn’t you promise me that I would be?”

“Yes…” you swallowed thickly. He was speaking at you in such a condescending way. Like you were a child being taught a basic lesson for the first time. It was belittling.

It turned you on in such a feral way. He could even mansplain anything and you’d be happy to play into it. As long as he sounded like that and wound up between your thighs afterwards he could speak to you however he liked.

“So you went against your word, hm?” He smirked as your thighs trembled on either side of his shoulders, your body growing more and more sensitive and needy as he started tracing over your pussy.

“I guess so.”

“Do I go against my word? Have I ever broken a promise before?”

“Yes.” You tried to defend, knowing very well he always stuck to his word. Harry had never broken a promise to you. Not when he told you he’d be back in three days or when he didn’t know but promised he’d return to you safely. He always kept his word.

To be fair though, it was hard to stay clear-minded when he was caressing your pussy like it was something cute to pet. It wasn’t. And with every stroke of his fingers, every slide through your crease to spread your arousal up to your clit before coming straight back down like he didn’t even know what a clit was, your mind was spiralling. He was killing you.

“Oh really?” He nudged a finger to your entrance, pressing just hard enough to slip the very top inside of you. You always were the most sensitive at your g-spot then right here, at the very beginning where all your nerves were alive and your pussy was clenching around nothing because you needed something inside. Specifically Harry’s cock. “Tell me. When?” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your clit and finally slid his finger inside of you, eliciting the prettiest whine.

“Um… Uhh…” You couldn’t speak or think with his tongue slowly sliding over your clit now. He traced languid circles and waves, taking complete control and doing it all at his own pace. Harry was tasting you for his own pleasure more than he was yours, even if he did love the way you came for him.

“Exactly.” He smirked, “So let me take my time with you. I’m owed that, aren’t I?”

“I thought you were meant to be apologising to me? This feels like an unfair system. A bullet wound is more serious than a tattoo.” You complained, sliding your hands into his hair to try and drag him closer to you.

After being away from him for so long, one of the longest times apart since you started dating-or whatever you two were, all you wanted was to feel him. You wanted his pleasure and the weight of his body on top of you. Teasing wasn’t fun when you were apart more than you were together.

You prayed that would change after the gesture you made. The permanent commitment to him.

“Which one is permanent?” He grinned lazily up at you.

“You could’ve died.” You argued.

“But I didn’t. Now will you stop complaining otherwise I’m more than happy to stop. It’s been a big day I could easily go to sl-”

“No!” You jumped a little too quickly, making him laugh and press spongey kisses against your inner thighs. “No… no, please. I’ll take whatever you want. I’ll be good.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, pressing his fingers into your fresh tattoo. You gasped, clutching his hair tighter in your hands. “That’s what I like to hear, pretty girl. Besides, I think letting me take my sweet time tasting you is the best punishment out there. Don’t you think?”

Harry pressed a few chaste kisses along your thighs, feeling just how tense you were. You were clenching around his finger and holding onto his hair tight so he wouldn’t move away. But he couldn’t have you so tense… he needed you to relax.

“Calling it a punishment scares me…” you whimpered, feeling his tongue slide over your clit in a sloppy figure-eight pattern.

“mh… just relax, bunny. Stop thinking and let me take care of you… you’re my girl, aren’t you? My sweet, delicious girl. My girl?” He ran his thumb over your tattoo, speaking right against your clit like he was talking to your pussy instead of you.

“Mhmm.”

“Then relax… you deserve to be spoiled after all you do for me…” Harry looked up at you, smiling as you forced your body to melt into the bed.

Your eyes fluttered shut, head tilting back when his mouth returned to your clit. He gently added another finger inside of you, curling them both into your g-spot in a steady stroke. They felt so deep inside of you, nowhere near as full of his cock but still so so good.

The combination of his tongue and his fingers were driving you crazy, but he did them in such a relaxed, languid way that you knew it would take you ages to cum, if he even let you.

“See? ‘S nice isn’t it?… you always take care of me, bunny. Always clean my wounds and take good care of m’cock… m’heart too…. Always make me feel so happy.”

“You make me happy too… scare me a lot too…” You sighed, fisting his hair as he grazed his teeth over your clit.

“I don’t mean to,” Harry murmured against you, kissing against your clit in an infuriatingly light touch. “Only want to make you feel good… feel safe…”

“You do… you do… just-fuck, please… More… Harder.”

He smirked at your begging, the whiny tone in your voice going straight to his cock. Barely a couple minutes into it and you were already getting desperate. Already tugging at his hair and starting to wiggle.

He loved you like this because he had the ultimate control over whether or not he gave you what you wanted. At this point, it could go either way.

“Not yet sweetheart, ‘m having too much fun just like this…”

Your back arched when he pressed his fingertips into your tattoo, purposefully digging into the soft skin. It was a small tattoo, tiny in comparison to half of Harry’s work but you had a relatively low pain tolerance and your very inner thigh was quite sensitive. It was torturous paired with the way his tongue softly stroked against your clit.

“Please, Harry…” You begged once more, using your hands in his hair to try and drag him closer to you. You were writhing beneath him, desperate for something more than just light teasing shapes. You could barely handle it anymore.

“Ah.” Harry tutted, slipping from your clit with a little pop of his lips. He grinned up at you, mouth and chin all soaked and dripping before pulling your hands from his hair to push them down on the bed beside you. It was possibly one of the most erotic things you had ever seen. “Y’know I like my hair pulled, bunny but if you keep pushing it, I’ll make sure you don’t cum at all. Let me enjoy you.”

“Okay…” You nodded quickly, hoping he wouldn’t stop altogether. “m’sorry. I’ll be good.”

“Good.”

Harry released your hands before grabbing a hair tie from his wrist and putting his hair up in a bun. God when he did that… it did unspeakable things to you. You watched him obsessively, frothing over the way his arms and chest stretched and flexed with every small movement. Up behind his head then back down to the bed when he settled between your thighs while staring at you with this triumphant fuckboy smile.

“You’re so pretty, y’know that. So so pretty and all mine.” He murmured, tracing his finger through your crease while looking straight at your pussy with complete awe. Harry was fucking obsessed with you.

“Harry…”

“I know,” he sympathised, voice almost mocking at your flushed cheeks. He loved when you got nervous. “You’re so pretty when you blush, y/n.” He blew gently over your clit, sliding his two fingers back into you.

Closing his mouth around your clit, he started pleasuring you again. He moved his tongue against you harder and curled his fingers into you with far more purpose than before. And finally, finally you were starting to feel that relief. It was exactly what you needed to start to feel that twist in your stomach and shake in your thighs… the rush before that euphoric release. Your toes were starting to curl and your fingers tightened into his hair, tugging so hard he had to dig his fingertips into your tattoo to ground himself from how desperate he was getting from his hair being played with.

“Oh god… I’m… ‘mgonna…”

And then the rush stopped, that spiraling wave freezing right before it tumbled over the cliff. Harry removed his mouth and halted his fingers, kissing over your thighs instead with an evil grin you could feel against your skin.

“Harry” you protested, gasping while looking down at him. Your legs attempted to clam around his head and you tried to tug his mouth back to you but he easily overpowered you and used his arms to pin your thighs wide against the bed.

“You’re cute when you’re desperate. Might be my second favourite look on you.” He bit down on your thigh, chuckling against your skin.

“What’s the… what’s your favourite?” Your breathing felt laboured, skin already feeling a little sticky from being teased for so long.

“When you orgasm… sometimes it’s when I’ve got you so far gone you’re fucking sobbing for me. Only like your tears when they’re because of m’cock.”

He was evil.

Was it fucked up that knowing he liked to make you cry turned you on?

“You’re so mean… you know I-oh” your words got caught in his throat, eyes fluttering closed again when he started tracing his tongue over your clit again.

Harry started to tease you again, going back to that languid, gentle touching. He was enjoying every second of it too, moaning into you, using his spare hand to grab on your belly and your breasts. He pinched at your nipples before pressing against your tattoo, all to rile you up and build your orgasm again so damn slowly.

Harry was nearly about to burst. You were so wet and so fucking sweet and though he loved having his face between your thighs for hours on end, it turned him on beyond anything else on the fucking planet. He had to keep focusing his mind elsewhere, on anything but the way your cream was coating his fingers and dripping down his palm, or how you were so fucking wet just one slide of his tongue through your crease echoed around the entire room.

But then you got a little too sensitive, a little too desperate and tugged his hair so hard it slipped from the bun he did earlier. He was just as happy to punish you than he was to rest his face between your thighs.

The pleasure stopped once more and you were flipped so fast onto your belly, you didn’t have an opportunity to try and wiggle away. He gathered your hands quickly in one of his so you couldn’t move and ignored your whine of his name.

“I warned you once, y/n, and you didn’t want to listen…”

“Harry ‘m sorry. I’ll be good. I promise.” You protested, at Harry’s complete mercy. He pinned you to the bed with one hand, keeping your hands pressed to your lower back while he pulled his belt out of his belt loops. You wiggled beneath him, trying to get out of his tight grip only to be suddenly swatted with his belt over your ass.

You gasped at the sting, feeling the spot on your skin grow a heartbeat of its own. It was a warm spiced feeling, oozing down to your aching clit that Harry had teased all night.

“You did this to yourself, bunny. I wanted to be nice and I wanted to enjoy your sweet little pussy but you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. Could you?” Harry looped the belt around your hands then tightened it with the buckle so it was snug around your wrists. He tugged at it just to be sure you couldn’t slip out before hovering over you to kiss you gently on your shoulder.

“Okay?” He asked, nuzzling his nose against your cheek.

“Mhmm.” You nodded.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

“Good girl.” He whispered the praise against your shoulder, kissing the middle of your back on his way back to kneel behind you.

Harry was quick to pull your ass up off the bed until your face was pressed to the duvet, giving him the perfect access to all your pretty holes. You were practically dripping. Already edged once with no relief and now he could just taste you and bury his face without having your hands in the way. His perfect girl.

“See…” He murmured, tracing his hands over your ass. “Isn’t this better? Now I can enjoy you in peace.”

You responded with a noise of indignation, squeezing your fists when he chuckled and spanked your ass in that same spot he whacked his belt. Your skin was pulled taught with the way your chest was pressed to the bed, making the sting heavier than usual.

Even though you whimpered and your whole body jerked at the feeling of his palm on your ass, Harry knew you enjoyed it. Just like you enjoyed being tied up.

The only reason you protested having his belt around your hands was because you hated it like this. Behind your back or pinned to your sides or thighs. You didn’t like not being able to feel him, especially when you couldn’t see him either. With Harry always gone you just wanted to touch him as much as humanly possible when he was around him.

You always had a hand on him. In his hair or scratching his back or in his pocket or intertwined with his fingers. You just needed that touch. Craved it. And now it had been taken away.

“God, you taste so fucking good, bunny.” Harry groaned, spanking your ass roughly. He spread your cheeks wide, pulling back to spit right on your tight rim of muscles before he was sucking over your clit again. “Like a fucking dream.”

He groaned against you, nuzzling his nose right against your entrance to press just hard enough to dip into you. The way he used his entire face to pleasure you was completely feral. He’d be able to smell you for days and taste your sweet sweet arousal for hours to come. That’s exactly how he liked it.

He was completely wrapped around your clit, sucking in that perfect rhythmic pressure he knew you liked. The same pressure that had you tumbling towards an orgasm within two minutes flat. Now he seemed to be doing the opposite of his torturous teasing. He was trying to make you cum and he was doing it in the messiest, most feral way possible.

That was somehow more evil because you had nowhere to go. You couldn’t move your hands or grab his hair, not even hold his hand until he reached for you. With the tight grip on your hips, you were pinned in his grip. You didn’t mind though, because he was finally… finally giving you that delicious pleasure.

You were hopeful, your entire body tense and trembling. Your mouth was gaped against the bedding, soft moans muffled into the material. Until your entire world crashed and burned when it all stopped. Again.

“No. Harry...”

“Shh, it’s okay, bunny.” Harry pressed his mouth over your ass, sliding his fingers out of you to run through your crease to your clit. “Still green?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good. Then let’s keep going, shall we?”

You lost count at how many times he edged you. After five it all turned into a blur; a teary, stinging blurr where your mind was completely in the clouds and your body felt like it was melting into a puddle. You were completely heavy in the bed, legs sore and trembling and your arms aching after being behind your back for so long.

Every touch was torture, every flick of his tongue or suck over your clit sent your mind into orbit. You needed to come so fucking badly but there was nothing you could do to get him to let you finish. He was happy to just taste you and lick you until you were reduced to a pile of tears and sore muscles on the bed.

“Please Harry… please I need it so bad… need y’cock so so badly…”

It wasn’t the first time you begged for it, but it was certainly the first time you cried for it. You were crying softly against the bedding, wiggling and clenching around his fingers. Your nails were digging into your palms, trying to counteract the pressure your entire lower body was facing.

“Yeah? Wanna give it to you, bunny. So fucking bad…” Harry’s cock had been painfully sore since your fourth edge, so fucking hard he got rid of all his clothes just for some relief. His jeans were pressing so tight against his cock, he could barely handle it.

Harry was a sadistic fuck, though and he liked the pain. He liked being sore and he liked to edge himself so when he finally got inside you and got that ultimate pleasure, the entire experience was better. He liked it when he made you come multiple times, but there was something romantic about edging you until you cried then letting you finally come when he was deep inside you and about to orgasm himself.

Simultaneous orgasms were a rarity, but Harry liked the challenge. Often it was him timing his with yours anyway. You were terrible at holding your orgasm, practically incapable of it. That’s why edging you was so fun… Harry had complete control over it. He knew the signs of your body reaching that point without you even verbalising it and knew the exact moment to pull away before you tipped over the edge.

And even when you cried and it was sore, your colour remained green the entire time.

“Got me so hard f’you… just need to make sure you really want it, huh?” Harry bared his teeth against your ass cheek, biting down on one of the spots his various spontaneous spanks had made their mark. Your ass was beat red at this point, covered in teeth marks and hand prints from Harry getting too damn excited. He knew it would be sore for a couple of days, but that’s what he wanted.

He wanted his memory on your skin… and now after your tattoo, it would be. Forever.

The thought of that was exhilarating and one of the most terrifying things in Harry’s world.

“I do… I need it so bad, Harry. Feel so empty without you… so sore…” Your words all joined together, a slur of neediness and sniffled tears.

“Oh, I bet, bunny…” He cooed, sliding his fingers out of you before sucking them clean. He then moved up on his knees behind you to gently undo the belt from your wrists. “Bet you’re so sensitive n’sore, aren’t you?” He threw the belt to the side, massaging your wrists in his hand to soothe the reddened skin.

You just nodded against the bedding, curling your fingers back to hold his hands. He sighed at the sight, leaning down to quickly kiss your fingers before rolling you on your back.

“Aw, baby. Look at you all teary-eyed…” Harry cupped your cheek, letting your legs fall wide on the bed as he wiped the tears from under your eye. With his other hand, he grabbed his cock and guided it to your pussy, sliding the head through your folds. His teeth gritted at the sensitivity on his desperate cock and he was trying so hard to not lose all strength in his body just at that one little touch. He was the one desperate now.

“Y’look so pretty like this… fucking gorgeous you are…”

“Harry…” You sighed, holding onto his wrist with one hand while grabbing his hip with the other. Just the feeling of his cock through your folds was heavenly, a sign that you’d finally get to come.

“I love the way you say my name, pretty girl. Like a fucking angel… shit”

His hand slid down your face to your neck, looping around it in a loose hold while he pressed his tip to your entrance and slowly eased his way in. Your pussy was so sensitive from all his teasing and he could tell too. Your cry was loud and your nails dug deep into his hip. He was addicted to the feeling.

“Shit… oh god…” You whined out, head thrown back against the bedding. Your mouth was wide in a pant, chest heaving just at the feeling of him bottoming out inside of you. His cock was always an adjustment… thick and long and fuck, every time you thought of it your mind went a little dizzy.

It ached to have him inside you without being edged so much and now it was like a hot fire in your womb. Your clit was aching, your belly was aching, and everything was so tightly strung all you wanted was just to be fucked. Even if you were more sensitive than ever, you just needed to be fucked hard into the bed.

No teasing. Nothing. You just wanted him to fuck you until you came undone around him.

“Fuck me… please, Harry just fuck me…” your words came in a rushed, desperate plea; your hips jutting to try and get him to move.

“Fuck, bunny. Got a filthy fucking mouth, don’t you…” Harry cursed, tightening his grip around your neck. “I’ll fuck you, alright. I’ll give you exactly what you want…”

He started rocking his hips against you, wasting no time to get to a steady, bruising pace. It was hips snapping against hips, your thighs wide on the bed while he used his hand around your neck for balance. His balls slapped against your ass and his noises of pleasure were so goddamn erotic you knew you’d never forget the sound of them.

It was euphoric.

“God baby, you feel so fucking good wrapped around me. And you’re all mine, aren’t you? All fucking mine…” Harry grunted, gritting his teeth to try and stop himself from finishing too fast. He was practically going to burst the moment his cock slid inside you. “And this…” He pressed his palm to your thigh, heavily running his thumb over your tattoo… “is so sexy… so fucking sexy…”

Neither of you seemed to care about the fact he had fresh stitches and a fresh bullet wound because the way he was fucking you was too good to care about something that could be so easily fixed. That pain in his abdomen did very little to stop him from giving you the fucking you deserved, even if that meant he’d have to sit through another angry stitching done by you.

Hopefully, this time you weren’t as angry or as rough with him… though he wouldn’t have minded if it meant he’d have you again like this.

You couldn’t even respond to him because it felt like your mouth had disconnected from your brain. Your body was so overstimulated that your mind could barely function. But you could drag him down with two hands on his jaw and kiss him. It was messy and uncoordinated but that didn’t even matter. All that mattered was that his body was on yours and you felt the closeness you had craved since the moment he tied your wrists behind your back.

“I love you… I love you so much…” You murmured, already feeling your orgasm approach again. It hardly took any time, not when he was fucking you so good and so hard. He felt deeper than ever before, so deep you could feel that deep pit in your stomach start to churn. It was a feeling that didn’t happen very often, but one both you and Harry reaped the benefits of.

“I love you so much, angel. My love forever and always.” Harry groaned into your mouth, gathering your hands in his and intertwining your fingers together. He pushed on either side of your head, pressing them into the bedding as he started to kiss along your jaw and neck to get a bit of air.

The dirty talk kept spilling out of his mouth, some coherent and others just desperate strung together sentences that made your head spiral and your pussy clench around his cock. He had a way with words, both in and out of the bedroom and it never failed to knock you to the fucking floor.

That deep churning in your pit only grew and started to press right against your clit. You could feel the pressure building and building until it felt like you were going to burst. Your clit was aching; a pinching white-hot pleasure beating from it like it had its own heartbeat.

“Oh… shit… shit. Harry… ‘m gonna… ‘m gonna squirt” The words barely got out, all thrown together in a loud cry right in his ear before you felt the damn burst from inside of you.

It rolled over you in a crash. An initial euphoric crash of pleasure hitting your body from all angles. Waves and waves of pure ecstasy made your thighs tremble and your toes curl. Your whole body shook as the first spray of your arousal hit Harry’s lower belly and with every squirt after, another jolt of electricity.

“Shit baby. Good fucking girl. Fucking hell…” Harry cursed, grinding his hips against you to try and draw as much of your orgasm through. He felt it coat his cock and the hairs at his base, dripping down to his balls until it started to dampen the bedding beneath you. “Jesus, bunny. ‘M gonna cum… Can I?...”

“Want it… want it inside, please…” you whimpered, squeezing his hands tight as the pleasure started to die down to a low beat in your clit.

Harry’s mouth smushed against yours as he fucked himself once more inside of you, groaning against you as his body trembled above you. You could feel the hot bliss of his come filling you to the brim and the sudden weight of him on top of you when he let himself relax against your body.

“Shit, bunny…” He sighed, dropping his forehead to the crook of your neck.

You were both exhausted. Your skin was damp and sticky and the bed below you felt exactly the same. It was a mess. You were a mess and yet you were the happiest you could’ve been. Sore muscles and a fire beating on your ass and fresh tattoo meant nothing compared to the fulfilment you had just being with Harry.

“Are you okay?” He whispered after a moment of silence, resting his chin on your chest to look at you. He needed to collect himself before he checked on you so he was physically able to take care of you and provide whatever you needed. He definitely needed to have a shower or bath with you and rub some cream on your wrists and bum.

“I’m good,” You whispered back, smiling softly at him. “A little sore but so good… are you okay?”

“I’m perfect,” he smiled and softly kissed your sweaty skin, “can I pull out now?”

With a small nod, he gently pulled himself out of you and then started your normal routine. He went to get some water and a damp towel to clean you both up and then returned to clean you while you guzzled the entire thing. Some nights you two jumped in the shower straight away, but that was only if you weren’t going to have another round or were prepared to change the sheets at the same time.

Tonight wasn’t one of those nights. After you went to the bathroom quickly you returned and you both curled into each other’s arms to have your usual pillow talk. It was your favourite part of sleeping together because it was often when the truth came out or you found out more things about him. You loved that.

“I still can’t believe you did this…” Harry murmured, looking down at the tattoo. He traced his fingers over it, looking at it obsessively.

“Was it too much? Be honest…”

“What?” Harry was a little taken aback and looked up at you with a furrowed expression, “Never. Fucking unexpected but I love it,” he reached up to grab your cheek and you immediately nuzzled into it, holding your hand over his, “I love you, y/n. I don’t say it often enough but I do. And I want you in my life, I just don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to keep you safe.”

“Let me come with you.” You responded, “next time you go back to the city, let me come. I want to see where you live and… I don’t know, maybe meet your friends? Or…” you felt a little embarrassed at the next words that came out of your mouth, but you weren’t exactly sure how else to say it, “work colleagues…”

Harry cracked the biggest fucking grin at how you phrased it, but he tried to not laugh so he wouldn’t embarrass you. “Alright. Tomorrow. I’ll take you back with me.”

“Tomorrow?” You blinked, not expecting him to just willingly agree like that.

“Yes. I don’t have a job until Thursday so we’ll have a couple of days together. But that’s only if you don’t have college or wo-”

“I don’t.” You interrupted quickly, knowing very well you did have university and work. Harry knew that too, he just wanted to see if you’d really skip a few days of responsibility for him. “I’d love to go.”

Harry smirked, nearly getting all worked up again at the thought of his angel skipping classes just to spend time with him. “Good…” He then cleared his throat and sat up so he could look at you, “I want you to have this.”

He removed his signature cross necklace from around his neck and motioned for you to sit up as well. “Harry… I couldn’t”

“You can.” He pressed, placing the necklace over your head. He eyed the way it fell right between your breasts and pulled your hair out from underneath it so it wouldn’t get tangled. “Always wear this, y/n. I mean it. The moment I take you into the city there will be people who care that you know me and they’ll use it against me.” Harry played with the cross between two fingers, rubbing his thumb over the front of it, “Wearing this… it’s a protection.”

“How?...” You whispered, looking between the necklace and his gorgeous green eyes.

“Because this-” his hand fell to your thigh, squeezing over the plastic film of your tattoo, “-tells me that you’re mine and this-” he grabbed the chain again, tugging it ever so slightly, “tells the entire fucking world.”

