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maggie-margret-blog · 2 months

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Playlist Heroes: the early 90’s

Ateez x Fleetwood Mac

Yunho

Spring had arrived, finally. After a long, hard and arduous winter full of misfortune and horrible luck, a new season began. Yunho found himself falling back into childhood habits, one’s in which his mother had imposed upon him when they had been attached at the hip. In his younger years he had been his mother’s spring cleaning buddy, and found peace in the activity. He missed his mother at times and was put at ease when he could break out the feather duster and rags. Yunho could clean for hours, uselessly for the most part, like wiping down plant pots or mopping his basement floors, though completely concrete. It was the action that soothed him, it didn’t matter if it was functional or not.

This spring, though, Yunho had began tearing apart his guest bedrooms. He’d pull out everything from the closest and neatly organize all of the unnecessary shit he had collected over the years. It was all mixed in with his wife’s unfinished craft projects, all abandoned once she had the kids, and a few mementos of their young love. Yunho was sure to place her things nicely next to his forsaken passions of the past. Photo album after photo album surfaced as he dug deeper in the catacombs of their forgotten keep sakes. He had never considered himself sentimental, but couldn’t deny that all of these memories made his heart sing.

Pictures from their wedding, a few from their honeymoon, and hundreds of others strewn around the clock. That clock had already been ticking for 15 years, but Yunho was a happily married man with few complaints in life.

“Wow, just wow.” He sighed heartily with a slap to his knee and a smile. “We sure were cute back then-“ the self whispering continued as he rummaged through discarded boxes and such. The last was a constant reminder to him that his life had been blessed. Beautiful family, good job and a house he could be comfortable in. He shook his head as he thought back to his days of mechanical work. He could practically still feel the oil and dirt caked onto his hands and back. He spent most of his time rolling around under Suburban richie’s cars back then. Now he was a suburban richie.

As if on queue, Yunho dipped his hand into another box, the thoughts flooding in of a certain suburbanite he had once knew, as the cool plastic of a cassette tape graced his fingers. He knew what it was the second he touched it. “Oh my gosh-“ he exasperated, though quietly. He didn’t want to startle anyone and honestly he didn’t want his wife to see what he had found.

Yunho was quick to stuff the box back in the closet and shut the door; he shoved the small tape in his pocket and booked in to the basement.

“Where’re you going baby?” His wife’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned quickly to look at her, eyes softening. “Just going downstairs. You know… clean stuff up.”

“Oh you and you’re cleaning.” She said passively, returning to her previous activities. He sighed in relief, descending his basement stairs. His search was rather frantic, ripping through box after box. He knew he had it somewhere. He was sure he had kept it. “Damnit! Where the hell is it?” He grumbled, finally coming across the machine, buttons dusty and dirty. Yunho blew on the device as the years of neglect flew into the air.

Yunho cleared a spot on the cluttered workbench that sat in the west corner of the room, dimly lit by the teachings of the few lightbulbs actually working. His brow was set in determination, plugging in the cord and watching as the small red dot illuminated. Still worked to Yunho’s surprise.

Yunho dug into his pocket and pushed the cover off of the tape. He ran a finger over the top to rid it of the dust and pressed firmly on the ejection button. The terminal sprung open and he placed it inside. With a quick close, he waited.

Ever so slight was the distortion. Yunho was sure that it had come with age and sat back against the ridge of the bench. His arms crossed leisurely across his broad chest as his eyes closed and allowed the song to build until his memory was purged. He knew this track was all too familiar.

If it had only been yesterday Yunho would’ve believed it. When he was a young kid fiddling with engines and playing cool in front of the girls who hung around all too often. One of them he had in mind particularly, C, Macmaura. She had been one of those girls that Yunho had been plagued with in his 20’s.

C was the daughter of some big tycoon that practically owned the town Yunho grew up in. The two had gone to high school together, classes merging occasionally. What he really remembered though was the summer right before his sophomore year of college.

Yunho’s parents didn’t have much when he was growing up, their name attached to nothing but their home and a small fishing boat, and soon his education.

C and him had run into each other one scorching afternoon in June, the only relief being either the air conditioning or the cooling sensation of the lake around you. Yunho reclined backwards on the floor of the fishing boat, the sun beaming down on him, turning his skin a golden brown. Summer has always been like this, hot, sweaty, and miserable. Bugs buzzed overhead as he swatted them aft.

“Yunho! Yunho!” The echo of a female voice jolted him upward. The sunlight had bleached his sight for a moment or so but soon he was able to make out the figure of a woman on shore. “Yunho!” She called again.

“Yeah?!” He called out, still unsure of who was calling for him, or how they had recognized him from his family’s boat.

“What’re you doing?”

“Oh you know! Just hanging out!” Yunho called.

“Can I come? I’m bored!” It was then Yunho realized who had been yelling at him. It was C. His breath quickened as his heart began to pound. Now, he could blame it on the heat, but he knew truthfully that C made him nervous.

“Uh! I guess!” He responded, swiveling to his side to reach the steering wheel. But as soon as he moved, C was already submerged in the lake, swimming towards the boat.

The vessel shook a bit as she grasped onto the side, Yunho taking her hand and helping her over. C laughed as beads of water dripped from her frame, creating a puddle beneath her. “Thanks.”

“For sure,” Yunho followed suit and chuckled over the sight. C was so beautiful. Her aura was something he had been captivated by since he first met her. Though they had barley spoken in those years of acquaintance, he could still feel a pull toward her.

“What’re you doing out here? All alone?” Yunho was quick to question, handing the woman the towel he had reserved for himself. “It’s so hot. I just wanted to take a dip, but then I saw your boat.” She explained with a grin. Her cheeks glistened as crystal droplets adorned her. The sunlight shown in full on her rounded eyes, revealing details Yunho had never noticed. “You know my boat?” He asked, turning his head to the side like a golden retriever. “Of course I do. Everyone does.” She said lightly as if it were a fact of nature. “Oh.” He whispered quietly.

“Are you going anywhere today?” C’s words tickled Yunho’s ears. Was he going anywhere today? He could hear her ask that a million times. Just like that.

“I wasn’t planning on it. I was just going to wade and cool off.” He confessed.

“And you’re sure you don’t mind if I join you?”

“I’m sure.” He confirmed.

“Good.” She says softly. “Don’t mind me, I’m kinda uncomfortable I’m these since I’m soaked.” C began to laugh as she undid the buttons of her floral blouse. What Yunho had expected was some sort of swimwear to complement her outfit, but was met with a bare chest. His eyes drifted to the exposed skin as his heart rate raised yet again. In respect for the female body, Yunho closed his eyes and turned his head. He hoped she wouldn’t take it as a sign of discomfort or disgust. If she was comfortable, then she was comfortable and Yunho was just fine with that.

“Yo-you- uh.” Yunho begins, but can’t quite say what he wants to.

“Oh c’mon don’t be shy. Im not.” She said with a knowing laugh as if to make fun of herself for her behavior.

“You’re just confident. And that’s good.” Yunho peaked briefly, making eye contact with the woman. She really was beautiful.

“You’re nicer than most guys Yunho. Some would take this as an invitation.” She scoffed, leaning backwards against the floor, the same way Yunho had been just minutes before.

“Well, I’m sorry that’s been the experience.” He said, eyes raking down the frame. He’d wondered what she might look like, but never had he dreamed he’d be in this situation with C.

“Eh, it is what it is I guess. The long awaited rise of feminism probably won’t save me before my time is up, so, I just say fuck it and do what I want.” C’s comment was carried on the heated summer breeze. Yunho only hummed, back pressed against the now cooked metal siding of the boat. “That’s a big topic.” He responded.

“Not really. It’s not big, it’s just important.”

“That’s what I mean when I say big.” Yunho defends quietly.

“Why does everything important have to be big? Can’t we have important normal sized issues?” C retorted.

“I guess we can.” Yunho agreed, assuming she was right in her own way. “Thank you.” C giggled as he considered her words.

“Yunho?”

“Hm?”

“Did you ever like me? Like back in school?”

Yunho sat with the question for a minute, silently. Why would she ask? The answer was unclear. Sure he had thought she was pretty, but he never really considered that aspect of their relationship.

“I guess I didn’t. I never had romantic feelings for you.” He said honestly, looking back towards the shore. A hundred or so trees lined the horizon as the sun climbed its way across the blue sky. The colors slowly leaked through, breaking the blue into fragments of orange and pink.

Words had been said that Yunho may never recall, or may be some of his fondest memories. The two laughed at stupid things and made up situations, only to ask the other what they would do if they ever found themselves in it.

“Okay how about this-“ Yunho began, taking a rather long drag from a shared cigarette. The two lanterns hanging from the boat’s posts were the only light left to illuminate them.

“What if you were stuck between fighting a gorilla, or a bear. Two very deadly animals, two very cute creatures though. And you have to fight to kill though.”

“Oooh, that’s not too hard because I literally hate gorillas. They’re so creepy! Bears are cute and in my heart of hearts, I know they’re cuddly.” C claimed, talking the cigarette from Yunho’s lips and placing it between her own.

“Fair enough.” Yunho conceited.

“What time is it? At this rate we’ll be here til dawn.” C said with a hint of pride, as if they stayed until then it would please her. “I don’t have my watch.” Yunho searches his wrists and the subsequent ground below him. “I left mine on shore.” C added.

“Wait. I brought my transistor, let me find it.” He hums as he bends to his left towards his packed sack, feeling around the belongings, landing on the small radio.

“Here we go,” he says emptily, tweaking the dials until a squawk of static fills the air. Yunho tunes the device carefully, reigning in a local station.

“Now that was good one wasn’t folks? That was of course our number one pick of the evening-“ the disk jockey babbles on as Yunho feels C shift, her figure inching closer.

“We’re coming up on the 11 o’clock hour! You know what that means-“

“It’s late, and it’s getting a little chilly.” C clarified as she pressed her body closer to Yunho’s. “Should we get going home?” Yunho said lowly, hoping she wouldn’t agree. He had enjoyed himself immensely with this girl. Their worlds weren’t all too distant. They were worried about the same things and could discuss things civilly if they didn’t agree. His mind was filled with separate ideas for the evening, but he’d never admit that.

“Coming up next is our new favorite, the hottest that ‘77 has to offer, you know them, we love them-“

“No, I don’t want to.” C voiced, resting her cheek on Yunho’s shoulder. Yunho hummed in acknowledgment, laying his head atop hers, cuddling into her warmth.

He couldn’t tell how or why they ended up like this, but the simplicity of it all was something he’d learn to leave alone.

The tune emitting from the small speaker sparked a wave of excitement from the girl, head popping up from its perch, slightly paining the man. “I love this song!”

Yunho couldn’t help but smile at her reaction, fingers discreetly upping the volume. “Yeah?” Yunho said with a cocked brow. “Yeah.” She replied with a smile.

They let the song play, accompanied only by the lake water gently lapping at the sides of the boat and a chorus of synchronized cricket song. It was all so calming. The moon was brighter than Yunho had ever seen, illuminating the surface of the lake entirely. Romance was the name. Pure romance.

C’s voice curled and looped over notes as she sang along, missing every other word or dropping a beat. All he could do was look with admiration. C eventually settled back into Yunho’s side, nose nestled to his cheek. “Yunho?”

“Yes?”

“Can’t I kiss you?”

He reeled back slightly to look her in those big, dark eyes. He searched them under that romantic moon, then nodded with approval. “Anything you want…” he whispered, leaning to meet her lips.

——-

“Oh Yunho!” C babbled as the older gripped harshly to her hips, finger tips sure to leave welts of affection, guiding the movements and orchestrating the pleasure. His breath was heavy, dense and laced with a silent but deadly aphrodisiac. His voice was deep with a hint of manly husk and gravel. “C-“ he followed in suit, saying her name in a way that made her stomach coil. The man’s head fell between her breasts, his nose brushed her sensitive nipple, tongue peaking out and leaving a trail of saliva, quick to become cold. His back was still pressed the the side of the boat, the woman straddled over his lap, hips keeping rhythm. His large hands fondled at the ass he now had dictation over for that moment. The intention was feeling good and he wanted nothing more than to stay on track. “Oh shit!” C moaned wettly in his ear, making the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention.

His body was reacting more that he had expected. His nipple hardened as her stomach rubbed against them. “C!” He cried lowly as it broke in the air between them. “Yunho!”

Yunho concentrated on the shock waves wracking his abdomen as she set a bouncing rhythm; the impact of their bodies colliding caused a few slashed from beneath the boat.

Neither of them cared how it may look or sound as she rode him out in the open. Was public sex illegal? Yes. Did they have the time or brain capacity to worry? No. C’s arms gripped tightly around his neck as she kept her balance, the man’s sensual encouragements repeating in her ear. The entirety of their position was more than pleasurable. Her mouth hung open as unashamed moans left her throat.

The larger littered marking kisses on C’s chest, her embarrassment inevitable. “Yunho-“ her voice quivered as she reined closer. With that empty confession, Yunho wraps secure arms about her waist, lifting her weight above his hips before thrusting upward with all the strength he had, over and over and over until C was reduced to a mess of moans. His body grew tired quicker than he would’ve liked, but the shamble he made of C was rewarding enough. His mind was weakening by the second as she moaned his name followed by a string of profanities.

“Yu-yu-“ she tried, only to fail as Yunho pushed a teasing tongue past her lips. The kiss was wet, heated, yet caring. Their bodies meshed together in a way only written or described by erotic poetry.

“Yunho!”

“Yes-“

“Yunho!”

“Mmmmm—“

“Yunho!”

“Yunho baby are you okay?”

“What?”

“Yunho babe. Is everything alright? You’ve been listening to those two songs for like 30 minutes. And I’ve been calling you from the kitchen for like half that.” The break in realization was abrupt and quite shameful. His cheeks flushed a bright red almost immediately. How could he get so caught up in the past? Especially past memories like those.

“No, no I’m fine honey. I’m sorry I was just so lost in thought.” He said shallowly, cracking an unconvincing smile. “I can’t tell. Poor baby, you must’ve really been back there, huh?” His wife joked as her hand lightly tapped the growing bulge behind his zipper.

“Oh!” Yunho cringed. How did he let this happen?

“Come up in a bit my dear. Dinners almost ready.” She instructs with a strain of sweetness in her tone. Yunho’s stomach dropped at the thought of what he had just indulged in. “Of course.” He agreed, leaning to kiss the woman. The woman he loved, and loved dearly. She gave him a little wink before climbing the stairs.

Yunho huffs in disappointment, eyes sweeping the workbench. He inhales deeply, picking up the tape player and slamming it to the ground. He watches as it sustains minimal damage, angered and a bit annoyed. He’s quick to bring down a heavy foot, stomping and brutally crushing the player, tape and all.

“I love my wife.” He said calmly as he cleared his throat and made up way back up the stairs.

————-

Yoooo sorry if this sucks ass. I just have ideas like this and no one to tell me no. Love you bye! 💕💕

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cheeriecherrymain · 1 year

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Hear me out hear me out. tattoo parlor and flower shop au

AU TIME

Viktor x fem!Reader (SFW)

-Now hear me out, anon.

-Viktor already works a lot with his hands, focusing on intricate details and tiny contraptions - that’s basically already an art. I feel like if this is an au where hextech didn’t exist, and he had more of an interest in visual design, he’d be a great tattoo artist. Plus he canonically carved a bunch of runes into himself so we know he can also tolerate getting ink.

-He can probably do a lot of different concepts, but I feel like he’d really have a knack for semi-realistic mechanical pieces - making it look like his clients’ skin has rubbed away to reveal the metal workings beneath. Honestly cool af.

-And then one day, you walk in. It’s a nice parlour that he works at, so there are all styles of people who come in looking to get work done - he’s only surprised when you ask for him by name.

-He doesn’t recognize you at first, since he doesn’t really have any reason to pop across the street to a flower shop, but once you mention that you own the place, he kind of remembers your face. Or at least…he remembers seeing you wipe out on the sidewalk in front of your store during the previous winter.

-But he doesn’t mention that.

-Instead you find a comfortable seat in the little lounge area and start talking. He asks the general questions - do you have a concept or ideas, where do you want it, what colours, how big, etc etc.

-You pull out a couple pieces of folded paper and hand them to him. “I know it’s outside of what you usually do,” you say sheepishly, “but a friend of mine had some pieces done by you, and I loved your colour work.”

-He looks down at the references you brought, and skims over them. Flowers. Of course it was flowers.

-Your shoulders droop slightly when you notice his brows pinch together ever so slightly. “If you’re not sure about it, that’s cool,” you assure him, “I can ask around and see if I can find someone who specializes-”

- “I can do it,” he cuts you off, folding the pictures back up and putting them in his pocket. “As long as you’re alright with my own style, as opposed to exact copies of the image.”

-The smile you give him makes his heart skip a beat, wide and excited, and you begin buzzing with energy. “That’s what I was hoping for!” you say.

-You set up an appointment for a couple days out, to go over his designs and change up anything you wanted altered. When you skip out the door and head across the street, Viktor can’t help but feel a little mushy on the inside - something about your enthusiasm, or maybe your charm…maybe the fact that you sought him out specifically? Whatever it is, something about you has Viktor wanting to impress you.

-He works diligently on potential pieces for you, staying up later than planned to make sure that every colour and every line was perfect. And by the time your next appointment rolls around, he’s cranked out what is quite possibly some of his best work.

-And you seem to think so, too, staring slack jawed at the sketches he presents you with. “These are beautiful,” you tell him, in awe of how he was able to make something so bright and flowing. It’s hard to make a decision on which one you like the most, but eventually you make your choice, and the process begins.

-You pull your shirt off in one of the private rooms, and shrug off the straps of your camisole, getting comfortable on the chair. Viktor knocks before he enters the room, and you smile at him while he sets things up.

-He doesn’t usually chat too much with his clients while he works, preferring to remain silent and focus, but you’re…different. You ask him question after question about his job, but instead of getting annoyed, he finds it easy to continue giving you answers - where he studied, how he got into the profession, what some of his favourite artworks were.

-The conversation eventually flows into your own line of work, and he finds himself curious about you and your flowers - how you started in your field, what you enjoyed about it.

-He learns that you wanted to be a botanist all your life, but you eventually fell into flower arranging. He learns that most of your clientele consists of event-planners, and that the little shop is just a front for a larger business. He learns that you do all your arrangements yourself, and hand-select every flower that goes into them.

- “It’s tedious,” you admit, “But it’s rewarding. The money is lucrative, but I get so many heartfelt letters from people about how much they loved the flowers I sent for whatever event they had planned; that’s really what makes it worth it.”

-You chatter back and forth for another hour or two while Viktor works, and when he’s finished, you’re almost sad that it’s over. You’re plenty sore after sitting so long -and after having needles repeatedly pushed into your skin- but you’re still bummed that you don’t get to keep talking with him.

-You pay for the tattoo, and make sure to leave him an incredibly generous tip for all of his effort, and then you leave. Viktor watches you depart from the shop with a little wave and a skip in your step, and then you’re gone from his life.

