#fits queue like a glove | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kdogreads · 10 months

Note

Y/n is close with Abby like the mom figure to Gibbs being her dad figure. Gibbs and y/n have only ever had words in passing They are always friendly with a flirt now and then. One day Gibbs uses Abby's cot to get some rest he wakes up to y/n and Abby talking about blind dates.

"Y/n I'm gonna find you a companion in life. Just do one more date"

*y/n sighs* "I'm just not the type of person people are looking for and that's ok"

*as she leaves the lab* "Abs some people are ment to be alone"

Gibbs comes out telling Abby that he will be taking y/n on the next date.

This is such a sweet idea!! I’m sticking it with this request bc I feel like they just fit together so perfectly. I hope that’s okay by both of you 🥹 thank you so much for the love!

Jethro Gibbs x f!reader

TW: alcohol, a smidge of angst (reader thinks she’ll be forever alone), mostly just a heap of fluff

A/N: I’ve never been able to use any of my nerdy lab knowledge in a fic before so sorry if I went a little overboard lmao (I’m a pre-analytical training coordinator and spend my days teaching people to be labbies basically). Thank you so so so much for reading! ❤️

Just before you left for the day, you decided to head down to the lab check in on Abby. It was quality control week, meaning she had to got to run test patients on all of her instruments, confirm the results are what they should be, order biological indicator tests to make sure no foreign bacteria snuck its way in where it shouldn’t have, then do it all over again a dozen or so times to make sure the results match up.

Not that Abby is anything less than capable of completing the quarterly checks, it just gets very tedious, and Abby is not a fan of busy work.

“Hey Abs,” You greeted her sweetly.

“There is no Abby, only QC’s,” She quipped back in her best robot voice.

You only chuckled in response and grabbed a pair of gloves without another word. You started resulting the tests in her queue, a feeble attempt to help the boring task move along faster.

The two of you worked quietly on opposite sides of the lab for another half hour until you moved the last tube into the “finished” tray.

“Wanna grab some dinner?” You questioned, removing your gloves and heading over to the sink to wash your hands.

“No, thanks; already ate,” Abby responded without looking up from her work, “Hey! How did that date go last night? I can’t believe I forgot until now! Tell me everything.”

Abby turned towards you excitedly, her eyes bright and body fidgeting in anticipation. You swear she was more invested in your love life than you were sometimes.

You started to shake your head “no” and Abby let out a loud groan.

“Ugh! I had such a good feeling about this one,” She spoke in disappointment.

“You said that the last time, too, Abs,” You leaned against the counter and crossed your arms lazily, “He asked me to meet his mom. On the first date!”

Abby visibly cringed and put a hand lovingly on your bicep.

“I’m gonna find you a companion, I swear it!”

You let out a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh before you speak, “It’s okay, really. I’m just not the type of person anyone is looking for, and I can’t find the person I’m looking for. It’s just the way it is, Abby.”

She sent you a sympathetic look, squeezing your arm in reassurance. Abby pulled you into a tight hug, like she was trying to will a new love life into you with her bare hands.

You sent her a loving smile when she finally pulled away from you.

“Well, I’m gonna head out. You sure I can’t drag you away for something to eat?”

“No, no. I have too much to get done,” She motions to the empty tubes behind her, “Don’t lose hope, Boss Lady. Your perfect man is out there.”

You headed towards the door before turning around to tell her goodbye, “Some people are just meant to be alone. It’ll be me and the dogs forever,” You smiled slightly, “Goodnight, Abs.”

You made it almost out the door of the NCIS building before you realized you left your purse in the lab. With a huff, you begrudgingly dragged yourself back into the elevator, down to the lab, and right up to the doorway. The surprise of two distinct voices coming from within stopped you in your tracks.

“Gibbs! You can’t sneak up on me like that! I didn’t know you were using the cot.”

“Sorry, Abs. You often set her up on blind dates?”

“Yes! I am determined to find my wonderful boss’ soulmate somewhere in the greater DC area.”

Jethro chuckles.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before now! She’s just your type, Gibbs, and she’s so fun and cryptic just like you and—“

“Abby,” He paused, “Way ahead of you.”

You decided now was your chance. Knocking gently on the doorframe, both of them turned their heads to see who was there.

“Hey Abby; Jethro,” You smiled, trying not to act like you just heard their whole conversation about you, “I just, uh, left my purse.”

Abby looked around and spotted your bag, handing it to you with a cheeky grin on her face. You all stood there in semi-uncomfortable silence for a beat before Gibbs spoke.

“Have any plans tomorrow night, Red?”

You straightened up a bit at his question and the playful nickname. You are just his type.

