#THE SMEAR OF POWDER ACROSS HIS JACKET????? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

babybluebex · 2 years

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𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 | 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | marrying the prince of russia would be dream if he wasn’t such a dick, but a late night conversation leads to a mutual understanding. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | prince paul (catherine the great, 2019) x fem!reader 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 | smut (minors dni— p in v sex, unprotected sex, choking, breeding kink) hatefucking, possessiveness, mentions of death, mentions of blood 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 | i wrote most of this after i drank a coffee at midnight so if it’s nigh incoherent don’t worry about it

From the first glance, you did not like Prince Paul of Russia. And, apparently, he didn’t like you.

The first glimpse you got of him was at court, as you were being introduced. Your sole purpose in Russia was to be the prince’s wife and, while you resented your reasons for being in Russia, you had been treated well. Bathed and clothed in fine silk, there were worse fates for a girl. But there was something about the look of him that was offsetting to you.

For one, the powdered wig was a bit much. Along with the smeared triangle of rouge on his cheeks and the dab of it in the middle of his lips, it was a sight you weren’t familiar with. Your family was well-off, but not nearly important enough for your brothers or father to dress that way. It was just… Wrong. It wasn’t what you knew.

The way he stood and presented himself was another awful thing you spotted about him. He looked annoyed, almost as if he didn’t want to be there and had other things that he could have been doing. One of his hands was situated in the pocket of his ornate green jacket, the blue sash stretched across his chest, and the other hand hung at his side, tapping his fingers impatiently. You spotted the decorative sword that hung on his hip, and you held in laughter. He was the prince; of course he would have his weapon, even if it likely was fake.

Altogether, there was something off-putting about Prince Paul, and you didn’t like it.

You had to like him, though, or at least pretend to. He was the only reason you were brought from Germany— he was your husband. You had been married with the hope of giving him a child, and, even though the carriage ride from your home to Moscow had been long and tedious, you had hoped that at least Paul would be kind and that would make up for everything else.

There weren’t many accounts of the Russian prince, even fewer that painted him in a good light, but you had decided that you were going to make the decision for yourself whether Paul was a good man or not. And, so far, the way he was looking at you, with disdain and almost hatred in his owlish brown eyes, was not indicative of someone who would enjoy your company.

You didn’t get to have a proper conversation with him until after dinner. Even though you sat next to him and tried to engage him, he would never answer you, only curling up his lip and ignoring you. You knew better than to confront him in front of everyone, so you had to wait until after dinner, when you were alone with him.

Thankfully, your apartments in the palace were directly next to each other, and you opened the shared doors to see Paul. He was sitting at his desk, already dressed for bed, only the hints of rouge left on his lips as he read something by the light of the candles.

“Can I speak to you?” you started, and Paul turned to you, like he hadn’t heard you open the heavy wooden doors. He certainly knew you were there the whole time and only brought his attention to you when you demanded it; like an asshole.

“About what?” Paul asked. “There is nothing to discuss.”

“I think there is something,” you told him. “Are we not to discuss the marriage? Our expectations, our needs…?”

“Must we?” Paul said, and you frowned. “Fine. I only ask that you never make that face again.” He turned fully to you then, setting down his paper, and he gestured to you. “Out with it, then.”

You tilted your head as you watched him, and you crossed your arms over your chest. “You could lose your foul attitude,” you started. “You act like you do not want to be married.”

“I don’t, but go on,” Paul interjected, and you huffed.

“Why not?” you asked. “Why don’t you wish to be married?”

“I’d rather not discuss it with you,” Paul said, and you rolled your eyes.

“We’ll never thrive if we keep on like this,” you told him, and Paul knitted his eyebrows in annoyance. “Not that our marriage has to be strictly successful, but I would prefer it if my husband didn’t despise even the sight of me.”

“You shouldn’t have accepted my proposal, then,” Paul told you flippantly, and anger suddenly burned in your chest.

“You act as if I had a choice,” you sneered. “I was not asked if I wanted to be married, I was suddenly told a week ago that I was already married to you.”

“As is your role,” Paul insisted. He stood from his chair in all of his self-righteous glory, and he strode across the room to you until he was right on top of you. You took a step back, but he only followed you.

Something about being in his space was almost intoxicating, and you felt dizzy with his presence. Maybe it was the anger radiating hot off of his chest, or maybe it was his own princely aura, but something affected you greatly the closer that Paul got.

“Your role requires you to marry and bear children, preferably boys, and you’ve already succeeded at one of those things,” Paul spat at you. “You don’t get a choice in this.”

You sighed heavily, and shame radiated in your stomach when you realized that you had been staring at Paul’s mouth and his rouge-stained lips. “You still have lipstick on your mouth,” you told him; maybe if you played it as smug, he wouldn’t notice the way you trembled under his gaze.

“Did you hear anything I just said?” Paul asked. “You don’t get a choice, neither do I, and neither does any of the other fucking people in this palace.”

That stopped you dead in your smug tracks, and your face softened. “You didn’t have a choice?” you asked. “Is that why you resent me so?”

“Yes,” Paul started, but then squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t resent you, exactly, but I resent what you stand for. My first marriage...” Paul finally sighed, and he slunked over to his desk once more. “I’d rather not speak of it now, actually.”

“Oh,” you said softly. “I wasn’t told of your first marriage.”

“And I didn’t think that you had been,” Paul replied. “But now you know. So, no, I do not want to be married, I do not like you— if you returned to Germany tomorrow, that would please me— and I did not have a choice in this matter at all. The only choice I got was who I married, and even that was decided definitely by my mother.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean, I was shown your portrait,” Paul sighed, turning to you once more. “I thought you looked lovely, so I said you, but my mother had the final say. If she had said no, then I would have had to pick a different girl.”

“It was decided for you,” you said slowly, and Paul nodded. “Neither of us quite know what autonomy is, do we?”

Finally, a smile cracked across Paul’s face, and he chuckled bitterly. “No, I suppose we don’t,” he said. “Now, leave me, I have things I need to do.”

“Like what?” you asked curiously, and Paul sighed heavily. It seemed your moment of levity was over, and that tepid, boiling anger returned.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Paul told you, shuffling his papers around. From your vantage point, you could spot another’s handwriting on the paper, much more feminine than anything that you were sure Paul was capable of, and your breath caught in your throat.

“What are those?” you asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Paul replied, and he shuffled them around once more to hide them from your view.

“Paul, please,” you said. You moved closer to him, further into the room, and you watched Paul gather up the papers and shove them into a drawer of the desk. “Are they business?”

“I said not to worry about it,” Paul said, and you could tell that he was seething. His chest rose and fell rapidly with angry breaths, and his cheeks were red; this time, though, it wasn’t the rouge.

“Paul—”

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” Paul asked, his bitter laughter returning. “You don’t need to know, so you won’t. Leave my apartments, go to your own, and forget you ever saw them, do I make myself clear?”

“You can’t command me,” you said. Your own anger was starting to boil over, but there was an odd extra feeling, the heat from your angry belly slothing down between your legs. You couldn’t possibly find Paul’s anger arousing. He was your enemy, your sworn husband and biggest foe, he was not arousing. And yet, the way his eyes were dark, a different sort of darkness than before, made the feeling pool in your cunt.

“Would you like to bet?” Paul spat. He was right up on you again, his anger radiating in waves off of him, and the ugly feeling in your chest only got worse. “You infuriate me, woman, how are we to be married for even long enough for you to give me a son?”

“Fuck me,” you told him. “Go ahead, do it, get it over with. I know that’s the real reason you chose me; you saw my portrait and thought I would look nice on my back. Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t you dare presume why I chose you,” Paul said. “I told you, I thought you were beautiful; who knew you had a serpent’s tongue?”

“Beautiful?” you echoed. “Or fuckable?”

Within an instant, Paul was on you. For a moment, you expected him to hurt you, for his anger to have come to a high point and for his emotions to make him do something to harm you, but that wasn’t the case. Paul pounced on you, his hands grabbing your face, but he kissed you. He didn't even kiss you at the wedding ceremony. His mouth was searing hot, his kiss heavy and hungry, and you couldn’t help but kiss him back. You fisted at his shirt and drew him close, and you groaned as he opened his mouth against yours, his tongue snaking past your lips.

You had been kissed before, but never like this. Paul’s hands fell from your face and touched every bit of your body that he could find, your hips and shoulders and neck, and his hand finally found purchase around your throat. You gasped, his fingers digging into the flesh on the sides of your throat, and your heartbeat became loud in your ears. He wasn’t choking you; no, he was cutting off blood supply. As suspect as the action was, it made that hotness pool even heavier between your legs, and you felt dampness touch you.

“I’ll make this quick,” Paul told you, his lips lingering mere centimeters from yours.

“Make what quick?” you asked breathlessly, and Paul used his free hand to grab at your nightgown, all bare underneath. Quickly, your brain caught up with him, and you gasped. “Oh!”

“You’re so worried about being fuckable,” Paul said, and he pushed you to his bed. It was soft under your touch as he shoved you down onto your back, and you gasped as his kisses attacked your neck. “I’ll put that worry out of your mind, darling.” The nickname sounded venomous coming from Paul’s flushed mouth, but you dragged him but his curls back down into a searing kiss.

His hand fell from your throat in favor of tugging your nightgown up and off, and he chuckled lowly at the sight of your bare body. “What a thing to see,” he said, and his hand fell down to your waist and lower, and you writhed as his fingers swiped at your leaking slit. “Oh, and already so wet. You love fighting with me, don’t you? Do you find it a pleasure when we fight?”

“Paul,” you whimpered, and your back arched as he sank a finger into your wet heat. You had never had somebody inside you and the feeling was beautiful, exactly what you needed, and you felt your anger melt away as he worked his finger inside you.

“Be a good wife,” Paul said, his hand skating up our thigh to open your legs wider. You felt small under his hungry and lustful gaze, but something about it was reassuring. He would take care of you, you were sure of it. “Take me inside you. Just like this, darling, yes.”

You grabbed at the silken sheets and furs on the bed to try to ground yourself, keep yourself from floating into the stars with the glorious feeling he was giving you, and your mouth fell open when you felt his second finger prod at you. He pressed his second finger in without much resistance, and you whimpered at the foreign stretch. As odd as it felt though, it made the fire burn hot in your belly, and your thighs quivered.

“Jesus,” Paul laughed. His wide eyes were exploring your bare body, and he quickly leaned down to you and pressed a kiss to your chest. “I was told you were a virgin, but you react so beautifully, I can’t help but know it’s true. What would you do if I did… This?” He cocked his fingers inside you, pressing up towards your belly, and you cried out as a bolt of lightning stuck your belly and cunt.

“Fuck!” you cried, and Paul smiled wickedly down at you. “Paul, oh my God—”

“I know, pet, I know,” Paul whispered, shushing you and your whining. “It feels so good, doesn’t it?”

“More,” you choked out, and Paul, again without warning, withdrew his fingers from you. You felt almost sick at the emptiness that invaded your body, but, before you could even complain, Paul was undoing the buttons on his pants.

“I’ll give you more,” Paul told you. “Don’t worry, darling, more is coming.”

Your skin thrummed with excitement and arousal, and you slid yourself further up the bed carefully. Paul smiled at you, his eyes wide and blown-out, and he climbed up onto the bed to chase after you. His pants halfway unbuttoned, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the bed, and you giggled at his playfulness.

“Open your legs,” Paul told you. One of his hands stayed on your wrist, but the other went down to his pants, finishing up with the buttons. You did as he instructed, parting your legs open wide for him, and he sighed at the sight of your weeping cunt. “So wet. My little wife is so wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped. If it were anybody else, you would hate being spoken to that way, but something about Paul in that moment permitted him to speak to you in any way he pleased. “Oh, Paul, please—”

Paul shushed you gently, and he abandoned his pants, now fully open and allowing you a peak of the coarse hair inside, in order to grab your thighs. He pulled your legs up, pressing your knees close to your ears, and his arms settled in the crook of your legs, holding you there and open for him. “Good girl,” he whispered, and you winced at the pull on your tendons and muscles.

All pain was forgotten, though, when Paul pulled out his cock. You had never seen a man’s cock before, and your husband’s was beautiful, thick and cut, flushed dark red with arousal. He didn’t say anything as he touched the burning head of his cock to your open hole, and his eyes connected with yours for a moment.”It might hurt,” he whispered.

“I can take it,” you told him.

Paul nodded, and your chest flushed warm at his words. He was concerned about you. As angry as he had started, he had softened his demeanor for you. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he told you, and he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your mouth. It wasn’t like the angry kisses from earlier, it was softer, no tongue and no hot breath. Maybe he did care after all.

Finally, Paul pushed himself into you, sliding in easily with your slick arousal, and the stretch and burn made you whimper in pain. Paul shushed you, putting another soft kiss on your lips, and he whispered, “Give it a moment, it’ll feel better soon.”

“Paul,” you whined, and your hands went up to grasp his short curls. Your breaths came rapidly as he sank further into you, and you moaned softly at the exquisite feeling of him so deep inside you. It was something truly beautiful, and you pulled at his hair.

That didn’t seem to deter him at all, in fact, it seemed to spur him on. “Good, good,” he whispered. “Taking me so well… I was right, darling; you do look beautiful on your back.”

“You—” you started, mildly annoyed that he was now confirming a theory that angered you so, but his but his hands grasped at your hips and he slowly began to properly fuck you. His thrusts were shallow at first, getting you used to the feeling, and every press inside you made you moan. “Paul, fuck.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” Paul hissed. “God, you feel like heaven.”

“Fuck me,” you whispered, pulling him into a frenzied kiss. “Please, husband, please—”

“I am, pet,” Paul told you, and he snapped his hips quickly into you, filling you with him in a single moment. You threw your head back, moaning, and Paul’s tongue came out to touch his teeth. “You wanted it, you’ll get it.”

He quickly gained a rhythm, fucking you hard enough for whole body to shift with each thrust. His hands came to rest by your head, gripping the fur blanket, and he bared his teeth as he fucked you fast.

You could feel every inch of him inside you, burying deep in your body, and you whimpered and cried as his pace became relentless. He was chasing his own orgasm, you knew it, and you wondered if he would even care for you. That didn’t seem likely, but you were too distracted to properly ask him.

However, it seemed as if he could read your mind, because his hand came from your hip and settled above your cunt, and his thumb expertly touched a nerve on you. The feeling of it made your back arch as much as possible in your position, and you cried out his name. “Paul!” you mewled, and he grinned wickedly. “Oh my God, what—”

“You really know nothing about sex, do you?” Paul asked. “Oh, my sweet little whore, your head is so empty. So’s your cunt, but I can fix that.”

His finger played with your sensitive nerve as he fucked you, drawing you closer and closer still to your release. You knew little about sex, he was right, but you knew enough to be sure that he was going to make you cum quickly. “Paul,” you whimpered out, and you grabbed at the bedsheets as his thrusts became quicker than before, hitting home inside you and making lightning strike your whole body. “I’m close,” you told him, and the prince nodded.

“I can feel it,” Paul told you, and your face burned. “Your cunt is getting tighter than before… Didn’t know that was possible.” He huffed out his breaths, his cheeks red with exertion, but his eyes were blown wide, and he looked truly beautiful.

“You look good like this,” you told him, your hands lifting to tangle in his hair. “M-Maybe I look good on my back, and you look good above me.”

“Aren’t we a pair?” Paul chuckled. “Fuck, are you going to let me breed you? You’re going to give me my son?” You nodded, and Paul gave you that same wicked smile from before. “Good,” he whispered. “You’re mine.”He shoved himself deep inside you, so deep that you could feel it in your throat, and you moaned at him. You couldn’t tell whether you were moaning in pain or pleasure, but it all felt the same. “Right, darling? You’re mine, nobody else’s.”

“I’m yours,” you assured him, and Paul made a noise, almost like a growl of sorts, right into your neck.

“Fuck,” Paul whispered. He rutted deep into you, drawing those pained moans from you once more, and his hands came up to grab your ankles. Your legs were still wide open to fit him, and he held onto your ankles as he fucked you, long and hard. “You’re mine, you’re mine… Nobody else’s, just mine… All mine…”

Before you knew it, the lightning bolts in your belly became too much, and you grabbed at Paul’s messy hair as you bit your lip hard, hard enough to taste blood. “P-Paul…” you managed to mumble, and one more fuck into you had you unraveling. Your heartbeat was wild in your chest as heat flooded your whole body, starting in your curled toes until it reached your head. Your moans turned into sobs as he continued to fuck you through your release, the new wetness adding lewd volume to his fucks.

“Good girl,” Paul whispered once your cries died down, and your hips lifted and shook as he fucked you harder still. “You’re going to take my cum, you’ll give me a son… Fuck…” He seemed like he was talking more to himself than to you, reassuring himself that you would do all of those things, just as you promised, and you tugged him by his hair down to you. You kissed him softly, both of your mouths slick with spit, but you didn’t accept his tongue when he tried.

“I’ll give you everything you want,” you whispered. “Everything. I promise.”

Paul’s moan was wrecked and broken as he came, fucking his release deep inside you, and you held him tight as his fucking slowed down to a stop. He was panting, as were you, and you giggled just a bit as you wiped at sweat that hung on his forehead. He carefully pulled himself from you, hissing a bit with the assured oversensitivity of his cock, and he rolled off of you to lay on his back on the bed. Your hands shook as you helped undress him, and he smiled softly at you, exhausted, as his own hands aided you in your efforts.

Paul’s chest was slick with sweat as you settled your head over his heart, and you listened to his steady heartbeat. He sighed heavily, but you knew that it wasn’t a sigh of exhaustion. He had something he needed to say.

“I apologize for getting angry with you before,” Paul said softly, his finger lightly grazing over your bare back. “I only… My first marriage is not an easy topic for me.”

“Tell me,” you whispered. “What happened to make you so bitter, my love?”

“My first wife,” he began softly. “She was… Everything. She was beautiful, she was kind… You remind me of her. But she was always very close with my close friend, Andrei. I never thought anything of it, but apparently everybody else did, because they all saw something I didn’t. Natalia became pregnant, and I was… Happy. So happy. I was so ready to be a father, but it…” He paused, his back teeth clenching with restraint. “It wasn’t meant to be. He was born, but Natalia did not survive the encounter, and neither did… Neither did my son. And, as I am mourning, not two weeks, my mother tells me to read Natalia’s letters, and that I would find evidence of her having an affair with Andrei. My mother even said that my child was Andrei’s. But I know he was mine. I feel it in my chest that the boy was mine.”

Your heart sank into your stomach as you listened, and you pressed a gentle kiss to Paul’s chest, just over his racing heart. Suddenly, everything made sense. The anger, the possessiveness; he was hurt. “And those documents you were reading,” you began softly. “At your desk…”

Paul shook his head. “Natalia’s letters, proving my mother right,” he said. “I wish that I were kinder to you earlier. But I was angry from reading, and you were defying me, and I… I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

“I understand,” you told him. “It’s alright—”

“No, it isn’t,” Paul said. “The way I spoke to you, no man should speak to his wife that way. I apologize for it. I will do better. I have to.”

“You will,” you reassured him. “You will do much better, and our son will be born with you at my side.”

Paul nodded, and he buried a kiss in your sweaty and messy hair. “Stay with me tonight?” he whispered.

“I would love nothing more.”

#prince paul #prince paul x reader #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #catherine the great #also yes the title is from great comet what about it #listening to obscene levels of this musical as i write #*my writing

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saintmuses · 2 months

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❝𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩❞

Pairing:

Chris x Rockstar!Reader

Summary:

It was 1978, she was living her life on stages. She had her whole future planned out which was playing in front of crowds until she dropped dead. Well that was the plan until the night she met Chris.

Warning(s): soft SMUT. Slight Oral (m-receiving). Slight fingering. P in V. Attack/threat (from a stranger). Minors, dni!

Word Count: 3k

For some reason, this particular night called her. Called out to her in a certain fashion with a seductive tone with a voice as a sin.

She didn’t know why, but she was ready to fall in the deep abyss that was the night sky filled with clusters of stars. To her, the stars reminded her of gold dust from afar; the closest thing to her was the gold glitter smeared on her cheekbones that was brushed upwardly and gold eyeshadow that looked like fallen dust.

It was nineteen seventy-eight, and Y/N could practically taste the anticipation on her lips as she could hear the rising excitement of having her on stage at .

Clad in worn-out converses, bell bottom jeans and skin tight tank top, she was the lead singer and one of the songs her band had written and produced ended up playing on the radio.

It was music to her ears, flowing in one ear with gold glitter and coming out with dust in gold dust because she drained every critic, every success, it was the most powerful thing in the world. The power that the words held over them. Sending them into a trance-like state, and she couldn't blame them because if she was in their shoes, she would've felt the same.

Her voice nearly faltered when her eyes landed on a lone guy standing by the wall, far away from the sporadic crowd, gripping the base of the microphone with one hand and holding the spine of the stand with the other; she was surprised by the fact that she could see him in the crowd like this. Pulsing, erratic, a unified wave with the strobe lights flashing red and blue over the nightclub.

Her voice then faded into the low range, whispering the words of the song that was blasting across the place as she raked her eyes down his frame.

She could tell that his hair was somewhat shoulder length and dark, almost as dark as the wall behind him, maybe even closer to black. She could tell there was a mustache adorning his skin between his nose and his upper lip, and he was handsome despite of it. He would've been just a regular nobody, and she would be none wiser, but the thing about him that drew her in like a moth to its flame was the holster hidden underneath his leather jacket.

And that was why she could tell he wasn't a regular nobody. Maybe nobody in her world, but as far as it goes...he wasn't a nobody in his world; of that she could tell. He was dressed in dark colored pants, a patterned buttoned up shirt beneath the leather jacket he was adorning that were clearly custom cut for his body.

Who carried a gun to a nightclub? Or even a bar? He was at a high risk of destroying the place with a sea of crowd full of intoxicated people and a few were all high on powdered addiction.

She felt like she was singing the words to him. Maybe she was, but no one had to know. She was nearly flustered when she knew that he knew she was looking at him as she growled into the microphone -with the words that drove through the crowd relentlessly- due to the smirk that lilted his lips.

Those lips from afar, are the ones that she wanted to kiss. And she didn't even know him. Just a mere stranger from the sideline, an observant, a bystander. A handsome bystander at that. All she knew was his eyes were on her, and she relished in the attention that he was giving her. There could be many men in one room that could be so handsome, but she would single him out.

It was electrifying.

Her painted lips trembled slightly at the sight of his face as he stared at her. It wasn't the one of those creepy stares that she would get every now and then. It was more of a romantic novel stare like one of those movies that border-lined dramatic on romantic scenes. She didn’t know him. Yet, she didn’t care because she had a feeling she will know him very soon.

She nibbled her bottom lip when the drummer took over for the solo, and her eyes were heavily lidded as she mentally beckoned him to come to her. To come closer to her, to lessen the distance between him and her with the crowd in between.

To suppress the electricity charged tension that she had felt earlier before coming upon the elevated platform, she then knew it was him that was making the night called to her. She then shifted her hips to shimmy them to the beats of the drums as it echoed throughout the room.

Her eyes were still on his as she finished the song. She wouldn't be able to look at the song the same way ever again.

Every time she would sing the song in the future, she would remember the icy eyed man in a leather jacket.

Y/N dipped the rag into the running warm water and raised it in front of her as she stared at the dirty mirror of the small dingy bathroom, then dragged the damp cloth across her face to clean up the gold dust off of her cheeks.

When she was at the age of sixteen, she ran away from home; her mother and her father died in a robbery gone wrong sending her and her brother to their guardian. There were more secrets in the family, and more lies that she couldn't take anymore and ran out of the town ever since.

She was a runaway from the quiet town of Massachusetts and had ended up in California after weeks of long days and lonely nights where people paid her no mind and not an ounce of sympathy in their hearts. It had been one cold rainy night on the street in Los Angeles where she met her very first friend and bandmate.

They had a simple idea. A seed, really. It was a tiny seed that slowly turned into roots then it erupted into a wild thing. A simple idea was to form a rock band, whereas everyone chased their dreams, and had been crushed when life deemed to not be satisfied enough to give them what they deserved after a lot of sacrifices and dedication.

Somehow, Y/N and her bandmate were able to make it come true. It was a small dream, really. It went from two, a guitarist and a singer. That was a rough draft; then they somehow got three more. A dream became a reality when she was eighteen when she heard her song on the radio for the first time. She wasn't always the avid music lover; she'd settle for classical music.

When she was a little girl, she wanted to be a doctor; to follow her father's footsteps. After her parents died, that desire went from being a doctor to a writer. A writer about horrors, she supposed. Granted she had enough of them to last a lifetime.

Between running away from a small town in Massachusetts to arriving in a severely overpopulated city that is Los Angeles, music had become her only source of comfort. she had constantly listened to Fleetwood Mac, David Bowie, ABBA, Meat Loaf, the Runaways, and etcetera on the radios in the random vehicles as she raised her thumb in the cool days of spring and hot days of summer to hitch a ride or two across the States to realize that the music was her lover. Then from that point on, it manifested into a dream.

No matter how much she played the music, sung into the melody's lips, her lover, she would always be the imposter; inside of the rock persona, she was a nobody, a nineteen-year-old from the quiet town who escaped from her past, because nothing will change the truth about herself.

Y/N sighed as she pulled her leather jacket around her frame tightly as she stepped through the back door and into the October air. She glanced around when she felt a shift in the air; she already sent her friends to the hotel earlier and wanted the night to herself so she was on high alert.

Before she could take a step on the way out of the alleyway, she felt a presence looming over her, and she turned around. She let out a groan when her back slammed against the rough wall, and she opened her eyes to see an unknown man hovering over her with his hand wrapped around her throat, constricting her airways along with a knife to her skin.

"Ah, pretty thing." The man hissed; his eyes flashed maliciously as his lips curled. "Why won't you fight back?" He asked after he realized she wasn't taking control of the situation.

"Are you stupid?" She hissed gasping as she struggled to breathe, "you’re holding a knife to my neck."

He bared his teeth in response which revealed his fury, and he reared back to shove the weapon into the juncture of her neck.

She squeezed her eyelids shut in preparation of the pain that she knew she would feel once his knife cut into her skin, but nothing happened until she heard a gun going off and she felt his fingers loosening the grip on her throat; so, she opened her eyes to see a stunned face reflecting back at her, his eyes were wide, unseeingly and his mouth was agape before collapsing onto the pavement.