-Over the next couple of weeks, he finds himself easily distracted. Work goes on as usual - he gets a bunch of people with simple tattoo ideas that he’s done a million times, and a couple of repeat-customers who’ve had work done by him previously.

-But when he’s in between clients and sitting behind the front desk, he often finds himself casting his gaze out through the windows lining the front of the shop, across the street, and over to your shop. He notices you coming and going a handful of times, but you never seem to look over at him.

-He’s honestly a little weirded out by how hung up on you he is, scolding himself for getting too friendly with a client. He knows he’s not actually been too friendly -all he did was have a good conversation with you while he worked- but he’s just. A little taken aback by how you seem to always be at the forefront of his mind.

-He even doodles flowers on his downtime: blooms he finds pretty, or that he knows the meaning behind, designing tattoos that he thinks you might like and thinking of all the places on your body that he could sneak a little bit of art in.

-He fully expects you to be a one-and-done kind of client - you got a flower done because you’re a florist, and you don’t need more than that. But some weeks later, when he’s at unawares, the bell on the front door rings. And you traipse in.

-You’re just as pleasant as when you first met, skipping up to the front desk to greet his coworker. As soon as Viktor hears your voice from the front room, he ambles over and all but steals you away.

-You exchange pleasantries, and you update him on how you’ve healed. You’re still in love with the little piece you’d gotten from him - so much so that you’re back for more. You admit to him that you don’t really know what you want, just that you want more flowers.

- “It would also be cool to see some of your own style, too,” you tell him softly, “My friend had a mechanical piece done by you - it’s gorgeous. It’s not really my aesthetic, but…I wonder if you think you might be able to combine the two? Plants and machines! Like, um….biomechanical?”

-He’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he definitely has a crush on you.

-You talk a little bit more, and he makes a couple of very loose sketches while you do so, to give you a general idea of what might work. He asks the typical questions again, but this time when he gets to sizing and placement, you shrug.

- “I have a high pain tolerance,” you tell him, “so…I was thinking that you might just. Pick for me? If that’s weird, then I totally get it. You hardly know me, after all! Um…”

-Adorable, he thinks, seeing you so flustered.

-But he agrees to make a couple of pieces for a couple of different areas, and then you can decide later depending on which sketch you choose.

-It’s all basically a repeat of the last art he made for you - he works tirelessly to draw out some of the best pieces he’s ever created, though they’re larger and more vibrant than the last. It’s startlingly easy for him to combine his usual style with yours, incorporating delicate plants and tiny flowers into his wired and industrial machines.

-You end up loving all of what he makes, once again having a hard time picking a single design. But eventually you decide on a drawing, and the two of you settle down to get through the process.

-Conversation flows just as easily as the last time you met, except this time you both end up dipping into more personal matters - your childhoods, your relationships, your hopes and dreams. It takes most of the day to get all your ink done, and there’s barely a moment where the two of you aren’t talking the other’s ears off.

-You’re thrilled with the finished product, too, even moreso than the last. You want so badly to trace your fingers over the intricate lines, but you know he’ll only scold you for touching a fresh wound. You settle for tearing up instead, quietly laughing at yourself as you wipe your eyes.

- “It’s perfect,” you tell him.

-You pay him what he’s owed, once more leaving a hefty tip for all his troubles - but this time, you give it to him in cash.

-Only once you’ve left the shop does he go through the roll of bills, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head when he realizes how much you’ve given him. He’s half a mind to call you back to return some of it, or at least ask if you gave him as much as you intended to. At least, until he gets to the center of the roll, when he finds a slip of paper.

-A little note scribble in your handwriting, thanking him for the beautiful work, and telling him not to stress over how much he’d received. -And there, on the bottom of the paper, is your phone number, scrawled beside the question ‘Wanna get coffee sometime?’

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor headcanons #but not really #more of a bullet point story #listen #LISTEN #im #a hoe for tattoos #and i mean like #some tattoos are tacky yeah #but the ones where you can *see* the master artistry that went into the colours and design?#*chefs kiss*#doesn't matter what kind of style or aesthetic

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nymphbunnyys · 2 years

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HELlo little person, I have come to talk about the Mommy issues of Bo Sinclair, because it is obvious that he has them and lives with them with anger so I would love him to open up with his reader after a long time of relationship and deciding to trust his partner if it is not a big problem for you <3

One i'd like to point out I've been labeled as a little person and that is not far from the truth and two Bo has so much mommy issues that, that man probably thrives on being taken care of but he'll never admit that. He's too much of a tough boy to tell you.

I used my point format and a half fic, i hope this is okay!

Bo's mommy issues and finally opening up to reader.

When I tell you Bo has serious mommy issues, I mean it. That man has serious mommy issues.

This is something you've kinda came to realize, that and Vincent would tell you stories about them as kids and some of them were really fucking heart wrenching.

The shit that mainly Bo had gone through is enough to make anyone sick to their stomach.. so why do all this for his mother?

Why was doing this for her.. I mean you weren't convinced he'd be living a normal life still but you thought at least maybe.. just maybe there would be some normalcy? or maybe a revenge type of thing..? But no. This was all for his mother, and the question came up one day as you were only curious.

"Bo?"

The mechanic turned around and turned down the music that drowned out your voice though he was still able to hear you. "hm?" "Why do you do what you do..? I mean like, why do you do it.. well for. her." You swallowed the dryness that had now just formed in your throat, realizing that this question could possibly place you in some sort of life or death situation, some sort of danger. Bo may have been yours but that didn't change who he was as a person. Bo wiped away the oil from his hands and cocked a brow, a curious yet somewhat annoyed look plastered his damp face. "y/n what are ya trying to say?" a scuff left his lips, "You mean my mother?" You nodded simply watching carefully as Bo's tongue glided on the underside of his teeth, his answer brought a sense of relief. "don't know." Though the relief washed over you you still wanted a reason, I mean.. there had to be, Bo seemed like he had already been done with the conversation when he turned around and went back to trying to work on his truck. You wanted to know. "I'm not taking that as a reason Bo, I genuinely want to know.. especially with what she did to you, I mean I just don't understand how you could do this for her how you could still love he-" You'd been rambling, rambling a little too much before Bo spun around yelling at you angrily. "Just go." Bo quietly spoke, watching as you walked out of the station.

Once He finished up he had been walking home, he did feel a bit bad for yelling at you like that, honestly you were curious and he had the answer for it he just didn't know how to explain it. Once he stepped foot in the house he seen you sat on the couch, crissed crossed as you looked at all the old photos Bo kept locked away. His hat came off his head with a swift move, fiddling with the brim.

"I wanted to make her proud." Your hands jolted slightly, watching as Bo sat beside you starring at the photo of his family, tiny bo had been sat on a separate chair while Vincent and Lester sat on their parent's lap. It's what Bo wanted, for his mother to be proud of him, it stemmed from his jealousy and neglect. He always watched Vincent soak up their mothers praises towards him, how he was such a beautiful good boy, How Lester got to go on fishing trips with their dad, wearing dads flannel and big hat.. the only thing Bo ever soaked up was hurtful words and abuse from his parents.. mainly his mother. She blamed him for a lot of things telling him that 'God sent you to torture me' 'He gave you Vincent's beautiful face to ridicule me.' 'I never wanted you' But it was the only form of communication he was able to have with his mother and though it hurt, to hear her voice gave him some sort of bliss.. he was gaining her attention. But little Bo knew this wasn't a way a mother should treat her son and he curses himself everyday for still loving her. Seeking approval from a dead woman. Your face contorted empathically, your hands reaching to cup his cheeks as you kissed his face all over. Bo still spoke, receiving your kisses. "I guess.. wherever she is, heaven or hell, I just wanted ta' show her that I do care.. I do.. I do love her, even after it all." Your lips parted watching as he lowered his forehead to your shoulder, holding back the lump in his throat. "I'm here Bo, i'm right here.. just let it out." And for the first time Bo wasn't afraid to just cry to let out all the agony and anger, resentment.. he let it all out, his arms snaking around your waist and pulling you close.

He was lucky to have you, if he was going to make anyone proud.. it was now you.

#bo sinclair x y/n #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #slasher x reader #slasher x s/o #slasher x y/n #slasher x you #slasher imagines #slasher fanfiction #slasher headcanons #slasher hcs

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voidindite · 2 years

Text

I let my hope wither away as you look on

Whumptober 2022 Day 24: Fight, Flight, or Freeze Blood-Covered Hands | "I don't want to do this anymore." | Catatonic

Last Life Series Life Theft AU Characters: impulseSV, Tango Tek Warnings: Description of Injuries

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The fear was real, now.

It had been for a while.

The fear of dying. Of being trapped. Of betrayal and curses and red names and traps that could trigger at any moment.

Impulse lifted a hand to touch gingerly at the skull that floated above his left shoulder. It took everything he had not to flinch as he dabbed harming potion at the nasty crack running from one of the sockets. It ached and his vision still hadn’t returned in that socket.

With two pairs of eyes occupied, his right skull remained alert so no one could walk up behind him.

He hated how vigilant he—all of them—had to be. It was supposed to be a game. They were supposed to be able to go home at the end of every week. Sure, be alert and cautious about staying alive. But not like this. Not to this horrible, horrible extent of paranoia and stress so bad none of them slept anymore.

He grimaced again, and wasn’t sure if it was the pain of the potion attempting to stitch the skull back together, or that the image of meeting Skizz in the Nether—and growling at him with a wither skull already in his hand—flashed through his mind. They were best friends! And Impulse had been moments away from killing him before Mumbo’s hesitant reminder that he wasn’t a red name, and even more cautious “...or cursed, right..?”

Impulse swallowed and set the potion aside, wiped his hands on his shorts, and huffed a sharp breath. Grian was working on a fix for the glitched server, but…

But what?

The others said they couldn’t feel it, when the theft mechanic was used. But it always left a tight feeling deep in his chest, an uncomfortable pull, like a summon he could neither turn down nor accept. Just…there, to leave him agitated and distracted.

The others really couldn’t feel it?

The wither closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, though his right skull kept its eyes locked on the doorway. His claws caught in loose tangles that made his tail twitch with a twinge of irritation.

He hated that he was so on edge. He felt like he hadn’t laughed, smiled, in weeks.

He hated that he couldn’t let himself trust his oldest friend. Countless duo survival worlds, spending so much time together when Impulse could get away from Hermitcraft for a while, trusting each other through everything, and all he’d felt when he unexpectedly met Skizz was caution and anger for being snuck up on (he still couldn’t understand how Skizz did it, considering Impulse could watch three directions at once).

…He hated the way Tango was eyeing him through the doorway.

The blaze hybrid was worrying his lip like he wanted to say something, and even his crown of blaze rods was rotating his head more slowly than usual with his hesitation.

When Impulse pushed himself to his feet, Tango straightened.

The wither knew that look. The knit brows, the lip moments away from bleeding as he chewed it with too-sharp fangs, the hands that tried and failed to find something to do. He could hear the words before they even left Tango’s mouth.

“Hey, Impy… You good?”

Impulse swallowed. The cautious part of him that Life Theft had planted firmly into place wanted to put up the walls, tell an easy lie, and turn away without another word. The Hermit part of him, just…wanted to talk—really, truly talk—to Tango, to Skizz, Bdubs, or Grian, anyone. Without scheming how to kill someone else, without fearing who would overhear, without clipping his words to cut the conversation as short as possible so as not to keep his back exposed for too long.

Just… Talk. Laugh. Smile. Build and mess with redstone and gawk at other Hermits’ incredible builds.

He wanted the good-natured scheming of the Soup Group back. He wanted Hotguy Scar accidentally stealing his elytra after killing him and sheepishly returning it later. He wanted Ren the King fumbling about and coming up with dumb laws and Cleo egging Impulse, Gem, and Pearl on to overthrow him.

He didn’t want Pearl eyeing him with distrust and a readied weapon when they managed to cross paths. He didn’t want to see the snarl on Scar’s lip as he aimed his bow with the intent of stealing a life for himself so he could outlive another. He didn’t want Ren acting so subdued with his tail hanging low and Cleo risking her life to defend him and the rest of her people.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, mentally cursed BigB’s damned wolves for the way it still felt scratchy and raising his voice was almost painful after they’d torn his throat out to take one of his lives. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.” I want to go home.

He didn’t have to say it. Tango—every single player trapped in that server—would know what lay hidden behind his words.

Tango’s tail drooped; Impulse’s mirrored it.

“Where’s everyone else?” Impulse asked in an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction.

Tango shrugged. “Jimmy’s caving. Dunno about Ren and Cleo.”

“We shouldn’t be splitting up.” That was how they got picked off by red names or cursed. It was how they got ganged up on by mobs, or fell to their death when they didn’t watch their step and didn’t have a companion to yell at them to step back.

Impulse glanced down at his hands, flexed them and watched the cracked, floating segments of bone that were his fingers. For a moment—just a brief moment, he knew Tango would have missed it—the poison that was wither magic darted between his claws as he imagined the exploding skull that had killed Bdubs.

Just about everyone had killed someone else so far.

Actually…

Was there anyone who didn’t have blood on their hands? Impulse had only killed one, and that was early in the game, but he’d still killed someone and stolen that life to add to his own collection. He…he couldn’t think of anyone whose hands were clean of someone else’s blood.

Even Grian, who’d never outright killed someone this game, had been the cause for…had it been Martyn who’d lost a life to a trap in his base? Or maybe it was Scar. He couldn’t quite remember. It didn’t matter.

The swish of Tango’s tail caught his attention enough to pull him out of his thoughts.

Impulse sighed. So did Tango.

“We’ll get outta here.”

The wither wanted to believe those words. He really did!

Would they? Would they get out, before someone screwed something up so badly they wouldn’t be forgiven? Before a serious injury was taken that wouldn’t go away when they left the server?

“And if we don’t?” Impulse challenged.

Tango’s heart rate picked up with that question; the sound echoed in Impulse’s heads, stabbed at the back of his eyes and beckoned for wither magic to snuff it out. He swallowed and shoved the feeling down. It was just the stress bringing forward wither instincts, he told himself. That’s all.

“…Impy? Did you hear me?”

Impulse grimaced.

“I…need to go lay down. We can talk later.”

The worried crease of Tango’s brows deepened and he couldn’t find it in himself to look the blaze in the eyes. When Tango’s tail drooped it felt like a stab to Impulse’s chest.

He pushed it aside.

It didn’t matter.

He just wanted to go home.

#traffic life series #traffic life au #trafficblr #life theft au #impulsesv #tangotek #wither impulse #blaze hybrid tango #tales from the void #whumptober2022 #no.24 #description of injury

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luminnara · 3 years

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It’s Been a Long, Long Time | Alpha!Bucky x Omega!reader part one 18+ only

Summary: When HYDRA had their prized asset, the Winter Soldier, they did something no one ever thought was possible: they gave super soldier serum to an omega. With the sole purpose of tending to him during his ruts, she spends decades living in HYDRA facilities, denied her humanity and her life. Now, years later, Bucky Barnes has his mind and his own life back...and the last thing he ever expects is to see a familiar omega again. Bucky/OC, a little angsty but mostly smutty/fluffy/romantic!

Warnings: NSFW, knotting, abo, smut, mild dubcon

Request are OPEN! I would love to write more Bucky stuff!

Also posted on AO3

Part one | Part Two | Part three |

In a world full of massive, snarling, strong alphas, nobody wanted to use something as small and physically weak as an omega to do war. Omegas were better suited for other things, like nurturing, and giving life. The alphas were the ones who fought and maimed and killed and protected and hunted. It wasn’t even until relatively recently that omegas even had many rights in the modern world, and there were still plenty of traditionalists who stuck to the old ideals. Omegas were for breeding and claiming and little more. Though those ideas were fading, there would always be those who believed that there were things omegas couldn’t and shouldn’t do--

And fighting was at the top of that list.

Omegas weren’t built for it. They were sturdy, sure, to help them withstand the ruts of big alphas who couldn’t control themselves, but they were generally small, and, many believed, unable to fend for themselves. Their role, their purpose, was to be claimed and bred by big strong alphas, and that was that. It made sense; after all, someone needed to stay and care for the pups, or else there would be little chance of survival. Throughout most of history, survival wasn’t something that was ever guaranteed, and having a secondary gender that was intended for rearing offspring greatly increased the likelihood that pups would make it to adulthood. Alphas were bigger and stronger, natural leaders, always ready to fight and defend their territory and their pack, and omegas were always there to carry the young.

And that was that. Omegas weren’t meant to be warriors. Their only place on the battlefield was in the medic tent, where they could tend to wounded alphas and betas. It was nearly unheard of in many places for there to be omega soldiers, even infantry.

Until the twentieth century.

The catastrophic proportions of both World Wars brought with them an all hands on deck mentality. In the states, male omegas were being drafted along with the others, newly-invented heat and rut suppressants meaning that they could all work together without the danger of blunders thanks to anyone’s natural cycle. Back home, not only were alpha and beta women suddenly flooding the workforce while the men were overseas, but omegas were joining them. It was unprecedented, and began to change many minds. Maybe omegas were useful for more than incubators. Maybe they could work.

They still weren’t the best choice for hands on, tactical things, though. While there were omegas in the army, they rarely became officers, because who was going to want to listen to them? They weren’t natural born fighters, and they were hardwired to obey alphas. They were better as battle fodder, extras to pad out the numbers. They certainly weren’t anyone’s first choice for special missions or programs.

Well...almost anyone’s.

When HYDRA got their soldier and programmed his brain, they were pleased. The big alpha, James Buchanan Barnes, had survived the super soldier serum, and with his mind wiped and his old life far away from him, he was the perfect assassin. The Winter Soldier was strong, well trained, and easy to control, when given the proper commands. The serum made him practically unkillable, and he had the speed and strength to rival that annoying Captain America.

Unfortunately, the serum also made his ruts much harder to suppress. HYDRA would never permit him to settle down with an omega, of course not...but an omega was the only thing that could ease his rut cycle. Without one, he could spend a week snarling and pining, absolutely useless. With one, he was only out of the field for a few days. Until they could develop better suppressants, their only solution was to give him an omega.

Unfortunately, they weren’t very good at surviving him.

He didn’t like any of them, not really. He never meant to kill them, never really tried, but HYDRA had a habit of starving the poor things before they tossed them into the lion’s den, and they just couldn’t keep up. The soldier used them to alleviate his ruts, always mechanical in his movements, and that was that.

HYDRA didn’t particularly care whether the omegas lived or died, but they did reach a point where it was getting to be a bit ridiculous to catch so many for their soldier. Someone along the way had the bright idea to simply make a stronger omega, one who could withstand their asset’s forcefulness. Giving the serum to an omega was such a ridiculous idea that it just might work, and so they did, and oh, did they get lucky with the omega they chose.

Taking scent samples from several omegas they already had, they presented them to the soldier, allowing him to choose. It was, perhaps, the one time they had ever given him a sense of autonomy over himself and his life. It was the one time he had any freedom, despite the incredibly controlled circumstances.

