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delightfultheoristfox · 1 month

Text

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun.

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his.

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?�� He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin.

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this.

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking.

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere.

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight.

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #jealous simon riley #ghost x reader

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donteattheappleshook · 5 months

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WIP Wednesday Prologue Challenge

(I should probably actually do the challenge for my own event lol)

So many WIPs!

1) Not Broken At All

Killian gives a short, humourless laugh, head hanging slightly as he works a dampened cloth over the bloodied skin of his neck. “Believe me, Swan, it’s very easy to do nothing.”

2) His

She already hates the idea of this shop being sold and taken over by someone else or turned into a saloon or a tack shop or something else less wonderful and beautiful than the dimly lit, clustered little book store.

3) Honey don’t feed it (It will come back)

"I don’t think anyone knows enough about you to warn me off… or warn me on.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Sure it is.” She pulls the empty stopper away. “Sorry, Chewie, that’s all of it.”

Oh, hell, she’s bloody named it.

4) A Swan by Any Other Name (AKA Bi!Killian fic)

The quartermaster rolled his eyes. “Aye, Captain. Just remember, killing one on the first day invokes fear; killing two invokes mutiny.”

5) Madly (a Cyrano de Bergerac AU)

“And what do you feel?”

“I feel… I feel the way I did the first time I saw the sea.”

“Go on.”

“It was terrifying”

“I terrify you?”

“Aye. frighteningly powerful, awe inspiring and strong willed, I knew that she could destroy me without even intending to. And I knew that I would never again want to be apart from her.”

“And now?”

“I’m reminded of the first time I fell in.”

6) Untitled silver Killian won’t date Emma fic

“Oi! What the hell was that for?” Will gasps, cradling his arm protectively to his side. Emma slaps it again. “Ow!”

“Are you kidding me?” Smack. “After six months -” smack. “I finally get him to ask me out -” smack. “I finally get him home. And you do this.” She lands three slaps in a row to his shoulder.

“Stop hitting me!”

“No -” smack. “Do you have any idea how much goddamn furniture I bought? For nothing!”

“Ow!”

7 & 8)How did it end up like this? (It Was Only a Kiss sequel) and Pining fic (an earlier version of only a kiss)

No words yet - just vibes.

9) Optometrist fic (I don’t think I’ll continue this one tbh)

“Fine,” she sighed, deciding it wasn’t worth the battle. “How long is this going to take?”

10) Pride and Prejudice AU

It was a bright, sunny, and perfectly pleasant afternoon when Cora burst into the room and disrupted it.

“Have you heard?” She shouted, forcing all three men to jump in their seats and take note of her. Killian set down his book, wondering what could possibly have thrown his stepmother into such a state. His brother rushed to her side, trying to urge her to sit as she panted in excitement as though she’d run all the way home from the market. Their father barely looked up from his cards. “Misthaven Castle is let at last!”

11) Remember the Night AU (I forgot about this one)

“Listen, if don’t come with me then I won’t go to Boston. I can’t let you stay in this city with nowhere to go. It’s my fault you’re in this mess and I feel a certain responsibility for you.”

“You didn’t make me steal the watch,” she deadpans.

He tries again. “If you don’t come then you’re going to make me miss Christmas with my family. Can you live with that?”

..........................................................................................................

Honestly a lower number than I was dreading!

#captain swan #cs fanfic #cs ff #so many wips #captainswanwipwednesdays #cswipwednesday #what have I done.....#oh boy lol

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thebiggerbear · 8 months

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WIP Wednesday - Multiple - 2/7/24

So I've got a few things in the works and I was having a hard time deciding which one to go with for today so I put a few here. I took out any specific spoilers.

I hope they're all okay. I hope to get these all up fully very soon!

1) Beau Arlen x Female!Reader (Short Series)

You shouldn’t have been surprised at the name popping up on your cell phone but considering it was near the end of a business Thursday, it did. You had just been about to close up shop and head out yourself.

You swiped green and immediately put the phone to your ear. “Beau Arlen. As I live and breathe.” You purposely deepened the twang in your voice.

“Y/N Y/L/N. I see you’ve finally assimilated, and after I left, too.”

“Yep. I’ve got a cowgirl hat and I’ve been making appearances on the rodeo circuit,” you teased.

“As long as it’s only appearances and you’re not doing any actual bull riding.”

You smirked. “Well, when you say bull riding…”

“Y/N,” he warned, making you laugh and relax back into your chair, lifting your feet onto your desk, making one of your colleagues discreetly frown over at you. You ignored the tightass they’d assigned to your unit a month earlier.

“Oh relax, Sheriff. Eight seconds is a little too fast, even for me.”

“I was under the impression eight seconds was the amount of time you gave a guy before kicking him out the door the next morning.” You could hear the teasing in his tone.

“That depends on how the night went but usually less.”

Your smile grew when you heard him chuckling in your ear. “Goddamn.”

2) John Winchester x Female!Reader (Prompt Response)

You were running your ass off as two vampires chased you through a field in broad daylight. You were soaked through from the rain coming down in buckets, making the grass slippery and if you came across a patch of mud, you were screwed. You ignored the booms of thunder overhead and pumped your arms to try to make it to the treeline where your car sat, waiting. If you somehow survived this, you were going to kill Troy. “It’s a small nest, Y/N, three vampires if you’re lucky. You’ll be in and out,” he’d said. Well, Troy was full of shit. There had been at least twelve vampires in the abandoned building and it was a damn miracle you had survived this far.

You’d been able to take out at least four though your machete got stuck in the fourth vampire’s neck and you’d had no choice but to abandon it and run since by that point, the nest was awake and very aware of your intrusion. You had a backup machete strapped to your back and that was what helped you get outside but it had been knocked out of your hands during a melee with the two vampires who were chasing you. It would have meant your immediate death had you dived for it or tried to retrieve it in any way. So that got left behind, too.

“Fuck,” you hissed, glancing behind you and seeing how much the vamps were gaining behind you. Troy better pray they killed you because he was going to wish they had if you made it.

You reached the tree line and ran in the direction of your car, ignoring the growls behind you. If you could just get to the car, you could dive inside, start it up, and run their asses over, not to mention turn on lights you had custom built into the car for situations such as these. The light wouldn’t actually hurt them but they’d be enough of a deterrent so you could get your ass out of there.

However, your plan was foiled when one of the vamps dove for you and knocked you down to the ground. You grunted as you tried to get back up but it was too late; the vamp quickly turned you around, showed you his teeth, and ducked down to bite you. As he lowered, the last thought you had was that you were going to haunt Troy for this, possibly go all poltergeist on his ass, the stupid son of a bitch.

Before you could think anything else, the vampire’s head suddenly went missing and a bloody stump was in its place. The body went slack and you quickly pushed it off of you. What the hell? You glanced up and saw a man standing above you in a dark coat holding a bloody machete. His hood was up so you couldn’t make out his face but that didn’t matter because suddenly the second vampire was upon you both. It saw its dead companion and immediately rushed you. You quickly crawled backwards on your hands, not able to do much to defend yourself without some sort of weapon, when the man stepped forward in front of you to meet it head on. It wasn’t long before he got the better of the vampire and it went the same way its buddy had. You heard the soft thud of the head hitting the ground and you let out a breath of relief. You didn’t know who this stranger was but you were grateful. Though he only bought you a little more time; guaranteed, the rest of the nest was going to be after you once it got dark. While you had prepped yourself to go into the nest, you knew there was no way that one of them hadn’t caught your scent. And if they did, you were still screwed.

3) Dean Winchester x Bella Swan (One Shot)

He takes a breath and then proceeds over to where she’s sitting. He shakes his head when he notices a drink in front of her. “I’d offer to buy you a drink but it seems like you’ve already got one.”

She turns to look at him. “Then I’ll buy you one,” she says. She signals to the bartender and orders a double of the whiskey Dean prefers to drink on nights like these.

He takes a seat and turns towards her. When his drink arrives, she holds her glass out expectantly and he clinks his to hers before taking a hearty sip. He feels the familiar burn as it travels down his throat, settling in the pit of his stomach.

“How did your case go?” She asks.

“Wrapped it up about two hours ago so pretty damn good.” He places his glass back down on the counter before glancing over at her. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

A mischievous gleam appears in her eyes at his choice of words. "Just passing through."

4) Jason Teague x Female!Reader (Prompt Response)

You stood sentry near the end of the staircase at The Talon, staring up at the closed door to Lana Lang’s apartment. From your corner of the room, you just watched Jason and Lana running upstairs with big goofy smiles on their faces and then Lana teasing him with an almost kiss. It made you want to gag.

You fully expected that he would be up there for a while based on that puke-inducing display and you figured a latte wouldn’t hurt while you waited. But before you could turn away, Jason had emerged from the door, his face severe and troubled. You crossed your arms and waited. He caught sight of you mid-way down the stairs and his expression darkened considerably more.

He stopped two steps above you. “What do you want?” He snapped.

You arched a brow up at him. “What every girl wants. A romantic moment like you just had a few minutes ago right here in front of everyone.” You gestured to the crowd behind you that couldn’t care less what you were talking about. A smirk formed on your face when you turned back to him.

His jaw clenched. “So you’re still spying on me?”

“More like selective reconnaissance but hey, tomato, toh-mato.”

Jason snorted and glanced around the room quickly before moving down a step and fixing you with a glare. “I’ve got this handled. So you can run back to your masters like the little bitch you are and let them know that your selective reconnaissance is no longer needed.” His green eyes were darker than normal; he meant business. Too bad so did you.

You held a hand to your heart and gave him a mock look of hurt. “Ouch. That hurt. And to think, I used to let you take my clothes off and take full advantage of me anytime Mommy frustrated you.”

The look he gave you should have immediately put you six feet under. The one you gave him back should have made his head immediately explode.

5) Dean Winchester x Female!Reader (Prompt Response)

You glanced over at Dean in the passenger seat, noticing his jaw was clenched.

“What’s the matter, Dean?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “Nothing,” he muttered.

You checked in the backseat, noting Sam was watching you. He shrugged and you gave him a reassuring smile followed by a wink before you slid on the seat towards Dean. “It’s obviously not nothing,” you murmured. You leaned in to press a kiss to his jaw. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“Nothing,” he repeated. “I’m just…tired, I guess. Long drive.”

You rested your chin on his shoulder. “You want me to drive? I don’t mind.”

He smiled over at you. “No, sweetheart. I’ve got it. Thanks, though.” He quickly pecked your lips and turned back to the road.

“I know.” You bent forward to grab his box of cassette tapes from under your seat. You immediately felt a hand on the small of your back.

“Sweetheart, you make me nervous when you do that. Can you please sit up and put your seatbelt back on?”

You could hear the worry in Dean’s voice. “I will in a second, promise. Almost got it.” You almost had it fully out when Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist and began to pull you back towards him. The movement actually ended up helping you and you sat up, grinning. “Got it,” you crowed. You sat back against him, his arm still pinning you there. “Now, what do you want to listen to?” You began sorting through the tapes.

“I’m good with whatever you choose,” he murmured.

You smiled up at him and kissed him before picking a tape and sticking it into the tape deck. When the sounds of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” filled the car, Dean chuckled in your ear. “Hell yeah. That’s my girl.”

You smirked and pressed another kiss to his jaw line, noting that he seemed a little more relaxed than earlier. You were happy to see it. You knew this would do the trick. You may or may not have given a lap dance to Dean to this song in the past.

Almost as if he heard your thoughts, he leaned in and whispered to you, “Can I get a repeat performance later tonight, d’ya think?”

You whispered back to him, “If you’re a good boy for the rest of the day, I don’t see why not.”

He shook his head, chuckling, and quickly kissed you again before turning back to the road. You felt his hand discreetly move to your thigh and squeeze, and then he pulled away. “I hate for you to go anywhere but, sweetheart, please put your seatbelt back on. I’m holding you to that promise you made later and I can’t do that if you get hurt.”

You tapped a finger to your chin once you were back in your seat, buckled in. “Did I make a promise? I don’t think I did.”

Dean smirked over at you. “Yeah, you did. It was implied.”

6) Jon Snow x Female!Reader (Prompt Response)

You made a swift right turn, nodding at two harried guards as you did. They were busy trying to direct the sudden traffic of servants for Northern lords that they had no time to notice you which suited you just fine. As the men’s frustrated words faded behind you, you smiled a little to yourself, noting that this hallway was thankfully not as crowded as the rest seemed to be. You were glad that you had taken a different route to the kitchens than the direct one from the Great Hall. You hadn’t needed to push your way through the large crowd in the room and you would actually reach your destination unscathed.

That is, if someone hadn’t suddenly grabbed you, slipped a hand over your mouth to prevent your scream from being heard, and yanked you into a hidden alcove. You prepared yourself to fight whoever it was until you came face to face with a familiar pair of brown eyes, a scar trailing down a cheek from underneath the left one — a scar you had traced gently more than once with your fingers. You let out a breath of relief against the skin of his calloused hand and relaxed slightly until you remembered that you were angry with him.

“It’s only me,” Jon whispered reassuringly as he released you. “I didn't mean to frighten you, my lady. I only wanted a moment to speak with you alone.” He carefully lifted his hand to your cheek, stroking your skin softly, his eyes intent on your face, giving you a hint of a tentative smile.

“Apologies, my lord, but you must have mistaken me for the dragon queen,” you snapped, keeping your expression as cold as ice. You could see that wounded him but you had also been wounded. Like Sansa, you hadn’t failed to see the familiarity between Jon and the Targaryen woman when they arrived and you had heard the rumors of a tryst happening on their sea voyage here. At the time, you had just considered them rumors but after seeing how the dragon queen looked at Jon, you knew them to be true. You felt pain in your heart and a constricting of your throat, refusing to gaze upon the couple unless required. “Shall I send word to her councilors to ensure that she makes her way down this hall to be accosted by you and dragged into this alcove so you may have a moment alone to speak with her without the eyes of the North upon you?”

Jon heaved a sigh, his smile now gone, and he lowered his hand. “Not you, too.”

7) Dean Winchester x Angel!Reader (One Shot/Reader Request)

“Well, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I’m your huckleberry.”

As Doc Holliday lifted his head to reveal his identity, you frowned. “I don’t understand that phrase, Dean.” It was always something that had puzzled you. Granted, you hadn’t spent much time down here during the Wild West era, but you had never heard anyone going around uttering this phrase, especially in this context. Perhaps it was a pop culture thing of the times.

Dean paused the movie and turned to look at you. “What?”

“‘I’m your huckleberry.’ What does a small fruit have to do with the coming gun battle?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sam turn his head away from you both, trying to smother a smile. Dean appeared unsure of how to answer you.

“Well, I think it just means something like ‘I’m your guy.’”

“Then why doesn’t he say that?”

“Say what?”

“I’m your guy? Instead of saying ‘I’m your huckleberry’ then why doesn’t he say what he means?”

Dean exchanged a look with Sam before turning back to you. “I don’t really know, Y/N/N. Perhaps the line wouldn’t have been as legendary in pop culture.” You noticed Sam rolling his eyes and then you saw a salacious smirk start to spread across Dean’s face. “You know, if you’re having trouble understanding the movie, why don’t you come over here and sit with me? I’ll answer any questions you have.” Sam was frowning at his brother now.

You glanced at the recliner Dean was in. “The seat you're in appears to be designed to only hold one occupant at a time.”

Sam snickered and Dean shot him a glare before glancing back at you. “I know that, Y/N/N. Just like this,” He gestured towards his lap. “Is only made for one person at a time. Well, mostly. But it’s open so how about it?” He patted the space invitingly, giving you that smirk once more.