Her eyes followed to see a familiar man she saw in the audience earlier, the one who she couldn't take her eyes off all night, standing in front of her with his fingers gripping a handgun in his hand and drops of blood splattered his face.

"You alright?" he asked, his hand -the one not holding the weapon- was reaching for the handkerchief inside of his leather jacket, tugging on it and pulled it out as he placed the weapon back into his holster.

The man whipped the cloth into a loose form as her eyes drew to it; it was white, a stark contrast of himself. White was pure, from what she could tell he was not pure, and she was certain that he weathered a lot of burden in that regard.

She snorted, "I am…” she trailed off, eyeing him. “But who the hell are you?" She asked, shaking her head slightly.

"Chris." His eyebrows shot up with a smirk, then he wrapped the cloth around his face to wipe off the excess of her attacker's blood.

"Well, Chris. Thank you for saving my life." She grumbled, straightening her leather jacket, dusting off some lint off of her shoulders before looking at him.

"You don’t like it when someone saves you?" He asked after stuffing the cloth into the pocket of his pants.

She nodded, pushing a several loose strands away from her face. “Don’t like owing someone a debt.”

He inclined his head towards her, "Let me take you to some place nearby and we can talk more about this," he gestured for her to come with him.

“Can I trust you?”

“Aye, I did save your life after all.” A smirk curled his lips before walking away while pulling out a case of cigarettes out of his leather jacket pocket.

"My mama had warned me about men like you," she said playfully as she slid into the booth underneath the bright lights of the quiet diner. A stark contrast to the night lights in the crowd of the bar.

He clasped his fingers on the top of the dull surface of the table, chuckling slightly, "she told you to stay away from IRA men, eh?”

She shook her head, “no. Dangerous men.”

“Not dangerous around you,” he murmured causing her to blush. “What made you want to sing?” He was genuinely curious.

She looked at him, eyeing him before she exhaled softly. "It was sort of a dying wish; my life has been filled with death and none of people did what they wanted to do…my life was dull ever since my parents died and I had to do something about it. It's like a bucket list, except there's only one thing on the list to do before my death. So, when I die, at least I did something meaningful with my life.”

It had been during one hot summer day in nineteen seventy-six when he heard her voice for the first time. He could recall her voice sent shivers down his spine when it blasted from the radio in his borrowed vehicle, he didn't know who she was then; However, he knew he had to know her.

It was enticing, her voice. When he went across one of the local record stores, he found what he was looking for, and he had remembered his eyes widened, his jaw slacked, and his fingers were gripping on the cover.

He was a fool when he thought that he was done playing a schoolboy with a crush on some hot girls back in Ireland, but the proof was undeniably on the cover that he's holding.

He was curious about the voice of the music, so he had bought it and had listened to it. It wasn't until over a year later, he heard that Y/N and her band were going to play at a bar which happened to be near where he was staying at.

He was already enraptured by her voice, but until he walked into the sporadic room, she had captured his attention to her beauty that the others did not have. By the time she was done with the show, he knew he had to have her.

"Thank you," she murmured while fiddling her thumbs.

He tilted his head sideway. "For what?"

"For saving my life." She smiled softly.

He allowed a small smirk to grace upon his face while gazing at her. "You can thank me by telling me how you were introduced to a different world." He said expectantly, ignoring the tension that rose between them. It wasn't the time yet.

She hummed before telling him the story from the very first night she almost died.

A few hours later, he drove her back to his rental place which happened to be a dingy little motel, and now they're in the assigned room of his.

"I...I don't really do this stuff," she stammered, flushing heavily under his heady gaze.

One thing had led to another as soon they walked into the living room. Electricity surged between them with phantom rope tied them together, and they had to give into the feeling. The tension had exploded literally and figuratively.

It was undeniably inevitable.

He walked closer to her, loosening the jacket, and she forced herself to keep her arms by her side from touching him. She felt the weight of his hand pressed against the lower part of her back as he reached for her. It ascended in a slow line, following the curve of her back from her spine.

"It's okay. I don't do it either," he murmured, and then his fingers curled around the nape of her neck, and her mind quieted.

“I don’t believe you,” she said automatically.

“Well, I don’t, I usually just take them out for dinner, but sometimes it’s tediously boring that we never go that far. You on the other hand…” he trailed off; His other hand drew a trail over the curve of her hip, rising over her waist where he barely grazed over her breasts. Her breath caught in her throat and her gaze averted at his exploration. He dipped his head, his lips hovering over hers. Her lips trembled at the sheer tension as it rose between them.

His fingers caressed her face, tucking strands of hair behind her ears as his tongue slid against hers, and she just pressed her body against his in response, he then gripped her by the waist. It wasn't enough.

It was heaven and hell being close to his presence.

She nipped at his neck, and he gasped. She finally opened his shirt and yanked it from his pants rather unceremoniously, her fingers touching the fabric.

She sucked in a gasp at the sudden pressure of two digits sliding over the underwear.

He held her gaze, her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks utterly entrancing. She felt his fingers hooked into the elastic of her underwear and tugged down, allowing them to drop onto the floor. She inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers trail up her thighs.

His breath was hot in her ear as he murmured her name, her hips bucked forward as he slid his fingers into her.

His eyes trailed over her bare breasts after she reached around her back to unclasp the hooks and dropped her bra to the floor. The light pressure made her knees shake as he cupped her breasts with his fingers, blue eyes gazing as her back helplessly arched.

She lowered herself to the floor, the thick carpet was soft under her knees.

When she looked up at him, she saw his head was thrown back, his eyes closed. He groaned and tightened his grip in her hair, making her eyes roll back.

She felt a flash of arousal clenching her abdomen. That she could easily make him lose control as easy as he could keep a façade. She then swirled her tongue around his cock, taking him deeper with glitter in her eyes.

His body was flushed against her, hovering over her frame, all around her in so many ways in one. She quietly begged him to move. As if he could read her mind, he began to slowly move in and out of her with a swirl of his hips, pushing back in all the way with each thrust.

Her body rocked helplessly against the mattress each time, her breasts bounced slightly with each thrust, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to match her heartbeat. His hips thrusted so roughly that she'd be sore. Her hips would ache, she'd feel him for the rest of the night and in the morning.

His breath came in shallow pants, he whispered against her damp skin that he will make her breakfast in the morning.

That thought made her feel warmer than she had ever been.

#cillian murphy x reader #chris x y/n #Chris x you #Chris x reader #free fire

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inkykeiji · 2 years

Text

i’m about to show you the beginning is the end

anonymous said: touya-nii reader def had to reason with him as to why he cant mark her neck (school, friends) and hes all wtf? he spirals for a good hour as to why u dont want him to leave those pretty love bites u cry for + adore for the world to see? awww how funny and cute would touya-nii be overthinking this.. he just cant understand & u have bring natsuo in to help u

character: todoroki touya | dabi

genre: angst with the teeniest, tiniest sprinkle of fluff

notes: aaah okay!!! this is set in my touya-nii AU, approximately a few weeks after part three of the main series. you don’t have to read the main series before reading this to get the gist of it, but it would help to have a little knowledge about what happened & why their relationship is in such a volatile state! | title credit: this is love by air traffic controller

warnings: no smut but still 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest/pseudocest, verbal fighting, extremely toxic relationship, marking/bruising/hickeys, drug use

words: 4.8k

synopsis:

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear you aren’t used to hearing those three little words, chest deflating with the softest little whimper, your own brilliant love shining through your glistening eyes, so bright it blisters his skin.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Don’t you love me?” His voice tapers off into a whisper, that solitary tear finally, finally breaking free of his lashes, rolling down his cheek and leaving a gleaming stream in its wake. A thumb swipes through it viciously, smearing salt water across his cheekbone, his jaw clenching twice as he swallows thickly. “I thought you did.”

Wisps of smoke curl through the air, effused from a slow-burning cigarette held with artful carelessness between Touya’s lithe fingers. Twisted on his side and propped up with an elbow digging into his mattress, he idly scrolls through his phone, irrelevant news articles and celebrity gossip blurring past his eyes while you stand in front of his full-length mirror, getting ready for your class.

Rei hates it when he smokes in the house, says it irritates her eyes and nose, says the scent triggers headaches.

But what his mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

There’s a lot of things she doesn’t know, after all, isn’t there? A lot of things she willfully ignores about her son, pretends she doesn’t see or smell—the small smattering of crimson on the sleeve of his jacket, the stinging stench of metallic copper than sews itself into the fabric of his t-shirt and twines itself through the strands of his hair—so, really, what’s one more?

Nothing she won’t learn to tolerate.

He can feel your gaze on him, bouncing off the reflective mirror and gliding over the bare skin and lean muscle of his chest, journeying down to the still unbuttoned jeans sitting low on his jutting hipbones, waistband loose and exposing the elastic of his briefs.

“You’re so beautiful, niichan,”

The compliment is murmured out, nothing more than a mesmerized huff of breath, words infused with a sort of whimsical appreciation that sends one of those unfamiliar rushes of warmth surging through his chest.

He’s never felt this way about anyone before.

His stare lifts to meet yours, lazy and half-lidded, clear sapphire slow and purposeful as he traces the contours of your face—the curve of your cheek (sticky with dried salt from your sobbing), the slope of your nose (still twitching with residual sniffles), the shape of your lips (raw and swollen from his tongue and teeth)—then drifts down to the busy fingers fussing around your neck, delicately pressing a powder puff against your marred flesh.

It takes him a moment to fully comprehend your intention, brows knitting together as his eyes narrow, squinting in concentration then widening as the realization hits.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He’s nearly choking on the question as he shoots up from the bed, half-smoked cigarette stubbed out in an instant, feet slapping against the hardwood and long legs crossing the room with a few quick strides. Slender fingers cuff your wrist, squeezing firmly and halting your ministrations, a cry of pained surprise catching in your throat.

“Niichan!” The honorific slices through the air as your gaze flies to his, hand going limp in his grasp, puff falling to the floor. “I—I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t play fucking stupid,” he spits, grip around your wrist tightening as he yanks you closer to him. “My marks. Why are you—Why are you trying to hide them?”

The words splinter in his throat, breath exhaled through flared nostrils in short, hot puffs as he frenetically glances between your face and your neck, blood gone thorny in his veins.

“O-Oh.” Blinking heavy tears from your vision, you look back towards the mirror. “Well, I-I love them, Touya-nii, I really do—they’re so pretty, and I—”

Your voice fades softly, eyes wistful, almost dreamy with the mist filling them, as they unhurriedly scan the blooms of periwinkle and blue-black painted across your exposed throat—golf-ball sized welts of lilac and violet that climb their way to your jaw, just shy of crossing the line onto your cheek—savouring them with admiration.

“And I wish I could show them off; truly, I do. But—” your eyes dart back to his, partially obscured by your lashes, bashful even as you search for his acceptance, his approval. “But they’re too dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Too—” Too dangerous?

The word claws it’s way through the inked flesh of his cheek, shoving itself past the wound and down his throat to churn the acid in his stomach, the hand around your wrist going lax as he stumbles backwards from the impact.

Too dangerous? But how could that be? This is what you wanted; this is what you wanted, what you begged and cried for, what you committed such an atrocious act of indecency for, isn’t it?

Unless…

Azure descends from your neck to your breasts, your hips to your feet, pausing for a moment before sliding back up your body, slowly, slowly, scrutinizing.

“Were you…” he trails off, roughly clearing his throat to rid it of the incessant tremble fusing itself to his voice. “Were you lying to me when you said you wanted all of me?”

“What?” The gasp is kicked from your chest by shock, eyes widening and head shaking with vigour as you step towards him, fingers griping through the air, reaching for him. “No! No, Touya-nii, of course not,”

“No?” he laughs, and it’s harsh, strangled, broken, wet. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, strong in your conviction. “You don’t even need to ask, you know—”

“Do I!?” He questions, and now his tone is sharp, hard, loud, smooth, feet beginning to pace. “Do I, really? Because—Because you whined, and you bitched, and you pled for me to be yours, for you to be mine, and now that you are I can’t even claim my favourite person? Because, what? It’s too fucking dangerous? What the fuck does that even mean!”

“Niichan,” you whimper out the honorific, head beginning to shake again, crystal teardrops rolling down your cheeks. “I—I just mean—Well, you know, your mom and my dad had so many questions the last time this happened. They asked me where they came from and why I was allowing someone to do such a thing to me. How am I supposed to respond to that? What am I supposed to say? I never leave or enter the house with anyone but you!”

“Nothing!” he explodes, feet skidding to a stop as he whirls to face you, blue flames flickering behind the water shielding his eyes, any signs of weakness incinerated in an instant, burnt up in the flames with a single blink. “You aren’t supposed to say anything, because none of this is any of their business anyway!”

“My friends at school, they asked, too,” you continue, words tumbling from your mouth at such a fast pace they collide and crash against one another, desperate to explain, desperate to be understood. “Who gave you those? and we didn’t know you had a boyfriend! and why didn’t you tell us about him before? I couldn’t even respond, because I know you don’t want me lying about having a boyfriend—”

“No,” he seethes, the word blistering his throat. No, of course he fucking doesn’t. “You shouldn’t have to lie about them at all!”

“But I can’t—I can’t tell them the truth, and I can only evade these questions for so long before people begin to get nosy, before people begin digging…”

“Who cares what other people think? What does it matter?” Two large hands rake through his tousled hair, fingers knotting in ink and tugging hard, hard enough to have his own features crinkling in pain, hard enough to momentarily calm the confusion roiling in his skull, the hybrid between a laugh and a yelp hitching in his chest. “I want to show the world that I belong to you, and you belong to me, and you’re—you’re fucking covering them up!”

“Touya-nii,” you whisper entreatingly, reaching for him again, falling short once more as he gracefully slips from your grasp. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t think it’d be this big of a deal…”

Something cracks in his chest at your words, procuring an ache so deep, so dark, so fucking devastating he’s terrified it’s going to swallow him up whole, suck him down from the inside out and drown him in its agony.

Because that fucking hurts, knowing that you truly don’t understand; don’t understand why he’s so upset, don’t understand why this is so important to him, don’t understand what those hickeys symbolize.

These are marks of love, these are marks of ownership, marks that have been crafted and carved into your skin with utmost affection, he makes sure of it; each sink of sharp incisors engraving his passionate possession onto your flesh, each lave of his slick tongue sealing the blossoming bruises with a declaration of devotion.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Why the hell wouldn’t you want to proudly wear the little masterpieces he’s so conscientiously sucked and bitten into your supple skin, created with such care and attention to detail? Why the hell wouldn’t you want to tell the whole world, boldly and bluntly, that you are taken? Especially when you beg and plead and shout and scream to have the rest of your body sculpted with his teeth?

Honestly, how else are others supposed to know that you belong to him?

Do you not love him as much as he loves you? Do you not want the world to know you’re his? Do you feel ashamed to be so beautifully tinged with his markings? What other reason could you have to want to hide them away, to conceal them and pretend they don’t exist, except for feeling regretful and humiliated by them?

Everything burns, stings, like each question tearing through his mind is a talon ripping through his body, shredding his organs to ribbons.

Strong arms wind themselves over his body in a pathetic attempt to keep it from unraveling, fingers curling tightly around his biceps, nails scraping against his smooth skin, leaving red, raw tracks in their wake.

Was this the wrong choice? Was it a mistake to let you into his heart? He loves you; this much he knows for certain. He’s never felt this way about anyone else before—not even close—and he’s never found an angel as perfect as you are, but—but is it worth it? Is it worth this kind of terrifying, uncontrollable anguish? Is it worth allowing you to have such control over his emotions?

“Touya-nii! Hey! Touya-nii!”

Your voice cuts through the tide of chaos, beseeching eyes searching his face. Concern has woven itself into the wrinkles of your forehead, tears still steadily streaming from your eyes, small hands working to uncurl his own from his biceps, dislodging his nails from his flesh.

“Where did you just go right now, baby? What happened?”

Baby. Baby. You’ve never called him that before.

But he can’t tell you; he doesn’t know how to. His head shakes in response, eyes shutting tightly, a singular teardrop clinging stubbornly to his bottom lashes.

“That’s—That’s okay,” you murmur softly, a half-suppressed sniffles stuttering your words. “You don’t have to tell me, that’s okay,”

God, you’re so soft, so sweet, so good to him, dainty fingers rubbing soothing little circles into his gouged muscle, each caress eradicating a little more tension, his body beginning to slump into yours, transgressions melting from his mind.

But then you speak again, and it all comes hurdling back, all of the fury and the betrayal, eroding the pleasant fog you had temporarily instilled in his brain like some sort of caustic acid.

“I just—I just wanted you to know that I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. It isn’t about that; it isn’t about that at all. It’s that I don’t want you to get into trouble—”

“Trouble?” His nose scrunches with the word, features puckering as if it’s the most sour thing he’s ever tasted. “What kind of trouble could I possibly get into, that I haven’t gotten into already?”

“But that’s exactly the point!” you cry, frantic for his cognizance. “What we’re doing might not be illegal in a technical sense, but it’s definitely heavily frowned upon, and it raises further suspicions! Red Flags!”

A growl rattles his ribs as he glowers at you. He hates how you’re trying to make this about him, as if you’re somehow doing all of this in his honour and not for yourself, for your public image, for everyone but your big brother.

“I’m so—so worried, Touya-nii, I can’t imagine—”

“Oh, save your pity, I don’t fucking need it,” sapphire rolls in his skull as he rips himself from your grasp. “Acting as if this is somehow for me—”

“It is, niichan! It is!”

“You know, after everything, after all of the crying and the chasing, I finally give you what you want—what I thought you wanted—and you have the goddamn audacity to act with such disrespect.”

Slender fingers are back in his hair again, nails scratching audibly against his scalp as they tangle in onyx tufts, yanking at the strands as his head shakes in disbelief, a terrifying smile stretched abnormally wide across his face.

“I—I finally tell the world, Hey! She’s mine!, finally leave something everyone can immediately notice so they all fucking know, and you—you—”

His voice snaps with a hiccup as he watches it dawn on you, as you realize he’s never once bothered to mark your neck—something visible, something everyone can see all of the time—before he declared that you officially belonged to each other, only a few weeks ago.

A delicate hand flits to encircle your throat, the pads of your fingers stroking the bruises in a way that’s almost tender, affectionate, a newfound appreciation for them, for what they truly mean, settling in your glassy eyes.

“Touya-nii,” you begin, voice hoarse as it grates on your throat. “I didn’t—”

“No, of course you fucking didn’t.”

His heart slams fast and uneven against his ribcage, unsteady beats forcing a razored, ragged breath up his throat, each one slicing his flesh on its exhale, each one forcing honesty from his lips.

“I love you!” he nearly chokes, the proclamation a mangled mess in his mouth.

It’s clear he isn’t used to saying them, either, the wooden sentiment feeling foreign on his tongue—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but correct nonetheless.

“Absolutely, I do! Niichan, I love you so much—”

“Sure doesn’t look like it,” his words drip with vitriolic acid, his eyes glinting in the diffused afternoon sun as they dart back to the partially concealed bruises.

“Touya-nii, you’re breaking my heart!” Your lashes glitter with diamonds as you blink rapidly, a poor attempt to clear your vision, face adorned with fat glistening tears, and oh, how gorgeous you are when you cry. “Please, I’m sorry, let’s fix this, we can fix this, I just—I don’t kn—”

But he isn’t listening, the blood surging in his ears drowning out your shattered voice, tumultuous thoughts crashing against the walls of his skull, so brutal they must crack the bone and seep through the fractures, cascading down his body like wet cement and bonding to his muscles, so heavy, so stifling, and—and—

And he needs to get the fuck out of here, he needs to get the fuck out of here now, cement stuffing his airways and clogging his veins, vision swimming with distress as he stumbles towards the bathroom, quivering hands already beginning to claw through his pockets.

Then the door is slamming behind him, and the rumbling impact is echoing around you, and you’re all alone.

The hiss of water against ceramic engulfs you a moment later, but you know he’s not showering.

It’s faint, cushioned by the steady stream and muffled by the wood of the door, but if you listen close enough you can hear it, can disentangle it from the knotted sounds and pluck it from the pile, that sharp snort as he stuffs his nose full of white powder.

Stabs of guilt shoot through your stomach, their sting compounded by the molten panic that immediately follows, tar-like tears obscuring your eyes, thick and sticky and clumping your lashes with each rapid blink in an attempt to clear them.

You have to fix this. You need to fix this, now.

But how? How?

The tingling urgency to act burns in your veins, growing spikier with each passing second as your gaze darts around the room, that toxic concoction of terror and trepidation inching up your throat, sludgy and suffocating.

The familiar sound of plastic buzzing against oak cuts through the mayhem and you rush towards Touya’s phone (he had taken away your own after the Tomura incident), cradling it between your palms.

NATSUO: how are they?

Natsuo! Natsuo can fix this. Natsuo has more credence than you, has more credence than everyone, really, and if there’s anyone who can help you fully articulate the points slaughtered during your fight, it’s him.

You can’t unlock the device—you haven’t a clue what the passcode is—but you don’t need to.

A trembling thumb slams down on the text notification, pressing until the conversation opens up, clumsy fingers hastily tapping out a response.

Call me.

Ever the obedient little brother, Natsuo complies almost instantly, the phone resuming its vibration in your hand mere seconds after the text is delivered.

“Alright, look, I know they aren’t brand name, but they’re gonna get you high just the same, I promise—”

“Natsuo,” you cut him off, his name nothing more than a huff of breath on your lips.

The line goes silent for a moment, your breath held stagnant in your lungs with anticipation.

“Oh. Uh, hey,” he finally responds, slow, tentative, unsure. “What’re you—”

“Natsuo, I need your help,”

“Help?” he questions, and you can almost see his spine straightening, authority and alarm bleeding into his voice, that pre-med school training snapping into action. “What’s wrong?”

“Touya—Touya-nii and I had a fight—” You can’t help the way the word shatters with a pathetic sob, your eyes squeezing shut against the thought, exhaling a shaky breath and pushing forward. “And not a normal fight, Natsuo; a big fight, a bad fight—”

“Okay, okay,” Natsuo’s saying, the professional calm in his tone disrupted by the underlying tremors of personal concern. “Is he alright? I mean, is he safe?”

“I don’t—He’s—I think he’s doing lines in the bathroom,”

For some reason, this seems to placate Natsuo, a faint sigh of relief slithering through the speaker. “Tell me what happened.”

Even with your broken hiccups and slurred sobs, it doesn’t take long to relay the situation to Natsuo, who vows to handle it when he arrives before ending the call. You hadn’t wanted him to hang up—there was something about having him on the phone that felt comforting, that felt safe, as if his mere voice could protect you from the wrath of your big brother—but Natsuo had insisted, assuring you that it would be much worse for Touya to emerge and find you on his phone before Natsuo had reached the house than to keep him on the line.

If Natsuo’s being honest, he thinks it’s pretty cute, the way his big brother just can’t seem to comprehend why anyone, let alone his precious little baby, wouldn’t want to proudly display the marks her niichan gifted her; the way Touya seems to think he’s invincible, untouchable, because he breaks the law habitually with leisure and practiced ease, thus somehow rendering him immune to any law enforcement at all.

Natsuo understands better than their poor baby sister does, though. Natsuo understands that heady power that clogs Touya’s brain and cloaks his thoughts, the heavy, hazy veil of authority permanently shielding his gaze.

And Natsuo understands how to deal with it.

As it turns out, Natsuo makes it to you before Touya’s left his little sanctuary, the muddled sound of his little brother’s voice more than enough to coax him from the bathroom.

“What are you doing here?” Voracious pupils rimmed with crystal search the younger man’s face, staggering towards his younger brother and clapping a hand on his broad shoulder.

“Came to see if you were okay,” Natsuo responds a little breathlessly, placing a palm over the hand clamped down on his shoulder and squeezing, his body a source of reliable stability for his niisan.

“I’m not,” Touya’s face twists, the words bitter on his tongue, casting a glare your way.

“Hey,” Natsuo says softly, using a gentle hand to guide Touya’s gaze back to his own. “She told me what happened—”

“Oh? Did she? Did she tell you how fucking disrespectful she’s been?”

“Of course,” Natsuo soothes. “Of course she did, niisan. You know she’s never anything but honest,”

“Honest,” Touya snorts, eyes rolling. “Honest. Is that what we’re calling it? Is that what she was three weeks ago, when she went and fucked—”

“I’m not here to talk about that, Touya-nii,” Natsuo says, the words somehow both firm yet gentle. “You know why she did that, and you’ve moved forward, haven’t you? It’s in the past now,”

Natsuo knows it isn’t that simple, though. Shards of Touya shoot through his mind: how his voice had been thick with tears through the staticky speaker of Natsuo’s phone; the potent panic that had imbued his confessions and explanations as they raced from his lips; the way his niisan became small, scared—smaller and more scared than Natsuo had ever seen him before—when he admitted that he was downright petrified of what was happening to him; all of those strange, unknown feelings coursing through his body, the sheer vulnerability and loss of power, the anger and hatred and terror and heartache, the inability to bear the mere thought of losing you, of you leaving him, forever.

Touya shifts, shrugs, looks away, and nods once, jaw flexing.

Shifting on the edge of Touya’s bed, your eyes look between the two of them, narrowing a little, as if trying to decipher the unspoken memory passing through their eyes, in the air between their chests.

“Maybe I should—”

“No,” Touya snaps instantly, broken from wherever Natsuo had just taken him, eyes blazing. “You stay.”

“She has a point about the hickeys, you know,” Natsuo says cautiously, eyes trained on his big brother’s expressions, ready to revise his statement at the slightest hint of recoil. “Marks such as these put your whole relationship at risk, Touya-nii.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Touya sneers. “Incest isn’t even illegal in Japan, alright? Especially between fucking step-siblings. I checked.”

Oh, Natsuo doesn’t doubt that one bit; Touya’s practically got Japan’s criminal law memorized backwards.

“It isn’t about the incest, though,” Natsuo continues in that slow, soft lilt. “It’s so much more than that, niisan. Incest might not be fully illegal here, but what if the police begin to dig more, dig further, find some dirt with your DNA all over it…”

You can both see it, that smug self-assurance plastered across Touya’s face paired with a dismissive scoff in response, arrogance shining in his eyes—yeah, right, as if they could ever catch him—but the thought still manages to sew a few thin threads of fear through him.