While strapped down to a familiar chair, he watched the doctors pacing around. He was expecting the familiar agony of having his mind refreshed before a new mission, or maybe even the chill of preparation to go into cryo for a few years until he was needed again. Instead, they presented him with strong-smelling test tubes, each one unmistakably omega. He inhaled their scents with mild interest, none seeming to particularly stand out...until they reached the last.

Amoretta Arancini was a young adult female omega, whose file stated that she was “a kicker.” From the moment she had been captured with the intent to be given to the soldier for a rut, she had clawed and kicked and bitten at anyone and everyone who came into contact with her. She was nearly impossible to deal with, and had the soldier not immediately flared his nostrils and strained against the leather straps that held him down, she would have been finally put down.

Neither she nor Bucky knew it, but he was the only reason she was allowed to live.

The soldier was placed back into his usual cell, and the doctors set about gathering the unruly omega he had chosen. It only made sense that the big, killer alpha would go for a positively savage little monster of an omega, after all.

They administered the serum, unsure whether an omega would even survive it, and by the time their soldier’s next rut came around, she was ready. If she could withstand him, she would have a purpose within HYDRA, and they would be able to stop wasting so much time on finding new omegas for him to burn through.

She was given double the suppressants he was. They didn’t care if she experienced side effects; after all, her only job was to present herself to the soldier at the start of every rut. She didn’t need to be out in the field. If that meant she was groggy and nauseous all the time, who cared? It seemed to work, keeping her heat and fertility at bay while leaving her lucid enough to get the asset through his cycle. The last thing HYDRA needed was an unscheduled heat or pregnancy to deal with.

“The asset is entering his rut. Bring in the omega.” A voice on the intercom said.

An alarm blared, a door slowly screeching open, revealing a cold cell, bare save for the cot against the wall. It was a cell specifically used to hold the soldier during his ruts, and now, it would also hold Amoretta.

She stumbled along, a beta guard with a cattle prod stalking behind her. She was naked, having been allowed to shower before meeting the soldier for the first time, her dark hair still damp as it fell behind her shoulders. It was the cleanest her skin had felt in weeks, so she could only be so angry about it...but she was still angry.

With the threat of electricity behind her, she entered the empty cell. A door slammed shut the moment she stepped in, another sliding open on the other side of the small room.

His scent hit her like a freight train. Motor oil, earth, and cloves...Amoretta’s lip raised in a sneer, partly because she had a feeling she knew what was coming, and partly so that she could try to disguise the way she suddenly began salivating.

Sure enough, just as she suspected, the biggest alpha she had ever seen in her life came stalking in, eyes dark and wild as he searched for the omega he had smelled on his way in. His chest was heaving, sweat prickling his brow, and as his musky rut-scent wove around Amoretta, she swallowed hard. She definitely knew what was coming next.

She had never seen the asset before, but she had heard whispers and seen the other omegas they offered up to him. Before she was injected with the serum, she lived in a cramped cell with several others, and whenever someone was dragged out, it was always a toss up whether they would return or not. When they did return, they were never in good shape.

Now she could see why.

He was predatory in his movements, dark hair falling in his eyes as he stalked toward her. The door slammed shut the moment he was clear of it, and suddenly, Amoretta was trapped with him. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide from what was quite possibly the most dangerous alpha in the world. If he decided he wanted her, she would have no choice. If he decided he didn’t want her...she would probably die, either by his hand, or HYDRA’s.

She stood as still as she could, watching him with level eyes as he sized her up. A large part of her was surprised that he hadn’t pounced yet, and as a low rumble started up in his chest, she sort of wished he would. The sound went straight to her core, her thighs pressing together of their own free will while she did everything she could to keep from biting her lip.

His nostrils flared as the scent of her arousal mounted and he pressed himself up against her. The soldier was still looking her over, taking a surprisingly long time to examine the omega standing before him, especially considering that he was rutting. He slowly lowered his head, inhaling deeply, brushing his nose over the scent gland on her neck. The rumbling in his chest grew louder, and this time, Amoretta couldn’t help the needy whine that escaped her throat.

The soldier’s hot tongue swept over her gland, his hands gripping her hips. He liked how she smelled. He liked how her flesh tasted.

He wanted more.

He gave her a small shove towards the cot, but as he did so, this little omega glaring up at him actually snapped. She bared her little teeth at him, trying to tell him to slow down, and he responded with a snarl of his own. His tore through his throat, a savage noise, and while it shut her up, it didn’t get rid of the harsh look she was shooting at him.

The asset wasn’t used to anyone, especially the omegas that HYDRA offered up to him, talking back. They usually went belly up for him the moment he stepped into the cell, behaving and presenting themselves for him to take. That’s what he preferred--a willing omega, whom he could enjoy for a few days. He didn’t like...whatever was going on here. Why was this one so upset with him? He wanted this omega to relax, to take him easily. His mind, usually so analytical and tactical, was clouded by his rut, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do.

Amoretta saw the way that he hesitated and she lowered the lip she had raised. So he was capable of listening, after all. That was a good sign that he had some control over himself. Ever so slowly, she relaxed, allowing him to give her a little nudge. It was impressive that he was allowing her to set the pace, especially considering that his musky scent was growing heavier by the second. She definitely hadn’t expected him to be at all interested in what she wanted, and she had been pretty sure that he would just push her down and take what he considered his.

He was almost...gentle, though. Gentler than she thought possible from such a big alpha, at least. She turned and walked toward the cot of her own accord, knowing full well that she didn’t have much choice in how all of this was going to play out. If she was going to be knotted today, then she might as well try to enjoy it, right?

The way his scent made her mouth water gave her the feeling that that wouldn’t be too hard.

The soldier watched her with predatory eyes, following every movement closely. Absentmindedly, a hand drifted down to the loose pants he had been provided, palming his already hard cock through the fabric. He liked this omega. He liked how she looked, how she smelled, how she moved...he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her hips as they swayed slightly, a pleased rumble rising in his throat. He knew what was coming next, and he couldn’t wait. He was aching to be inside of her, to fill her up, to knot her...he wanted to make this omega his, and take care of her, and protect her, and he’d be damned if his captors got in the way of that.

Amoretta climbed onto the cot, her back still turned to the most dangerous alpha on the planet. All too aware that she was completely naked, she crawled onto her hands and knees, dipping down until her chest hit the sheets, her ass up in the air for him. Her primal, omega brain was clamoring for this chance to present before such a big, strong, handsome alpha, and as the cool air tickled at her, she couldn’t help but let out a shrill, needy whine. He was taking too long, and part of her was genuinely worried that he was going to reject her. She was doing everything right, she was submitting, she was in a very vulnerable position...so why wasn’t he already on top of her?

A tiny bead of slick trickled down her thigh as she glanced back to see him standing there with his hand on his bulge. Oh. So that’s what he was doing instead of jumping on her. At least he was turned on by the sight of her...right?

Wait. Why did she care? Why did she care at all what this terrifying alpha thought about her? This terrifying, big, strong...nice smelling...alpha…

If she weren’t on so many suppressants, she was absolutely sure her heat would have started then and there. He was so goddamn handsome, standing there all shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Her body wanted him, she wanted him, and if her hormones were allowed to do what they wanted, they would have been absolutely raging.

His nostrils were flared as he took in her scent, his blue eyes wild and his pupils totally blown out as he finally stalked towards her. His movements were brisk, filled with purpose, the bulge in his pants clearly visible even as she craned her neck to look back at him.

“A-alpha,” she whined, warmth rushing through her as she spoke.

The sound of her voice seemed to have an effect on him, a shudder rolling through his body.

“‘Mega,” he growled, voice impossibly low. “My ‘mega. So obedient...good girl.”

His words had her trembling.

All at once, he was shoving his pants down and grabbing for her hips, rubbing the length of his cock over her lips. She keened, more and more slick running down her thighs as he pressed the head inside of her. Even though she was loaded up on suppressants, her body wanted him, her cunt already dripping wet and relaxed enough to accommodate his sizable girth.

Still, the feeling of him stretching her out was absolutely delicious, eliciting a filthy moan that came pouring from her lips as she buried her head against the sheets. He wasn’t gentle by any means, thrusting into her as far as he could go before pulling back out roughly. His pace was harsh and quick, his body immediately caging her in as his chest pressed into her back. He was possessive, trying to hide her from the surveillance cameras he knew were situated in the upper corners of the cell. He didn��t want anyone else to see his omega, especially not while she was beneath him like this. She was his, and his alone.

As rough as he was, he was still paying attention to her. Somewhat, at least. He was well aware by this point that she was tougher than the other omegas HYDRA had given him, and he took the opportunity to sink into her deeper, fuck her better than he normally could have. She could take him, all of him, without complaint. She could withstand his harsh grip on her hair as he pulled her head up and forced her back to arch. She didn’t have any problems accepting what was happening to her, her body responding to him happily.

“Such a good omega,” he grunted, forcing his cock even further into her.

“I-I want your knot,” she whimpered, her voice surprisingly demanding considering the position she was in. “Fill me up, Alpha…”

How could he deny her?

When he had spilled his seed inside of her and his knot had inflated to a nearly painful extent, he wrapped an arm around her, holding her to his chest as he laid them both down on the cot. He was happy with his choice, with his omega. She was everything he wanted, and as his rut continued for the next few days, he had his way with her again, and again, and again, before HYDRA separated them once more.

The soldier snarled and roared, refusing to be taken away, but as soon as they recited his trigger words, he was compliant. Amoretta listened and watched, eyes wide as they led him away. She had only spent one rut with him, but she was already head over heels, her heart aching and pining for her alpha to come back to her.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x oc #alpha bucky #alpha bucky barnes #abo #omegaverse #avengers x reader #avengers x oc #bucky barnes #it's been a long long time

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hawnks · 3 years

Text

taking care

izuku midoriya x reader

r18 (mdni)

word count: 1,700

sometimes his work takes izuku away for long periods of time. but he’s more than willing (eager, hungry) to make it up to you when he’s home

[pro-hero deku, dom/sub undertones, “good girl”, overstim, smut & fluff, possessive and loving <3]

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Izuku dotes on you. It honestly gets ridiculous sometimes. He’s so willing to do anything to make your life easier, insisting on grabbing whatever you need from the other room so you don’t have to get up, opening doors, jars, coats, making sure everything you want is stocked in his apartment. He learned how to style hair so he could take care of it for you on the mornings after he fucked you silly wore you out. Once when you were out walking together he noticed your shoelace came untied and dropped to his haunches to redo it for you. The paparazzi had a field day with that one.

You’ve been teased to no end for your boyfriend’s absolute devotion. Not to the extent he has, of course (“Fucking whipped” Katsuki sneers. Izuku can only shrug, pay him a blithe smile in answer). Some may accuse you of being willfully co-dependent, but over the course of your relationship you’ve learned that the best way to make up for those days his job keeps him away is to indulge. Frequently, and deeply.

Izuku loves to take care of you. You love to be taken care of. Easy. Simple.

Easy and simple to wriggle closer to him in your shared bed, leg flexing gently between his. Easy and simple to press more and more of your weight into him until he wakes with a soft sigh.

Normally you’d feel bad about taking any sleep from him —- lord knows he needs it. But tomorrow is his day off, a full 24 hours where the two of you can laze around and do absolutely nothing. And your boyfriend doesn’t seem upset, meeting you halfway, pulling you on top of him with a gentle squeeze around your waist.

He noses at your temple. “Can’t sleep?”

The genuine concern in his voice is endearing. You sink further into his hold, smiling as he lets out a soft hum in return.

His fingers tease the hemline of your sleep shirt, his nails dragging gently against your skin. He murmurs, “What’s the matter, honey?”

If the hour was earlier, or if you were any less touch starved, you might have approached this differently. Basked in his concern. But all you can think about is the hands petting you so carefully, the firm thighs splitting your own. You snake a hand down, palm brushing his belly, right where you know that little line of hair leading to his groin begins.

He jolts. You would have slipped off him entirely if his grip hadn’t gone steely. His voice is a little deeper, a little less gentle when he says, “Oh?”

It’s been too long for him too, evidenced by the way he’s already starting to tent his pants. You nuzzle against his collar bone, hand creeping toward his burgeoning cock. You whisper, “Yeah.”

Still, his touch is tender when he raises a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “What do you need, baby?”

You turn your head, kiss the thumb that’s drawing slowly away. “Make me cum, Izuku.”

When you finally start to palm him, he just lays there for a minute, letting you explore. His hands tense on you intermittently, his breath hitching whenever you squeeze. Finally he tilts his body, letting you slide off with a hand on your back guiding you down, at the same time he slinks down your body.

Izuku has an almost cat-like grace to the way he moves, a fluidity earned through years of training. It had taken him a while to grow into his body, to understand the mechanics of it, but he knows exactly what he’s capable. Exactly how to use himself.

You barely register him slipping off your panties, raising a leg to prop on his shoulder. He presses a line of kisses to the crease of your thigh, sighing.

“Missed you,” he says.

You card a hand through his hair, scratch lightly at his scalp. “Missed you more.”

His kisses get bigger, wetter, as they trail toward your core. You buck when he finally gets to your pussy, sucking ever so slightly. You’re impatient, but it doesn’t matter. Izuku is mouthing at your clit, lips nibbling, and even that is enough to pull you into a small orgasm.

He doesn’t stop as you writhe, building up as you ride it out so you don’t even know when his touch got so firm, when his tongue started laving at your opening in smooth, slick glides. You twist, and his grip tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you still. Enough to keep you steady for him to take what he wants.

“More?” he says, but it’s muffled by your skin—-he doesn’t give you a chance to answer.

Your second peak comes quick, just as the first is beginning to taper off and you can feel the full breadth of sensations returning. You’re so wet that it’s dripping onto the sheets, and Izuku isn’t helping as he gets sloppy now, mouth covering as much area as possible, soft and moist and warm. You’re almost frantic with the sensation, hips continually bucking against his hold, but Izuku still takes his time, licking up all he can, moaning anytime you squeeze around his tongue. All eager and hungry, all covetous.

You cum again, a whole body clench that makes you arch over his head, your legs squeezing his temples. The licks grow kittenish and gentle, easing you down. His fingers replace his mouth, a slow glide, hardly any pressure at all as he draws back, wipes his mouth off with his free wrist.

He just looks at you for a moment, gaze heavy on your face, your parted lips, your drawn brow. He looks at your heaving chest, your belly as it continues to tremble slightly. He lets out a soft sigh. He bites his lip. You can’t see him as well in the dark, but you know he must be blushing. You know his pupils are blown wide.

He kisses your navel, the underside of each breast. The hollow of your throat and the apple of each cheek.

“Good girl,” he says. He sounds like he’s just now waking up, deep and gravely. “Give me some more.”

He drops his head to nuzzle against your cheek as he lines up his cock. He nudges at your core a few times, just barely entering you before pulling out. You let out a long whine, but he doesn’t stop. Teasing and teasing you, his fingers still toying with your clit.

“ ‘Zuku,” you slur. You try to raise up to meet him, and he lets you, splitting yourself open an inch or two. But when your strength gives out again you’re back where you started.

You claw him, a little, so impatient and overwhelmed it’s pushing you toward hysteria. He sighs again in response, throwing his head back, eyes closed.

Finally he sinks in, pushing to the hilt in one steady thrust.

He gives you a second to adjust, but doesn’t stay still, hips rolling ever so slightly, the barest hint of a thrust.

Your hands find his hair, shorter now than it’s ever been, just enough to pull on. And you do, a soft pressure, just this side of painful. “Okay, Izuku,” you whisper.

The shift is immediate, the thrusts growing deeper, firmer. You feel them in your belly, a hot rush each time he’s all the way inside you. So full, so right.

Your next climax sneaks up on you. His fingers never stopped stroking your clit, and that combined with the steady weight of his cock is enough to bring you over.

Izuku watches you as you fall apart, face just inches away from yours, taking in every facet of your expression. You can feel his warm breath on the bridge of your nose, can hear the shallow huff of his breath.

His touch gets heavier, possessive. He grabs you by the shoulder, the hip, anywhere he can sink his fingers in, like he might lose you if he lets go. He alternates burying his face against your throat and pulling back to take in your fucked out expression.

You’re almost numb with the pleasure now. It’s hovering somewhere between pain and ecstasy, and you’re a breath away from tapping out when Izuku leans in, nibbles at the shell of your ear.

“One more,” he says. “Please. Baby.”

And you give it to him, as his touch on your clit turns to a pinch and he groans in your ear, his own peak hitting him.

All of your limbs tense, the pleasure-pain falling over you like a wave. So full. So right.

Your boyfriend is heavy on top of you when you come back to yourself. He’s petting your arms, cooing sweet nonsense words, pet names, praises.

He thanked you, after his first time finishing with you, the first ever night you spent in this bed. That was a little bit awkward, but sometimes you get the sense he wants to do it again, the gentle reverence in his voice, the way he touches you, greedy and exultant all at once.

When he rolls off, he brings you with him. Clingy, adjusting you so as much of your bare skin is against him as possible. Settled, he lets the two of you bask for a bit. In a few minutes he’ll insist on getting up to grab something to wipe you off with, maybe a change of sheets to replace the ones that are ruined beneath you. For now he plays with the hair at your nape, he strokes his knee up and down your inner thigh.

“Good?” he murmurs. Already smiling, because he knows the answer.

“Good,” you return.

#deku smut #deku x reader #izuku x reader #izuku midoria x reader #deku x y/n #bnha x reader #this has been on my minds since the last deku drabble i wrote uwu #brainrot

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1kook · 3 years

Text

one man, no hands

— a some way, some how jungkook drabble summary “Just my mouth,” he reassures you, rough hands slipping beneath the sides of your skirt, urging you to lift your hips as he nudges it over your tummy. “Promise.” warnings established relationship, mechanic jungkook, business woman oc, cunnilingus / eatin out, jk is dirty like in the literal sense rating m (18+) wc 2.5k

notes am i confident in the title? no. am i stubborn and feel like it has to follow this pattern out of some weird self made obligation? yes, please help me. anyway here is 🔧⚙️ jk and his hot girlfriend once more <3

For the most part, you like to believe you were a pretty composed person. Sure, there are a few instances in your personal history where you exploded, sobbed, cursed the planet to hell and back. But given your chosen career track and the amount of stupidity you dealt with on a daily basis, you’re significantly more mild-mannered compared to your peers. That being said, you were by no means the dictionary definition of serene. After a long day of meeting clients around the city, a rather unsatisfying lunch, and atrocious city traffic—all while breaking in a new pair of heels—there was nothing more satisfying than pulling up to Jungkook’s empty auto shop and huffing out one long, “fuuuck.”

Jungkook doesn’t mind. “Hey, gorgeous,” he calls from over his shoulder, looming over the open hood of yet another innocent vehicle. The metal table beside him holds every tool imaginable. “How’s my sexy department manager doing today?”

“Terrible,” you confess, heels clicking against the concrete floor. You realize he’s hunched over his own car today, a rather rare sight if you’re being completely honest. Jungkook wasn’t the biggest fan of working on his own car(s) at the shop, something about pride and refusing to admit something was wrong with them in front of people who looked up to him. Men, you chuckle, finally closing in on him.