“Dean,” Sam warned.

“Shut up, Sammy. So, Y/N/N, you gonna come sit with me or what?”

Your brows furrowed, still unsure of how you both would fit in that chair comfortably, but Dean seemed determined for you to join him. You got to your feet and slowly made your way over. You weren’t exactly sure how a change in seating arrangements would shed more light on the odd phrases chosen for the characters to say in this film but it was something Dean seemed to think would help.

8) Dean Winchester x Female!Reader (Prompt Response - sequel to the "Sleep" prompt)

You finished filling the dishwasher and were just about to start it up when you heard footsteps coming down the stairs behind you. You turned and gave Sam a smile. “Did he go down easy?”

Sam gave you a small smile in return though it looked more like a tight grimace. “Yeah. One reading of Goodnight Moon and he was out like a light. Playing at the park today must have really tired him out.”

“I’m sure. Thanks for doing that.”

He gave you an awkward nod and took a seat at the kitchen table, opening up his laptop.

You bit at your lip, not really wanting to bring this up but you also knew you couldn’t take much more of this tension between you. “Listen, Sam, about last night…”

“We don’t have to talk about it. It’s fine,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand, giving you that tight smile again before looking at the screen.

You watched as he began scanning the news for any new cases, something he did weekly just to keep on the ball. If he found anything, he never actually took the cases himself. Instead, he called Jody or Donna, sometimes Claire, to let them know what he’d found and that maybe they could check out.

You both had retired from hunting right before your son was born, having both agreed that your child deserved a life free of monsters and worrying about whether Mommy or Daddy would come home that night. But it was still in both of you, in your very blood, and Sam figured he could still fight the good fight from your kitchen a few nights a month. You really wanted him to drop it altogether, something he promised he would when your son got a little older, but you also understood that it was important to him. So you tried to back off, cut him some slack, and just hoped that one day the lore books he’d taken could return to the Bunker. Before your son was old enough to start combing through texts of demon rituals.

You pressed your lips together and rested back against the counter. “I think we do need to talk about it.”

9) Soldier Boy x Female!Reader (Prompt Response - sort of sequel to "Sleep" prompt) - @deans-spinster-witch this is a tiny piece of what I was telling you about ;)

Ben quietly slipped into the bathroom, undressed, and snuck into the shower behind you. You were rubbing suds-covered hands all over the front of your body.

While you cleaned the front, Ben’s eyes roamed over the back. He was already predictably hard, just seeing you naked. You had the perfect ass and even though you still had some baby weight that you were trying to lose, in his eyes, you were fucking gorgeous. You had mournfully admitted a couple of weeks ago that your stomach was soft and you were embarrassed by the visible stretch marks and your wider hips, not to mention the few pounds sticking around. Your breasts were bigger (something he didn’t see as a problem), and you were feeling a bit insecure about your new shape. He loved the new you, which he made sure to tell you over and over as he fucked you that night. You were the mother of his kid, you’d given birth to her, nourished her from your body, and you could give him even more. It endlessly fascinated him that his seed took root in you and a healthy child grew from it, one that was half you and half him. He’d literally fucked a baby into you and every time he saw you like this, he wanted to do it again (though you’d told him your body needed at least a year or two to recuperate). You looked so fucking gorgeous carrying his kid and now, you were even more beautiful if that was possible. It was a beauty he saw when you breastfed his daughter, when you smiled down at her, talked to her, and rocked her to sleep. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t want you, on your back (or your hands and knees, he wasn’t picky), taking load after load of his until he knocked you up once more.

So he had been dumbfounded and almost incredulous when you nervously admitted all of this to him, implying that maybe he didn’t find you attractive anymore and maybe he’d prefer a flat-stomached, tighter, younger, free-to-bang-all-day woman instead. That or some old lady he wanted to get his groove on with. He’d fucked that notion right out of your head, both of them.

But now as he stepped toward you, not only was he incredibly turned on by you and how beautiful he still thought you were, but he also realized right then, just like he had many times before this moment, you were the only one he wanted. He wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss to your wet shoulder.

You let out a small gasp in surprise. “Where is she?”

“They've got her.”

“Well, I’m not doing anything with you in this shower so you might as well get out,” you snapped and attempted to wriggle out of his embrace. When you couldn’t, you huffed out an aggravated breath and went back to rubbing soap over your skin.

He nosed your wet hair out of the way to get closer to your ear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never should’ve said that shit.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you muttered, gliding soap down your arms.

You can read the full version here

10) Anael x Female!Reader (One Shot)

You slipped your mask off and tossed it into the backseat. You then held the wheel with your knees as you struggled to get the voice modulator off and sent it the same way of the mask. Ana watched all of this impatiently.

“I still don’t understand why you had to use a Halloween mask of all things,” she sniffed. “And changing your voice was a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you say?”

You rolled your eyes as you slipped on a baseball cap, sunglasses, and then took control of the wheel again. “I told you, they couldn’t know it was me. Besides, I committed the unholy trinity of Dean Winchester.”

She shot you a look of disbelief. “The unholy what?”

You made a quick left turn to head straight out of town. The more distance you put between you and the Winchesters, the better. “I shot Sam, I threatened the angel, and I left Dean tied up,” you listed. “The unholy trinity. The three reasons Dean will never stop looking for us, especially now that he knows what you look like. Which is exactly why I told you that you should switch vessels if you can, especially if you plan to stay in the States, still doing your faith services.”

Ana scoffed. “Absolutely not. This is my vessel and I got it fair and square. I healed her husband and she gave herself over to me. Not to mention, I have a brand as Sister Jo. I can’t just change that up on the fly. It wouldn’t be good for business.”

You heaved a sigh. “Ana, we’ve talked about this. The Winchesters aren’t going to let this go and based on what you told me about their angel, it doesn’t sound like he will either.”

“I have a dedicated customer base!”

“That you won’t be able to continue having if you’re dead.” You gave her a meaningful look and she huffed slightly, turning to stare back out over the road.

Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for any of these upcoming works.

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#wip wednesday #thebiggerbear writing previews #beau arlen x reader #dean winchester x reader #anael x reader #jon snow x reader #dean winchester x bella swan #john winchester x reader #soldier boy x reader #jason teague x reader

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wrencatte · 1 year

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Oooh I’m liking their whumpy titles so can I ask about “water torture” and “stress position” !! And then bc I need to feel nicer, what about “community”?

Thank you for sharing your WIPs with us!!! ❤️

<3 <3 thank you for asking!

water torture! I actually posted about this one a while ago. It's a very specific water torture I've been eyeing for a few years now to put a character through (Mythbusters did an episode about it!)

Maybe it’s the blood loss. Does he have blood loss? He might have blood loss.

Another droplet hits his forehead. He flinches. It’s almost cold with how superheated he feels – like a fever but worse because there’s no relief. Hopefully it’s not actually a fever. That would monumentally fucking suck.

He tries to tilt his head, but concrete blocks one way and then the other just leads to the edge of a one-inch lip digging into the back of his head. It makes it even more uncomfortable than just accepting the annoyance of water dripping. For good measure he reaches for his helmet, finding it just slightly out of reach. Thanks, past Jason, real helpful. He strains for it a little bit longer before his chest starts screaming at him and he pulls back.

Cool.

Drip.

Jason sniffs. Water runs down his forehead to pool in his ears. He scratches it out of one of them, but the other is – he tilts his head over. It only helps a little. He closes his eyes, listens hard for sirens or deliberate rubble shifting beyond the, quite frankly terrifying, sounds of the building settling.

Until another drop smacks him right out of it. Fuck. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and starts counting instead. One. Two. Three. Four. Drip. One. Two. Three. Four. …Five…Six. Drip. One. Two. Drip – oh come on!

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me!” Jason all but howls at the pipe.

Drip.

stress position....that one's been tricky. I keep trying to come back to it. it's a 2022 whumptober prompt. but the vibe of this one is A+ (to me)

Jason spits at their heels as the men leave the room, the door snapping shut. He misses them by a mile, bloody saliva falling short which is such a shame because their boots were so shiny. The room is dark and freezing. His shivers feel like he’s seizing instead, muscles contracting painfully, bruises and open wounds pulling. There’s a click-click, and even colder air blows in from somewhere, making him groan. Fucking hell.

He’s stung up like a piece of meat. Wrists bound painfully together and hooked on, well, a meat hook, then bound to that for good measure or else he would’ve used his impressive core control and unhooked himself a long time ago. He can touch the ground, barely, with the tips of his bare toes – because, oh yeah, they took his helmet and his shirt and his boots and his goddamn socks. The weight is hell on his shoulders. He can only stand on his toes for so long. The angle does this weird thing to his lungs, making it hard to breathe if he’s not paying attention.

"because I need to feel nicer" I am so sorry....

It only takes them a week – it hasn’t made the news yet, buried by the scrolling headlines of BRUCE WAYNE’S SON KILLED IN TERRORIST ATTACK and the unspoken agreement to ignore it. But Gothamites always know. The air had changed when Robin left the first time. Sad and melancholy and a low, simmering anger that didn’t know where it wanted to go.

Robin leaves a second time and there’s nothing useful about the word sad when it’s grief, heavy and burdening. Rage, explosive and violent. Devastation. A pleaded bargain in every broken bone and hospitalization, in every reckless plan.

The Batman – well, he disappears fully into the shadows that he never quite blended into when he had a brightly colored Robin at his side. The kid had been like a sunbeam peeking between clouds, cutting through the darkness, and letting everyone see the bright day ahead.

When Batman stopped letting himself be seen. When he stopped lingering after scenes to comfort and console.

As days and days passed, Robin never showed his face again.

That’s when they knew, and they finally had to acknowledge it.

Robin wasn’t coming back.

#asked and answered #my writing #jason todd

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lakka-arts · 2 years

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5 times that Zoltan has walked in on Dandelion and Geralt doing something suspicious and the one time it is Very Suspicious... sounds intriguing

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have wips

Ah, I see that you’ve selected my fic where I seriously need to shorten the title 💀💀

It’s not important to the fic but this one takes place inside of my magic!dandy au!

In Zoltan’s defense, Rosemary and Thyme was his property too.

He had seen Dandelion naked, bloodied and bruised, and covered in his own sick before, so there’s wasn’t really anything he hasn’t seen before. He was used to walking in without knocking and Dandelion knew it. But when he walked in and saw the two with the blanket covering their bodies up to their neck, Zoltan immediately shielded his eyes and yelled.

“Aye,” he starts. “Couldn’t you two put a bloody sock on the door? Damn youngin’s nowadays.”

This is far from the first time that he’s found Dandelion in the embrace of another person, man or woman (once even mid-pullout). But this is the first time he’s seen him in bed with his witcher, which isn’t something that Zoltan is complaining about.

He’s seen the two idiots dance around each other for so long that he really shouldn’t be surprised by this advancement, however–

That doesn’t mean that the two can’t learn to lock or at least put up a goddamn warning.

Once it’s become immediately apparent that the two lovebirds have a third audience in the room, Geralt shoots up straight, his cat eyes wide at Zoltan, his hair a mess around him. Dandelion, who was previously lying on top of his chest, falls off with a very disgruntled yell, and then he rises too.

“Z-Zoltan!” Dandelion yelps, still apparently drowsy from whatever the hell they’ve been doing with the way he slurs. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

“Came here to ask you if you wanted to finalize that decision for the chandelier to be added to the bar,” Zoltan told him, already backing away from the room. “But I’ll leave you lovebirds be.”

“We’re not… together,” Geralt says.

Zoltan stops midstep away from running the hell out of there and takes a risk by glancing at them.

Thankfully, the blanket is still pooled around their waist, and even more gratefully so, they’re both fully dressed.

“Right, so do you just always snuggle up with your best pals then?”

Both Geralt and Dandelion says their response at the same time, each with their own respective answers.

“No.”

“If they’re offering it, yes.”

Zoltan narrows his eyes at the two of them.

#the witcher #geralt #dandelion #zoltan chivay #gerlion #lost-ghost-or-kaer-Morhen #asks #ask game #magic!dandelion #magic!dandy au

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unstoppableforcce · 3 years

Text

dirty, pretty, beautiful

— “goddamn… I love to watch you work”

pairing: billy russo x f! street fighter! reader

masterlist | 5.2k | ko-fi

warnings: [18+], fighting, blood, blood kink (?), semi-public sex (? it’s a bar bathroom), slight choking, just overall violence (?) but enthusiastically consensual, all smut is from Billy’s POV

a/n: so maybe, I ignored every other WIP I have to write for billy russo. and yeah, this is 9000% inspired by the scene in 1x12 where billy is clearly turned on watching frank kill a man. but i really like the way this came out so I don’t even care

The warehouse had a stink to it. Musty, heady, metallic… Metallic like the remains of a handful of change against his palm. Metallic like waft of hot rain off the highest train tracks. Metallic like the taste of blood, coating his teeth, smothering his tongue until it was all he imagined he would ever taste again.

Fresh blood had a sweeter smell, a saltier smell even, but as more time passed, as the heat of the daily sunlight poured in through the windows left unboarded, as the frigid, damp night settled within the empty body of the building, the smell grew rancid. A ripe fruit passing it’s best by date, left to sit for far too long. A living liquor left to die, to rot, to stink. It was a smell he was far too familiar with, a smell that laced more of his memories than he cared to ever voice. A smell that, on his worst days, he found himself missing.

With hands heavy like weights, stuffed into his pockets to keep him anchored as the smell flooded his head, he managed his way forward towards the hum of the crowd. Hustlers worked the crowd, kids barely old enough to enlist waving hands full of crumpled bills and corralling bet after bet.

“We’ve got three fights! Three fights left until the main event!” One called.

“Place your bets and place them fast!” The next one chanted, over and over again, louder and louder each time a new wad of cash was pushed into his hands.

“This is a night you won’t want to miss.”

Clearly, the crowd agreed.

The itch of his sweater brought a new heat as he moved deeper into the crowd circled around the main cage, a cold sweat gathering at the back of his neck where the collar of his leather jacket met his skin. He knew better than to wear one of his suits to an event like this, but he still found himself missing the fond feel of the expensive fabric, the protective layer it granted him, the height it added to his already intimidating form. A few sideways stares told him he still stood out plenty on his own, but something about being dressed down struck a chord with him he didn’t like.

It was wearing a different skin, a more vulnerable skin, one that left him desperate in a way he hadn’t felt in far too long.

Billy Russo was a powerful man, but he hadn’t always been. It didn’t matter how many years it had been, he spent far too long walking on the edge, toeing a line. The group home, the bullies, the stares that followed his pretty fucking face wherever he went… one wrong move, one bad decision, and he could’ve ended up here under much different circumstances.

It could have been him in the ring, fighting for his next meal, fighting for his life.

His hand scratched at his beard as he shouldered further into the crowd for a better view, doing his best to ignore the brutal stench of violence and the unclean men surrounding him. It didn’t matter what feeling bubbled in his chest, nor what aching memories echoed in the back of his head, he was here for a reason. Recruiting discharged soldiers could only sustain their workforce for so long if special forces remnants and women remained hard to come by. When rumors started to grow, flowering up from the filthy underbelly of the city, a fighter to end all fights, he knew he had to get his offer on the table before anyone else could.

Anvil needed operatives. He had a job to do. The stench of blood and the avalanche of feelings that came with it, that was just… well, he could handle it. With or without his suit and tie.

“... El Tigre and the Mountain!”

The crowd roared for the first fight of the night.