Touya is careful, sure. Touya works for the biggest Yakuza in the fucking country, though. Touya’s currently at war with said Yakuza’s fucking son.

If the authorities come poking around, who’s to say Tomura won’t sell him out, at least in some capacity? Who’s to say Tomura won’t frame him for something, won’t make some sort attempt to get rid of him if the opportunity presents itself? Because with Touya out of the picture, that leaves you, his poor, precious little baby, helpless and all alone…

“Besides,” Natsuo continues after a beat, drawing his big brother’s attention back to him. “You know the hickeys are there—”

“It isn’t the same,” Touya growls, eyes flashing. “I’m not the one who needs to know they’re there! They aren’t just for me!”

That’s right; they’re more than just bruises on flesh. They’re a claim, a stake to ownership, a bold statement.

“You’re right, niisan, I’m sorry,” Natsuo’s saying immediately, pacifying hands finding Touya’s wounded biceps and squeezing gently. A hum vibrates in his throat as he thinks. “What if you bought her something a little more permanent, though? Bruises fade fast and raise a whole ton of questions no one wants to answer, but something physical—something like a piece of jewellery, something she can wear every day—will not.”

It’s easy to tell that Touya isn’t totally in love with the idea—what makes the hickeys so special is that they are made by him—but he has to admit, Natsuo makes a good point.

“Please, niichan,” you chime in, and your voice is small, hesitant, terrified of shattering what Natsuo has just precariously repaired. “I love you so much, I love you more than anything on this earth, I swear I do, and I’d love something that could help me show it off—something that isn’t as hazardous, because—because—” The words catch on a suppressed sob in your throat, but you power through, voice garbled. “Because I can’t live without you, Touya-nii, I need you to survive now, and I—I don’t want to do anything that puts us at risk; that puts me at risk of losing you, even if it’s tiny. I can’t go on without you by my side!”

Bursts of pride race through his veins, coming to collect into a concentrated ball of glittering sunlight behind his ribs, encasing his heart in its warm embrace.

“I’d do anything for you, Touya-nii. Anything. You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” you stare up at him with such devotion, such sincerity, so much so that it’s spilling from your eyes and mixing with your tears, staining your cheeks and bearing your soul to him with such obedience—so willing to serve, wanting to serve.

And suddenly, he remembers. He remembers why he decided to open his heart to you, why he fell so irreversibly hard, so irreversibly fast for you, why he knowingly took that chance to be vulnerable, fully aware of the potential perils that come packaged with love.

No, it wasn’t wrong to let you in, to let you stay. Yes, it was worth it—is worth it—being honest and raw with you; giving you all of him, just like you begged him to not so many nights ago, in the dark of his bedroom with tears in your eyes and your heart in your voice; becoming wholly and completely yours—and you, wholly and completely his.

A calloused hand cups your cheek, rough fingers running across your sticky skin as he gazes down at you with so much love it aches, this love he’s never allowed himself to show you before, beautiful and vulnerable and so fucking bright it scalds your skin.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he murmurs, revelling in the way you whimper and nuzzle into his palm. “Who will guide you, who will take care of you, if niichan isn’t there? You can’t do it on your own, can you?” he clicks his tongue, like you are the most pathetically precious thing he’s ever owned. “You need him, don’t you, princess?”

Affirmatives are spilling from your lips in an instant, both hands wrapped around his strong wrist and gripping it like a lifeline, keeping his palm pressed almost painfully to your cheek.

“I know, baby, I know,” he’s saying softly, just shy of a whisper. “You need him, I know.”

And he needs you, too.

✰ ✰ ✰

Natsuo’s words ring true in his head, and it isn’t more than a day or two after the argument when he presents you with one of those pretty blue boxes, an ivory ribbon tied in an immaculate bow around it. The small package houses a Tiffany key, the base a heart-shaped locket, a scrawled ‘T’ engraved in the platinum; a cheesy symbolism that you own not only the key, but his whole heart, too—but it isn’t what he truly wanted to gift you with; not exactly, anyway.

A diamond choker—a subtle collar—that’s what you need. That’s what he wants to give you.

But the collar is something that’s special; the collar requires a significant amount of consideration and contemplation on his part, an excruciating amount of searching and studying in an effort to find one that’s just right. This isn’t something he wants to carelessly rush into.

It isn’t perfect, but the Tiffany necklace will work as a placeholder for now, enough to declare his love and ownership until he finds something flawless, something faultless, that suits you—and his proclamation—exquisitely.

#dabi x reader #dabi angst #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya angst #bnha angst #peep the subtle star wars reference ehehehehe #anyone who notices it gets a cookie!!!#also peep a few uhhh easter eggs or like;;; references to my touya nii christmas series!!!! :o #hehehe <3 enjoy n heed the warnings!!#tw stepcest #tw pseudocest #tw toxic relationship

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mid-knightowl · 1 year

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I have so many WIPs to work on but I cannot stop the plotbunnies and ideas when they hit me. Take this fem!jay+jaydick 80s inspired drabble that I may never finish *cries*

If anyone asked, Jaye always had a thing for fast cars and neon lights. She grew up in Crime Alley, blocks away from the red light district, and the infamous row of theaters and strip clubs. Fancy cars, rich men, fur coats, white powder, and shiny hubcaps were a common and welcomed sight for her.

When she first started working on the streets, that's what drew her in. Not the people—even if she never forgot a face, a sneer, a laugh or grin—not the drugs or guns, or the money passed from hand to hand. It was the cars, the lights, the music.

She loved and hated them. The Alley was gorgeous in it's own fucked up way but it was also an ever present danger. A thrill and adrenaline rush all in one, it made her heart pound in her chest, it made her sick to her stomach, it made her bare her teeth in a fierce grin.

She was never not memorized by the way the lights flickered in her eyes, or the way the sun set over the skyline, the darkened hues of orange, red and pink smeared over the blackened smog of the city. And how, at just the right angle, at just the right alleyway, these neon lights illuminated the clouds, striking through the dark like the Batsignal.

A reminder to the rest of the city—we're still here.

She hated it too. The way it killed her parents and the way it hurt her friends over and over. How the corruption seeped into every crook and cranny of the Alley. How it made people desperate.

So, when she had to pick between drugs, sex, and cars—she picked cars.

If anyone asked, Jaye would lie and say that stealing the tires off the Batmobile cemented her love for fast cars, bright lights, and danger.

But it wasn't. A desperate act to survive, which in turn gave her a family was nothing short of a dream. And she'll always be grateful that what she loved and hated in equal measure brought her to them.

It's the sleek black and blue Z28 Camaro, the warm black leather seats, the cassette tapes in her hands, the wind tangled in her hair, and Dick Grayson's laughter over the radio that cements her love for fast and dangerous.

His hair was curling to his shoulders, undecided on whether he would actually keep the mullet-inspired look or cut it short again. His leather jacket was laying in the backseat and for once, he wasn't wearing somethin atrocious and low-cut (not that teenage Jaye ever minded but it was a little embarrassing). And his eyes sent electricity singing across her skin, sizzling down her spine just like those neon lights flickering over the strippers and cars.

Her stomach dropped, her heart pounded in her chest so loud she could hear it, and she bared her teeth as he laughed, foot on the gas pedal and the engine roaring underneath his hands.

She never understood the nickname, Golden Boy, until that day. The sun shimmered across his skin, catching on the glitter in his hair left over from a "Titans mission" and his chain necklace. A halo, a spotlight made just for him.

Stay gold, ponyboy, she had thought to herself, mesmerized and wide-eyed.

Fast, dangerous, and golden.

She never stood a chance.

He watches Jaye stretch out in the backseat of the car that somehow made it through all the shit of his Titan years, of his early years in Blüdhaven, and thinks-knows she's a dangerous type of trouble. Terrifying, but addictive.

He can't get enough.

She grins, all teeth in the backseat like she can read his mind. His hands clench around the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure. She tips her chin up, showing off more of her bare neck as she quietly laughs at him.

She's in one those corset-like bras. A deep, dark red lace. Her underwear matches, a dark and intoxicating red peeking out from under the bunched up fabric of her short skirt.

She's wearing his leather jacket.

He exhales harshly, putting the car in gear.

"Get up here," He growls out, pulling out on the street. He doesn't look in the rearview mirror, hearing the rustling of his jacket as she moves.

"So bossy," She murmurs in his ear as she slides across the center console, her hand trailing down his neck and arm. When she sits in the passenger seat, leaving her skirt bunched up against her upper things, he guns it.

The roar of the engine and the hum of his old cassette tapes reverberate through his head and she laughs. Loud and bright and biting and he can't help himself. He twists his hand in her curls and kisses her.

She opens up to him without complaint, hands clawing at his shirt as he stretches her neck into an uncomfortable and painful arch. It's bruising and brutal, more teeth than tongue. She tastes like strawberries and sugary sweetness.

He nips at her bottom lip as he leans back, turning back to the road. He tugs at her hair once more, watching as her eyes flutter at the touch, before moving his hand back to the shifter. She huffs, her hand ghosting over his chest and playing with chain as she glares-pouts at him.

He shifts gears, hitting the main drag. A smile curls on her reddened lips, her eyes alight as she watches the road race underneath them. Her hand teases down his arm, only stopping to entwin their fingers together around the shifter.

"How come your polish isn't chipped?" She suddenly grumbles, lips pursed as she gazes down at their hands. She plays and wiggles their fingers—his black and blue nail polish gleams in the passing street lights compared to her chipped and matte red polish. He squeezes her hand and gives a soft smile as he whips the car down the next street.

"New brand and a clear top coat." He explains, tapping his middle finger against hers. Her face scrunches up and he can't help his chuckle. She leans over, squeezing his hand right before she bites into his shoulder.

"Jay-" He hisses, his muscles tensing under the assault of her teeth. She quietly laughs, rubbing her face against his shirt before giving it a soft kiss. She gazes up at him through hooded eyes full of mischief, and he feels the grin against his shirt.

"You're so mean to me," He murmurs with a crooked smile, finally reaching the highway ramp. He takes their hands together and shifts gear. Her quick and sharp inhale makes him grin as he races up the ramp and swerves them into traffic.

He weaves them through the last dregs of the nightly rush hour, her hand squeezing painfully around his and the shifter as he dodges car after car.

"You deserve it." She probably means to be cruel and vicious, but her words are soft, more of a low, breathy sigh than a cutting remark. He hums and shifts gears one more time, hoping to hear more of those pretty noises. And fuck, he wishes he could just throw her into the backseat and do it himself. Take her apart in his jacket and his jacket only.

She shifts in her seat, and he watches her free hand twist in the edges of her skirt from the corner of his eye. They're tearing down the highway, the road signs mere blurs as they pass by. The speedometer twitches over 95 and she hums, low but loud. It almost sounds like a muffled moan.

And he's a weak man.

He takes their entwined hands and trails their fingers over her exposed skin, ghosting over her thighs with the barest amount of pressure. She gets the hint, guiding his hand over the scars and the edges of her skirt. She arches just a bit, shifting her hips forward and tilting her head towards him.

She catches his gaze, but she doesn't move her hand any further, holding it there.

"Faster." She says, eyes dark and filled with an insatiable hunger that tingles down his spine. He shudders at her words. There are no more lights to illuminate her, just the moonlight and the low lights of the radio. And gods, it suits her like the sun suits him.

He curls his fingers into her skin, kneading at the muscles that could easily kill a man, thighs he would gladly spend the rest of the night between.

Without a word, he presses down on the gas pedal and watches the speedometer gradually move past the 100 mark. When it reaches close to 110 and they blow past the Bristol exist, he gives her a look and flexes his fingers.

"So good to me, aren't you Bluebird?" She murmurs, biting her lip as she smiles at him. He jerks, a sharp inhale-exhale, as the leather of the steering wheel creaks under his hand. He gives her a choked hum, positive that if he opened his mouth to speak all that would come out is desperation and need.

She laughs and he so badly wants to kiss her again. But then she's moving his hand—their hands—to the thin edges of her lace underwear and he loses all train of thought.

#jaydick #fem!jaydick #femjay #80s inspired AU #i just love the idea of Jay and Dick growing up in the 80s #and reminiscing on those days after Jay comes back #especially around a car and music #i headcanon that Dick got a hot rod in his new colors as a fuck you to Bruce and it sat in storage until Jay mentions it #i also headcanon that dick does wear nail polish pretty consistently but jay only does for missions #maybe one day i'll return and make this a coherent story or something #but i wanted to post it before i chickened out #also noting this is basically unedited and yadda yadda #i have so many jaydick wips and brain was like here's a completely unrelated idea to every other project you've got going!!!#love that for me:))))

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magnus-the-maqnificent · 2 years

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It was Alec, grinning wide and bright and spraying water out of a garden hose towards them, looking more colourful than Magnus had ever seen him, quite literally. He was covered liberally in powdered paint, from the red, blue and green in his hair to the orange smeared on his cheekbones, and his clothes resembled some dollar store’s tie-and-dye collection. Magnus stood looking at him for a long moment, even as more people clambered out of the bus and fell victim to his antics and Alec threw his head back and laughed - it was like seeing him in an entirely new light, as if he was still high from the little booze he’d drank a couple of nights ago.

“Hey! Topper! ”

Alec’s head turned in the direction of Lily’s voice, and he yelled back, “What topper?!”

At that Magnus’s lips broke out into a grin and he stepped forward, pulling off his jacket and tossing it in Raphael’s general direction. Alec's gaze locked onto the movement, and stayed there, his grin sobering a little and his eyes darkening as he watched Magnus.

“Hey, Alexander!” he called out as he stepped towards Alec, slow and deliberate even as the water soaked his shirt. “If you wanted to get me all wet, you could’ve just asked.”

Alec's lips twitched up into a smile of laughter, even as a beautiful blush bloomed across his cheeks. He stepped back in sync with Magnus, once, twice, before a glimmer of mischief sparked in his eyes and he turned and bolted into the crowd.

Read Chapter 11 of take my hand, wreck my plans (that’s my man) on Ao3

@high-warlock-of-brooklyn

#the angst starts today 🙃#tmhwmp #yjhd au

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chocolatepeachsundae · 1 year

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I'm really shocked at the lack of love on Tumblr for our wonderful Camp Organizer, Chris Hackett.

I don't usually share any of my fanfictions as they're private. (So apologizing ahead of time for any errors in grammar and spelling.)

But I wanted to share this little prequal snippet of a one-shot I did for FemOC X Chris. I'd love any feedback/opinions and if you guys want me to share anymore...🤷🏻‍♀️

Lillian leant her chin on her palm, she watched the quiet waves of snow drift sway rhymeically onto the carpark. The white powder slowly seating itself onto the vegetation, giving the motel a cosy glow from inside.

The mug of English tea she cradled in her hands kept her fingers from the numbing cold. Steam reached up to her nostrils, a distant mumble of radio chatter kept her from sitting in absolute silence. She cherished these winter nights, the cold quietness that took over North kill.

*"A married New York couple who went missing while hiking Silver Point area have been found dead with multiple animal wounds, authorities say. The bodies of Stephen Reid, 67, and Djeswende Reid, 66, were discovered 6 months ago in a wooded ar~TZZK"

Static broke the newscaster off. Raising herself out the chair she walked over to the janky little portable system. It buzzed and groaned as she adjusted the antenna. There was a feeling that everything felt suddenly still, the snow blanketed any noise from the outside and for a moment... She felt herself zone out.

*"TZZK~Office has issued yellow warning of snow, ice and fog up and down Catskills area, which are expected to be ongoing until Thursd-" *

The abruptness caused her to jolt back to reality as her eyes fell onto the the snowy darkness. The glow of the open sign reflected a gentle blue glow across the white. The night sky a thick velvet blanket encompassing the motel. She made her way back to her desk.

*I should just lock up for the night and go upstairs*

As her hand reached down to open the desk draw in front of her, she noticed the light outside flicker, a flurry in the corner of her peripherals. Her head flicked around to catch it, but too slow. Figuring the bulb was nearly out, she ignored the pang of fear shooting up her chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lillian fumbled the keys into the apartment door, kicking the little lip of snow sitting on the metal stairway. Her body shuddered as she fought the creeping brisk air of winter trying to prise its way into the cracks of her scarf. Clouds of hot air billowed over her face, as the key gave way to it's lock mechanism, fluidly swinging the doot open to pull her inside. A clang of metal made her stop one foot in the doorway, she peered down at the large wheelie bins to see if she had been hearing raccoons again.

The industrial gate violently shook, the settled snow tumbling from its precarious perch ontop of the steel rods. Lillian head swiftly turned to face the noise in front of her. Pounding, her heart jumped into her throat as she quietly observed.

Heat rose through Lillian body, her cheeks glowing against the white blanket of snow surrounding her, all she could hear was the panicked thud of her pulse through her chest. Weighing her down into her feet, grounded in fear.

"Li-llian?" a weak trembled voice croaked from beyond the gate. Her eyes widened, she parted her lips to speak but only faint puffs of condensation trailed from her cold lips.

"Lillian... Its Chris... Can.. You let me in?" the figure behind the door shakily exclaimed. Immediately Lillian made her way down the stairs and turned to the gate.

*what is Chris doing out here?*

The gate swung open and Chris looked up at her with a relieved smile,weakly leant against the corner post. His Aviator jacket was half hanging off his left shoulder. There was mud smeared across his shins and knees, jeans slightly torn up showing beads of clotted blood formed in the fabric. Lillian stepped aside to let him in and he made his way up to the unlocked apartment above the tavern...

#chris hackett #the quarry #the quarry fanfic #hacketts quarry #hackett family #the quarry fandom #the quarry fanfiction #dont judge me too harshly haha #amateur fanfic #fem oc

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droningmachinations · 9 months

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MrHacker: A Droning Machinations Special Episode

Written By Joseph M.

Prologue: Paragraphs From The Book of the Stone of Jesus

So then God cast down upon the Earth an emerald within an orb, so that he who believes in God may be gifted deserved power.

Hail and praise God, for He in his greatness sent us not only the Son of God, but knowing the unending love of His and the Son of God, He sent forth an emerald to give the deserving power.

There was a man named Jesus. Then, there was a man named Jesus picking the strings on a bass guitar in front of a large crowd, search lights flashing and slashing open the clouds; there was a Jesus with a gun and a brown leather jacket walking through neon streets with a golden halo over his head; there was a multiverse of Jesuses and men that bore a spitting resemblance to the Lord.

One of them was the Christ if he had grown up in the modern day and age, dressed up in a Batman costume painted white with a gold belt, a black bat with a yellow oval for the emblem, and ran out into the grimy alleys of Gloryham to spread love and mercy, and help give criminals a second chance.

He was perching over a skyscraper, hunched over like an eagle atop beams of silvery steel with thin slices of glass, his golden cape flying away from him in the wind. He watched over the city with the unblinking, vigilant stare of an owl, keeping an eye over even the most petty criminals, swooping down from the treetops of concrete and brick and mortar, steel and windows and sunroof gardens to break up fights between criminals and intervene in drug rings.

His biggest archnemesis was a horned, white-pelted madman with Judas' blood smeared across his parched lips, and a green plump tuft of mane growing out from his wilted face. He was burly, his muscles practically grew out of his own dry and flabby flesh, bones ripping out of his skin. When he opened his mouth, the screams of the eternally damned ripped apart his lungs, trapped souls trying to escape the depths of Hades from which the beast crawled out of.

This monster was Satan, and in the world with Bat-Jesus he started a weapons ring, selling bombs to buyers under the alias: "Beselub." Today, he was ordering his human henchmen at the docks to ship out several crates worth of the white powder to buyers who were planning. He didn't have any use for money, but he loved watching stuff blow up.

As the men marched off, they noticed a cowled, caped figure moving above them, leaping across shipping crates, the slippery noise of leather boots running across corrugated steel echoing off the walls of cargo containers. It was a figure in white and gold, one with the shape and form of an elusive bat that could spread its wings and fly or simply crawl and prowl the woods. This was Bat-Jesus, the Holy Batman of Gloryham.

Bat-Jesus leapt down in front of the goons. Guns drew. Bat-Jesus whipped out a Bat-Grappler and fired it, the hook slipping onto the roof of a red shipping container. Bat-Jesus kicked both of the cronies in the face, landed on the other side, and punched them with two Bat-clenched, Bat-gloved knuckles.

This was Bat-Jesus, The Son of God of Gloryham. Two more cronies approached, but he knocked them out as well. Punch, slam, blam!

Three more goons. Kaboom! Whamo!

Bat-Jesus smiled and removed his cowl, his black hair fluttering over his olive skin as a choir of divine angels descended down upon him, singing, "Satan has been banished back to the dimension of Asylum Hades, praise be to Jesus Christ!" Merely engaging the malevolent mortal maldoers in direct mano a mano combat was enough to scare the head-of-the-operation and weaver-of-untruths away.

While Bat-Jesus protected Gloryham, in a bustling world of neon nightclubs and stripper clubs there was a Cyberpunk Jesus. There was also an animated Jesus from a spurratic world of colors, one with sharp black lines on his body; glimmering and wide, expressive eyes that resembled the ones on the faces of anime characters. There was also a Jesus riffing a quartz white bass guitar.

Steel Jesus. Butterfly Jesus. Fish Jesus. Jesus was a Son of God, and God was everything pure and good; therefore, Jesus accepted the form of all that was good and pure. He inherited a passionate love for superheroes in the world where he became Bat-Jesus, watching Batman cartoons and reading Batman comics.

Tiger Jesus was on the crucifix. His orange and black pelt quivered as he roared, as if each individual fur had a mind of its own. Metal nails driven into his fur elicited his roars, steel bolts driven into his talons, into his hind legs. He screeched in pain, letting out a groan so disturbing it caused even the tough hearts of Caesar's Romans to break when they saw the sight and heard the sounds.

On the third day after his death, Tiger Jesus' eyes burst open. He felt two nails chewing through his wilted, graying hands. The steel gnawing through both of his ankles, sending waves of pain up his spine, the pain receptors in his brain overreacting, the cells and atoms and the science in his mind tried to shut his body down. He fell from the cross, shouting, "Father, I was meant to fulfill my prophecy and perish on the cross, then ascend into Heaven today!"

A great voice decreed from the heavens, "You still have a purpose here on Earth. You shall serve, great tiger, my Son. And, You shall serve to help a ten, a ten of whom I shall reveal to You over time, whose battles include taking down terrors humanity has not yet faced in this world. I am very pleased with You, and I have foreseen that You will be of great aid to the ten's mission."

Tiger Jesus crawled back into Jerusalem, his claws dragging against the desert dunes; it was like four forks being run into the sand kicking up debris, scraping up pebbles and gathering dust. He let out a soft, weak purr that was as quiet as bushes rustling.

The Virgin Mary found Him and nursed Him back to health, applying light layers of skin ointments and gels. Akin to a freezing lagoon, Tiger Jesus' wounds were sealed by the most cold, cunning and merciless healer known to the cosmos: time.

He ventured out of the Virgin Mary's home and back into Jerusalem, as I watched from a distance.

Yvarg was here too. And coolguy80101. And antienjoys (Joseph Swaney, they/them.)

Epilogue: Final Line From The Book of the Stone of Jesus

And so God created the Jesus Stone, and with it, God–who is all, and Jesus is a part of God–gave the Jesus Stone the love of three Persons in One.

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

Text

IV ║ Contingent

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

{ << Part 3: Conjecture | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 5: Confound >> }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Dieter fucks up, so you put your foot down.

Warnings: Angst (!), fighting, jealousy, possessiveness, drinking, drug use (never done any so apologies for inaccurate descriptions), swearing, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), soft Dieter persists 🥺, yearning, I'm really into his rings (sorry), no use of Y/N

Word count: 6500-ish

'I'm mad at you,' you say, almost relieved to be honest with him.

He turns and presses a wet kiss to your left palm. 'Good. Me too. Make me pay for my sins.'

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Saturday, 3:35 am

This is good shit, Dieter thinks to himself, nose wrinkling from the hit.

He might have said it aloud. He's not entirely sure. There's no one else in the cabin so there are no witnesses.

He takes a gulp of champagne straight from the bottle. It's almost empty, but it's ok, he's halfway to Park City.

No matter how much he drinks though, he can still taste you on his tongue.

Agitated, he picks up his phone. He suddenly realises that he doesn't have your number, or Instagram, or anything.

Fuck. He needs to think about something else.

So he takes a selfie with his bottle of champagne.

He double checks there's no powder on his nose and uploads the story.

------------------------------------------------------

3:41 am

You’ve been drinking copiously since you got to the bar. Tequila. Vodka. Sambuca. Jager. You think it's helping you forget.

But then.

You see Dieter swigging his whiskey across the bar as you dance with the makeup girls.

You feel his hand skimming your waist as Pete shepherds you to the bar for a top up.

You feel the ghost of his beard on your face when Pete pulls you close, swaying to the music.

You need to throw up. You stumble outside into the cold morning, pulling your hair back as your stomach empties itself on the curb.

You cough, throat burning. Your argument with Dieter rings in your ears. He doesn’t know - of course he doesn’t - why you reacted the way you did.

Because he doesn’t know you.

You just want to see his face.

It's a miracle you haven't lost your phone yet considering your state of sobriety (or rather, lack thereof). As you hold it up to unlock it, you see the smear of you still on the screen and your breath catches in your throat at the memory.

You clumsily type his name into Google - more like Diwtwe Beavo - and you find his Instagram profile.

You didn't even realise he was on social media. You greedily click on the glowing pink ring around his profile picture, a low-res selfie of him.

Story uploaded 6m ago.

He's on his private jet, sunglasses on, holding up a bottle of expensive-looking champagne. His hair is as disheveled as your fingers left it hours ago, those lips that whispered filthy words and left burning trails on your skin pouting at the camera.

You put your thumb against the screen so the story never ends.

Not bothering to retrieve your jacket, you order an Uber to go back to your hotel before you start bawling on the curb.

Dieter is still high when he steps off the plane in Utah. It’s cold but it’s ok, he’s got his cocaine jacket on.

He’s high when he checks in to his hotel. The penthouse is nice, but cocaine is nicer.

He’s high at makeup. He snorts a line when they’re waiting for his hair spray to dry.

He’s high at wardrobe. His dresser disapprovingly dusts the white powder off his trousers.