“Um, no. I don’t. Not yet, anyway.” You tried to keep an even tone, but the nerves and excitement were practically seeping out of your pours.

“My place, 7 o’clock,” Gibbs said in his nonchalant tone, “Casual. Hope you like bourbon.”

He winked at you and walked out of the lab before you could even exhale the breathe you hadn’t known you were holding. You looked at Abby, your eyes wider than ever before.

“Eee! I’m so excited!” Abby squeals and flings her arms around you.

You couldn’t even put any thoughts together. Your heart pounded out of your chest and your hands must’ve been shaking, the adrenaline of the situation just starting to wear off.

“Come on,” Abby said while sliding her jacket off the back of her chair, “I’ll finish up tomorrow. We have to plan your date. With Gibbs!”

You let out a laugh and wrapped an arm over Abby’s shoulders, heading out to grab something to eat.

You nervously sifted through your tops, trying to find something that felt “casual,” as Jethro had requested, but still nice enough for a date.

Oh screw it.

You grabbed a plain olive green hoodie, the big white letters reading NCIS. You figured if he asked for casual, he would get casual.

The drive to Gibbs’ house went quickly. You’d been there once before, when Abby insisted Gibbs needed company one New Year’s Eve. You didn’t end up staying very long, but he left an impression on you. After the visit, Gibbs started stopping to say “hello” in the hallways at work, or bringing a coffee up your office every now and then.

One detail you remembered from your brief visit is the front door was never locked, so you didn’t bother to stop and knock.

Walking through the doorway, your eyes immediately gravitated to the only light on in the house — the one leading down the stairs to the basement. You took this as your sign to invite yourself downstairs.

The stairs creaked slightly as you made your way down, the sounds of sandpaper meeting wood filled your ears.

“You found the place,” Jethro’s strong voice greeted you as you stepped into his workspace.

“How could I forget?” You teased back.

Jethro let out a honey-soaked chuckle and offered you a stool to sit on. He poured you two fingers out of his half-empty bottle of bourbon, then did the same for himself. He tipped his glass to you and you tapped yours against it with a slight clink.

You shut your eyes as the amber liquid burned down your throat. Instinctively, you leaned back against the counter and let out an exhale.

“Long day?” Jethro joked, but you could see the genuine care when you opened your eyes to meet his gaze.

“Long week,” You responded before taking another sip, “Abby’s up to her eyeballs in evidence to examine, plus all this QC crap takes so much time. I just feel bad I can’t help her more. I didn’t realize taking the lead forensics position would take me out of the lab so much.”

Jethro nodded in understanding, one corner of his mouth tilting up slightly as he poured more into your already empty cup.

“Abby’s the best of the best,” He said with confidence, placing a hand reassuringly on your knee, “She’ll get it done.”

You smiled and nodded back at him, placing your hand over his as a silent thank you.

You were surprised when Jethro broke the comfortable silence first.

“You know she thinks the world of you, Red,” He said with a look in his eye, one that almost looked like pride if you had to guess.

You felt your cheeks get hot and you looked down at your shoes, unsure if the liquor or his sweet comment made you blush.

You took another sip before lifting your head back up and responding.

“Same goes for you, Jethro,” You reached out to grab the hand that rested on your knee just moments before, “I think if she had time to write a book about how much she adores you, she would.”

He laughed, a full laugh, glazed in honey and bourbon and it warmed you to your core. You thought that sound could end wars, cause the devil himself to crack a smile. You would have melted right there if he didn’t jolt you out of your trance a moment later.

He took the glass from your hand and whispered a quick, “c’mere.”

He took your hand and led you over to the boat he was building. He showed you a few small hand tools and gave you a quick explanation of their use.

Before long, his hands were resting over yours, your back pressed gently against his chest as he showed you the different sanding techniques he used. Though every inch of his body was pressed against yours, you’d never felt so free, so held and yet, so comfortable.

It was a quiet few minutes before he spoke, his lips inches from your ear.

“You ever done this before?” His breath tickled your neck and sent a shiver down your spine.

“Never,” You breathed, trying your hardest not to just melt into his strong arms.

“You’re a natural then.”

He slowly peeled his hands back from yours, allowing you to keep sanding on your own for a moment. You felt his strong hands slide down your arms, your sides, before settling on your hips.

Your eyelids fluttered, suddenly aware of the effect he had on you. Your movements halted and Jethro raised a hand cautiously to your chin, turning your head to face him.

“This okay?” He questioned gently, a worried look settled into his furrowed brows.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, turning your whole body to face his, your arms sliding over his broad shoulders to rest at the back of his neck.

“Only if you intend to kiss me, Jethro,” His name danced from your lips in a whisper.