There was a particular bias for the Mountain, which, upon laying eyes on him, made enough sense. He didn’t get the name out of irony, he towered over his opponent by a good foot, and no amount of speed on the smaller man’s part was going to make a difference. The fight lasted, violent hit after violent hit, but within a few minutes, the Mountain prevailed as expected.

Then another fight, just as brutal. Then another.

Watching men beat the shit out of each other, however, was nothing new. If he wanted unthinking violence and filthy brutality, he knew where he could get it a lot cheaper, he was here for overlooked skill, an underestimated killer. He was here for—

“The crowned royalty of chaos, the duchess of destruction, the princess of pain… the one and only…” his voice echoed across the warehouse, rumbling as the crowd grew uncontrollable. “The Queen of Combat!”

If the crowd had allowed enough space between where their rowdy bodies pressed against one another, Billy thought some of them might get on their knees and submit to you right there and then. Hell, the second he laid eyes on you, the thought even crossed his mind.

And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t linger.

The warehouse shook with unflinching loyalty, his ears defeaned by the corresponding cheers. Shoulders hit into his, shoved from behind, pushed by the guy in front of him, some of the crowd climbing up on the cage just to gain a mere inch closer to you. And yet, you made your way into the cage without sparing a glance to a single one of the aggressive animals clawing at the fencing, unphased by the noise, unflinching. Your chin lifted just above the noise and your graceful stature carried you the rest of the way in. Regal was an understatement, but, watching you as closely as everyone else, he wasn’t sure he even had the vocabulary to find a word that worked better.

Blood stained your hoodie, bruises scaled the ridges of your knuckles, and yet, he was sure that one word from you could summon an army out of the screaming crowd surrounding you. One word from you and Billy… well, the things he’d do for you.

His eyes locked on your knuckles, watching closely as you wrapped the brutalized skin away, then moved to your body as you tossed the old hoodie away. Scars and marks lined your torso—bruises left over from a fight a mere few days ago judging by the healing, scars from fights so long ago they were nearly faded, burns, cuts, slices, bumps… your skin was a war zone.

And he knew war zones. Shifting his weight from one foot to another, a hot pressure in his jeans apparent, he was sure he could lose himself in a war zone like that.

If the man who entered behind you was your opponent, it was clear there wasn’t more than a handful of souls in the whole arena who cared. There wasn’t a single clap out of beat, not one change in the roar of support aimed at you and you alone. He was bigger, sure, but if energy was anything to go by, he could be Paul fucking Bunyan and it wouldn’t have even come close to matching your unwavering support.

“Fighters, get ready.”

Your opponent took a few jumps, slapping his arms like he was Michael Phelps. You took one step forward, rolled your shoulders and leveled your stare.

There was no doubt in his mind who he considered a threat, who he considered a future asset.

“Tap out or knock out.” The kid stood between them reminded, and when neither of their deadly stares shifted, he nodded his head once, blew his whistle, and got the fuck out of the way as fast as possible.

But you… you waited.

Your opponent jumped at you, feigning left then right but not putting much strength either way, hoping for a flinch. A flinch he didn’t get. You didn’t even blink.

You just waited.

And when he opened up his left side in frustration after a series of perfectly blocked hits, you turned it on. He couldn’t even get his hands up fast enough.

It wasn’t like he was some nobody they pulled out of the gutter to have you fight tonight, he was clearly a skilled fighter of his own, it just didn’t matter in comparison. You were quick, controlled, deliberate. Two punches for every one of his. Perfectly placed to have him grunting and groaning while his landed with nothing more than a hiss or blink.

If he thought his sweater was suffocating him before, god, he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

He could feel the hum of his heart, and the sudden staccato everytime your fist connected with a crack. He could feel his pulse beating through every inch of his body, from his temples to his toes and every throbbing inch in between. Another hit, he could see the blood coating the wraps across your knuckles. Another hit, he could see the crimson staining your teeth.

He wanted a taste—no, he needed one.

A hit to the ribs had your opponent crinkling, a jab to the face had him spinning. A kick to the knee buckled him over, a knee to the chin sent his teeth up into his brain. As blood splattered up your bare thigh, your opponent collapsed to the concrete.

Knock out.

Even if he wasn’t truly out, he knew better than to move, his eyes already swelling shut, his unscarred skin bruised and bloodied.

The crowd went wild, but Billy couldn’t hear. He watched you swipe your wrapped hand against your chin, wiping away the blood from your lips, and he swore his mind short-circuited as his blood rerouted elsewhere. You were fucking gorgeous, you were delicious, you were his new religion, you were… Royalty.

A Queen.

Fuck, he was hard.

With your hand lifted in victory, the crowd reached a volume Billy hadn’t even thought possible, and when you ripped your hand away and moved back for your discarded sweats, the crowd again tried to swarm you. To touch you, to feel your power, to feel you up. He just watched. He’d catch you when you came back out, showered, with cash in your hand. In his experience, people were much more open to recruitment when they weren’t being verbally and sexually harassed by hoards of disgusting men with filthy leering stares.

It took about an hour, stood outside in the back alley where the late night wind beat him up with freezing gust after freezing gust, but when you came out, you were alone. That alone made it worth it.

Shouldering open the heavy metal door dressed in fresh sweats hanging loose off your hot muscles, you made it a whole two steps before you caught sight of where he lingered in your peripheral and nearly jumped out of your skin. “Staking out this door is a good way to get the shit beat out of you, you know.”

The cool bite in your tone hit even harder than the wind, but neither did anything to cool him down. In fact, his smirk only grew as you raised your chin in a stubborn challenge.

“Don’t worry, I come in peace.” He defended, lifting his hands where they held in his jacket pockets for the warmest show of surrender he could muster.

“Not interested.”

He took a careful step forward, eyes holding your piercing stare. “You haven’t even heard my offer.”

“Don’t have to.” The bag hanging over your shoulder shifted as the wind whipped by once more, and you quickly moved it down your arm as the weight found one of your more grueling injuries stretching the length of your collarbone. If he hadn’t been looking so closely, maybe you could have hidden your shrug, but he saw it all, he wanted to see it all, even as you argued back. “Whatever it is, I don’t need it in my life.”

Your feet found two more steps away before he pulled you back with his sly smile and slimier argument. “Just one drink.”

It’s not frustration that stops you this time, it’s curiosity, one brow raised as your arms cross over your chest. “Are you serious?”

For the first time, he doesn’t have an answer. For the first time, that perfect exterior cracks, his brow furrowing and his mouth left open. “What—“

“I mean…” your laugh shook him out of it, the sound something rough and throaty. “Seriously? I thought for sure you were here to recruit me for something, with this whole pretty boy soldier off-duty look you’ve got going on but no… you want to get a drink? Seriously? You waited out here for an hour in the cold because you want to fuck me?”

He cleared his throat as his stare and smirk absconded, was it really that obvious? Did he really even care if it was?

Business Billy, he reminded himself chastely.

Cutting the distance between the two of you in half, he extended his hand for a shake he knew he’d never get once his mouth opened. “Billy Russo,” he introduced.

Your smirk fell in the same second

“That Anvil guy?”

His hand pulled back and his disposition shifted to the only defense it knew, a cocky smirk and casual shrug. “My reputation precedes me, huh?”

“You take good people who get out and you toss them right back in.” The cold bite had vacated your tone entirely, and what replaced it, the heat of your righteous indignation, reignited the fire he felt when you were fighting. A match strike. A sharp cut against a stick of flint.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten it before, but coming from you… well, he just couldn’t turn his cheek to it. “I help those who can’t get back on their feet—“

“You help them get back to the hell that messed them up in the first place, you mean. How charitable.” The sarcasm was a slap to the face, and still, he couldn’t find it in himself to take a step back.

“At least I take care of my people, I pay better, I—“

Your scoff echoed around the empty alley, bouncing off the dumpsters and brick walls, reverberating in his ears until it was all he could hear. “Yeah? And just how much is a life worth to you?”

His jaw clenched. “More than the government, sweetheart.”

“That’s not really saying much, is it?”

He let loose a sigh, a breath of tension he didn’t even know he was holding as his shoulder twitched and his stare found anything to look at that wasn’t you. What was he supposed to say? What argument could he voice back? You had a point. Hell, he could see a younger version of himself making the same argument back when things first got bad over there, back when he first thought about getting out.

The sentiment was respectable, and your stubborn tenacity was nothing to scoff at, but this wasn’t about heart.

Some people just don’t make it out. Some people can’t. Why was he so wrong for offering them a path back, what was so immoral about offering the opportunity for them to profit off of what they were previously exploited for? If he didn’t do it, then someone else would. And at least… at least he cared. At least he knew what it felt like to come back home and not have a home waiting for you, to have blood on your hands so violently red that you can’t go back into the real world without people noticing.

Your knuckles, scarred and scabbing, told him that you knew too. You found your way back to the fighting, just like the ones he recruited to work for him. Were you really so different?

And still, a part of him knew that voicing that question, in that way, was a good way to get beat up.

His eyes found yours again as his hands lifted and fell back down to his sides, defeated. “You’re right, but it’s just the way things are. Not all of us come home and end up underground fighting royalty.”

Your head shook as you muffled your rough laughter. “It’s not as glamorous as it looks.”

“Nothing ever is.”

Now it was your stare that redirected, eyes dropping to your feet before you let them scale their way back up the rocky terrain of his dressed down form. Worn boots, dark jeans, tight sweater, leather jacket, and that face. That pretty face. Exhaustion buried in the bags beneath his eyes, frustration laced in the furrow of his brow, a familiarity in the darkness of his eyes, a void of everything you remembered, skilled violence and inescapable grief, a void so familiar, a void you could lose yourself in.

It was late. It was cold. And you were alone. You were always alone.

You had made worse choices.

Sucking your bottom lip in tight between the bite of your teeth and slowly letting it out, you cocked your head to the side and began working on the last of your stubborn defenses. “If I say yes to the drink, is it just going to be more of this recruitment talk?”

His head twisted into a similar quirk, his smirk slowly gaining back its traction on his lips as he took you in with a similar once over. He inched one hesitant step forward, and when you didn’t shy away from the renewed heat of his attention, he took another. “Well I mean… I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much talking we do.”

—

It had been a while since he last had bathroom sex.

His boots stuck to the filthy linoleum floor, making every shift of his footing an extra effort. The shitty fluorescent light overhead flickered in and out with an infuriating lack of rhythm, blinding one second and pathetically inadequate to see you beneath him the next. But as his fingers gripped tighter around the flesh of your thighs, pushing you down into the cool porcelain of the sink he had you sat on, he had to admit that you were right. For everything it was, at least the sink was clean.

“So…” The burn was exactly what he remembered it to be, the cheap liquor clawing at his throat as he forced the shot down, chasing it with a quick swig of the even cheaper beer you had ordered for him. “This is your bar of choice?”

There had been six shots, three for each of you to start with, but you smirked around your final shot and he couldn’t even think ahead to his second. “Is that judgement I hear?”

He could feel his shoulder tick as he corrected with a slow drawl, “curiosity.”

“There are worse bars.”

“There are better ones too—“ His hand caught yours as you reached for one of his two remaining shots, his fingers wrapping carefully around yours. “Do you mind?”

You tried to pull back but his grip didn’t budge.

“You didn’t seem interested,” you fought, following his eyes as they dipped down to your busted lips. Again, you tried your hand. Again, he refused to let go.

“I’m plenty interested.”

You could feel his grip loosen, but this time, you let him hold it there. If anything, you leaned into it. Reaching with your other hand, you brought your bottle to your mouth and wasted no time licking up the remnants of your sip left behind across your bottom lip. Again, his stare followed, his nose scrunching as something deep in his chest began to burn. Again, you leaned into it, close enough for his cologne to overtake any of the thousand other smells swirling around the packed bar.

“Actually,” setting your beer back down, your unoccupied hand found the inseam of his jeans, his legs perched open on his stool with you sat between them. “I like this bar because the bathrooms are the cleanest.”

Picking up his next shot, he couldn't help the twist of his brow nor the uptick of his heart rate as your fingers teased higher. “The bathrooms?”

“Yeah…” your casual tone betrayed the tension pulled taut between the two of you. Every point of contact had him burning. Your hand in his, a candle flame he couldn’t stop drifting his hand over even as it burned. Your hand inching on his thigh, a creeping flame following a line of detcord towards explosion. Your stare, a rumbling volcanic heat mere seconds away from erupting. The rowdy crowd surrounding the two of you was nothing, the stuttering breath fleeing your chest all he could hear.

He leaned in, his brow still furrowed in confusion.

You leaned closer, pulling your hand from his thigh to take his last shot for him. “You ever been fucked over a filthy sink, Marine?”

He prided himself on his composure, in battle and in bed, but fuck, with two fingers inside you feeling you clench around him and his head buried deep in the crook of your neck inhaling the harsh stench of industrial soap trying it’s best to cover the smell of blood, he could feel himself skirting dangerously close to an edge he wasn’t ready to fall off of yet. His dick wasn’t even out of his pants and still, when he thrust a third finger into you and saw your brutalized knuckles wrapped around his bicep, nails digging through the thick fabric of his sweater, his name falling wrecked from your lips, he very nearly lost it.

“Russo— Fuck—”

“You like that?” He challenged breathlessly back, biting down hard on your battle bruised shoulder to keep it together as you grew closer and closer to the same edge. The light flickered and his stare shifted back up towards your face. A Queen brought to a trembling mess, teeth piercing the already torn center of your beaten lip. “Yeah, you do, don’t you?”

“Shut up.” The whine that accompanied your words betrayed the cut of them and his smirk only grew.

His lips scaled the scarred terrain of your shoulders, climbing up the bruised battlefield of your neck, nipping at every inch you offered him with your head thrown back against the steamed up mirror. “Shut me up.”

Your chuckle intercepted your heaving breath, the hot pants hitting his skin and flushing his cheek. “Yeah?” You challenged, your words ghosting over his lips as he drew ever closer. The cut of your nails dug into his arm pulled back, your grip settling comfortably around his throat instead as you inhaled his violent groan. “Make me cum.”

He fought against your vice-like grip as you squeezed tighter and tighter, stealing a singular kiss from your lips. “Yes, Ma’am.”

These were his cheapest jeans anyways.

Dropping slowly to his knees, his neck pulled from your grasp and his mouth found your ready and weeping heat. With one lick, your thighs closed around his ears, one suck of your clit between his lips and one of your calloused hands found his hair while the other gripped tight to the sink for any hope of stability.

“Billy—”

His fingers had worked you too close to the edge already, it didn’t take long before his fingers, still deep inside you, found the right spot and the burning pressure of his mouth on your clit had you soaring. The beating pump of your blood filled your head, the thumping echo all you could hear as your vision began flickering in time with the ancient fluorescent over head. You could feel him moaning into you, your stubborn grip holding tight to his previously pristine head of hair, dragging you closer as your screams no doubt echoed around the small bathroom.

Maybe the music and the boisterous crowd outside in the bar would be loud enough to cover the sounds. Maybe not. He couldn’t care less.

All he cared about as he fought his way back to his feet was the lazy pull of your hand in his hair. All he could ever imagine caring about for the remainder of his lifetime was the effortless drag of your tongue over his chin and lips, collecting the remains of your orgasm before sucking him in for the longest kiss of the night. Loose. Languid. Luxurious.

“Was that up to your standards, your highness…” he murmured with a smirk along the side of your mouth, his hands scraping down to your thighs, dragging himself closer.

Your grip found itself again in his hair, tugging tight. “Take your pants off.”

“Ask nicely.”