He’s high at the press interviews. It’s easier to answer inane questions about cliffs and beasts and Tiktok dances with cocaine in his system.

On his way back to his hotel room to change for the red carpet, it dawns on him out of nowhere that if you upped and left today, he wouldn't know how or where to find you.

He reaches for more cocaine.

It's Saturday afternoon and you can barely open your eyes with the day-old mascara and dried tears literally gluing your eyelids together.

You reach out blindly for your phone which lies next to you on the bed. You ignore the texts from the makeup girls and Pete on the lockscreen, and you hate the fact that once you unlock the phone, it's Dieter Bravo's Instagram staring back at you - exactly where you left off last night when you finally passed out.

Your finger hovers over the 'Follow' button. No. You won't be caught dead following him. Not that he'll notice with his 2 million followers.

Your phone dies before you can do anything rash. You plug the charger in, then drag yourself out of bed and into the shower.

Dieter’s high on the red carpet. He’s so keyed up he doesn’t even blink at the furious camera flashes behind his sunglasses.

He has a little pick-me-up in between the screening and the live Q&A. For once, he's glad he doesn't have top billing and thus doesn't field any more than a couple of bullshit questions, which he bluffs his way through.

He’s still buzzed when he gets on the car to be chauffeured to the after-party.

He turns to his left and stares at the empty seat next to him.

He’s high when a pretty girl approaches him in the party chalet, two of her equally pretty friends in tow. He entertains their requests for selfies, then offers them some cocaine. They retreat to an empty bedroom.

He gets even more high when the three of them lie on their backs on the king sized bed, tidy white lines nestled between perfect, bouncy tits in lacy push-up bras. Because why the fuck not. He snorts all three one after the other.

He’s high as fuck when the two blondes start giving him head. Too fucking high to see the brunette filming on her phone.

He wishes he was high right now, back on the private jet 24 hours after he landed in Utah, trip cut short, on his way back to LA for a crisis meeting with the studio.

His agent is on his jet with him. Not his regular agent, his OG agent who discovered him twenty two years ago. She officially retired five years ago, but she's still chairman of the agency she founded.

The studio called her directly while he was still partying, the girls having wasted no time in sending the compromising video to TMZ for an undisclosed sum. Rebecca showed up in a white mink coat, her hair and makeup perfect at 4:22am, and practically dragged him out of the chalet by his ear.

‘You’re lucky I was skiing in Utah instead of the Dolomites this year, darling,’ she tuts. ‘We have 6 hours till the story drops.’

Dieter stares out of the window. It’s an ungodly hour - it’s Sunday, he thinks. He hasn’t slept a wink since he got up for work on Friday morning, the cocaine having supplanted his need for rest. For now.

His espresso sits undisturbed by his fingers, drumming restlessly against the table.

He wishes he has your number. Get to you before the news breaks. Explain. Grovel. Beg. Anything.

‘So, who is this time?’

Dieter blinks. ‘What?’

Rebecca puffs on her cigarette, her blue eyes perceptive as always. ‘Every time something like this happens, it's because of a girl.’

He grunts and slumps lower in his chair sullenly. ‘No one.’

She grins, red lipstick and white teeth. ‘Ah, she had the good sense to turn you down, then.'

‘Shut up, mum.’

She laughs.

The thing with Rebecca is that she's good, and never better in a crisis.

The studio bosses were not happy, especially as they've been forced to cancel their Sunday morning golf appointments. But somehow, an hour-long meeting later, they have been convinced that this scandal is actually quite on-brand for the movie. The PR team is confident there's even a chance that it can be spun as a publicity stunt.

The only instruction Dieter has been given is to shut up and keep his head down for the next week or so. They don't trust him to handle anything more, and with the amount of latent drugs passing through his system right now, they're not wrong.

He sighs dramatically once they get back into the car, one hand cradling his temple as Rebecca closes the door behind her. He glances at his watch. There are still 2 hours till the video drops.

'Shall we have some lunch?' asks Rebecca airily, as if she didn't just avert what could have been a career-threatening disaster.

'Not hungry,' he grumbles. Then he clears his throat, and amps up the nonchalance to ask, 'Do you happen to know where the film crew stays at?'

Rebecca squints at her phone, peering at the screen from above the top of her reading glasses. 'In several hotels around town.'

He tries harder. 'Do you have the names of the hotels, at least?'

She doesn't look up. 'You know what darling, I can tell you specifically which one if only you tell me who it is you're looking for.'

He pouts. 'Sneaky shrew.'

She pats his knee affectionately. 'Then you’ll just have to drive around to all nine hotels around town, darling. You better be quick about it too if you want to catch her before the news breaks.'

He glares at her and sinks in his chair in defeat. 'I hate you.'

'I love you too, darling.'

The stupid hangover finally works itself out of your system after lunch on Sunday. You really should accept that you're far too old to be drinking that much anymore. It's pathetic that it's taken 36 hours to recover from a night out.

There's a limo parked out front of your hotel when you pull up in your shitty little second-hand Ford. Strange, but you don't give it much thought. It's LA after all. You've just made a supplies run for some toiletries and a much needed coffee. You plan on going for a jog around the neighbourhood afterwards to make up for lazing in bed all day yesterday.

You're so preoccupied with trying to remember if you've washed your favourite Lululemon sports bra that the sight of him doesn't register until you're right outside your door.

You both spot each other at the same time, and neither of you move. You only remember to breathe when your lungs start protesting for air.

Dieter looks tired, you think to yourself. He's in the same coat that he was wearing when you last saw him, and you can smell stale cigarettes and spilled liquor on him. His sunglasses are clipped to the front of his crumpled shirt. If he tells you he hasn't slept for days, you would believe him.

You break the silence first. 'You look like shit.'

Dieter smirks, but takes your dig without affront. 'Trust me, sweetheart, I feel even worse.'

You cross your arms defensively. 'Why are you here? I thought you were away until Tuesday.'

'I missed you.'

Despite how you left things, it would be so easy to just lean in to him. But you can't. You deadpan, 'Bullshit.'

He clears his throat - no pazaz or fanfare. 'I had emergency business with the studio.'

You really should send him away, but your curiosity gets the better of you. 'Ok, but why are you here? How did you know I'm staying here?'

Dieter runs a hand through his curls. You begrudge him for the fact that he still looks this good when he's a wreck.

He gives you an offhanded shrug. 'I didn't. Drove to nine different hotels. Must have knocked on fifty doors.'

You frown. 'Why?'

He reaches for you, but you duck out of the way, keeping a safe distance between you two. You need it.

Dieter's voice drops, and you have to strain to hear him. 'Sweetheart - listen. I, uh, I fucked up. At Sundance.'

'What are you talking about?'

The buzzing of your phone temporarily distracts you. Then it buzzes again. And again. And again. Relentlessly.

You’re about to look down at the screen but Dieter's voice stops you. 'Wait, sweetheart, before you look at that - I'm sorry.'

His eyes hold yours beseechingly and dread grips your stomach. You key in your passcode and tap on the link has been sent to the group chat by the makeup and costumes girls.

BRAVO, DIETER! OSCAR-WINNING ACTOR FILMED ENJOYING THE COMPANY OF TWO HOTTIES AT SUNDANCE

Scrolling down, a heavily censored video shows the backs of two blonde heads bobbing up and down in an unmistakable motion, while Dieter leans back against an armchair, the same sunglasses firmly on.

Suddenly, there is no air.

You don't feel the paper cup slip out of your hand and hit the floor, latte staining the green carpet. Dieter might have called your name, but you don't hear him.

The video is still on loop, and you stare at it unseeingly.

'When was this?' you ask shakily. You sound weak. You resent yourself for it.

'Last night,' he replies quietly. 'At the after-party.'

You swallow, but your throat remains dry. Your eyes are even drier, so much so they sting. Dieter murmurs your name, quietly, like he doesn't want to startle you, and takes one tentative step towards you.

'Don't,' you say through gritted teeth, your knuckles white. 'Do not.'

He clasps his hands together, brows drawn, the lines on his face set in remorse. 'I'm sorry, sweetheart. I was off my face all fucking day. I don't know how I didn't OD. I started on the cocaine after we fought in the car -'

You sneer, eyes flashing in anger. 'Oh, so it's my fault you got high and got caught on camera getting blown by the sorority sisters?'

Dieter wrings his hands in frustration. 'No! It's not your fault. This is all on me. I fucked up. I'm just trying to explain -'

'Just go, Bravo, I have nothing to say to you.' Your stomach starts rolling again, and you can't look at him any more. You turn to the door, your key card in your hand.

He catches your elbow. 'Please, sweetheart, I'm sorry I'm such an asshole -'

'Why? Why should you be sorry?' you snap at him, whirling around to glare at him. 'Just because we fucked once in the back of your car doesn't mean you owe me anything! I don't care who you fuck or don't fuck!'

Dieter lets the ringing silence linger between you two for a long moment.

You don't expect him to smile at you. It's a wry twist of his lips, and he says almost fondly. 'You little liar.'

The term of endearment throws you off guard. You had the momentum just now, you can't let him turn the tables on you. Anger is your best defence.

'And you're a manwhore,' you spit in his face.

He takes two steps forward. You stubbornly stand your ground, probably to your detriment as he envelopes you with his presence. His voice softens as he traps you with his dark eyes. 'Does it help if I didn’t enjoy it at all, sweetheart?'

The ice under your skin thaws just a bit under his pleading gaze. Get it together, woman.

You scroll a bit further down on your phone for ammunition, which you find in a blurry screencap of the two girls, their busts almost falling out of their too small bras. You hold up the screen to him and smile back sarcastically. 'I don't believe you.'

'Sweetheart, I couldn't even get it up for them,' he confesses, craning his face towards you, soft eyes searching for yours. 'I'd rather look at you all day if you let me.'

'You can't flatter me into submission, Bravo,' you snort. But on the inside, you can't help wanting to believe him.

'Submission?' he frowns at you, perplexed. 'You think I'd want that?'

You lift your chin. 'I wouldn't know.'

Dieter tilts his head to one side, his voice dropping an octave. 'Yes, you do. You know it fucking turns me on when you fight me. You know what that smart mouth does to me.'

You manage to remain motionless when he brings up the back of his index finger to trace the outline of your mouth, but you can't help the crack in your demeanour when you feel the cold kiss of his ring on your lower lip.

This is why you're so careful, you have to be fucking careful. You always get burned, always -

'Ahem.'

Someone breaks the spell, and both your faces swivel towards the voice.

Dieter loses his shit. 'Jesus fucking Christ could you read the damned room for once, Pete!'

Pete stands there with your jacket that you left at the bar. You realise that must be the reason he keeps calling - you have not picked up at all.

His eyes dart between the two of you suspiciously. 'Is there something going on that I should know about?'

You and Dieter speak at the same time.

'No.'

'Yes.'

'Shut up,' you hiss at Dieter.

'Little liar,' he repeats again, in a whisper, so that only you can hear. The intimacy of the words gives you goosebumps.

Pete crosses his arms and prompts you. 'Babe?'

You sigh. If there’s one person who doesn't deserve being lied to, it’s Pete. He's been nothing but sweet to you.

Clearing your throat, you try to meet his gaze as you force the words out. 'It happened... once. Only once.'

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dieter roll his. Ok, technically it both was and was not once. But you have no desire to open that particular can of worms right now.

Pete seems to take your admittance in stride. 'Ok. When did that happen?'

Oh god, you're going to sound like such an ass, but there's no other way to rip the bandaid off. You try not to wince as you reply, 'On Friday night.'

Pete stares at you for a beat. 'Friday night? On my birthday?' You can see the cogs in his head turning. 'So when you were on the phone with me...'

You cringe and rub the back of your neck awkwardly. 'I'm so sorry, Pete.'

What happens next takes you aback, to say the least.

Pete holds up his free hand to you. 'Babe, no way. Dieter Bravo? You absolute legend!'

He waits three seconds, and when you don't take him on his high five, he points at Dieter instead. 'Sorry man, I don't mean to objectify you, but damn.'

Dieter is a pretty self-assured man. You've never seen him anything but cocksure, but he obviously does not know what to make of the situation. He's staring at Pete as if he's sprouted an extra head. That would've been far less weird than whatever this is.

You're not proud of it, but you have to get the fuck out of there. Without warning and in quick succession, you grab your jacket from Pete, swipe the keycard, dash through the door and slam it shut behind you. Your heart races with your back plastered to the surface. You wouldn't be surprised if they could hear your pulse through the door.

Through the flimsy wood, you hear the awkward shuffling of feet, until Pete’s hopeful voice asks, 'You wanna grab a drink?'

You hear Dieter huff, then a disgruntled answer. 'Fine. One drink.'

As their footsteps fade, you let out the breath you’ve been holding in, and head straight for the mini bar. You're going to need far more than one drink.

Five whiskeys later, Dieter's still at the hotel bar with Pete.

He's pretty sure the cocaine's out of his system now. That's ok, he's drunk instead, so he won't be crashing just yet.

He keeps tossing the drinks back so he doesn't have to think about the way your face crumpled when you watched the video. Or how you pushed him away when he reached for you. How you rebuffed his attempts to apologise.

As you should. He deserves no quarter from you.

And yet - you’re angry at him. Anger is good, anger means you’re hurt. In his drug-addled state, he had wanted to hurt you for the sake of it, positively exulted at the prospect of it. Once the high had worn off though, that was another story. But in a roundabout way, he now knows for sure that he’s not alone in this quagmire.

He suddenly slaps a hand on Pete's back and declares, 'You're a decent guy, Peter.'

His beer spills everywhere from the jolt, but he still grins. 'Thanks. You too, man.'

Always so fucking amiable. Dieter tries to hate him for it, but truth to be told, he doesn't even dislike this joker. Maybe he should accept defeat. He knows for a fact that Pete would be better for you.

The ice clinks in his glass as Dieter waves a commanding finger in the younger man’s face. 'You treat her well, you hear me? If you hurt her, I'll kick your damned ass and you'll never work again.'

Pete holds his hand up for Dieter to stop talking. ‘Whoa, whoa - wait a sec, you know we're not dating, right?’ He pauses to sip his beer. ‘To be honest with you, I think she has commitment issues.’

Dieter jumps to your defence on reflex. ‘Shut up Pete, YOU have commitment issues.' At Pete's hands raised in surrender, he pipes down and mumbles into his whiskey, 'Sorry.'

Pete smiles knowingly, but doesn't offer any comment. Instead, he hops off the bar stool, tripping as he goes. 'I really should go, I'm an hour late for a drink with friends.' He holds out his hand. 'Do this another time?

'Fuck off, Pete,' Dieter grumbles, but shakes it.

Pete laughs and claps him on the shoulder. 'See you, Bravo.'

Dieter stares into his whiskey. He should probably go back to his hotel and sleep it off. Make it up to you when he's clear-headed.

But since when does Dieter Bravo do what he should?

He drains his glass, puts way too much change on the bar for his check, and heads straight to the elevator back to your floor.

You lie prostrate on your bed. It feels like groundhog day. You're in the exact same position as you were yesterday, the only difference being you are now freshly drunk instead of hungover.

You hold your phone above your face. You're still staring at that video, unsure what you're trying to get out of it, other than pure self-flagellation.

There are many things you'd like to say to Dieter Bravo. Hurtful things. But you can't, because this is nothing. You made sure of it when you threw his invitation in his face and stormed out of his car.

Did that really happen less than 48 hours ago?

You thought you were being smart. You thought you preempted. You never learn.

Why did he have to come to you? Why did he tell you that he drove to nine different hotels to find you? It would be so much easier to find out about the incident on the internet, cry yourself to sleep, go to work, and pretend nothing has ever happened.

But no. He shows up with his soulful brown eyes. Tells you he didn't enjoy it, couldn't get it up for them. Calls out your bald-faced lie that you don't give a fuck.

Of course you fucking care. In your drunken, pitiful stupor you give yourself permission to admit that you do. It fucking hurts. You've never been good at no-strings anything. More fool you.

And the worst part? Your pathetic little brain is still trying to find a way, any way, to have him for the rest of your time on set. After that, you promise yourself, you don’t have to see him again.

You try the idea out aloud.

'I have rules,' you say sternly to your imaginary Dieter. 'I have ground rules.'

A hiccup runs through your body. No, hiccupping would not do. You have to be assertive. Hiccupping would ruin any illusion of assertion you try to convey.

You sit up and look at yourself in the mirror above the bed.

'I have ground rules,' you rehearse to yourself. 'I don't care what you do in your private time.'

Your watch your expression break in the mirror.

'Shit,' you curse under your breath, your fingers restless. Sometimes you regret giving up smoking.

Reaching over to the nightstand, you grab the nearest miniature bottle and take the last sip of vodka. You've cleared out the mini bar, the empty bottles lined up on the TV cabinet like sitting ducks. Got to go out and buy more wine before the shops close.

You spend what feels like one long minute trying to put your right foot into your left sneaker. Then you hiccup again.

You give up and jam your feet into the hotel slippers. It's acceptable to go out in slippers after - you grab your phone to look at the time - 17:03. Ok, it's earlier than you thought, but it's still fine.

You push yourself up, grabbing your wallet and key card. There's a shop right on the corner, you'll be back before you know it.

You wrench the door open and face plant straight into a very broad chest.

Hands on your upper arms push you back, and you stare blearily into the face of the man you have been trying to not think about for the past few hours.

'I have rules,' you blurt out in a knee-jerk reaction. 'I have ground rules.'

He looks at you, confused. He opens his mouth to speak, but you hear the door knob of the next room jangle. In your panic, you drag Dieter into your room by the lapel of his coat and slam the door shut by shoving him against it.

You’re leaning on him, your fingers still clenched in the fabric of his coat. You smell whiskey on his breath. You guess you’re not the only one who’s been partaking in a bit of drink.

Gentle hands come up to grasp the back of yours. He asks coaxingly, ‘You have rules?’

You gulp. His hands are so big, you can't see even a peep of your skin under his. ‘I - I do.’

‘Good,’ he answers, his gravelly voice reverberates under your palms. ‘I've been told I need a firm hand.’

Your mouth goes dry, but you manage to croak, 'Why are you here again?'

It's not fair the way you wilt under his gaze. He whispers, 'I know you don’t want to hear it, but I really am sorry, sweetheart.'

You clench your jaw and press your lips together.

Plucking your hands off his chest, Dieter nuzzles your right palm and carefully presses one open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin. 'Will you let me make it up to you? Please?'

With no input from your head, your jaw unlocks and your lips part. Fuck. You’re too easy. You both know you’re a goner.

'I'm mad at you,' you say, almost relieved to be honest with him.

He turns and presses a wet kiss to your left palm. 'Good. Me too. Make me pay for my sins.'

Your mouth goes slack. You actually feel your pupils dilating, lust clouding your head.

Dieter spots all the signs, his eyes following every little reaction on your face. 'Tell me how you want me to make it up to you, sweetheart.'

The words stumble out of your lips before your mind catches up. 'Take off your clothes.'

He stares at you like he's never seen you before. His nostrils flare, and the hitch in his breathing only fuels your craving for him.

'Go sit on the bed, sweetheart,' he rasps.

You walk backwards - slowly - as your head is in overdrive, and he follows you, toe to toe. He shrugs off his coat first, which lands in a heap on the carpet. The buttons on his shirt look tiny under his fingers, the disks sliding out one after the other, until it hangs open, exposing tanned skin underneath.

The back of your knees hits the bed and you fall onto your bottom clumsily, bouncing gently on the mattress.

With a roll of his broad shoulders, the shirt eases off. Your eyes run greedily over his bare chest and the triangular tattoos on his arms that you've only glimpsed under pushed up sleeves but never seen in full before.

He toes off his shoes and his socks. You mirror him, kicking off your fluffy white hotel slippers to fold your legs underneath you.

There's a clink when his ringed fingers brush against his belt buckle. You watch him take the belt off, pulling it clean from the loops of his jeans, arm flexing as he drops it casually onto the floor. His fingers hover over the front of his trousers, his lips curving into a cocky smirk.

'How am I doing, sweetheart?'

'Shut up and get on with it, Bravo,' you shoot back, and his smirk only deepens. You shuffle backwards until you're leaning against the headboard, your eyes trained on him.

The button on his jeans pops open, and your stare follows as he tugs the zipper south. Your tongue darts out when you catch sight of his erection straining against the open front of the denim.

He saunters towards the head of the bed, shoving his pants down and stepping out of them on the way. He leaves his boxers on, the tent painfully obvious.

He starts to reach for his rings with his right hand, and before you know it, you've reached out to grab his wrist. You can't believe how husky you sound, even to your own ears. 'Leave the rings on.'

Dieter's eyes are now obsidian and he's breathing through his mouth. 'Yes, ma’am.'

He crawls onto the bed, caging you between his arms as he hovers over you. No part of him is touching you, and you know it's deliberate. You squirm under his gaze, still fully dressed, heat creeping up your neck.

'How about you tell me the rules while I make it up to you, sweetheart?'

Your whole body jerks. You should be embarrassed by how obvious you are, but you're far beyond caring at this point. You make up for it with bossiness. 'What are you waiting for, then?'

Rough fingers slide under your sweater and Dieter anchors you to the mattress with his hips, his erection now pressing against your thigh. He rips the top off you, only for you to yelp when the neck of the sweater catches on your nose.

‘Oh shit,’ he chuckles and gently untangles the fabric from your face. When you're free, he smiles down at you, thumb gentle on your cheek. ‘Sorry, sweetheart.’

This brief moment of levity doesn’t last when he buries his nose right between your breasts, taking a deep inhale.

Your back arches off the bed of its own accord, and Dieter takes the chance to unclasp your bra, throwing it behind him with a flick of his wrist.

'Sweetheart,' he moans, staring unabashedly at your bare front for the first time. Your tits fill his palms as he presses them together, and needy sounds catch in your throat when he squeezes.

His rings bite into yielding flesh. Thumbs roll over the tips of your breasts as he stares down at you in both self-satisfaction and veneration.

Wetness engulfs your right breast as he guides your nipple into his mouth. Against your skin, he asks, 'Don't you have some rules for me, sweetheart?'

You whine, unable to form words, and you feel him smile into your chest.

'Come on, baby, you can do it,' he encourages you, hands sliding down to unzip your jeans. He leans back on his haunches and pulls them off with such force that you slide off and down the pillows. His palms skate over your exposed legs, before hooking his fingers in your panties and easing them off, leaving you completely naked under him.

You grip his shoulders as he reaches down to tug your knees up to his hips, so that you're cradling him between your legs, his erection grinding into you. He scrapes the side of your neck with his teeth before whispering into your ear, 'I promise my mouth would be too busy to talk back.'

'Fuck,' you bite out as he suddenly grasps you by the top of your thighs and hikes you up the bed so that his face is between your splayed legs. You feel his breath fan over your pussy.

Dieter pins you with a heated stare. ‘Ready when you are, sweetheart.’

'This - this stays on set,' you barely manage to stammer in a voice much quieter than your normal tone, hardly a confident start. A gasp is ripped from your lips when he runs his tongue right over your clit. He then circles back and licks you in firm, wet strokes. 'It's - it’s over when filming wraps.'

From between the valley of your thighs, you see his brow crease in a frown and feel his nails dig into your skin. But he goes on suckling on your clit without verbal complaint, and you are quickly a writhing mess under him. Your pussy is getting soppy from his spit and your own arousal.

Dieter suddenly gives you a sharp slap on your backside when you make no indication to carry on speaking. You're almost ashamed at the wanton moan that unleashes.

Taking the cue, you continue breathlessly. 'No feelings allowed. No strings.'

He literally growls into your cunt, and laves at you harder, punishingly. You fingers tangle into his curls and you pull him closer - it feels as good as you remember it.

'No - no sleepovers allowed,' you pant. You feel Dieter's index and middle fingers spreading your folds even wider as he licks between them. He sucks on your clit so exquisitely that your spine arcs in an impossible angle. Your cunt feels so empty though, and your hips shift restlessly, wanting his fingers inside you.

'Is that all?' he slurs against your pussy.

Your final decree is, 'It stays a secret. Nobody can know.'

He makes sure you have eyes on him, and he nods. 'Ok, sweetheart.'

Then pushes his tongue into your entrance.

'Jesus Christ,' you choke out, throwing your head back into the pillows.

He fucks you with his tongue, but it's not enough. 'Dieter, please,' you plead, dragging your nails against his scalp to get his attention until he draws back.

His entire chin is glossy with you, he swipes at it with the back of his hand, and orders, 'I want you to fuck yourself with your fingers while I eat your pretty little pussy. Can you do that for me?'

You nod, and drawing your knee back against your chest, you reach down without hesitation and sink two fingers into yourself, right under his nose.

'That's it, sweetheart, so fucking pretty,' he moans. 'Now keep that up.'

He dives back into your folds, both hands coming up to cup your heaving tits, teasing your nipples. You twist and and turn under him and make increasingly incoherent sounds in your throat, barely having the presence of mind to keep a steady rhythm with your fingers.

'Just a little bit more,' you beg, desperately grinding onto his tongue, chasing that tingling feeling deep inside you. 'I'm almost there, I'm going to, fuck -'

Your whole body seizes up, and when his calloused fingertips graze over your nipples, you cum hard, chanting his name over and over again, shoving your fingers as far up into yourself as you can go.

With a final, gentle kiss, Dieter draws back and hums against your breasts, rubbing his still damp beard into you, painting you with your own scent. Gently, he pulls your fingers out of your pussy, and you groan when he pushes your fingers between your lips, studying you with dark eyes as he makes you lick yourself clean.

You're still recovering when he springs it on you. 'You ready for my rules, sweetheart?'

Your mind is woolen as you splutter. 'Your - your rules?'

Dieter drags himself up your body, until you feel his still clothed and still hard cock rest against your stomach. He smiles at you teasingly. 'You didn't think you'd be the only one calling the shots, did you? Isn't that against the rules of feminism or something?’

You want to avoid his eyes, but he's too close and you don't have anywhere else to look. You huff, too drunk on both alcohol and your orgasm to argue. 'Fine.'

Dieter abruptly pushes his upper torso off the bed to grab at something on the floor, and he re-emerges with his phone in his hands, grunting as if that took great effort. He unlocks his phone and pushes it into your hand.

'First, I want your number,' he announces. 'And I'm allowed to call you anytime I want.'

You can't help it when your lips quirk into a smile, a silly warmth blooming in your chest at his unexpected request. You quip high-handedly, 'You can call me anytime, but I probably won't pick up.'