━━━━━━ ♡ ━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━ ♡ ━━━━━━━

Tag List: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @gurugirl @hsonlyangelxo @kkr102 @falloutby

@caynonmoondreams @theskyyabove @sykostyles @harryslittlefreakk @avaaas-world

@littlenatilda @grabiolla @forgetdelaney @hislcstyles @yourdatcrazyweirdo

@elidoho @esnyhoney @becauseheartsgetbroken-hs @lillefroe @harrysrockstarsgf

@hrrypinks @justlemmeadoreyou @swagg13r @whatamievendoingonhere @delicatepointofharry

@onlyangellucifer @youcan-nolonger-run @gotdrxnkonu @cheappackofcigerattes @idrawshapesonpeople07

@straightontilmornin @mellamolayla @stilesissaved @ribbonknives @scndsofsummer

@floral-recs @styles.sturniolo @maryjahps @babyfratelli7 @voniikg

@complikyfreak @tswiftsgf @triski73 @michellekstyles @freedomfireflies @tiredinwinter @butdaddyilovehim-hs

*please make sure your settings allow you to be tagged ❤️*

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed! 🤍

Patreon

2K notes · View notes

strawberrysainz · 6 months

Text

about you. charles leclerc

“ snippets of times your paths cross. and how you begin to intertwine a little. / in which you, after many months, find your way back to him again. ”

charles leclerc x fem!reader

word count: 3.7k

strongly advise listening to ‘about you’ by the 1975 just for extra vibes idk

The first thing you think, as he gestures for you to lean into the window of his car - Andrea is holding up your red iPhone to take this picture you may have dreamed of since forever - is that he smelled very real.

It sounds ridiculous. Of course it does, but there is a significant way in which he smells like almond and vanilla scented something that makes you feel like you’re sixteen in your shower with your mum’s body wash she was gifted that in turn was for your own use (she liked soap bars instead).

And as the man smiles and counts down from three, you try to smile effortlessly- you will be showing this photo for years to come- but instead your grin is real, because he is real now, you will remember the smell, his smile, the soft lilt of his voice that you knew wasn’t his proper one.

“Thank you,” you say for a moment, sincere. The Sunday evening is early and welcome, his race win is fresh on everyone’s minds.

“And congratulations.” You add, as an afterthought, smiling. “I seem to have forgotten that.”

He falters for a moment - your casualness has seemed to startle him - and your friends are already pulling you away from the car, wanting to beat the traffic. Andrea hands your phone back and you lean a bit awkwardly over Charles to get it. Charles is staring at you with some sort of amusement, and as you shout a goodbye and a thank you, he waves with a grin as some boys run up to the car.

You laugh into the night air as you get into the taxi, staring at the photos, some candid, some not, of the two of you.

His smile is as big as yours, clearly ecstatic about his win still.

🍷🍝📷💋

A few months later - it’s summer - and you’re in Italy, hot nights and all the Aperol Spritzes are powering you through the days. You’re bundled up in the front seat of a little Volkswagen Beetle on your way to someone’s villa/winery when you notice two guys standing on the side of the road with a car that’s run out of petrol.

You gesture to your friend, and she sighs, and you pause the song and stick your head out of the yellow car. “Are you guys okay?” You say in that heavy accented English, and with a jolt you realise it’s Charles and Joris.

Your friend has realised too - she was at the Grand Prix with you that night - and Charles is staring at the two of you through those RayBans, a little laughing smirk on his face. “The car’s gone.“

“Are you sorting it out, or…?” You say, giggling a little; Joris looks very uncomfortable in the summer sun.

“Everyone’s closed. We called. It’s a Sunday.”

“Get in,” you say, sharing a glance with your friend, “Come have some lunch. One of our friend’s dad is a mechanic, we’ll see what he can do.”

You watch him debate with Joris silently, and then with a shrug they get in.

“This is Stella,” you say, smiling, and introduce yourself too. Charles’ face kind of squints with recognition. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I met you in Monaco the night you won,” you smile, kind of embarrassed, and he slaps his thigh, making a noise of recognition to be nice (but you know he doesn’t remember that interaction at all).

You nod and Stel talks to them for a while, talking about how lovely Italy’s been in August, and the road is winding away until you’re at Luca’s.

🍷🍝📷💋

You friend Luca is very drunk, you note, the flush on his cheeks and the lazy lilt to his voice are very apparent. When he recognises Charles - this friend group is F1 mad - he hugs him and runs away immediately to get him a drink.

You’ve let your friends take on the role of entertainment for the guests, opting to strip down to your bikini and hop in the pool. It’s a scorching hot day, and you lather on sun cream before relaxing with a spicy margherita in your hands.

Your girlfriends pounce, Stella telling the story of picking up the hitchhikers and one of them thinks she can “totally bag Leclerc” before you’re all called inside for the food.

Before you walk in, you slip on the pair of denim shorts you were wearing and some sandals. Charles has a drink in hand and is sitting at the table already, the pasta and homemade bread having been broken into. Stel pulls you in to sit opposite him and Joris, and you lean over to dish some salad while Charles discusses the watch on his wrist with one of your friends (it’s the car chase robbery story that went viral a few months ago). Joris watches on, looking a bit awkward, so you lean in and begin to make some conversation.

He gladly accepts the invitation to talk, and you launch into a conversation about the holiday he is on before getting stuck on the road. You realise Charles is watching you speak now, oddly engaged, and you look down at your food, cheeks hot.

“So you two were in Monaco, right? For the Grand Prix? How was it?” Charles says, smiling sort of amicably, and a rush of embarrassment engulfs you as you smile at him. “So good. We loved it.” You say, and Stella launches into a story about a weird man who sat next to you on the grandstand.

🍷🍝📷💋

You squeeze in to the middle of the backseat, between Charles and Joris: your bare legs brush against them both in a moment that has you scrunching your nose with disbelief, Luca’s dad rattles on in Italian in the passenger seat with a large petrol can in his lap.

Twenty minutes later, you’re back on the hill on the dark and you’re hugging Charles and Joris goodbye, waving them away. You blow a kiss and get back in the backseat, laughing, shaking your heads.

🍷🍝📷💋

Seven months later, the cold February air finds you in Milan as you walk by an open window. You’re here for work, for Fashion Week, and you drift between fashion houses and shows, writing about them, chatting to models and designers and curators and it’s all so elegant, fun and exciting.

Next on your list is Ferrari’s show in the early evening, looking down to your list, and the waitress brings over your drink in the cosy restaurant.

Sitting on a cold hard (concrete?) bench across from the runway, you’re sitting between to an influencer with the most gorgeous pink jacket you’ve ever seen and an old fashionable Italian man with leathery tanned skin (how is he so tan?), and you launch into conversation with him about his experience this week so far, making notes. The show is as good as it could get for the brand, their classic leather, green and red and yellow ensembles with some gems in between that you adore. It’s alright, you think, it’s average, and just as you’re debating leaving someone roars in Italian and holy shit, Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz are walking down the runway.

You immediately begin to laugh a little under your breath, taking some pictures, and as Charles passes your side the girl next to you tries not to shout.

They look pretty cool, you think - all leather pants and shirts and vests, stuff you think they could use a little more of for their everyday fashion. You cheer along with everyone else as Carlos blows a kiss when they leave, laughing a little.

🍷🍝📷💋

You’re just about to leave when a girl comes up to you and engulfs you in a hug, and you tentatively grip her back before looking back, only then relaxing. She’s from university, she eagerly recounts memories of 1st year linguistics class. She hands you a glass of champagne and invites you back to the after celebration, and with a shrug - it can’t hurt, right? - you follow, being led into a room at the back.

It smells like too much cologne, and you scrunch your nose as you find a stray canapé to munch on when Joris calls your name.

Of course he’s standing there, and you run over to give him a hug.

“My saviour!” He jokes, and you laughed, staying by his side to have a chat. You can’t believe he even remembered you. You’re chatting about your latest projects when you’re interrupted by a hand on your shoulder. It’s Charles and Carlos, and Charles has to stare at you for five seconds to figure out who you are before he says your name, squeezing your shoulder. You stand there, rocking on your high heels for a second before he introduces you to Carlos.

“She saved me and Joris in Italy last summer when our car ran out of petrol, we had lunch at their friend’s house.”

Carlos laughs a little when Joris chips in. You’re staring at someone walking past in a great pair of red leather pants when Joris taps your arm.

“We still have to pay you back for last year. Do you want to go for dinner with us?”

Now Carlos’ girlfriend, Rebecca, has turned up, achingly beautiful, and Carlos introduces you and you kiss cheeks before she nods and says she’s so hungry too.

So you end up in a big black car, and Charles is phoning the restaurant and they don’t have a table for 5pm until he does a subtle name drop and then they magically do. Italy has a big love for him, their il predestinato. When you all pull up, there are a lot of people milling about outside, in sparkly dresses and sweatpants, lots of makeup and bare-faced, and you spot Suki Waterhouse when you walk in.

They give you a spot near the back, the brown wall making the space warm as you and Rebecca slide in to the booth.

They order aperitifs and you all chat about what you’ve been seeing this fashion week, the boys’ experience walking, and then you talk to Rebecca about her life for a while.

Then you all order seafood, and it’s delicious and tastes like it’s been made with joy and love.

“I still feel like we have to repay you,” Charles says, catching your attention, and you laugh and shrug the idea away. “This dinner’s lovely. It’s okay.”

“Can I give you and … -“ Joris murmurs to him, “Stella nice tickets to Monaco? Or Monza? Is that fine?”

“Monaco,” Joris nods, and Charles looks at him then back to you. “Really, it’s the least we can do.”

You are busy turning down the offer when Charles shakes his head. “Sorry. See you in May.”

🍷🍝📷💋

You and Stella giggle gleefully as you hear the little sound of your card authorising your access to the paddock. The two of you intertwine arms, walking down. You walk around, peering at everyone supposedly trying to get on with their business in the Thursday morning.

You send a text to Joris, and you just keep walking around for twenty minutes until he replies and says he’s sent someone to come get you. It’s a woman, and she has a lovely smile and she takes you to the hospitality - it’s upstairs, because the paddock is so small in Monaco, and you two have a glass of champagne before Joris appears, slightly sweaty. He’s just got here, he explains, him and Charles - they were slightly held up by fans.

You and Stella laugh and hug him.

🍷🍝📷💋

You spent the day just talking with Joris and other people in the hospitality about their jobs. It’s genuinely the best experience, and it’s nearing 6pm when everyone starts closing up and you are standing near the entrance/exit of the paddock, Stella in the bathroom when Charles comes up to you.

You’re on your phone when you hear him walk up, and you look up with a smile. You haven’t seen him since that dinner - three months ago - and when he pulls you into a hug you feel a rush of energy (electricity?) flow through you. His smile is big and bright.

“How was your day?” You ask, fiddling with your phone case, and he sighs dramatically. “Busy. Monaco is always crazy.”

You nod.

“How was yours?”

“So great. The people in your team are so wonderful. I had a really lovely day.”

Your dress swishes in the wind and you see him cast a glance down at your exposed legs before meeting your eyes again. “Me and Joris are going to do pasta tonight. Do you want to come over for it?”

“Stella’s still here…” you say awkwardly. “I’m not sure what she wanted to do, she mentioned going out.”

“Oh.” He nods. “Ok.”

Stella comes back from the bathroom and she smiled at Charles. “I never got to say thanks for this trip, it’s been great so far.”

Charles smiles at her. “No problem.”

🍷🍝📷💋

Friday comes and goes, a slightly uneventful day (you don’t see Charles, he’s too busy with the practices and the press) and there you are on a rainy Saturday morning.

Stella insisted on hiring a bicycle to get the ‘authentic experience’ so the two of you are busy cursing the weather in plastic rain jackets as you whiz down the streets on bright green bikes.

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment when you see that Charles and Andrea getting off their bikes as you arrive. He notices you, sodden like a wet rat, your nice jeans probably ruined, and giggles in the pouring rain, coming over to help you off your bike and give you an awfully cold hug. His arms wrap around you and you feel him kiss your cheeks, so you return them, but you’re shivering so much he keeps his arms around you until the same nice lady from Thursday comes with an umbrella and takes you inside. You wave goodbye to Charles as he goes to the garage and you blush, your hair soaked still.

The woman takes you and Stella to a tiny little room with cupboards and points to a drawer that contains a hairdryer and a Dyson airwrap (to your delight) so the two of you end up hair-drying yourselves dry - jeans and all. You also get to touch up your makeup after you dry your bag with the hairdryer too.

Nice and warm, you’re given cappuccinos and you peer out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the track, and see the boats rock in the harbour due to the rain and the wind.

“I don’t think we’ll have qualifying on time at this rate,” another man comments, also a guest of Ferrari, and you and Stella nod, trying to seem up to speed with track condition information.

So an hour later the two of you get to watch the boys film a YouTube video, and part of a vlog they seem to be making.

Afterwards, Charles comes over with Joris, and the four of you chat for twenty minutes before Charles is called away. It’s soft conversation, irritating talk about the weather because of the people around you, so you’re glad to change the topic when he leaves.

“What are your plans for tomorrow evening?” Joris comments. There’s a big party, you’ve heard from the groups of rich and famous people, happening on this gigantic yacht tomorrow, but you haven’t scored an invite so you might just go clubbing. But that sounds embarrassing, so you shrug. “Not sure yet.”

“You have to come to this big party an old friend of Charles is hosting. It’s on this yacht and everyone will be there.”

You and Stella fistbump under the table.

“And what are you guys doing tonight? Charles said you guys were having pasta last night.”

Joris looks a little surprised for a moment then quirks his lips in thought. “Probably not anything. He likes to be alone the night before the race. But last year we did this little dinner at his brother’s house which ended up being really nice.”

You nod.

Qualifying is postponed until five o’clock, and you’re taken to the paddock club by someone to be able to stand at the top and peer down at the track.

The rain has quietened down, yet there’s a lot of tyre warfare, teams mistakenly putting on hards before spinning out so there’s a red flag or two before Q3.

You watch the big screens to see Max score pole, and with a wince Charles is only third.

It’s highly upsetting because of how crucial qualifying is for Monaco. So everyone supporting Ferrari (Carlos is sixth) lets out a heavy sigh before going back to the hospitality.

🍷🍝📷💋

It’s 8 now, the sky dimming, and Stella has plans to see an old school friend so you hang around the hospitality, dreading taking the stupid bike back to the hotel.

There’s an energy in the air tonight, the kind you only get in a different place at night. It’s that kind of powerful feeling. You’re talking to one of the chefs as they all finish their service for the night when Charles comes to pick up food, and you’re surprised to see him when he comes to stand next to you.

“Hi,” you say softly, smiling when the chef you’re talking to launches himself at Charles for a hug, speaking rapid French.

“Where’s Stella?” He asks, and he’s checking how his food looks through a peek at the polystyrene container when you reply. “She has plans with another friend tonight.”

“So what’re you doing?” He looks up at you.

“Avoiding taking the bike back to the hotel, then I’ll probably have dinner there.”

“If you ride that stupid big bicycle 5km back to the hotel now at night and in the rain alone I’m going to kill you.” His expression is one of concern.

You laugh as he laughs too, his cheeks warming.

“I’ll get someone to come pick it up, I know they work at the company. Please let me take you somewhere for some food?”

“Don’t you want to wind down before the race?” You ask, uncertain.

He shakes his head. “You won’t be a bother.” He says quietly, and you blush, looking down at the floor.

So you two leave, and he’s got a car waiting for him, and you sprint from the hospitality because the rain’s started to pour again.

🍷🍝📷💋

You have to stop at his apartment so he can drop off the food that he now probably won’t eat and so he can change out of his garishly red clothing to be a little more discreet.

You two stand alone in the lift, and you look at him in the mirror for a moment before your eyes meet and he looks away.

His apartment is immediately cosy in the way a man just has stuff everywhere. He has a coat of his mom’s you can borrow after he noticed you shiver when you got out of the car, and when he hands it to you the look on his face is so tender you feel a little anxious.

Going back down, you stand a little closer and get back in the car. He smells comforting now, like that cologne you once caught a whiff of one hot Italian summer day.

Scrolling through your feed, your phone lights up the car and he gets a call from his mom, talking softly in French to her.

You lock your phone. The driver tells you to connect to the aux via Bluetooth and you freeze up with anxiety. But when you start with a Fleetwood Mac song Charles is mouthing the words silently as he texts someone so you relax.

Because of traffic, it takes you forty minutes to get to this restaurant tucked away on a quiet street. Charles opens your door for you.

Entering, the maître d’ is an elderly woman and she hugs Charles so tight. You stand there behind him and she comes to hug you too. She seats you two far away from the door after he asks.

“I think you should get pasta. It’s unreal here.” He says, after you’ve both ordered water.

You smile. “What are you eating?”

“Probably just a chicken salad. Have to stay in order for tomorrow,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “I’m not eating pasta if you have to eat a salad. That’s sad.”

You then bicker for ten minutes until the woman - Gilda - comes back. You make him order first - a chicken Parmesan salad - and then order the same and he shoots you a look (he thought he convinced you to order the pasta).

🍷🍝📷💋

After supper you leave in the drizzle, and he takes your arm and loops it through his. His arm is so warm, and you end up leaning your head against the beginning of his shoulder as you stand against the wall, waiting for the driver again.

He turns his head to say something to you, then stares at you for a second. He then leans down to whisper something in your ear and you giggle and then he’s moved to face you properly.

You’re anxiously biting your lip because he’s looking at you like you hang the stars in the sky and you feel terribly awkward and then he leans down and kisses you and he tastes like Parmesan so you laugh in the kiss.

You feel his body shake with laughter beneath your touch and his body is warm even in the drizzle. And when you kiss his lips make your whole body fire up. And his hand is gripping your waist through his mother’s coat and his other hand is running through your slowly dampening hair and he groans and you’re electric.

You pull away when the driver drives up, flushed and awfully happy. His cheeks are pink and his eyes soft.

“Get in the car,” he murmurs softly, and when he opens the door he slides on to the backseat behind you and wraps a hand around your shoulder and everything feels perfect.

back from hibernation. hope you enjoyed!!!!

here’s my masterlist

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 one shot #f1 fic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic

571 notes · View notes

upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

Text

Steve Harrington x fem!reader[4.7K] a little oneshot looking into the relationship that follows from ISITTGG. just smut, my dudes 18+

Steve Harrington was throwing gummy bears at your bedroom window.

It was barely dusk, the sun just setting, that pretty kind of twilight light settling over the town in a blue-pink glow. The grass below your window was still too long, flowers still in bloom despite the way summer was leaving and September had begun. It smelled like honeysuckle and lavender, the air outside was clean like chlorine, like freshly cut grass and the crisp like the beginning of fall. It wasn't as warm as it had been, but when you braced your hand on the sill and looked down to the space between your house and the Harrington’s, your boyfriend was standing there in just a short sleeved t-shirt.

His jeans had a rip in the knee and his hair was wild, no doubt from driving around town with the car windows rolled right down, Eddie and Jonathan fighting over riding shotgun and the radio station. His cheeks were flushed, like he’d been going too fast, like he’d seen Chief Hopper’s flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror, laughed and gave him a chase.

Or maybe, just maybe, he’d been too eager to get back to you.

He grinned at the sight of you, head tilted back, the crawling ivy that trailed over the bricks of his house brushing his hair. He had more freckles than ever from the summer passed, a dust of them over his nose, the leftover line from a scratch on his right brow from when Eddie dared him to land an ollie after a keg party.

Steve couldn’t skateboard.

“There she is,” the boy called out. He leaned against the wall, ivy and honeysuckle staining his white t-shirt. “Did you get prettier?”

You snorted, an unattractive noise that only made Steve grin wider. You leaned out the window a little further, pyjama shirt getting pulled by the wind. “You saw me four hours ago, Harrington.”

Steve squinted up at you, a half smile, a half shrug, tongue pushed to the inside of his cheek. He looked like trouble, some kind of James Dean daydream. “Point still stands, princess. You gonna let me in?”

You rolled your eyes like it was all too much effort, even though your heart was bursting against your ribcage and the thought of Steve sneaking in through the garden gate to see you, standing in wait at your front door so he could slip up the stairs behind you. He was leaning against the bricks when you met him round the front, cheeks hot when he leaned in to press a chaste kiss to one, ‘cause your parents were in the kitchen making pasta and drinking red wine, greeting the boy warmly and throwing half serious threats up the staircase about keeping your bedroom door open.

You ignored them, closing it behind Steve as he wandered into your room, throwing himself onto your bed like he always did. The window was still open, curtains catching in the breeze, the soft static of your record player singing something he didn’t recognise. You watched the boy stretch out across your sheets, sneakers toed off over the edge and hitting the floor with a thud as he grinned at you. Steve had been yours for a month now, best friends for a decade longer but the sight of him against your pillows still made your inside somersault. It was a giddy feeling, when he coaxed you closer, sitting up so you could stand between his legs, denim jeans scratching at the outside of your bare thighs and he hummed when you wound your arms around his shoulders, fingertips playing with the longer strands of hair at the nape of his neck. His hands found the backs of your legs, the soft skin just under the curve of your ass and he nosed at your sternum, grinning when he realised you weren’t wearing a bra.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout you all night,” he murmured softly, lips grazing the cotton of your sleep shirt - his shirt. “Too soft, right?”

You couldn’t help but smile, the kind that made your feature scrunch up, cheeks warm and aching with that new kind of happiness that you hoped would never get old. “The softest,” you declared. “You were supposed to be having fun with the guys.”

Steve craned his neck back, face tilted up to you and the last of the sunlight that came through the corner of the window. It turned one eye lighter than the other, honey and whisky, his lashes casting shadows over one sunset coloured cheek. “I did, until Eddie tried to start a fight with Carver. Again.” His fingers pinched softly at the fat of your ass, making you squeak. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a kiss, huh?”

You pulled at his hair in retaliation, smirking when he only grunted in response. You ducked down a little to meet him, nose bumping his, loving the way his eyes found your lips, focused on your mouth. “He can ask nicely, for a start.”

You shrieked when you were hauled against the boy, laughter caught in your throat as Steve threw himself and you back onto the mattress, both of you landing clumsily amongst the pillows, on top of each other. He had you pinned before you could get your bearings, legs on either side of your hips as he grinned down at you victorious. He leaned in, crowding you, the smell of his cologne, smoke that you hoped was Eddie’s and not his, all around you. He was part of you now. Steve clung to your bed, he stayed in your sheets, left a part of himself behind on your pillows.

“Please, princess,” he whispered against your lips.

It was easy to give in, easier than trying to pretend you wouldn’t have kissed him without politeness. It was a sticky, soft thing. The sweetest kind of kiss, the kind that came from being so happy that you were finally able to put your lips to his. He tasted like vanilla, like cherry coke and Steve. It was the easiest thing in the world to let him tug you into him , his smile pressed against your own mouth, as he hummed, falling onto the mattress again and pulling you onto his lap.

You petted at his hair, pushing the mess of it away from his forehead so you could sit some kisses there too, grinning when he squeezed at your waist, the soft of your hips. “You hungry?” You asked quietly, enjoying the warmth of him underneath you, like he’d brought the sun home with him. “Have you had food?”

Steve shook his head, hair brushing your cheek as he tried to tuck his face into the crook of your neck, nosing at the collar of your shirt so he could kiss at your throat. “Had some cereal, at like, ten,” he mumbled.

“Steven,” you admonished, “s’almost nine at night.”

“Mmm, call me that again, s’hot,” Steve teased.