He felt the warmth of your scoff against his cheek, but you agreed in the only way you knew how, your hand not buried in his hair dropping to the bulge in his jeans. “Please…” your lips pressed once to his chin, then to his neck, soothing the crescent mark your own nails had left. One kiss, then another, and before he could reach his hand to his own belt to comply, you bit into the mark and deepened the color. “Take your fucking pants off.”

His lips twisted into a snarl, but he had his belt off and his pants open in record time.

The condom in his wallet was only supposed to be a backup, but he had never been more grateful for his disgustingly hopeful thinking than he was to find it exactly where he had remembered it being wedged between the folds of leather. And as you pulled him out of his boxerbriefs and rolled it on with a few lazy pumps, your satisfied smirk told him you were equally grateful.

Still, your fought. “It’s not expired, is it?”

“God, I hate you.” He swore back, but his heart left halfway through the words, his chest deflating, a nearly whimpering moan leaving his lips as he pushed into your soaking folds. “I fucking—“

Your hips rolled as he seated himself fully within you and again, his breathing stuttered. If he thought he was close before, this was just embarrassing.

He remembered the ruthless violence of your fight, the blood running from your nose and staining your teeth, the strong pull between your shoulders as you landed hit after hit. He gripped tight to one of your thighs with one hand and flattened his other palm to the mirror behind your head as his pace picked up. He remembered the echoing crack as you landed your final blows, the utter brutality that oozed from you as you moved from one hit to the next. He dragged your hips closer, he pulled you flush against his chest, muffling your cries into his sweater.

He remembered your knuckles and every groan they elicited. He kissed your jaw, unable to stop himself from thinking of how many you had broken.

The rough drag of him inside of you was taunting, the feel of him so full yet your climax still dancing out of reach. It was too much and too good all at once. Too little and too overwhelming in the same breath.

“Billy—“ your broken sob tore through his chest with a heat he didn’t even recognize, a burn so heavenly he swore a sunburst sliced through him. “Fuck— Russo, yes—“

Every muscle in your body tightened around him, squeezing him, clawing at him, destroying his composure. He tried to draw it out, he tried to fight back from the edge, but your moans turned to music and his head emptied out. “I—“

“Come on,” you cooed, your words slurring as you forced his lips back to yours. He was melting, the heat was too much, searing his insides, charring his heart and fuck… he was melting into you. “That’s it.”

His nose scrunched, his teeth baring, a guttural snarl escaping his fiery chest as he powered himself even further into you. Again and again and again and— “Shit…”

You whimpered as his hips stuttered, you whined as he fell still.

“Shit…” he repeated, trying one last languid thrust as he found his way back down from his blinding high. “That was… fuck…”

“Yeah,” you muster just enough breath for a chuckle. “Yeah it was.”

He barely had enough time to catch his breath before you were pushing him back on unsteady legs, he barely managed to catch himself on the neighboring stall before you hopped down of the sink. He wanted to laugh at your sudden urgency, make some kind of joke, or pull you close and disregard it entirely, but he still couldn’t breathe. His hair fell in his face, his sweater rucked up around his waist and his dick barely soft—

He was a mess. A wrecked mess without the words to stop you. You already had your pants back on by the time he had the condom tied off in the trash, you were fixing yourself in the mirror before he even found a hold on his belt.

“You know, I know some bars with nicer bathrooms.” He finally fought, catching your attention as he fed the tongue of his belt back through. “Better beer too—“

A battering knock sounded on the door, making both of you jump. “Can you two hurry it the fuck up! Some of us have to pee!”

Neither of you two could hold yourselves back from laughing at that, breathless or not, even Billy felt a subtle heat rise to his cheeks. Not for getting caught—no, surely that was inevitable in a place this packed—but because he really didn’t care, because he wanted nothing more than to do it again.

You had to feel the same, that had to be as good for you as it was for him, god it was better than good. If you wanted him on his knees, he would beg. If you wanted to wreck his shit, he’d say ‘yes, please’—

You pressed a firm hand to his chest, forcing him back to the stall wall. Your lips hovered over his, so close, he could taste your breath. “This won’t happen again, pretty boy.”

His head quirked with a glare, your hand keeping him in place as he fought towards your lips. “No?”

“No.” Your lips grazed his as they formed around the word but it wasn’t enough.

“That’s a maybe then?”

“No, it’s not.” He could feel your pulse, the beat of your chest pounding against his as you keep him just close enough and still too far away. He could feel the lie as you made it.

His smirk only grew as his lips touched yours. “Well, if we’re not having sex, you should just come work for me.”

You hand slammed him back but he just laughed.

“Not fucking likely, Russo.”

He surged against your grip for one last kiss before you pulled back. “Well,” he sighed, slumping back against the wall and finally accepting his defeat. “I know where to find you, at least.”

Even your stubborn tenacity couldn’t hide your smirk as you unlocked the door. “Maybe so.”

That wasn’t a no.

#billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #billy russo #dirty pretty beautiful tag #the punisher

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honestlyfrance · 3 years

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first lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

thank you so much @buckyrhodey for the tag!! miss youu 💕

idk what were my last stories so i went deep for these hehe, mostly a mix of published and wips

1. A Better Starry Night (sam/bucky ; horror)

The sky was silent. There’s a thundering crack from down the horizon, heads turning down by the mountainside. It seems to be approaching — faster now.

2. the sweetest tragedy (sam/bucky; mcd) - def a fave of mine!

It's a goddamn tragedy, it's what it is. You love him but he's leaving, high on euphoria with a rank under his name, you're going to lose him in every universe and there's nothing you could do about it.

3. to cease intimacy (sam/bucky ; first date) - this makes me yearn till this day

It's that moment when your heart hitched in your throat and you're unable to breathe freely, feeling asphyxiation nipping at your veins, it’s like you know that your heart was too full of emotion to function right, too much love that sends your heart running a marathon. It was a good feeling, a blissful moment, yet there was that betrayal within it that makes you question your feelings over and over again because there’s that one question running through your head: “Why is it him?” but it’s all good, everything’s peachy-keen because you don’t have to hide it anymore — you had to show it now, however, and that was a wave of dread coming all at once.

4. hug infinitely (sam/bucky ; protective!bucky)

It’s only a fact that you can’t protect who you love from every little inconvenient thing. You can’t fix every crack in the world just so you could breathe easy thinking your love wouldn’t trip. You also can’t make the sun go away so your love can’t get a sunburn on your nice little beach date. It’s miserable thinking that the world just has it’s ways to hurt your love, but that’s reality, and to have it bother you so much, it’s only a tragedy in three acts.

5. falling in love against gravity (sam/bucky ; sam centric) - i loved exploring sam’s experience with flying in this one

Falling was a violent act. You’ll trust the fall with intent so dangerous it’s almost like a kiss with death, and you’ll love it. You’ll love how you can fall backward and have a night with death. You’ll love how you could close your eyes and never open them again. Yet, you fly instead somehow. You fall then you fly, defying the law of gravity.

6. pine (wip name) (sam/bucky/steve ; thirst tweet acc)

The thing is, it didn't happen suddenly at all. They had mulled it all over, understood the risks and consequences. It's dangerous work, and there's no assurance that they'll make it out with their dignity, but what the hell. The 21st century needed more of Captain America and the Winter Soldier pining over the Falcon; let them be.

7. (wip name after mutual heh) (sam/bucky)

Little boys growing up in grand houses and ocean views are the kind of boys who would like adventure, the kind of boys who would yearn for the woods, and cozy little cabins in farms. Instead, December comes and they grow up smoking like chimneys in winter. Yes, little boys grow up and move into cities with blinking white lights, but they always come back seeking adventure.

8. death speaks (they called it kindness) (sam/bucky ; sam centric ; wip)

They say death aches like a motherfucker. Sam Wilson presses on it like a bruise, wanting to feel something before the sensation leaves his senses. He’ll ache for it, flawlessly manipulating it, and sooner or later, he’ll resurface and regret every single bruise he’d made. They say death licks all the wounds of the forgotten faces away, but to Sam, it’s just unforgivable.

9. milkshakes in two (sam/steve/bucky ; stucky fight for sams luv ; wip)

Truth is, love comes in many forms, but the form of a fist fight at a parking lot in three in the goddamn morning, like a modern-day Achilles versus Hector except they both leave with a cut under the eye and a broken nose instead of, you know, a bloody corpse, is just as romantic as leaving cute sticky notes around the house for them to see. It’s even more romantic if they noticed it, but sometimes a romantic gesture such as a fist fight between two supersoldiers need to tilt towards the murder part of Troy before a certain Falcon could notice.

10. field of flowers (sam/bucky fatws drabble 1x03)

When you look into Sam Wilson’s eyes, maybe you might see something surreal. Maybe something you shouldn’t have seen in the first place. After all, the eyes are the window to the soul, wouldn’t it be quite intrusive to look at him so bare?

(yall know my damn first lines are chunky paragraphs long so more below 🥰 )

11. love sweeter than candy, cavities to the heart (sam/bucky)

It’s not that Sam despised the idea of it, in fact, he breathes it in like cocaine, feeling the rush and instant fall of his senses, and maybe it’s not actually drugs to him but maybe something milder, like, a kiss, one that is so slow and soft that it makes him scream at the deprivation, making himself aware of how desperate he just was about touch, literally any sort of touch, but then again, it’s Sam we’re talking about; suppressed and no-nonsense, he couldn’t possibly want something so good like some cliche grand romantic gesture that is too cheesy for its own good, and maybe it’s for the best that he keeps quiet about this want because it’s not like he gets it every day.

12. Partners (sam/bucky)

It was in the bathroom of a safe house that Sam Wilson finds himself bandaging himself up. There was a small gash on his forearm from the afternoon before; it ran down from below his shoulder blade to above his elbow, but it wasn’t as deep as it should be, just looking quite raw but wouldn’t need any serious stitching. He’s been washing the same spot with clean water from the faucet for the past solid half hour, the sound of water gushing echoing in the tiny bathroom.

13. oranges in october (sam/bucky) - this one!! this!!

You’d think that just because he had wings and he flies, that makes him an Icarus. Icarus fell to his death. He did not resurface, he did not live beyond that power. Sam Wilson soared high into the missiles of war and came back battered and red, dripping love and death as he stands in the aftermath of it all. You think he was an Icarus when he was actually Apollo. Anyone who gets close to him falls to the ocean waves, then sooner than later, he’s left singing eulogies as his heart rattles in a cage.

14. It Rains Every April 10th (sam/bucky; mcd) - this too! ive been told by someone that this was the most accurate desc of depression theyve seen

Depression hits like a wave on a cliffside — sometimes you see it coming, sometimes you didn’t see it, and sometimes you just let it happen. It sometimes gnaws at your skin, always there, but more of a ghostly hand hovering over you; there’s that presence but you think you don’t have enough proof to prove it existed. Times like these you try your best to move but you become unmotivated, absolutely immobile except for the moments your body decides to exhaust itself for unrelated things you shouldn’t be doing. It takes a toll on you you wouldn’t even realize, and even then, who else realized it? You’re just tired. You don’t cry. You’re just tired.

15. to hold dear (sam/bucky)

Bucky Barnes didn’t want a lot of things. He’s got a really low bar of standards now, even just waking up without a threat on his life counts as a win. He doesn’t even mind if there wasn’t any more soap in the bathroom; he’s just glad he’s got a shower in the first place. Breakfast? God, he’s just glad that he could walk around a house with his guard let down.

i have no more (:

tagging: @enchanted-lightning-aes @siancore @pianistwriter80 @glittercake @lesbians-love-samwilson @mariahthelioness29 @rhodeslabs @lovelyirony :)

#sambucky #got tagged

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dorki-c · 3 years

Text

Shifty Kitty (Sequel to Ms. Cheshire Cat)

Relationship: Dabi X Quirk! Female! (Reader)

Characters: Spinner, Dabi, (reader)

A/n: Bare in mind this is a drabble and is like a million years old from sitting in my wip folder :)

TW: Swearing, stabbing, use of guns, drabbly drabble goodness

It was another one of those nights when you decided to strike him in the midst of (another) errand.

Though him sitting on top of a rooftop waiting for a client isn’t much of an errand is it? But at least he was with somebody at the moment…

“The client is taking their sweet time, aren’t they?” The reptile colleague muttered under his breath as Dabi let his gaze fall down to the studded combat boots he wore when he hummed in agreement with Spinner as the male rubs his index finger and thumb around the plain silver ring slipped onto his left ring finger.

Besides the chilled freezer air stinging the rows of sowed purple scars that are stitched together by staples holding a remainder of his old life, a few distractions that came to light around him allowed the boredom, of sittin’ like a pretty duck in a vacant pond, to fly over his head.

When the metal door of the buildings entrance to the rooftop opens, the rock foreshadowing the sun’s glorious glow hanging in the sky mimics the shadow of the client ominously.

That’s when something changed. It was the smallest but (ironically) obvious sign of an upcoming interference.

Standing in front of the two villains, the stranger first spoke his apology for being ‘slightly’ late. “Anyways, to start tonight off. What is it that your boss has requested of me?” Dressed in a casual outfit, the client had a folder tucked snuggly under his arm with black shades covering his eyes like he was a type of hitman- Dabi loathes those types of people (with a motherfucking passion)- it was ridiculous for sure, but if the client decided to wear a stupid outfit, then it’s nothing Dabi could do.

“He’s asking for the folder.” Lamented Dabi.

“That’s all.”

When the tall, raven haired villain stood up to walk towards the client- one second there wasn’t a gun jabbing into the stranger’s head, however, the next there is.

And…the person holding the trigger, was a sight for sore eyes.

(A beautifully glorious sight for sore eyes.)

A familiar smile shone with the gnarly stretch of skin allowing a crescent moon to appear across their face where Dabi saw the different lengths of white sharp sawtooth that made up the person’s smile.

Alongside the deranged smile was the wide doe-like eyes encircling the epitome of mischievous intent, as it spoke; “Hello boys!” Any previous plan was scrapped and replaced with another, “Sorry I jumped into your business!”

Jabbing the barrel even closer to the client’s temple, the sinister grin combated the client’s trembling body, wasn’t a new sight to see.

“Now, good sir, I understand I’m holding a gun to your head…”

They paused for dramatic effect (of course they would to it for dramatic effect)..

“But I kinda need that folder your holding,”

A foot’s sole, belonging to a villain, creeped forward.

Snapping their head to the sound, a cat ear twitched instantly at the sound.

“I wouldn’t suggest taking another step.”

Although the male was surprised, he was annoyed at you / the intruder of this meeting. You vividly saw the tip of his toes stretch upwards in a teasing manner but rolled your shoulders in anticipation.

On the corner of your peripherals, the scaly colleague inched closer to the side, “That includes you too, lizard.” A visible scowl etched across the reptilian male’s features as his hands tensed around the rough grip of his dagger.

Letting her gaze fall onto the folder still held snug underneath her victim’s arms. “Now, are you gonna be a good boy and release that folder?” Noticing the onset of further vexation erupting from only Dabi’s facial features, the victim in this predicament whimpered with a protest of; “No!”

Saying the protest three times over earned him an award of three bang! bang! bang! in that puny little skull of his.

Glancing upwards, bending down, and plucking the folder from the soon-to-be bloodied cement roof of a building, where the male’s stood there like they had seen a ghost- “Boys, you’ve killed somebody before, right?” Teased (y/n), though no verbal response emitted from them, she just shrugged it off- and in henceforth invited herself and only herself to peek inside the folder whilst those bone-idle idiots stood there.