'We'll see about that,' he retorts smugly.

You sigh loudly, more for show than actual annoyance, and hands him back the phone after punching in your number. You warn him, 'You can't save it under my real name.'

Dieter pretends to think really hard. 'How about I save your number as Pete?' A giggle escapes you, and he grins at the sound, tapping on the keypad. 'Ok then, you're P-E-T-E.'

Tossing his phone to one side, Dieter gently grips your chin between his thumb and index finger. His nose brushes yours sweetly. 'Second rule, I'm allowed to kiss you anytime I want.'

'Ha. We'll see about tha-' you echo his words back at him, but you don't get to the end of your sentence before he presses his lips to yours in a chaste kiss. You breathe out through your nose, eyes fluttering close.

You didn't expect Dieter Bravo to kiss like this.

When he pulls back, his expression is subdued, and his voice loses its playful edge. One large hand grasps yours, his fingers sliding between the gaps. You hold your breath despite yourself.

'The last rule is for me,' he says. 'I'm not gonna fuck around while we're on set. I know I've fucked up, so I understand if you don't believe me.'

You’re painfully, slowly doing the maths in your head. You say out loud, 'So it will be a secret, no-strings, two-month long booty call in which you're not allowed to fuck other people but I am, and we're also not allowed to have feelings for each other.'

Dieter's head bobs side to side as he ponders your analysis, and then he shrugs with a lopsided smile. 'Sounds about right.'

What could possibly go wrong? Every fucking possible dimension of this arrangement. With 100% certainty.

But what the hell.

You arch an eyebrow at him. 'Seal the deal with sex?'

Dieter chuckles and shakes his head. 'Sweetheart, I haven't slept for three days, do you want me to die from a heart attack before we even get started? Besides,' he pauses to give you a hard kiss, his tongue teasing your bottom lip. 'I'm not done atoning yet.'

He rolls over to prop you up on your side. Brushing your hair out of the way, he mouths wet kisses down the back of your neck. You shudder as one strong arm wraps around your waist, and the other hand closes around your breast in a caress.

'Rumour has it that you like my rings,' he murmurs into your ear. If you weren't so turned on you'd have the decency to be ashamed.

He brings up his left hand so you can watch him spin the white gold band around, the black stone set atop the ring now resting on the inside on his index finger.

Your mouth falls open in an O as the cool gemstone draws a path down your front before disappearing between your thighs, and Dieter brushes it teasingly against your clit.

He gives you a filthy grin. 'Let's see if I can get you off on it.'

{ << Part 3: Conjecture | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 5: Confound >> }

Note: 1 month, 4 parts and 18.4k words after I first posted Consent, it is time for me to take a break! I have never written this quickly in my life and ngl I'm a bit tired and can really use this time off 😴

BUT good news is that I've decided to add one more part to the series before wrapping, meaning there will be 2 more chapters to come. I will be drafting the next part (slowly) in the coming weeks, and I plan on sending everyone who reblogs or leaves a comment a sneak preview at some point to keep myself on track. If you would rather not receive the sneak peek, please let me know, otherwise I'll be presumptuous and send it to you lol (sorry) 💁🏻‍♀️

THANK YOU again to everyone who have left a comment or sent me a message or reblogged, it means the world to me that you would take the time to let me know what you think of my writing. If you haven't yet, don't be shy, I would love to hear from you!

Ta for now! I will be replying to comments and reblogs, but will be taking my time and scheduling my posts accordingly, so thank you for your patience. I will hopefully be able to catch up on some reading as well so there will be reblogs of my reading list. See you in a few weeks my lovelies! 💚

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fanfic #cliff beasts 6 #the bubble fanfiction #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo self insert #dieter bravo x fem!reader #dieter bravo WIP

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trentaafcsblog · 3 years

Text

Midnight Memories

Mason Mount

This isn’t like him at all. Trapped in a crowd of drunk and disorderly people who are staggering around to the beat of the music, sloshing their drinks all over one another when the pink and purple strobe lights descend upon their bodies and start flashing in a series of random patterns, enhancing their alcohol-induced illusions and perceptions of the world as they flail their limbs around and claim they’re flying or walking on clouds - a stage that Mason isn’t willing to reach tonight, or any night, for that matter.

A sea of girls in overly tight dresses and heels that barely support them crowding around him and slurring things in his ear. Running their fingers up his bare arms and begging for another drink as he awkwardly shakes his head and tries to break away from them, only for another person to grip onto him from the other side and smear their cheap sticky lipgloss all over his neck in an attempt to add ‘I kissed a footballer’ to their CV. “Just kiss meee” they whine, pouting in his face and trying to pull him closer before giving up and making a move on the next available man, one who’s willing to explore their mouths and buy them endless rounds of multicoloured shots for the rest of the night without gently shoving them away or not-so-subtly avoiding their alcohol-coated lips.

This isn’t your type of place either, although you’re five cocktails deep into the stack of pornstars that your friends insisted on ordering. A stain down the front of your white bodycon dress thanks to an escapee half a passion fruit that decided to leave your triangular glass in order to explore the vomit-tainted floor. Your lips all patchy now that your lipgloss has migrated to decorate the rim of your empty glasses with sparkly nude smudges, although you’re slightly relieved because it means that your hair won’t get coated in it anymore, and it minimises the evidence if you end up kissing someone too, not that you came here to do that, or risk putting yourself in the same category as the girls that are now trying to climb into the VIP section with a bunch of semi-famous people, all because they want a drunk kissing video to plaster across their social media, hoping that it takes them to the front of the papers in the morning for being such-and-such’s ‘mystery girl’.

You’re looking up at the VIP area cordoned off by security guards in black puffer jackets and walkie talkies in their hands, feeling an overwhelming sense of empathy for all of the people that have to tolerate that kind of behaviour. Your eyes start scanning across the section of the club that is far too expensive for just a few hours’ stay, wondering if you can recognise any famous faces, but it’s just the ‘I lasted one day in the Villa and still managed to secure a Pretty Little Thing brand deal’ Love Islanders and the friend of the friend of the friend of a semi-professional footballer that made one twelve minute appearance for Arsenal back in 2010 and thinks he’s God’s gift. All of them either eating each other’s faces or taking boomerangs of them cheers-ing their margaritas before having to retake the same video five times because they’ve lost several lime slices in the process and it’s ruining the aesthetic. Your focus sharpening on someone with their back to you and at least ten girls around them, taking it in turns to have a drunken selfie or begging him to buy them a bottle of champagne with one of those fancy sparkler things on the top that gets brought out by women wearing elaborate carnival-inspired feather headbands and very revealing dresses. And you can’t help but feel sorry for him because you can tell just from the back of his head that he’s incredibly uncomfortable, even more so when he gets offered a blowjob from a girl who’s now threatening to get her boobs out in exchange for a whole bottle of Don Julio, in a bucket of ice, just how she likes it.

He’s turning around to face the rest of the club just as you go to look away at the menu that’s being wafted under your nose by one of your friends, and you can’t help but do a double take at his familiarity. Squinting your eyes so that you can get a better look at his features. ‘Nice drink’ you think when your eyes catch the glass of Diet Coke in his hand, quite obviously not accompanied by a swig of vodka going by his incredibly tense frame and stiff dance moves. Well, it’s not really dancing, it’s more of a ‘I’ll just copy what my friends are doing so I don’t look awkward’ move, aka a two-step shuffle from one side to the other. You can’t help but giggle as you watch him from across the room, your friends completely giving up on trying to entice you with a selection of expensive cocktails as they leave you to stare at some random man on the other side of the club, their need for a second stack of bright coloured drinks clearly overriding the want to look out for their friend.

You’re watching him for a bit longer. Becoming completely fixated on this familiar stranger who you can’t help but sit and giggle at. Part of you wanting to cringe with him at how hellish this night has become, but at the same time, it’s kind of funny watching someone who should be so used to having a large following blush and laugh awkwardly if anyone happens to recognise him. Okay, maybe it’s slightly uncomfortable to sit and watch a swarm of girls attack him with their overdrawn lips whilst he does everything in his will to not shove them into next week, especially when his friends start laughing and taking little videos of the awkward encounters, clearly ready to embarrass him at a later date. But regardless, it’s nice to know that fame hasn’t gone completely to his head, unlike an ex-reality TV star who’s screaming ‘do you know who I am?’ at one of the bouncers who won’t let her hang out with her ‘friends’ in the VIP section.

But you’re quickly forced out of your trance when you feel somebody shoving something into your hand. Looking down at your palm and clocking the ten pound note before your eyes are lifting to the hand that it’s been given from. “Go and get us those cocktails” your friend slurs before slumping back in her seat and falling to one side slightly, her pink lipstick slathered all over her chin from where she’d tried to apply it without a mirror when a man wearing an extremely tight fitting top happened to settle down in the booth next to you, obviously hoping that he’d look her way. “Hurry up, I’m thirstyyy” your other friend whines, making you sigh and mutter something under your breath in reference to them being lazy and ruining your evening, as you slide out of the row of pink arched seats and stand up. Having to grip onto the back of the chairs when your legs go all warm and fuzzy from the one too many cocktails you’d already consumed, pulling your dress down to a more appropriate length before heading off in the direction of the bar. Trying to catch a glimpse of Mason as you swerve in and out of the sea of dancing bodies, but you just end up feeling as though you’re going to fall to the floor when the strobe lights start spinning on the ceiling before dispersing their blue and green beams around the room at the most ridiculous speed. Everybody around you swaying from side to side and elbowing you in the ribs as you try your best to dodge them, kicking yourself for wearing the most stupid pair of heels as your toes crush into each other more and more with each step, cursing when you skid in a puddle of what looks like - or at least you hope is - vodka, and you have to grab onto a stranger’s arm to steady yourself, much to their dismay until they catch a glimpse of your apologetic face and suddenly want to make out with you.

You’re breathing a sigh of relief when you finally make it to the bar, setting your bag down on the counter and ordering what you think your friends want, although you probably should have double-checked with them first considering you were too busy having a nosy at someone across the club to pay any sort of interest to their alcohol preferences. “What?” you’re shouting at the barman when he tells you the total of the drinks, hoping that you’ve misheard him but ten pounds clearly isn’t going to cover the cost of sixteen cosmopolitans with added shots of vodka. Panicking when he repeats the price and turns his back to get started on making them, your hands now frantically searching your bag in the hope that you manage to find the extra money before he starts yelling at you for ordering things without being able to pay. “Fuck” you’re hissing as you turn the contents of your bag out onto the countertop, checking the inside of your phone case and a pressed powder incase they happen to house the remaining money. Your heartbeat pounding louder in your ears the closer it gets to having to admit that you’ve actually only got a quarter of what you need.

“I’ll get it” someone’s saying, clearly sensing the tension between you and the barman as you shrug your shoulders in response to him sticking his hand out for the money. “I’m not a charity” you snap back, your slightly tipsy state giving you a rush of confidence as you continue to search your bag in the hope that the money has magically appeared just so that you can laugh it off and shut everyone up. “I know, but it’s on me” they’re saying again, leaning forward and tapping their card on the machine before you can even consider fighting back a second time. “Thank-” you’re starting before realising who it is that’s just saved you from an incredibly awkward situation. Surely not. Surely Mason Mount hasn’t just bought you, of all people, a load of cocktails for your mates.

“It’s okay” he laughs nervously, making your heart melt because clearly he’s just as awkward around you as he is everybody else in this club. “Prices have gone up, haven’t they?” he smiles as he takes a step closer to you, propping himself up on the countertop with his elbows before asking the barman for a lemonade, with ice, just so it isn’t too fizzy. “Yeah, I don’t normally come out so I underestimated it a bit” you laugh shyly before looking off in the other direction, simultaneously cursing and thanking your friends for leading you to believe that you could get sixteen cocktails for a tenner, because without their stupidity, you wouldn’t be talking to the boy that you’ve been watching all night. “Prefer to stay at home then?” he asks as you turn back and nod your head. “Me too” he’s saying, “I’m normally in bed by now” he giggles as his gaze rises to the clock above the bar, the time reading 00.04am. The slight dark glow under his eyes letting you know that he’s normally tucked up by 9pm in his pyjamas. “What are you doing here then?” you ask. Stupid question really. He’s here for the same reason that you, and probably half of the people here, are - he’s been dragged along and forced to pretend that he’s a right party animal whilst he sips his non-alcoholic drinks and fights off every woman in sight. “My mates made me tag along, I’m kind of glad they did now though” he’s telling you, the second part of his sentence almost becoming inaudible as his voice quietens just as the volume of the music rises with the chorus of ‘My Yé Is Different’, ironic since you’ve just spotted the twenty grand watch decorating his wrist whilst you’re stood there in a passion fruit stained dress. But you’re still managing to hear it, and you can’t work out whether that’s in reference to you, or the fact that he’s been able to drink fizzy drinks when he’d normally only have water. Except you’re not stupid.

“Bet you say that to everyone” you tease, gaining his attention again as he laughs nervously and shakes his head. “Only the special ones” he replies, which is true, but now you can’t help but wonder if his drinks have been accompanied by a few shots of something or another because those words and the sincerity of his tone aren’t a reflection of the awkward man you spotted ten minutes ago, let alone the fact that he clearly considers you to be one of these ‘special ones.’ “Yeah, yeah” you’re saying back, flicking your hair over your shoulder before taking a sip of one of the cocktails that are sat before you, still waiting to be taken back to your friends. “Got quite a few drinks for somebody that doesn’t go out much, no wonder you needed me to pay” he winks as you roll your eyes and blush at the thought of somebody having to give you a helping hand with the price. “This is my last one, I’m off in a minute cose I can’t keep up with everyone else” you’re shouting over the music, watching him throw his head back and laugh because he thought he was the only one in that position. “I’ll join you” he’s replying, thanking the barman for his drink before taking a sip through the straw. “Not the sort of thing you say to a girl after only knowing her two minutes, Mason” you’re teasing, studying his face as his eyes blow wide slightly and he shakes his head, quickly swallowing his lemonade before stuttering on his words. Unsure whether he’s panicking about you jokingly misinterpreting his comment, or if he’s uncomfortable over the fact that yet another girl knows his name, but either way, he’s laughing awkwardly when you tell him that you’re only messing.

“I wouldn’t mind though” you say smugly, causing another nervous giggle to escape his lips. Your alcohol-induced confidence only adding to the butterflies that are already batting their wings against his rib cage, something about your slight feistiness and sarcastic sense of humour attracting him to you, even more so when he takes in how beautiful you still look despite being on the verge of your alcohol limit.

“Where are you going afterwards?” he’s asking once the lights have swivelled around in the opposite direction and the blush on his cheeks isn’t so evident. “I’ll just go to the chippy down the road and then get a taxi home” you’re telling him, looking down into the fluorescent pink concoction in your glass and feeling your stomach churn at how rough it’s going to make you feel in the morning. “Mind if I join you?” he’s asking as you look across at him in disbelief, watching as he downs the last few sips of his drink and stands the glass back on the countertop. Is this a dream or something? “Sorry, that was a bit forward...again” he panics, feeling a surge of anxiety run through his body incase he’s greeted with newspaper headlines in the morning about him unintentionally trying to latch onto girls that aren’t interested in him, even if half of the club know his name.

“No, it’s fine, of course you can” you laugh, your cocktail glass almost slipping out of your grip thanks to the layer of sweat that is now developing across your palm. “I’ll just take these over to the girls and then I’ll be ready” you smile, looping the strap of your bag over your shoulder and grabbing as many glasses as you can, which really isn’t a wise move since you’ve partially lost all sense of coordination thanks to Mason’s ability to wipe any drop of confidence out of your body and replace it with nervous butterflies.

“I’m off” you’re announcing once you’ve made your third trip back to the booth your friends are sitting in, their drunken reactions to your words making you giggle as you reach over them to grab your jacket. “Where are you goinggg?” one of them whines, gripping onto your leg and pouting before another one is drawn to the verge of tears at your confession. “I’m just tired” you nod, blowing them all a kiss and ensuring that they text you when you’re home as you turn around and head off towards the exit, not wanting to keep Mase waiting any longer. Praying that he’s stood just around the corner outside as he’d promised as you stagger across the dance floor and dodge a sea of flailing limbs and slurred shouts of ‘can I get your number?’. A sigh of relief forcing itself out of your nostrils when the ‘exit’ sign hanging above one of the fire doors becomes within touching distance and the bouncer in charge anticipates your departure, pushing down the grey bar across the middle of the door and letting it swing open, enabling you to step out into the night.

“There you are” you smile as you approach the back of his figure, his head kept down and a cap adding a nice accessory to his outfit, although it’s definitely worn as some form of disguise. “Hi” he’s smiling nervously when he realises that it’s you, a swarm of butterflies invading his tummy again when you link your arm through his and gently rest your head on the top of his shoulder - a move that you’re aware might push you into the same category as the other girls that have been after him all night, but your crippled feet and wobbly legs are grateful for the extra stability, even if your motivation to make that move takes you both by surprise.

“Let me get this” you’re saying once you’ve made your way into the kebab shop, your arm dropping away from his as you gesture towards the table up against the front window. “You sure?” he’s asking, dipping his hand into his back pocket ready to pull his wallet out just incase, but you’re nodding and confirming that you’re more than capable of paying four-pound-fifty for a kebab and a couple of drinks - just as well really after the events earlier this evening. Giving him a small smile as he turns and heads off towards the table in the corner, his celebrity instincts kicking when he takes the seat right in front of the glass, conveniently covered by a sticker of the menu, and some extra protection offered from the back of his body.

You’re setting the gold foam kebab box down on your table for two, along with two plastic forks, a bottle of water and a Fruit Shoot because you noticed him eyeing them up in the fridge when you came in. And it turned out to be one of the hardest decisions of your life trying to work out what flavour he wanted. Maybe it was the alcohol that was messing with your brain, making you think that he was more of an citrus guy than a berry one. Or maybe it was the fact that you were buying a child’s drink for a fully grown adult, a famous one too, who probably hasn’t had one for ten years, which only added to the pressure. Or maybe it was because you liked him and you didn’t want to ruin your chances by getting him the wrong flavour. But after flicking your gaze between the stack of bright coloured bottles and his body cowering away in the corner, you settled for the blackcurrant one, just because he looks like the type of person to play it safe - well, he is the type of person to play it safe, going by his Diet Coke and lemonade choices tonight.

“This for me?” he’s asking as he picks the purple bottle up, smiling when you nod to confirm his answer. “How did you know this was my favourite flavour?” he’s questioning, a smug look appearing on your face as you shrug your shoulders and reply with ‘only the ‘special ones’ know that kind of information’. A giggle escaping his mouth at your words before he’s pulling the plastic lid off the drink and taking a sip, humming at the familiarity despite not having one since his seventh birthday party. “Still as good as they used to be” he’s saying, something about the additional happiness that’s now surging through his body after a drop of blackcurrant juice making your tummy fill with butterflies because he really is just the cutest, biggest child.

You’re both sitting in a comfortable silence as you pick at your shared kebab, trying to eat from separate ends so that you don’t cross any boundaries or run the risk trying to stab your forks into the same piece of chicken. But the fuzzy filter that the alcohol has brought to your eyes and the slight delay that it’s caused between your thoughts and your actions means that you find yourself diving into the last piece of pitta bread just at the same time that Mason does. And from his side it’s a poor judgement call. The sugar from his Fruit Shoot clearly giving him an extra boost of energy and causing his arm to extend outwards towards the polystyrene box, clouding his mum’s reminder that ‘you need be a gentleman and let girls eat whatever’s left, even if you want it’. And truth be told, he doesn’t really want it, which is why the pang of anxiety as soon as his plastic fork clashes with yours is stronger than ever. His cheeks turning a violent shade of crimson as he quickly pulls his fork back, leaving just four little holes from where the prongs had been as you panic and do the same.

“Sorry, no you have it” he says quietly, nudging the box towards you in the hope that you get the hint. “No, you eat it” you smile, pushing it back towards him. The two of you just repeating the same movement as the box moves two centimetres one way, and then two centimetres back the other. “Mason, just eat it!” you whine as he sits opposite you and shakes his head. “I said you could have it” he smiles nervously, subtly wiping the sweat off his palms and onto the material of his jeans when he realises that you’re staring straight into his eyes. “Why are you getting all nervous for? Just eat ittt” you groan, a giggle escaping his lips because there’s no way you’re backing down on this one. “Fine” he huffs, stabbing his fork back into the little holes that it made earlier before slowly moving it towards his mouth. Your eyebrows raising more and more as you watch it edge closer to his lips. And then he’s doing the unthinkable and quickly changing the direction of his fork so that it starts heading towards your mouth instead. Involuntarily parting your lips whilst you wait for what’s just happened to register, and the next thing you know, you’re swallowing the piece of pitta bread.

“What a fuss about nothing” he hums as you roll your eyes at him. “You’re quite romantic, aren’t you?” you tease as his eyebrows furrow in the middle, waiting for you to clarify your comment. “Is that all of the alcohol that’s made you so desperate to share the last piece of food with me?” you question, another layer of blush painting itself across the tops of his cheeks. “Oh, sorry, you didn’t have anything to drink, did you? Lightweight” you smirk, making him roll his eyes this time. “I’m just being a gent, plus you’ve been drinking so you need something to sober you up, maybe it’ll stop you being so rude next time I offer to buy you a drink” he says smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in the chair. A wave of composure washing over him now that he’s left you slightly speechless and he’s matched your sense of humour. “Next time? You’ll be lucky” you sass as he scoffs at you. “You’re the one that needs to buy me a drink to apologise for snapping at me, so there will be a next time to call it quits, thank you” he smiles, his sudden burst of confidence talking to you allowing his real personality to shine through, and you can’t help but start to get lost in it. “Was I really that rude?” you ask, secretly dying as you think back to your ‘I’m not a charity’ comment at the bar. “No, I’m just messing” he laughs, eliciting the same response from you as you erase that memory out of your brain. “You’re just confident, I like it” he’s saying, the last part of his comment getting lost when a group of people come staggering through the door, drowning out his words for the second time tonight, but you’re ninety-nine percent certain you managed to catch it. And now you’re the nervous one.

You’re quickly moving the conversation on to something else when you feel your chest starting to heat up with anxious prickles. Mason going all funny inside because it’s clear that he has the same effect on you as you do him, but he’s trying to push that to the back of his mind as he listens to you rambling on about your favourite breed of dogs, and how you had a fish finger sandwich for tea before you came out tonight, and how you actually know quite a lot about football but you’re reluctant to bring it up because you don’t want to embarrass him, although your drunken state causes you to let a few football facts slip out, all of them relating to Mase but you’re too caught up in your fuzzy alcoholic state to even recognise. But he does, obviously. Finding it sweet how you know exactly how many appearances he’s made for Chelsea, and what minute he came on in his debut against Manchester United, and what colour boots he wore against last season’s match against Newcastle. Just sitting back and letting you talk in between the occasional swig of water, hardly being able to get a word in edgeways because the alcohol is well and truly running through your veins now, making you come out with all kinds of mismatched comments and slurs. But he doesn’t mind, which takes him by surprise a bit, especially as he’s secretly scared of drunk people and he can count the amount of times he’s felt a bit tipsy on one hand, but there’s something different about you. Maybe it’s your sense of humour and how you’ve got him in stitches, or how your drunken state leads you to be more concerned about the welfare of a stray cat outside than it does anything else on the planet, or maybe it’s how deep beneath that strong outer shell you’re protecting yourself with that he knows you’ve got a heart of gold, an inside of ‘pure mush’ as his mum would say.

“What time is it?” you slur after knocking back your last swig of water. “Nearly one o’clock” Mason’s replying, glancing at his overly-expensive watch as you sit there and wonder how he actually knows what hour of the day it is when all of the numbers have been replaced by diamonds. “Better head off” you mumble, staring blankly into the empty kebab box and trying to process what move you need to make next in order to get yourself back home in one piece. “I’ll order you a cab if you want, or I’ll walk you back, I don’t know how far away you live” he’s saying, forcing you out of your trace as you look up at his tired, bloodshot eyes. Knowing full well that as soon as you’re gone he’ll be running home to bed with a glass of water to tone down the bubbles in his tummy from his fizzy drinks, paranoid incase they give him a fizzy version of a hangover. “I live about half an hour away and I can tell you’re ready for bed so I’ll go with the cab” you smile, making him giggle nervously at the fact that his tiredness has been uncovered, although it’s not difficult to pick up on the fact that the only other time he stays up this late is on New Years Eve, and even then he normally sets an alarm for 11.57pm so that he can wake up from his nap in time.

You’re letting him help you put all of your belongings back into your handbag after you insisted on showing him your favourite lipgloss midway through your earlier conversation. Linking your arm through his and stepping out into the coldness of the night, a breeze nipping across your legs and causing you to let out a little squeal as you start pulling your dress down to try and hide your goosebumps. “Here” Mason’s saying, taking his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders. “Mase” you’re replying. Mase - he likes that, and he likes how naturally it’s left your mouth too. Trying to give it back to him but he’s adamant that you keep it. “Gives me another reason to see you in order to get it back” he winks, making you roll your eyes as you stand snuggled into his side on the edge of the pavement.

“Did you want my number?” he’s asking, already taking his phone out of his pocket and holding it out in your direction before you even have chance to respond. “You’ve not really given me an option have you?” you laugh, making him giggle as he shuffles awkwardly from side to side, waiting for your digits to appear on the screen. “Only because I need to give your jacket back, there’s no other reason for this” you tell him, smiling as he nods his head but you both know that’s a little white lie. “There you go” you’re saying, passing his phone back to him as his eyes study the new contact in his hand. A new number written beneath Y/N.

‘Shit’ he’s thinking. He didn’t even ask for your name before this. Awkward.

“Pretty name” he smiles, trying to play it off cool, but you’re not drunk enough to not notice his mistake. “So pretty that you didn’t even know that’s what I was called until now” you reply, making him giggle and let out an awkward ‘oops’. “I’ll let you off this once” you’re saying as you look up at him stood beneath the lamppost that’s towering above the two of you. A golden glow adding a filter to his face and making him look even more gorgeous than he did when he was sipping his lemonade in the club and shoving lettuce and chicken into his mouth. And you’re desperate to just kiss him, especially since he’s got a bit of dried Fruit Shoot in the corner of his mouth and you know his lips will taste all sweet like they do in the movies. But considering he’s only just learnt your name you don’t think it’s the right time, and there’s also a bunch of Tottenham fans making their way up the street, not wanting to have to make him endure any teasing, especially when he’s already stayed up late in a part of town he wouldn’t usually be seen dead in to spend time with you.