A soft smile spread across his face, the worry melting away in an instant.

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

Before you could comprehend, the hand that was still on your chin drifted to hold you just below your ear, and his lips melted into yours in a sweet, slow kiss.

He tasted of bourbon and something you were sure was just distinctly him.

You leaned further into him as your lips met over and over again. His presence wasn’t demanding, but invasive. You felt Jethro in every inch of your body; his taste, his smell, the way his fingers gripped into your hip like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

The seconds felt like hours before you separated your lips, both of you desperate for oxygen. Your chest heaved slightly as he drew small circles onto your lower back absentmindedly; his forehead leaning down to rest on yours.

“Do you bring all the girls down here and make out like teenagers?” You teased, still slightly out of breathe.

He threw his head back in another honey-glazed laugh. It invaded your sense just as his kiss had.

God, you though, I could listen to that forever.

“No,” He huffed, a wide smile still spread across his face, “Only the special ones.”

“Ohh,” You exaggerated, “So I’m special, then?”

He only growled an Mmmhhmm before his lips pressed into yours once more, this time slightly quicker than the time before.

“Hungry?” He asked simply, prying his lips from yours, a slight groan falling from your lips as he pulled away.

“Starving,” You replied without missing a beat.

He raised an eyebrow and leaned slightly further away from you, letting him see your full expression.

“For food, sweetheart,” He jested, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“I know!” You squeaked, swatting his shoulder playfully in protest.

He chuckled that charming laugh and nodded his head towards the stairs.

“Well, come on then,” He spoke after pressing a quick peck to your lips.

You followed Jethro upstairs where you enjoyed a delicious homemade dinner and spend the rest of the evening basking in each other’s company.

You sighed as you reached the top of the stairs, just outside your office. Since you rarely locked the door, you turned the handle and swung it open. You were surprised to see the light already switched on. A pit formed in your stomach as your eyes scanned the room before—

“Jesus, Abby!” You found her sitting at your desk chair, literally shaking in anticipation, “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” She quickly approached you, taking your bag out of your hand and setting it down in the desk, “Sooo? I’m dying to know! Tell me everything!”

“Ab,” You smiled at her an tilted your head slightly in a playful manner, “A girl should never kiss and tell.”

Abby squealed in excitement and pulled you into a hug, clearly understanding that it went well enough for you to kiss him.

“Please tell me you’re seeing him again. Please, please, please,” She practically begged with her hand folded in front of her.

“Tomorrow, after work,” You smiled as she squealed and pulled you into another excited hug.

“This is the best day ever!” She declared and sat in the comfy chair across from your desk, determined to get all the details from your life-changing first date with Jethro Gibbs.

#leroy jethro gibbs #jethro gibbs #jethro gibbs x reader #ncis fluff #ncis fanfiction #ncis imagine #ncis gibbs #kdogreads #gibbs x reader #reader insert #ncis x reader #abby x fem!reader #abby sciuto

636 notes · View notes

glorious-spoon · 7 months

Note

Thinking about the prompt "no, you’ll get an infection." since I just saw a gifset of our beloved firemen ripping open packages with their teeth. 😄

thank you! have a bit of established-relationship dorks on a very serious rescue mission.

"Buck," Eddie says, in the deeply patient tone that means he's refraining from adding, what the fuck is wrong with you. Buck's found that most people have a version of that tone, at least around him. Eddie doesn't employ his all that often; most of the time, Eddie is on board with pretty much anything Buck suggests. Digging around in storm drains for a missing stuffed animal is the limit, apparently.

"I've almost got it," Buck says, twisting slightly to wedge his shoulder against the grate. His fingers just brush the soggy synthetic fur of the small purple stuffed rabbit a few feet down.

"Isn't this how that kid lost his arm in that movie?"

He twists back to stare up at Eddie, who is backlit by the midday sun with the carnival spread out behind him. His hands are on his hips and his expression is half-amused, half-exasperated. "What?"

"Pennywise? Evil clown monster that lives in the sewers and eats children? It's based on a Stephen King novel."

"I repeat," Buck says. "What?"

"Right, I forgot that you don't watch anything other than nature documentaries and whatever Christopher adds to your Netflix queue."

"Bold words for a guy who's memorized every single telenovela from the past twenty years."

Eddie scoffs. "Come on. Who knows what's down there, you're not even wearing gloves, you're going to slice your hand open on some grimy piece of metal and get an infection."