He’s terribly sweaty, the sweltering heat turning the inside of the garage into a human microwave. “How’s my sexy mechanic doing today,” you hum, throwing all reservations aside to lean over and press a kiss against his cheek. Jungkook, as always, makes sure to nuzzle into the touch.

“Pretty good,” he replies, taking advantage of your affectionate nature to set aside the tool that had been in his hand. You watch his sturdy fingers reach for the hood of the car, carefully shutting it because he knows you hate the smell of metal. The rag tucked into the pocket of his red jumpsuit is littered with stains, and the half-assed wipe of his hands against it doesn’t help.

When he turns, that same hand attempts to reach for you, the remnants of oil buried beneath the tips of his fingernails. “Hey,” you warn, intercepting him at the wrist; you’ve spent one too many nights at the local laundromat trying to remove oil from tweed.

Jungkook frowns, shakes his head to the side in that infuriatingly sexy way that not only lets you see the dark furrow of his shapely brows, but also has the tendons in his neck bulging just the slightest. “Give me a kiss,” he pouts, pretty pink lips fighting off a smile. “I missed you.”

Hands holding onto his wrists, you lean forward, your pointed heel tapping against the dirty toe of his work boots.

One of your greatest contributions to society was introducing Jungkook to strawberry flavored chapstick, a deed that the universe pays you back tenfold with each kiss he bestows upon you, lips so soft and sweet. If you look past the distinct smells of the auto shop and Jungkook’s own natural scent, you swear you can smell the strawberries.

It is as you’re trapped in this train of thought that Jungkook manages to overpower you, abruptly stepping forward enough to throw you off balance. Your gravity shifts, and while your heartbeat may spike for a moment, you know he’d never let you fall. “Easy there, beautiful,” he grins, one tatted arm wrapped around you. He’s got that stupidly cocky grin on, the one that usually proceeds some stupid or horny thought.

Lo and behold, a second later he says, “can I eat you out?”

You roll your eyes, placing two hands against his chest. Jungkook takes it as a sign of your approval and moves in for a second kiss, only for you to shove him away with a huff. “You haven’t even showered, smelly,” you chide, straightening out the front of your blazer in a rather snooty manner that has Jungkook scoffing.

“Please?” he tries again, not the slightest bit phased by the unimpressed look you throw his way. “I’ll wash my hands.”

“Jungkook,” you level, settling into one of the many rolling seats that decorate the floor of Jungkook’s garage, your cell phone placed down on the metal table nearby. From the corner of your eye, you catch sight of the familiar paper wrapping of the deli down the street, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you eat at Shin’s for lunch? I don’t want your onion breath on my intimates.”

Jungkook steps in front of you, looking down at you with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Well then,” he says calmly, and then, drops to his knees in front of you. It has you jolting in surprise. Before you can accidentally send yourself rolling across the floor, Jungkook catches your ankle in one hand, tugging you forward until your knee presses against his side. “It’s a good thing that was Jimin’s lunch and not mine.”

“Kook,” you gasp, the muscles in your legs weak against the grip he has on the back of your knees. The muscles in his forearms tense up as he slowly pries your thighs apart, leaning down to place a rather soft kiss against your knee. The tenderness of his kiss shouldn’t be surprising, but it never fails to make you inhale sharply, hands slowly coming to rest against his shoulders.

The brush of your fingers against him has his eyes flickering up to meet yours, strawberry sweet lips curling into a smile. “Just my mouth,” he reassures you, rough hands slipping beneath the sides of your skirt, urging you to lift your hips as he nudges it over your tummy. “Promise.”

One shaky exhale later, you find yourself slowly nodding along, fingers burying themselves within the dark tresses of his hair. “No hands,” you remind him one final time, letting him manhandle you out of your panties. “And be gen—“

Your words are swallowed up by the surprised squeak that slips through your lips upon Jungkook’s first long lick over your slit. “I’ve got you,” he chuckles, the low and breathy kind that makes your skin tingle. “Hold on to me.”

“What the— fuck!” you exclaim, pulling at his hair in sheer fright when he whirls your chair around suddenly, pushes you the three feet until your chair is bumping against the front of his bumper, appropriately named. “Jungkook,” you scold, roughly yanking him up by his hair. “Don’t do that.”

“Shh,” he hushes, but the shock still has your heart thumping a little too quickly. You pinch his ear. Jungkook shakes you off just as quickly, throws you a childish glare. “You’ll need the support.”

The opportunity to question him never comes, because a second later Jungkook is tugging you forward in your seat, knees neatly placed over his shoulders for easy access to your pussy. You did need the support, you realize, back pressed against the curve of the hood as Jungkook begins the rather torturous process of teasing you.

As promised, his hands rest over your thighs, thick fingers digging into the soft skin as he descends upon you, one featherlight kiss pressed against your mound. The polite greeting of his lips is followed by the not-so-polite greeting of his tongue, the warm and wet muscle caressing your clit.

Your breathing hitches, a pleasant warmth settling in your core. It blossoms quickly, stamps out the remnants of fear from a few minutes ago. Jungkook’s tongue plays a key role in that change, nudging your clit back and forth carefully as he listens to the subtle alterations in your breathing.

After the day you’ve had, the delicate way Jungkook laps against you has you melting, both into his touch and against the cold metal of the hood behind you. “Oh,” you pant, eyelids fluttering at the kiss he places against your labia.

He’s relatively quiet today, just soft sighs against your cunt. Without his hands, you’re surprised by how easily he navigates his way along your lips, tongue nudging your folds apart. The round tip of his nose throws you for a loop as he kisses down your slit, the soft skin unintentionally brushing against your throbbing clit. (Or maybe intentionally— you never really knew with Jungkook.)

At your quivering entrance, he pauses, pulling back with glistening lips and dark eyes. “Good?” he murmurs, tongue peeking out at the corner to trace across his red lips. Another shake of his head, dark strands tickling his cheekbones.

“So good,” you exhale, releasing one hand from it’s trembling grip in his hair. You press it against the side of Jungkook’s face instead. Briefly, the tips of your fingers brush against his ear, an action that makes his eyelashes flutter, mouth dropping open just as your thumb presses against his lower lip. “Make me cum,” you command, as if you aren’t completely at his mercy right now.

Still, Jungkook humors you. His pearly teeth playfully bite down against your thumb, a smile making its way across his features when you pull away. “You got it, boss,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re the boss here,” you mumble, shivers running down your spine when he ducks back down once more.

Lips suctioned around your clit, your thighs quiver beneath his touch. A soft whine pulls itself from your throat, hand jerking forward to grasp at the white undershirt he’s got on, stained like always. Jungkook ups the intensity, pulling away with a loud pop only to bestow a chaste kiss against your sensitive clit. “Please,” you whimper. It takes every last remaining ounce of self-control to keep yourself from accidentally clamping your legs shut around him, hips jerking forward as he licks his way down your slit once more.

His tongue dips its way between your folds, over your quivering opening, as if he’s circling where he’ll pleasure you next. A second later, you feel your entire body tense up momentarily as he slips his tongue in. It’s nowhere near as girthy as his cock, barely comes close to two of his fingers. But there’s something about Jungkook being so close, mouth against your pussy, that sends a shock of electricity straight there.

“Oh— Oh, god,” you sigh, head lolling back, tapping against the hood of Jungkook’s car.

The fingers digging into your skin tighten to the point of bruising, his hands growing anxious with every breathless moan drawn out from you. His plush lower lip is warm against your puffy skin, hot breath fanning over your wet folds as his tongue slowly works its way in and out. Slow, painstakingly slow. The speed has you growing restless, legs threatening to lock around his head, pushing him against your cunt until he can’t breathe.

It’s a good thing Jungkook is the one in control, his flattened tongue trailing one, long lick over your pussy. It starts at your entrance, glistening with arousal and his saliva, and ends at your clit. You’re almost certain you can feel your heartbeat through the bundle of nerves, releasing a loud cry at the way the tip of his tongue flicks against it once more.

The muscles in your legs, tired from walking all across the city, spasm beneath his ministrations. Your shoulders, tight from the weight of your responsibilities, relax back against the warm metal hood. Every kiss Jungkook places against you has you melting, feeling so unbelievably pampered. “Fuck, J- Jungkook— baby,” you whimper, letting go of his shoulder to bite down on your knuckles.

Jungkook breathes harshly against you, brows furrowed together as he focuses on making you feel good. The sight of his handsome face buried between your thighs makes you shiver, jolt when he pushes his tongue into your entrance once more and begins slowly thrusting it in and out. It’s so wet, mixes with your arousal and makes this lewd sound that only fans the flames of your pleasure, fingernails pressed against his shoulders and then burying themselves against his scalp.

It doesn’t take much longer, fatigue and pleasure catching up to you all at once, accumulating in a toe-curling orgasm unlike your usual ones. It’s quieter, filled with stuttered gasps instead, Jungkook’s name occasionally finding its way into the mix. By the end of it, you find yourself fretting over the state of your boyfriend’s scalp, having pulled it roughly at the height of your pleasure.

“How cute,” Jungkook hums softly, eventually releasing one of your trapped legs from over his shoulder. He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth and chin, transferring a dark stain of something onto his porcelain skin. In that moment, you’re glad you banned the usage of his hands on your pussy. Without anything to hold it up, your leg slips down, the impact of your heel against the concrete sending a tingling pain up your leg.

“Ouch,” you murmur, and then find yourself demurely covering your exposed pussy, still glistening with cum and saliva. At your modesty, Jungkook snorts, releasing your other leg only to surge forward and knock his forehead against yours. “Ouch,” you repeat, the stinging pain exacerbated when Jungkook pushes himself closer.

“So, what do you say?” he asks, smiles that devilish smile that makes him look like a Calvin Klein model. His hands are at your waist, helping you tug your skirt back down. It’s nothing grand, but your rose-tinted view makes you swoon at the way he manhandles you. He’s dangerously handsome, has you mindlessly wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“Say about what?” you mumble, hypnotized by the cherry hue of his lips, and the fact they probably taste like you.

Jungkook tilts his head to the side, like he’s going to kiss you. Instead, he pauses just in time to say, “how was my onion breath?”

You’ve never pushed someone away fast enough, nearly impaling him with the sharpened heel of your shoe against his chest. It sends him tumbling back, a rough cough mixed with a boyish chuckle, the dorky kind as he sprawls himself over the dirty concrete floor of his auto shop. It’s as you’re glaring down at your immature boyfriend and what you’re certain is a tiny puddle of motor oil beside his head, that you realize this is your life now. Men, you think bitterly.

“I hate you,” you announce childishly. You find your discarded panties on the metal table beside a goddamn wrench. You fling it at his chest, only the slightest bit turned on when he raises it up for a sniff. “Mmm,” he purrs, letting the flimsy fabric rest over his eyes. You don’t even have it in you to scold him on how dirty that is, instead nudging his side with your shoe. “You know,” he says, catching your ankle in his hand. He guides your foot over him, surprising you when he places it directly over his chest. “I had a dream like this in high school,” he confesses, making your face heat up. “Think it was because of those 50 Shades of Grey books we found in your attic.”

#networkbangtan #bangtanhq #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jeongguk smut #jjk smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jjk x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader smut #bts smut #bts fic #mine #swshd

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reidyoulikeabook · 3 years

Text

A is for Ankle Socks

Summary: The first installment in my A-Z of Spencer Reid series. Spencer Reid is very particular about his socks.

Ship: fem ! BAU reader x Spencer Reid

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Discussions of case-typical violence, blood, brief description of a fight, minor injury to reader that requires some stitches.

A/N: hello! this is my first ever series and i’m very nervous about it! it’s going to be a chronological a-z series with Spencer, detailing the progression of your relationship!

Spencer Reid permanently wears odd socks. The only time you can recall him wearing matching ones, in the year you’ve known him, was on days he had to go to court. Then, it was required that he wear the technically mandated uniform of proper leather shoes, and monochrome socks. On those days, Hotch would turn up with a pair of black socks tucked into his briefcase, just in case. Spencer had needed them, twice.

However, today is not a court day. Today is day 8 of a case in back of beyond Oregon that, quite frustratingly, seems to be going absolutely nowhere.

It says quite a lot, really, that in a day spent combing over convicts with domestic violence charges, the sight you look up to see is more viscerally disturbing. Spencer’s perched on the end of a desk, as he so often seems to be, his ankles crossed over each other. Signature black converse on his feet. And he appears...not to be wearing socks?

He notices you looking at him, and flicks his eyes downward self-consciously, “Is something wrong?”

“Are you wearing socks?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, “Uh. No. I meant to go to the laundrette last night but then Hotch called us into that meeting. I wasn’t expecting to be out here this long.”

“Is it comfortable?” You ask, “Wearing those without socks?”

He kicks his feet around just slightly, “Not really. I guess I’d forgotten about it until you mentioned.”

“Sorry,” You say, with an apologetic smile.

“Not your fault,” He says, looking back at the paperwork in his lap, “Hey would you mind coming to take a look at this actually? I think I might have something.”

***

By day 2, you’d learnt that the only sandwich shop in town had a reputation for bad food hygiene that none of you felt like risking. Normally, everyone would roll their eyes at Spencer for his investigation into such things. However, in this case, everyone else seemed to be as thankful as you always were.

It’s your turn to do the lunch run today, so you head to the grocery store that isn’t too far out of town. Putting your car in park, you mentally run through the list that the team had given you: cheap pasta for everyone but Rossi, who was willing to risk running foul of their microwave meal selection, as many coffee supplies as you could manage, some sour gummy worms for Spencer, mineral water for Hotch, and tights for you. It was frankly quite impractical to wear the things. You ran through so many brambles, fell down so many times, that you almost felt you should get pantyhose hazard pay. In fall in Oregon though? You’d splash out the $6 for the sake of preventing frostbite. If only because Hotch would be furious.

You smile at the thought. Wandering through the aisles, you collect everything you need. Spencer only asked for a pack of sour gummy worms, but, with a smile on your face, you decide to get him the strawberry laces he likes too.

It’s only when you scan the cart, last minute, that you realise what you’ve forgotten.

Tights. Shit.

Wheeling the cart around, you weave through the aisles looking for them. The underwear aisle is aisle 20, and it looks like it’s been ransacked. Flicking through the disorganised display, you see them.

A five pack of socks, adorned with farm animals and backgrounds of a completely clashing colour. It’s almost too bright for you, but you know a certain sockless Spencer who will be sure to appreciate them. Out of curiousity, you navigate your way over to the men’s section and have a look through. Mostly, it’s all black and navy. Right at the back though, you spy a similarly garish looking pack, this time with vegetables on.

You put them in the basket, eyes flickering over a pair of matching aubergine patterned boxers, as you make your way over to the tights. You select your usual kind, turning your attention back to the boxers.

Is it weird to get him boxers?

He’d know it was a joke, right?

Is it weird to get him socks?

Well he didn’t have any

Yeah but you don’t need to get him two packs

Yes I do we might be here a while

10 more days?

He could fall. He could spill coffee on his shoes. He could get shot.

How would socks help with him getting shot?

Your internal monologue gives you a moments reprieve, and then.

Kinda weird you got him socks

Nobody else would have got him socks

Yeah well I’m just thoughtful.

The last thought crosses your mind without permission, and you almost bristle at the brazenness of your lie to yourself. However, you decide, examining the real reasons you’re so eager to provide comfort to your favourite co-worker would require mental stamina you didn’t have right now. Mental stamina that would be better put to use on the case at hand. Mental stamina that definitely wasn’t being used to employ the BAU’s favourite defense mechanism: denial.

***

“I got you a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Spencer spins around in his chair to face you.

“Yep,” You say, plopping the sweets down onto the desk in front of him and grinning.

“Strawberry laces!” He says, smile lighting up his face, “Thanks ____!”

“That’s not the surprise.”

He quirks his brow, confusion tugging at his features, “Then what’s the surprise?”

You untuck your arms from behind your back, handing him the pairs of socks.

He looks down at them. He’s silent for a moment, and your heart thuds.

Fuck.

Told you it was weird.

It’s definitely weird.

He definitely thinks you’re-

You don’t have time to finish that thought, however, because Spencer scoots his chair back. Standing up, he pulls you into a hug. He gently squeezes you, and when he speaks his voice is low, cracking a little.

“Thank you,” He says quietly, “That was really thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

You lean into him, allowing yourself to be enveloped, “No problem. I know you have some issues with sensory things sometimes and I just thought, you know,” you trail off, “Anyway, I didn’t know which ones you’d prefer and I know you like to mix and match anyway so I just got both.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he squeezes you again, tighter this time, before releasing you. Strangely, he won’t meet your eye as he does.

“I’m gonna go put them on, okay?”

“Okay,” You say, watching a little quizically as he hurriedly heads out of the room.

Derek happens to be heading back to the room, bumping into Spencer on his way out.

“You alright kid?” He asks.

“I'm fine," Spencer says, waving him off. He tries to avoid meeting Derek’s eyes, knowing as well as he does that if the profiler catches the look on his face he’ll be found out.

Derek allows him to shrug past him with a confused glance over his shoulder. He walks into the room, scooping the nearest file off the desk and asking in your general direction, “You know what’s up with him?”

“Nope,” You say, popping the p.

You don’t. And it’d bother you, except you genuinely don’t have time right now to dwell on it. Although, try as you might to focus on narrowing down this list of factories in the area, it niggles at you.

***

You don’t see Spencer again until you’re heading out to the unsubs location. You get called out by Hotch in the minute before he returns, and then it’s all guns blaring. Emily and Dave managed to work some magic with Penelope, and the place he’s holding the hostage has been narrowed down to a factory quite far out of town.

You’re perched in the back, discussing entry tactics with Hotch when your eyes travel down to Spencer’s shoes.

One chicken, and one broccoli sock sit on his left and right feet respectively. It’s hard to see them though, with how far they are down his feet.

Hotch answers his phone then, immediately barking down commands at the local PD who are apparently failing to summon adequate manpower, in Hotch’s opinion at least.

You take the moment to cautiously lean over to Spencer, whispering, “Were they not the right size?”

He smiles at you, “They fit just fine as ankle socks.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to check the sizes, womens ones are pretty much all one size. I completely forget that men have massively different sized feet.”

He laughs, “Are you suggesting I have huge feet?”

You feel yourself flush a little, “I don’t think that’d necessarily be an inaccurate suggestion.”

Amused, he smiles. Hotch turns around to you both, momentarily taking his eyes off the road, “I need you to call Penelope, and tell her to get us all the CCTV she can get in the area. If we’re going to have to go in without enough men to cover the perimeter we’ll need all the tactical advantages we can get.”

“Of course, sir.”

***

Lunging forward, you tackle the unsub to the ground, effectively freeing Spencer from the grasp he’d previously been held in.

“It’s over Peter,” Hotch’s voice comes, even and steady.

“No it’s not.”

Before you can even register what’s happening, you’re being tossed backwards, landing against some barbed wire. Immediately, you’re on your feet again, running after him. Not noticing how the wire has ripped a hole in your tights, and cut into your leg a little.