“Thanks for tonight” you whisper as you briefly rest your head on his shoulder, pulling it away when the taxi he’s ordered for you appears at the side of the curb. “My pleasure, thank you” he’s saying back, removing his protective hand from the small of your back and stepping forward to open the back door of the car for you. “Told you that you were a gent” you tease as he mumbles ‘shut up’ and pretends to shove you into the back seat with a giggle. “See you soon for that jacket, yeah?” he winks as you reply with ‘yeah yeah, whatever’, making him let out a little chuckle as he closes the door on you. Giving you an awkward little wave as you head off down the street, standing and waiting for your car to turn the corner before heading home himself. Leaving just a message of ‘thank you again, can’t wait to get my jacket back cose it’s freezing without it ;) x’ that’s just appeared on your screen connecting the two of you. And even if you have been slightly tipsy tonight and now can’t remember half of the things you spoke about, there genuinely doesn’t seem like a better person to sit in a kebab shop with in the early hours of the morning after stumbling across him by pure chance a club that neither of you particularly wanted to spend the night at. Thanking your lucky stars for allowing your paths to cross because you already know this is the start of something special. Very special.

#mason mount #mason mount blurb #mason mount imagine #football blurb #football imagine #dominic calvert lewin #jadon sancho #ruben loftus cheek #marcus rashford #ben chilwell #dele #jesse lingard #tyrone mings #james maddison #trent alexander arnold

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tytytheshynarrator · 2 years

Text

A Zaunite in a Piltover World

Chapter 18

Pairing: M/F

Rating: Mature

Word Count:+4k

Wandering the streets, you opted to hide in the darkness. Accidently, you smeared some residual blood that had splattered on your face. You were coming down from the high of killing. Apparently the people of Zaun still loved to test their luck on a quick pay out. Bounties were often placed on people for the pettiest of reasons. Much like the one on your head, which surprised you, that it still stood because of your relationship with Silco. It must be new you thought.

Climbing the side of a building that conjoined to the Last Drop, you looked down on all of its people buzzing around. The neon lights and music coming from the nightclub drew in all kinds of people. The diversity of Zaun added to its charm, it was mostly gross and grimy covered in a low laying semi toxic fog. It may have been more of a disaster then Piltover, but Zaun was your home. With the drama and relationships on the surface starting to impede on your studies the desire to return to Piltover was becoming harder each time.

When you were growing up, never did it cross your mind that you would pick up your late father’s habits and title. You grew up with one goal in mind, make it to the surface to further your studies. Now you were communing with Zaun’s underbelly and killing had become as much fun as inventing. Lightly leaping onto the roof of the Last Drop, you crossed over to the edge overlooking the front door. You shook your head in disbelief, the fog must be corrupting your mind you thought before diving down the 2 stories.

Gracefully you landed, startling the bouncer. He swung at you before realizing who exactly you were. Shifting out of the way of his flailing arm, you held your ground. Pausing for a moment, the large man looked you over, noticing Silco’s jacket covering your equipment. You flashed him an eye shaped pin on the collar of the jacket, you had taken it after Silco had walked you home last night.

“I am so sorry ma’am.” He pleaded out in hopes you wouldn’t punish him the way Silco would have. Holding your hand up and shaking your head, “No need to apologize, is he in?” The fear leaving his face, he nodded lifting the red rope granting you access. This was the first time you had actually just walked through the front door, invited in.

Stepping into the club, you were welcomed with the strong vibrations from the booming music. The bar tender noticed you enter the establishment, he signaled to Sevika who was sitting at the bar. Snaking your way in the crowd, the rough woman met you at the base of the stairs. “You know I can’t let you up there.” She told you leaning into your ear. “We both know I can.”

She let out a defeated sigh before shrugging off her jacket. “Not tonight Princess, you want him to be angry with you again?” Sevika said puffing up her chest to come off more intimidating. A vicious smile crept across your face as a tinge of adrenaline seeped back into your body. “There are some remarkably dumb people in this world. Thanks for helping me understand that.” She brought her hands up to her face ready to fight. Darting passed her; you picked her shawl off the floor placing it back on her shoulder before she could swing. “Darling, I’m really busy right now, can I ignore you some other time?” you snarled at her.

She jumped back, stunned by your movements. “Finn’s up with the boss.” She called out after you. At the top of the stairs, you were tackled by two small figures. The combined weight of them brought you to your knees. Small arms held onto you from both sides, you peered down at them. Two sets of eyes peered back up at you, in unison their voices called out your name.

You managed to stand back up, wrapping your arms around both the children. “Hello little one. And you must be Silco’s kid, Powder.” Your sibling beamed seeing you, it had only been a couple weeks at this point but to them it was years. “I missed you.” They cried out. “I just wanted to hug you.” Powder informed you. “I’m happy to see you both, but right now I am working. So, I can’t stay.” You said freeing yourself from their small arms. Your face saddened knowing you had to tell your sibling about your mother. “Hey, I need you to be really strong right now okay. Can you do that for me?” they nodded worried being able to read your emotions displayed on your face. “I’m here for mom, she is dying.”

The remaining happiness drained from your siblings features; tears threatened to fall from their sad orbs. You looked over to the other small child, “Hey, Powder can you take care of them for me?” She nodded taking your sibling by the hand and leading them to another room. You wanted to hold them, comfort them, but now was not the time. Seeing your family crumbling and your sibling crushed, it put you in a foul mood.

You had a perfect target to receive your mood, Finn. A bounty on your head, that man was getting braver or stupider. Most likely the latter of the two. Standing on the other side of the double doors you had kicked a time or two, you could hear Finn bitching about something. You could never really understand why Silco kept this man alive, there were probably a million others who could be less of a headache then him.

One of these times the doors were going to break, luckily for them it was not this time. Your foot connected to the center, popping the lock, and swinging the wood into the walls. “The lock was a nice touch.” Venom bled into the room from your words. Silco looked you over with rage and curiosity. “Surprise” You struck an exaggerated pose, presenting yourself in the entryway. Both men had brandished knives the moment you kicked the doors open.

With your sword drawn you walked over to where Finn sat. He was positioned across the couch Silco resided on. “Put your toys away boys, I think we can all agree mine is bigger.” Waving your blade in the air. Striding in front of Finn’s chair you tore your mask from your face, revealing a wide toothy grin. Your tone was savage, borderline bloodthirsty. “Finny-poo, were you up here to tell Silco all about the bounty you put on my head?” Your leg tilted his chair further back, nearly knocking him to the ground.

“Silco get your bitch off me, so we can talk about this. Please.” He begged. You released an emotionally charge yell, scaring both men. Lunging at Finn, he collided with the floor finding your sword in his face. “Silco…..” he cried, as your eyes rolled. “He is NOT my owner.” You growled out, inching your blade closer to his tattooed face.

Finn’s face screamed primal fear, tears started to brim his gray, narrow eyes. Silco had managed to walk over to where you crouched, mounting Finn against the ground. He placed his hand gently on your shoulder before his calm voice spoke out. “You heard her, I may not be perfect like you claim I need to be, but at least I am not you.” With his words you carved his face open, from his eye socket to his metallic jaw. Stepping off the edges of the chair you turned towards where Silco stood. “Revenge is not in my plans…..You’ll screw yourself on your own.” You snarled out before kicking the temple of the downed man with the heel of your boot.

Silco returned to his spot on the couch as he watched you circle the bleeding crying man, like a shark on the hunt. Watching someone of your caliber come unhinged made Silco desire you. To push you over his desk and take you right here and now. You wouldn’t let that happen, not now, maybe for some other time he thought. “You have your whole life to be stupid, why don’t you take some time off from that. Now leave.” Your cold and sinister voice ordered the man.

Finn did as he was told, holding his face together as blood poured from the fresh wound. You were pleased with how tonight was turning out so far. Picking up the chair and righting the room, Silco motioned for you to join him on the couch. Plopping down into his lap, you rested your head against his chest as he cradled your body.

He broke the silence first, “I hadn’t known about the bounty I swear.” He was direct and sincere. You had assumed that in the first place, your anger was never directed at Silco. “I figured, his men jumped me and a fellow scientist on our way out of the Undercity.” He was studying you as you told him about your adventures to the Chasm. You were amazing to him; he was jealous that you didn’t want to call his Zaun your home.

“Silco.” You called out to him softly. “My mom is dying.” Sympathy covered his face; without that woman you never would have landed in his life. “Anything my dear. What do you need?” You stretched your sore and tired body over his lap, “I need to see Singed. To see if he can help me with a cure.” You rested one of your hands over your eyes, closing them to try and hold back the tears that were forming.

“You could have just gone to see him yourself.” He informed you that he hired Singed, he did not own him. “I had to tell my sibling first, I wasn’t expecting to have to deal with Finn. Yet here we are.” You put all your effort into sounding anything but hollow. Silco was smart in the ways of man, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know you were falling apart on the inside. Scooping you up in a tight hug he placed his lips on yours in an attempt to distract you from the depressing emotions that clouded your heart. Lightly you pushed him away, “I should go.”

“I’ll walk you there.” He replied quietly, hurt you were pushing him away so hard. You walked to the opened doors and waited for him to follow behind you. Leaning over the railing he called out to Sevika to watch over the place, as he was going to be away.

In silence the two of you ventured to the end of a dimly lit hallway, coming to the door that joined the nightclub with the chemist’s cave. Opening the door, Silco held it for you to enter. You offered a small smile and a quiet ‘thanks’ before entering the stone covered tunnel. He followed behind you until you both reach the glowing room.

“What do I owe the pleasure?” Singed spoke out from his desk. You looked down at the ground in defeat, too scared to ask. Silco walked pass you, heading over to the large vats of Shimmer, assumably to look over the ongoing work. You let out a trapped sigh before trying your best to find the words. “Even on the surface, with all of those great medical minds they all just gave up on her.” Wavering and broken, your voice came out soft and full of sorrow. “Shimmer isn’t there yet is it?”

Singed had left his desk to come over to your shaking form that was illuminated by the glow of chemicals and neon lighting. “Such is the curse of man my dear. We are born, we live, and we die.” He slipped a small vial into your hand, unnoticed by Silco. It shined brighter than anything the vats contained. “For her pain.” He looked over your now weeping orbs as he placed his hand on your shoulder.

Singed walked up to a large container, which house a small scaleless dragon-looking creature. “Those we love never truly leave us. There are things death cannot touch.” His tone was soft and gentle, laced with heart. You steeled your nerves, knowing if you didn’t leave soon, Jayce would kick up a fuss. Crying and feeling would have to wait, without a word you darted into a pipe.

Running through the pipes you climbed the inner workings of Zaun, only to exit underneath the bridge Jayce was looking over. He had been a good ‘dog,’ waiting for your return. Attaching the vial Singed handed over, you wrapped a loose chain around the top. Placing the now necklace over your head, you hid the vial under your shirt. Climbing the side of the bridge was easy, you could have just joined Jayce right away however you decided to hide from the man when you heard another voice.

Slinking along the large wires that held the bridge above the depths, you watched as Jayce went to greet the person behind the voice. You were so close to them now, you remained hidden to listen in. “Jayce? Where have you been all day?” The accented voice was concerned. A worn-down reply came from the large man, “In the Undercity with (Y/N), getting this.” You watched him hand over the canister to his company.

“What is it?” the man asked. “The gas from the Chasm.” Jayce stated matter-of-factly. If you could hear an expression, stunned silence seemed to carry it well. “This is highly dangerous to get, and you managed to get your hands on so much!” you watched as Jayce took the canister back from his companion. “Well, when (Y/N) gets here you can thank her yourself.” A tense joking tone came out of him trying to mask the worry he felt. You had proved you could handle yourself in the Undercity, saving his ass earlier.

“Where is she? Why is she not with you?” there was a new type of silence that settled over the bridge, one that ate at Jayce. “I don’t know, Viktor. I’m sorry we got separated on our way home and she told me to wait here…..” He trailed off before finishing, not giving away whatever else he may have seen. Viktor limped pass Jayce trying to cross the bridge. He was not going to lose you to the Undercity again. A large, tanned hand grabbed his thin waist, pulling him back. “Let me go!” Viktor yelled at Jayce, struggling his hardest to free himself.

“I can’t. With what I’ve seen down there today, there is no way in hell I’m letting you go down there.” Jayce’s tone was harsh and unnecessary. A low fog began to roll in, coating the ground with a dense covering. The blanketed fog reflected the spotlights lighting, only to part when you landed. Coming down from your hiding place, mere feet from the wiggling man.

“A bit overdramatic boys.” Your tone was dry and bored. Both of them looked at you, Jayce focused on the blood that covered you from head to toe. Viktor however chose to focus on your cuts and bruises, he could careless for the death that clung to you. Jayce froze at the sight of you, he was happy to see you, but how many people had you, the thought trailed off as he sprinted for the railing again.

Viktor ignored his lab partner, opting to wrap his arms around you. He expected for you to hug him in return, but you stood there lifeless just eyeing him over. Calling out to Jayce around Viktor as if he was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, “Don’t think about it too much dude, you should go home it’s getting late.” He waved you off, thanking whatever god he needed to, for being granted permission to leave.

Remaining quiet you waited patiently for Jayce to disappear on the other side of the bridge. The worried expression, turned to confusion and hurt. Walking over to the side of the road, you sat down with your back against the railed wall. Viktor staggered over to you, fear and worry still veiling his face.

You let out an annoyed sigh, before resting your head against the wall. Today’s events alone were enough to exhaust you for the next week. Choosing to stare across to the other side of the bridge you broke the silence first. “How was your day, Viktor?” you put the statement very plainly, clearly still hollow from the information Singed gave you. “Uneventful, compared to yours I assume.” He replied carefully, unsure of the internal feelings you may have.

“Yeah the Undercity was pretty rough, especially with Jayce in tow.” You complained. Viktor looked down to observe you, confused on where you were taking the conversation. “Did you finish that paperwork for Heimerdinger?” You droned on, blunt and exuding annoyance. “Yes.” He said cautiously, keeping his answers direct.

“You know if you want a copy of Sky’s key you could come to the hanger, and I’ll personally make you one.” Throwing a glare up at him, only to be stared down at with confusion. His amber orbs searched your face for any form of jest or mockery. Viktor was only greeted by pure anger and hollowness. “I, don’t understand? Why would I need a copy of her key?” he questioned you.

You laughed, you had enough of people trying to make a fool of you for one day. Standing you were mere inches from his face causing him to lean away from you. “Do you think I’m stupid? I saw the way you looked at her when you were giving her key back.” You choked out the bitterness you had been suppressing all day, it took every ounce of your will to not turn around, leaving Piltover behind. Viktor exhaled a sigh of relief; he began to shake his head before looking back to you. “I think no such thing, you have misunderstood.” Your anger began to boil and rage under your skin.

“Then explain it to me Viktor.” Hissing out his name before continuing, “Because between the blushing and the key and her feelings it looks like you finally chose her, even after all of the jealousy you claimed to have!” Yelling by the end sent Viktor into a state of stunned silence. Maybe leaving everything behind again wasn’t such a bad idea you thought. Turning to leave, Viktor grabbed you hard by the arm.

“Please allow me to explain; when you were gone I could not rest. I felt I had lost someone very important to me. Sleeping anywhere other than my desk was a pointless chore.” Viktor turned you around so he could see your expressions, not wanting to upset you any further. “I ended up at your old apartment on a morning after not sleeping for what seemed like days.” You listened closely, waiting for the inevitable betrayal. “I found comfort in where you had been, your favorite spot on the couch, your room, your bed.” Now it was your turn to be confused. “Viktor, where is this going?”

“At some point Sky had invited me in, I must have been a horrible guest, because I fell asleep on your couch.” You took a moment to remember the comfort that couch had brought you, you now understood he had been so worried about you that any reminder of you was comfort enough. “She left me there with your spare key.” He paused trying to muster the confidence to continue. “If that had been everything, why the embarrassment?” You questioned him.

“Because sleeping was not all I did….” He trailed off breaking eye contact. You cupped his face bringing it back to your eye level. “Keep going.” You urged him on; he was clearly hiding something he regretted. “Your room smelled so much of you and your bed was so inviting……” He mumbled the rest in a tone you couldn’t understand.

“Damn it Viktor just tell me!” You barked at him. “I relieved some of my tension in your bed. I am so sorry. It is so shameful to admit.” His innocent puppy eyes trained themselves on the road beneath him. Panic welled in his chest, tying knots in his stomach as he waited for your response.

The words never came, instead you ducked down finding his eyes with your own, before moving in closer. You placed your warm lips against his colder ones. His body seemed to relax into the kiss. Breaking the kiss, you smiled at him before letting out a chuckle. “This really was a misunderstanding; did you think I would be mad if I heard you got off to me?”

“Yes, I shouldn’t have done what I did.” He softly spoke out. Pulling him by his uniform tie you placed another hard kiss against his mouth. “I have no problem with what you did, I find it sort of attractive.” Warmth flooded through your body as you proceeded to bite at his bottom lip. Viktor remained confused at how you could find what he did attractive, however he went along with your kisses. His body desired you tremendously, he desired all of you.

Viktor pressed your bodies together, as he granted you access to explore his mouth. Your tongues swirled with eagerness and excitement. His hands found themselves tangled in your hair; he felt the soft strands curl around his fingers. Gripping a handful of the longer locks, he gave a tug pulling you away from his face. Your lust blown eyes pleaded for Viktor to kiss you more. He did just that, placing light kisses along your jaw to the base of your ear.

His soft, hot breaths ghosted the crest of your ear. Wrapping his other long arm around your waist, he held you tight against his chest. Your back arched from the hair pulling and pushing of your bodies together. Viktor placed open mouth kisses down your neck, only stopping at your fresh bite mark. Only briefly did he ponder why there was a new one, however he trusted you would tell him. In this moment he cared less for what everyone else had done to you. Viktor focused on you being solely his, right here and now.

He bit down on top of the other markings. Sucking roughly, he raised a dark purple mark covering the markings with his own. You tried your best to hold back the moan he caused. Frustrated with how quiet you had been Viktor bit down once more. This time lower, leaving behind another purple hickey on your collarbone.

The sensation of his warm mouth exploring your body sent shivers through your core. You trembled and whined in his grasp. “Viktor please..” was all you could get out, as your legs began to shake. His voice came out low, oozing desire and lust. “What is it you want my dear?” his hand freeing itself from your hair, only to be relocated on your hip.

Your mind desperately tried to produce an answer, only to find silence. Opening your mouth to speak, Viktor pulled your hips against his. Grinding his hardening member against your dampening core. Instead of words your body composed a low moan as you bucked your hips in hopes for more friction. At last words came from your mouth, “We can’t do this out here.”

His eyes were dark, dilated with desire as they charted a path down your body. A tinge of irritation crossed his glowing amber orbs, he knew you were right. “Then let’s get you home.” He growled out, intertwining his fingers with yours. You took a few deep breaths as Viktor did the most of the dragging to your home. Cursing your trembling body for making the walk home more difficult then it needed to be.

You may have been worn out from the Undercity, but you knew you were not going to get any rest until late tonight.

#arcane #league of legends #silco x reader #silco #viktor #viktorxreader #sevika #archive of our own #jayce

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writingsbychlo · 3 years

Text

smoke and fire (15)

word count; 13,807

summary; a tough kill and an injured firefighter bring you and thomas closer than ever, but something else might get in the way..

notes; y’all are gonna love me and hate me.

warnings; injury description, blood mention, infection mention, reference to explosions.

Stripping off a single glove, you wiped a hand over your forehead, sweat built up there cleared away by your palm. Your legs were aching, your lungs were burning from smoke inhalation, and every bone in your body felt like it was turning to jelly. There were sore patches along your skin where you’d come a little too close to raw flames or brushed against hot exposed metal framework, and you were sure that you were covered in bumps and scrapes from falling over broken debris in your rush.

Your eyes were stinging from how you’d been rubbing at them during your time in the collapsed building and your throat felt torn raw from the gritty and smokey air you had spent the last several hours inhaling. Bracing your hands on your knees, you heard the scuffling of Newt’s boots behind your own, stumbling out in the heavy gear of fire equipment you’d been hooked up with before ever going in, the lull between city planners and demolishers getting the correct blueprints giving you enough time to suit up before you’d been sent into the rubble.

He coughed, following much the same position as you as he hunched over, head between his legs as he crouched, heaving breaths, and you forced yourself to stand up, rubbing gently at his back. The heatproof jacket he wore was warm to the touch as you did, still letting heat escape onto your sweaty palm, and when he stood tall again, you stripped off your other glove, both held in your hand, and you cupped a hand over your eyes to block the sun, and actually taking in the state of the building.

The flames that had been curling out into the fresh air were extinguished, you’d known that much from the water that had been dripping through in streams to where you’d been working for hours, the internal flames unable to be dealt with until you, Newt, and the other paramedics had all cleared the trapped victims.

You’d never seen anything like it. A demolition of old industrial buildings that had been due to be cleared since before you’d ever even moved to the state, finally put in action, buildings that were created in the early twentieth century, and the crew had been provided with outdated blueprints of the layouts of the buildings.

The space where one of the buildings had once been was entirely gone, the smell of gas from the pipes that had failed to be shut down was finally beginning to clear from the air, the explosions it had caused being able to dull down at last, as all traces were evaporated or was burned from the air by high-rising fires.

The building had crumbled, old foundations crumbling the way they should and worse when the gas in the mains that had been incorrectly shut down had all but turned to powder, trapped crew inside on floors that never should have been touched were caught in the crossfire, sections of the building that hadn't even been due to be demolished had gone up in flames, and there was several other houses dotted around, using up the supply of water in their trucks as all fire hydrants were miles back on the roads, and never came this close.

The sun was now sitting low in the sky where it had been high up in the middle and directly overhead the last time you’d seen it before crawling into the building to provide first aid. With a register done and a fireman called ‘Mikey’ in your ear for hours over the radio checking off every construction worker that came out until the building was clear, like an Easter Egg hunt for injured builders, but instead of chocolate in the garden, you got blood and partially severed limbs in the burning wreckage.

You’d seen more blood and bone today than you had for the last month, maybe two, all together and the feeling of jolting bones being snapped back into place was still running in shock waves along your spine, making you shiver every so often. Clouds of smoke from extinguished flames were blocking the sun a little, your throat dry and scratchy each time you tried to swallow down on it. Newt simply chuckled, patting your shoulder before slinging that arm further across, and clearing the lump from his own with a cough.

“Let’s go and get a drink, yeah? I’ve been fantasising about the cold water bottles in the ambo’ for three hours now.”

“A cold water sounds better than sex right now. God, the condensation on the bottle is like porn.” You mumbled, Newt laughing loudly, despite the rasp that lined his voice as he struggled to make such a sound without breaking into a coughing fit, squeezing you a little tighter in acknowledgement of your joke.

Wandering over together, you were already peeling your jacket down your arms as soon as you had the chance to. Newt unhooked the back of the ambo, all others having cleared from the scene with the more brutally injured builders. Stretchers full and passengers benches loaded up too, the rest of the firetrucks all lingering, but there was little left that any of them could do when the rubble was so unstable, the fire just had to burn itself out now that it was clear of civilian casualties.

As soon as both doors were open, you were shucking your fire jacket from your arms and dropping it down to the floor, barely scooping it up to lay in the back of the ambulance behind you as Newt followed suit. Reaching to your left, you scooted up a little closer to him to be able to open the fridge, and he was leaning with his eyes closed and head balanced on the leg of one of the stretchers, cheek pressed to the cold metal.

Plucking two bottles from inside, you presented one to Newt, nudging him with your elbow, and he groaned as he forced his eyes open again, taking it from you, hands shaking a little as he untwisted the cap, he brought the edge to his lips. You held onto it for a moment longer, pressing the edge of the cool against your flushed skin, and revelling in the chill that swept over every nerve. None of the burns were serious, they’d be gone within the hour, it was simply skin that got a little too close to a source of heat that was a little too warm, but you’d been through worse.

You felt better now you didn’t have the heavy protective coat on, not like you were going to overheat anytime soon, and your head wasn’t spinning as much, the thudding pressure of a headache building behind your eyes starting to recede. Taking a sip of your drink, that rapidly became a swig, which in turn became half of the bottle, unable to stop yourself now that you were cooling down and getting relief on a sore throat, icy cold water soothing the stinging sensation you were burdened with.

Your body felt weak, hauling rubble out of the way and off of builders had taken its toll, and you were just glad you’d been wearing gloves, because your hands would have been torn to shred and burned to a crisp without them. The metallic smell of blood was still present in your nose as a phantom memory each time you inhaled deeply, and so your lips parted, opting to breathe through your mouth instead, as your eyes fluttered shut.

Leaning back and into the coat you’d left on the floor, you lay down, legs dangling out of the truck and swinging lightly in the air with every cool current that passed by, letting you take several deep breaths in a bid to steady a still racing heart and calm the effects of the adrenaline surging through you. Newt followed suit, his arm pressed to yours as he lay down, letting out a long and slightly exaggerated groan as he did, before his body was turning to jelly and mush much like yours.

You jumped when a hand landed on your knee, squeezing a little, before sliding slightly further up, and you huffed out a response to the intruder.

“You got a visitor,” Newt muttered, and your lips twisted into a smile at the edges, one hand thrown up over your eyes to block out extra light.

“Maybe he’s here for you.”

You knew it was false, Thomas chuckling a little as well as his fingers inched down over your calf, squeezing lightly as stiff muscles twitched under his touch. He pulled your leg up, balancing it against his thigh, before his touch was pulling away, and a second later, he was tugging on your laces to get them undone. Giving in, you dropped your arm, propping yourself up on your elbows instead to be able to look at him, and he offered you a dazzling grin upon fixing eye contact.

He was covered with a little soot, dirt on his skin that made his stubble stand out a little more, smeared with sweat and tracks made in it where his gloves had wiped across, but he looked just as good as ever. His skin was still shining slightly, his hair messy from under his helmet, and patches of sweat were forming along his t-shirt now that he’d stripped down his jacket, suspenders hanging by his waist as he’d pushed them from his shoulders.