"I'm being careful." Buck turns his head to squint down into the storm drain. It's too dark to see much of anything other than the faintly oily glimmer of water. There are cigarette butts and greasy fast food wrappers floating in it, and it doesn't smell great, but he's definitely dealt with grosser over the course of his career. Besides. He's so close. If he just stretches—

His fingers brush the rabbit's ear again. It topples over into the grimy water with a splash, and Buck swears under his breath. The toy is now half-submerged and several inches out of reach no matter how much he stretches.

"Buck," Eddie says again, softer. "Come on. It's just a stuffed animal."

"That Christopher won."

A sigh. "He's thirteen. I don't think this is going to break his heart, sweetheart."

Buck knows that this is probably objectively true. Chris was gleefully triumphant about winning at balloon darts even after Eddie grumbled about rigged games, but the stuffed rabbit itself seemed like an afterthought. He shoved it into Buck's hands with a quick grin before going off with his friends twenty minutes ago, and Buck is—stupid, probably, for the fact that this is sort of breaking his heart.

He hasn't thought about that giant stuffed bear that they won at the pier, the one that must have washed out to sea along with half of the Los Angeles coastline, in years. He doesn't even know if Christopher remembers it. He was little. And it wasn't exactly the most memorable part of the day. The little stuffed rabbit, which fits in the palm of Buck's hand—and incidentally, between the holes of a storm drain grate—makes a much more convenient souvenir. And it felt kind of—nice, having a sort of redo on that, even if Chris doesn't remember.

But Eddie's right. Short of trying to pry up the grate cover—which he could absolutely do, if he had a halligan handy—there's no way he's going to reach it. He sighs, resting his forehead on the metal frame, then wriggles his arm out of the grate and sits back on his heels, defeated. "Okay, fine. You win."

There's no response. When he turns around, Eddie is nowhere to be seen. Feeling more than a little put-out, Buck straightens up and looks around. It's not that crowded here, but there are enough passers-by that Buck's been getting a few strange looks, which he's been ignoring. The two streets to his left are closed-off for the carnival; to his right is a black-and-white parked across the median with a bored-looking beat cop directing traffic, and a couple of sanitation workers in hi-vis vests. Eddie is talking to one of them, but he glances back like he can tell Buck is watching him.

Buck spreads his hands in question, and Eddie holds up a finger, turning back toward the guy he was just talking to. Buck slumps, then sits down on the curb, staring forlornly at the storm drain.

A moment later, footsteps approach.

"Come on, stop pouting, scoot over," Eddie says as his shadow falls across Buck.

"I'm not pouting," Buck grumbles, but he scoots over.

"Sure you're not," Eddie says agreeably, sitting down next to him. "Here. You think this'll work?"

Buck blinks at him, then looks down at the trash picker Eddie is holding out to him, which has LA - DPW scrawled down one side in Sharpie. "Did you…"

"I mean, I had to give them a whole sob story, so you might as well try it," Eddie says, wrapping his hand around Buck's knee and jostling him gently. Buck takes the picker, then laughs, dropping his forehead to Eddie's shoulder.

"Sob story, huh?"

"Just saying. Probably more sanitary than trying to stick your bare hand down a storm drain."

"I love you," Buck tells him, and he feels Eddie's shoulder shake slightly with laughter before he straightens up.

"Love you too," he says. "Now come on, let's get started on this rescue operation. Though I think our patient is gonna need a thorough hose-down before we can transport him."

Buck snickers into Eddie's shirt. His eyes aren't wet, because that would be dumb. He rubs his cheek against the warm cotton anyway before lifting his head. "You're such a dork."

Eddie grins at him, ruffled and lovely in the afternoon sunlight. "Just trying to follow proper triage protocol here."

"Dork," Buck repeats, but he leans in to steal a brief kiss before they get the rescue operation underway.

#911 #buddie #buddie fic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #prompt fic #my fic

259 notes · View notes

multiwreckedmess · 1 year

Text

February Filth Fest - Day 11

Pairing: Seonghwa x fem!Reader Prompt: Impregnation WC: 2.2k Summary: Married for two years you’ve decided to leave having a child up to fate. Seonghwa wants to give fate a bit of a tip in its favor. TW/CW: FLUFFY. HEAVY pregnancy talk. Unprotected penetration, creampie, nicknames (dear, honey, darling, wife) Seonghwa is obsessed with knocking you up tbh. A lil bit angsty at the end but Seonghwa is real sweet so it’s ok.