Grabbing his arms behind him, you use all your strength to subdue him to the floor, handcuffing him. Wiping the sweat off your brow, you breathe out a deep sigh of relief.

Derek has it from there, patting you on the shoulder and giving you a “Good job kiddo.” He leads Peter out.

You rub your chest, feeling the adrenaline start to flood out of your body with all the excitement now over. A stinging senstation in your calf gets your attention, and looking down you see the nasty wound oozing blood. It isn’t much, nothing that two stitches won’t fix.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asks, having gotten up from his position on the floor, “You didn’t have to...Derek would have gotten him.”

“Why should he be the only one that gets to tackle people?” You ask, letting out a breathless tinkle of a laugh.

“Statistically, he is the one who does the most tackling out of all of us. Then Hotch, then Emily, then Rossi, then me, then you.”

“I am not the one that tackles the least,” You say indignantly.

He tips his head to the side, “Are you gonna argue with the guy who has an eidetic memory or are we going to get you stitched up?”

“Both, please.”

He laughs at that, linking his arm around your waist. You limp against him a little, out to the paramedics. Mostly it’s for Spencer’s benefit. That’s what you tell yourself, you’re letting him help you so he doesn’t feel emasculated.

When has Spencer Reid ever fallen pray to toxic masculinity?

He might have

When?

Well he could

You just like how he smells

It’s true. The faint waft of his cologne is incredibly comforting. He doesn’t loosen his grip on you for even a second, helping to hoist you so you can sit on the ambulance bed while the medics attend to your leg. You’re feeling a little woozy, so Spencer sits next to you, allowing you to lean on him for support.

“Can you tell me something?” You ask, gritting your teeth, “Distract me?”

It doesn’t really hurt, getting stitched up, you’ve just never found it the most comfortable of processes. All your favourite cases have ended with you not having to get sewn up. You know that much.

“I’ve actually only tackled one more person than you in my entire BAU career,” He says, deciding to return to your former discussion, “I didn’t really go out in the field all that much until a couple years in, it was only because of Hotch that I really went out in the field to take down an unsub for the first time. That was March 12th, 2005. You’ve only been here 9 months and have done almost as much physical stuff as me. One more and we’re even.”

“Well, if you could try not to be the person getting tackled by the unsub next time. Then I might not have to make a tackle.”

His mouth turns up at the corner, “You tackled him for me?”

You feel yourself growing embarassed, “Not for you. For the socks.”

“Oh the socks?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s a little unfair to go putting yourself in harms way while wearing a gift someone got for you. 5 dollar socks Spencer, practically designer at that price, I’d hate to see them ruined day one.”

He laughs, his tone playful, “Well you’ll need to bare that in mind.”

“Huh?”

He tilts his head towards Emily, strutting her way across to the ambulance with Spencer’s go-bag in her arms. She hands it to him, smiling at you.

“Should I let Morgan know the team will no longer be in need of his services?”

You snort, “I’d hate to steal his brand.”

She shakes her head, “Drinks when we get back? Hotch said the jet’s ready for whenever you’re done, and Rossi says he’s buying.”

“You got it,” You nod.

She pats you on the shoulder, exaggeratedly eyeing your leg again and rolling her eyes as she walks away, “Idiot.”

You smile, turning back towards Spencer, “Are you coming for drinks? I can drive you home.”

He visibly considers it for a moment, “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“You’re all done here,” The paramedic interrupts, wiping down your leg with an anti-bacterial wipe, “Was a really smooth tear for barbed wire, shouldn’t leave that much of a scar.”

They press a bandage over it and you thank them, getting to your feet with the help of Spencer.

“Wait, why’d you get Emily to bring your go-bag if we’re going home?”

He looks almost bashful. Out of his bag, he pulls a three pack of tights. Just the kind you always wear. Down to your preferred brand, and everything.

“When did you-?”

“I noticed you rip them a lot while we’re on cases. I didn’t know if it was weird but then...the socks?” He gestures at his feet, floundering, “I’m sorry if that’s...I just didn’t-”

“No,” You cut off his ramble, “No, Spencer, that’s really sweet. Thank you, thank you so much. Can I hug you?”

He nods, happily. You wrap him into your arms, pressing your face against his chest. Inhaling the scent of him. Reveling in how safe you feel, how protected, thinking how you’d take three hundred stitches if it meant you got Spencer out of harms way. He was so thoughtful, so kind, so attentive to detail.

Oh fuck.

You can barely look at him. It hits you like a train, the realisation. Co-workers save each other from unsubs. Friends buy each other gifts that have meaning and value. But only somebody who is in love feels like this when they get handed tights. Oh.

It’s a warm feeling. Overwhelming. So much so that you miss Spencer saying he’ll be right back, scooting off to Rossi who’s shouting him over with a question the local PD need answering for their report.

You stumble a little, thankful that you have the blood loss and adrenaline rush to blame if anybody were to notice.

You wait for the wave of denial to hit, to come and lock your feelings back in the treasure chest you’ve managed to shove them down into now. It doesn’t come. Instead, you look at Spencer with a sense of awe that feels newfound, but has actually been here all along. Watching him speak to Rossi, you really notice him: just how much he gestures with his hands, how quickly he relays information, how the huge smile on his face, when he turns around to notice you staring, truly meets his eyes.

***

You can’t tell if it makes you a good profiler, or somewhat of a stalker, that you notice Spencer wears the ankle socks you got him to work everyday for the next 9 days.

Spencer worries he’s being a little too obvious, but he can’t help that whenever he sees the socks he beams at them. They remind him of you. Unbeknownst to everybody but Dave (who somehow notices everything), he spends a good minute or so a day sneaking a peek at the novelty socks under his converse. And then trailing his eyes over to you. Thinking how much he loves the person who got them for him.

----

B is for Blindfolds

Tagslist (this is just people who replied to the post about this series and said they’d like to be tagged! let me know if you’d like to be added/removed to this series masterlist): @reidingmelodies @rem-ariiana

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #imagine spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #imagine criminal minds #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic

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oneshotnewbie · 3 years

Note

Your works are insanely good wow! Could I please request anoter one where the reader is Amelia’s little sister and Arizona’s gf and the three of them get into a car accident where the reader is off worse (she’s in the backseat and stuck and Amelia keeps holding her hand and stroking her head and Arizona is hysterical) Amelia and Arizona try to keep the person they love the most alive but are scared out of their mind.

An exhausting day was successfully behind you and you have never been as overtired as you were in all the years of your studies and five years of internship as a surgeon.

A bus accident where the bus overturned and injured thirty people, including almost half of them young children, was on your agenda today. A lot of them had only minor wounds and injuries that needed care and their parents had to be informed, but some had harder injuries and had to undergo emergency surgery. One of them was a 14-year old girl who not only had internal bleeding and a ruptured spleen and liver, a collapsed lung due to a fractured rib and a severe cerebral hemorrhage.

She was your patient and you could no longer save this young soul, it was too late.

You usually had no problem to stay away from emotions, but telling her parents that her only daughter passed away, broke your heart and left you in a negative emotional state. If you could, you would swap places with her just so she could still enjoy her young years into her old.

No one so young and innocent deserved to die that cruel way.

You sat in the car with your sister and your girlfriend, looked out the window in the back seat and were so lost in thought that you didn't pay attention to them both.

Only when the car came to a standstill and a hand found it's place on your knee and squeezed, it tore you out of your thoughts. You looked into the blue, also tired eyes, which were colored in a dark purple by the red traffic lights.

A small smile crossed her face. You gently placed your hand on hers, which was still on your knees, and intervened your fingers with hers as you focused on the music that was playing from the radio.

The radio was all trash and some penniless musician screamed his heart out, presumably to get the attention of some teenage girls. Annoyed by his voice and the nonsense you could her in the lyrics he sang, you asked Amelia if she could turn off the radio.

When the music went out, you sighed briefly and went over your curly hair. At the same time, you played with the delicate ring on your finger. An heirloom from your grandma. Heaven, how you missed her.

The red glowing car turned green and started moving. You saw Arizona's gaze turned to you in the rear view mirror before you could drift back into your thoughts until you heard a scream and a loud bang. The car you were in was hit by a Jeep and let you slip several meters on the street before it came to a stop on a tree.

---

"Y/N!" did you hear a dull voice that sounded like a tunnel as it mixed with the tinnitus in your ears. "Y/N, come on sweetie, wake up!" this time louder, more aggressive.

Slowly opening your eyes, you looked into the face of your brown-haired sister. Almost immediately when you noticed that she had a big laceration above her brow that was bleeding quite a bit, you snatched your eyes completely open and startled.

Pumped full of adrenaline, you weren't aware that you, in fact, were more injured than she was. You weren't even aware of what just had happened. You just knew that she was bleeding. "Amy, you are bleeding!" you stated out loud.

Your body's self-mechanism immediately caused your arms to wander towards her head. In the middle of your movement, you winced and screamed out loud. A bolt of lighting pervaded your shoulder and chest, you could tell with certainty that your collarbone was broken.

"Don't worry about me, I am fine." she said softly and briefly disappeared from your already restricted view by the smoke. "Arizona, she is awake. Calm down, please."

Until recently, you didn't even notice the screaming and crying that was silenced by the ringing in your ears. Only after you could concentrate on the outside world and your ears went back to normal, did you realize who the screaming was coming from.

"Arizona." your voice was barely audible and scratchy through the fumes. Your throat started to feel dry and sandy like scratch paper.

Her face appeared at your completely cracked window. She also had a few scratches on her face, a nosebleed and a split lip, probably from the airbag that came out of her steering wheel. She was visibly shocked and it was almost impossible to find out what she was talking about through all the sobs and incomplete sentences caused by the panic.

"We have to get her out here fast, Arizona so concentrate!" shouted Amelia and reappeared in front of you, this time she was sitting in the passenger seat and tried as slowly as possible and not causing you any pain, to crawl on the free space next to you.

As the car moved as she tried to get to you, shock waves ran from your neck all the way down to your lower back. You closed your eyes in pain and immediately felt a cool wind blowing in your face.

"Try to keep your body still. It was a pretty heavy impact and you were hit the most."

Arizona was still crying hysterical by your side as she put her jacket over her hand and tried to knock out the rest of the glass in the window to get to you better and safer.

Soon enough, you felt cold fingers on your neck that slowly and carefully placed it on the back of the seat and held it while your sister checked you from top to bottom which injuries you had.

Slowly the pain moved further into the distance, the headache was now also filled with dizziness and you felt nauseous. As time passed, you became more tired and you felt too weak to speak. Your throat felt like it was filling with something.

Blood.

"Arizona, how long until the ambulance and the fire department are coming? She's bleeding internally." Amelia stopped in her movements and looked you in the eyes. A thin line of blood already formed on your lip and it stained your teeth with it. "You are gonna be fine, little one okay? Just stay awake."

You nodded and began to cough, your lungs filling up more with the red liquid and constricting your breath. "I can't feel my legs."

You looked shockingly into the face of the brown-haired one. Meanwhile she had tears in her eyes that she tried to hold back, but failed. You were aware of what it could mean and that you might have been paraplegic from the impact, but you tried to hold on to any hope that you just didn't feel it because the blood supply was cut off by the entrapment.

Amelia took your hand tightly in her and gently stroked your hair. All she could do was be with you while you all waited for help.

You got colder, the goose bumps on your body and the inevitable tremors made you even more pain that you tried not to show. The endless screams and bitter tears from your girlfriend snaked further into the distance, as in the beginning. She had her hand alternately on your cheek or neck as she wiped away some tears from you.

"I love you Arizona."

"No, take that back immediately! If you say it when something bad happens, you never hear it from that person again." she yelled at you.

But you knew how you felt. Weak, cold, barely breathing in a situation you probably couldn't get out of alive. You had to at least tell her one more time before you couldn't anymore. She had to know that you loved her to your very last breath.

"I love you Arizona."

She laid her head on her arm, which was propped up in the window pane, and buried herself while still caressing your pale skin.

"Amy," with one big, last breath you tried to keep it short, but saying the most important thing. "Best sister in the entire world. I love you too."

"No, you are not leaving us now. You are not leaving me, do you understand? You have so many years to spend here with me at your side. If you do this to me now, I will revive you and then kill you by myself!"

You laughed at her joke one last time before your eyes closed and you endowed into the distance with a smile.

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helliontherapscallion · 3 years

Text

A Surrealistic Life (Adrenaline Junkie Part 17)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: swearing, derealization, depression, grief, blood, mentions of death, nightmares, panic attacks

Word count: 3,385

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You cried in Philza’s arms for hours on end until you couldn’t cry anymore. Your head was left pounding and your throat scratchy from the loud crying, but you didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore, without Arthur you were nothing. The past two and a half years just- just didn’t exist. Your mind was still reeling, the words ‘will you always be with me?’ echoing through your mind constantly filling you with guilt.

With one last shuddering inhale, you separated yourself from Philza and wiped at the tears that had long since dried on your face. His eyes, vigilant as ever, scanned your form looking for any sign of distress. In his eyes, you saw pity and grief. This angered you, you didn’t need his pity; you were long past the point of pitiful glances. Well, you were, he wasn’t.

You purse your lips as you watch his eyes flick between your wing and where your other wing was supposed to be. Sorrow flashes in his eyes before he looks back at you with a small, painfully fake smile. With one hand, he gently pushes your shoulder down back onto the bed and stands up.

“I’ll be back, you get some rest.”

With the slightest hint of a nod, you watched as he lingered in the doorway before hesitantly walking out of your room. After he left your room, you locked the door behind him. That door remained locked for weeks on end, every knock or attempt at conversation was never answered by you. Their words were nothing but background noise in the back of your mind.

Instead of responding, you would lay in bed staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes thinking about nothing but everything you’ve lost. Only occasionally you would leave your room to attend to your most basic needs when you were sure that everybody was asleep or out of the house.

The days meshed together as your thoughts consume you in a whirlwind of unorganized messes. Several times, you’ve worked yourself into panic attacks and paranoia filled spiraling because you didn’t know what was real anymore.

Being left alone with your thoughts was something that you always avoided by constantly tinkering with contraptions, your thoughts wandered off to places that greatly disturbed you. But now, you let those thoughts wash over you without a care. Your dreams reflected this; they were plagued with images of Arthur looking up at you with large puppy dog eyes and a large smile before he would be sucked into darkness screaming for you to help him, to do anything, but you were always glued in place leaving you to watch helplessly as he left you over and over again.

Another common one you would have is Arthur getting lost in a bellowing snowstorm in the dead of night. You would be wandering through thick snow calling his name until you would come across a small, pale hand peeking out of an abnormal lump of snow; dread would always fill you during those dreams, it was a parent’s worst nightmare to lose their child.

Other dreams, though very rare, would be pleasant; whether they were about you and Arthur whistling a small tune as you both invented something or a small picnic on the cliff laughing freely into the air, you would always wake up in the mornings prepared to greet him and cook breakfast with him. It wasn’t until you moved your right arm and found that it had limited mobility that you realized that everything was a dream.

You hated those dreams, they always gave you a false sense of hope that everything was okay. Nothing is okay, absolutely nothing.

You refused to believe that… whatever was going on didn’t happen; Philza had said that the last few years had been fake, something that your mind had made up as some form of coping mechanism, but who’s to say that this isn’t a hallucination as well? Both your experiences felt completely different from each other, this reality could be the hallucination for all you knew.

The only thing on your mind was how you needed to get back to Arthur in any possible way you could. If Arthur didn’t exist in this reality, you didn’t want to be in it. You need him and he needs you, you didn’t want to imagine a reality without him. If you got yourself into this by dying, perhaps that was your ticket back to him. Perhaps there was a way to reverse this.

You were going to get your son back, and you were going to die trying.

Until then, you just have to wait out your family. They’d just stop you in the end and you couldn’t have that. You’d have to put on an act that you were perfectly fine and that would entail inventing everything over again, but you were fine with that; if you made it once, you can make it again.

With a newfound sense of purpose, you searched your closet for your old cloak but then you remembered you got your cloak weeks after your first death. Groaning to yourself, you settled for your old bomber jacket. The slits in the back of it wouldn’t cover your nub, so you awkwardly tucked it underneath the fabric of the cloth. It shot pain down your spine, but you shook it off; the pain was something you could handle, you’ve had worse.

Without another thought, you quietly left your room with only one destination in mind.

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

You softly padded down the basement stairs towards your workshop. When you arrived at the bottom of the stairs, you paused and looked around. The walls that were once covered with sloppy sketches and words written in two different handwritings, both equally as messy and rushed, were barren for the most part; you forgot that the walls were painted an off white color. Your filing cabinets were gone, replaced with cardboard boxes containing old clothes and toys with thick layers of dust sitting peacefully on top of them. The crafting table sat in the corner of the room wasn’t worn, in fact it looked brand new, not a scratch could be seen on the surface.

Everything was wrong.

You numbly walked over to your desk and picked up the paper that laid on it, holding it up to the light. It was the first draft to your TNT launcher. The sight of the crude, minimal sketches made you cringe, it was far too messy; you had no idea how you could make out what your sloppy handwriting pointed to or what materials were supposed to go where.

You dropped the paper and let it flutter to the floor without a care. Your eyes flickered over the desk and eyed the notebook sitting on top of a stack of spare papers. A spark of hope ignited inside of you, this was the notebook Arthur so often doodled in with different ideas of what could be invented.

You snatched it and flipped the front cover over with haste. A wide smile stretched your lips when you caught sight of the small handwriting that littered the page. It was yours, but you had given it to Arthur so that he could learn and copy from your early years. It was perfect for a blueprint template, neat and organized.

However as you flipped through the book, your smile dropped and the little hope that flared in your chest was snuffed out. You stared at the blank page as frustration built up inside of you. Before you knew it, you threw the notebook at the opposite wall as hard as you could. You were left standing in the middle of the cold basement with your chest heaving and your teeth gritted.

Everything was so wrong. So, so wrong.

You heard footsteps thunder down the stairs before they came to a stop behind you. Hesitant footsteps made their way over to you, you didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

“(Y/n)? Is everything-”

“Nothing is okay, Tommy,” you gritted out, “absolutely nothing about this is okay.”

He said nothing as he walked around you and put his hand on your clenched fist, his fingers curling around yours and opening your hand. Your palm stung slightly as you glanced down at it. Four small, crescent shaped cuts were imprinted on your skin slowly starting to glisten with blood.

Huffing, you ripped your hand out of his grasp and glanced at his face. You caught yourself doing a double take as you saw just how innocent he looked. No sign of hidden pain in his shining blue eyes, no scars littering his skin, and the bags that once made him look years older was nonexistent. He was your annoying, gremlin of a little brother again. He was Tommy again.

You watched as his eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted slightly, “why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” you breathed out before you shook your head trying to rid your mind of your frustrations, “no reason at all…”

He awkwardly coughed and nodded slightly, “right…”

You cleared your throat and glanced off to the side at the book laying on the floor. Tommy’s eyes followed where you were looking and went to pick it up. You felt a twinge in your heart as he started to flip through it much like you did earlier. He looked up at you with furrowed brows, “why’d you throw this? What’d the book do to you?” He jokingly asked you.