“You’re eye-fucking me.” Thomas beamed, pulling one boot from your foot and dropping it to the ground, letting you flex your socked-toes in the air as he switched to the other one.

“I am not eye-fucking you, don’t be so crass.” You grouched, sitting up a little further, and Newt gagged loudly, the sound cut off when you smacked him in the stomach. “I was just seeing if you looked as rough as me and Newt, and I’m proud to report, we look worse for wear. Get on our level, Tommy.”

“Oh, she’s got attitude, now? Is that the fireman’s jacket, made you feel real power?” He teased, and Newt kicked out a foot, aiming in the vague directions of Thomas’ voice, but missing as the man jumped back, taking the second boot with him.

“‘Real power’, shut the fuck up. Any fool could take a hose and put out a fire, I’d like to see you snap a builder’s broken leg back into place as half of his guts hang out in your hands.” Thomas wretched, a disgusted look flashing over his face and Newt’s gory description, and you only laughed at the pair.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry that the idea of holding someone’s insides in my hands now they’re on the outside repulses me. Not all of us are psychos, Newt.”

“Hey! That’s me you’re talking about, too! You frowned, sitting up a little further, and taking one of your sneakers from the two pairs that had appeared, seemingly with Thomas as he must have brought them over from the truck where they’d been left.

“Well, I already know you’re a little bit crazy.” Thomas mused, and you scowled at him, the expression fading when he pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling your face up a little, until he could brush the tip of his nose against your own, smiling widely. “But I like your brand of crazy. I really like it.”

“Yeah, well, I should hope so.” You mumbled back, twisting your head up a little to peck the tip of his nose, and you resisted the urge to coo at the way his nose scrunched up when he pulled back, a blush settling over already pink cheeks.

Once you had one shoe back on and laced up, you moved to the other, letting out a little sigh. Newt was rotating his ankle, his leg tensing and un-tensing quietly, but the moment never stopped, and he was stretching out as best he could. It was no surprise it would be sire, after the unceasing stress put on both of you, all you could really do was admire that he was still on his feet at all.

Finishing up the second shoe, you hopped down from the van, Thomas only taking a step back, and smirking a little as your movements made you almost flush up against him. He licked over his lips, staring down at your coyly, and you rolled your eyes. “Oh, cut it out. Time for that later, but for one, why don’t you help me hand out water bottles to the rest of the team so that everyone gets a drink?”

You nodded your head to Newt, hoping he got the message that you wanted to do as much as you could to keep Newt off of his feet, and he nodded. Stepping back a little to let you pull out the rest of the plastic packaging from the mini-fridge, you handed it to Thomas, before another unopened packet was following, and he held both of them in his arms.

He was happy to simply follow you, letting you find each firefighter from your teams as you walked along. Almost all of the Truck crew were huddled together around their van, making it easier for you to hand them out to them all, their faces lighting up at the offer of cold drinks and relief from the heat you felt. The Squad team were all scattered around in various locations, some leaning against the vans, and some sitting down on the edges of the chaos, muscles too weak to hold themselves up.

Despite the previous joking, everyone looked a little worse for wear, and you knew they’d been just as busy out here as you had been under the jagged concrete surface, trying to uncover rubble and shift unstable patches to make sure it didn’t collapse in, as well as putting out fires, and working on freeing up the trapped civilians closer to the surface.

“Where’s Gally?” You looked around, not having seen the tallest lieutenant as you’d been handing out drinks, and Thomas was swigging from his bottle, finally leaning against the edge of one of the trucks to take a moment's respite himself.

“Doing a final sweep with Fry, they should be out any minute.”

You nodded, leaning up to wipe a stray drop from his lip without really thinking about it, and your cheeks flushed when you realised what you’d done, but Thomas only smiled a little wider.

“How are you feelin’?”

You shrugged, a yawn seeming to answer it all, and he only grinned, watching as you rolled your head from side to side, one hand reaching up and over your shoulder to rub at sore muscles. You were sure there was a crick forming in your neck from the way you’d spent the entire day staring down at injuries and keeping your head ducked and body crouched low to weave through tunnels left between crumbled chunks of building. “I’ve felt better.”

“You’ve looked better.” You raised a brow at him, his eyes widening for a second after he realised what he’d said, shaking his head and lifting a hand to settle over your neck, thumb brushing against your jaw. “I just mean that you’re all dirty and you look exhausted.”

“Nice save.” You whispered, his head ducking a little bit, and he only nodded, his eyes dropping down to your lips. His hand slipped a little higher up, rounding to rest on the back of your neck, daring to pull you a little closer, until he was smiling, and letting himself sink down far enough that his forehead was pressing to your own.

“I was worried about you today. Running into a burning pile of debris that I couldn’t help you with.”

“I like it that you worry about me.” You mumbled, tipping your head up until your nose was bumping with his own, lips brushing together, and he let out a rumbling sound of agreement.

“Yeah, well, you make it a hobby to make me do so. You’re a little bit reckless.”

“I prefer to call it adrenaline chasing. You have to take a few risks in life, keep it exciting.” He let out a soft breath, amusement you assumed, at your joke. Smoothing a hand up along his chest, your hand settled over his heart. “You gonna’ go ahead and take a risk right now, Tommy?”

He pulled back, just a fraction, raw dropping slightly, and you heard his other hand reach to put down his water bottle on the edge of the truck you were leaning on, his hand coming up to grip your hips tightly. You gasped, watching the cheeky look that flickered over his features as you did. “A risk implies that it might go bad, are you saying you wouldn't kiss me back? I’m not so sure I want to try now.”

He took another step back, lifting his hands away from you entirely, held up in a surrender motion, and you rolled your eyes at him fondly, despite the beaming smile that was forming on your cheeks. The hand on his chest tightened to a fist, a handful of his ‘House ‘21’ tee scrunched between your fingers, before you pulled him back into you and he was stumbling over his own feet, bracing a hand on the edge of the van as you turned your back to it and tugged him into you.

“Y’know that was kinda’ hot.” He teased, a hand coming up over your own to undo your fingers, pressing your hand flat against his chest again as his own rested over the top, heat flushing your cheeks, before there was a throat clearing loudly, and a feminine cheering to follow.

Minho looked appalled, his arms crossed over his chest and an empty water bottle in one hand, Brenda’s still open as she stared at the two of you with wide eyes, taking a sip of her water after the cheering ended.

“Kinda’? It was totally hot.”

Thomas groaned, turning to glance over his shoulder at the pair of them and you couldn't help the laugh that you let out as Brenda winked dramatically, your giggles only increasing, and the hand on your hip flexed. “Will you two fuck off?”

“We’re here for the show! We’ve all been waiting for you two morons to stop dancing around one another for months now, the sexual tension is suffocating.” Minho taunted the pair of you, and you lifted a hand from where it had been placed on Thomas’ shoulder to flip them both off, and the pair wandered away, cackling and staring back at the two of you as they did.

Thomas sighed, eyes flicking over your face, and he reached up to tuck a strand of stray hair back out of your face, his thumb smoothing along your cheek and down your jaw to your chin as he did. The radio on his shoulder crackled, your eyes flicking to it for a second, and Thomas paused, knowing that while none of you was still needed for assistance, he should still listen in.

“Okay, looks like we’re all clear in here, there’s nothing else really at risk. It’s all a bit crumbly, but it’ll burn itself out, there’s no more gas or fuel.”

It was Gally, his voice a little distorted over the radio waves, and you could hear Fry in the background with him, making jokes about the dust and the grit in the air that he was inhaling. You chuckled at the pair of them, standing up a little straighter from where you had slumped down, and Thomas’ hand loosened on your waist, leaning back slightly and letting you o so as the environment between the two of you changed.

“We’re on our way out now, I assume it’s all clear out there, and-” He was cut off, the screeching of metal loud, and you winced as the sound came over the airways, before everything went silent again, Gally having let go of the trigger that allowed him to talk. There was a shift in the rubble pile that was still smoking feet away from you all, and Thomas backed off to look at it, tensing up once again as you followed, the chatter around you all going quiet as you turned to look at it, and you assumed everyone had been listening to the radio chatter that had fallen silent.

You waited, your heart thudding in your chest to measure the beats that were passing, before the radio was coming on again, the frantic voice of Fry this time through his own receiver as you heard Gally groaning painfully in the background. “It moved! Some rubble moved, Gally isn’t so good, we need a paramedic in here because he can’t get up?”

Your hand found Thomas’ radio before he could, his hand closing over the top of your own as you leaned in, squeezing gently as you pushed down on the button. “Fry, what happened?”

“A pole fell right through his shoulder, it’s stuck in the ground and he’s pinned down. Do I just pull it out? I could pull it out, I mean, it’s unstable in here, we need to get out, an-”

“Okay, Fry, whatever you do, do not pull it out, I’m on my way, okay?” He gave a shaky assertion, nervous as he waited and you told him to hang on, and that you were on your way. Newt was staring at you, wide-eyed from the ambulance as he stared at you, holding up your bag as well as his as he silently questioned which one you would go, and you nodded to him, pointing at yourself. All eyes were flicking between you and Newt, and you rocked back down to sit properly on your feet from where you’d rolled to your tiptoes.

“You’ll be careful in there, right? Don’t make me worry too much?”

“You’re not gonna’ be worrying about me from out here, because I need you with me, Tommy. Grab the cutters?” He nodded his head, switching back to being a lieutenant as he let you go, and you felt like you were stumbling over your own feet as you made your way back to the truck.

Pulling on the jacket you’d abandoned for protection, you grabbed your bag, slinging it over one shoulder and setting off towards the pile you’d already vacated once, Thomas still searching through the lockers on the Squad truck to find the cutters.

He was only a few steps behind you, long strides from his taller stature helping him to catch up with you quickly, and he flicked on the head-torch on his helmet, holding the portable cutters in hand and placing an arm out in front of you as you made to step forwards.

“Let me go first, alright?”

He didn’t wait for you to reply, but he did take your hand in his free one, gloves palm sliding against your own as he held onto you, before stepping back into one of the gaps. The ground was unstable, and you were hunched over to move, the difference between light and darkness in the tunnels startling as the sunlight was blocked out by clouds of debris, ash and dust making everything hazy and blurred, and you raised a hand to cover your mouth in an attempt not to inhale anymore. You coughed lightly, his hand squeezing around yours gently as he heard the sound, and you squeezed back.

It was harder to navigate inside when you weren’t wearing boots, every jagged piece of the concrete or lumpy floor made you feel as though you were walking with bare feet, and you could already feel the hat absorbing through the soles of your shoes, never realised just how much difference those fire boots made until now.

Your toes caught on a slight lump of concrete, tripping forwards and your hand was ripped from Thomas’ as you felt, falling at an angle as you went down, and feeling the skin on your palms scrape against warm stonework as you hit the floor roughly. Your knees took a hit too, but your body was protected by the jacket, a feat you were grateful for, and your head was stinging along your hairline, as you fell at the odd angle, before hands were catching you under your armpits.

Letting out a huff, you allowed Thomas to haul you to your feet, shaking yourself down, and in the rush of it all, you felt all the more panicked as everything sounded muffled for just a second, the shock of the fall clearing only when you shook your head to force it to sharpen, and his eyes were wide as he stared at you.

“You okay?”

“I am, I’m fine. I swear. Radio Gally and ask him where he is, because the corridors split into three not far ahead.” You pointed forwards, remembering this pathway, the maze of jagged tunnels and pathways carved out seemingly burned into your memory from navigating them all, and Thomas nodded. As he spoke into the radio, you brushed your hands on your pants, checking your palms and noting the scraped on the heels of your hands, dotted with blood but nothing serious, and nothing that would cause any kind of long-lasting injury or impede on your work, and so you left it alone, the throbbing on your forehead from a developing headache more of a bother than the grazes.

“Second tunnel, third left, and Fry will come meet us for the rest of the way.”

“Let's go.” Thomas took your hand again, smoothing a clothed-thumb over the back of your palm, before tugging you along behind him once again. “Don’t trip again, okay? We don’t need two of you getting injured.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You teased, covering your mouth again as you got a mouthful of dust, and you felt bad that Thomas had no free hand to cover his own mouth with, watching as he took shallow breaths as not to inhale too much each time, but you supposed he was used to it.

You followed the directions given to you by your colleague, making your way forward as fast and safely as you possibly could, until you found the man you were looking for, fear written all over his face, gloves stripped away and hands a little bloody, with wide eyes that were lined with unshed tears.

You knew there was a deeper bond between Fry and Gally, a friendship that connected them both, and you’d heard the story of how they’d been each other’s first friend at this firehouse, and always stuck by one another’s side.

“He’s right this way, he’s balancing, because the pole is sitting at a really weird angle, I don’t know how long he can hold the position without falling.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding your head and letting him guide the way, anxiety flooding your system because no matter how good of a paramedic you were, these weren’t exactly the optimal working conditions and you weren’t sure how much you could do in the limited light and space, but you needed to get him out, and he was too big to drag through cramped tunnels.

It was an awkward position indeed, your eyes widening as you laid your sights on him. He was leaning backwards at a very uncomfortable angle, with his good hand reached out behind himself to keep himself propped up, legs bent and back arched, face screwed up in pain with shallow breathing.

“Oh, Gall..” You mumbled, his eyes cracking open, and he offered a strained smile.

“You here to fix me up, because that would be real nice?”

“Gonna’ do my best. Always running around after you boys, cleaning up your messes.” You tutted, stepping a little closer and running your fingers along the bar to take a look at it. It had torn right through his clothes, blood strained on the other side as it had gone right through his shoulders, and he panted slightly, watching you move. “Okay, well, first of all, let’s get you out of this interesting pose you’ve got going on, so we don’t mess your back up, huh?”

He only nodded, licking over his lips and attempting to stand, before he was crying out loudly with pain, and retreating back to an even worse position to take the weight off of his shoulder.

“Tommy, Fry, each of you grab a side of the pole, carefully, okay? When I tell you to, you’re going to hold onto it, and hold the weight of it so it’s not pulling on Gally’s shoulder, and hold it up until he’s kneeling, and don’t let go, or it’ll tear up his arm.”

“Please don’t fuck my arm up, I kinda’ need it, guys. This is my good hand.”

Thomas chuckled, Fry following as the tension eased just barely, and then your lieutenant was putting down the cutters to take the front of the pole while Fry took the back. Holding on gently, you grabbed Gally’s hands, pulling him forwards now that he didn’t have to hold onto the weight of the pole, and sinking slowly to his knees. Once he was kneeling there, they kept a hold on the pole, and Gally was able to take deeper breaths as he took the pressure off of his muscles.

“Uh, so, I feel like I should bring it up,” Gally started, watching as you knelt beside him, bag lowered to the ground as you opened it up and began to dig through it. “I can’t feel my arm. That’s bad, right? Like my fingers aren’t moving. I can’t move them.”

There was a tremble to Gally’s voice, higher-pitched and shaky and it hurt you to see someone so strong being so scared, and you shook your head, pulling out some of the tools you needed, before placing your hand on the opposite shoulder, and squeezing gently. “Don’t do that to yourself. I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve never lied to you, Gally, it could be bad. It could be really bad. However, it could just be your body’s response to the shock. You’ve probably cut off nerves and got some trapped, you may never regain full feeling, maybe the arm doesn’t work, or maybe it gets totally fixed up. I can’t promise any of that. What I can promise, is that I’m gonna’ get you out of here, and I’m gonna’ do my damn best to get you patched up so nothing extreme happens.”

He swallowed thickly, tears lining his eyes a little, and he sniffed it away. “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, from the smoky atmosphere and the emotions, and you only nodded.

“So, I’m gonna’ start with a numbing spray. It won’t help much but it’ll do a little, because this isn't going to be easy. If you want to keep that arm and get it recovered, I can’t risk taking this pole out, the hospital needs to do that.”

“So, what is the plan?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” You lifted your scissors, trimming away the fabric surrounding the cut to expose the jagged and torn flesh more, the wound a little bigger than that of the post from all his movements, and blood was seeping out from torn flesh and muscle. “I’m going to clean it up and spray it, and then Tommy is going to cut away as much of the pole as he can, as close to your body as we can get without making it worse. Once there’s enough that you can move, we’ll get you out of here, and to the hospital, alright?”

“Oh, God, it’s gonna’ be like a bone drill. What if I throw up?”

“That's okay, I’ve had worse.” You hoped it comforted him, and it seemed to, his lips flicking up in a pained smile. He nodded his confirmation, allowing you to proceed, and you shook the can of numbing spray, before lifting it up to the empty spot. Dousing around the pole as best you could, he let out a sharp hiss at the feeling, eyes screwing up in pain, and you whispered an apology. You repeated it on the other side, his reaction much the same, a layer of it settling over his skin, but after a few minutes, his features smoothed out as the spray began doing its job.

“Y’know, that’s actually a little better.”

“I’m glad.” You picked up the first packet of gauze, tearing it open, and tipping some antibacterial onto it, but trying not to soak the pieces through. One packet at a time, you placed them around the entrance of the pole, catching the blood and taping them down to secure the pole a little more, until it was layered up with thick padding all over, and wouldn't budge an inch, both front and back secured. “Okay, I cleaned it a little, but you’re definitely going to need some shots when you get to the hospital, to make sure you don’t get any infections. Now for the hard part.”

“What about this piece of the pole?” Thomas spoke up as you were packing the bag back up with litter and bottles of chemicals.

“I’m gonna’ hold it steady, while you cut the rest of the pole away.” You zipped the bag up, moving it out of the way for now, and standing back up. Your knees were aching from kneeling on the rock, and you brushed the dust from your pants, rubbing at the sore flesh slightly for just a brief moment. Taking over from Thomas, he held on a few seconds longer, letting you get a better grip, before finally daring to let go. The pole was heavier than you expected, and you felt shocked by it, hoping that the flinch you made wasn’t felt by your friend.

Thomas placed a pair of goggles onto his face, before he was stripping off his jacket, and grinning at Gally with a cheeky smile, before covering his friends head with his jacket. You turned away, the loud sound of the cutter starting up, and from the second it touched the metal, your teeth were grinding together, muscles tensing as shivers ran along your body. It was just like a bone saw, and it went through you every single time, the screeching sound of the metal being cut and the feeling of it shaking as Thomas cut as close to the shoulder as he could without making it vibrate too much, and there were only eight or so inches left on this side, where there had been more like eight feet of pole in total.

When it finally snapped away, you jerked slightly, your body jolting when the pole came loose in your hand, and the saw stopped its buzzing for a moment, the metal clattering on the stone as you dropped it to the ground, and Gally let out a muffled but relieved sigh from under the coat as the weight came loose.

Moving to stand behind him, Thomas repeated the action, another shake running along you as your guts twisted at the nerve-shaking sound, and you admired Thomas for being able to hold so sure and steady while he did it, but you were certain that it came with a lot of practice. Once the second half came free, Gally swayed a little, the lack of the weight he’d grown accustomed to carrying presumably feeling liberating now that it was gone.

Thomas lifted his coat back from Gally’s head, the man blinking back to the torchlight of the room, and you picked up your bag, adjusting it on both arms as Thomas put his coat back on. Getting to his feet with the help of Fry, the two began to stagger forward.

“We’re good to go?”

“Yeah, we’re good to go. As soon as we get out, go straight to the ambo’, we need to get that to the hospital, and quick.” Thomas folded away the protective goggles he’d worn, shutting down the saw equipment he used, and making sure it was all cleaned up, Gally and Fry beginning to take slow steps forward towards the exit. Reaching for the radio on your shoulder, you pressed down on the button, listening to it crackle and connect. “Hey, can one of you guys get Newt?”

You paused a few seconds, before there was a signal coming through in return; “I’m already here, love, been waiting to hear from you. Can I expect to be making a trip to the hospital?”

“Yeah, you might wanna’ call ahead. Let them know it’s pretty bad, they’ll wanna’ take him straight to surgery, and he’ll need a tetanus shot, maybe some others. It’s messy.”

“I’ll call it in now, see you soon.” The line went dead, and there was nothing else left to be said. Wiping at the ache on your forehead, you gasped a little at an unexpected sting, a trail of blood smeared across the back of your hand when you pulled it away, and you frowned, or aware that you’d cut yourself when you’d fallen before. Thomas watched you, an even deeper frown on his face, but he resisted reaching out to look at it properly with dirty gloves, lowering his hand back to his side when he’d lifted it.

Instead, he took off his helmet, the torch on it moving wildly and sending all different casts of shadows around the room, a dizzying array of motion, before it was going calm once again as he placed the helmet down on your head. Pushing it up out of your eyes, you looked up at him, a softer look on his face as he adjusted it, and reached down to take your hand again.

“C’mon, let's catch up with the other two and get the hell out of here, and hopefully, you don’t get yourself hurt anymore.”

You could only nod, body beginning to scream out in protest with aches and pains from the day, following after him as he tugged you along, leading the way by the torchlight you offered, until daylight was finally visible. Fry and Gally had been easy to catch up with, the two walking slowly as Gally’s good arm was slung over his friend's shoulder, balancing as he slowly began to lose consciousness, the shock fading away and pain seeping in, and his body was shutting down to deal with the injury.

Newt was already waiting with the stretcher, chewing on the nail of his left thumb, and perking up considerably when the four of you came into sight. You blinked rapidly, the daylight a harsh adjustment to the darkness of the tunnels, and despite Gally still being injured, you felt a hell of a lot better knowing that he was out of there, that all of your team were out of there.

No longer were they in danger of being crushed or injured further, and your friend sat on the edge of the stretcher, sitting up and swinging his legs onto it, he was being quickly wheeled away to be strapped into the ambo’ by Newt, Minho and Fry, the other firefighters all following, nervously questioning their friend’s well-being.

Taking off the helmet and handing it back to Thomas, he switched off the torch, and you shrugged off your bag and jacket too, handing the coat over to him, watching as the stretcher was wheeled up the ramp, being clicked into place, the ambulance only second away from departure.

“I have to go, I’ll see you back at the firehouse, alright?”

“Yeah, of course, go.” His lips tipped up at the sides, and you didn’t even bother putting your bag back on properly, lingering for just a second as they put away the ramp, folding it into place. With a hold on his elbow, and the other on his shoulder, you leaned up, pressing a sure kiss to Thomas’ cheek, and he let out a soft breath at the feeling, pressing into you slightly, before you were pulling away and taking a few steps toward the van, the doors slamming shut loudly. “See you soon, angel.”

“See you, Lieutenant.”

Your words were followed with a wink, and his cheeks were pink as you turned away, jogging away to the ambulance as Newt was climbing into the driver’s seat, and you climbed into the passenger one quickly, dropping your bag down to the floor and strapping yourself in safely.

“How you feelin’ back there, Gall?”

Your words were answered with a groan, and you looked back in the mirror to the back of the van, noting that Gally was strapped onto the stretcher, half laying back as he was propped up on a lot of cushioning and Newt’s bag, an awkward collection of belongings as not to disturb the pole lodged through his shoulder.

The sirens switched on, and Newt was backing out of his space, driving as carefully but speedily as he could over the bumpy industrial roads, not tarmac-ed and smooth like real roads, but filled with dips and potholes as they were simply covered in gravel. One hand was braced on the dashboard, the other on the door, jolting slightly as he moved, and you let out a huff, hating how terrifying this must all be for the injured man in the back, trying not to get hurt any further.

Once you were out on the main roads, it wasn’t too bad, and in your mirrors as you pulled back out onto the highway you could see the red vans of the fire trucks pulling out and going in the opposite direction of you, Newt and Gally, through the flashing lights and wailing alarm on the top of your van, a direct juxtaposition to their calmness.

The drive to the hospital was only six minutes and thirty-two seconds, you timed it against the clock on the dash, adrenaline and worry seeping through every inch of you, lighting up every single nerve you had as you all but shook in your seat, but it felt more like six hours. The nurses were waiting outside when you got there, and you were grateful for it, catching sight of a familiar redhead who seemed or have been promoted after passing her exams because the colour of her scrubs had changed, and you made a mental note to congratulate her when you were in a better state of mind to do so.

You watched as they took Gally away, swapping him from one stretcher to another once they were inside of the hospital, and Newt disappeared for a few moments, finding Derek who was working in the clinic, leaving you to fill out all the details for Gally at the main desk. It only took you a few moments to do so, your friend long-since taken away to surgery, and you were finally able to let out a relieved breath, as everyone you cared for was finally safe, or in good hands, at the very least.

You waited patiently by the vending machines until he appeared, biding your time by staring in at the chocolate and cereal bars that were attempting to coax you into a purchase, your stomach grumbling a little with hunger, and you gave in. You’d been able to scrounge up enough spare change in the bottom of your bag and your pockets to purchase two candy bars from behind the glass, already eating your own as Newt arrived, and a sparkle passed through his exhausted eyes as you handed one to him, the two of you wheeling the stretcher back out in silence.

When you finally climbed back into your seat, stretcher strapped in, and Newt slumped in his seat, he let out a slow breath, hand behind your head as he reversed out of the parking space and onto the pathway to leave, the day beginning to show it’s drag on you both.

“So, how do we feel about leaving the ambo’ cleaning for the other team? All in favour, say I.”

“I!” You cheered, but it was weak, and Newt’s laugh was equally so. Your eyes went to the clock on the dashboard, noting that it was less than an hour away from the end of your shift, less than half an hour, actually, and you relaxed back into your chair, a little sleepy.

You’d probably regret leaving the work for the others, it would hang over you in the night and you’d be cursing at your current self the next time another team left it for you to do, because cleaning down the van was no fun, but you were beginning to feel practically boneless, and there was no way that you could handle doing it now. You were sure they’d understand, and besides, it wasn’t like it needed mopping or anything, just disinfecting.

The journey had slipped by quickly, the station coming into view soon, and Newt was tapping his fingers against the wheel, humming a song to himself as he reversed into the garage. You liked being in such comfortable silence with Newt, he was always a soothing company to be with, your head rocking to the side to take in your friend as he shut down the engine and pulled the keys back.

“What are you staring at?”

“Just thinking about being your friend. Things are weird. Didn’t mean for you to be important to me, but here you are, one of the most important people in my life. That’s all.” He smiled a little, his hand coming down to squeeze over your own.

“I love you, I really do, but I’m way too tired for the heart to heart right now. Rain-check feelings for the next time we’re drunk?”