You shoved at the boy’s shoulder, rolling your eyes and hiding your smile even though Steve was grinning. You eased off him, lying next to him on the bed instead. Your gaze met his, so close you could count those new freckles. “I could make you somethin’. Grilled cheese? You gotta eat, babe.”

It was lighthearted the way Steve pulled one of your legs over his hip, palm climbing up your bare thigh, so big his fingers were curling round to the inside, close to grazing your cunt. He kissed a line over your jaw, nuzzling into the crook of your neck until you squirmed. His voice was salacious, only half joking when he said:

“Oh my god,” he groaned dramatically. “That sounds better than head right now.”

It wasn’t out of the blue, that kind of talk, not really. Your sex life with Steve was still new, experimental in the best way. It had been almost five weeks of learning about each other in a way that you’d never gotten to before, working out how the other liked to be kissed, touched, teased. There’d been hurried make outs in the back of his car, on your living room sofa before your parents came home, quick touches and messy grinding on his bed before you had to return to your own.

And when the time allowed it, when Steve got you to himself for hours on end, he kissed you until your jaw ached, until his lips were as pink as yours, working you up with his fingers until he could slide his cock inside of you and press you into the mattress. It was all new, shiny and glittery, warm bodies in the beds you used to make pillow forts out of, his cologne on your sheets, your perfume on his sweaters you stole. You shared bottles of sunscreen, swam in the backyard pools when the day turned to night and it felt like you were floating between stars, leftover barbeque smoke in the air as your legs touched Steve’s under the water.

It was a summer of sex and chlorine on skin, taking late night drives to the seven eleven in the next town over, icee’s for dinner, throwing gummy worms into the boy’s open mouth until he pulled you into his back seat and you could taste the sugar on his tongue. Steve was yours now, and god, your boy was summer incarnate.

But he hadn’t done that. Not yet.

You squirmed, feeling that too hot flush creeping up over your chest and neck. You rolled to the side, lying on your back so you could squint at the ceiling and try to work out how to make a joke out of it. You laughed, a little weakly, half shrugging and refusing to meet his gaze when the boy leaned up on his elbow to look down at you.

“I, uh, I wouldn’t know.”

Steve stared at you, one corner of his lips quirking up like he thought you were telling him a joke. When you didn’t laugh, he wrinkled his brow. “What?”

You didn’t feel embarrassed per say, in fact, you were reminded of a time - years and years ago - when you and the boy were trapped in a cupboard, standing too close to each other in the dark as you whispered about the people you’d kissed, the things you’d been to shy to do.

“What?” you shrugged, unaffected by Steve's bewildered stare. “So no one’s gone down on me, it’s not a big deal.” You tried hard not to sound defensive but Steve must’ve picked up on it anyway.

“No, no,” Steve reassured, leaning in closer to dot a kiss to your cheek, another on your forehead for extra reassurance. “It’s not a big deal at all, babe. I just, I just thought - I assumed - you know. An ex would’ve offered, or something.”

You took the hem of the boy’s shirt in between your fingers for something to do, your gaze lowered when you shrugged again. “I mean, I don’t think a girl’s pleasure was at the forefront of most seventeen year old boys minds - or eighteen - and then, I don’t know, Chris--”

Steve made a face at the mention of the other boy.

“--he tried once, kind of, I think and, I guess it was okay? He didn’t really do it for long? But maybe I just took--”

“Did you come?”

You snorted, unable to help it and Steve grinned. Any chance to one up Chris Maxwell, no matter how long it had been since he’d had to watch you go on dates with him, Steve would take happily. “No, I didn’t get the chance to enjoy myself. It felt weird, and honestly, he was too busy trying to get a condom out at the same time.”

“What an asshole,” Steve groaned and he leaned down to press a kiss to your cheek, your jaw.

“You’ve always thought he was an asshole, Steven.”

“Point still stands,” Steve scoffed and he pulled back, staring down at you with a sudden intensity. He worked his way between your thighs. “You trust me, right?”

You nodded. Of course you trusted Steve. You’d know him longer than you hadn’t. He’d already seen you naked, shit, he’d been inside of you. But there was something so incredibly new about the way he was lying between your legs, your knees by his shoulders as he pressed what was supposed to be a calming kiss to the inside of one. Instead, your heart jumped. It rattled inside of your ribcage, threatening to break the bones there.

“Can I try?”

You were speechless, blinking at the boy as you tried to imagine what it would feel like to have his mouth on a new part of you. His tongue, his lips, kissing over your cunt. You were suddenly burning.

“You don’t have to say yes, if you don’t want to, babe,” Steve murmured, sensing your hesitation. “If you don’t like it, we can stop.” Another kiss, this time a little higher in the inside of your thigh. “But I promise I’ll try to make you feel real good.”

“I know,” you whispered, hands fisting your sheets in anticipation. “I just— you wanna do this, right? Like this isn’t just ‘cause no one’s ever done it to me properly before?” You hated how unsure you sounded and you felt yourself go hot when Steve raised his brows at you.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Steve laughed, not meanly, not at you. He moved closer, kissing a line up the inside of your leg until his shoulders were pressed underneath your thighs and god— his face was so close to the soft cotton of your pyjama shorts. “Babe. Baby, you’ve no idea how much I wanna do this. Just, relax for me, yeah?”

You looked down at Steve as he shuffled between your spread legs, curling his arms around the tops of your thighs so he could pull them apart a little further, making more room for himself. He looked up, his hair falling over his forehead, into his brown eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded, whispering a small, shy, excited ‘yeah,’ before Steve grinned up at you. You let yourself fall back onto the mattress. Eyes on the ceiling, body electric.

You expected your sleep shorts to be rolled down your hips, over your legs and thrown to the floor. But instead, Steve leaned in to kiss over them, the thin cotton not doing much to dull the feel of his mouth over your cunt. You jumped, gasping, head lifting back up and off of the bed to see Steve smile, his pink, full lips pushed into a pout as he kissed over your covered folds. He hummed, nose pushed to you in a way that made the fabric cling to you, damp seeping through already.

“Good?” Steve asked quietly, hiding his smile at your soft noises of agreement. “You like that?”

It was maddening, the soft lilt of his voice, teasing, gentle, earnest all at once. You wanted to cry out when he let his tongue drag over you, sleep shorts getting more and more wet as they stuck to the lines of you, your cunt almost visible through the damp fabric. Steve pushed his thumbs into the crease of your thighs, soothed you back down a little as he kissed your knee. “Your parents are downstairs, babe, you gotta keep quiet, yeah?”

His words made you spin, too dizzy to comprehend that you did actually need to shut the fuck up. But it hadn’t felt like this when Chris had made an attempt, a thirty second appearance between your thighs in the back of his car before he got too impatient and demanded you ride him. So you whined a little desperately and gasped at Steve’s touch, wondering when your boyfriend was going to put you out of your misery and take your shorts off.

But Steve ducked back down to kiss over you again, proper, open mouthed kissed against the folds of your pussy, his tongue sneaking out every now and then to bump against your covered clit and you were wriggling in his hands, head thrown back, vision hazy because you forgot to blink, lips parted in a quiet moan. You felt fingers at the band of your shorts then, warm and sure and you lifted your bum up in anticipation. But instead of being pulled down your legs, Steve tugged up.

Cheeks hot with a strange type of embarrassment, you gasped out, realising that the thin cotton of your tiny shorts were now tucked between your folds, a firm pressure on your clit that had you reeling. You couldn’t fathom what you must’ve looked like, but when you gazed back down at Steve, glassy eyed and panting, Steve was staring at your pussy like a man starved.

His own eyes were heavy lidded, dark and heated, his lips parting at the sight of you. Steve pulled up again, just slightly, groaning low when the fabric slipped further between your folds. He can see the outline of everything, the soaked patch that’s clinging to your entrance, the bump of your clit under pink cotton. He reaches out to trace it with a fingertip, swearing when you jerk forward, wanting more. He pulls you into him, hands grabbing at your thighs so he can push his face back between them and he licks a flat, slow stripe over your cunt.

You can’t help but arch up, biting down on the meat of one of your hands while the other finds Steve’s hair, fingers twining through the strands and pulling, hard. The boy moans at that, something you already knew he liked too much but it sends his own hips rocking into the bed, chasing any friction he can get, letting you know he’s enjoying this as much as you are. And once your underwear is soaked through, you’re fuzzy, feeling drunk and ready to beg for him to take them off but Steve is one step ahead of you, tapping your ass so you’ll plant your feet on the mattress and lift your hips for him.

You do it immediately, muffling a whine as he has to peel your wet underwear from between your folds, dragging them down your legs before settling back between them, kissing over the soft of your stomach as he pushes the hem of your too big shirt up your ribs. “Let me see you, princess, lemme see those pretty tits.”

The breeze from the evening came through the still open window but you were more than sure the goosebumps on your skin came from Steve’s words, his rough, wrecked sounding voice. You obeyed, pulling the fabric of your shirt up until it rested under your chin. “Steve, please, I really need—”

Another kiss, just below your belly button, another, climbing up your ribcage and the boy hushed you. “S’alright, I know, I know.” He swiped two fingers through you, feeling how warm and slick you were for him. “Shit, baby, wanna really feel me, yeah?”

You nodded, a furious movement that made Steve grin. You settled back on your elbows this time, legs open for the boy, eager to watch. “Please, yeah. Fuck, it’s— Steve, please.”

Steve didn’t hesitate, pressing himself down onto the mattress as he spread you with two thumbs, groaning at the way you glistened in the last of the lowlight, your bedroom turning seven shades of blue as evening rolled in. He could hear sprinklers turn on outside, the faint hum of your parents television from downstairs, the way your breathing picked up when he blew over your clit, pink and swollen for him and his touch.

“So pretty, baby,” he praised, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “Don’t tell you that enough, huh?”

You scrunched your face at the praise, cheeks burning, your bare chest rising and falling faster and faster and faster. “You tell me that all the time.”

Steve laughed softly, ducking his head down to kiss you, a chaste peck in the dirtiest of ways, lips sliding over your cunt, still spread for him. You gasped, head falling back for a second, clenching down on nothing and you knew Steve would see, you knew Steve was watching. You heard him exhale roughly.

“Talkin’ about her, princess.” Steve hummed, licked over his lips to chase your taste and dipped down again to drag his tongue oh so fucking slowly from your entrance to your clit. “Yeah? Talkin’ about how pretty this pussy is.”

The compliment made you pull Steve’s hair harder, hips wiggling as you groaned, eyes falling shut when the boy huffed out a soft laugh and pulled you closer, nose bumping against your clit as he pressed his tongue into you, slick, wet noises filling the room and making your breath hitch. Up and down, up and down, up and down, Steve licked you like a popsicle, humming when your hips twitched, pushing his lips around your clit and sucking gently, teasing it with the tip of his tongue before he went back to kissing all you all over.

It was messy, wet, Steve’s lips and chin shining with you, his eyes fluttering shut every time he dragged his tongue through your folds, his hips rocking down into the mattress as he tried to ease the pressure in his jeans. He was harder than he’d ever been.

“Steve,” you whispered, your voice broken and cracking at the pleasure. “Steve, please, I’m so close.”

The boy murmured softly against your skin, a thing you were sure was supposed to soothe you but you just arched against his mouth instead. He pulled back, just slightly, smiling when you cried out, hushing you with wide eyes. “Princess, hey, hey, baby,” he kissed the crease of your thigh, licked the wet there that made your skin shine, growling at the taste. “You gotta stay quiet, yeah? Keep quiet baby and I’ll make you come, I promise.”

You nodded, doe eyed as you stared down your body at him, barely keeping yourself up on your elbows, legs quivering as Steve pushed them further apart. “Lie back for me, yeah? That’s it, good girl. M’gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, princess, tell me what you need.”

Steve sounded reverent, kissing over your stomach and the small thatch of curls before licking into your folds again, pressing his lips to your clit. “Fingers,” you gasped out, clenching your comforter in each hand. Your knuckles were white. “Please, fingers please.”

Steve didn’t even respond with words, he just sucked his middle and pointer into his mouth and pushed them into you, groaning at how easy they slid in. The feeling of being so suddenly full made your head fall back, huffs of air escaping from your lips and making the ceiling fuzzy, it was glittering. The stars didn’t seem to stay outside anymore.

“Pull your legs up, baby, c’mon, open up for me,” Steve rasped, pushing your legs up with his shoulders until you got the hint and pressed your knees to your chest, letting them fall open even further until you were sure you were going to die from the way you were so exposed for him.

But Steve whined, a needy desperate noise and you felt the mattress dip and lift as he jumped himself into the bed, chasing his own release as he gave you yours. “Oh, good girl, baby, that’s so good. That’s it, yeah? Can get my fingers nice ‘n’ deep, huh?” He proved his point by rubbing the tips of his digits in small circles, pressing into the spot you could never reach.

It made your legs shake, toes curling and you were able to gasp out, “mouth, use your mouth, please,” just as you felt yourself getting pulled into the mattress, a hook in your tummy that was getting warmer and heavier, a buzzing in your ears like white static and Steve’s tongue was almost lazy as it dragged over you clit, soft and slow and languid. You felt every bit of it, cunt fluttering around the base of his fingers, sucking him in until Steve swore into you, lips parting around your pussy in a messy, wet kiss and he sucked hard when your back arched, legs falling, feet hitting the mattress, ass lifting up and into his face. You pushed yourself against his mouth, uninhibited, eyes squeezed shut and your hands fumbling for a pillow, an old stuffed teddy, anything to bite into to stifle your cries.

“Shit, princess, so fuckin’ hot, Christ, that’s it,” Steve groaned, pupils blow wide as he stared up at you. “Touch those tits for me, baby, play w’them, yeah.”

The boy’s hands grabbed at your thighs as you obeyed, fingertips biting into the soft skin, pulling you into him, groaning almost too loud when you moved against his tongue, hips rolling as you came. You felt it everywhere, a slow roll into an orgasm that shattered, sending you reeling, unwound, undone. There was glitter behind your eyelids, stars, a new planet.

You bit down into the corner of your cushion, soft, muffled noises caught between your teeth and you felt something wet slip from one eye, a tear that rolled over your cheek and onto the baby blue pillow case. You twitched, whining as you tried to pull away, overstimulated, easing yourself back onto the bed and trying to catch your breath.

Steve ran his wide hands over your thighs, up and down, up and down, one pressing to the soft of your tummy as he soothed you. “Shh, princess, I know.” He kissed over your clit, cooing when you jerked underneath him. “Sorry, sorry, s’okay, just lemme—” he cut himself off to lick over you, soft, slow drags of his tongue that avoided that overly sensitive bump at the top of your cunt.

You sighed prettily, soft moans as your eyes closed again, sucking in deep breaths as Steve cleaned you up, licking away everything you gave him, kissing sweetly over your folds before easing your legs from his shoulders. You lay spent, eyes closed and cheeks warm as the boy crawled his way back over you, dotting kisses over your ribs, the curve of your breast, grinning as you whined when he grazed his teeth over a nipple. You clung to Steve as he burrowed into you, nosing at your neck and humming, letting you grab at his hair and drag his mouth to yours.

This kiss was as languid and hot as it was when he kissed you elsewhere, his tongue licking over yours, the taste of yourself making you whine. You could feel Steve smiling, lips still pressed to yours, his nose against your cheek. He leaned back, just slightly, one hand pushing your hair from your damp forehead, grinning wide at the sight of your glassy eyes.

“You okay?” He asked softly, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice.

You mumbled something Steve couldn't make out and clung a little tighter, pulling the boy down until he was pressed against your chest and you could hide your face in his neck.

“That good?” Steve tried to tease but he couldn’t help but sound sincere, you were still trembling, doing your best to burrow into him.

“Insane,” you said into the cotton of his shirt, lips pressed to his shoulder. “Stupid good, yeah. Fuck.” You were whimpering a little, voice soft and half asleep sounding and it made Steve beam. You wriggled against him, the breeze from the window seeming cooler now that Steve wasn’t working you up and your thigh brushed against a damp patch against his crotch. “Did you come?”

There was no judgement behind your answer, just quiet awe. You smiled when Steve scoffed, nodding as he leaned in to peck at your lips again. “Uh, ‘course I did. How could I not? You were grinding all over me like some kinda wet dream, princess shit—”

“Steve,” you whined, a little embarrassed as the high wore off, cheeks too hot when Steve laughed. You crawled over him, thighs straddling his lap. Your shirt - Steve’s shirt - fell back down, pooling your waist and covering you back up. Steve pouted, hands diving underneath anyway, fingers spanning over your thighs. You raised a brow. “You still hungry?”

Steve smirked, squeezing at your legs, revelling in the warmth he could still feel from between them. “Oh, she’s got jokes now, huh?”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington one shot

2K notes · View notes

woso-dreamzzz · 9 months

Text

Video

Meadema x Baby!Reader

Summary: A series of videos

The lighting is a little dark but the camera illuminates Beth and Viv's faces. They're standing in the hallway of their house.

"So," Beth says," We're both back playing from our ACLs. It's been a long road to recovery. Had the chance to score a couple of goals today which is amazing. It's really nice to get my first goals coming back in over a year..." She shares a look with Viv. "And we'd discussed this before either of us did our ACLs."

Viv laughs quietly. She shakes her head as if she's laughing at herself. "It was really bad timing. The paperwork had just gone through and we got her...maybe a week before I did mine?"

"A week, yeah," Beth agrees," But we got through it. We've kept her a massive secret. I didn't think we'd be able to."

Viv disappears off camera for several moments as Beth continues to talk.

"Obviously, everyone important already knows but the public doesn't. So, everyone-"

Viv steps back into frame.

"Meet y/n. We've got a baby Meadema."

The camera adjusts to a lower angle, to the baby asleep in Viv's arms. She leans down to kiss the top of your head, where your wispy baby hair is sticking up.

"Viv loves her."

"I do." She looks down fondly at you and then back at the camera and then you again.

"No complaints," Beth says," Even during midnight feeds and changing nappies."

"No complaints," Viv echoes.

It's like the dam breaks after that segment in the last episode of their documentary. You appear nowhere else in it, completely scrubbed from existence but, as the public combs through each episode again and again and again, they notice little things.

While you're not present, your things are. There's baby bottles in several shots, a box for a crib piled up in the corner, a car seat in the back of the car.

Your toys can be seen scattered around and blurry pictures not perfectly in frame are suspected to be of you.

But, once the episode airs, it's like Beth and Viv are making up for lost time.

You're suddenly everywhere. There's a picture of you when you first came home. There's a picture of you with every member of the Arsenal squad. There's a picture of you taking a bottle and of you banging your toys together with Beth.

But, it's when the games stop for Christmas that the public is treated to even more of you.

You're dressed in a little Arsenal onesie, kicking out your feet happily as a sensory video plays on the big screen. It's mainly there for background noise as Viv reads you one of your picture books.

The camera moves for a second, going blurry before focussing.

"Just a regular day," Beth's voice says from behind the camera," Viv and y/n are reading."

You recognise your name and look up, garbling out a string of almost-words.

"Oh, yeah?" Beth says like she understands what you're saying," That's so interesting."

You grunt, cramming your fist into your mouth before flopping forward to push your head against Viv's collarbone.

"Baby's first Christmas," Beth continues to the camera.

"Second Christmas," Viv corrects.

"First Christmas that she understands what's going on." From behind the camera, no one can see Beth rolling her eyes. "Isn't that right, munchkin? It's a big event!"

You garble out more words before pushing away from Viv. You crawl the length of the sofa, almost toppling over one of the arms had Viv not snagged your onesie and dragged you back to her.

You giggle hysterically at the action and climb away again just to have Viv pull you back every time. You've long since abandoned your book in favour of playing with her.

Several more videos of you are posted in the runup to the new year.

"Viv! Viv!" Beth says, coming into frame suddenly," Look! Look!"

She places you on the floor, where you wobble a bit unsteadily. Previous videos have shown you crawling before and holding yourself up against tables but this is new.

Beth holds your hands as you stand up on your own two feet and take tentative steps towards the camera that Viv's holding. You stumble a little before Beth lets go of you and you walk all by yourself to Viv, bracing yourself against her knees when you arrive.

"She's walking!" Beth cheers," She's walking!"

Hidden by the camera, Viv sounds a little choked up as you beam up at her with a gummy smile.

"You're walking!" Beth says to you," Such a big girl, munchkin! Walking already!"

But your walking soon turns to running seen in one of Viv's last posts of the year.

You're on the beach in a big puffy coat and little welly boots. An Arsenal beanie much too big for you is on your head and Viv's got your hand.

Myle and Rona are both running around Beth's feet and they bark a few times before taking off towards you and Viv.

You giggle as they approach, Myle jumping up a little bit and putting her tiny little paws on your equally tiny little body.

"To mummy!" Viv says," To mummy!"

Myle and Rona both hurry off back to Beth and you follow almost as quickly. You stumble clumsily over your feet a few times but Viv's always there to catch you.

"To Mummy!" She says again.

You arrive at Beth. "Mummy!"

#woso x reader #meadema x reader #beth mead x reader #beth mead #vivianne miedema x reader #vivianne miedema #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

760 notes · View notes

mediumgayitalian · 5 months

Text

———

She brushes another kiss to his hidden face and settles against the car door, holding him. She thinks for a moment and decides on something old, a tune she heard on the radio once upon a time and never heard again; she’s warped it, now, no doubt about it, humming it from memory so long it’s changed to whatever she has made it. But Will recognises it from years of lullabies, picking up on the swooping baritones and mumbling the words into her shoulder.

“You know, that Han Solo shrine up in your room makes a lot more sense, now that I think about it.”

The melody dies in his throat.

“Mama.”

“I’m just saying.” She bites back a smirk, swatting away his smacking hands. “There was a point in time I thought it was admiration, you know, but you have a lot of posters of that open vest —”

“Mama!”

She acquiesces, this time, never having seen his poor face so scarlet, trying and failing to keep her laughter to herself. The tear tracks have long since dried and his breathing is steady, now, gangly limbs tucked into her ribs and hanging off the bend of her thigh. Flopped all over her like he used to to when he was young and she was still touring, when the world was too loud and too bright and too mean and she hid him from the sun. Her hands in his hair are to touch instead of soothe.

“Who’s the boy?”

“No.”

“C’mon, babydoll.” She pokes at his ribs, grinning widely when he rolls his eyes to hide his smile. “Tell me.”

“It’s nobody, Ma, gods.”

“Yeah, right. Not like you were comparing having a crush to killing someone in cold blood twenty minutes ago. Clearly it’s somebody.”

He, very pointedly, doesn’t answer.

Unfortunately, he forgets that he gets his stubborn from her.

“Hm. Can’t be anyone I haven’t heard of in a few weeks, or else it wouldn’t be bothering you. What names have you mentioned?”

He looks at her in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

Absolutely, she would. Her smile widens.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess it ain’t Chiron, ‘cause then I’d have questions —”

“Oh my gods! Stop!”

“— an’ I doubt it’s that security fellow, with the eyes, although if it is no judgement —”

“I’m throwing myself out of this car! Right now! I’m gonna lay on the road ‘til someone hits me!”

“— Lord, you don’t mention many names. You’re a recluse, baby. You gotta make more than two friends.”

She stills. Will, perhaps guessing where she is going, makes a noise of deep, personal agony.

“Oh my stars, is it Cecil?”

“Ew, Ma!”

He strains against her hold but she tightens, hooking her elbow around his shoulders and flexing her other hand, pretending to examine her nails.