“You look so sexy like this,” Seonghwa squeezes you into a tight back hug, planting a kiss on your cheek. Bent over the sink, yellow rubber gloved, face blasted with steam, contrary to his statement you felt perhaps the least sexy you could’ve ever felt. “My darling wife, my sweet wife, my wife who is working far too hard.” He sways with you locked to him, making it nigh impossible to place the rinsed plate into the dishwasher. “If i don’t do it now you’ll go on a cleaning fit later, dear.” You give him a pointed glare, trying to wiggle your shoulders loose. “Then let me have a cleaning fit later, i want you now.” The clicks and pops of his vocal chords are crisp in your ear as he growls, grabbing a handful of your ass along with the statement to drive home the point. “Okay well, can you at least bring me to the bedroom first?” You ask incredulously. “You’re the one still hovering at the sink with those nasty gloves on.” “So you wouldn’t fuck me with cleaning gloves on?” “That’s not the point, you said-” “Nonono, Park Seonghwa. Now who is the obstacle to fucking?” “We aren’t fucking we’re practicing. Remember?” You cringe. “I hate that so much I’m pretty sure that just dried out my cooch.” “Woman!” Seonghwa slams his fist into the counter next to you. “Stop being so obstinate so I can bring you to the bedroom and pump you full of semen like the lord intended!” He scowls, huffing angrily for a moment before both of you crack into large smiles and laughter.

The two of you strip down separately, haphazardly tossing clothes into the hamper until you’re only in your underwear and shirts. It’s comfortable. Quiet. Routine. You pat your face dry of toner and slip into bed next to your husband. Seonghwa was still obsessed with the titles two years later. Husband and wife which he desperately wanted to be father and mother. He’d made it no secret through your courtship that he wanted a family and yet here you were two years into marriage with no children to speak of. He’d equally made it clear that it was up to you when you wanted to start the process, never pressuring or giving a timeline. “It might stress your uterus,” he half-joked. It was only recently that you’d had your implant removed and not replaced. Your internal requirements had been met, your relationship was stable, your jobs were stable, and your housing was stable. If fate dictated now was the time, it was the time, and you left it at that.

Seonghwa was more eager, researching when your most fertile days would be, making sure you were happy and relaxed and well fucked for the whole week surrounding those peak times. And who were you to refuse your gorgeous husband doting on you for a whole week?

“Do you wanna put something on?” “Sure, I think I found a 2 hour long video doc abou-” Seonghwa cut you off, “excellent, 2 hours I’m in. As long as it isn’t one like that one you put on about the internet killer?” He bristles. “Oh no, NO. It’s about queue lines at Disney parks-” “Perfect choice my lovely perfect wife,” he kisses your cheek. “No more serial killer documentaries while I’m trying to get you in the mood.” It’s hard not to laugh at the horrific moment, turned comedic with time. The two of you suppress a giggle as you slot together beneath the sheets. Spooning, the rise and fall of his chest soothes your daily worries. Each pulse is a hypnotic metronome. Your breath slows to match his as you lay there, letting yourself zone out to the dulcet tones of the voiceover artist narrating the documentary. Seonghwa slots his hand in the valley between your breasts. He’d started doing this after you’d mentioned you hated it when they’d crush together and leave your cleavage sweaty. It had started as a small joke but it had become a ritual. Slowly over the thin cotton sleep shirt he thumbed your nipple, casually stroking over the hardening bud. Each swipe tingling, sending a cascade of sparks down your spine and into your core. It was in the name of slowly winding you up, working you into a state of desire. It was honestly your favorite part. Seonghwa loved it too, breast soft and heavy in his hand, feeling the pulse in your neck accelerate as you got more and more worked up. Your not so subtle scootches of your ass back into his crotch, inviting him for more. Waiting until you were pliant to roll you onto your back, discarding your shirts to hold each other more closely. Slowly Seonghwa left open-mouthed kisses in a trail from your neck to your nipple, circling and sucking the tender, swollen area. “They’ll get bigger when I’m pregnant,” you squeeze his shoulders as his tongue circles your areola. “Swollen. And tender. I can help you wash and dry and lotion them.” You roll your eyes and smile, “yeah so helpful Hwa. I’m sure a big burden.” He sucks harshly, eliciting a yelp of pain and sigh of pleasure. “It’s help, take it or leave it.” Sneaking your leg around to his side you slot him between your legs, “I’ll take. I’ll take it.” “Yeah you will,” he rubs his bulge against your pelvis, lining it up with your slit and thrusting, indirectly stimulating your clit. You gasp and giggle, swatting his arm. “You’re so stupid oh my god!” Seonghwa leans over, nose to nose, “but you love me though.” He teases with a sing-song lilt. “Ugh, I do. I do love you.” You grind against him faster, his lips returning to your nipple, hand keeping your other one preoccupied. He feels your rutting grow more desperate until you wrap your arms around his ribs and squeeze him to you, tensing with your first orgasm. Tenderly he kisses your neck. Slipping a finger between your skin and the elastic he asks, “can we take these off” softly. He knows the answer is yes because it always is yes but he always checks to be sure. It’s such a small gesture and yet so important to you still after the years had passed. Lifting your hips to help him slide your underwear out of the way the two of you are finally naked, huddled under the covers. Two of his fingers, long and delicate, slide between your walls. Your lips purse and brows furrow, even though the stretch is only slight. The aim is not another orgasm, just prepping for what’s to come. Still as he curls his fingers upwards it feels nice. He can reach just that little bit deeper, angle himself just a little bit better than you can. Your hips join his slow strokes, heels pressed to the mattress. Messy bun slipping out, letting your hair pile and splay on the pillow Seonghwa likes this version of you the best. When you finally allow yourself to enjoy the moment, brain quieting for even the few minutes together. He’s the only one who gets to see you like this and for that he feels blessed. His wife. Lips to yours he slides his fingers from you, enjoying your gasp against his mouth. Teasing your slit with the head of his cock he smiles as you whine for him. Seonghwa had insisted missionary and its variants were optimal for encouraging sperm retention, reserving any positions where you were on top for “off-peak” days where it didn’t matter as much. Not that you minded anything about missionary. While vanilla as a position, it allowed you to hold onto him closely, feeling warm and loved and protected underneath him. The first stretch is the worst. Tangled in lust and pain despite the prep he still stretches you. Brows furrowed you breathe slowly, pushing up to slide more of him in/ “You okay? Need more-” Seonghwa tentatively retreats. You groan and gasp and grapple his low back, “no, just keep-ugh-I can do it.” He looks worried, “if you’re sure.” He presses into the friction, your tight heat clenching down around him until he’s finally settled fully inside of you.