Dabi, however, knew you would do so. He calculated- from the day he met you, fell for you, and looked for you- to find the many things that were your flaws and strengths…

…but being a curious kitten was your only combined flaw and strength. It allowed for agile reasonings and newfound boredom for things you didn’t need anymore. The client, in this case, was sadly turned into your victim for being bored of his talking. “I knew it.” Muttered (y/n), as she sat down on the body, shot another bullet into the dead man’s shoulder just for the fun of it, and looked at her phone.

“I’m glad I got here as soon as possible.”

Spinner shot her a venomous look, “Why is that?” Another muffled shot was heard through the desolate night, “’Cause this pussy,” Dabi sighed at the knife (y/n) pulled out to stab the dead body a couple of times in his newly injured legs, “was a goddamn fraud.”

The patchwork villain doesn’t blame his reptilian colleague for looking at his girlfriend in disgust.

(He rather have Spinner look at her in disgust then stripping her with his own beady eyes.)

Shaking his head in shame, the patchwork villain had groaned at his beloved kitten’s behaviour.

“What? I’m telling the truth!” Cue three more stab wounds into the bodies legs, “This fucker…” Pointed out by (y/n)’s bloodied knife, “…was about to give you false information!” Dragging a long stripe of blood out of the body, you were about ready to puncture the victim’s bloodied leg before being picked up from sitting on the dead body and thrown over Dabi’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“(Y/n).” Snapping her head towards the face of her man, you had hummed sweetly. “What did we say about kicking a dead horse?” Dabi eyed (y/n)’s conflicting expressions stirring together some sort of outcome.

“We don’t do it, unless its for revenge?”

(Holy fuck… Spinner never thought he would see Dabi smile.)

“Now was this,” Gesturing his hand towards the ‘slightly’ mutilated body, “for revenge or boredom?” It took a few seconds to think of an answer, and I think both Dabi and Spinner were grateful.

“I think…” Murmured (y/n).

“You think?” That snapped the female into shape as she glances back at her victim.

“Okay, maybe, it was out of boredom…” Rolling those turquoise orbs for at least the second time tonight- who even knows the number, Dabi sure as hell doesn’t- and flicking a small blue flame towards the body, a hand gestured for Spinner to follow him as he listened to his crazy girlfriend ramble about whatever she wants.

“If you keep acting reckless, you’re going to get stuck in some shit.” Lamented Dabi as his grip tightened on her thighs.

“That’s easy for you to say.” Sure, the retort was supposed to be a small jab into Dabi’s ego, though his fingers seemingly tensed after the joke.

Well, at the end of it all; poor Spinner had to sit through the bickering of the couple whilst he followed Dabi take the long route to another place.

#dabi mha #dabi x reader #dabixyou #dabi bnha #dabi #mha #bnha #Spinner mha #Spinner bnha #tw: swearing #mha x reader #mha x y/n #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n

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florbelles · 4 years

Note

'rip to he' and/or 'the burke roast'?

thank you so much! 💕 i have not forgotten these, sorry it’s been an eternity and a half (as per usual).

RIP TO HE

The context here is pretty apparent from the piece, I think, especially to anyone who more or less knows what happens in Lyra’s story, but a group of the valley’s chosen is hunkered down at the ranch after they receive word that John was killed and Lyra is presumed dead (Hudson took advantage of the chaos and made her escape and the bunker is unstable but not destroyed). Lyra turns up on the ranch’s doorstep three days later looking like a corpse, and the door is opened by John’s bodyguard, Luke.

[EXCERPT]

(unedited and relatively unreviewed disclaimer here)

Something’s wrong. She’s swaying in the doorway, lips pale and drawn, skin caked with mud, dirt, blood – oh, god, so much blood – and she staggers toward him, bloodshot eyes staring blankly.

This is not their herald.

“Lyra,” he stammers. He steps back. “Praise the Father, we thought you were –“

“Where the fuck were you?”

Her voice is throaty, hoarse, low, too low, words rasping out of a dry throat. She still hasn’t blinked. Her eyes are wide, the whites showing, blazing. Her flesh is bloodless. Her side is open.

“I –“ he opens his mouth, closes it, looks to them for assistance, finds none. “We came here, after – John – he told us to get him to the airstrip.”

She’s nodding rapidly, but she’s not listening, it’s manic, wild, disconnected. Her mouth is a snarl.

“You’re not answering the question.” She stares at him. Swallows once. Luke’s eyes dart over to where they’re huddled again, and Matthew shakes his head.

“Where the fuck were you?” she repeats, quiet now. Too quiet.

“I didn’t – we – everything happened – there were –“

“Where the fuck were you?” she shoves him back, and she’s starting to break, and oh, god, her hands, her hands are wrong.

Her nails are gone, fingertips torn and bloody.

Oh, Jesus.

“Where the fuck were you?”

She’s shrieking, now.

“I didn’t – please – I –“

“Where the fuck were you?”

She yanks his head back by his hair and her ravaged hand goes to his throat, clamps that place at the base of his neck shut the way they’ve watched her do it a hundred times, hundreds upon hundreds over to hundreds upon hundreds of the unfaithful, but no, not the same at all; he coughs, his eyes bulge, grotesque, his tongue protrudes sickeningly from his mouth, and it happens so fast, too fast, there’s a crash, she’s spun him around, she’s bashed his head into the stairs.

His mouth gapes, his body stills, too stunned to fight, too stunned to speak, and she brings his head down on the corner again.

It’s impossible she should have that strength. She’s half dead, or mostly dead, or back from the dead. She couldn’t. She can’t.

But she does.

“Where” – slam – “the fuck” – slam – “were you?”

She’s smashing, smashing, and his face is caved in, bloody, unrecognizable, his skull his cracked, its insides are spilling onto the stairs, and she’s still screaming, where the fuck was he, where the fuck was he, and a piece of his hair comes off in her hand, rips from his scalp, and she seems to realize he’s dead, dead, long past dead, her breath ragged and heaving, her hands shaking. She lets out a whimper, a sob, looks from her fist full of bloody hair to the body on the stair. Her breath hitches.

She doubles over, a wail rips from her throat, erupting through her body, high, piercing, a shriek, an animal sound.

A banshee scream.

“Oh,” she whispers, crawling toward him, what’s left of him, the mangled bloody mess. “Oh. Luke. I’m sorry.”

She’s crying quietly, now, rocking, holding his corpse. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was not your fault. I’m sorry.”

She looks up, seeming to notice them for the first time, and her face is still inhumanly pale, her eyes wild.

“I did not mean –“

“We thought you were dead,” Matthew croaks.

She nods once. “I am.” She drops Luke’s head, watches it thud again down onto the staircase one final time. She nods slowly again. “I am.”

BURKE ROAST

No Burkes were roasted in this WIP.

This document is most of the scenes involving/leading up to the arrest attempt, usually from Burke’s POV (the titular roast is actually Burke mentally hating on literally everyone around him because he’s 100% done with this shit.) This excerpt is Burke and Lyra’s first real meeting; she’s circling the department to get intel on the impending arrest and seeking Nancy’s aid in getting her on the task force, posing as an investigative media contact (the reason, she insinuates, she arrived shortly before the now-vanished camera crew – untrue, of course). Burke ain’t having it; he doesn’t think much of her or of the cult leader he’s been sent to arrest, and he sure as hell doesn’t think much of this god forsaken job. It’s a rough piece, but it's a good example of how Lyra works; she doesn't directly lie, everything she says is some version of the truth, but the insinuations and implications are extremely wrong (she has been at this for months, but "at this" is working for the Project, not watching them; she did slice her palm open by grabbing a blade, but it was during her first kill when she was 18, not a recent injury; her hand is bandaged here to cover her Eden’s Gate tattoo.)

[EXCERPT]

“You see, darling —” she gestures to the WRATH sprawling across her breasts in large, angry lettering, “— it’s personal.”

“All the more reason for you to stay the fuck out of it.”

“You misunderstand.” She smiles softly. “I’m not seeking vengeance. My personal stake is an investment. I’ve been at this for months.”

“What happened to your hand?” he asks abruptly.

She glances at the bandage winding around her palm, disinterested. “Cut myself. Grabbed a knife.”

“You should be more careful,” he says.

“Hm.” She takes a drag, blows the smoke out through pursed lips, more in his direction than the wind blows.

He coughs, pointed, and wishes he had a goddamn cigarette.

“Look, we done here?”

"Burke, darling.” She’s studying her cigarette, watching the wisps of smoke drift upward. “You're not completely stupid, so I'm going to assume that you're corrupt.”

He stares at her. “The fuck did you just say?”

“Do you not find it odd?” She meets his gaze evenly. Her mouth curves with a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “You would think in this situation there would be a plant, would you not? A stakeout of some sort. Someone on the inside.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s sabotage, don’t you see?” she leans forward, more eager, now, eyes lit up, teeth bared. “Have you not wondered why you’re the only one they’re sending? Have you not wondered why we’re going in —”

“You're not going in.”

“Fine.” Her lips curl, acidic, serpentine. “They are sending you in, eyes blind, guns blazing, and you are unbothered.”

Yeah, sure, that and everything else about this fucking job.

“No guns are gonna be blazing, alright?“

“If they’ve no informant on the inside, perhaps there’s a reason for that? Perhaps you’ve been set up.” She tilts her head. “Or perhaps Joseph Seed has thought of what you haven’t. They’ve a man on the inside, is that it? Perhaps it’s you. Perhaps that’s why I make you uncomfortable.”

Fucking hell. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Perhaps that’s why you oppose transparency.” She grins at that, takes another drag. She looks terribly pleased with herself. He wishes someone would smash those over-whitened teeth in. She steps closer to him and murmurs, only inches from his face, “are you frightened?”

He steps back, instinctively, and immediately hates himself for it. He isn’t paid enough to deal with this. He isn’t paid enough to deal with her.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Look, lady, I don’t know where you came from or who the fuck you’re supposed to be —”

“You wish for my credentials? You may speak to Nancy, if it bothers you.” She drops her cigarette on the ground, crushes it beneath the red sole that’s probably worth more than his next paycheck, maybe his next five, who the fuck knows. “Is that all?”

She’s apparently decided it is, because she’s flicked the flattened cigarette butt into the trash bin and is already gliding away, hips swaying precariously close to knocking against him as she passes, ridiculous heels clicking on the pavement.

“I’ll be seeing you around, darling,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Great,” he says. “Terrific.”

Pain in the fucking ass.

It isn’t until she’s gone he thinks to wonder how the hell she got there.

#oc: lyra fairbanks #wip title meme #answered #chyrstis #v: she wrote in blood

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antis-delete-your-blogs-pls-thx · 4 years

Text

Mouse’s Reclist (#2/?)

It’s time for a second reclist! Here’s the first, if you want. This is again in no particular order. Title, author, pairing, and fandom will be listed, as well as if it’s a WIP.

The first few are going to be Snarry, because my reading list recently has basically consisted of entirely Snarry. Why? Because I fucking love Snarry. Sue me.

Angels on the Moon by Writcraft - Harry Potter/Snarry - The aftermath of the war is almost as difficult as the war itself, Harry is a mess and Severus is a reluctant survivor forced back to Hogwarts to recuperate from his injuries. When a brick-bonding spell goes awry, Harry and Severus are forced to confront hatred, misunderstandings and a new and unexpected intimacy which takes them both by surprise. Notes: This is the classic-style Eighth Year!Fic, which has long been my favourite trope in the HP fandom. It’s an especially loved trope of mine when it comes to Snarry, too, as I am problematic filth, and teacher-student relationships are my jam. It’s also a classic bonding!fic. But the way it handles the tropes is just… *chef’s kiss*

The Man Underneath by maraudersaffair - Harry Potter/Snarry - Severus is a secret Auror and must always be disguised. When Harry Potter becomes his new partner, Severus struggles hiding his true identity and burning attraction. Notes: This is more bottom!Snape than top!Snape, which I know isn’t to everyone’s taste. However, it’s fucking fantastic, and as someone who has a cathartic and self-fulfilling love of “char A is ugly and has a shittonne of self-hatred and yet manages to score super hot char B” (something that I struggle with myself and still worry how I manage to keep my own gorgeous partner over), this is perfect. Not that I even agree with J.K.’s assessment on Sev’s ugliness. I like the “goth filled with churning angst” look.

a forest, dark and deep by bleedcolor - Harry Potter/Snarry - Once, many years ago (for that is when all great stories begin, many years ago; we never consider we might be in the midst of our own great story) there lived a boy. But wait, you might say, there is nothing special about a boy living, many people do and never amount to much of anything. You would be right, but you would also be wrong, because this story is not about a boy who lived, but The Boy Who Lived, and that is all the difference. Notes: Harry is cursed and must go on an adventure to the Fountain of Youth to find the cure. I cried. I cried a lot. I cried a lot a lot a lot a lot. Happy ending, though! Fairy tale fic. One of the best fics to read if you want magic in the HP universe portrayed more like magic in ancient medieval history tends to be portrayed: mysterious, Eldritch, Occult-like power that requires strange and sometimes dangerous rituals to harness.

you like making me work for it by bottlefamebrewglory - Harry Potter/Snarry - “Before what, Mr. Potter?”//Before Snape had looked at him, drunk and miserable without knowing why, and told him that he could change his future if he wanted. Before he had pulled Snape out of the darkness he’d been determined to drown in. Before the memories. Before he’d looked into Snape’s eyes and watched him die.//Harry didn’t often change his mind, not about people. He’d been accused by Hermione more than once of being stubborn, even prejudiced. And, once upon a time, he’d thought he’d known exactly who Severus Snape was. But that had changed and Harry was no longer that boy anymore, just as Snape could no longer ever be just his hated professor.//“Before,” Harry said again, more finally.//Harry was pretty sure the fact that everyone never thought he’d live past seventeen was at least half the reason becoming an actual adult was so goddamn strange. Severus just wanted to get on with his life now that it was free of controlling old men.//Or, five times Harry flirted with Snape and one time Snape flirted with Harry. Notes: @snapedefender‘s most recent masterpiece. Post-War!fic, one of the best of. Harry worms his way into Severus’ life, as he always does. Also he has a big crush. Their interactions are golden. Everything about this is golden, in fact. It’s just delightful. Read it, please.

How the War Was Won by avioleta - Harry Potter/Snarry - Severus Snape should be dead. Instead, he wakes up after the Battle of Hogwarts to find himself quarantined in a house full of Gryffindors, waiting for Harry bloody Potter to save the world…again. And Severus must be going crazy because he can’t seem to stop thinking about Potter. (Or, where Harry needs a distraction, and Severus doesn’t refuse.) Notes: War Doesn’t End with The Battle of Hogwarts!fic. And it’s by avioleta, a longtime and well-loved Snarry writer. Well-loved for good reason! They know what they’re doing, and it shows. I’ve long loved “Harry and any number of Slytherins are holed up together and must get along” as a trope, and this nails it perfectly. Another fav was in my previous reclist, Hauntingly by ObsidianPen, where Harry is holed up with Draco, Sev, AND Tom! Fun times!

Chasing Ghosts by DictionaryWrites - Harry Potter/Snarry/WIP - “I guess I’m not ready to join the land of the living just yet,” Harry says. “Need a little more time here at Hogwarts, with all the ghosts. You know what I mean?”//In the aftermath of the war, Harry doesn't feel ready to leave the safety of the castle, and to go out into the world at large: he wants to stay. The Room of Requirement - with great reluctance - grants his wish. Notes: Adult!Harry wakes up in the Marauders Era and becomes a teacher, all while he tries to figure out the nature of spacetime. TIME TRAVEL!FIC! That’s in all caps because I love and adore time travel!fic with all my heart. Again, more of a bottom!Snape story. I used to think I preferred top!Snape, but bottom!Snape has come into my heart with a passion as of late and showed me I’m not always going to want Snape to nail Harry into his mattress. This also shows more of Snape’s backstory, with mentor!Lucius and all, which is a fav of mine as well.