“It didn’t do anything and that’s the problem,” you mumbled out before you snatched the book out of his hands and tossed it into the trash can.

“Why are you acting so weird? I know you just died and all, but you never let that notebook out of your sight and now you’re just tossing it into the bin!” Tommy fished it out of the trash can and haphazardly placed it back onto your desk on top of the stack of unused paper. You could feel your eye twitch at it’s placement before you threw it away again.

“Leave it there, I don’t want it. I won’t need it anymore anyways,” you murmured under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you need it- wait, don’t tell me you’re quitting working with redstone. Cuz I’ll have you know that you’re going to be the best goddamned inventor this gods forsaken world has ever known and-”

“I’m not going to quit,” you interrupted him, “trust me, I’ll need whatever I can make. I just… don’t need it anymore, I already know exactly what I need to make.” I can’t stand the sight of Arthur’s notebook so empty and blank your mind supplied yourself.

He tilted his head slightly, “even without the bluepri-”

“Even without the blueprints,” you curtly nodded and automatically turned to look at the bulletin board hanging above your desk only to sigh when you once again saw that it was barren. “I made these things thousands of times before, I know what I’m doing,” your gaze zeroed in on the half finished blueprint for your automatic crossbow, “I’ll just make them again.”

Tommy once again looked at you with furrowed brows and inquisitive eyes, you could just see the curiosity and confusion swimming around in his baby blue orbs, “what do you mean, you literally only have one prototype of everything on here.”

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you, so just drop it.” You hadn’t meant to snap at him like that, but the frustration was just too overwhelming to ignore. Just as you could see him start to get dejected from the corner of your eye, you made quick work of changing the subject.

“You know, I could hear what you said when I wasn’t awake. I really appreciated the music, it was a nice change of pace.”

He tensed before his eyes were drawn to the empty space over your shoulder. His breath hitched slightly as a sorrowful look appeared in his eyes. Looking back at you, he grabbed your shoulder and pulled you into a tight hug. You didn’t struggle against him despite your frustrations, you knew he needed you right now. You could still remember how broken he was when you were unconscious. The way his lip wobbled slightly before he hugged you reminded you of Arthur.

You gently hugged him back and wrapped your wing around him. He gripped you tighter, his breath shuddering as wetness started to hit your head. You said nothing as you started to hum and run your fingers along his back tracing out patterns without a particular one in mind.

Eventually, he pulled away from you and chuckled sardonically, wiping his tears away with a fist, “you’re the one who died and I’m the one being comforted. Gods, it’s pathetic.”

“It’s okay to feel emotions, Tommy. You should never bottle them up, it sounded like you needed a good hug anyways. I’m happy to give you that,” you softly told him.

He said nothing as he crossed his arms and shifted on his feet, avoiding your gaze. For a moment, your tall brother was replaced by a short, red haired boy wearing that same expression. You purse your lips in thought, your previous frustrations completely gone and replaced with an urge to comfort him or at least distract him. Though a deep sadness dragged your body down at the thought of Arthur, Tommy just reminded you too much of him. It was eerily uncanny in your opinion.

Ideas swarmed your head as you thought back to how you comforted Arthur when he fell down. Besides talking to him, you would always teach him something; knowledge to Arthur is- was like a sponge absorbing water. It gave him a distraction to whatever got him down, maybe that would work for Tommy as well.

Wordlessly, you walked over to your desk and gestured for him to follow you. You plopped him into your office chair and pulled one of the cardboard boxes up to the desk. In the process, you grabbed your gloves, goggles, and everything you would need to set up a simple timed piston. The smallest spark of happiness flashed inside you as you saw that your resources were fully stocked.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, Tommy, I’m going to show you how to set up one of my favorite redstone mechanisms. Put these on,” you handed him the gloves and goggles and watched as he put them on. The goggles were a bit small on him, but besides that, everything fit him.

“Now, you’re going to want to…”

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

Hours passed as you both worked together on the contraption. Slowly, you could see Tommy loosening up and making more jokes, successfully distracted. However, you didn’t expect yourself to follow suit. Laughter came easier to you whenever Tommy would joke around, your troubles long forgotten.

It took a little longer than you were used to, but eventually Tommy started to follow along with the precision you’d expect from a beginner. Slowly but surely, with many mistakes along the way, there was a working piston system sitting on the desk.

Tommy triumphantly laughed into the air as he watched the pistons work in tandem with one another. You laughed alongside him and ruffled his hair, “nice job, Artie! I knew you could do it!”

Tommy completely stopped and looked at you in confusion, “‘Artie’? Who’s that?”

You completely froze in place, you hadn’t meant to call him Artie. He was Tommy, he was your blond little brother, not your ginger son. Tommy was his own person, he was Tommy, not Arthur. You mentally scolded yourself for constantly mixing the two up.

“Artie is- well, he’s just… Arthur is my old friend,” you stammered out after tripping over your words clumsily. Tommy couldn’t find out about Arthur, nobody could. That’d just ruin your plan.

He snorted, “sure, ‘old friend’. You know, if Dad finds out that you’re dating someone he’d ground you for life.”

“I’d never date anybody, you know that,” you scolded him with your nose wrinkled in disgust. “He’s just an old friend and you remind me of him.”

“Well, old friend or not, he sounds amazing if I remind you of him!”

You smiled sadly as your mind flashed to images of Arthur at various points in his life, “he really was, you would’ve loved him, Tommy. He might’ve been the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Why don’t you tell me about him? I can preen your wings-” Tommy abruptly stopped himself and looked like he’d just accidentally kicked a puppy, looking at you with wide eyes and red tinted cheeks.

Just as he started opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, you chuckled at his expression, “you’re fine, Tommy. It’s just going to take some time for you to get used to this,” you shifted your wing and cringed at the uncomfortable feeling. You haven’t preened your wings since before you left for the cave nearly two months ago, and your wing was a mess of bent and loose feathers. “I’d… actually like a good preening, are you sure you know how to do it?”

“Please,” he scoffed before pushing you to sit down in your desk chair, “I’ve seen you and Dad do it to each other thousands of times, I think I know what I’m doing.”

“That isn’t how that- you know what? Just go ahead. Make sure you get any loose feathers and straighten them out,” you stretched your wing out and hoped for the best. Tommy surprisingly did a decent job of straightening out feathers, he just had to work on distinguishing loose feathers from intact feathers (you were now missing a couple of smaller feathers).

The entire time, you were telling him how amazing your boy was. Sure, you might’ve overexaggerated just a little bit, but Arthur was certainly someone that deserved the praise. That kid was something else, truly a prodigy at both redstone and compassion. Leaving out the fact that Arthur was your adopted son and that he was ten years old was a little hard, but you managed to avoid that.

You could tell that Tommy knew something was different about you, but you guessed that he just assumed the changes were because of your death and not because you were technically two and a half years older than you physically are.

When he was done, you looked at your wing and you were pleasantly surprised at how well he did; sure there were a few loose feathers and they were partially crooked, but you could tell that Tommy did his best with them.

“Thanks, Toms,” you smiled at him after you tucked your wing back in, “I really appreciate you doing that, it was starting to bother me.”

“It’s no problem,” he puffed out his chest in pride, “I told you I knew what I was doing.”

“And I’m sorry for ever doubting you. Who knows, maybe Dad’ll let you do his wings next.”

“Oh gods no,” Tommy shuddered slightly, “his are massive and he has two of them! If doing yours took me an hour and a half, I’d hate to see how long it’d take me to do his.”

You cringed, remembering the last time you preened his wings. Though you were experienced, it had taken you two full hours for each wing. “Yeah, his wings are huge. Gods, I hope my wing doesn’t get to be that size.” Though they grew to be nowhere near Philza’s wingspan when you were in that reality, you weren’t sure if yours was going to be larger or smaller than what they were.

Just as Tommy was about to open his mouth to respond to you, Wilbur’s voice echoed down the stairwell, “Tommy, dinnertime!”

“Well c’mon then, let’s go. I’ll race you there,” was all Tommy said to you before he bolted up the stairs with a booming laugh, skipping every third step. You could feel your heart stop when he almost tripped on one of the stairs because he skipped too many. Rushing after him, you shouted at him, “Tommy, walk! You’re going to break your neck if you keep running up and down the stairs!”

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

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#sbi x reader #sleepy bois x reader #sleepy bois inc x reader #philza x reader #tommyinnit x reader #mcyt x reader #dream smp x reader #sbi x you #philza x you #tommyinnit x you #mcyt x you #dream smp x you #adrenaline junkie #tw: swearing #tw: blood #tw: nightmares #tw: depersonalization #tw: depression #tw: grief

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babydarkstar · 3 years

Text

cacoethes

part two: bring your sweet loving

rating: E (18+ ONLY) || pairing: ezra x f!reader || word count: 10.5k

chapter summary: as the night winds down and tensions simmer, we learn more about you, pieces of your past, and your relationship with ezra.

warnings: ezra’s gigantic mouth that won’t shut up (suggestive language) and two criminals not knowing how to act; caretaking, i guess? reader cleans ezra but it’s nothing erotic; SMUT; handjob and graphic depictions of a glorious dick; dirty talk; dubcon maybe bc painkillers but he’s enthusiastic abt it; praise kink; switches having a great time; ezra’s subby in this but i promise he’s a dom too just not tonight; mentions of death, killing, tattoos, scars; mention of past drug use, bad coping mechanisms; mm i hc that ezra is a tiny tattoo guy so there’s that; fluff bc im sweet; author is a southern peach, forgive her if it gets a little slow and twangy up in here

a/n: un-beta’d bc mistakes are sexy. i’ll go back later and fix whatever i find but for now. enjoy. i’m literally just making shit up about this universe as we go but it’s working out for the best so bear with me. lmk if u want me to add u to be tagged here. tagging: @pedros-mustache @jk7789

crossposted to ao3 :) || playlist || one || two || three

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

“Here, Cee,” you said, adjusting the threadbare blanket over your cot and splaying a hand over it while she eyed you from across the tent, still standing amongst the carnage of a violent field surgery, “I’ll sleep on the floor tonight.”

The poor girl was scared. Well—not scared, not anymore.

Vengeful, for certain, though it seemed to dwindle with every minute she watched you interact.

Definitely wary of the two of you.

Which was appropriate, given that Ezra had killed her father and left her alone on an uninhabitable moon, only to be scooped up by his partner and deceived into thinking she was safe, and then forced to perform impromptu surgery to hack off an arm. But she appeared more wary to accept help from you than wary of you.

And honestly, if Ezra hadn’t just lost a limb and you didn’t want to hover beside him after not seeing him for a month to make sure he didn’t slip the veil in his sleep or disappear beneath your fingertips—and if you weren’t trying to earn her trust, you’d have made her take the floor.

But things were different now, they might always be. She had saved his life. You owed her your cot to sleep on.

“Wait,” Ezra said, swallowing thickly as he blinked, seeming to just process the words you had spoken, “You think so little of me that I’d let you sleep on the dirt after the day you’ve had? Now, I agree that our guest should find comfort in a cot of her own, but I will not deny you the simple respite of sleep. That would prove me an unworthy companion.”

“Ezra,” you said, giving him a look of incredulity that seeped into your tone, “You can’t be serious.”

He eyed you and clenched his jaw, still stomaching the fact that he had one less limb to worry about, and a bunch more problems to deal with. It was a look that told you he was not arguing with you, you were going to sleep on the cot. He would not be coddled like a child just because he lost an arm.

Which was, in itself, ridiculous. You didn’t plan to coddle him—you weren’t the type, not really. But. He’d lost a fucking arm. But he was also still delirious from the anesthetic, so that didn’t help his desire to prove something to the universe.

“You’re taking the cot, I’m not having this conversation,” you said, wiping his sweaty brow with your sleeve, “Tap into the ruthless outlaw inside of you and take it without regret. You know I hardly sleep anyways, I’ll live without a bed for the night.”

“Then I must insist you share it with me, precious angel,” he sighed, and you could almost see the cogs in his head turning as his distant gaze darkened into something hungry, “I’ve longed to feel your body pressed against mine since I left with Number Two. The divinity of your skin.” He hummed, eyes fluttering shut, “More…more precious than the ore we risk our lives for. Sweeter than fruit. Fresher than a rainstorm.”

“Ez,” you warned, snapping a glare at him.

“Your body…so tender, warm,” he continued, entranced in his own fantasy, not even hearing you when you warned him yet again, “All soft and pliant beneath my touch. It has been far too long since we partook in a pleasure as indulgent as one another—before our partnership with Two, if I can recall. Grant me heaven tonight. I deserve the satisfaction of watching you drip honey for me—”

“Hey! None of that,” you snapped, cocking an eyebrow—and fighting the flutter in your chest and the heat tingling down your core, “There are young ears present, Shakespeare Erotica. Not to mention young eyes.”

You would do no such thing with him as long as this teenager remained in close quarters and under your care. He turned to look at Cee, as if he’d forgotten all about her for a moment. Or maybe it was that he didn’t care. Bastard.

“I’m okay as long as you guys don’t fuck in front of me,” Cee sighed, resigned to have dealt with too much in her past to be worried about flirting—no, verbal-fucking.

“We won’t be doing any of that,” you assured her, giving Ezra another pointed look before slinging his arm around your shoulders and helping him to the cot. He grumbled incoherently, moaning and groaning the few steps it took to ease him down into the squeaky frame.

When you finally got him down—forced him to lay down—he let out another soft whimper of pain, followed by your name. “Don’t go.”

Brushing the hair off his sweaty forehead, you bent down to press a kiss there, “M’right here, Ez. Rest. I’m gonna clean you up, okay?”

It was the least you could do—and that way you could take inventory of every inch of him to ensure he didn’t have any other wounds hiding and festering and threatening his life. Just as this wouldn’t be your first time tending to him while he laid incapacitated, he’d done the same for you plenty of times. There was very little, if anything at all, the two of you hadn’t seen of each other. Vulnerability had another name here: normalcy.

“After—” he rasped up at you, coughing and then righting himself, “After we find our way off this Kevva-damned moon—which we will—I understand if you no longer deem me…worthy of your affections. It’s the only explanation I can find for your denial of my offer to dote on you. I only pray you make good on your long-standing promise to drop me where I stand should I ever disappoint you, dear heart of mine.”

Okay, you didn’t know where all the insecurity and sentiment was coming from, especially hearing it from the mouth of your dear old confident mean-streak Ezra, but he couldn’t possibly be serious. It made you ache to think that he didn’t trust you to stay with him, that he viewed himself as lesser because he lost his arm. Well, he was lesser, but only by mass.

Also, really? The only explanation he could find for you not wanting to sleep with him was that you hated him and didn’t want him because of his injury? He couldn’t think of any more glaringly obvious reasons, those of which had just been pointed out to him?

With a sigh, you brushed your thumb across the silvery scar on his cheek, “Rest now, chatterbox. I’ll be here when you wake up—and every morning after, for as long as I can. Only death could pry you from me, and me from you. You’ve got me, forever….I still see you as you are—a hundred percent you, a hundred percent mine.”

The words felt foreign on your lips, but he was bound to forget them the moment he fell asleep, so you didn’t feel as weird waxing poetic right back at him. The man had rubbed off on you in more ways than one. You normally didn’t speak to one another so frankly—at least, you didn’t, given the nature of what it meant to care out here and how you’d already unofficially established that you two were something more—but tonight you couldn’t fucking help it.

Ezra leaned into your touch, pawing at it with his hand, grabbing onto your fingers and kissing into your palm. A dull smile poked at his mouth and he let it engulf him. “Quite the charmer you are, siren.”

You didn’t respond, only half-smiled and wriggled—reluctantly—from his grasp to grab a few clean cloths and fill a bucket with water. After squirting the sanitizing solution in the water, you simmered the lights down to the lowest setting, to where your eyes had to adjust for a moment before you could make your way across the tent. His gaze bore into you—no, both Ezra and Cee watched every move you made; one in lazy admiration and the other in curiosity.

“Do you need me to put a drape over the post? I’m strippin’ him,” you asked Cee as you slung Ezra’s clean shirt from off the drying line onto your shoulder—you smiled at the floor, thanking yourself from hours ago for deciding not to burn it. You grabbed the bucket and tottered over to him, nodding at him to scoot. He obliged, giving you room to sit by his hip so you could ease his clothes off.

Cee shook her head when you looked to her for a response, opting to sit on your cot facing away from you with her nose in her book, so you shrugged and tugged the fabric off of Ezra in slow, deliberate motions, wincing every time he grunted.

As you took the time to clean off the grime and dirt and sweat of the Green, he told you about running into Cee and her father Damon; how he tried to take his entire harvest from the few cycles he’d spent with Two; about Two’s untimely, irrational outburst that cost them their life. About the Queen’s Lair and the mercs, and the plan to ravage and plunder and take it all for themselves. You thought the Queen’s Lair was a rumor. Not even a rumor—a myth, a legend, something fabricated by desperate fools with hazy minds of dust and their eyes set on fortune. But Ezra told you he’d seen part of it marked on Cee’s map, that her father was contracted to help extract the deposit. Cee even pulled her map out to point to the marked areas, albeit with clinical movements and short words.

So you made a plan to head out at first light, with the trip taking most of the daylight, and they’d be cutting it close but there was no way you’d let Ezra hike so many klicks in his state—not without a few hours’ rest first.

After you’d managed to clean his legs, his hips, his feet and get him into something more comfortable than compression pants, you moved to his torso and traced over each scar marring his skin, each jagged edge where something hadn’t healed right or wasn’t stitched properly. He’d lost some weight under the harsh conditions of the Green—you both had. But he still held onto muscle from the toil that came with survival on such harsh terrain; and he was naturally broad, he always would be, which made him sturdy.

Your fingers ghosted over a few microtattoos he’d gotten; one beneath his ribcage, one on his hipbone, and the one you’d given him yourself on his lower sternum. That one, as you brushed over it with a wet cloth, never failed to make you smile. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

A tiny, unfilled heart, a mere outline, barely a centimeter in size. It was messy, simple, done in minutes. But it meant something, meant exactly what you’d never quite been able to voice.

My heart is yours. Take it.

You’d done it one night when the two of you had gone on a two spin bender, which happened more towards the end of your glory days, when the drugs came easy and heavy and the illusion of time slipped by like sand on the wind.

Any time someone hired your services as cleaners, it took a toll. They didn’t do it often because of that, but the payout was worth the work. No matter how many times you swore you would never do it again, you went back. Because it was hard to ignore the way it felt to flood a deserving someone’s mouth with the taste of their own blood, or to slip a knife in between their ribs and let it slide like butter and watch the light die. It was hard to ignore that you liked it, especially when it was so violent—one of the worst sins to commit, and you enjoyed it.

The act of killing had become cathartic for you. It made you feel more alive, reminded you that you had a beating, bloody heart, and a brain, and veins that pumped blood, and muscles that tore apart and rebuilt themselves stronger. Killing came easy when you didn’t know the target. It felt like a game.