“Fuck-Hwa- you’re so thick. Fuck.” You grimace. The sting of the stretch you’re used to but always surprises you. No matter how many times you take him it seems your cunt forgets. He’s still as stone inside of you, nuzzling your neck, thumb ghosting over your nipple, letting you work your hips in a circle, slowly relaxing around him. “You’re just too tight. So tiny. No matter how many times I fuck you.” He bites his lip as you manage just a little more inside of you, the little bit he was too nervous to fill you with despite knowing you can take it. He can’t help himself, even though you tell him he can go rougher and that he can make it hurt. He doesn’t want to. Leaning to the side just a little more, rocking your hips up, he reaches into your bedside table and pulls out a small vibrator. “Let me help you.” The toy whirrs to life, fitting snuggly between your bodies. Back arching your walls flutter, working him earnestly. “Hwa-oh shit-” you tug your husbands torso to you. Muscles rippling the closeness stabilizes you. He feels so real, and warm, and sturdy. The overwhelming need to touch, to feel him completely, each little flex and breath.

Seonghwa moves slowly at first. Pulling out just to the tip to slam back into you. The pull of your warm cunt driving him forward again. He loses himself to the rhythm of your whispered moans and sweet affirmations. Your orgasm slicking your walls and easing his thrusts he grabs the underside of your thigh and pushes it back to your shoulder to pound down into you.

Tearing the vibrator from between you and tossing it to the side, Seonghwa presses his forehead to you, sweat traveling the sides of his face. Grunting and panting like animals in heat you no longer worry about how you sound or who might hear. Making noise simply isn't and option you can control anymore. The head just kissing your cervix, pressing into your guts. you shiver and shake and scream with each thrust, nails driving into his biceps. Seonghwa can feel himself getting closer to the edge, driving deeply he spills inside of you, grunting and sighing. Forcing himself to stay inside, head pressed to your cervix as you milk him, making sure each spurt of release reaches its destination.

Lowering your hips making sure to stay inside you pull him back down to you, chests pressed in a sticky warm embrace. You hum, content to be just a little squished beneath him, letting the refractory pulses of his cock still in your walls. He leaves gentle open-mouthed kisses at the crux of your shoulder and neck where he’s landed, breathing hard and heavy. “You think it’ll work?” You whisper in his ear. “No idea.” He kisses your cheek, “if it doesn’t we’ll keep trying.” Suddenly your chest is tense, tears welling. “I just think…I think you’ll be a really good dad.” You try to control your emotions. It feels silly to cry now, not after having been railed within an inch of your life. No, you should’ve cried during, if you were going to cry. Not in the afterglow. “I just want to make you a dad someday.” He hears your voice waiver. Seonghwa is not stupid, the two of you are far too close for you to think anything would slip by him. “Honey, it’s fine, you will. You will.” Groaning he pulls from you, pressing both of your legs into your center, balling you up on yourself. Another small superstition, keeping his cum inside of you for as long as possible, letting gravity aid the process. He grabs the baby wipes, kept nearby on his bedside, gently cleaning himself and then you. Careful to only wipe the areas surrounding. Another small gesture you’d grown accustomed to. A tear slips out, rolling sideways on your cheek, sticking in your ear. “Oh honey. Oh my sweet wife.” Seonghwa kisses your shin, your shoulders, your cheek. “You’re going to be such a good mother. No matter how we do it.” His hand slides between your thigh and your stomach, hand splaying protectively, laying down on his side next to you. “Will you still think I'm pretty when I’m swollen and throwing up every morning?” You smile, a sob slipping out. Seonghwa laughs, squeezing your stomach. “Fucking gorgeous. Especially when your pussy and tits are swollen, getting for our child.” “Fucking nerd,” you sniff. “You love me.” “I know.”