OKAY! Enough Snarry, yes, sorry. Moving on!

Love Potion #9 by murderlight - Bleach/GrimmIchi - Gifted with a horrifying box of potion-laced chocolates from Urahara in the hopes he might feed them to somebody, Ichigo thought all the excitement for Valentine’s Day was done with. Then Grimmjow had to get snacky.//A story in which Ichigo is entrusted with the scientifically altered affections of his once-enemy, and might just discover some of his own. Notes: I love the goddamn love potion/love spell trope. This one highlights the dubcon nature of making someone fall in love with you (even on accident) a lot more, but still makes everyone’s feelings feel genuine and real. And of course it ends happily. And there’s no noncon, if that’s not to your taste. Ichigo is a good boy and does not stroke that pussy until that pussy is entirely free from Kisuke’s experimental serums. Yes, I made that pun.

The Edinburgh Problem by snorklepie - Sherlock/Johnlock - “A nice holiday, just a bit more...murdery. ” John said drily.//“Yes! The best kind of holiday!” Sherlock beamed. “So we won’t get bored!”//After he separates from Mary, John returns to Baker Street. Following a request for help from Sherlock's cousin Violet, the detective and his blogger take a trip to Edinburgh. John discovers more about the Holmes family and Sherlock than he bargained for, but tries not to run screaming. Notes: I fell in love with Violet immediately. I am so gay. If you are also attracted to women, you will probably join me in falling in love with Violet. She is amazing, and very Holmes. But a more balanced Holmes. Well, as balanced as a Holmes can be. I love case fic, I love Sherlock Holmes in general because of my adoration for murder mystery (yes, I am a forensics major, thank you for being able to clock me very obviously), and I love deep backstory and family bonding. It’s a long, long ride, but it is undoubtedly worth every single minute.

The Loss of Flesh and Soul by deuxexmycroft - Sherlock/Johnlock/Abandoned WIP - Five years after John Watson puts the murderous Sherlock Holmes behind bars, a vicious copycat killer emerges. A reluctant John is pulled out of retirement to seek the expertise of the only man who can help, a man who has developed an unsettling obsession with John himself.//Crossover with Red Dragon/Silence of the Lambs Notes: It’s Hannigram but Johnlock, what’s not to love? Sherlock’s characterisation in the TV show is already unsettling enough (well, in the beginning, but I like to pretend Sherlock doesn’t exist past S2), so adding in a little Hannibal Lecter is fantastic. Yes, it’s an abandoned WIP. Yes, that hurts like hell. But it’s so, so worth it anyway. Seriously, this is one of the best executions of serial killer!Sherlock I’ve seen in fandom, and given how fucking gigantic the Sherlock fandom is, hopefully you can see how big of a thumbs up that is imho!

Sinking the Land by emungere - Sherlock/Mystrade - Three weeks ago, Mycroft Holmes picked Lestrade up outside New Scotland Yard and made him an offer he'd been unable to refuse, despite his best judgement. Mycroft had sucked his cock, dropped him off at home, and Lestrade hadn't heard a word from him since.//Now, the door of the black car swung open as Lestrade drew level with it. He could just see Mycroft's profile, hawkish nose and shallow chin limned by the orange glow of the streetlight. Notes: Porn WITH plot! That’s the best way to take your porn, imho. One of the best ways I’ve seen the Mystrade relationship developed. It’s just so real. And Lestrade is so head-over-heels, which is my favourite way to take my Lestrade :p.

Clark Kent, of Krypton by TerresDeBrume - DCEU/Superbat - Batman crashes on Krypton a few days before the Turn of the Year celebrations, and Kal-El's life takes a sharp turn to the left, on a path that will, ultimately, lead him to becoming Clark Kent. Notes: Krypton Wasn’t Destroyed!fic is always, always, always my favourite. Sci-fi mystery again, yes. If you saw my first reclist, then you understand that I am always going to fall for a sci-fi mystery fic. This one develops Kryptonian culture beautifully, and equally-as-perfectly encapsulates what “Clark Kent Pretending to Be a Mild-Mannered Reporter, but on Krypton” would actually look like.

Q It Again by writerofprose - Star Trek/QCard - Picard thinks his position, as captain of the Enterprise, plays the largest role in Q's obsession with him. Q would like to take that bet, even if Picard wasn't making one. What say they try it again, from the start? Without the captain nonsense? Notes: A poignant take on Q’s weird fixation with Picard. Not that anyone can blame him. I mean, shit, the man is Jean-luc Picard. Anyone would be fixated on him. Q uses his Q powers to explore Picard in multiple alternate universes, and erases his own memories in order to come in unbiased. Picard gets to keep his original memories, and those of the AU. Does Q still like Picard as much when he’s not at the helm of the Enterprise?

American Outlaws by manic_intent - Red Dead Redemption/Morston - “Bounty’s for one ‘Jim Milton’,” Sadie said, as she got close to the man under the oak tree. “Wanted for murder, robbery, and unnatural acts.”//“Unnatural what?”///“Don’t got details on here.” Sadie passed the folded up poster to her hunting partner. “You all right?”//Arthur Morgan didn’t answer her as he smoothed open the poster. He was aggressively smoking a cigarette, his second, judging from the stub on the grass. Notes: I loved RDR and RDR2 so much that I wrote my own fic in the fandom, despite knowing jackshit about late 1800’s America. It was only a ficlet, in order to hide how little I remember from my contemporary history classes, but much more talented people than me took on the burden of whole-ass novels. Here’s everyone’s fav BNF manic’s take on a fix-it Morston, pre-RDR1 but post-RDR2. It’s excellent. Who doesn’t enjoy forbidden love historical romance? Especially with a delicious helping of age gap. If you’d like Vandermorgan or even Vandermorston, check out more of manic’s stuff, and also kriegersan, who is another long-time fav of mine.

Every Deckerstar fic by wollfgang. But especially a softer beginning, an amnesia!fic, and if you saw all of me, a true form!Lucifer!fic. You know, since angels are described as weird Eldritch beings in ancient texts. Both tropes are my favourite. Also that latter one has monsterfucking and we are all monsterfuckers here.

A Modest Proposal by ignaz - House M.D./Hilson - Tritter's case against House still depends on subpoenaed testimony from Wilson. To save House from losing everything, the doctors of PPTH decide on an unusual solution, which in turn leads to unexpected consequences. This is a story about the sacrifices we make that turn out not to be such great sacrifices after all. (Contains spoilers for everything up to and including "Merry Little Christmas.") Notes: Work 355 on the AO3. It’s that OG. And for an OG slash fandom, too. Well, not Star Trek levels of OG, but it’s a fandom based on Sherlock Holmes, and ACD did come before Star Trek! You’ve probably read it. It’s the OG Hilson Pretend Marriage!fic. But I had to rec it because when I get bored I watch House on Amazon Prime (or the thousands of clips they upload to YT nowadays), and I always am struck by HOW GAY HOUSE AND WILSON ARE OH MY GOD. I can never watch it with Mum in the room, though, because she was in the medical field before she retired, and the unrealistic nature of how House characters behave (and some of the medical procedures) make her SOOOOOO peeved. Though doctors, especially surgeons, were apparently huge egotistical dicks at times. Maybe not kill your own patient levels, though.

In A Place Where No One Appeared by Gefionne - Star Wars/Kylux - Following the destruction of Starkiller Base, General Hux is ordered to remove a wounded Kylo Ren to a place where he can recuperate. Knowing nowhere else to house him safely and discreetly, Hux takes Ren to his family’s estate on Arkanis. He anticipates adding this experience to the already long list of abhorrent memories he has of his childhood home, but six weeks in company with Ren turns out to be something quite unlike Hux expected. Notes: The imagery is so fucking vivid, I love it. The entire world of Arkanis is just lit up so beautifully in Gefionne’s words. This takes a little liberty with Hux’s backstory, given there wasn’t too much out at the time, but it’s so fucking good, I’d prefer its canon to the actual one, lmao.

all that you love will be carried away by coldhope - Star Wars/Kylux - Supreme Leader, the oscillator is failing. The collapse has begun. There is nothing that can be done.//Hux, sent to retrieve Kylo Ren from the dying Starkiller Base, has lost almost everything, and has little patience or tolerance left for anyone or anything--particularly not Snoke's pet pseudo-Sith and his amateur theatrics. But you do the job that is in front of you, to the best of your ability, and you hold on as long as you can. Notes: One of the first Kylux fics, and one of the best. Their relationship is just so real here.

London Calling by SectoBoss - Overwatch/WidowTracer - Recaptured by Overwatch, Widowmaker is sent on a mission to assassinate a high-ranking Talon agent in London. It should be an easy mission – get in, take the shot, and leave. But when Tracer’s your getaway pilot a lot of things can go wrong, and things like 'subtlety' and 'discretion' tend to be the first casualties. Now, lying low after the mission goes awry, the pair of them have to survive in the city until Overwatch can get them home. Notes: Written when OW was in its heyday. And before the fandom was qqqquite as bad as it became. A WidowTracer case!fic, with Amelie as the reluctant good guy, which is always the best trope and I don’t take concrit on this point.

To the Victor, The Spoil by Annakovsky - Hunger Games/Haymitch/Katniss - No berries, no mockingjay, no rebellion. Katniss killed Peeta in the arena, and now she has to live with herself like every other victor. Notes: An old fandom, an older fic, back in the day when nobody complained about fucked up dark!fic. And fucked up dark!fic this is. Rape, age gap, age gap rape, Katniss losing all hope about the future, etc. But damn, it’s good.

The Want of You by MKK - Star Trek/Garashir - Julian Bashir is not quite sure yet about his feelings toward his enigmatic new friend Elim Garak. So when they both show symptoms of a mysterious illness, it seems they'll now have more time apart to ponder the future of the relationship. Their symptoms worsen, however, and to their shock, they discover there's only one way to effectively and inexplicably ease the pain: getting physically closer and closer - and closer. Notes: A forced bonding!fic where Bashir doesn’t actually know Garak all that well. As in, set very early in the canon. Very early. Which is my favourite way to read this beloved trope, because the whole fun of it (imho) is characters who barely have a grasp on each other’s personalities being forced to learn them.

Timeshare by astolat - Harry Potter/Drarry - “It’s not for long,” Hermione said. “By the time we get back to Hogwarts, the Unfettering Brew will be ready.”//“Listen to you!” Ron said. “He’s got to get through a month with the Dursleys and a month at Malfoy Manor. With Draco Malfoy.”//“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said, because he hadn’t just spent the last week contemplating just how much more horrible his summer holidays were about to be than they’d ever been before. Notes: Another forced bonding!fic, this time by AO3’s own founder. I love it. I love it, I love it, I love it. Their interactions here are perfect.

Speaking of Drarry, here’s a Veela!Draco fic I’ve recced before, but I don’t believe was in the original masterpost.

Talk to Me by Saras_Girl - Harry Potter/Drarry - When the usual channels of communication are shut down, the most surprising people can find a way in. A strange little love story. Notes: Harry is temporarily deaf and blind thanks to a misaimed spell. Draco takes care of him, in secret. Identity porn at its best.

Semaphore by DevilDoll - MCU/Stony - "I’m trying to like you, Tony. You’re just making it very hard." Notes: I wanted to rec another OG. One of the first Stony fics in the MCU, and still one of the best. It holds up very, very well and is worth a read if, by some miracle, you haven’t already.

Prisoner’s Dilemma by AvocadoLove - MCU/Stony - After taking the airplane down in the Arctic, Steve wakes to find himself imprisoned as a human test subject. With no idea where in the world he is, his only ally is a fast-talking inventor in the cell next door. Something’s off about Tony that Steve can’t put his finger on, and it’s obvious Tony doesn't fully trust him either. But to escape they may not have a choice… Notes: IDENTITY PORN! And it’s by an author I adore. AvocadoLove has pioneered the MCU MattFoggy fandom, and also donated their efforts and words to Stony. It’s the best. And it’s canon divergence! Which is another favourite trope, and one I can’t ever seem to stop writing myself. I have a lot of appreciation for it.

Speaking of MattFoggy, all of theapplepielifestyle’s works for the pairing are amazing. And all of their works in general.

Belief Space by magicasen - Marvel 616/Stony - The Time Gem appears not when it is wanted, but when it is needed. Steve learns this the hard way.//(Or: an Infinity #6 AU where Thane refuses his birthright and the Avengers are doomed - until the Time Gem shows up within Captain America's grasp.) Notes: A 616!Stony fic, if you’re craving something in the comics rather than the movies. Still with Civil War angst and Stony angry tension, just this time it’s even more painful, because their friendship in the comics!verse was beautiful and their fallout even more devastating.

This time tomorrow (where were we?) by dorcas_gustine - Marvel 616/Stony - Tony goes to see Wanda, and suddenly Steve is alive and there are Skrulls! Or maybe Tony is just going crazy. Nothing happens in this fic, until the very end. Seriously. There's a lot of talking, mostly at inopportune moments, Tony's views on the acceptable gifts to give people are slightly different from everyone else's and he spends more time than would seem necessary being (half-)naked. What else is new? Notes: More 616 for your Stony needs! Tony time travels into a word pre-Secret Invasion and decides to fix things his damn self.

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) by praximeter (Zimario) - MCU/Stucky - “They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips.//Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions—//“Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.”//Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.” Notes: TWS Identity Porn!AU. Gore, given that the Winter Soldier’s mask is literally stuck to his face. But it’s excellent.

Simple by Osidiano - MCU/Stucky - Written for the capkink meme; "To the Winter Soldier, there are basically three kinds of people in the world: superiors, mission support, and targets. He doesn't have the context to understand things like friendship. So what he sees in the Smithsonian exhibit and what little he remembers or feels about his past, he interprets in that light. He thinks that Steve must have been his handler during World War II. That the reason he couldn't kill Steve and the reason he was smiling in the museum photos was because Steve was a good superior who treated him well (or at least didn't hurt him like Pierce and Rumlow, which to him might be the best he can imagine).//Thinking he understands the situation, he decides to report to Steve. Cue misunderstandings, confusion, and heartache for both of them." Notes: Bucky taking a while to snap out of TWS mode is one of my favourite tropes. This fic executes it perfectly.

Bridge Over Troubled Water by soniclipstick (veriscence) - MCU/Stuckony/Phlint - Ultron is destroyed, the Avengers are in disarray, and the Winter Soldier is still in the wind. Steve knows that he has to fix the ever-growing ocean of distrust between Tony and himself, so he takes a leap of faith and tasks Tony with the most important thing: finding Bucky Barnes. But it takes a pair of sexy but stolen hand warmers, several robots, Hawkeye and countless selfies before Steve realises the immensity of what he's set into motion. Notes: I would die for Stuckony as a ship. It’s one of my favourites to read and to write, and this fic here encapsulates it quite frankly in the best way.

Strange New Worlds by Leletha - Supernatural/Destiel/Sabriel - AU…THE FUTURE: Humanity survives everything, spreads to the stars, and finds it needs to know where it can land. Enter interplanetary explorers Sam and Dean Winchester…and sentient starships Gabriel and Castiel. Then ships and crews start disappearing out in the black and, as usual, all goes straight to hell. Notes: I corresponded with Le’letha when they originally wrote this fic, and my love for it has only grown in the years since. Sci-fi mystery, yes. Dude, Castiel is a sentient spaceship. That itself is premise enough.