Ezra didn’t enjoy it as much as you did—not to say he didn’t enjoy it at all, for he most certainly did. But he didn’t process it the same way you did. He saw killing as a means to survive and a means to get where he needed to go. He enjoyed turning it into a game, making fun out of whatever circumstance presented itself.

But that one—the last one—it had gone wrong. Messy, slow, noisy, choppy. There was only supposed to be one person in the house: typical target, a man who owed the wrong people a whole lot of money and refused to pay up.

One man.

One man was all you’d expected.

One man was all you’d been instructed would be in the condo.

He went down easy enough, quiet enough—Ezra snuffed him and stuffed him and you’d made to transfer his points into the right pockets.

And that was that.

They had tossed the bodybag over the high-rise balcony and into the pits of the bottomless highway next to the building, with a blinker-bomb inside just in case.

That was that.

Except it wasn’t, it was so fucking far from it.

Ezra, being himself, had wanted so bad to sneak in a quickie before heading back—an unholy, immoral ritual you two had initiated, to fuck where you killed—and who were you to protest? Who were you to say no to pretty words and soft eyes glittering with an untamed wild? To say no to the hands that already ripped at gear and pushed beneath underwear just to get a taste—you couldn’t, it was impossible.

Fresh off a high of adrenaline, pulsing with nervous energy—he was always so good, he always got you right where you needed and then that much further.

And Ezra—being himself—could not keep his fucking mouth shut. The stereotype about men holding in their moans, about them never whimpering or whining or groaning or grunting—yeah, that was a load of Bearkie-shit.

Maybe it held true for some men, but.

Not your Ezra. Not even a little bit.

He talked like heaven’s mouthpiece—or maybe the devil, given all the sinful things he’d whisper to you in the crux of any given night. He let loose whatever noise he deemed necessary to make.

They’d only just made it to the dried, bloody stain on the carpet (a bed on which to copulate), knocking over a floating hilolamp and pulling a chuckle from your paramour, when a shout rang through the apartment and shattered your moment into a thousand pieces.

It was only supposed to be one. One man.

Instead, you were met with another man who you’d later learn to be his brother, the target’s mother, and his pregnant wife.

The man held onto some type of curved sports bat, keeping it up threateningly as if warning you of something imposing. Ezra didn’t hesitate to shoot him in the head, not even bothering to get up from where he’d pressed his hips between your legs. But then you’d had to go and check the other rooms, effectively killing any mood the two of you had shared.

Because fuck, where the men had no fight in them, the women wouldn’t go down without a struggle. Or maybe it was that you pitied them, and it distracted you. They’d already peeked their heads out from behind the door of the master bedroom, worried and doe-eyed and determined.

Maybe if they hadn’t seen your faces—if they’d still been asleep while you swept for warm bodies after the first assailant—maybe they’d have gotten out with their lives. But who were you kidding? You killed without thought. You’d likely have put a pillow over their heads before aiming your thrower and firing twice for good measure, had you been sharp and not distracted by a tongue in your mouth.

Instead, Ezra had the audacity to try to bargain with them. Something about having a soft spot for mothers—his own having been a beacon in his life until she left him orphaned as a young boy. He made it a point not to kill women and children. It was one thing in which he remained unwavering. (He’d kill a grown woman if she gave him reason to, like he had on Exon-5, but that was another story for another time, and a different circumstance which called for such measures, namely that of protecting you.) But he should have known better, he should have known not to try something like that. He should’ve known that he’d have to let go of the final shred of morality he held onto.

So Ezra took down the old woman in a way you still have yet to ask about and don’t care to know; and you’d ended with the pregnant woman choking on her own blood when you twisted your knife into the dip of her throat—and you felt awful about it after watching her crumble beneath you, but she’d hit you upside the head with a thick textbook of outdated skimmer-craft modules and it made you see red among pinpricks of stars.

And that night, after all was said and done they’d spent a fortune on getting high—just to forget, just to be okay.

That night they’d locked themselves in a self-imposed prison of satin sheets and destructive tendencies. Two days buzzing with no food, little water, just him and you and needles and spoons and eyedroppers and blades and pills. Like you couldn’t breathe if he didn’t fill you with all of him, you wouldn’t be able to stand upright if he took his hands off you and stopped letting you flood your veins with a chemical glow. Heavy eyelids, messy sex, raw arms and red eyes.

It felt fucking awful, coping that way, but it felt too fucking good and it made you forget about the lives you’d taken in (somewhat) cold blood.

So after sprawling beside him on the gigantic plush bed with his hand ghosting over your spine, you’d found a part of yourself snagged at the corner of this wild-eyed man’s tar-black soul, and you had thought about what could have happened in an alternate universe.

A moment when he was the target, you were (somehow) the pregnant wife, and you watched him die before succumbing to the dark of your own soul escaping you. And it made you desperate to cling to him as he was in the moment, desperate to know that he was yours and you were his. It was then that you’d asked him if you could mark him. Claim him, to know that he wouldn’t leave you like that, and if he did, he’d have a piece of you everywhere. He’d go down with a piece of you.

Ezra had been delighted, of course, as he was always one for symbolism and deeper meaning even if he didn’t quite understand the rhetoric. And it wasn’t the first time you’d marked each other, just a different time with a different meaning. So he let you dip a sterile needle in ink and plunge it into the tender skin of his chest.

You had one too, a heart on your sternum. Nestled between your breasts, just close enough to your heart to feel like it mattered, like it meant that he felt the same. But you didn’t even let yourself go that far—you two were doped up and delirious and he enjoyed marking you in any way he could, so an opportunity to stick and poke his way further into your skin than he already had was an opportunity he could not pass up. At least, that was how you saw it. Nevertheless, it made you happy to see it there on his chest, and to have one that matched.

Ezra’s soft voice snapped you from the memory.

“What’s crossed your mind to make you so delicate in your touch, so solemn in your stare?”

You realized you had stopped your ministrations and had planted your palm on his chest, staring just over his shoulder and onto the canvas beside him. With a careful hand, you resumed gentle motion over his pecs, up his clavicle, his throat.

“Thinking about Beta-Mobilia,” you whispered, unable to meet his eye, “And after.”

“Mm,” he grunted in recognition, the vibration tickling your fingertips, “Regrettable night. Unavoidable, necessary. But I dwell in shame identical to yours.”

“I don’t deserve to be here after that. I didn’t deserve to live after the Exons, The Grime. Why am I still alive?”

“We’ve discussed this in great length by now, siren. Don’t doubt your existence. It’s beyond sense, beyond comprehension.”

You nodded, still unable to look at him. But then he latched onto your wrist, brushing his calloused thumb over the delicate skin there, and this time you couldn’t keep your gaze away from the soft smile that begged to form on his lips.

“And I appreciate your tender care, wildfire,” he hummed, eyes glittering up at you like two dark pools of amber, “Where would I be without it? Mmm…mhm. Dead, likely. Or bitter. Wicked with taciturn rage. No meaning could come from that.”

“You, bitter and unspeaking? Unthinkable, I’d sooner pronounce you dead,” you drawled, thankful for his kindness to grant distraction, and he granted you an eye-roll. But his expression softened when you sat him upright and maneuvered behind him, wiping down his back in gentle strokes. You folded the cloth over once the side turned brown with grime, and moved up to his neck, scrubbing over his shoulders and giving short strokes down his nape and behind his ears.

“So you planned to go ravage the Queen without me, huh?” you asked quietly, irked that he hadn’t even come to find you before setting out on that venture, “Planned to leave me to rot on the Green, take the money for yourself and steal away with the girl.”

Ezra sighed, and you could see from behind his shoulder how he worked his jaw, formulating what to say.

“Understand that I do nothing without you willingly. Birdie over there’s about as fleeting as a real one. But trust that I planned to come get you—I’d never leave you stranded. I just couldn’t introduce another person into the threadbare alliance I had forged until the time was right.”

“She likes me,” you countered, smiling over at Cee, who now laid with her back facing you as her ribs contracted with the first breaths of sleep. A sign of trust. You didn’t know when exactly you’d earned it, but you’d accept it nonetheless. She had also taken both of your throwers (something you protested and Ezra waved off), so maybe that helped.

“No doubt—there’s plenty to like about you.”

Ever the flatterer, even when delirious with pain.

With a coy smile, you scrubbed over his head and then his face, careful to avoid his snapping mouth that reached out ever so often to nip at your hand—there was that playfulness, the natural effervescence of his presence. When you decided your work was done, you eased him back down on the cot and he allowed it with no protest.

You fluffed his pillow and moved the book you’d stashed beside it. He turned his head and pressed his nose to the pillow, grunting in mild appreciation.

“Smells like you down here,” he remarked with a half-smile, eyes drooping, “You sleep on my cot while I was away?”

“I missed you,” you whispered, nodding, just now aware of how much his presence affected you. To think that you had resolved to try to move on without him—it seemed ridiculous now.

“I missed you,” he returned, “You haven’t the slightest idea how much I wanted you beside me. Number Two was a fond ally but not a companion. Nothing like the banter we exchange, nor the secrets we share.”

“They never talked. I imagine your time away was just as lonely as mine.”

“Absolutely. I regret agreeing to leave with Two. But you know we couldn’t have trusted them to stay at camp while we went off—not absolutely. Not when they’d never spoken a word,” he chuckled and then coughed, a quiet rumble you felt against your leg as it zigzagged through his chest.

Thank Kevva you had a plan to leave now. The spent filter had taken a toll on Ezra—and it wasn’t even his to begin with. He insisted on giving you his when the one your new suit came with was almost completely used up.

Fuck the man for caring about you; he’d gone soft during your time on the Green, and you hated how much you loved it. Hated it because he needed to focus on himself, needed to stop putting you before him. Hated it because every day it made you feel like somehow, he loved you back. That somehow, he thought of you as more than just a constant in his life, more than a body to fuck and a brain to pick.

You’d grown used to each other. But his unpredictability oozed into every aspect of himself, every nook and cranny of his life, and you were too worried about fucking up a good thing over a simple conversation. All it took was one sensitive topic breached and you’d surely find yourself shit out of luck. He was all you had left of the scraps of a fucked up life. Without him, you’d make do but not without a struggle and not without reluctance. Some part of you knew he’d be the same even if he initiated a split.

The thought had you hurrying to tug his shirt on before gathering the cloths and scurrying to place the bucket near the front of the tent.

And you shouldn’t have been so scared to be honest with him—the two of you rarely kept things to yourselves. But to love someone so fully within your heart, to never want to be away from them, to never grow tired of their presence no matter how tedious they may be or frustrating they could get, it scared you.

“A kiss for the wounded?” Ezra asked, brown eyes wide and mouth pouty enough to break you from your racing mind. You softened then, padding back over to him on tiptoe and settling back at his side for a brief moment.

With a gentle smile, you leaned down to grant him a kiss to his lips—the first one you’d shared with him in fuck knows how long. Too long, that was for sure, because when your lips notched with his chapped ones you melted, every worry and every qualm simply washed away in a swirl of pink pleasure.

You couldn’t help yourself—an indulgent, quiet moan pooled in your chest and slipped from your throat before you could stop it, and he hummed right back when his tongue pushed between your lips and you let him devour you. Always the ravager, ever a greedy bastard when it came to his pleasure, he licked up into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours. It took very little for you to melt right into his chest, pressing your own against him and whimpering when he sneaked his hand up the hem of your shirt to rub circles over the skin of your back. You remained sloppy and almost lazy but intentional as you held either side of his nape and toyed with the strands of his still-damp hair, pouring yourself into this kiss like you’d never kiss him again.

Fuck. Fuck, you wanted him so bad. You missed this man with every vibrating inch of you. You missed his body, you missed his voice calling to you from the very depths of himself, you missed everything about him, and you needed him as close as possible. Closer than close, you needed him.

But fuck. You couldn’t. When you pulled back for air, it didn’t surprise you when he pressed his palm flat on your back to keep you from moving too far.

“Mm, baby—you’re divine. I ache for you,” he all but whimpered into your mouth, breath brutally hot and heavy as he fed you his soul, “Come sit down on me—come take what’s yours. I want to feel you strangle me, show me just how much you—”

“No, Ez,” you cut him off in a biting whisper, lips kiss-swollen, hating how, if there had been literally any other person in the tent beside you, you might’ve taken him up on the offer, “I want to, I promise you that. But she’s a kid and I have limits—one of those limits is fucking in the same room as one.” You glared at him with half a heart, then leaned down to run the tip of your nose along the curve of his ear, smiling when he shivered, “I swear, once we get out of here I’ll make it up to you so many times you’ll forget your own name. You get first choice—however you want me, I’m yours to take.”

“Fuck—alright, I apologize for my eagerness,” he smiled, tilting his head to kiss your forehead.

“But,” you whispered, your heart racing as you glanced over to be sure Cee had fallen asleep before inching up to look back into his eyes. Fuck it, he deserved it. “If you stay quiet, I’ll take care of you right now.”

His eyebrows raised in deft interest at your offer.

“Will you let me take care of you, Sailor?”

Ezra would never admit it, and you’d never tease him about it because it made you feel some kind of way—but he fucking adored when you used his callsign. You were his siren, after all. Only made sense for him to draw to you like a dying man at sea when you called for him. You used it rarely aside from in the field, opting for your preferred chatterbox—because he was more that than anything else—so it came as a treat when you decided to pull it from your bag of tricks.

“I can hardly refuse such a tempting offer.”

“Quiet, though,” you reminded him, tiptoeing your fingers across his chest and tugging the waistband of his pants and his underwear down. Just enough to spring his cock free, which was already hard and leaking for you.

Fuck, he was such a gorgeous sight, and you couldn’t help the urge to cup his balls and nudge them free too, to admire every glorious inch of him.

Spreading your fingers out over his groin through the coarse curls gone wild with mistreatment, you paid extra attention to the white patch of hair ghosting over the base of his cock and spreading out near his abdomen before stopping abruptly on the left and diverging back down into dark brown. You remember when you’d first noticed it and had all but squealed in delight.

Every bit of him was a pleasant surprise, just as you’d found yourself more than eager to let him ruin you for anybody else with the sheer size of him.

Nobody fucked you like they were dying and you were salvation; nobody but him. And shit, did he tear you open. As if he’d carved a space inside of you just for him, each time he’d leave you with a hollow ache that only he could sate.

“Baby,” you purred in a whisper, kissing his hipbone and then leaning up to wrap your hand around the girth of him, rubbing your thumb over the weeping red of the head, “You’re so pretty for me like this.” Forever a glutton for compliments, he whimpered his soft appreciation and you hushed him accordingly. He was so thick, so big that you struggled to touch the tip of your middle finger to your thumb, so long that if you had planned to swallow him down tonight, you would’ve been needing your hand to help. But tonight you could not risk the absolutely filthy noise of you gagging on him; he’d likely cum faster and in less time to worry about waking up a certain tentmate, but you wanted to watch every muscle in his face twitch, wanted to see him take his pleasure unobstructed by your tears. This way was quieter.

So with that thought in mind, you shifted to straddle one of his thighs so you could watch him without tiring your hand in an awkward position. Then you let a string of spit drool down and over him and you gave him a twist and then more, sharp and sudden and fast in your movements as opposed to the slow, appreciative way you’d unsheathed him.

Ezra hissed out a curse, bucking up into your hand, “Shit, darlin’—“

Arching an eyebrow, you halted your work on him immediately. His pulse beat through the throbbing vein jutting out

“What did I tell you?” you snapped. With your free hand you reached up and wrapped your fingers around his neck, feeling the column of his throat contracting as he swallowed. Wide brown eyes looked up at you, a tinge of amusement in their stare.

“Are you gonna be good for me?” you asked in a low rasp, tightening your grip on his neck and giving him a little shake before going slack again, “I don’t wanna hear a single word come outta that pretty-boy mouth. If I do, I’m blue-balling you. Fair?”

Ezra nodded, his gorgeous fat mouth blessedly shut for once.

“Good boy,” you cooed, kissing him before forcing his jaw open and spitting in his mouth. It would’ve been cruel but you meant it so affectionately, and his gentle moan told you he was more than willing to accept it.

You felt his cock twitch beneath your fingers and you simpered, giving a little shimmy of your shoulders in appreciation.

Controlling this stubborn man, resorting him to silence made you feel powerful. It made you feel respected, worshipped; if the man who never shut up and always called the shots would gladly take the backseat and grant you the power to take charge, that meant more than you could wish for.

So you resumed pumping his cock, working him with both hands and then switching to hold onto his throat again before going back to two hands. The act still made quite some noise—filthy and wet and sloppy—but at this point you were less concerned about it than you had been prior. When you decided, despite his tip dripping precum, to spit down onto him again for the fun of it and twist him with a gentle tug, he couldn’t stop the whine that left him even with his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. It had you darting to clamp over his mouth, shooting daggers down at him as he stared up with a silent apology in his eyes, one you might have taken as genuine if not for the way the brown of his irises had disappeared into black, blown out with lust and glassy with pleasure.

“If you’re gonna cum, let me know so you can do it in my mouth. I just cleaned you up and I’m not doing it again.”

The last bit came out harsher than you meant but he took it all the same, biting back a grunt in the form of a sharp exhale as he twitched violently in your hand. Yeah, he didn’t really need to let you know when he was about to blow; you knew him too well. At that, you took it upon yourself to remove your hand from his mouth in favor of scooting to lean down and put your mouth over his angry, swollen tip, flinching at the way the frame creaked but ignoring it and opting to swirl your tongue over him instead.

“There it is,” you whispered with an arguably evil smile—quickly, before pulling him back into the heat of your mouth, resuming your work and grunting when he bucked up into your mouth, chasing the high you were drawing out of him.

Ezra came with a muffled, broken sob, his face buried in his arm as he bit down on his bicep, flexing and squeezing his fingers. A thick stream of his cum hit the roof of your mouth and you indulged him, taking him in further so you could swallow everything he gave you. Ropes and ropes and ropes of cum, like he hadn’t let himself get off in so long, like he’d been saving all of it for you. The thought made you whine around him, and you pulled off when he finished, flashing him your dripping tongue with his spend still on it and drawing it back in before any of it could spill.

“Holy fuck, baby,” he sighed, letting out a quiet, breathy laugh as he tugged on the front of your shirt to kiss you, tasting himself on your tongue.

This time when you pulled back and smiled, you granted him a toothy grin, goofy and knowing. It took you a minute not to giggle like a little kid as you carded your fingers through his hair. He grinned right back, still catching his breath. To you, he was gorgeous, inside and out, flaws and all. You wanted to fuck him right then. You wanted to make love to him, to let him fill you entirely and to sob into his mouth, showing him everything you couldn’t tell him.

“Get some sleep,” you settled on instead, slipping off the cot with little grace after replacing the waistband of his pants, “We head out early tomorrow.”

“Hey now, what about you?” Ezra asked, brows drawn together in concern that you wouldn’t find the same enjoyment he did.

“You’ll just owe me.” You winked then, and gave him one last kiss, which he hummed into with a great appreciative rumble.

Then you pressed your forehead into his, “Mine—you’re mine. Never leave me again or I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself. You’re everything.”