“It is, isn’t it? I mean, he is a very handsome young man. And he has a good heart, too, despite the — how to put it — distaste for the law —”

“I just threw up in my mouth! Right now! Stop it!”

“I should probably stop letting him stay in your room when he stays over, huh, that one’s on me —”

He wrenches himself away from her, finally, clambering over the seats and gagging like the mere idea makes him nauseous.

“Ew! Ew! I do not have a thing for Cecil, oh my gods, I might as well marry my cousin! Augh! I’m gonna throw up for real! Why would you even say that, oh my —”

“Alright, alright!” she laughs, kicking his rapidly repeating shoulder. “Holy Jesus, you are dramatic. I should call up camp and tell him you’re out here retchin’ at the mere thought.”

“Good,” Will says darkly, voice muffled from how deeply his head is buried in his hands, “make sure to also tell him he is a weasel.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that I am going to deface his vintage Hot Wheels collection.”

“Y’all have a strange friendship.”

“He’s not my friend, I am stuck with him via circumstance and because he refuses to leave me alone.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, refraining from pointing out the friendship bracelet he is currently wearing with a CM on it and that has not left his wrist in four years.

“Alright, alright. Not Cecil.”

He scoffs in agreement, ignoring her rolled eyes.

She wracks her brain for other boys he’s brought up in their phone calls, aside from people in passing. Mostly he mentions patients, really, answering her endless inquiries — it will never stop astounding her that he baby can practically sew heads back on bodies; she tells people he’s in med school and preens at their wide, impressed eyes — but there are other people he mentions, in between that and the pranks he’s frequently pulling with his friends.

“There was that boy you were so excited to keep around. Nick?”

“His name is Nico,” he corrects, and then immediately goes scarlet. “I — I mean, I have a friend, named Nico, not that —”

Her grin gets sharp as nails.

“He is — unwell! He’s travelled a lot, he needs monitoring so I am — monitoring him, you know, out of concern for his safety —”

“Nico and Wi-ill, sitting in a tree —”

“Oh my gods are you five —”

“You are steaming! I can actually feel the heat pouring off of you right now! You love him, you want to kiss him, you —”

“I am never telling you anything again in my entire life!” he hollers. “Never! Next time I think I should tell you something I’m just gonna — swallow glass!”

She snickers. “Drama queen.”

He sticks out his tongue as she situates herself back in her own seat, turning the keys in the engine. His puts his dirty converse on the dash despite her grouching, reaching over to fight her for control of the radio, flapping his hand excitedly when she lets him win and something bright and overdone starts playing. His bandage stays where it is, tied loosely around his wrist.

“I’m glad you told me, you know.”

He smiles, small and genuine, leaning into the palm she cups around his cheek. The dimple in the centre of his right cheek is back, the scrunch of his freckled nose. She presses a lingering kiss smack dab in the centre of his forehead and he leans into it, trusting.

“I know.”

#okay THATS it #do i like this as much as the first part? no it’s less impactful. but it is fun so idc #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #will solace #naomi solace #will solace & naomi solace #solangelo #fluff #my writing #fic #longpost

326 notes · View notes

dreamerschroniclesofstories · 10 months

Text

clementina pt3.

A/N: hello again! once again i want to thank everyone for the likes on pt 1&pt 2 of this fanfic. To be honest, i didn't expect anyone to read this and actually leave a like. the support is much appreciated. the next part after this will be the end, making this series four parts.Also, the picture used for this part is the faceclaim for clementina. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR YOU TO REPOST THIS ON OTHER WEBSITES AND TRANSLATION OF THIS FIC.

italics: flashbacks.

pt1. pt2. pt4

Summery: The Shelby family are in for a shock when they find out they have a sister hiding in plain sight.

Word count: 664

Tommy gently wraps his dark blue coat around the young girls shivering body, Polly stands up and grabs her purse whilst Tommy hooks his arm under the girls legs then hooks his other arm behind her back. Tommy frowns slightly when he realises how light she felt. It was clear that the girl was extremely malnourished for her age. from the paperwork in her folder, Tommy knew she was nine years old but by the looks of her she looks barely six years old. Arthur was already in one of the cars outside ready to drive off as soon as Tommy get in with clementina. Tommy rushes out of the room he found the young girl in.

Polly rushes behind him then gets into the other car “ Arthur, drive like your life fucking depends on it” Polly demands, turning on the car engine.

Tommy sits beside Arthur with clementina in his arms. the drive would be twenty minutes but with Arthur driving, it would only take roughly ten minutes.

Clementina had been in hospital for the past week, she had been unconscious for majority of her stay. when she woke up, she saw the same woman she saw in the orphanage. She introduced herself as Polly and reassured clementina was safe and won't have to see the nuns again.

“ hello?” clementina calls out, look around at the hospital room she was currently placed in, she couldn't remember how she got here, her chest rises and falls rapidly as she realises she was alone in the cold, white room. Clementina was always scared to be alone even before she was in the orphanage, her father would leave her alone for hours in the warn down small flat that was her mothers before she passed.

Before clementina could call out again, she heard the door opening quietly then shutting less then three seconds later. The young girl looks towards the noise, immediately noticing a woman with curly brown hair walling over to her. She recognises her as the woman from the orphanage.

“hello darling, i was wondering when you would awake” Polly sits down on the chair beside Clementina's bed, putting her purse on the floor gently.

Clementina watches Polly, her eyes telling Polly that she was scared of her “ who are you“ Clementina whispers fearfully.

Polly smiles softly, placing her hand on top of Clementinas' small hand “ i'm Polly, your aunt” she introduces herself, using her other hand to move a strand of Clementinas hair from her face, Polly's eyes sparkle as she looks over the young girls face “ you have a big family waiting for you”

Clementina eyebrows twitch as her eyes widen “family? i have a family”she whispers, ever since Clementina was placed into the orphanage she prayed every morning and night for her to get a family.

Polly chuckles softly, nodding “ you have four brothers and a sister” she smiles happily “Finn your youngest brother is closest to your age, hes nineteen”

Clementina blinks slowly, listening as Polly spoke. she always wanted siblings but now she has five of them, she felt slightly overwhelmed there was a man” she whispers, remembering seeing a man pointing a gun at the nun that was punishing her.

“ that would be Tommy, your second oldest brother, hes here right now talking to the doctor that helped you” Polly clarified for the young girl, sensing that the information was confusing her.

Polly stayed in that hospital room for a couple of hours, keeping Clementina company as Tommy was making arrangements with the doctors to discharge her into his care.

outside of the hospital room, the sounds of the young girls giggles could be heard, the time Polly spent with her, the more she felt comfortable and relaxed with Polly. The young girl didn't hear as Tommy opens the door and lights his cigarette.

Tommy leans against the door frame, watching them. he blows some smoke from his mouth and smiles slightly “ hello clementina” he greets the young girl.

a/n: i don't really like this part, it feels rushed and not that interesting but i want to post daily for this series. i hope you enjoyed it. please leave a like, comment or re-blog it will be most appreciated xxx

#tommy shelby imagines #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders imagines #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders x sister!reader #shelby!sister #tommy shelby x sister!reader

252 notes · View notes

ofmermaidstories · 11 months

Text

You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.

‼️📍 content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. there’s also some light smut and implied underage sex.

Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowl—you clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire world—the entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.

Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.

The first time it happens she’s still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other her—shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.

You make a tiny noise—fear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled up—and then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, “Are you okay, Baby?”

The Other Rinchan’s mouth stretches open further, like it recognises her—like it’s trying to say something back and you—

You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, “What? What? What is it? What’s wrong?” her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.

She’s bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.

You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesn’t save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happens—a response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you can’t hear, their fear—your fear—condemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and can’t frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O—her face covered in blood.

Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.

The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes back—cannot come back, no matter how much you love her.

Others do, though.

It’s a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that it’s specific to people you either know or will come to know—people you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen it’s your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. You’d been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.

You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeks—it ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.

You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head could’ve been a fall, or some kind of rock—an accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchan—with Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.

“You’re a stupid piss-baby!” He’d shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat you—and this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. “Freak!” he’d hiss. “Piss-baby! Get lost!”

He’d run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (“Piss Baby wants me dead!”)—and you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.

It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where he’d knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.

(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.

Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)

You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki it’s Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. She’ll be in hospital—someone will be with her. It won’t be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. It’ll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesn’t suit you, but it’ll better than some of the lonely things you’ve seen, you live with.

(But it’s not better at all. Hiroe’s son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that you’re already dressing her altar, but her son is never there—and she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)

You’re cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.

Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet dead—floating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isn’t there.

You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.

“Don’t,” you say to this corpse of a boy you haven’t met, yet. “Don’t—don’t you dare do this to me.”

He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You don’t even know him. You don’t even know him.

He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.

By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless stray—keeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.

And then he walks into class that first day, and you are—you are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.

“Hey,” he says after class, too interested and too friendly. “You look a little frightened—you good?”

Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, “I’m fine,” which proves to be mistake.

His eyes—big and blue—brighten at the challenge, and he grins.

“Fujita Kouki,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, Kouki’s—Fujita’s—eyes are warm, not the milky colour you’ve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.

Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almost—almost—chases the ghosts away.

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

Best friend is not the right term; it’s not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesn’t capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when he’s late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because he’s bored. But—

He’s easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. He’s friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants to—he wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki you’re not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laugh—all the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, now—and you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. He’s the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. He’s the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of him—suspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have him—Kouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.

“My dad’s finally free,” he tells you one night. You’re sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chews—Kouki (living) before you, lingering close.

“Mmph?” You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.

Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. He’d been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescent—she laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted it—you wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.

But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichan’s pretty face—shocked. Kouki’s red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he’d said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I just—I don’t want that.”

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

“The old man’s finally got that time off he wanted,” Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forward—bracketing you, where you sit. “He wants to go fishing.”

“Oh,” you say, a little uselessly. Kouki’s hands are either side of you, distracting—the space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.

You still. He’s always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his face—normally so open, light—is afraid.

“You never tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasn’t true—you told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.

Kouki’s eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.

It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between you—your fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.

“You smell like those milkchews,” he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches them—

—and you don’t know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.

He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.

“You’re dumb,” he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. “And I’m gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything you’re thinking, forever. Until you’re sick of me.”

Your heart lurches. Forever.

“I could never be sick of you,” you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.

Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.

“I mean it,” he says, quiet. Promising. “You’re gonna have to chase me off.”

You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.

But there’s a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is there—mouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.

(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat he’s rented, for his fishing trip. The man’s never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowed—but his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the back of your neck, when you’re curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t worry.”

He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself he’s right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.

He’s gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was right—he was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasn’t, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.

You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but you—

You stand there and you stare at Kouki’s portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.

Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping away—taking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)

The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrots—anything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you don’t form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.

Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is it’s not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.

Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say something—only to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.

The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope that’s not there and you—you thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.

He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, “You worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyone—” he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.

(he doesn’t come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)

Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.

You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.

You’re not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then he’s there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting something—

And then there’s a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

He doesn’t return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.

All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been an—anomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that that’s what Kouki’s ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And you’d only grown more sure of it when it didn’t repeat—

Until now.

You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldn’t go through it again, you wouldn’t—

You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. Not again. Not ever again.

(But your heart’s already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the light—like winter sun.

When your hiccups calm, you look up—and he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.

When you open them, he’s gone.

“Please,” you whisper to your empty apartment. “Please don’t do this to me.”

But it’s only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)

Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.

It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous one—and how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.

A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe you’re safe; and then you’re not.

“If everyone can line up, then that’ll make everything go smoother,” your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruck—overseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.

Your boss calls your name—and when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.

“Can you run and grab my laptop case for me?” he asks, already half out the door. “You’re closer, and I have a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your desk—as you’re meant to—and dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is empty—your boss’s megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.

You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

You freeze. There’s an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Hero—dressed in black, with bright orange details.

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldn’t be able to see—the glass was tinted—but his face is suspicious and you clutch your boss’s case to you tighter, heart thumping.

Don’t give him a reason to single you out, you think desperately—you hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairs—only to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.

It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.

“The hell?” He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you evacuate with the others?”

You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of you—it doesn’t compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. He’s more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.

Something his eyes—ink red under his mask—don’t miss, narrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. “I had to grab something.”

“You ain’t meant to take anything,” he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nod—his jaw tightening in response.

You’d rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair that’d been playing over and over in front of you.

Pro Hero Dynamight—Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight—scowls at you, jerking behind him. “The extra with the megaphone is doin’ roll call.”

He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesn’t thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise you’ve noticed that—

You hold your boss’s laptop closer. “Okay,” you say, meaninglessly.

Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.

“Wait,” he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenades—you mutter a thank-you and don’t look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.

(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire it’s Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly at—

You. Standing at the back.

His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like you’re speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)

It’s just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

Perhaps it’s your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe it’s one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe it’s just plain old bad luck—but whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.

He’s—there, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary you’d only just missed. He’s—crouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. He��s—walking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the café window a glance.

He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.

It’s worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.

Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attention—or so you’d thought.

You’re walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. You’d seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shouting—his disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, you’d bought a supermarket bento for dinner—some nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.

You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speed—

Stopped by a black boot, it’s orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bag—drifting like a bride’s veil, between you.

The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. “Weak crap.”

In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark void—until he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.

“You afraid of me, or somethin’?” He asks, rough. His face is pinched—it makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of light—and then Japan’s dynamite, Japan’s explosive anger, would be gone forever.

And here you were—making him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.

“No,” you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He squints at you, disbelieving.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Then why do you keep runnin’ away like you’ve shit yourself?”

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

“I do not,” you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.

Dynamight grunts in dismissal. “Yeah you do. Every time I’m walkin’ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little place—you’re there, turning tail. If you ain’t on laxatives and you ain’t afraid, then what is it?”

“I’m prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,” you tell him, stoutly. “And you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?”

His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.

“‘M on patrol,” he tells you. “It’s my job on patrol to notice weirdoes—and you’ve been the weirdest.”

“Congratulations!” you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. It’s already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.

He’s so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeks—maybe months, if he was lucky—he’d be gone, just like that.

“Now what?” You ask him, ask yourself. “What happens now?”

Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.

“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep being weird?”

You almost laugh. You don’t, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew when—weird was probably the least you could be.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The Pro-Hero shrugs again. “Then I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.”

He’s not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and you—

You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeen—but has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.

“Okay,” you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever they’re gathered. “I surrender.”

Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicion—waiting, instead.

A new pattern starts.

He walks past the coffee shop when you’re there and squints at you—acknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.

You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees you—bright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your face—and grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.

“Your hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,” he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.

“I like your hat!” One girl says, brightly. She’s wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.

“Thanks,” you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.

“I gotta get grandma home,” he tells everyone, as the group groans. “S’gotta have that nanna nap.”

You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You don’t fight it—and when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.

“You hungry?” He asks you, one evening. You’d been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.

The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.

“Yeah,” you answer him, eventually. “I’m starving.”

He nods, resolutely not looking at you—though when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.

“Denimhead introduced me to a place near here,” he says, gruffly. “They’re decent, ain’t wankers. And they’re cheap. Private.”

He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.

“I’d like that,” you say instead, softer. “I’d like to go.”

He doesn’t risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are low—Dynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.

“They gotta menu,” he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. “Otherwise if ya trust me I can—I can suggest shit.”

His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was so—here. Alive. With every tiny movement—the draw back of his elbow, the flex of his hand—you feel it, too aware.

“I trust you,” you tell him.

He grins—sudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.

(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. There’s toasted baguette—slathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. There’s steak cut like it’s been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, who’s nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.

He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each other—

But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruit—and he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)

Days. Weeks. Months.

You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was useless—

He doesn’t poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.

“Tell ‘em to either deal with it or shut up,” he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He goes away on a mission across the country—after a villain the news was calling Hazard. He’d been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.

(When he comes back it’s an overcast day; finally dry. He’s waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.

“You good?” He asks.

“Better now that you’re back,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phone—watching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. There’d been nothing; no arrests, no collision.

But your Pro-Hero’s face softens, just slight, and you realise that he’d read something else in it when he says, low, “Yeah. I get it.”

Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.

He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.

“Yeah,” he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)

Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss it’s at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.

“You’re always tryna—dart away,” he says suddenly, still sitting.

You startle at the look on his face—serious, soft mouth trying not to pout.

“I just—I just want to help with the dishes,” you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands it’s carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.

“I can’t get a read on you,” he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. “Can’t—guess at whatever’s goin’ on in that squirrelly head of yours.”

You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.

“There’s nothing,” you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a man—real, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.

“Like hell there is,” he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. “Whatever you’ve got spinnin’ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ain’t—”

He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you can’t breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.

“—I ain’t gonna let you disappear,” he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. “Hah—”

You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarl—or smile?—against you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.

The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeper—you gasp again, and again, until you’re panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.

(You are unravelled, on the floor—your clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift away—you want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.

He lifts himself to meet you for a kiss—his mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.

His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting him—coffee, sex, you—as hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.

Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like you’re trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.

You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.

Days. Weeks. When you come it’s sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.

There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.

He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.

“Wasn’t too shit,” he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)

Days, weeks. Days.

Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the moments—let yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when he’s brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.

“The others wanna meet ya,” he says one night, grumpily. “Said something about a lunch—I told ‘em s’up to you.”

At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what you’d see, around them, the country’s frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worse—

But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realise—he wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.

Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.

“Okay,” you say. “I’d—I’d like that. Let’s do that.”

When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only him—ignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.

Days. Day. It’s a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruit—you wanted a tray of them, to take.

The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.

“RUN!” Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. It’s the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.

You’re almost torn away from the store—the girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieks—trapped behind the counter.

“Wait!” You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until there’s a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but there’s a ominous rattling above you and you scream, “Come on!” at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.

She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, “We have to go! Now!”

You’re almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone else’s desperation—but then she’s scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.

You’re separated in the push—there’s more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.

Outside there’s a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.

The explosion is small. It doesn’t feel like it—everyone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to move—

You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight it’s almost a relief—until you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.

Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-faced—looking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Just put your hands up,” one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. “And surrender. There’s no need for hostages.”

Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.

Day. Moments.

Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to see—

But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.

You blink away your tears, and he’s there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meet—and he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulder—

And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.

And you are gone.

#‼️📍 content warnings at the beginning of the post 📍‼️#tw: major character death #tw: death #tw: bludgeoning #tw: wasp stings #tw: drowning #tw: suicide #tw: grief/mourning #tw: smut #bakugou x reader #prompts and drabbles and other things #merms apology tour

228 notes · View notes

girls-alias · 9 months

Text

Cockblock P2 - Dean Winchester

Title: Cockblock - Dean Winchester

Part 1

Words: 933

Relations: Dean Winchester X Reader

TW: Foul language, sexual content. Smut!

Masterlist

Summary: Dean tampered with Y/N's car so she couldn't leave for a hookup. She's furious with him and fights, Bobby locks them in the bunker telling them to fight it out or make up. Bobby and Sam left the house not wanting to hear them fight. Y/N offers Dean a deal, if he can satisfy her she won't go to random men for sex, only Dean. They're going to be seeing a lot more of each other.

SMUT! LAST WARNING! Third-person POV:

Y/N woke up hearing a loud thud above her. She jumped slightly. She rubbed her eyes before stretching with a yawn. "Morning, beautiful," Dean's voice was deep and sleepy. She smirked, last night's Sex Capades flooding her mind. She turned in his arms to face him. He was smiling brightly. His hand which was on her waist all night came up to her cheek as he swooped in to connect their lips, kissing her sweetly and passionately. She smiled into the kiss pushing down her feelings of surprise. A part of her still thought the kissing was reserved for sex.

He pulled away, biting his lip as he admired her. He smirked as he couldn't look anywhere else. "You think they'll let us out soon?" He asked mischief in his tone. She smirked knowing exactly what he was thinking. His hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer softly as he connected their lips once again in a more passionate and needy way.

His hands quickly roamed her body as hers roamed his. She giggled into the kiss before she moved on top of him. He grinned as he sat high on his thighs. She pulled away to make out with his neck. He grunted wanting nothing more than to be locked in this room forever. His hands found her waist as he mentally begged to be inside her. She was turning him on more than he already was. He moved a hand to her cheek, pulling her lips up to his. They made out as he grabbed her hips and he raised her up. She smirked as she snaked a hand in between their naked bodies and lined herself up with his penis. He groaned into her mouth as she touched him. He lowered her down on his dick, causing a groan from each of them.

She gasped as he pushed his hips into her, his dick once again hitting her G-spot. She smirked against his lips recognising that last night wasn't a fluke and she would enjoy it every time they fucked. She began grinding her hips into him, whimpering into his mouth as she moved. His head pushed back into the pillow, breathing through gritted teeth as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and nails dug into her bare skin. She sat up, feeling him deeper inside her. She moaned as she continued. Dean barely heard the footsteps above them but knew they would most likely hear her when she started screaming his name. He pulled her down by the back of her neck to connect their lips and conceal her noises a little. She moaned into his mouth making his orgasm edge closer. He winced recognising he was building up faster than he wanted to. He stopped her hips. She pulled away to look at him pleading, and he smirked.

"Lie down," He instructed. His voice was dark, full of lust. She smirked as she moved off of him and they moved so she was lying down. He positioned himself between her legs. He breathed deeply as he entered her. She moaned loudly as he pushed deep inside her. He sat up a little before guiding her legs onto his shoulders, she looked at him surprised but obliged. He pushed into her, her legs high. His dick seemed to dig in deeper than she thought was possible. He used his left hand to hold his weight as his other hand found her mouth to suppress her moans. She held a hand on his wrist, pushing his hand deeper against her lips.

His pace quickened as he began fucking her relentlessly. Her screams, moans and whimpers were concealed by his hand. She began feeling her orgasm building deep and fast. "Fuck, Y/N," Dean moaned as he continued. She moaned in response weak from his thrusts and his moaning of her name. Y/N was too consumed by the feelings deep inside her to hear the footsteps making their way down to the bunker. Dean heard it. He should have paused, he should have stopped but no matter how much he begged his body to listen to his brain he couldn't. "Come back later!" He quickly urged whoever was approaching the basemen. There was a pause in the person's footsteps before they hurried back upstairs. Y/N blushed but didn't have time to overthink it as his thrusts continued to make her build-up.

Her walls tightened around his cock, and his groans laboured as he begged himself not to cum before he could make her cum. Her moans growing more erratic giving him hope he wouldn't have to last much longer. He bent down a little further kissing her cheek. "Cum for me, baby," He whispered in her ear. She screamed into his hand as she came hard on his dick. He moaned, the sensation almost making him cum instantly. He resisted as he continued thrusting into her to ride out her orgasm. He winced as he pulled out, cumming on her stomach and he breathed heavily. His moans subsided as his cum finished squirting up her chest. They stayed like that for a few seconds to gain their breath and stabilise themselves.

Dean sat back, guiding her shaking legs from his shoulders as sat low on the bed. Her breath caught in her throat as she smiled. She hummed happily as Dean chuckled. "I will never get tired of that," He explained causing her to laugh.

"Neither will I," She expressed sitting up. She smiled watching his lips as he smirked leaning in to kiss her.