In His Image by Anonymous - Supernatural/Sabriel - Kali can breathe life back into a corpse, but what exactly is Gabriel now? Gabriel flits around various centuries trying to work that out, Dean has another powered-down angel and a little brother to look out for, Castiel has forgotten how to trust, and someone keeps sending Sam annoying little notes on his laptop. Oh, and Bobby would like to remind you all that there’s an Apocalypse still going on. Covers season 5 from Gabriel’s death to the finale. Notes: My favourite Sabriel fic. God only knows why the author abandoned it. I have their original name, but it doesn’t feel right to reveal it when they made the conscious choice to anonymise. Let me just say that they were a favourite of mine.

If You Were the Last Woman on Earth by Vali - Doctor Who/Thoschei (Twissy) - Just because your best enemy accidentally destroyed planet Earth is no reason to refuse her hospitality. Written for the Only One Bed fanfic challenge. Notes: That last note doesn’t even begin to cover how wonderful this fic is. Tropes are irrelevant, this captures them perfectly. Still one of my fav ever Thoschei fics. Now just get me one where The Master calls our titular hero Theta Cubed Sigma Ex Squared Lungbarrow, please.

A Wealth of Sorrows by evelynwaaaaah - Dragon Age/Solavellan - Things are getting back to normal in Skyhold now that Corypheus is gone. Until the Inquisitor collapses in mid-conversation. Notes: Solavellan is still a ship I would die for. This fic will make you ship it, if the game didn’t already. And this is coming from someone who romanced Cullen on my first playthrough.

Reclamation by copperbadge - Harry Potter/Background Jily and Wolfstar - In an alternate universe, one man still struggles with a moral decision made many years before. Notes: What if Tom Marvolo Riddle wasn’t quite the same maniac of the canon!verse and was accepted to the position of DADA professor? By the esteemed copperbadge.