“Deal, my feelings only come out when I’m tired or intoxicated anyway.” He beamed at that, nodding his head in confirmation, before opening his door, and practically flopping out of it. You had to peel yourself out of your seat, dragging yourself after Newt as he hung up the keys, but once entering the main corridors, he set off to the locker rooms, and you made your way to the common room.

The firefighters were all milling around, waiting for updates, and they all turned to look at you, silence falling over them, from the second you entered the room.

“How is he?”

It was Fry that spoke, understandably the most shaken by it all, and you tried to muster up the most reassuring smile you could. “He’s gone straight into surgery, and they have high hopes. I think it’ll be a good outcome, I really do. He was awake the whole journey and when they took him in, which is a really good sign. They’re going to patch him up and give him his shots, keep him in for a week or so, of course, but we should hear some news tomorrow, when he wakes up from the anaesthesia and they can run some tests and check him out.”

Relieved sighs went all around the room, everyone absorbing the information they’d been given, and the silence only lasted a few moments longer, before quiet chatter was taking up again, as everyone went back to what they’d been talking about, finishing up their shift and praying no calls came in within the next ten minutes, because everyone was absolutely exhausted.

Thomas was coming over to you, feet scuffling a little on the tiles, and you turned to look at him, shoulders slumping as the last of your tension slipped away, looking up to him as his shoulders slumped, finally being able to let the last of the day’s stress melt away now you were back at your station with the people you cared for being safe. His eyes swept over you, head tipping to the side a little, and you waited for him to speak, whatever it was he wanted to say practically on the tip of his tongue.

“You got a cut on your forehead.” He mumbled, hand cupping your cheek and thumb smoothing over the space above your brow, tipping your head to the side a little.

“I know, it’s from when I tripped. I can take care of it later.” You mumbled, exhaustion seeping through every inch of your body, muscles aching from climbing over the piles of debris and crawling through small spaces to get to trapped workers.

“Or, you could let me take care of it now,” Thomas whispered, hand dropping from your face to your hands, pulling you over to the kitchen counter, and using his foot to pull out one of the stools for you. Climbing up onto it, he slipped your medical bag down your shoulders and placed it onto the marble before you both, slipping a hand under your seat and using the grip to pull you forwards. “Just let me take care of you, for once, alright?”

“What do you mean ‘for once’?” You mused, watching as he shifted through the contents, his brow furrowed slightly as he tried to identify some of the bottles, before choosing a cotton wool ball and a bottle of disinfectant that you’d used on him before. Soaking some of the liquid into the small ball, he pushed strays strands of hair out of your face and pressed the ball gently down on the spot.

It stung, and you figured you must have made a face about it, because he frowned, whispering an apology as he cleaned it up, wiping slowly and clearing the blood from the small cut you’d gained along your hairline. It was nothing severe, you’d felt it happen, and it would be healed in no time and was probably already scabbing over, but he was caring for it tenderly nonetheless.

“Kinda’ feels like all you do is take care of me, actually.” You continued on after a while, and he raised an inquisitive brow, before he was taking the cotton wool pad away, and switching to the soothing gel for healing up cuts that you kept in the front pocket of the bag.

“Well, our shift is almost over. How do you feel about letting me take care of you some more later? Takeout and movies at my place.” He smirked a little, pulling back and putting the cap back on the gel, tucking it into your bag with the bottle of disinfectant and zipping it up, moving away to put the cotton ball in the bin while waiting for your answer.

When he approached, you placed your hands gently on his hips, pulling him in a little closer, and he smiled, his arms sealing around your shoulders to pull you in, close enough for him to press a kiss to the top of your head as he hugged you. “I will accept, but only if I can wear that comfy green hoodie.”

“I just washed it, so you can definitely wear it. It’s probably still in my laundry room.” He grinned, you could feel it pressed to the top of your head, before he was pulling back, wide eyes as he looked at you, and a soft smile. “If you want, you can stay the night, too.”

“Sure you wanna show me your bedroom? That's a private space.” You were teasing him, and he picked up on it straight away, that fond look morphing into something cheeky and playful, and he pinched at your arm in retaliation.

“Who said you were sleeping in the bed? Maybe you can just have the couch.”

“I’m not a couch kinda’ gal.” You sighed, shrugging at his request, and he chuckled.

“Well then, guess you get the bed with me.” He leaned down, bumping his nose against your own, and the single bell alert sounded over the speakers to inform you that your shift was ending in five minutes, and that the next team was due to arrive and take over any time now. You placed a hand on his chest, his heart thudding steadily under your palm, and you pushed him backwards slightly, hopping down from the stool and groaning under your breath at the new pressure being placed on your muscles. “Go grab your stuff, I’ll meet you at the front, I’ll drive.”

“What about my car?”

“I’ll drive you back to pick it up tomorrow. Unless you’re planning on a quick getaway?” He joked, but his words from weeks ago flashed in your mind, and you placed a hand on his cheek, shaking your head.

“I won’t be going anywhere, I promise. I’ll be by your side all night, honey.” He shuddered slightly at the sweet name, melting a little under your touch, before nodding his head and licking over his lips as a shy heat brushed his cheeks. “Meet you at the front in five.”

“I’ll be there.”

You grabbed your bag, taking it with you to store properly in your locker for the next shift, and swap it for your clothes, waiting to get changed into something more comfortable than smart shirts and trousers. Undoing the metal latch, Brenda bumped her hips against yours as she entered the room, already beginning to undo the bun she’d done in her hair and weave her fingers through the ends. Undoing the buttons along the front of your shirt, you shuffled the sleeves down, letting it fall away to leave you in your vest, and Brenda whistled as you did, making you roll your eyes as you folded your shirt up and put it into your bag.

“You know, if you decide to quit being a paramedic, you should totally be a stripper. You’ve got the hips for it.” She teased, and you scoffed, smacking at her hand when she poked your waist, but unable to avoid your grin from breaking free as she giggled all the way around to the other side and opened her locker.

Unbuckling your belt and popping the button on your work pants, you kicked off your shoes, pants falling way to the ground and left pooled on the tile temporarily so that you could pull on the comfortable and somewhat baggy pants you’d worn this morning, a silky material that was nowhere near as formal as your work pants had been.

With sneakers back on and your cardigan pulled up onto your body with only one button to hold it closed, you packed everything else away, swapping your med-bag for your home-bag, and closing your locker for another day.

“Bye, Bren!”

“Bye, stripper!” She yelled back, voice sounding more like it was coming from the bathroom than the other side of the lockers, and you figured she was doing her makeup, seemingly having more active plans than you did for the evening. Stepping out into the main foyer, Thomas was waiting, hands tucked in his pockets as he leaned against the open garage door, talking to a member of the other team as he waited.

You vaguely recognised him, you’d seen him a couple of times during hand over shifts and house meetings where everybody was required or be present, and Thomas offered you a smile as he caught you approaching from the corner of his eye. Approaching, he stood more fully, the conversation inching towards an end and you were more than happy to wait, not bothering to tune in to the workout tips Thomas was giving to a younger fireman who was thinking of taking his lieutenant’s exam.

He was passionate about it, clearly happy to share his knowledge, it was evident in the excited tone of his voice and the twitches along his expressions as he spoke, animated movements, and once his hand was back by his side, you dared to reach up, fingers curling a little around his forearm. He paused his movements, stuttering a little, before continuing with what he was saying, and lifting his hand up a little more, fingers flexing slightly. He seemed to have caught onto what you were wanting, but wasn’t sure he was correct, and he squeezed your hand back tightly as your fingers linked with his.

Newt wandered by while Thomas was still talking, texting on his phone and chewing on half a sandwich in the other, but he slowed in his steps, eyes sweeping along the pair of you, pausing for a second, before he was shoving the remnants of the food into his mouth until his cheeks were puffed up, but smirking through it all. Rubbing his fingers together to dispose of crumbs, he made his way over, the team member Thomas had been talking to bidding you goodbye as he walked away, Newt arriving only a second later to fill the gap.

“So, what are you two up to tonight?” There was a sickly-sweet undertone laced in his voice, something like seventeen innuendoes ready to be spilt from him you had no doubt, but you smirked back just as widely.

“Taking a page out of you and Derek’s book. We’re having a sleepover.”

The look on Newt’s face quickly fell, smirk becoming a scowl, and his eyes narrowed. “You know what? When you two still hated each other, I didn’t get mocked like this. Go back to hating each other.” Thomas snickered, brows raising slightly, but he didn’t bother to add anything on, just watching the interaction taking place. Your partner scoffed, before gagging falsely, and then after taking a step back, he was giving a softer smile. “Have fun, you two. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gave a salute, two fingers tapping his forehead before pulling away, and then he was turning his back on you, long strides that were slightly uneven with every other step he took on a sore leg from a hard day’s work, but he was lifting his phone to his ear a second later, and grinning as he began to speak. There was a tug on your arm, Thomas pulling you along, and you fell into step beside him, wandering over to the car he was pulling out the keys for.

Letting go of his hand as you approached the vehicle, you reached for the handle, beat to it by another hand, and Thomas opened the door for you, winking when you looked at him, his eyes twinkling, before sinking into the seat. Once the door was closed, he rounded the car and climbed in himself, strapping himself in as you put your bag down into the footwell, before he was starting the car up.

His hand tucked behind your headrest as you adjusted your seatbelt, getting comfortable in the leather seats still holding heat from the afternoon sun. Backing out of the parking space, the car spun around, engine revving slightly as he did, and then he was pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

“So, do you fancy Chinese or Indian food? There are two great places near me.”

“Any pizza places?” He turned to look at you, just for a split second, following the signs toward the highway, and you shrugged in your seat.

“Two, actually. One does a really great stuffed crust thing, but the other has more topping choices.” You grinned, settling back more comfortably, and as you arrived on the highway, his hand came down to land on your thigh. You watched his fingers move, flexing a little against your skin, digging slightly into the muscle, and you reached out a single finger, the rest curled away. Stroking slowly along one of the prominent veins in his hand, the nerves underneath twitched, before you were brushing right up to the tip of his finger, and back along another, to his wrist. “So, pizza and a couple of movies? Not the most exciting of dates, we can do something else, if you want?”

“Tommy, if you’re going to date me, you’re going to have to get used to the idea of napping together and eating takeout on the couch rather than going to restaurants as dates.” He only chuckled, something hidden below the surface that was more than just humour at the joke you’d made, and you settled your hand over the top of his to squeeze it. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just remembering something you said a few months back.”

“Yeah? Because I can barely remember half of the things I said an hour ago.”

“I was thinking about when Newt thought you were on a date with Derek, just before you got called out on a case.” He continued on, his hand taken from yours as the two of you began to approach the intersection in which you’d take off for his, his hand on the gear shift instead. “I remember you saying that you had no time to date, and you had no idea where you’d even meet someone when you’re in our line of work, and I also remember thinking that you were missing what was right in front of you.”

“Technically, by that point, you were behind me, because I was walking out.” You teased, and he let out a grunt, swatting your shoulder with the back of his hand, before slowing down a gear again, as the roads began to narrow as he pulled up towards his apartment building. You’d recognised the area you were driving through, vaguely, from your trip to the vets, proud of yourself for being familiar with it.

“Yeah, whatever, technicalities. If you follow that logic, now I’m by your side.”

I hope you stay there for a while, though.” He faltered slightly, before letting out a soft and shaky breath, and nodding his head.

There was a barricade across the entrance to the building's parking spaces, and he rolled to a stop, car humming under you both as he rolled his window down, cool breeze sweeping into a warmed car, and you watched as the pad lit up and awaited his entry code. As soon as it was punched in, the barricade was lifted, squeaking and letting out a groan under its weight as it did, rising high enough in the air to let the car through.

Pulling into the building car park after the barricade had raised high enough, and rolling the window back up, cruising slowly as he searched for a parking space, and remaining quiet. When he finally found one, he paid attention to parking in it, before the engine was going dead, and he was turning to face you more.

“Do you really mean that?”

“Mean what?” You echoed, brows raising as you forgot where the conversation had been going, and he unclipped his safety belt, and twisted more in his seat.

“Do you really want me to stick around? For a while? You see this going somewhere?”

You sighed, lifting a hand to rest on his cheek, and he leaned into your touch. “Tommy, you saw my record yourself. If I didn’t see a future in this firehouse, or with you, I wouldn’t still be here. If I’m sticking around, it means I found something worth sticking around for.” His smile was shaky, nodding his head and licking over his lower lip, before he was leaning across the centre console and unclipping your belt too, his nose bumping against yours, and he hummed at the soft laugh you let out. “Don’t you dare let our first kiss be in your car, after all of this waiting around, in the parking lot of your building.”

He whined slightly, nudging his nose with yours again, bumping together teasingly, and you rubbed back, before he was sitting back into his seat with a false pout. “Then get your cute little butt out of the car, so I can get you upstairs.”

“Impatient, much?” You mumbled, taking your bag with you as you went, and closing the door once your feet were out on the concrete flooring, arms stretching above your head to loosen tightened muscles. Meeting Thomas at the end of the vehicle, you reached your hand out for his, his touch bypassing you entirely to cup your cheeks in each of his hands, and pull you in, close enough to press his lips to the top of your head in a soft kiss.

“C’mon, then. I believe I owe you a hoodie.” you could only nod your head. His hand finally found yours again, warm palms pressed together tightly, and he guided you through the compound towards the doors.

He stuck to his word, keeping himself composed in the elevator and in the halls, longing looks cast in your directions, before he was using a different key on the same ring that held his car keys to open up the door to his apartment, and you couldn't deny that you were excited to see within. He excused himself, to go and get himself changed and find your jumper, leaving you with another lingering kiss to your cheek this time, and telling you to make yourself comfortable.

You did just that, hanging up your cardigan and your bag on one of the coat hooks, and taking off your sneakers, leaving them loose and unlaced to sit on the shoe rack by his door, sock-clad footsteps almost inaudible against his polished wooden floors as you wandered a little further inside.

It was different from your place, the corridors split the rooms where your kitchen looked straight into your living room, and there was a set of wide sliding doors on one side. Running your fingers over the edge of the wooden frame, you peered inside, soft couches with black cotton cushions and throw pillows in bright splashes of colour. It was a surprising mix of minimalism in sleek shades of black and white with pops of colour. One wall was covered with brightly coloured pictures, all blown up large in custom prints, and you could pick out all the faces you knew, as well as some you couldn't.

A face much like that of Thomas’, but older and more feminine, the same shade of brown hair and eyes that twinkled like his own, his mother, clearly, and pictures of them that couldn't be any older than a year. Pictures of Thomas and Newt from when they were younger, you’d never mistake that shaggy blonde hair and toothy grin for anyone else, he looked exactly the same, just younger.

There were pictures of the whole team, one that must have been years ago, before Chuck had ever become the candidate and back when the position was filled by someone else, Thomas wasn’t wearing his lieutenant’s shirt, and there were crew members' faces that were unfamiliar to you. Standing next to one of the trucks, sweaty and dirty and looking exhausted, it was a trimming from a newspaper, an article you were sure reflected their heroism properly. Newt was standing by the ambulance, thumbs up and gleamingly wide smile, as Teresa stood by his side, looking a little more relaxed. She had a simple smile, fixed look and slightly forced, seeming to stare just beyond the camera instead of at it.

She wasn’t in many of the squad photos, a collection of selfies and pictures from group events, some with fun stories and backgrounds like mini-golf or the beach, and others with the bar or Minho’s place. There were a couple more with her in, though.

One with her and Newt and Thomas, that seemed to have her in as an improvisation, crammed between Thomas and Newt as they all sat on the edge of the ambulance and ate sandwiches, still wearing half their uniform, looking over the edge of the river on a bridge.

The other was one of her and Thomas sitting on the couch at the station, one that was old because it didn’t match the ones you knew, but you recognised the kitchen in the background. They were both asleep, and behind them was Gally and Fry, pulling faces and giving them both bunny ears, and your lips flicked up into a smile as you observed the antics of your family, messing with one another and always keeping it fun and light.

Your vision was blocked for a second, everything going black and soft material brushed over the bridge of your nose, before you were popping free again, and the smell of fresh laundry detergent and Thomas’ aftershave was overwhelming. Pushing your hands through the sleeves and turning when his hands found your hips, you looped your own around his neck, eyes scanning over his change of outfit.

Black sweats and a grey jumper, cosy-knit socks and holes in the sleeves that one of his thumbs had gone through, hair mussed from the change of clothes, and you smoothed down the stray strands that were sticking up at odd angles.

“You look so cosy.” You mumbled, a rumbling sound of agreement in the back of his throat, and one of his hands smoothed up your back, rubbing gently and pulling you in a little closer, nodding his head, and letting the tip of his nose rub against your own. “I was looking at your photos.”

He smiled, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, before he was stiffening a little, and pulling back, eyes snapping open once again. “Some of them are old, they need replacing-”

“I think they’re all really sweet.” You whispered, leaning in again, and he let out a shaky sigh, his forehead pressing to your own. He let out a sigh, his hands sinking from your waist to your hips, pushing you backwards slightly, and walking you back through the sliding doors to the living room.

“So, now, you’ve got my comfiest jumper, and you’re all settled in. Maybe I should give you a tour?” He mumbled, your feet moving underneath you, legs tapping against the back of the couch and you grinned, judging a little closer to him until your lips were brushing.

“Oh, I think we can get to that later.” You pulled him down, one hand on the back of his neck and one hand on his chest, pulling him down a little until he was sitting beside you. He was beaming, pressing you back into the arm of the couch, curled over you as one hand supported him on the cushions behind your head with the other sitting on your jaw, thumb stroking over your skin gently.

“Good, because there’s something important that I’ve been meaning to do, and I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

“Get on with it, then.” You whispered, feeling him barely nod, before he was closing the distance. His lips brushed your own softly, teasing at first, and you gasped a little, before he was pulling back, licking over his lips and pressing in more firmly. His lips met your own, noses bumping a little as you pushed back into him, chaste and testing the waters, the pressure built up forcing him to take it slow, despite the way his grip got a little tighter on your jaw, and a shiver was running along him continually. “Relax, Tommy.”

Your words were whispered against his lips, a breathy laugh following, before he turned his head to the side, pressing in with a little more confidence, and moving his lips with your own this time. It was sweet and naïve, like kids sharing a first kiss, innocence in the connection as you slowly tried something new together. He relaxed, then, his hand on your jaw sliding down to sit on your neck, lowering you a little more against the couch, and you giggled as you caught your breath, his lips trying to find yours again as you smiled, and puckering your lips for him once again.

He settled against you more comfortably, leaning over you further, and one of your hands smoothed up his back to scratch lightly at the base of his neck in short hairs, daring to slip a little further when he took that step, his lips parting a little as he kissed you more firmly. Wet lips sliding together, scarcely begun, before knuckles against wood echoed through the apartment, and Thomas let out something between a growl and a curse against your mouth, pecking your lips once more, and pulling back to sit again.

He blinked for a second, the interruption confusing him as he shook his head slightly, and looking through the walls in the direction of where the front door was.

“We didn’t even order food yet.” You pouted, a knock sounding again, and Thomas chuckled, reaching out a thumb and finger to sit on your chin, attempting to pull you back to him. “Ah, ah, ah. No way, this so doesn’t count. Go take care of whichever neighbour is at the door, and then come back and give me the kiss you promised.”

“I’m nervous, I’ll get there.” He huffed, rolling his eyes, and you chuckled as you settled back into the couch cushions and throw pillows. “Stay here, I’ll be right back, and when I do come back, I’m gonna’ give you the best damn kiss you’ve ever had in your life, just you fuckin’ wait.”

He wandered away, cursing at whoever was still knocking every so often, delicate knocks, and you took a deep breath. Despite your teasing, your own heart was racing, and you lifted a finger to press over your lips, brushing against them. Your fingertips were tingling, blood rushing with excitement, and you felt heat flush over your features. There were muffled voices, whoever Thomas was talking to, and it gave you a second to calm yourself and steady your heart for the moment he’d return.

It was a step you were confident in, a step you were more than ready to take with Thomas, already missing the feel of him holding you so tenderly and pulling you in, and the way his lips felt pressed to your own. Now you’d had a taste, you wanted more, you wanted to kiss him whenever you felt like it, to silence his worries with soft kisses and to giggle against his mouth next time he flirted with you cheekily, or to kiss him before a call each time you told him to stay safe.

You wanted to kiss him goodnight later on, and to hug him from behind when he cooked for you and have dates with naps where his lips would seek out yours sleepily, to hold his hand and put a label on it. You’d never been one for labels, because you’d never had anyone to label. Friend, best friend, boyfriend; they were all new to you, the last year has changed your life so radically that you felt unrecognisable to the person you’d once been.

Your eyes found the clock on the wall, at least five minutes have passed, and you found a great deal of internal humour as you pictured the polite look on Thomas’ face that you’d seen so many times before as he struggled to ever be able to end a conversation without feeling rude, and never wanting to offend a person.

Standing up, you rounded the corner, aiming to save him, his back still turned to you, looking tense as he stood in the doorway, door held close to his body as he spoke to whoever was on the other side.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, instead of relaxing, he seemed to tense even more, white-knuckled grip on the wood as he turned to you, brows slightly furrowed.

“Hey, you were gone a while, thought I’d see what was up.” Your hand moved down to his arm, and he paused a moment longer, before releasing the edge of the door, letting out a slow breath as it swung open to reveal more clearly who was on the other side.

Peeking out, you were greeted with a familiar face, and you felt a little put out at her composure. Tight jeans, a fitted jumper and a coat that looked like it cost more than your food money for the week that suited her well as it fell to her mid-calves. Dark curly hair that sat perfectly and wide eyes, that only widened a little more as she took in your presence with equal shock to you taking in hers. You took a steadying breath, before reaching a hand out, and trying to be polite.

“You’re Teresa, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m not sure whether to take that as a good thing, or a bad thing.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, humour lacing a tone, and you forced a laugh to sound realistic, before shrugging.

“I’ve heard you were a great paramedic at our house before you moved on.”

“I try my best, I’ve heard good things about you, too.” It was a polite smile, but there was nothing friendly underneath either of your tones, and her shoulders slumped a little, her hand returning to tuck into her pocket to match the other. “I’m sorry to invade on your evening, I didn’t know you were here, or I wouldn’t have come over. I was hoping we would have that catch up you promised me.” Her attention turned back to Thomas, and despite not saying it, you sensed there was something else under her words, the way Thomas hesitated with his answer, stumbling a little on his words.

“I can’t right now. You should have texted, or something.”

“Well, I would have, but you never called when you said you would.” Your lips pursed, clearly a lot of unresolved issues between the two that never got solved that you hadn't caught onto until now, and you stepped back slightly, your mind spinning. “You haven’t called in months, but your mom said you talked to her about what happened between us on your last visit to her, stuff we haven’t even talked about.”

“You’ve met his mom?” The words were blurted out before you could stop them, her eyes finding you again, and she seemed a little more confused about it.

“Uh, yeah.” She smiled again, polite again, and you tried to return it. “Our moms went to college together, it’s how I found out about the job at the station, we went to see her a couple of times at the care home.”

“She’s in a care home?”

“I feel like I’m telling you a lot of personal stuff here that’s not mine to tell, I just assumed you knew, I’m sorry..” She stopped herself, Thomas still standing silently beside you, and you shook it off.

“It’s alright, no worries. You two clearly have a lot of things to talk about, and I seem to have no idea about, like, ninety percent of it. I should go.” You pushed your foot into one of your sneakers, Thomas’ attention finally snapping back to you and you looked down to find the other.

“No, I can come back another time, I really didn’t intend to get in the way.” Teresa insisted, and as your foot settled into the second shoe, you offered her a genuine smile now.

“You don’t have to go, really. We were about to order food.” Thomas insisted, his hand coming out to sit on your arm as you pulled the jumper up and over your head, hanging it on one of the hooks and ignoring the look Thomas was attempting to give you in persuasion to stay.

“Yeah, but, we didn’t yet. So, it’s fine.” You gave him the best smile you could, taking your jacket from where you’d hung it up and patting your pockets for your keys and phone once putting it on, finding them both where you’d left them. Reaching for your bag and pulling one strap up your shoulder, you nodded to yourself, and Thomas settled a hand on your arm once again, turning you to look at him.

“Please, don’t go.”

Anxiety and confusion were all you could feel now, and you stepped a little closer to the door once again, stomach twisting into knots, before you were taking a deep breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow for our shift. I hope you guys can get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s up.”

Teresa offered you a soft ‘thank you’, at least having the courtesy to look a little apologetic for the ending of your evening, and you stepped into the hall. Turning your back on the pair of them, you didn’t bother looking back, hearing them talk for a few moments longer, before the door to his apartment was closing.

Pausing at the elevator and waiting for it to arrive at your floor, you glanced back over your shoulder, the empty hallway making a pang of something cold and nauseating run through every single one of your veins. A chime sounded overhead, and then the doors in front of you were opening up.

As you stepped into the elevator, you pressed your back to the wall and hit the thumb for the lower floor, a sting in the back of your throat making you feel pathetic for letting something get to you so much. There was a taunting voice in the back of your mind suggesting that none of this would have happened if you hadn't let your walls down and got yourself into this. You were tempted to just go straight home and put them back up, to deal with it all alone, and shut out everything else to rely on yourself.

Instead, you pulled out your phone, rubbing at your nose as you sniffled, and the numbers over your head were flashing differently with each floor you passed. It only went two rings, before a cheery voice was picking up on the other end, and you let out a watery laugh at the teasing enthusiasm she’d held as she’d clearly heard about your impromptu - and now failed - date night.

“Hey, stripper! What can I do for you? Calling for tips? Because I’m pretty sure you drive him crazy already, wear your cute panties and swing your hips and he’ll be on his knees.”

“Actually, Bren, I was wondering if you wanted to have a girls night? I know you probably have plans, but if you’re free, I would love to hang out.”

She was silent for a moment, crackling on the end of the line as she moved, before she was back; “I’ll be at your place in thirty minutes, and I’ll bring loads of alcohol and take-out food.”

“Sounds awesome.” You sniffed, stepping out of the elevator and feeling a little relieved and not having to be alone, but having your best friend to rely on. “One more thing, though. I need you to pick me up, because I just remembered that I don’t even have my car.”

#thomas #thomas x reader #thomas/reader #ff!tommy #firefighter!tommy #smoke and fire #SAF #thomas the maze runner #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien thomas #dylan obrien the maze runner

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