He got up, dampening the teatowel and approached her. She reached for the tea towel to clean herself but he pulled it back looking at her confused. He sat back down as she lay back, he ran the tea towel over her body, cleaning up the mess he had made on her. She grinned widely, biting her bottom lip as she tried to conceal it. Dean chuckled as he admired her. She had never been taken care of after anything like that had happened in the past. He was gentle with her, his hands lingering slowly as he rubbed her clean. He stood to rinse the towel but swooped down to kiss her quickly. "Good as new," He commented as he kissed her. She grinned, her mind instantly wondering why she hadn't fucked Dean sooner.

He came back to her, kissing her again quickly as if his lips were made to be on hers. She giggled into the kiss before admiring his bright green eyes which seemed to shine even brighter for her.

"We should get dressed," She stated with a frown. He chuckled, kissing her once again knowing he would take full advantage of being alone with her.

"Be my girlfriend," He commented in more of a statement than a question. She was shocked, to say the least. Before she could say anything he continued. "You don't have to answer now but you'll say yeah eventually. I would be surprised if the next time you're beggi-." She cut him off by kissing him deeply. He smirked against her lips, his hand finding the back of her neck and hair. She smiled into the kiss before pulling away, the smile not leaving her lips.

"Don't make me regret it," She commented with a smirk. He chuckled as he grinned cheekily.

"You haven't said it," He teased waiting for her to finally say the words he longed for. She shook her head as she chuckled, her eyes rolling for effect.

"I'll be your girlfriend, Dean," She explained. His mouth curled into a wider grin wanting to remember this moment forever.

"Good," He said before kissing her again. "We'll get out of here. Get you on the pill and go on a date," He stated as if he had it all planned out. She chuckled as she nodded her head.

"Okay," She grinned. Dean was slightly in shock she accepted but didn't want her to see it. He's over the moon and just wants to dance around the whole room but refrains.

They put their clothes on, Dean approached the bunker door and Y/N tied her shoelaces. "Come let us out!" He shouted through the door hoping they would hear and oblige. After a little wait, he heard footsteps approaching. Y/n smirked as she approached Dean at the door. He put his arm over her shoulder as he smiled brightly. He kissed the top of her head as they waited. The door latch opened before the door swung open revealing Sam opening the door looking concerned. Dean gestured for Y/N to walk through first, he watched her ass as she walked.

"It smells like sex," Sam winced and looked disgusted. Dean chuckled as he passed him, patting his shoulder with a grin. Dean followed Y/N up the stairs before grabbing the spark plug he had taken from her car and getting started on fixing it up.

Dean stayed true to his word, taking her to get contraception before taking her to a cafe for a date. He always stayed close to her, his hands rarely moved off of her body. Neither of them had stopped smiling.

Masterlist

#fanfiction #fanfic #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester smut

248 notes · View notes

fortheloveofwonderland · 8 months

Text

Rusty | Chapter 8 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - You and Spencer come across the wild horse who was responsible for his accident and she takes a liking to you. Luke gets a call from his old partner and is sucked back into a case from his past.

A/N - the second half of his chapter will take us to the BAU and we start to piecing together the readers past and why she was on the run. And we are finally introduced the to fics namesake.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - swearing, very brief mention of horse castration, talk of male ejaculation, very brief mention of past Maeve and past addiction, slightly pining Luke, mentions of Spencer’s assault and details of medical records following the assault, vague spoilers for CME, gun violence, past abuse, slightly angry Luke.

WC - 6.3k

Chapter 8 - A Horse With No Name

“Wait a minute. Hang on. Stop! Stop!” Spencer practically yelled and you slammed on the brakes at his sudden change in demeanour.

The car screeched on the asphalt, coming to an abrupt stop. Spencer was already working his way out of his seatbelt and trying to open the door.

It had been an uncomfortable morning to say the least. You’d been alone in his bed when you’d woken up and not at all surprised by that fact.

You’d found him down at the stable, grooming Wilbur. He didn’t look at you but at the horse when he asked if you could drive him into nearby Pipe Creek for a new cell phone after his old one had been smashed to pieces.

You complied and the two of you took a drive.

He hadn’t once looked at you all morning, not even when you’d stopped for coffee after procuring a new phone. Conversation hadn’t been much more forthcoming either and after several attempts to engage him, you’d given up entirely.

Now on the drive back, his shouted words which caused you to stop the car were the most he’d said all day.

You hurriedly followed Spencer out of the car, recognising the stretch of road to be almost exactly where you’d found him on his back in the dirt a few days ago.

He was hobbling to the side of the road and as you followed hot on his heels, you could see what he'd made you stop for.

“That’s her! That’s the horse that frightened Willow! The one that caused me to fall and break my arm!” He faux whispered, pointing in the direction of the large steed as though you wouldn’t be able to see her.

She was almost as large as Willow with broad shoulders and thick legs. She was chestnut red, her coat practically glowing in the sunlight. Her mane and tail were a golden-blonde and they waved manically behind her as she galloped in circles.

“Okay…” you frowned at the horse. “So why did we stop?”

“I…I don’t know.” Spencer turned to you, mirroring your expression. “I’ve never seen a horse like her. I find her fascinating. But I don’t think she likes me very much.”

As if on cue the beast let out a loud and booming neighing sound before she started trotting closer. Your back went up, shoulders squared as if that would help against any potential onslaught.

She was looking right at you, large eyes staring into your soul. She slowed her gait as she drew closer and you held your breath to see what she might do.

What she did so surprised both you and Spencer. She nuzzled her snout into your chest, making little appreciative noises as she did so. You tentatively raised a hand and patted the side of her head.

“What is happening?” You hissed at Spencer.

“She’s bonding with you. She likes you.” Spencer shrugged.

“Why?” You continued to pet her.

“No idea, horses are curious creatures.” Spencer dared to move closer, inch by inch.

He brought his good hand up to touch her but before he could she reared her head back from you and made a noise of displeasure.

“See, I told you she doesn’t like me!” Spencer grumbled, shrinking back.

“Lucky you.” You pulled a face as the mare nuzzled into you once more.

“I think you’ve made a friend.”

“I don’t want a friend.” You hissed.

“I think it’s too late for that.” Spencer chuckled at the little happy sounds the horse was making. “Stay here.”

“What?” You frowned at him as he started heading back towards the car. “Where are you going?”

“I'm going to go and get some riding equipment, we can take her back to the ranch and check her over. I’m pretty sure she’s wild though, but we can have the vet come out and check if she’s chipped.” He opened the driver’s door.

“And if she isn’t?” You grumbled, scratching the side of her face.

“We’ll keep her. I’ve been in the market for another horse.”

“We? There is no we!” You spat but he was already getting into the car. “Should you be driving with your injuries? And when exactly was the last time you were behind a wheel?”

“It’s only a few miles, I’ll be fine. I can't stay with her, she doesn’t like me.” He shrugged.

“Yet you’re proposing you keep her? Are you…” the door slammed closed and you rolled your eyes. “Good. Great, he’s gone. And I’m talking to a horse.”

Behind you the engine roared to life and after a few false starts Spencer pulled away. The rust coloured horse tilted her head and looked at you inquisitively.

You hated to admit it but she was completely intoxicating.

***

Some half an hour later, Spencer arrived back with the riding equipment along with a mounting block and your riding boots.

Of course you were going to have to ride her home.

Spencer helped you to saddle her up ready but when it came time to mount her you froze up.

“This seems incredibly dangerous.” You tensed, gripping the reins in your hand whilst standing on the mounting block. “I’ve only ever ridden a horse once in my life. And clearly she’s got an unpredictable temperament. I really don’t want to do this.”

“I cannot mount another horse right now.” Spencer winced at the sheer thought. “After I had to ride down to town to collect you when you were drunk, I am certain I will not be riding for the foreseeable future.”

Of course you thought it was just because of his knee and he wasn’t readily going to tell you that it was also because of the healing cuts on his thigh. He’d been lucky with your wandering hands last night that you hadn’t come across his bandaged thigh.

“Oh throw that back in my face why don’t you.” You wrung the reins in your hands. “Spencer I’m fucking scared.”

“I have every faith in you.” He smiled at you.

“Really doesn’t help.” You rolled your eyes. “I hope she’s worth it, I hope having another horse is worth my death on your conscience.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly overdramatic?” Spencer scoffed.

“Says the man that was convinced he was going to be eaten alive by desert critters?”

“That was a very real possibility. But only one in every ten thousand horse riders die each year in a horse related accident. Around seven hundred and ten a year.” He told you a little smugly.

“Why do you know that?” You frowned.

“I know a lot of things.” He shrugged. “Will you get on the horse already? You’ll be fine.”

“Hmm, we’ll see.” You grumbled, taking a deep breath and edging your left foot in the stirrup.

You braced yourself, readying yourself to balance your weight on the ball of your foot and swing up over the horse. Lower yourself slowly like Spencer had mentioned after you’d thrown yourself on Franklin.

Another deep breath and you pulled yourself up, using the reins to hoist your weight. You forced yourself to slowly drop onto the saddle but even still the mare jostled a little.

“Whoa, whoa!” You wobbled, petting her neck. “It’s okay girl. Are you sure she’s a girl?”

“Trust me, there’s a huge difference, if you know what I mean.” Spencer clucked.

“I guess the saying ‘hung like a horse’ had to come from somewhere.” You mused, slotting your other foot in the stirrup.

“I’ll drive alongside you, we’ll take it slow.” Spencer ignored your bad joke.

You waited for him to climb back in the car and roll down the window before you gave a gentle tug on the reins and the mare started forward.

Apart from the side of the road being uneven and feeling a few times like you were slipping this way or that, the ride was surprisingly smooth.

The wild horse obeyed your commands, didn’t trot too fast and seemed appreciative of the occasional pat on her neck.

Spencer parked your car and walked alongside you towards the stable, giving the flaxen horse a wide berth as she panicked if he came too close.

“You’re a natural at this.” He smiled up at you. “She’s really taken a liking to you.”

“I’d be lying if I said the feeling wasn’t mutual.” You leaned forward and rubbed the back of her ear.

She responded with a happy little huff.

Spencer felt his heart swelling seeing you atop the great beast. There was something so fascinating about the way you got the unpredictable creature to behave.

It must be your aura, Spencer had felt it himself. You had a calming presence and clearly he wasn’t the only one receptive to it.

He opened the stable and motioned you into an empty paddock. He encouraged you to fill a trough of food for her while he called the veterinarian in Bandera.

You fed and groomed her, making the introductions to Spencer’s three steeds even though they couldn’t understand you. An hour later the vet came to check her out.

Doctor Watts gave her a once over and deemed her to be healthy and approximately three years old. She scanned the horse for a chip and found none, as Spencer assumed she was wild.

The vet didn’t stay for long and soon the two of you were alone again with the four horses.

You were hand feeding her some chunks of fruit and brushing your knuckles through her mane and Spencer watched you intently. You could feel his eyes on the back of your head.

“Would you stop staring.” You grumbled without looking at him.

“Sorry, I just think it’s sweet.” He smiled.

“Sweet?” You glanced at him over your shoulder.

“A few days ago you hated horses. Look at you now, you’ve got your very own steed.” He beamed.

“My…mine? She’s not mine, she’s yours?” Your hands stilled and you turned to fully face him.

“Oh no, I am not the one she’s bonded with.” He chuckled. “That horse right there, is yours Y/N.”

You felt a pang in your chest and you looked back at the chestnut red beauty with a watery smile. You stroked her face again and she nuzzled into your hand.

“I guess she is.” You whispered to no one in particular.

“What’s her name?” Spencer took one small step forward, not wanting to agitate your new companion.

You didn’t even hesitate when you answered.

“Rusty. Her name is Rusty.”

***

Spencer helped you get all four horses into the enclosed field so they could all begin in welcoming Rusty to the family. Willow was, unsurprisingly, not keen on fraternising with the other mare after their encounter in the desert the other day.

Franklin seemed to abide her but Wilbur was positively smitten. He wouldn’t leave Rusty’s side and the feeling seemed reciprocated.

“Uh, Spencer?” You cocked an eyebrow at him as you observed them, leaning against the fence. “I’m slightly concerned Wilbur is being too friendly.”

“Don’t worry, he and Frank were both castrated before I brought them. He can’t do her any harm.”

“Ew, sounds painful. Is that a normal thing to do?” You grimaced.

“It’s no different to neutering a dog or a cat. It helps to eliminate aggression and uncooperative behaviour in male horses. It’s perfectly normal.” He replied with a shrug. “Are you implying Wilbur isn’t good enough for Rusty?”

“I’m implying that one horse is plenty for me.”

“So she is your horse?” His lip twitched.

“Well you’ve made it clear you don’t want her. And I can’t just release her back into the wild.” You huffed.

“Does that mean you plan to stick around for a while?” He asked tentatively.

“While this place does have its perks,” you mused, pushing yourself away from the fence. “Something has to give. I can’t keep…doing whatever it is we’re doing and then having to walk on eggshells. You either want to just be friends or you want more than that.”

You hadn’t meant to say that out loud despite the fact you’d been thinking about it all day. Judging on Spencer’s expression he hadn’t expected you to say that either.

“I, uh,” he scratched his head, looking out across the field. “I like you, Y/N, I really do. And I do like the idea of being more than just your friend. But I don’t…I can’t…I am not ready for an intimate relationship and I don’t know if I ever will be.”

“Will you ever tell me what happened to you?” You sidled a little closer to him.

“Honestly? Probably not. But if it’s any consolation, I’ve never told anyone, baring my therapist.” He sighed.

“What about Luke?” You questioned, seeing the way Spencer tensed at the mention of his name.

“Nope, not even Luke. Which is partly why our relationship fell apart.”

“How am I supposed to stay here when I know barely anything about you?” You were chewing the inside of your cheek.

“You know more about me than I do about you.” He countered.

“Fine,” you shrugged. “What do you wanna know?”

“What were you running from?” He was quick to ask.

He watched your jaw tighten and you turned away from him to look back at Rusty who was still sniffing around Wilbur.

“That’s not important.”

“It is to me. I told you about my ex, you know about my dissociative disorder.”

“And you know about my step dad.”

“That doesn’t make us even.” He scoffed. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Your back straightened and you folded your arms around your body, hugging your sides.

“Why would you think that?” You kept your eyes trained on Rusty.

“Deflection. Answering a question with a question. You are in trouble.” He watched you for more signs.

“Seriously, what did you do for work?” You turned back to him suddenly, eyes narrowed in questioning. “You sound like…no. No, surely not.”

“What?” His eyebrows pinched together.

“You’re talking like a cop. But I can’t see it. You don’t seem like the type.” You scrutinised him.

“I can categorically tell you I wasn’t a cop.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Stop changing the subject. What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I don’t wanna talk about this.” You shook your head and started over toward Rusty. Spencer followed you.

“Because I’m right, you’re running because you’re in trouble.” He limped after you.

“Look, Spencer,” you spun back to him, eyes wild. “If you don’t have to talk about why you don’t want to fuck me, then I don’t have to talk about this.”

Your words caused him to stop in his tracks, your tone angrier than he’d heard you before. He didn’t speak so you continued.

“You and I both know last night you came in your pants. But you said you didn’t want to talk about it and I respected that. Show me the same courtesy.” You turned again, taking a few more steps towards your new companion.

Spencer ground his teeth together furiously, watching you walk away. He clenched and unclenched one hand at his side.

“It was the first time I’ve come in almost four years.” He spat out, unsure why he was revealing this piece of information.

When you looked back at him, his face was beet red as were his ears.

“Excuse me?” You didn’t move any closer to him.

“I told you I have intimacy issues.” He huffed. “Well that extends to…self stimulation.” He turned even redder. “So yeah, that’s the first time in nearly four years. Maybe three and a half. Closer to four.”

“Jesus.” You shook your head. “You really are fucked up, aren’t you?”

Spencer let out a dry chuckle.

“Very much so.” He nodded in agreement.

“I guess you’re welcome for last night.” You winked at him and his blush, which had started to creep away, appeared again.

“You gotta stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Flirting with me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I might just do something really stupid.”

You swallowed as the look in his eye grew serious. You took a few hesitant steps towards him.

“Stupid by who’s definition?” You got closer and Spencer was also moving nearer you.

“I'm not joking when I say I’m not ready for anything intimate, Y/N. I don’t want to lead you on.” He still stepped closer.

“And I don’t want to be let down.” You agreed.

“Trust me when I say I am the king of letting people down.” He sighed wistfully.

“So, uh,” you reached each other, just a foot between you. “Friends, then?”

“Friends.” He smiled a little sadly at you.

“Okay, friend. How about we do something fun?”

“Fun?” He frowned.

“Come on, even in the middle of butt fuck nowhere there must be something fun to do.”

“Bored of your new companion already?” Spencer chuckled.

“Bite your tongue!” You gasped. “I will never be bored of her. And I didn’t necessarily mean right now. How about tonight, we go out and get, like, absolutely wasted.”

“I, uh, I don’t drink.” He shrugged, voice meek.

“Ever?” You sounded incredulous.

“Not for a long time.” He scratched at the back of his neck.

“Well no wonder you’re so uptight.” You rolled your eyes. “A few drinks would probably loosen you up.”

Spencer’s vision faded in and out in quick succession. He rubbed his temple with his fingertips, swallowing around his dry tongue.

There had come a point, long after his addiction that he’d made the decision to quit drinking. After Maeve’s death he’d used alcohol as a way to cope with the overwhelming emotions.

But after a while the alcohol wasn’t enough and he’d found himself considering something stronger, something much less legal.

He almost relapsed. And if he had he knew he’d never have been able to stop. He was already drinking far more than he ever had and had grown a tolerance to it, he knew something had to give.

So before he could let himself fall further down a rabbit hole, he quit drinking and hadn’t touched a single drop since.

“It, uh, affects my medication.” He lied.

“Oh,” you softened. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He shook his head. “If you want to go drinking, then don’t let me stop you.”

“You think I’m going to have as much fun drinking on my own?” You cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Seemed to enjoy yourself the other night.” He shrugged. “If you really want I will come with you, but I am not drinking. I can be your designated driver.”

“Hmm,” you mused. “Certainly more fun than drinking alone but less fun than having a drinking partner.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“Fine, let's do it.” You agreed, turning back towards Rusty. “You know the guys are all super curious about you down at 11th Street.”

You started towards your mare who was still being sniffed around by Wilbur. Spencer fell into step with you despite his limp.

“Curious? Why?” He frowned.

“Because you’ve never been into their bar, never spoken to them. You’ve lived here two years and never tried to assimilate with the locals?” You reached Rusty and she turned her attention to you, wary eyes casting over Spencer.

“I moved out here so as not to have to assimilate with anyone.” He kept a keen eye on Rusty, not appreciating the way she looked at him and didn’t get too close to her.

“They think you’re rude.” You petted the large mare’s head.

“What are you like best friends with them now?” Spencer scoffed.

“I’m just saying, it really wouldn’t hurt for you to make a little effort with them. They’re nice people, who knows you might even make more friends.” Your tone was teasing when you spoke the last word.

“I have plenty of friends.”

“Back in DC?” You scoffed. “When was the last time you saw any of them?”

Spencer’s eyebrows pinched together as he led Wilbur a little further away from Rusty, his chest tightening. He wasn’t exactly ashamed of being a hermit, but when you said these things it made him feel incredibly lonely out of nowhere.

“It’s been…a while.” He spoke under his breath.

“Would it really kill you to just try and make a friend? I might not be able to hang around here forever and if I have to leave I’d like to know you’re not gonna be alone for the rest of your life. If you died out here, it would be weeks, maybe even months before anyone ever knew.” You run your fingers through Rusty’s mane, a wry smile on your lips.

Spencer pulled a face, shaking his head at your candour.

“Wow, thanks for that. Really driving your point home.” He grumbled.

“I'm just saying,” you chuckled. “If, for whatever reason, I did have to leave, I’d hate to think of you all alone out here.”

“I wouldn’t be alone. I have three horses and cattle. Four if, hypothetically, you left and didn’t take Rusty with you. I’ll be fine. Let’s get them back to the stable and feed them, I’m worried Rusty is considering eating me.” He scowled.

“See, just another reason I don’t want you to be out here alone. Believe me when I say she would eat you.” You teased, a bright smile on your face.

It didn’t last long though before you frowned and were clicking your jaw, fingers coming up to your face to massage the muscles.

“You okay?” Spencer stared at you.

“Hmm.” You nodded, fingers kneading the side of your jaw. “Old injury. It plays up sometimes.”

He didn’t question it but he continued to observe you while you put on a brave face, turned back to Rusty and effectively shut any further conversation down.

***

After hanging up the phone and printing the contents of the email, Luke Alvez compiled a case file and flicked through the pages. He leaned forward on the desk on his elbows, fingers laced together, chin rested on them while he stared at the printouts.

He hadn’t been concerned when Phil called, the two spoke at least once a week and met for dog walks with Roxy and Lou as often as they could. Probably more often in the two years since Spencer up and left, clearly Phil didn’t think he was coping. Maybe he wasn’t.

In truth, Luke still thought about his ex every day. Perhaps that was due to the fact his desk still remained empty in the bullpen, Emily never having replaced him. Possibly it was because he still held onto some of Spencer’s things he’d left in his apartment; a few books, a pair of mismatched socks, a tie, even his old CalTech sweater which Luke still wore around his home more often than he liked to admit.

Phil was probably right for checking in on him frequently, even after two years Luke was still grieving that relationship.

Spencer had been the only person Luke had ever dated that he’d seen a future with. He’d known early on that he wanted to spend his life with the dorky, awkward doctor. And maybe they would have, if it wasn’t for Cat Adams and Spencer’s stint in Milburn.

Luke had seen Spencer’s medical records from repeated trips to the infirmary, although Spencer wasn’t aware of this. He also hadn’t let anyone else on the team see them to protect Spencer’s already fragile psyche.

On three occasions he was reported to have palatal petechiae, bruising and lesions, and even burst blood vessels near the back of the roof of his mouth. The soreness he experienced meant he wasn’t eating much as solid food probably aggravated his mouth.

It was something Luke and the team had seen before and he knew the most likely cause of these injuries was from extremely rough oral sex. It was indicative of sexual assault, but not entirely probative.

Of course he never asked Spencer outright, knowing his boyfriend well enough to know that he would shut down if asked such a question. He’d tried getting him to open up, especially after almost a year passed and Spencer still panicked every time things grew heated between them.

And when Spencer had grown violent, Luke knew at that moment that the two of them would never come back from this. With Spencer’s hands twisting and pinning his arm behind his back, he knew they were over.

He’d told Spencer he couldn’t do this anymore, that he didn’t know who Spencer was anymore. He still loved him, he probably always would, but unless Spencer sought some real help, Luke had to walk away.

A few weeks later the team had been called into the roundtable room for what they thought was another case. Luke had frowned at Spencer’s empty desk, wondering where he was and why they weren’t waiting for him.

He’d known something was amiss when Penelope took a seat with them and didn’t stand at the front to present the case. Emily and Rossi stood, their features unreadable.

“What’s going on?” Tara was the one to ask, brows pinched.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Spence?” JJ voiced Luke’s thoughts.

Emily and Rossi exchanged a look, Emily puffed out a breath and Rossi offered her a small nod of his head to encourage her.

Luke felt his stomach coiling. His heart was thrumming violently in his chest. The last time Emily had called them all together like this without Spencer, it was to tell them of his arrest.

He braced himself against the table, waiting for the blow. Something had happened, something had happened to Spencer.