Because he was.

“Nothing without you.”

That was his response, always always always. To hear it again pricked tears in your eyes, so much so you squeezed them shut.

And once again, you caught yourself wanting to say it. This time it had ghosted in your throat, almost making it into the curve of your mouth for you to hold its shape and give voice to a thought. But you stopped it before it could get far. Those three words, the same ones that now haunted you since you’d decided to indulge in every reminiscence involving them. Somehow he had come back to you, a feat which could not be commended enough, but now you ached for him—yearned for him even stronger than if he had well and truly died.

As you settled down onto the floor beside him, those three torturous words surfaced into a memory. The one that, among other fears, made you ever so hesitant to admit just how much you loved him.

————————————

“—In that vein, I don’t find myself in particular need of a great, star-shattering love story. If love is all-encompassing, I can do without the obstacle. Romanticizing my life and its quarrels is satisfaction enough.”

You didn’t know why you were still listening. You just knew that if Ezra kept it up, you’d find a way out of this cell just to break into his and strangle him. Anything to get him to shut the hell up. Banging your head methodically against the wall that separated the two of you, you didn’t even try to hold back your groan of displeasure as he rambled on.

“Now, don’t doubt my skill in worship. I have plenty of practice in the art of copulation”—you could hear the shit-eating grin on his face—“To say I haven’t affixed my interests on one soul or another at some point in time would ordain me a liar. I simply prefer to remain lovers in action…and not in name nor feeling. Companionship…yes, it’s something we all yearn for. It can’t be helped. A warm body, a brain to pick. All wonderful facets to enjoy for the sake of one’s own baser desiderata. But—“

“Shut up,” you bit out through gritted teeth, tugging at the roots of your hair when he kept going and you had to repeat yourself, “Shut up, you goddamned chatterbox. I don’t give a fuck about your love life. Why are you even talking about this?”

A brief silence occupied the space, as if he was thoroughly perplexed by your outburst. Then he let out a huffed laugh, amused.

“You inquired about the specifics of my occupation, little thorn.”

Every time he used that nickname for you—the thorn in my side—it made you bristle. Especially when he used it almost affectionately, soothingly, full of calm and charm that had you balling your fists and pricking the skin of your palms with your fingernails. You despised him, and he treated your existence as a joke, or as a little pet he would grab from its cage and admire before tossing it back and neglecting it until he deemed its presence acceptable again. Everything was funny. Everything could be laughed at. Sometimes you didn’t mind when the guards came to beat him bloody; it made him shut up, whether from pain or because he had passed out.

“Prospecting has nothing to do with love,” you snapped, shoulders tense despite the ache in your body. If these fuckers holding you captive didn’t kill you, the stress of surviving next to this fucker surely would.

“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed, suddenly serious, “Love for others, at least. Love for the dig, love for the hunt and the adventure—that’s a different narrative altogether. Which is why I deemed it appropriate to explain such measures. The lifestyle I settled for is no small undertaking. It comes with sacrifice.”

His condescension was unintentional but still stabbed and poked at you like keepers at a circus.

————————————

It comes with sacrifice. That it did.

That long-ago night haunted you to this day.

But Ezra had his mind focused on softer dreams as he broke you from your self-destruction once more.

“Nights like these make me keen to hear you sing for me again,” he lilted out through the dark, a reminiscent simper pulling at his mouth and crinkling his eyes as he shifted to look down at you, “The melody of your voice haunts the halls of my midnight reveries. But it is such a sweet possession—as though I willed a ghost to enchant me with her gift. A siren indeed. Lure me into the sea of your deception, try to pull me under like the rest of them. But not me. No…not me—I float like driftwood in the breeze…follow the tides of your affection. Somehow I remain unscathed, and you lap at me in gentle waves.”

“Such powerful words from a man who should be asleep,” you chuckled quietly, pressing your lips to the back of his hand where you held onto it now, fingers laced.

“I am but a vendor of poetry. And you, a weaver of melody. Sing for me, siren,” he murmured, his voice thick with the drowsy pull of lassitude. He hadn’t asked that of you in so long you had almost forgotten what it felt like to hear it. Almost. And you would have agreed to it, but—

“No, the girl, she—“

“I don’t mind,” Cee interrupted, quiet and soft. It surprised you; you thought she had fallen asleep—you didn’t want to wake her with your singing. And then you were—

Shit. You sincerely hoped she had just woken up due to Ezra’s long-winded soliloquy about your singing, and hadn’t heard anything else beyond that. Mm, no. You think she would’ve said something about how fucking gross it was. Or pulled a thrower on you.

“As well you shouldn’t,” Ezra chuckled, turning his head to grin at the girl where she had turned to face him on the opposite cot, “She sings like Kevva strung her throat with gold. Or the very strings of a harp.”

You blushed and ducked your head into your shoulder, embarrassed by his flattery. Looked to him and found his honey-dark eyes drinking you in from above, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he flattened his palm over your chest and rubbed it affectionately. “What would you like to hear?” you asked, running a hand over your hair and shifting on the floor to calm your nerves.

It was just Ez.

…and a girl who harbored a teen angst bigger than ten moons; fuck if you wanted her to judge you.

“Whatever tickles your fancy,” he replied, his grin wider now that you’d agreed, “You know I’m not particular to any one hymn—I find myself enraptured by it all.”

“Okay.” You pondered for a moment before settling on one of your favorites.

Then you sang.

Quietly, nervously at first in an unpracticed rasp, then growing more steady and mellow and soft.

Some swirling folk melody from your childhood in your native tongue, one you’d never forget even if someday you lost your memory. A lullaby for village children; a lilting work song for the women to hum when laundering clothes at the stream, soothing the babies strapped to their backs or their chests or both.

It told the story of a curious young girl who loved the stillness of the ocean, found peace in its silky depths. She liked the silence so much that she would spend hours beneath the water, training to hold her breath and exploring the creatures of the reef and listening to the wavering silence.

Until one humming summer night she swam so deep the water turned black. She was scared she wouldn’t be able find her way back home but she reveled in the quiet—the quiet that not even the nighttime forest could provide, nor the village when the hunters and scavengers left for work. It was then that she saw a light shining from the deep, and decided to chase it.

Down, down, down.

And down. Until the light became so bright it surrounded her, seeped into her until she did not know where she began and it ended. No pain, no fear surrounded her. Just a sense of calm, and peace.

And she became the moon, the biggest one in the sky. The silence up there was incomparable.

The song was meant as a warning to the village children not to wander too far from the town and somehow find themselves in the cove breaching the outer mountain range. A warning to stay away, else you’d become one of the many moons in the sky, never to return to your family and the life you loved.

But you’d always found it more compelling than that, more meaningful, because the story originated from a similar legend of the moon goddess your village worshipped, the deity of the biggest satellite in your skies. The minor difference came in the detail that she chose to become the Great Moon after divine conversation instead of chasing a light down into the deep on a whim. And there was a ceremony held to initiate her transition into a celestial body.

When you’d wrapped up the lullaby you found yourself more at peace than you’d felt in a long time. You didn’t like to think about your planet, nor your village, nor the tragedies that occurred there. But this memory was a happy one, filled with sleepy eyes and chubby fingers grabbing onto mothers’ cloaks, and getting tucked into warm soft blankets by a fireplace.

“Sweet siren,” Ezra whispered in a drowsy slur, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as he turned to rest on his back, “Never fail to soothe me even when ’m in utmost anguish.”

And with that, he left you in silence, and you knew he wasn’t far from sleep.

By the time his breath evened out, you felt your eyes drooping.

Fuck, you were exhausted.

This spin had been arguably more eventful than any you’d had in a long while, and it didn’t occur to you that you could be tired when you’d hardly done much until the action rolled in.

The floor was actually not half bad, given that you laid on the tarp that absorbed heat but quickly cooled when you moved. The nights here got cold, surprisingly. But Ezra’s hand hanging down and resting across your chest felt so good. The weight of him, the heat of him, it grounded you. You circled patterns into his upturned palm until you became too sleepy for that, settling on threading your fingers with his and feeling his pulse beneath your fingertips.

How dare he think you’d care for him less with only one arm? If anything, it showed his perseverance, his will to move forward and make hard decisions. Only something a man with determination could do.

He felt so warm and sure—steady. He was safe now that he had come back. You felt the inky black of sleep begin to wash over you as organized thought became jumbled feeling.

You didn’t have to worry anymore, not about his whereabouts. Everything was alright. It was as good as it had been in quite a while.

Everything would be alright, you could just…

Just…

“I wish my parents had loved each other like that,” Cee murmured in the quiet dark of the tent, rendering you wide awake with a jolt, as if someone had plunged a shot of adrenaline into your chest.

“They separate?” you managed, knowing it came out strange but not wanting to confirm or deny anything about you and Ezra. The silence that greeted you implied that she had had no intention of you hearing it. But she spoke regardless.

“No,” she scoffed, then went quiet for a moment, “My mom died when I was little. And I can’t remember what they were like together. We were always working so there wasn’t a lot of time for love between them.”

Oh. An orphan. It softened you a little more for her, made you more sympathetic to the fact that Ezra had killed her last living parent. You were an orphan too. So was he.

“We’re all missing parts of our family in some way or another. People with worldly attachments don’t usually sign up for this level of intensity. Not the strays, anyhow.”

“But you have each other,” she insisted.

“By chance alone. We didn’t start off liking each other. And we’re not…married, or anything.”

The last bit came out strangled—you’d never…said something like that aloud.

You and Ezra, married? It was odd, to say the least. You never thought of yourself as one to desire marriage in any respect—ceremonial, legal, the like. It just didn’t sit well with you. Too many complications, a lot of governing body involvement that you didn’t care for.

And Ezra…he wasn’t too fond of it either. But not because he didn’t want it, that much he’d admitted to you one night after admitting the complications of his feelings on his love life, ones that somewhat contradicted the first time he told you about it all; he couldn’t have it, he’d never let himself believe even a fraction of him deserved it. The life of a floater—and sure, just as Cee’s parents had prospected and been married (you assumed) and had a kid, many others did the same. But then you supposed it ended with kids like Cee, and she was lucky to not lay dead next to her idiot father, or trapped and sold as a body in the Dark-Spawn Trades. Lucky Ezra wasn’t filthy and depraved, lucky you were once young and scared like her and so took it upon yourself to keep her in your sights for now.

“How’d you meet?”

A chuckle bubbled out of you as you sat up and ran your fingers through Ezra’s hair, watching his chest rise and fall in even strokes, thinking back on that night so long ago.

“Stealing supplies from the same drop company. Two feral dogs fighting over who deserved it more. We bickered and threatened so much we lost track of time and made a mess and a ruckus and got caught.” A smile threatened to break your features and you let it, for just a moment. It faded as you recalled your awful encounter, “Captured, tortured for information because they thought we worked for a rival mining company. They wanted the locations of dig-sites we didn’t have, mining techniques we didn’t know. When he brought up the Wastes earlier…that’s what he meant. Surprised we didn’t die, but they really thought we were valuable or something.”

You gave yourself a minute before continuing. In a panic, you rubbed circles over the tattoo on the web of Ezra’s hand between his thumb and forefinger, trying to ground yourself as wicked, blood-specked memories flooded your head.

Deep breath. You’re safe, he’s here. This will be good to get off your chest. You’ve never spelled it out to anyone before. Nobody’s ever asked. Maybe this girl is a gift from the universe, maybe she was sent here to give you space to heal. Deep breath. You’re safe. He’s here.

You eventually pressed the back of his limp hand to your cheek, and found your voice once more. You didn’t need to worry about waking him; once he conked out into REM sleep it took a freight train to wake him up. At least, when he was with you he always slept deeper. He’d told you one night; how it helped to have you there, like you dragged all the bad memories and nightmares away, pulling them so far out of reach he only found thoughtless, worry-free sleep.

“Hearing someone’s screams from the other side of a cell wall makes you more susceptible to care about them. A bonding experience, so to speak. He’d talk to me for hours on the nights they made us sit and anticipate another session. Recited poetry, recalled stories from his time as a prospector as an escape from our reality. I would sing for him, when we knew the guards had left. It was how we got to know each other. It’s—that’s why he calls me his siren. The reason I call him a chatterbox, among other obvious explanation.”

“How’d you get out?” Cee asked, resting her cheek on her hands as she laid on her side, watching you with keen interest.

“Killed them,” you rasped, not wanting to go into the gory details, “Every single one.”

For nights you had laid awake, haunted by memories of blood staining your only pair of clothes, blood splattering into your mouth, chunks of brain matter on Ezra’s gloves as he dragged you through a maze of tents and established buildings, viscera on your recovered suit, the way you’d had to swallow bile back down your esophagus at the sight of all the lives you’d taken. But you had to do it; it’s what you told yourself when the images would replay every time you closed your eyes.

Vengeance, necessity, paired with Ezra’s seemingly insatiable bloodlust—and your own. Your own shameful desire to incite violence, one you bred in the early years of your youth and had stuffed away until needed.

But you hadn’t been able to deny that, when Ezra shot a man who’d pinned you to the ground and then finished him off with a knife spurting blood out his neck, it stirred your blood something wild. Hearing him panting through the transmitter, grunts and curses as he tore through humans and humanoids and alien creatures alike right beside you. Hearing him call out targets, watching your six, taking single-word direction from you when you did the same.

They worked like a well-oiled machine, like you two had never not known the other. And he was sloppy in his technique, grounded more in brute force than strategy—but you made up for that in quick, evasive maneuvers and stealth. Both of you had near-perfect aim and could work around the clunky gear of your suits.

Messy—pools of blood, the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage crushed beneath your hands and your feet and your knife and whatever other weapon you scavenged along the way.

It felt like a ritual. A baptism of carnage that ensured neither one of you could live without the other.

So of course, when it all was over and the last vertebra snapped—

—there had been filthy, unhinged, surely unsanitary, bio-hazardous fucking in a tent surrounded by carnage.

Fucking in way you could only describe as feral.

Unrestrained.

Hot, Kevva’s saints was it brutally hot and so needy—but also so, so tender.

Full of soft emotion. Unspoken, even for Ezra’s standards. Almost loving.

Your aching bodies, exhausted and weak and battered, dragged lazily against one another once both of you had ceased the initial writhing pace of passion and the adrenaline ebbed. It tasted tinny like blood and musky like spit and salty with sweat and tears, and if nothing more, it was real. Whispering about how fuck, they’d made it and god, they were on the same level, we made it, baby—can’t live without you, I need you I need you I need you—

That day was quite possibly your favorite memory as well as one of your darkest. The day that you knew, in the charred, most twisted part of you, that you’d follow this man to the ends of every planet, to the far reaches of the universe—and he’d very well do the same.

Of course, you shared none of that with Cee.

“We took down the main base of the entire company. They were small but well-endowed. Got to transfer points into our accounts and sort through the mining equipment and the food,” you offered instead after a long bout of silence, “And the spoils of their labor. We were rich, could have retired early.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You debated whether to lie or tell her the truth, deciding on the latter. This girl wasn’t a threat, she genuinely wanted to know. “Ezra and I have—had a certain…interest in finding thrill wherever we can.”

Cee quirked an eyebrow, and you elaborated, “It’s not something to romanticize, we certainly weren’t smart about our spending. Gambling, drugs, slingshot scooter racing, smuggled creature ring-fights. The risk makes winning worth it. It was addicting. We earned a lot. Uncountable amounts of money. But we spent it all and then spent more. Pulled stunts that not even the most daring would try. Heists, intel-theft for enemies of certain people. We got caught up in it. Eventually drowned in a swamp of debt and unrequited favors. Got put on watchlists by the head crime syndicate and peace officers alike in the Core Worlds because we got cocky. Sloppy. So many people want our heads on a stake that we’d be better off dying out here. It’d be ironic, given the executions we deserve.”

You shuddered at the thought of Karolclan and their unusual procedures for punishment. They wanted you the most—you owed them the most. Them and Omni-Five. But Karolclan was decidedly worse.

“Why are you still mining? Wouldn’t it be easier to hide somewhere less dangerous?”

“We have debts to pay, bird,” you sighed, fond of the nickname Ezra gave her as it fit her well, “It’s the only honest work we can get without a biotracker recognizing our scans or someone realizing that the burner names and scouting codes we give them are bullshit. We work alone—no drop company, no mining corps. Until we can get our names cleared and our bio-scans off the watchlist, we can’t do shit else.”

If nothing more, Karolclan did allow debt payoff. But only if you could evade their capture, and only if you had the means to satisfy compounded interest. They were brutal, ruthless.

“He said you had a crew…and a ship…before you ended up stranded.”

“We did. A group of people like us. But you can imagine that a group of outlaws don’t always see eye to eye—buncha hotheaded criminals. Fought over aurelac, argued over fair shares, resources, everything.”

That wasn’t the whole story.

It started as a dispute over aurelac, but had quickly turned into a spat against Ezra, why he had so many successful harvests and surely he was stealing or cheating, how it wasn’t fair that you two were attached at the hip and didn’t section off when you split into groups to cover more land. In the heat of argument and the desperation of man, that had morphed into threats against you—Why don’t you fucking share her, Ezra? We all have needs and she’s barely good at the dig-sites. Put her to use somewhere else or we’ll find a use for her, and that devolved into Might take her right from under you if you don’t watch yourself, don’t be surprised if you hear her struggle tonight.

You had gotten used to the crude commentary, the snickers and wolf-whistles when you bent over, and if they had tried to somehow steal you away in the night, they’d have been reminded that you slept fully armed and showed no mercy to anyone who touched you unless they knew just where to start—and only one person did.

But that…that had not gone over well with him. It ended before you even knew what he did, and pretty soon you had a dead crewmate spilling blood over your boots while the familiar sound of throwers charging up rang in your ears, all of them pointed at the man panting beside you. The only one from the group to live and remain on the Green had been Two, and honestly you were never fond of them but weren’t surprised when they helped you and Ezra take the heat off your backs—they always teamed up with you two and they were good at what they did. It was a shame they were gone—despite their silence and threatening demeanor and sometimes uncalculated moves in a plan, they never made a move to harm either of you; they just wanted to harvest and get out like you did. Better them than Ezra, though. You’d have genuinely lost your mind if they had shown up in his stead.

“Did you kill the crew too?”

“Only a few,” you said honestly, “The others left us stranded when they realized we’d kill them next. Number Two was our only ally. Now they’re dead.”

You laid back down and put Ezra’s hand across your chest again, “Get some rest now. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. And if you choose to kill him while we sleep—kill both of us.”

You didn’t know why you’d felt compelled to say that, but revealing such a dark part of yourself to her convinced you that she’d plant a bolt in you or Ezra’s head and run. Ezra was the more likely target, given his history with the girl. It was irrational, for the most part; if she truly wanted him dead she would have let his wound kill him. Or she would have shot him sooner. But you couldn’t be too sure.

And you’d sooner die than wake up to him cold next to you.

#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra x f!reader #ezra (prospect) x reader #anya writes #ohhhh boy! a second installment #pedrostories #ezra smut #cacoethes

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