He watches your chest rise and fall, managing the time you’re on your back. He knows eventually you’ll need to get up to use the bathroom but for now he just wants to sit with you and listen to your breathing. No matter what trials may come you’ll always have this moment of peace, together.

As a person who has had a partner for many many years my mission was to make this sort of more realistic? Ish? Did it work? It was sort of nice to write something really fluffy.

#ateez smut #seonghwa smut #ateez hard hours #ateez oneshot #kpop smut #seonghwa x you #seonghwa x reader #february filth fest

485 notes · View notes

flamehairedwritings · 8 months

Text

Stray: Chapter Three

Characters: Lt. Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female Reader

Rating: E, 18+ ONLY

Words: 6.2k

Summary: Ghost has a fine time making you admit you need want him.

A/N: Chapter Three of Six. A chapter posted every Monday!

Entire Story Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, enemies are lovers, porn with plot, they're not nice people, but are they

Chapter Tags: Angst, simon says some not nice things again, simon literally says, angst, dub-con, just to be safe, mdom, rough, nipple play, slight edging, hold the orgasm, multiple orgasms, throat holding, slight choking, slight overstimulation, biting, marking, gloves on, one spank, slight fight for dominance, a little switchy, reader gets one over on Simon, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie

Read on AO3

Stray Masterlist

Please don’t copy or steal my work, and please don’t post it on any other sites. I do not consent to my work being used for AI purposes.

─

Chapter Three - Club 31 High

“The shit people wear these days.”

“I don’t know, I think you’d look lovely in tassels.”

“Fuck off, Gaz.”

He hears Gaz chuckle in his earpiece, making him sigh as he adjusts his grip on his rifle, continuing to gaze through the scope at the street below.

More like back-alley, actually.

A short queue of masked people are waiting to be let through a rusting metal door, a big bloke with shades on even though it’s fucking night taking their names and checking them by speaking into a walkie.

“I think he’s more of a leather man.”

“Shut up, Soap.”

“Look at that handsome fucker there, arse out an’ all. There’s your look.”

“Can we keep the channels quiet, for fucks sake, there might─”

Ghost breaks off as a figure enters the field of his scope, striding down the alley, heels echoing.

He knows those heels.

And he’s never lucky enough for things to just be fucking coincidences.

“Ghost? What’s goin’ on?”

He exhales a long, exasperated breath as he follows the figure, thin-strapped black dress with thigh-high split touching the ground, the square, low cut neckline pushing the figure’s tits in and up tantalisingly, the silky black, wavy wig reaching down to the waist.

The mask that’s resting on top of it is the final giveaway.

Why can’t it just be a fucking coincidence.

“Ghost?” Gaz prompts.

“There's been a complication,” Ghost grits out.

The complication in question strides past the queue, and smiles at the bouncer who smiles and nods familiarly.

And when the door is opened for you, you look up, find him up on the roof, smile, and pull the half-skull mask down over your face.

And then you pass through the door.

“Fuck,” Ghost hisses, lifting his head and swiftly getting to his feet.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Keep your eyes and ears out, boys. I’m goin’ in.”

─

Deep purple and blue lights flash quickly, and music blares. He can barely fucking see or hear. But thankfully he’s fitting right in, every single person here masked up and in either some kind of uniform, fancy suit or dress, or barely anything. Anyone and everyone is welcome here, as long as your name’s on the list.

His certainly hadn’t been, but they’d scoped out a back entrance earlier in the day, through the cellar, and he’d only had to evade a couple of bar staff before he’d found his way here.

‘Here’ is Club 31 High, as exclusive as they got, and probably fucking gorgeous to other people. Marble columns and floors, plush red seats and curtains, chandeliers, it seems more suited to opera and orchestras than the sultry, Deep House music that’s thumping throughout the chambers. People grind and rock against each other, off their faces on drugs or alcohol. He has to move around the edge of the rooms, passing people kissing, sucking cocks, fingering, and fully fucking in the darker corners.