“A week ago Reid came to me,” Emily began, her voice fighting back the sadness. “After Benjamin Merva, he, uh, he no longer felt that he was an effective member of this team. He made the decision for himself to leave the BAU.”

“What? That’s crazy talk!” Garcia shook her head frantically. “We talked about this when they were holding us! We said the team needed both of us!”

“He’s been through a lot, Garcia.” Rossi spoke with a hint of melancholy. “More than anyone should ever have to go through. He was still dealing with his incarceration, and then this? It’s too much for one person.”

“But why isn’t he here? He didn’t say goodbye?” Penelope whined, tears filling her large eyes.

Luke couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. His vision was obscured, maybe by tears he wasn’t sure. The voices around him grew more and more distant, as though he and the team were getting further apart.

His brain was coated in a thick cloud, inhibiting his thoughts. Dizzy, he suddenly felt so dizzy. His hands held the edge of the table in a white knuckle grip.

“He’s probably halfway to Texas by now.” Emily brought her hand to her lips and started chewing on one of her nails.

“Texas?” Matt spat out the word as though it were alien to him. “What the hell is he going to Texas for?”

Again Emily and Rossi exchanged a glance. Truthfully they didn’t have all the answers, as was his way, Spencer hadn’t told them all the details.

“I’m not entirely sure. He said he needed to get away, sold his apartment and he was going to Texas. That’s all I know.” Emily continued her chewing.

“Newbie?” Garcia turned to Luke, a few tears trickling down from beneath her glasses. Luke didn’t move. “Alvez?” She clicked her fingers at him.

He still didn’t move.

“Luke, man, you okay?” Matt’s hand was on his shoulder, Luke’s vision petered in and out.

“You must have known about this?” Tara’s eyes were on him now too.

“I…I…we broke up.” He confessed. “A few weeks ago.”

A collective gasp sounded out in the room but it still sounded so distant to his ears. Matt’s grip on his shoulder tightened but Luke barely registered it.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t he say anything?” JJ whimpered.

Luke blinked several times to try and clear the fog hindering his vision. He tried to focus on just one thing, one single thing.

Emily.

As the fog started to clear the image of his Unit Chief gnawing on her nail came into view and she was looking right at him.

Everyone else in the room disappeared. For a moment or two it was just him and Emily.

He cleared his throat, sucked in a breath.

“He’s…he’s really gone?” His voice trembled.

“He’s really gone.” Emily nodded stiffly. “I'm so sorry Luke.”

Even two years after the fact Luke could still feel everything he’d felt that day, the crumbling weight of losing the only person he’d ever really loved. In reality, he probably lost Spencer the moment he was arrested, but this had felt so final.

Since Spencer’s departure, things hadn’t been the same and the team was still adjusting to a series of changes which happened in the wake of him leaving.

Less than a year later, Penelope made the decision to leave the BAU stating she no longer understood how any of this worked. Matt had been sequestered for special assignment, Emily had been promoted to Section Chief and Rossi now held the post as BAU Unit Chief.

Since the pandemic the team had operated differently. On any given day it was mostly only Luke in the office. Rossi was still struggling in the aftermath of Krystall’s death and he, Tara and JJ mostly consulted on cases alone as they were short on the ground.

That was until the discovery of the network of serial killers who had been operating online during the pandemic, now clawing out of the shadows to become fully operational once the world was no longer on lockdown.

Garcia was back in a temporary capacity and Emily was devoting more time to her old team. The six members were working tirelessly to bring this operation down. And then he’d received the phone call from Phil and had an extra weight added to his already overloaded plate.

He couldn’t catch a break.

He was lost in the file and didn’t hear her heels clicking on the floor as they approached and it was only when she perched on the edge of his desk that he noticed her arrival.

“Rumour has it you spoke to our elusive cowboy?” Penelope clutched her unicorn mug between her hands, steam rising from the top.

“Word travels fast around here.” He sighed, sitting back in his chair.

“I like to be kept apprised of all communication with our fallen comrade. I'm so worried about him. You know he spoke to Morgan too? Yet he won’t answer my calls. Not for weeks! You, I get, but Morgan? They haven’t seen each other since he was released from prison.” She spoke fast, words blurring together.

Over the years Luke had gotten fluent in Penelope Garcia.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, it wasn’t exactly a pleasant call.” Luke swallowed. “We argued, no surprise. But it was good to finally hear his voice again.”

“How did he sound?” She brought her mug to her lips and sipped the liquid, Luke could only assume it was some variety of flavoured tea judging by the vague scent of berries he detected.

“Tired.” He shrugged. “Frustrated. I don’t know.”

“You know him better than anyone.” She exhaled.

“Do I?” Luke scoffed.

“You dated for two years.” She shrugged.

“And three months of that he was in prison. And then for almost a year after he could barely look at me let alone talk to me.” He spat, harsher than he meant to, Penelope pouted and he quickly steeled himself. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Penelope took another sip of tea as her eyes glanced over the open file on his desk. There was a mugshot of a woman in the top left corner and what looked to be the kind of information she would unearth in a deep dive.

“You working on your own cases now? You haven’t got enough to do around here?” She nodded her head at the file.

Luke followed her gaze despite knowing what she was looking at. He ran his fingers over the sheet of paper in an absent mind.

“Uh, it's an old case from back when I worked with the Fugitive Task Force.” He sighed, seeing no reason to lie to Garcia.

“Do tell.” She made herself more comfortable on his desk.

“A few years back she was arrested for shooting a guy to death. Claimed self defence, which I might have brought if she hadn’t shot him twelve times. She killed him and then reloaded her gun so she could keep shooting him.” He grimaced at the thought. He’d seen the crime scene photos, the guy looked like swiss cheese.

“Jeez,” Garcia pulled a face similar to Luke’s. “How’d she end up on your radar?”

“She was a classic femme fatale. Pretty, young, played the innocent victim well. She worked the courtroom, I’ve seen the footage. She had the jury eating out of the palm of her hand. She got a reduced sentence, murder down to 2nd degree manslaughter. She was sentenced to seven years. Seven fucking years, can you believe it?” He baulked, incredulous.

“I can only assume if the FTF was called in, she did not even serve those seven years?” Penelope asked softly.

“Like I say, she was a femme fatale. Manipulative, overtly sexual. Men were puppets to her.” Luke raked his fingers through his hair. “Upon transfer to her facility after trial she worked her magic on the poor, naive guard. Fluttered her eyelashes, pouted her lips, that kinda thing. The poor guy dropped his defences and she managed to escape. That’s where Phil and I came in.

“We chased her for months, eventually I got the call from the BAU and my services were needed elsewhere. ‘Bout a year ago they caught up with her and she was finally held accountable for her actions. And then just now, I got a call from Phil.”

Garcia wasn’t a profiler but she’d spent enough time around them to understand what Luke wasn’t saying and piece together the rest.

“She escaped?” Penelope exhaled.

“Yeah, a few weeks ago. There was a mass prison break at her facility much the same as the one at Scratch’s facility. She was one of ten women who escaped and now Phil wants my help capturing her.” Luke shook his head. “Which is obviously the last thing I need right now with everything else going on with the network.”

Garcia placed her mug down on the desk and leaned forward, picking up the top sheet of paper and scanning through the information.

“Abuse victim, father passed when she was young.” She mused out loud as she continued reading. “Precursors for violent crimes unfortunately. Who was this guy, Leon Sayers, the man she killed? Was he a random victim or…”

She looked up from the paper and at Luke who was shaking his head.

“Sayers was her abuser. Her stepfather. At her trial she insisted Sayers killed her mom but it couldn’t be proven. I think it was all BS, I think it was all part of a ruse to make the jury feel sorry for her.”

“You don’t think she was abused?” Penelope snatched up another sheet of paper and scanned. “I mean there were a lot of hospital visits in her youth, all chalked up to her being clumsy but…is anyone this clumsy? Jeez this one says at fourteen years old she was admitted with a broken jaw! She had to have surgery and her jaw wired shut for eight weeks!”

“I don’t doubt she was heavily abused but she skipped town at sixteen, and hadn't surfaced until her mom’s death. She could have stayed away but she sought Sayers out. Doesn’t that seem like premeditation to you?” Luke scoffed.

“Alvez,” she put the paper down. “I'm not condoning what this girl did but after my parents were killed by that drunk driver, it crossed my mind that I might like to take my own form of revenge. That kind of grief makes us go to incredibly dark places. And if he’d abused her before, it’s not to say she didn’t get into an altercation with him, it might have been self defence. Admittedly the overkill was a bit much, but it said she did have bruising indicative of defensive wounds at the time of her arrest, bruises in the shape of fingers on her neck! He tried to strangle her, Alvez.”

“You say you aren’t condoning what she did, but it sure as hell sounds like it.” Luke spat, pushing himself to his feet and slamming the file shut.

“Newbie, calm down.” Penelope stood too, putting a placating hand on his arm. “All I’m saying is that not everything is black and white.”

“Seems pretty black and white to me.” He growled. “Murder is murder, Garcia.”

“Except when it’s manslaughter.” She clucked.

Luke looked ready to blow his lid. If he were a cartoon he would have had smoke coming out of his ears. His jaw tightened and Garcia watched the way the muscle pulsed, in perfect time with the throbbing of the vein in his neck.

“Are you kidding me? You’ve been out of the FBI long enough now that your sense of justice has been warped?” He raised his voice, spittal flying from his lips. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Do you actually…do you seriously think-”

“Alvez,” a stern voice cut across the bullpen and Luke turned away from Penelope towards the sound. Emily stood up the top of the stairs, eyes dark and brow pinched. “Another container has been found. We’re meeting the others at the airstrip.”

Luke puffed out a breath, sucked another one in. He let his jaw relax and tried to quell his anger.

“Where we heading now?” He ignored Penelope still in his peripheral vision.

“Texas.” Was all she said before disappearing back inside her old office.

@kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3 @prettyboyandthefangirl @zooni92802 @marvellover1819

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

108 notes · View notes

hannahssimblr · 4 months

Text

As hangovers go, it’s about a nine out of ten. I waste the morning drifting in and out of sweaty snoozes, my duvet coiled around my legs like cotton vines that want to bind me to the sheets, gritty with the sand I dragged in on my shoes. At some point I am startled briefly awake by my phone buzzing with such fury that it hops along the surface of the mattress.

It's Michelle. I switch it off and roll over.

Around midday when the sun is at the perfect angle to sear through the glass and scorch my sweat bathed body like a helpless insect under a magnifying glass, I finally roll out of bed and shuffle into the living room.

The guys are playing something that’s wall to wall machine guns on the PlayStation. They invite me to join, but I tell them no. The percussive sounds of the bullets is enough to make my brain throb. I let myself outside in yesterday's clothes to escape the noise, grabbing my sunglasses on the way.

I think a walk will be good, I think it’ll make me feel better. I avoid the beach, which is obnoxiously busy on sunny days like this one, in favour of a walk through the village in the vague direction of the boat club. I don’t intend to go that far. I spent the whole summer last year avoiding a certain waitress, and I have yet to decide if I’m going to do the same this year. Today is not a day for decisions, so I will just loop around the caravan park and come back.

The walk is not a success. First I am confronted by the dead seagull and then it’s the bin overflowing with half eaten fish and chips in the beach car park. I make it about ten metres before my body takes over and I throw up neon green behind a family station wagon. I knew it was coming, but I would have rather it had happened in a more confidential place.

“Oh God, foul.” A very pretty girl in a bikini says to her equally pretty friend as I wipe my chin with the back of my hand, and all I can hope is that either these sunglasses provide adequate disguise, or that I will never see them again.

But once I’ve thrown up I feel better. Though a headache persists, I've heard the sea air holds some sort of magic. I suck it in in lungfuls hoping it can heal my stomach, my head, and whatever it is that is specifically wrong with boys like me who call their ex-girlfriends at two in the morning and say a whole host of things that are wholly unhelpful to both of you.

After this walk I will go home and force myself to eat something. I'll just force myself around the caravan park one time. The moment I slip through the gates, I have to leap aside to allow a group of boys to pass on their bicycles. They shout something at me for being slow and in their way, and I laugh, even though it makes my skull throb.

I’ve always quite liked this part of the village, it’s rough and ready. There is nothing fancy about the old concrete shower block, dropped smack bang in the middle of the place, the big sun bleached plastic bins and the sporadic blocks of concrete with weeds bursting from the cracks. I enjoy its chaos, the mismatched lawn furniture, thin summer clothes pegged to lines, the children running wild in unsupervised chaos.

The management tried to ban me from this park when I was twelve over some incident with a tennis ball and an ice cream truck. They took my photo and all, and stuck it up in the office, but the next summer when I got my growth spurt they didn’t recognise me anymore. So I made my triumphant return, hung around, threw things out of trees to see what sounds they’d make, and kissed all the girls I could get my braces-filled mouth on.

I peer over the rim of my glasses toward where three girls are hanging out on the tennis courts, two popping the ball over the net while the third lolls on the sideline. I try to figure out if I ever kissed any of them in my heyday. I don’t remember, but if they were here in 2005 then it's most likely.

Except if that girl is Kelly Healy, which, I realise, as I get closer to the court that it is. She’s unmissable, really, red faced, her sweaty curls spring free of her ponytail as she swipes at the ball and misses. She lets out a cry of frustration, flings her racket onto the ground and whines loudly about how unfair it is that she should have to lose every single set.

I think it’s fine to think about how much I never wanted to kiss Kelly Healy. It’s not offensive, because it’s not as though she would have wanted to either, in fact, the idea of it has to disgust her as much as it does me. I hope she doesn’t see me as I pass, but I doubt she will, she’s too busy laying into her friend, but the girl sitting on the ground does.

She smiles at me. Does she come here every summer? Is she one of the girls I’ve kissed? I doubt it. I think I’d remember.

I smile back tentatively and she shyly tucks a strand of silky blonde hair behind her ear.

She’s pretty, but I look away, racked with guilt for thinking it. Amn’t I supposed to be heartbroken and devastated? Surely I owe at least three months of penance, languishing in misery, unable to even look another girl in the eye as punishment for my selfish crimes. I’ve only given it a measly six weeks.

I think this walk was a bad idea. I wasn’t ready for it. I swerve down a path away from the court and turn back toward home.

Jen is hanging out on the outdoor furniture when I return. I don’t really want to talk. It seems somehow as though breathing the fresh air has made my headache worse, but she speaks to me anyway despite my attempts to non-verbally communicate a desire to be left alone.

“You should delete her number,” she tells me, voice flat, and I just grunt something non committal.

“I’m serious, you really just can’t be trusted. You should just save yourself the angst and minimise the risk of any contact.”

“You spoke to her?”

“Yeah she called me,” then, incredulously, “why did you say all of that to her?”

“I don’t remember what I said.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, don’t then. I don’t care.”

“Okay, grumpy.”

“Don’t talk to me right now.” I stalk up the stairs and into the house, then burst into my room while ignoring the boys who are still offering me a game of whatever they are playing. I kick the door shut and snatch my phone off the tangled mess that is my bed. I switch it on.

It comes to life in my hand like a sentient being, buzzing and chiming with all of the messages and calls I missed, but I delete every single one of them without looking. Then I go straight to my phonebook.

SHELL <3

Her name is stark, black text against white. She changed her own name on my phone a long time ago, adding that little heart onto the end of it as though I would ever forget exactly which Michelle this was, as though we didn’t text each other every second we spent apart. I swear, through the aura of my headache, now throbbing furiously behind one eye, it seems like those two little symbols are mocking me.

DELETE?

My thumb twitches.

YES SHELL<3 HAS BEEN DELETED

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2010 #girls still liking Jude after he wiped vomit off his chin is unfair #hi Kelly and Claire by the way #and Evie #blurry as she is #tw: drinking #tw: vomit

59 notes · View notes

helloalycia · 1 year

Text

the Clarks [one] // alicia clark

summary: when you move next door to a new town, you don't expect to befriend the neighbours – the Clarks – so imagine your surprise when they become family, too.

warning/s: mentions of alcoholism, verbal and physical abuse, absent parenting and drugs.

author's note: someone requested this in my asks not long ago and i’ve been working on it as quickly as i can as it was so fun to write! may have gone overboard though and it’s like 5 parts long but you can never have too much alicia so! hope you like it :)

something to note: Y/M/N = your mother's name

two / three / four / five / masterlist / wattpad

9 years old...

I didn't want to move schools. I had my friends and I liked where I was and the teachers were all nice to me, but that didn't matter to my parents. I knew they weren't moving out of spite, they just had to for their jobs, but I didn't like it.

My new school was hard to adjust to, the teachers nice but strangers. My classmates already knew each other, having grown up together no doubt, and I was the new girl who didn't belong. I wasn't a sociable kid, a little anxious and a little nervous to make new friends, so it was hard for me to settle in. But being quiet meant I was quite observant, too.

It was the first week in my new town, at my new school, when I was getting dropped off home by my mum to our new house. The neighbours, a family I'd noticed since moving here because one of their kids – Nick, I think his name was – was in my class, and they always left around the same time as us in the mornings. And just like that, they were pulling into their driveway at the same time as us now.

When my mum and I got out the car, they were doing the same and I caught Nick's eyes as he jumped out the car. His mum noticed us and offered a smile, waving at us.

"Welcome to the neighbourhood!" she said to my mum, already stepping a little closer to the small fence between our front drives.

Nick smiled a little when he saw me, waving his hand. I began to smile too, my first real welcome since arriving here, and just as I lifted my hand to wave it, my mum grabbed it and dragged me up the driveway and into the house, not giving them a response. I didn't understand why she was being so strange, but when she mumbled 'weirdos' under her breath, I figured she was having a bad day. Still, I smiled to myself at how nice they seemed. They weren't all that weird to me.

In fact, they were quite the opposite.

One day, barely a week later, I was playing in the garden, riding my bike around in circles, when I heard some noises coming from the neighbour's garden. Curiosity getting the better of me, I climbed on one of the bins next to the tall fence separating our gardens and tried to find the source of the music and chatter from next door. Peeking my eyes over the top, I realised they were having a barbecue.

A man was flipping burgers on the grill, a drink in his hand, and he was chatting to who I recognised as Nick's mum. His parents. Nick was there too, playing with his little sister, but nobody had noticed me. At least I thought they hadn't, until I looked back to Nick's mum and met her gaze, freezing in place. She didn't seem angry, instead smiling and waving at me, but it freaked me out that I'd been caught spying so I quickly jumped off the bin and back to my bike.

Trying to distract myself, I rode my bike out front and entertained myself by going in circles around the car. My mum was inside having a drink as my dad was out, so I was a little bored and the music next door was still enticing me. I managed to ignore it long enough until I heard someone walking nearby and looked up. Nick's mum was walking out front too, a bin bag in hand as she threw something out. Again, my nosey self couldn't help but watch her.

She caught sight of me as she was about to return to the garden, pausing to smile at me. "Hey, sweetie."

I pressed my lips together, frozen on my bike yet again.

She glanced around, confused, before asking me, "Are you hungry?"

I nodded, unable to stop myself.

"Well, we're grilling some burgers and we might have made too many," she said with a shrug. "We need someone to help us finish it all. D'you wanna come over and have one? You'll be doing us a massive favour!"

I knew what she was doing and yet it still made me smile a little. But then I stopped myself before I could agree, instead saying, "My mum won't like that."

The blonde smiled softly. "Your mum can come, too, hon. The more, the merrier."

I sighed quietly, shaking my head. Glancing at the house, I said, "She's in one of her moods. She won't."

Nick's mum frowned slightly, before asking, "Alright then. One burger to go?"

My smile returned as I looked back to her. Before I could answer however, I heard my name being called and looked over to the front door to see my mum was stood there, glaring at Nick's mum.

"Sorry," I mumbled, before cycling back to the house and leaving my bike by the door before returning inside. The last thing I wanted was to annoy my mum even more – whenever she drank, she got into one of her moods and that always meant she'd yell at me for no reason before passing out on the couch.

I entertained myself in the living room, playing with some toys and also trying not to look outside whenever I heard laughter from the neighbours. Eventually, my dad came home with some groceries, greeting me with a smile and kiss. The happiness was short lived however, as he and my mum erupted into an argument about how she stank of booze. I didn't want to hear it, but I always had to.

He soon went upstairs to have a nap, and my mum seemed to do the same in the living room, though not by choice. I was alone again, bored and hungry and curious once more. With nobody to stop me, I crept outside into the garden and jumped up on the bin to have a look at the neighbours.

Their barbecue was over now, the music having stopped a short while ago. The smell of grilled burgers still lingered though, and it made my stomach rumble instantly. Frowning to myself, I jumped down from the bin and sat in the grass, pulling out some pencils and drawing to cure my boredom. Not long later however, I heard a noise from the fence.

There were voices, kids voices, a boy and a girl. And then when I looked up, I was startled as I saw Nick looking over the fence and down at me.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's Y/N, right? You're in my class."

I glanced inside, not seeing my mum anywhere, before nodding at Nick, cautious.

"I'm Nick," he introduced with a smile.

I cleared my throat. "Hi."

"I'm Alicia!" a small voice shouted from the other side, below Nick.

I smiled as Nick rolled his eyes.

"That's my little sister, Alicia," he added.

"Hi, Alicia!" I called to her.

"Hi!" she shouted back, and I tried not to laugh.

"Mum said you wanted a burger," Nick said to me.

"I can't come over," I told him regretfully, but he was already holding out a foil-wrapped, burger-shaped object.

"Here," he said.

I began to smile, climbing onto the bin to meet his height, and accepted the burger. I also glanced down next to him to see his sister, Alicia, looking up at me curiously, a friendly smile on her face. She was very pretty, the prettiest girl I'd ever seen, with her hair in pigtails and her green eyes so bright I could see stars in them.

"Thank you," I said, looking back to Nick with immense gratitude, before unwrapping the burger and taking a bite.

"Why can't you come over?" he asked curiously, leaning on the fence.

I nodded behind me. "Mum's in a bad mood."

"Oh," was all he said. "That's annoying."

I nodded in agreement, before saying with a mouthful, "Thanks for the burger."

He began to laugh. "There's ketchup on your face, stupid."

Embarrassed, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "Sorry."

Unfazed, his smile remained. "I'll see you at school tomorrow?" I nodded and he jumped down from the boxes he was precariously balanced on. "Bye!"

Alicia waved bye too, and I returned the gesture to them both with a smile on my face before jumping off the bin and finishing my burger. It was really good.

I didn't expect to befriend any of the Clarks, but that was the start of it all. From there, Nick and I would hang out together at school. It started where we'd wave at each other from our driveways in the mornings and afternoons before and after school, and then we'd play together at school. His mum and sister seemed nice, and just like mine, his dad wasn't around that much, instead always working. We were a lot more similar than I thought.

"Dad," I said as I walked into the living room where he was watching TV. "Please can I go play with Nick and Alicia next door?"

My dad lowered the volume and smiled at me, patting his lap. I jumped on top of him as he hugged me tightly.

"Only if I get a kiss right here," he said playfully, patting his cheek.

I grinned as I kissed his cheek before hugging him.

"Go and have fun, Y/N," he said, squeezing me tightly before patting my pack as I jumped off his lap.

As I was going to fill my bag with some toys from the corner of the room, my mum called from kitchen with disapproval.

"Seriously? You're gonna let her go over there? You don't even know them properly!"

My dad sighed. "They're nice people, Y/M/N. Maybe you'd know that if you ever spoke to them."

"I know enough," she said with bitterness. "And I don't feel comfortable with our kid going over there."