Truth and Illusion by penny_dreadful - Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magica/MadoHomu/KyoSaya - “I’ve, um, been dreaming.” She closes her eyes because it’s easier to ignore Mami and Homura’s stares. “In, in my dream I’m still in bed, but I-I’m not alone, Sayaka’s next to me but she’s not breathing, she’s—”//She’s pale and cold and pretty in the same way the stained glass windows of Kyoko’s father’s church are pretty and she’s lying so still she can’t be anything but dead. But in her dream Kyoko still curls around her, soul gem in hand, keeping her warm, keeping her safe—//“—she’s dead, I didn’t even know her that well and she’s dead and in my dream I’m so, I’m scared that there’s nothing I can do.” She opens her eyes. “But there really is nothing I can do. She’s already gone, and we left her there.” She stares hard at her hands. “We weren’t really even friends.” Notes: Not really a fix-it for MadoHomu, but certainly one for SayaKyo. Homura does more spacetime bullshit. Kyouko remembers.

~~~

I think that should cover it for now! That took me ageeeees, and I have games to go waste my life on and fics to write now lmao. Let me know if you want a third installment!

#fic recs #recs #fic rec #long post

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actualbird · 5 years

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and for this rec list for @dghdafeedbackfest, it is time for the TEARS!!!!! here are some fics that made me cry real actual goddamn tears, many times in public. be warned and have tissues ready if you decide to embark on these fics!!!

in this world, we’re just beginning by cakesnake, nosecoffee

“I'm going to solve a mystery.” He tells Todd proudly.

Todd snorts. “Because you're a detective?”

“Correct. And you're going to help me.” Again, telling him, there is no question, Todd is intrinsically linked, he can feel it.

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“This place is legitimately paradise, there's nothing to be solved, no mysteries here.” He shrugs, and takes another sip of his drink.

“If this place is such a paradise then why aren't you having fun?”

( A San Junipero AU )

CONTENT WARNING: DEATH. it’s a san junipero AU and if you dont know what that means, i implore you to quickly google it before you endeavor on this fic, just like i did. will that make you cry any less now that you know whats going to happen? ABSOLUTELY NOT. i read this fic right before an 8am class and my eyes were RED from BAWLING. the emotions in this fic are intense and really god me in the heart but also made me believe love is real.

I Can't Tell One From the Other (Did I Find You Or You Find Me) by Lavellington

"I can't possibly meet your parents on Sunday, Todd! It's too soon! I haven't done any preparatory research!"

"Yeah," Todd says, "we all know you're Mister Preparatory Research."

Todd's still trying to Fix Things with his family, and he's not sure if introducing them to Dirk Gently counts as progress in that department.

part of a series!!!! the whole series is wonderful but this fic is really my favorite of the whole thing. it doesnt look like itll make you cry, but it will, oh it will. i love this fic so much because it’s the kind of hurt that feels like pulling out a splinter. it has to happen to get better. wonderful piece.

and i could give you all the olive trees by orphan_account

Todd opened his eyes to a vision of dancing white and yellow blobs.

‘Daisies,’ he croaked.

‘I told you to run,’ Dirk said.

(Dirk and Todd get captured by Blackwing. It's no picnic.)

CONTENT WARNINGS: BLACKWING, VIOLENCE, AND INJURY. this fic is not for the faint of heart but if youre a fan of seeing characters get hurt but never give up this fic is gonna be amazing for you

The Only Way Out is Through (Or: How to be Almost, Mostly, Okay Again) by electricteatime / @kieren-fucking-walker

"Terrible as it is, it’s easier to cling to the hope that there were good reasons for what they did. That the people who treated him well were at heart good people, and they hadn’t just been lying to him the whole time, that the small amounts of affection he’d been given were real and tangible. Even when he knows the truth somewhere deep inside it doesn’t mean he wants to acknowledge it.

But, like all things, it’s only a matter of time."

*** The only thing Dirk Gently has ever learned to do with his trauma, is shove it down as deep as it will go, lock it away, and hope that ignoring it means it isn't really there. For a while at least, it works. But when the past comes knocking looking to make amends, and pretending that none of it was as bad as it seemed isn't an option anymore, the delicate balancing act he's been practicing for years finally tips over the edge.

Healing is painful, recovery isn't linear, sometimes you have to tear everything down before you can start to rebuild.

His own demons might be the scariest thing he's ever had to face, but it's not something he has to do alone, and in the end that makes all the difference.

OHHHH MANNN OKAY OKAY SO. this fic is my all time favorite wip right now. i patiently wait for new chapters like a frothing at the mouth chihuahua waiting for a treat. this fic contains some real heavy stuff in terms of dirk’s trauma but more importantly, dirk’s recovery, and it is handled so goddamn well. this fic makes me cry, but it also gives me hope. do you want dirk gently to Get Better? THIS FIC IS FOR YOU!! PLEASE READ IT, I LOVE IT A LOT!!!

All Roads Lead to Nowhere (Except the one that Leads to You) by electricteatime

Todd’s heart stops. Or it feels like it does because… that’s a voice. That’s a human voice. That’s a human voice that he must have been hallucinating. He’s been driving too long, drunk too much coffee, didn’t get enough sleep last night he’s just-

“Bloody hell, it’s dark in here.”

Nope. Todd scrambles to open the car door and flings himself away from the vehicle, stumbling backwards until he lands on his ass, staring at the car with wide eyes and struggling to catch his breath past the sheer terror that’s overcome him all of a sudden.

This isn’t happening. ***

Todd knows the work he does isn't the most morally sound, being a delivery guy for a local gang was never going to to be, but the job is good, the pay is better, and no matter how temporary it was supposed to be when he started he has no intention of stopping now.

Then a strange man with an even stranger name wakes up in the trunk of his car, and everything goes to shit.

this is one of the first few fics i read for this fandom and i am blown away every single time i reread it. todd’s characterization in this fic hits the ball out of the park, and characterization and journey are just done so well it brings tears to my eyes. gorgeously crafted fic!!!

(He Wouldn’t Say) Kidnappings Were a Routine Part of his Career by Bumblie_Bee

Dirk is woken by something colliding with his face. Hard. He opens his eyes, and at first the room around him is hazy and dark, but as his eyes adjust and the blurriness clears a little, he sees he’s in what looks to be a warehouse and realises that the ‘something’ that had collided with his face was, in fact, probably a fist. Which would make it more of a ‘someone’ than a ‘something’, if he’s going to be precise.

CONTENT WARNINGS: VIOLENCE AND INJURY. okay this is straight up whump with comfort but goddamn do i love whump and comfort. what i love so much about this fic is that it doesnt just whump the hell outta dirk, it makes dirk go through the messy process of physical recovery. it’s so so difficult, and that makes me cry. oh but what an honor to cry for this fic!!!

you are the one (you hold me in my place); by unintentionallyangsty

three months after the events of Bergsberg and Wendimoor, Dirk is kidnapped again.

following this, it becomes very clear, very quickly, that Todd hasn't yet taken the time to mentally process the drastic shift that has taken place within his life, leading up to this point.

this is the aftermath.

CONTENT WARNING: BRIEF SELF-HARM. this fic is pretty intense on the emotions and it makes me cry because it is so apparent that the trio care about each other so much!!! wonderful look into how todd is dealing (or not dealing) with everything happening

if you cry reading these fics, dont forget to drink some water to re-hydrate!!! also dont forget to leave a comment to show these fic writers some love!!!! happy (or not so happy...) reading :Dc

#dghda #dirk gentlys holistic detective agency #fic

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wistfulcynic · 5 years

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Words Unspoken 1 / 2

Part, um... *counts on fingers* ... part seven of Secret Things. This one featuring roommates and a metric fuck-ton of mutual pining, and problems that wouldn’t even exist if these two would just say what’s in their hearts. But OF COURSE THEY WON’T. Not while sober, anyway.

Summary: Emma and Killian have been best friends for five years, roommates for three, and in love with each other since the moment they met. Their timing is awful and their communication even worse, until Killian takes a drastic step that finally forces them to talk about their feelings.

Words: 4.6k

Rating: T (for now)

On AO3

(This is a WIP from a while ago that I kinda didn’t plan to post, so not tagging anyone. But there will be a chapter two, so give me a shout if you’d like a tag for that.)

Chapter One:

Emma stumbled out of bed and into the kitchen, heading half-blindly in the direction of the coffeemaker. She grunted when she collided with a tall figure who was already there, pouring herself a cup. Emma winced as she spat long, curly hair out of her mouth and tried to focus her sleepy eyes.

“Ugh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Milah gave her a tight smile. “Killian and I were at Antonio’s last night, and we had a bit too much to drink. Here is closer than my place.”

“Makes sense.” Emma scooted around the taller woman to get to the cupboard, pulling out her coffee cup and filling it as Milah watched. Wordlessly, she handed Emma the milk.

“Um. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Milah stepped back and gave her an assessing once-over. Emma tried not to squirm, tried not to think about the tangled mess of her hair or what her face must look like. She hadn’t bothered to wash her makeup off last night, had barely even got her contacts out before she fell asleep. Raccoon eyes surrounded by thick-rimmed glasses was probably not a great look. Milah on the other hand looked fantastic, cool and elegant, her curly hair perfectly tamed despite the early hour. Emma wondered snarkily if she’d be able to pull that off by the time she was Milah’s age.

“Late night?” Milah asked.

“Just work.” Emma sipped her coffee, wishing the woman would just go back to Killian’s room and leave her in peace.

Or as much peace as she could hope for when she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about what Milah and Killian were doing behind his door. At least when they went to Milah’s she could put it out of her mind.

Well, almost out.

“Mmm,” said Milah as the kitchen door opened and Killian appeared. He also had messy hair and tired eyes but on him they looked good, rumpled and sexy. He was so goddamn unfair, thought Emma, determinedly looking away from him, missing the way Killian leaned in to kiss his girlfriend before spotting his roommate, the way his lips deviated at the last minute to land on Milah’s cheek instead of her lips. Missed the flash of irritation in Milah’s eyes.

“Morning, Swan.” Killian sauntered across the small room and leaned past her to get his coffee mug. His smile was soft and his eyes warm but Emma saw neither, keeping her gaze firmly on her coffee. “Late night?”

“Et tu, Jones?” Emma muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’m gonna go drink this in my room.”

“Wait, Swan,” he stopped her with a hand on her arm. Emma forced herself to breathe normally. “Don’t you want any breakfast?”

“No.”

“You need to eat something, love.” His voice was so soft, so affectionate.

She hated affectionate.

“I’ll have a Pop-Tart later.”

“Something with some actual nutritional value,” he teased, his fingers moving gently on her arm.

“Killian, leave her alone,” Milah snapped. “She’s a grown woman, she can eat what she likes.”

This really should be a supportive, stand-up-for-the-sisterhood kind of moment, thought Emma, but instead she just felt judged. Let her eat what she likes, she’s a lost cause. Milah’s face was blank, her pale eyes hard. No sisterhood there.

Emma forced a smile. “I’m fine, really. Not hungry. I’ll have some lunch later, and I promise it’ll include something green,” she said, before Killian could interrupt.

“All right, then,” he said with a grin, removing his hand so she could make her escape.

An hour later Emma was functionally caffeinated and her face washed clean, and she was definitely not standing with her ear pressed to her bedroom door listening for the sound of Killian and Milah leaving the apartment.

Okay, she was. But she’d had a hell of a rough night; her skip had been hard to locate and even harder to take down, and all she wanted was to spend the day vegging on the sofa and watching soothing television. Something she absolutely could not do with Milah in the apartment being put-together and disdainful all over the place. Emma knew she was a bit of a mess and had no problem with that aspect of herself, but she hated being judged for it. Especially by Killian’s wealthy-divorcée girlfriend who’d never had to work to make ends meet.

She heard the sound of their voices, heard the front door open and close, then silence. She gave it another minute then ventured tentatively into the living room, surprised to find Killian there on the sofa wearing his pajamas and a brooding expression. He looked up when he heard her approach and a bright smile broke across his face.

“Hey, Swan.”

“Hey. Did Milah leave?”

“Yeah, she had a pedicure or something. You want to watch some Bake-Off?”

“Very much.”

Killian patted the cushion beside him. “Come on, then. Let’s waste the day away with mindless television.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

“Maybe a little. Though definitely not for green things.”

He smirked. “Go get yourself a bloody Pop-Tart, I’ll get the show ready.”

When she returned from the kitchen he had the show queued up and a blanket ready to tuck around her feet when she curled them under herself and snuggled against his side. He slung his arm along the top of the sofa, his fingertips brushing the sleeve of her shirt as she let her head fall against his shoulder, nibbling her Pop-Tart and relaxing into contentment.

As they watched mild drama unfold within the pastel tent Emma let herself pretend, just for a moment, that they were together —really together— and that this was their life. Spending a lazy Saturday afternoon watching TV, after which she would allow him to cook her something healthy and they would eat it at the kitchen table like real adults and then they would go to bed. Together. She sighed. She wanted all of that, so damned much.

Killian turned his head, his lips just brushing her hair. “All right, love?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” she replied, pretending. “I’m fine.”

They watched three episodes, then Killian hit ‘pause.’

“I should probably go get ready,” he said. “I’m meeting Milah for dinner.”

“Okay.” Emma tried to keep her voice neutral as his words punctured her lovely fantasy bubble. It never did last long, that bubble.

He frowned at her, something odd and sharply assessing in his eyes. “I can cancel,” he offered. “Stay here—”

“No! You have a date! Go! I’ll probably call Mary Margaret and Ruby, see what they’re up to tonight.”

“Okay, well if you’re sure.”

“Definitely.” She gave him a bright smile. “Go.”

She put on Four Weddings and a Funeral and refused to feel sorry for herself, even when Killian left the apartment an hour later looking heartbreakingly gorgeous. She’d take her cue from Kristin Scott Thomas’s Fiona, thought Emma firmly. If Fiona could spend years in unrequited love with her best friend and still be fabulous, then so could she.

So could she.

“So how was your day?” Milah asked as they sat down at a cosy table in her favourite restaurant. A waiter poured them champagne without being asked; Milah was well known here.

“Oh, fine. Nothing special, I just spent the afternoon with Emma. We watched some TV, talked a bit.” Killian smiled as he recalled it, the pure peace and comfort of sitting on the sofa with Emma pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder. Her hair tickling his chin.

Milah set her glass down with deliberate control and laid her hands flat on the crisp white tablecloth. Her lips pressed into a firm line. Her nostrils flared.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.

Killian frowned. “Can’t do what, love?”

“This.” She gestured between them. “I can’t keep dating a man who is so fucking obviously in love with someone else.”

“What? Who?” What had he done, Killian wondered. Milah never swore unless she was truly furious. What had he done, or said, to set her off?

She gave him a look so dirty he immediately wanted a shower. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He racked his brains. “Do you mean Emma?”

“Who the bloody hell else would I mean?”

“But Emma and I are just—”

“Don’t you fucking dare say ‘just friends,’” she hissed. “I’m not an idiot, Killian, and I’m not blind, though apparently you are both those things if you’re really unaware how you feel about her.”

Guilt stabbed at Killian. He’d tried so hard with Milah. “I—”

“No, don’t say anything,” she interrupted, making a sharp gesture with her hand. “I should never have let things go on this long, but I really liked you and I hoped if I tried hard enough to be what you needed you might forget her. But you never will. And I can’t keep being the second choice for my own boyfriend.”

“Milah, please.” Killian took her hand. “You know how much I care for you—”

“Yes I do. Exactly how much.”

“—and there’s nothing between Emma and me. Surely you know that as well.”

“I do. I know you would never cheat. But you want to, and that might be worse. Killian, you should see the way you act when she’s around. You want her so much you can’t even hide it. You take every opportunity to touch her and the way you look at her…”

“Does she know?” He winced the moment he spoke the words, but it was too late to take them back.

Milah looked stricken, just for a moment, then she closed her eyes on a sigh. “Well, that’s pretty definitive,” she said quietly.

“I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head. “You can’t choose who you love. None of us can.” She threw her napkin on the table and stood. “Goodbye, Killian.” She moved to go, then stopped, turning back. “Oh, to answer your question, no. She doesn’t know. She’s as much of a blind idiot as you are. You two fucking deserve each other.”

When Killian got home Emma was still curled on the sofa, a pastel tent on the television screen and an empty carton of ice cream on the coffee table. He kicked off his boots and sat down next to her.

“Are you watching Bake-Off without me?” he asked.

“We’ve seen this one already.”

“Oh yeah.”

She frowned at him. “What are you doing home, anyway? I figured you’d stay at Milah’s.”

He looked at her, at her eyes obscured behind thick-rimmed glasses, her hair in a messy ponytail. He could count the freckles on her nose and she had a trace of chocolate from her ice cream on the corners of her mouth.

She was so beautiful, he thought helplessly. And Milah was right. He was in love with her.

He knew he was, of course, he’d known it for years. But knowing was not the same as admitting. Admitting he loved Emma meant admitting that he’d spent years pining for things he could never have. It meant admitting that he’d fucked everything up, that he’d missed his chance when she finally broke up with Neal. Not wishing to be her rebound guy he’d waited… too long, as it turned out, and Emma had found her rebound guy in Graham instead. A rebound that had lasted more than a year, while Killian drowned his regret and jealousy in rum and a series of relationships that burned with intensity then fizzled once the initial attraction had passed. None of the women he dated could stand up to Emma, something he always knew and they soon discovered.

Worst of all, admitting he loved her meant admitting that if he ever hoped to have something real —marriage, kids, a lifetime with someone who loved him back— he was going to have to let her go.

He couldn’t have Emma and he couldn’t commit to anyone else while she was still in his heart. And that was the true root of his denial, the awful, heartbreaking choice that admitting his feelings would force him to face: accept that he’d always be alone or somehow get over the woman he’d loved for years.

Her frown deepened, and he realised he was staring.

“Are you all right, Killian?” she asked.

He forced a smile. “Fine, Swan.”

He could tell her Milah had broken up with him. She would be sympathetic, would curl supportively against his side and try to comfort him. He would put his arm around her, and she wouldn’t pull away. They would stay that way the rest of the evening, curled around each other watching soothing television then maybe a movie, and he would have to pretend he didn’t feel every brush of her skin against his in his very core. Pretend he didn’t spend every minute in her presence wanting to bury his hands in her hair and kiss her with every ounce of the passion he’d been suppressing for the past five years. Pretend.

And he couldn’t. Not tonight.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” he said, standing. She caught his hand, the simple touch sending a jolt of feeling straight through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing to remain steady.

“Are you sure everything’s all right?” she asked. Her expression was concerned, fond. He hated fond. But she was his best friend, and his feelings weren’t her fault. The last thing he wanted was for her to worry.

He smiled, as reassuringly as he could, and squeezed her hand. “Milah and I had a bit of a disagreement,” he said. “But it’ll be okay. I’m just tired. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Don’t watch any episodes I haven’t seen,” he warned her.

She grinned. “Would I?”

He wanted to kiss that grin right off her face. Instead he smirked at her as he knew she wanted him to, and gave her hand a final squeeze before heading to his bedroom.

He pulled off his clothes and left them on the floor, uncharacteristically for him, but he couldn’t be bothered to hang them up, or to put on pajamas. He fell into his bed, pressed his face deep into his pillow and tried to imagine his life without Emma. Without the cereal bowls she left in the sink and the empty packets of hot chocolate mix on the counter. Her long hair clogged all the drains and she never put the DVDs back in their proper cases. She was always putting her feet on his coffee table and he knew she used his shampoo when she ran out of her own. She should annoy the fuck out of him; instead his chest squeezed painfully at the thought of never being annoyed by her again.

He pulled the pillow to his chest and wrapped his arms around it. The thought of leaving her was almost more than he could bear, but he knew there wasn’t really any other choice. He had to give himself a chance. They could still be friends, he could still be there when she needed him, but he knew that for his own sake he couldn’t live with her any longer.

It took a surprisingly short time to find a new place to live. The week after Killian made his decision Belle announced that she was going on sabbatical, back to Australia and do some research for her book and spend time with her family. She would be gone at least six months and needed to sublet her apartment, she said, and did he happen to know anyone who might be interested? She looked surprised when he quickly volunteered to take it himself but didn’t question him, not even when she handed him the keys and he had to press his fingers against his eyes to stop the tears.

Emma had just slid some pizzas in the oven when Killian came home, looking tired and preoccupied as he had all week. Something was very obviously bothering him, but what worried her was that he wasn’t talking to her about it. He always told her everything, all the gory details of his life. Even things she’d rather not know. Like what was going on with his girlfriends.

He’d always had girlfriends, for as long as she’d known him. A serial monogamist, she thought, that’s what he was. A soft-hearted romantic —though he’d never admit it— always looking for ‘the one.’ His relationships never lasted long, a few weeks, maybe a month or two before the breakup. But it was never serious, and Killian never truly got hurt. He would come home and collapse dramatically on the sofa, pour his heart out to her, mope for a day or two, and then move on.

He’d been with Milah for six months, almost seven now. Far longer than any of the others, and the jealousy that clawed at Emma’s belly whenever she thought about the women Killian dated was beginning to get vicious. He seemed to be putting actual effort into making things work this time. What if Milah really was the one? What if Killian fell in love for real, and she lost him forever? Her chest tightened at the thought.

“Hey,” she said. “I just put some pizzas in, if you’re hungry.”

He didn’t smile. “Thanks, love, perhaps later. Can we talk?”

Emma’s heart lodged in her throat as she nodded. “Sure.”

Killian looked at a spot just over her left shoulder. “I don’t really know how to say this,” he muttered.

Fear was curling in her gut now, drowning the jealousy. “Say what?” she whispered.

Killian took a deep breath. “I’m moving out,” he said.

The fear slashed at her and turned to despair. This was it, then. He was moving in with Milah. He was leaving. They all left.

She nodded, concentrating on staying upright, on not collapsing to the floor and sobbing out her broken heart. “When?”

“Next week. I’ll keep paying the rent here until you can find a new roommate, but that shouldn’t take long. It’s a nice apartment.”

“Yeah.”

The oven timer began to buzz and Emma blindly opened the door, forgetting to put on an oven glove before she grabbed the pizza tray.

“Fuck!” she yelled, yanking her hand back.

Killian was at her side in an instant, taking her hand gently in his. He grabbed a paper towel and ran it under cold water before wrapping it around her burn, tucking the edges in to secure it.

“All right, love?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

She swallowed past the ache in her chest. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about her hand.

“Don’t be. It’s fine. Like you said, it won’t take long to find a new roommate. Actually I think Ruby might be looking for a new place.”

“That’s good, then. Shall I get these pizzas out?”

Emma shook her head. She couldn’t bear the thought of food. All she wanted was escape, solitude. “I’m not hungry.”

“Nor I. I’ll wrap them up, shall I, and maybe we can eat them later.”

“Yeah, maybe. I— I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Aye, love. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Killian.”

Goodbye.

The weeks after Killian moved out were a blur to Emma. Ruby eagerly accepted his room, glad for a change after her ugly breakup with Victor, but Emma barely saw her. She spent every minute she could manage at work, volunteering to take the toughest skips, spending hours on stakeouts or days chasing them across state lines, driving herself to exhaustion until she could sleep dreamlessly through the night. Anything to keep her out of the apartment that felt empty and wrong without Killian in it. Anything to keep images of him living happily with Milah out of her mind.

He texted her, of course, and she replied, pretending everything was all right. She’d gotten good at pretending. He asked if he could see her and she told him truthfully that she was busy.

Weeks turned to months and still she drove herself relentlessly, waiting for the numbness to set in, for the heartbreak to begin to heal. As it had after Neal. After Graham. When it didn’t she couldn’t help wondering why, wondering if it could be possible that her heart had only been cracked before. If after everything she’d been through, in the end only Killian actually had the power to break her.

Then one night David finally refused to accept her weak excuses any longer and strong-armed her into coming to the bar with him. To celebrate, he said, after she’d dragged in a skip they’d been after for more than a year.

“Come on, Emma, I’ve barely seen you lately,” he pleaded. “Between you and Killian I feel like I’ve lost both my best friends.”

“You haven’t seen Killian either?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high to her ears.

“Nope. Since he moved out of your place he’s pretty much been MIA.”

“Nesting.” Emma squeezed her eyes shut to drive the images from her brain.

“What?”

“He’s—” she cleared her throat. “He’s probably nesting. With Milah.”

David’s frown was confused. “With Milah?”

“Yeah, you know.” She attempted a casual shrug. “When people first move in together they tend to stay in. Nesting.”

“Emma, you do know Killian and Milah broke up, right?”

“Wha— no, I didn’t know that!”

“Yeah.” David nodded, still frowning. “Months ago, right around the time he moved. He really didn’t tell you? I thought he told you everything.”

“So did I.”

David pushed open the door to the bar and his frown darkened. “Speak of the devil,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of a familiar dark-haired figure, slumped at the bar with a half-empty bottle of rum at his elbow, misery in every line of his body.

Emma felt her heart clench. He must still be mourning his breakup, she thought, even months after it happened. Milah must have been really important to him. David went to talk to Killian but she hung back, watching as the two men had a fierce, hissed argument ending with Killian elbowing David aside and staggering out the door.

As much as Emma really didn’t want to hear about his heartbreak over Milah, she couldn’t bear to see him in so much pain. Couldn’t bear to think how he must have been suffering all these months, alone while she worked herself into the ground to avoid him for her own selfish reasons. Guilt and worry churned in her gut as she turned and ran out the door, hoping to catch Killian before he found a cab.

She found him outside, leaning against the wall of the bar, but before she could think of what to say he pushed himself away from it and took a stumbling step down the sidewalk. She darted forward and caught him before he could fall. He caught his breath sharply and looked down at her, trying to focus his hazy attention.

“Swan,” he murmured. “Are you real this time?”

“I— what?”

He shook his head. “Just another dream. Must be.” His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her hard against him. “Good dream,” he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him, tucking his face into her neck and breathing deeply.

“Killian, what— what are you doing?”

“You smell so bloody good,” he whispered. “Have I ever told you that?”

Having him so close after so long was making her lightheaded. “N— no.”

“I should have. I should have told you that, and so much else. Gods, love, I— I—”

“You what?”

“I miss you.” He breathed the words into her hair, his hand a tight fist in the back of her jacket. “I miss the way you smell and your hair in the sink and those bloody rank Pop Tarts you insist on eating. I miss it all so goddamned much.”

“Then why did you leave?” She choked. “David said you broke up with Milah months ago, so why—”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“I had to give myself a chance to get over you.”

“Get over me?” When were you under me? she wanted to say, but now didn’t seem like the best time to quote Friends. Killian was leaning heavily on her, his eyelids drooping, and she could see he was close to passing out.

“Come on,” she said, wrapping her arm around his waist. “Let’s go ho— Let’s go to my place.”

“Mmmmm,” he agreed, and let her steer him down the block and up the steps and through the door of their old apartment, holding him steady as they removed their shoes. Ruby’s bedroom door was tightly shut, her laundry piled high on the sofa. Emma figured she should just push it off and let Killian sleep there, but sometime during the walk home his hand had found its way beneath the hem of her sweater and the drag of his rough fingertips against her skin was making her shiver and ache, and he was murmuring into her hair again, words that sounded like gods so bloody soft and all she wanted was to fall asleep in his arms just once. Just for one night. Then tomorrow she would wake up early, nurse his hangover and send him home none the wiser. And she would hold the memories of that night close and secret in her heart and never yearn again.

She hated yearning.

She guided him through the living room and past the sofa, into her bedroom where he stood patiently, watching her with bleary eyes as she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off him together with his jacket. Her hands hovered at the waistband of his jeans for a moment, then quickly unbuttoned them and slid down the zipper, pushing them down until they pooled around his feet.

Go for broke, Emma.

She pulled off her jacket and sweater and shimmied out of her own jeans as he clumsily stepped out of his and kicked them away. Emma pulled her bra out from under her tank top then turned to look at him, swaying on his feet and fighting to keep his eyes open, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs enhanced by a sizeable bulge she knew he was too drunk to use.

“Emma,” he slurred, swaying towards her. She braced just in time to catch him and guide his fall onto the bed but he grabbed her waist as he went down, dragging her along with him, groaning a bit when she landed on his chest but quickly wrapping both arms around her. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” she said, “But the blankets—”

“Don’t. Miss you.”

“You said that already.” He wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes open much longer, she thought. He’d soon be asleep and she could—”

“Love you.”

“What? Killian, what did you say?”

But his only response was a soft snore. Emma stared at him, her mind and heart racing. He’s drunk, she reminded herself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. She tried to wriggle away from him to grab the blanket but he made an incoherent noise of protest and tightened his hold, pressing his face into her hair. Sighing, she stretched out her leg and caught the blanket with her foot, slowly easing it up and over them. Then she snuggled against him, rubbed her cheek against his chest and let herself pretend that this was real.

Fuck it, she thought. It’s just a one-time thing.

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #modern au #roommates au #friends to lovers #angst #mutual pining #an actual metric fuck-ton of it #secret things #profdanglaisstuff #words unspoken

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