I paused, glancing between them as my mum approached my dad in the living room, hands on her hips.

He stood up, giving her a knowing look. "She's going. She needs to be around other kids." Then his expression softened as he looked to me. "Go on, honey. Go over there."

I nodded, glancing at my mum who seemed to disagree, before grabbing my backpack and leaving through the front door. As I left, I heard them both start to argue and tried to ignore it, feeling a little bad that it was my fault.

When I reached the Clarks door, I knocked on, buzzing with both nerves and excitement because it was the first time I was coming over for a play date. Apart from occasionally see them before and after school, or playing with Nick on the playground, I'd never visited their house before. I was surprised I was allowed, but my dad was always nicer with these things than my mum was.

The door opened to reveal Madison, Nick's mum. She said I could call her that when I saw her after school to pick up Nick once, but it felt strange calling her by her name when she was just 'Nick's mum' in my head. That, or Mrs Clark.

"Y/N, hey!" she greeted with a warm smile, before standing to the side to let me in. "How are you, sweetie?"

"I'm good," I said with a shy smile as she closed the door behind us. "I'm excited to see Nick and Alicia. Thank you for letting me come over."

Nick had asked me yesterday after school if I could come, with permission from his mum, so she already knew.

"Of course, and they're excited to see you too!" she said, motioning for me to follow her through the hallway. "How are your parents?"

I shrugged. "They're okay. They're just arguing a lot lately."

She glanced at me, curious. "About what, sweetie?"

I gripped my backpack straps a little tighter as I told her the truth, relieved to let it out, though my child brain didn't understand why I should keep quiet about stuff like this. "Mum keeps getting in her moods. Falling asleep. Having those drinks she's not supposed to. And dad doesn't like it, so they argue a lot."

Madison paused before we could enter the kitchen, sighing. "They don't argue with you though, right?"

"Dad doesn't," I answered. "Mum does, sometimes. It's not fair because I don't think I've done anything wrong. But then she falls asleep and stops."

She frowned slightly. "You know, Y/N, if they're ever arguing or you just don't feel like they're being very nice to you, you're always welcome to come here, okay?"

I looked away, embarrassed. "I don't think my mum likes me being friends with Nick very much."

Or you, I wanted to add, but it wouldn't have been very polite.

"It doesn't matter," Madison said, setting a hand on my shoulder comfortingly. "I'm here for you, just like Nick. You're always welcome here."

Admittedly, it felt quite nice to have that support from someone, the support I wanted from my mother. I smiled up at her, grateful.

"Thank you, Mrs Clark."

She smiled before opening the back door to the garden. "C'mon. The others are waiting for you."

When we headed outside, I saw Nick and Alicia swinging on their swing set, clearly trying to outdo one another. But as soon as they saw me, they halted and almost fell over trying to run towards me.

"Y/N!" Nick shouted with a grin, before stopping in front of me, breathless. "Did you bring your race car?"

I nodded, already shoving my bag from my shoulders and pulling out my remote-controlled race car that I'd mentioned to Nick I had at school. As soon as he saw it, his grin widened. Alicia tried to take a look too, so I showed her properly.

"Can I play, too?" she asked hopefully, and I couldn't help but smile as I nodded quickly.

"Of course!"

She returned my smile before the three of us went to have a play with it on the tiles next to the back door.

13 years old...

"Dad, I don't get it. What do you mean, you're going?"

He was throwing his belongings into a suitcases haphazardly. It was completely random – one minute I was in my room and the next I heard doors slamming downstairs before I found him storming into his room and packing.

"Your mum and I can't work together anymore," he said regretfully, pausing from his packing to look me in the eye, as if I understood. And I did, to an extent, but it didn't make sense.

Mum's drinking had gotten worse over the years, to the point where they'd constantly argue about it and never actually have anything nice to say to each other. I was his shoulder to cry on, minus the crying. He'd rant to me and tell me how he felt burdened and I'd have to listen to it all, wanting to help him and relating but unsure what else to offer. I hated it and I wished he treated me more as a kid than a therapist, but it was better to have him like that than not at all. Now though, he'd finally had enough and it was scaring me.

"Stay," I told him as calmly as I could muster. "You have to work it out."

He shook his head. "I've tried for many years, honey. It's too late. I can't take it anymore."

I swallowed hard, eyes tearing up as I realised he was serious. He continued to pack, throwing in whatever he could get his hands on, not even bothering to fold anything up.

"Take me with you," I said, deadly serious, and for a moment I thought he'd actually consider it, but he shook his head.

"I can't," was all he said, before throwing his suitcase close and zipping it up.

I rounded the bed to stand beside him, trying to stop him from doing it. "Dad, don't do this. Please, take me with you. You can't just leave me with her!"

He didn't even bother to meet my eyes as he said, "I'm sorry."

Grabbing his suitcase, he pushed past me and began to go downstairs. My heart felt like it was being squeezed, the life draining from it as I realised just what was about to happen. I ran after him, following him down the steps and to the driveway where he was throwing his suitcase into the backseat.

"Dad!" I shouted after him, ignoring the several curse words my mum was throwing at him as she watched from the front door. "Please!"

He continued to ignore me as he got into the driver's seat, slamming the door. I banged on the window as he started the car, embarrassed at the reflection of my snotty, crying self looking back at me, but I didn't care. He was leaving! He was giving up!

"Dad, please!" I begged, banging on the window some more. "Don't do this! Stay!"

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, considering my words.

"Please," I pleaded, voice breaking. "Dad, it's me. Your daughter. Please, don't leave me. I need you."

He closed his eyes tightly before reversing his car suddenly, forcing me to step back. I felt sick and betrayed and broken when I watched him avoid my eyes and simply drive away. He was gone, just like that. My dad. Gone.

I knew he had problems to face with my mother, his wife, but I always thought that he stayed for me. And now he was gone, leaving me behind. Why would he just leave? Why didn't he take me with him? He knew how much grief she gave me, how much she hated me. Why would he do this? Was I not enough?

"...fucking deadbeat!" my mum was shouting at his retreating car from the doorway, clearly drunk.

I looked over at her, the reality of my life settling in. It was just me and her left. No more dad sticking up for me or jumping in to stop an argument from happening. I was stuck with her.

"He's not worth your tears, hon," she muttered with bitterness, before heading back inside.

I blinked, my face hot with tears and anger and hurt, and then more tears rolled down my cheeks and I covered my face, trying to stop myself from breathing so rapidly.

"Y/N!" a voice called, and I looked up to see Nick running from his front door, stepping over the little fence separating our driveways.

Of course he'd seen or heard what had just happened. With all the shouting, I wouldn't have been surprised if the whole neighbourhood had. It was utterly embarrassing, but Nick was the only other person I had to confide in. We'd grown super close over the years, ours play dates becoming regular and him becoming my best friend. His family were like my own, even though I'd never admit it. Madison loved having me over, treating me like one of her own. It wasn't weird between us, not completely, so I accepted Nick's help as he led me back to his house to comfort me.

I couldn't stop crying though, not when he brought me to the couch in his living room and not when I'd created a giant wet patch on his shirt. The tears wouldn't stop coming and I couldn't stop hiccuping and I truly felt like my heart had shattered into a million pieces.

Why didn't he look me in the eyes? Why did he just leave?

"Y/N, I... I'm so sorry," Nick said, rubbing my back. "I don't know what to do."

He was worried, I knew it, and I wanted to assure him that he didn't need to do a thing, but I couldn't get the words out. I'd never behaved like this in front of him – it was too much.

"Oh my God, Y/N," Alicia's familiar voice was heard from the living room doorway, and now I felt like a spectacle, both embarrassed and ashamed.

"Go get mum!" Nick told her quickly.

"No!" I said suddenly, breathing shakily and voice hoarse. "I'm fine, I–"

But the words were stuck and my dad driving away was permanently fixed in my mind and hot tears rolled down my cheeks once more. Alicia must have gone to fetch Madison because soon enough, she was present and replacing Nick's seat beside me.

"Y/N, what happened?" she asked instantly, holding my back gently.

I looked up, meeting her eyes with my blurry ones. "He left. He's not coming back. He–he doesn't want to be my dad anymore, Mrs Clark. He–he's gone."

Madison pulled me close, holding me as I sobbed quietly into her shoulder. She stroked my hair until I finally stopped crying, reduced to sniffles and hiccups. When I found the courage to pull away, I saw Nick and Alicia hiding by the doorway, spying on us both. Hot with embarrassment, I wiped my tears from my face frantically.

"Nick, Alicia?" Madison called for them. "Come here, please."

Embarrassed they'd been caught, they shoved one another before reluctantly stepping inside again and stopping beside her.

"Sorry," Nick said, eyes flickering over to mine. "We were just worried."

"Forget that," Madison said, before nodding to the armchair. "Sit down."

They obeyed, sharing a seat and waiting patiently for her to speak, as was I. To my surprise, she looked to me with conviction, pushing my hair from my eyes.

"You're family, Y/N. We're all here for you, okay? You're not alone. No matter what happens, you need to know that." She paused, before glancing over to her children. "Isn't that right, kids? Tell her."

They both nodded in agreement.

"You're part of our family," Alicia said, green eyes meeting mine with concern.

"Always," Nick agreed.

And even though my heart was in a million little pieces in my chest, I didn't doubt it couldn't be put back together with these three Clarks sat before me. Madison pulled me in for a hug, then the other two joined in, and for a moment, I was safe.

14 years old...

"Can you remind me that I need to buy a new planner on the weekend? My other one is full."

I pretended to cough in my hand as I teased Alicia, "Nerd."

She rolled her eyes, a smile ghosting her lips, then kicked me gently in the leg. I laughed at her reaction, straightening up against the wall and readjusting the pillow behind me.

We were both hanging out in my room, sat in my bed as we listened to music and just chatted. It was nice to have the house to myself sometimes and I always tried to invite her or Nick around when I could, feeling like I needed to return the favour since we always usually hung out at theirs. Of course, there wasn't much of a choice, but the few times my mum was working, it was nice to host.

Ever since my dad had left, mum's moods and drinking had gotten worse. She was even more neglectful and bitter, the worst I'd ever seen her, so it was much easier when she was out working. Then I no longer had to deal with her. Plus, I could just hang around with Nick and Alicia. Like now.

"I'm kidding, I'll remind you," I promised her. "I was taking the piss, but you're a nerd in a good way, Alicia. You're very smart. I'm almost jealous."

She shrugged, though the compliment clearly had her flustered. "I just like learning."

I smiled at how humble she was being. She was literally the smartest person I knew. "You could beat any person in my grade at any exam," I told her knowingly. "They're all idiots compared to you."

Her cheeks dusted pink as she avoided my eyes. "You shouldn't say that. That includes Nick, y'know."

"Yeah, that only proves my point further," I joked. "Nick isn't the brightest bulb in the box."

She snorted to contain her laughter, then met my gaze. "You're not stupid, Y/N."

I tried not to laugh. "Tell that to my grades. I'm currently getting by on C's."

Her expression softened as she tilted her head. "I can help you, if you want."

"Oh, sure," I said sarcastically. "How would that look? Y/N Y/L/N getting tutored by someone in the grade below." I paused, then added, "Actually, that would be the nicest thing people would say about me. Maybe I should."

She frowned, clearly not amused by my joke. "Don't talk like that."

I swallowed hard, smile fading. "What? I'm not blind, nor deaf, Alicia. I know what people say about me at school. Got a drunk mum who doesn't care and a runaway dad, too good to stay with his shitty family or take his shitty daughter with him. I've heard it all before."

"Y/N..."

I closed my eyes, regretting having let that slipped out so suddenly and so randomly. "Sorry," I said to her, shaking my head regretfully. "I just– I've heard it all before. That's all."

She sighed, before suggesting, "You should still study at ours when you can. You basically live there anyway. And if you're there, I don't mind helping you out. Get some of those C's to B's. Nobody at school has to know."

I smiled a little, finally finding the courage to meet her eyes, and she was already watching me with an encouraging one.

"Thank you, Leashy," I said gratefully. "Maybe I will. If I can find the chance."

It would have been easy to accept her help, but I already constantly overstayed my welcome and definitely didn't need to be a burden to Alicia. I appreciated her offer, but I wasn't dumb enough to accept it.

"Hey, d'you wanna get some ice cream?" she asked suddenly. "I've got some pocket money leftover and the store down the street does a tub for a few dollars."

I smiled at her wanting to share with me. "I'd love that."

She grinned before standing up and holding out her hand, pulling me up with her. I grabbed it, letting her, and tried to ignore the butterflies I felt when I did. It was something I was feeling a lot recently, over the past few months, whenever I was around Alicia. I wasn't sure what it was, but I liked it and I found myself admiring Alicia more and more because of it. I'd always known she was pretty, but now that I was beginning to understand the concept of liking someone... Well, I was certain that I liked her.

And I let myself enjoy it before I could realise it was a bad thing.

15 years old...

I was exhausted to say the least, my shift at work draining any energy I had left. All I'd dreamt of in the last hour was going to bed, not even awake enough to have dinner. But of course, as soon as I got home that evening, I was met with the sight of my mum in the kitchen, fumbling through her purse.

"Good, you're back," she acknowledged my presence, looking up at me. "Do me a favour, hon, and go pick me up some beer."

I wasn't in the mood to deal with her right now, especially not when I could see she was a little tipsy already and it wasn't even six o' clock.

"Mum, I don't think you should have anymore," I said as gently as I could, not wanting to startle her, but she was already scowling at me.

"If I wanted your opinion, I would've asked for it," she said bitterly. "Now go and buy me some damn beer. You don't even know the day I've had."

I sighed inwardly. "I've had a long day, too. I just wanted to go to bed."

"For fuck's sake, Y/N!" she shouted suddenly, making me jump. "You're so fucking useless."

I flinched as she shoved past me harshly and left the house, no doubt for a bar. She wasn't violent, not usually, but sometimes she'd get really pissed off and slap me out of anger. She always apologised and I didn't think she meant it, but I was always on edge when she was in this sort of mood. To my relief though, she was gone and therefore not a problem for now. Even if my heart was beating a little too quickly.

Looking around, I began to frown when I saw the state of the kitchen and living room. She'd messed everything up, leaving takeaway boxes out and plates unwashed, and there was no way she was going to clean up after herself. I couldn't just leave it like that, so I groaned quietly before starting to clean everything up.

I just about finished throwing the rubbish out when the doorbell rang and I paused, wondering if she was back and had forgotten something. When I answered the door, it was Nick and I felt a sense of relief upon seeing him.

"Hey, I saw you heading in," he said with a smile, before letting himself inside.

"Hey," I greeted with a tired smile, before closing the door and following him into the living room-kitchen area. "The place is a bit of a mess, sorry."

"Don't apologise," he assured me, but I still felt the need to because it was always a tip in here.

I picked up the cloth and anti-bacterial spray I was using and continued to wipe the surfaces.

"She at the bar again?" he asked softly, and I could only nod in response.

As he always did when he came over, he began to help me by starting on the washing up, and as always, I tried to stop him.

"Nick, you don't need to–"

"Don't bother," he told me with his usual charming smile. "I'm helping."

I sighed, but smiled gratefully.

"So, how was work?" he asked, making conversation.

"Long," I said truthfully, finishing wiping the surfaces. "I smell of food and I just wanna sleep."

He chuckled. "I bet. What if I say I have something that might help?"

I quirked a brow as I glanced at him, wondering what he was talking about.

"Check my back pocket," he said, shaking his butt.

So, curious, I did and pulled out a rolled up joint to my surprise. Groaning with disapproval, I put it back and stepped back.

"What did I say about doing this shit, Nick?" I complained.

"Oh, c'mon, it won't kill you!"

"That's not the point!" I said, fed up and leaning back against the counter.

He'd been experimenting with drugs a lot recently, was messing about at school and just hanging out with some people I definitely didn't approve of. But I couldn't do much about it because he never listened to me, and I had my own problems to worry about so there wasn't enough time for me to bother him when he just ignored me. Still, I worried and scolded him whenever I could.

"Okay, look, I'm sorry," he said when he saw how frustrated I was getting. "I didn't mean to upset you more."

I rubbed my face tiredly, shaking my head. "It's fine, it's just– I'm worried about you, Nick."

He gave me a warm smile, tilting his head down at me. "I'm good."

I gave him a knowing look as I said, "It starts with the light stuff like this, then it gets worse. Addictive."

"Y/N, I promise I'm fine."

"Alicia isn't blind, y'know," I continued, ignoring him. "She knows."

"Not for certain," he assured me.

I pressed my lips together, avoiding his eyes and suddenly going quiet.

"Right?" he questioned. "She doesn't know?"

The longer he eyed me as he washed up, the more I knew I was going to break.

"Y/N?"

I winced as I admitted, "I'm sorry. She asked me one time recently and I couldn't lie–"

"Dude!"

"I can't lie to her!" I told him apologetically. "Look, she promised she wouldn't tell Madison, but most importantly, Nick, she's worried about you. Just like I am."

He sighed deeply, not speaking for a moment, only the sound of the tap to be heard. Once he finished washing the final plate, he sat it on the rack before turning to face me, also leaning against the counter.

"Please, be careful," I said to him quietly, meeting his reluctant eyes. "We worry because we care, Nick."

He nodded slowly, and I wanted to believe him. For now, it would have to do.

Heading into the living room, we both took a seat on the couch and relaxed into it. Personally, I was appreciating being off my feet after such a long day, and I could have fallen asleep there and then, but I also didn't want to be alone and kick Nick out.

"How's your family doing?" I asked, looking over at him.

He was leaning back into the cushions, eyes closed contently as he answered. "Mum's her usual uptight self."

"Nick," I scolded, slapping his knee.

Opening one eye and looking at me, he said, "I fail to see what you see in her."

"Hmm, well she doesn't get pissed after work every evening, so I suppose I have pretty low standards," I said sarcastically.

His expression softened. "Well then."

"Also, she's been good to me," I added, before giving him a disapproving look.

He shook his head before leaning back again. "Alicia is doing good. Been drooling over some new kid at school. Matt or whatever."

I hummed to show I was listening, but a little frown tugged at my lips. It's not that I never expected her to like someone, but it still made me feel a little jealous, especially ever since I realised I liked her last year.

"Dad is okay," he continued, though he was forcing nonchalance. "Been quieter than usual lately. It's a little annoying, especially when I just– I need him, but mum thinks he'll snap out of it."

"Maybe he's stressed out," I offered, but he only shrugged and I knew it wouldn't make a difference.

Nick had always had a strained relationship with his father, especially as of late. And I didn't have much advice for him considering my own dad didn't deem me a good enough daughter to stay behind for. All I could think to do to comfort him was pull him in for a side hug, squeezing him tight.

"Have you eaten?" he asked after a moment of quiet. "There's some dinner leftover at ours."

"I'm pretty tired if I'm being honest," I told him, "but thank you."

"Hmm. Okay." I knew he was debating whether or not to force me to have something, but thankfully he left it and began to stand up. "I'll leave you to rest, Y/N. You do look a bit tired."

I shoved him as I stood up, too. "Arsehole."

Laughing, he pulled me in for a hug once more. "Night, Y/N. I'll see you tomorrow."

#alycia debnam carey #alicia clark #alicia clark imagine #fear the walking dead #ftwd #alicia clark x reader #alicia clark x you #fear the walking dead imagine #feartwd

163 notes · View notes

brummiereader · 1 year

Text

PREVIOUS PART

A Ghost Of A Man (PART EIGHT)

Summary: After Tommy locks the reader in his room, she desperately tries to escape to get to him, will she succeed? Will Tommy use the information she gave him to save his life?

Warnings: Language, supernatural themes, smut (18+ minors DNI)

You had been sitting on Tommy's bed for hours. You tried countless times to open the door, but with no energy left and no more tears left to cry, you had given up. Staring off into the small room hopelessly waiting for Tommy to return, your eyes focused in on the old empty fireplace. Pushing away the hair that was now stuck to your face, you stood up and walked over to the dusty furnace. Grazing your hand over the top of the black mantle, you looked down. There beside the fireplace was a metal stoking iron. Picking it up you glanced over to the old wooden door, without a second thought you lodged the poker inbetween the door frame and the door itself. With all your force you pushed the metal rod towards the wooden frame prying it open. With a loud creak the door flung open as you stumbled back onto the floor, dropping the heavy iron pole. Breathing heavily you stood up rushing to your clothes as you frantically dressed yourself. With no time to lose, you bolted out the bedroom door running faster than your feet could take you down the stairs and out the front door.

"Y/N!" John shouted to you as you pushed past him, running down the street. Had it already happened? Was Tommy already dead? The thought alone had you crying uncontrollably as you held your skirt up, freeing your legs from the fitted garment as you raced desperately to him. Turning the corner a car suddenly stopped in front of you.

"Y/N, what the bloody hell is going on?" John asked as he lent over the passenger seat, opening the door for you. Climbing in breathless you tried to speak.

" It's...it's Tommy...his in trouble. His offices...Sabini" you managed to stumble out, as panic filled your eyes.

"What are you talking about?" he answered looking at you in complete confusion.

" We don't have fucking time for this! Go!" you said as you slid over, putting your foot down on the accelerator.

" Jesus Christ, hang on woman!" He said as he pushed your foot out the way. Speeding down the road John observed you in the corner of his eye. Hair disheveled, mud splashed all over your once pristine clothes, panic in your eyes, tears sticking to your cheeks...Who was this crazy girl? He wondered as he looked at your frightened face.

"Faster!" You shouted to him as you pushed his knee down making him press harder on the acceleration. Eyes wide, John turned to you in surprise. Never had he met a woman so determined, so forward absolutely relentless, a match for Tommy if there ever was one, he concluded.

Turning the corner you recognised the building instantly. John hadn't even stopped the car before you opened the door, jumping out into the pouring rain.

" Bloody hell, Y/N wait!" He said as he pulled the handbrake, running after you. Approaching the building you heard a whistle blow as multiple gunshots filled the night sky, men quickly scrambling away from a small garage into the downpour . Following the noise you watched as countless police officers then ran into the same area.

"Tommy!" you screamed as you turned the corner, fear in your eyes as you saw him laying on the concrete covered in blood.

" Shit" John said as he followed behind you, shock on his face at the sight of his brother helpless, unprotected.

"Tommy it's me, I'm here, get an ambulance!" you shouted at the policemen behind you. Cradling his head in your lap, you looked down at his bloodied face as he grabbed onto your arm trying to pull himself closer to you until, with no energy left he let go.

"I suppose we should see if the bastards still alive " A man with a walking stick said as he approached you, his thick Irish accent filling your ears. Turning to face you he looked down giving you a smirk as he then walked away, the sound of his cane echoing through the rain.

A few hours later you was sitting beside Tommy in hospital, holding his hand as tears fell from your eyes. Gripping onto the metal frame at the end of his bed, John watched you as you focused your stare in on Tommys chest, watching it rise and fall, panicking whenever his breathing labored.

"What happend?" You heard a voice say as the doors flung opened. Turning around you realised it was the same lady from the betting shop, Tommy's older brother Arthur following behind her.

" Sabini and his men beat the shit out of him" John said as he chewed at his tooth pick. Wide eyed the older lady walked over to the opposite side of the bed, resting the back of her hand to Tommys forehead.

"Fuck!" Arthur said as he kicked over a chair, pushing his hands through his hair.

"Arthur, calm down" the dark haired woman told him as she looked down at her injured nephew." Why was you at his offices?" she asked looking over to John.

" Saw Y/N here bolting out the house, caught up with her, said Tommy was in trouble. Never seen a woman run as fast as she did " he answered nodding towards you. Nervously shifting in your seat, you made eyed contact with the mysterious lady across from you.

" You saved his life" she said quietly, reaching for you hand.

" Bet...she could, out...run you Arthur" you heard Tommy croak as he tried to sit up, squeezing your hand tightly.

" Not bloody likely" Arthur replied chuckling, as everyone finally breathed a sigh of relief. Opening his eyes, you were the first person he looked at, as he softly caressed your hand with his thumb.

" Hi" he said smiling to you.

"Hi" was all you could manage back as you brushed away your tears with your other hand.

" Come on, he's well looked after" the older lady said next to him smiling, nodding to you as she stood up. "Out, out!" She loudly said as she batted the two brothers out the room with her hand .

"What about Sabini?" Arthur asked as he was being pushed out the door.

"Out!" She demanded once more.

" Bloody hell Pol give us a sec..." You heard in the distance as the door shut.

" You're alive" you said smiling to him, relieved.

" Only because of you" he answered pointing to you.

" I didn't think you would listen"

"Oh I listened love, can't say you did the same" he replied chuckling. " I contacted Campbell after I left the house, he said he would intervene, which he did, but let me get the beating I imagine he thought I deserved beforehand" he added groaning in pain as he tried to turn his body to face you.

" How did you get out?" He asked as he cocked an eyebrow.

" Broke out" you said smiling. Scoffing Tommy shook his head.

" You owe me a new door miss Y/L/N" he chuckled. " I knew you'd get out some how, never give up, eh?"

"Never..." you said as you leaned in gently pressing your lips to his.

You stayed at the hospital with Tommy for the rest of the night, he had told you to go back to his to get some rest, but you insisted on staying. Knowing you wouldn't listen to him, and with no strength to argue, he reluctantly agreed. You slept peacefully next to him as you rested your head on the side of his pillow, and for the first time in a very long time so did Tommy.

The next day you woke up with a thumping heachache, yesterdays events had obviously taken it out you. After freshening yourself up in public bathroom, you walked into Tommy's room as the same man from last night passed you by. Tilting his hat to you, you watched him walk out the hospital entrance, his cane thudding on the tiled floors with each step.

" What's he doing here?" You asked Tommy as you walked towards him.

" Irish business" he said groaning as he stood up from the bed.

" Tommy! What the hell are you doing?" you asked as you rushed to him, holding him up.

" I'm a sitting duck here Y/N, Sabini's men could come back at any moment to finish me off " he answered as he reached for his coat and hat.

" Tommy you can't leave, you need to rest" you said looking at him, astonished by his resilience.

" You won't win this one love. He said smirking. " Come on we're gonna take a boat" he added as he held onto you, wincing in pain as you both walked out the hospital doors.

Four days you had been travelling to London by canal, all the time staying by Tommy's bedside on the small barge called the "January". You helped him in any way you could, and surprisingly he let you. Tommy, always ahead of everything was already planning his next course of action, spending most of his time writing down notes in a small black book when he should have been resting. Was that why you was going to London, another plan?

Walking down the wooden steps into the small bedroom, a cigarette resting between his lips, he watched you as you busied yourself cleaning up the old bandages you had just changed.

" Come 'ere" he said as he stubbed his cigarette out." You alright? You're pale" He asked holding you in front of him, worried by your fairer complexion.

" I'm fine, just been a lot these past few days" you answered, deliberately not mentioning the pain in your head.

" Finally a bit of excitement for you, eh?" He chuckled as you playfully hit his arm, the memory flooding your recollection when he teased you about your "mundane" life.

" Tomorrow I need to go see a man, alright?" He said ducking his head down to meet your eyes.

" I'll go with you"

" No Y/N, this time you stay here with Curly'

" But Tommy.."

"Hey" He said holding your chin with his thumb." You don't need to worry, ok?" he added winking at you as a cheeky smile formed on his lips.

"Ok" you nodded unable to stop your blushing cheeks.

Cupping your face with his hands Tommy leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your waiting mouth. Placing your arms around his neck you moved closer as you pressed your body against his, deepening the embrace as you quietly moaned into his lips. Whilst his hands softly caressed your waist, he dipped his tongue into your mouth, passionately brushing it against your own. Heat rising in your bodies, Tommy's hand traced up your spine tangling his hand into your hair, pulling you closer to his face.

"Y/N" he stopped breathless as he pressed his forehead against yours " We don't have to".

" I want to" you replied, opening your pleading eyes to meet his lustful stare as you held onto the front of his shirt. Crashing his lips back onto yours he walked you slowly to the edge of the small single bed. Hands all other eachothers body unable to hold back anymore, you both frantically began taking the others clothes off, desperate to feel eachothers body heat. Standing next to the bed holding the small of your back quietly panting from the intensity of the moment, Tommy tried to catch his breath as he looked down at your naked bodies, letting out a hiss, he pushed himself flush against your stomach, his arousal already dripping from his swollen tip. Feeling the now desperate need for him to be in you, you let yourself fall onto the bed as Tommy climbed on top of you, spreading your legs with his body as he settled down between your thighs. You let out a small moan as you finally felt him pressed against your waiting heat, desperate for more.

"Tommy please..." You whined as you pushed your hips up to his. With his fingers softly stroking up the inside of you thigh he grabbed hold of himself, slowly entering you whilst he let out a whimper of a moan, as your body's slid together as one.

" Fuck...Y/N" he groaned quietly into you ear, feeling your wet heat wrapped around him. He had been wanting, waiting for this moment longer than he wanted to admit, now finally at one with eachother he pressed his lips onto yours as he slowly rocked himself into you. Hands gripping onto his back, you held on as tight as you could, relishing in the feeling of him inside of you, adoring you, pleasuring you...making love to you. Panting into eachothers mouths, sweat gathered on your foreheads as you looked deep into eachothers eyes. Stopping Tommy cupped your cheek.

" Y/N...I love you" he said looking at you desperately waiting for your response.

" I...I love you too Tommy" you said as you crashed your lips back onto his. Tommy holding onto your body picked up the pace as he drove himself into you, harder, deeper, desperately craving the high your body would soon give him.

" Tommy I'm so close" you said moaning into his mouth as you clenched yourself around him. Groaning at the sudden increased tightness, he could barely hold on, grabbing your outer thigh with his sweaty hand he rocked into you faster as he buried his head into your neck.

"God Y/N.. I'm going to.." he breathed against your neck, the words barely leaving his lips as his whole body stiffened, scrunching his eyes as he released his hot white arousal into you with force.

"Tommy..." You whined as you grabbed onto his shoulders reaching your high as he continued to throb inside you.

Looming over you, sweaty and breathless Tommy placed a tender kiss to your lips, nudging your nose with his as he pulled out collapsing beside you exhausted. Turning to face you he watched as your bare chest moved up and down beads of sweat trailing down to your stomach.

" Hey" he said turning your chin to face him. "You ok?"

" Perfect" you said smiling to him, ignoring the ringing in your ears.

Wrapping his arm around you, he pulled you closer to him as he held your hand. Both content and in peace you rested your head on his chest as you listened to his beating heart, he was alive, he was safe and you was here with him, finally. As you tried to get comfortable, the ringing in your ears was getting louder, almost unbearable.

" You ok Y/N" Tommy said opening his eyes a content smile on his face as he stroked up and down your arm.

" Yeh I'm fine" you answered as the thumping in your head increased. You was just tired, you tried to reassure yourself as you adjusted your position in his arms. Suddenly you started to feel hot, your hands sweaty the ringing becoming deafening. In a panic you abruptly stood up from the bed, your hand pressed against your forehead.

"What's wrong ?" Tommy questioned, fear in his eyes as he watched your face go a deathly white. Turning to face him you held yourself up by a nearby chair as the room spun around you. Eyes glossed over you looked at him, mumbling in a shaky panicked voice,

"Tommy, I don't feel so good..."

NEXT PART

Tag list: @theshelbyclan @babayaga67 @sysymei @nataliewalker93 @cherryslyce @globetrotter28 @jyessaminereads @meowtastick @kathrinemelissa @casa-boiardi

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #thomas shelby #a ghost of a man

221 notes · View notes

humbledragon669 · 3 months

Text

S1E5 – The Doomsday Option Write Up P2 - Saturday (The last day of the World) from "the wiggle on" to "He was waving"

Alright, so now we have the seed of hope planted for an Aziraphale/Crowly reunion, this episode moves, pretty swiftly, through a number of plot threads that now all need to be brought together to serve as the climax for the season.

Thread number one: Madame Tracy and Shadwell, and their purpose in the storyline.

I don’t have a great deal to say about this scene, only one tiny question. Why is that Julia makes no move to hand over a “donation” to Madame Tracy?

Both Mrs. Ormerod and Mr. Scroggie (brilliant names by the way) are clearly well-prepared to be handing their money over, but not so young Julia. I don’t think it’s important, just one of those little things I wondered about when I was watching the scene back.

Thread number two: bringing the Four Horsemen together.

Couple of things to point out in the next montage sequence, including an Easter egg or two. Firstly, the immigration official has clearly become disillusioned with her job in the short time that she granted Anathema into the country.

It’s a very different interaction than the one she had with Anathema where she was actually paying attention. Even Famine seems puzzled at her lack of interest. Next up I just want to say that I really didn’t have the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse down for being tea-drinkers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m British. Tea is the foundation of civilised society as far as I’m concerned. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? These four characters are about to, quite happily, undo all of civilisation. Always time for a cup of tea I suppose though. And now for an Easter egg! Feels like it’s been a minute since I’ve pointed one of those out. The top scores on the arcade game next to the one that Death is playing on are all allocated to D.EATH, except for the #1 spot, which goes to T. PRATCHETT.

There is another Easter egg here for the eagle-eyed, this one of the apple variety – one of the questions on the quiz machine asks what year Apple Computers was founded in.

And the last thing about the quiz machine: the machine that displays the “GAME OVER” sign is actually not the machine that Death has been playing on:

As a little side note, once we realise that it’s Death playing on the quiz machine, we can appreciate that he has in fact been there from the beginning of the scene. I wouldn’t swear to it given the camera angles that are used, but I don’t think his bike is in the car park when War arrives. You could argue that it’s out of shot, but I’m still pretty sure she would have recognised it for what it was and known that he was already inside. Famine and Pollution too. So why aren’t they aware of his presence from the outset? Again, probably not important, and the little quiz machine interaction provides some much-needed light comedy.

Back to thread number one. I found little of interest in this scene prior to Aziraphale’s arrival from the spirit world, aside from the vapid personality of Mrs. Ormerod and the obvious dig at the validity of psychic mediums whilst using the delightfully oblivious Mr. Scroggie. What I do really enjoy about this scene is the sound editing (I know, you’re all shocked I’m picking up on sound cues…). We know that something is about to happen when a low rumble begins, enforced by some lightly flickering candles in a room with no breeze, but the real joy here is the sequence of noises, animal, human, and object, that issues from Madame Tracy’s mouth as Aziraphale takes up residence in her body. Miranda Richardson does a pretty stella job here too – this was either really fun to shoot or incredibly embarrassing. I’d lean towards the former, given she’s largely a comic actress, but managing to keep a straight face throughout the whole thing must have taken an incredible degree of self-control. I’d be quite interested to know how much free reign she was given with this, how much of it was improvised, and if she knew there was going to be extra noises added in post-production. Here’s a list of the noises that I could pick up in the sequence that takes place during Aziraphale’s possession:

Rumbling noise before Madame Tracy starts vocalising.

Madame Tracy making a low rumbling noise.

Elephant trumpeting.

The noise of something ramping up, like a turbine engine but not. No idea what this noise actually is!

Thunder (from outside the house – accompanied by lightning).

Madame Tracy’s short shout followed by very high and musical almost-screams.

Another one of those weird ramping up noises but shorter and sharper.

Panting.

Madame Tracy blowing a raspberry.

Loud singing (enforced in the soundtrack) of the William Tell overture.

Madame Tracy belching.

A little quacking noise made by Madame Tracy.

A fart (no way was I leaving this off the list), which puts a definitive stop to any other noises that are ongoing.

Pretty impressive. Those sound editors aren’t done yet though, because aside from another chaotic sound sequence for Ron’s possession, there’s still a load of work to do with the voices coming out of Madame Tracy’s mouth. I love the way they shift between her voice and Aziraphale’s during the following sequence, starting from the very first sentence that she says after the possession has completed – she starts out as Madame Tracy and finishes as Aziraphale (in German, which we were led to believe that he couldn’t speak back in 1941). There are times in this scene where both voices come out of her mouth at the same time and there are other times where Madame Tracy speaks in her own voice but in a deeper tone, and times where it’s one or the other speaking, and it’s all so seamlessly stitched together. Not to mention the fact that it never once looks like it’s not Miranda Richardson speaking – her lip movements match the words exactly. She even adapts some of Aziraphale’s mannerisms when she’s speaking as him. It’s a really brilliantly put together scene. The sound sequences for Ron’s possession (played by none other than Johnny Vegas) are more difficult to pick out because the surrounding scene is very noisy (not that Shadwell would know anything about that, sound asleep in the unaffected boudoir) but I did manage to pick out:

Another raspberry.

A short squeal.

A line from “Moonlight Becomes You” (by Johnny Mathis, I couldn’t see any immediate Easter eggs or references from the lyrics).

A prolonged shout.

More thunder.

What sounds like a piano string or strings (from low down the keyboard) being struck.

A retching noise like someone’s about to hurl.

Something bubbling.

Howling.

Lightning.

Fireworks, used in the same way as the fart in the first sequence – to cut off all the other noises.

It feels like quite a jolt moving from all that cacophony into Madame Tracy’s peaceful kitchen. There’s one little thing that really makes me giggle in this scene:

She seems pretty blasé about the fact that there’s a blonde, slightly transparent, male figure staring back at her from the mirror. It’s only when he actually waves back at her that she reacts at all, and even then it’s pretty muted. I think most of us would have taken off screaming at that point, or pass out, but not Madame Tracy, she’s way too worldly-wise for that dramatic nonsense.

I was a little puzzled at the choice of soundtrack for Crowley’s battle against the traffic in the next scene, but then I wondered whether it was a reference to the M25 being another one of Crowley’s plans that started out so well and then ending up foundering “on the rocks on iniquity”, which appears to be a bit of a running theme throughout the show – first the misplacing of the Antichrist, again in his desperate pleas to Aziraphale for them to run away together, and in his failed rescue of the angel. This particular instance of Crowley’s well-intentioned failings would suggest that it’s a characteristic he has been prone to for a long while, and that the foundering of his plans can take anything from seconds to decades. And just for a bit of fun, a tried to get screenshots of the M25 before and after Crowley’s interference:

I also noticed that the projector Crowley uses is marked as belonging to Room 11:

Having fallen foul of my neglect in consulting Strong’s Concordance with numbers in my write ups before, I did actually remember to look this one up. According to my scant research, 11 in Strong’s Concordance represents a place of destruction or ruin. Whether this is a reference to Crowley’s original intentions for the M25, the eventual fate and purpose of the M25 in the show, or a tongue-in-cheek remark to the experience of actually driving on the M25 in real life isn’t clear. Maybe it’s a bit of all three. Or maybe it’s just a random number. Unlikely I think.

Now that Shadwell’s had a nice little snooze, he also seems to have had some sort of personality transplant. That’s the only real explanation for the impassioned attempt at protecting Madame Tracy’s dignity, right? I think we as the audience all know better, but he clearly forgets himself in the heat of his jealous moment. Interestingly, the mirror no longer appears to show Aziraphale’s reflection:

I think this might just have been a case of budgetary or time restraints rather than an intent to convey anything specific. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale doesn’t seem too upset at Shadwell for discorporating him. One question though – how does the angel know that Shadwell has referred to him as “the Southern pansy” before? As far as I can remember, he never uses that name to his face, which only really leaves the possibility that he has obtained the information from Madame Tracy, who has heard him refer to Aziraphale in that way at least once before. I find it unlikely she would have told the angel the offensive name that had been allocated to him, which suggests he has obtained the news from her own thoughts. Obviously at this point Madame Tracy is sharing the residence of her body, but it does raise an interesting question for later when Aziraphale and Crowley perform the body switch – would they be able to read the thoughts of the other without the sentience of that other being present concurrently?

Whilst we are on the topic of how people know things that they do, how does Crowley know the M25 has just combusted into a ring of infernal flames? I know we’ve had the whole “Crowley turned the M25 into a hellhole” scenario written out for us already, but that was to do with the eternal traffic jams he caused, not some sort of hidden boobie trap that would cause it to spontaneously combust. Presumably this is one of those things his demon-sense tells him has simply happened, like when Adam welcomed the Hellhound into his life.

I find the next scene with the cold caller provides an interesting overview of the way nuisance callers have evolved across the years. The basis for the call in the original book was double glazing, but we’ve moved on to ambulance chasers in the show. As a society I think it’s likely we’ve moved on even further now, from using actual real people to individually make these calls to automated recordings, but Hastur wouldn’t be able to eat them all in that case, thus denying the audience the satisfaction of the sick justice he unwittingly wreaks on the call centre staff. Got ourselves a little Easter egg here too – the message that Lisa types out on her screen (to a colleague or as a note on a casefile isn’t clear) is the title of a Queen song:

This happens to be the very song that Crowley was listening to in the Bentley on the M25. She also types that up right before she arrives his own casefile (titled “Anthony Cowwley”, which differs from the book’s “A J Cowlley”).

Shifting back to Crouch End now (this episode really does jump around a lot doesn’t it?!), can we just take a moment to gape at Aziraphale adamantly declaring that the Antichrist must be killed. The Antichrist who is a child. It really wasn’t that long ago that he was vehemently stating that he himself could never do such a thing, nor could he endorse it without suggesting that it would be for the good of Heaven’s reputation. Now though, he’s very happy to encourage a human, for whom the consequences of killing an innocent child would be dire in Heaven’s eyes, and even worse for killing the Antichrist as far as Hell is concerned, to do the deed, but this time the motivation is nothing to do with his employer; it revolves around the fate of the World. It feels like something of an oxymoron – his siding with humanity driving an incredibly inhumane act. In fairness, Shadwell follows it up with an oxymoron of his own:

So, as far as Shadwell’s concerned: witches? Kill without question. The Antichrist? Not so sure. Even if he’s going to bring about the end of the world. Sounds like he’s all good with the plan when Aziraphale tells him that he has traits associated with witches though. Good morals Shadwell, well done. Perhaps not quite as terrifying as Aziraphale’s declaration of triumph when the sergeant suggests they can use a massive antique gun to fire lumps of building materials to assassinate the Antichrist. Again I’ll point out that Adam is a child, but perhaps it wasn’t clear enough earlier on that Aziraphale also knows he’s a child.

I don’t know whether what I’m about to say describes a typically British behaviour when caught in traffic jams or not, but here goes. Anybody else find it suspect that other people aren’t either already driving down the hard shoulder or that Crowley doesn’t have a giant tail of cars following him? I’ve been in my fair share of motorway gridlocks, enough to know that once some entitled prick starts driving down the hard shoulder in attempt to assert their own self-importance over the rest of the people caught in the chaos, anybody else with delusions of grandeur will follow suit very quickly. Not for Crowley though, he’s just pottering down the escape lane under his own steam. And is it just me, or does it feel like a bit of a violation when Hastur removes Crowley’s glasses? Looks to me like Crowley feels like that as well to be fair.

He manages to get over his surprise quickly enough though, characteristically engaging his brain into full gear to try and find a solution, which he does with an interesting choice of music:

I find it interesting because it deviates from what we have come to believe is his usual taste in music. Mozart would actually seem to be more Aziraphale’s taste than Crowley’s. It’s also a pretty sedate underscore for what he’s about to do. As a side note, this piece not only doesn’t actually start from the beginning when it starts playing in the Bentley, but is also used in another one of my favourite shows – Our Flag Means Death. In that show, it’s used as background music in the final episode when Prince Ricky is strolling down the street his victory over the pirates with another naval officer. The Mozart doesn’t stick around for long though, morphing into Queen’s “I’m In Love With My Car” (no need to point out the reference with this one) as Hastur starts to lose his calm. For those who haven’t read the book, or just don’t remember this detail, there is mention of this phenomenon in the original text – the apparently common mystery that every tape or CD left in a car is doomed to become a Queen album eventually, but this little detail is left out in the show, with the audience instead being led to believe that the CD player plays mood-appropriate music instead.

The speech we get from Crowley here goes a long way to showing us how much he has come to love both humanity and modernity – he’s actually quite complimentary about humans and their ability to invent new things.

Lovely clever people, inventing cars and motorways and windscreen wipers.

He also, in a very dismissive way, puts a clear distinction between himself and Hastur with his marking of the difference between his feelings towards the 14th century and what he believes the Duke of Hell would have thought. That simple little line actually says a lot to me about how he believes he distanced himself from the other beings in Hell – it’s a clear declaration of “we are not the same”. I also find myself wondering if Crowley had little to no contact with Aziraphale during the 14th century, contributing to his dislike of the time period. We certainly never see anything of the sort – the meetings we bear witness to have a large gap between 537 and 1601, though the book and script book tells us that there was definitely a meeting in 1020, and the script would suggest that there were several (dozens of them in fact) meetings between that and the 1601 meeting.

It's interesting to hear that Hastur is concerned that he’s going to be discorporated as it confirms he’s been issued with a human body, just like Crowley, even though he doesn’t reside on Earth. I’d be interested to know if the body was issued to him in that state or whether it looks pretty run down because of Hastur’s lack of appropriate care (which would in turn suggest that both Aziraphale and Crowley have had to work towards maintaining the appearance of their own corporal beings). And whilst we’re on the subject of bodily appearances, I love the little detail that the snake component of Crowley’s eyes now fill his entire eyeball as he maniacally drives through the flames.

I have a suspicion that the size of the snake “irises” (for want of a better word) is reliant on his emotional state, but I don’t feel like I have the patience to go through the show and test the theory. And I don’t know if those little horizontal lines on Crowley’s nose were intentional here or whether that’s just a natural crease in David’s face, but they certainly strengthen the snake resemblance. As a final comment on this scene, we actually hear God telling us that Crowley really is fundamentally different from his peers – he has an imagination. Which is not so different from the idea that Aziraphale is different from his peers because he has free will, a theme that has been presenting itself, with increasing clarity, throughout the series.

Final little note for this section, and it’s about this snippet of epic:

Apparently the most amazing thing about this, according to the local bobby, isn’t the fact that the car is on fire, or that it’s just driven through a wall of fire, or that it’s still moving forward, or even that the person inside it is not only alive, but unharmed and still capable of driving. No, the most amazing thing is that the driver is waving. Gotta love the way us Brits have a way of stating simple facts to display complete amazement.

Right, this section went on for way longer than I thought it was going to so I’m going to cut it short. I was hoping to get as far as the defection of The Them from Adam, but as soon as I started watching that scene I realised I had more to say about it than I thought, so I’m going to let you go for now. As always, questions, comments, discussion – always welcome! See you next time 😊

#good omens #episode analysis #good omens season 1 #ineffable idiots #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #madame tracy #sergeant shadwell #good omens death #good omens soundtrack #crowley's sunglasses #crowley's bentley #good omens music #good omens hastur

28 notes · View notes