Anything goes here, as long as your name’s on the list.

He scans each briefly illuminated face, trying to find yours, or, really, the mask you seem to think would be so fucking funny to wear. Some people grab at him along the way, trying to pull him onto the dance floors, or rub against him, caressing him. He passes by swiftly, trying to get through quickly without drawing too much attention. He’s spotted some bouncers here and there, and there’s got to be cameras everywhere, though how they can pick anything up is a wonder.

Gritting his teeth, he heads into another chamber, this one bigger, the ceiling higher. It’s even louder and darker in here, and, moving down the steps into it, he wishes he’d brought his fucking headset. It wouldn’t look so fucking weird to wear it here.

He scans the crowd, but it’s nearly fucking impossible, people are dancing too much and the lights are flashing too much and─

A hand slides across his lower back, around his side, and someone stands in front of him, both hands resting on his vest. He’s about to step away, disappear into the crowd, when his eyes lock with yours.

“Hello, Simon,” you say with a smile, though he lip-reads it rather than hears it.

How can anyone fucking hear in here.

As if hearing his thoughts, you slide your hands up, wrapping your arms around his neck, and only have to rise up a little higher due to the heels to rest your lips against his ear.

Even then he can only just hear you.

“I knew I'd get you out dancing one day.”

“The fuck are you doing here?” he shouts into your ear.

“Having a girl’s night. And we were told strictly no boyfriends, so shoo.”

Stepping back, you release him, smile lingering, and turn, melting into the crowd.

“Fuck sake…” he hisses, following after you swiftly.

People move out of the way, too far gone to be annoyed at being shoved. His eyes are fixed on the back of your head, and then, when you stop suddenly, he nearly collides with you as you turn to him. Raising your hands and arms above your head, you sway your hips, and he rolls his jaw.

“Let’s fucking go,” he shouts, knowing you can lip-read, too, though no one would have a hard time understanding him.

Your blood-red smile widens.

Turning around, he thinks you’re about to set off again when you actually take a step back.

And then you lean back against him, settle your hands on the back of his neck, and grind your ass back against his cock.

Raising his eyes to the pitch-black ceiling, he pushes out a harsh breath.

For fuck’s sake.

You don’t stop, rolling your hips, arching your back, able to find the beat of the noise and make it seem like music to him.

His fingers flex at his sides.

No, no, no.

Shoving you away, gritting his teeth, he watches as you turn to him, lips lifted in a wide smile.

A game, always a fucking game.

He can see you’re about to move again, disappear and have him searching like a fucking dog, and he won’t have that.

His hand darting out, he grips your upper arm and moves first instead, pulling you through the crowd. You don’t hit at him and if you’re shouting, he can’t hear it. Though you’re just as likely to not want to make a scene as him.

At the edge of the room, he spots someone heading out of a door into this room and heads to it, pulling you through it into a small, circular chamber. A marble table is at the centre, with dozens of white roses in a large vase resting on top of it, and as the door swings shut behind you, it does a fantastic job of muffling a large portion of the music. Not enough, though, and it’s still too public here. He pulls you towards another door, marvelling at how you still haven’t said a word, and pushes it open. There’s a long corridor, doors on the left, a mirror that stretches all the way down on it on the right. How anyone could see themselves in it is a mystery, though, as the lights are so dimmed you could barely see your own face.

Pushing the first door open, using the handle, he finds it’s a bathroom, a small, really fucking fancy one.

Perfect, but not this one. He pulls you down the corridor, right to the end, and you still don’t say a word, heels echoing.

Those fucking heels.

Reaching the final door, he pushes it open, finds it empty, and then pushes you in, releasing your arm. He steps through after, locking the door behind himself. It muffles all sound of the outside, he thinks most likely by design, these bathrooms not just for pissing and shitting, but fucking too.

And what a bathroom to fuck in. The toilet is to his left, the grandest he’s ever seen, made from the same marble as the floor and walls, a thick red rug is in the centre of the room, in front along the far wall is a plush red loveseat, and to his right, a marble counter stretches across the short wall along with a mirror, with a sink cut into it and what must be designer products in the corner. The light’s not as dim as it was out in the corridor, but it’s still low.

What he wouldn’t give for some clear fucking strip lighting.

His attention returning to you, he watches you, your hands behind your back, that fucking smile still in place.

Hang on, hands behind your back…

“Come here. Hands where I can see them.” He moves forward, and you raise your hands, empty, as you lift your chin and inhale a breath.

He thinks he might see your lips part before he bends down, but that’s probably just from taking the breath.

He can’t help his gaze from briefly dropping to your heels. Yeah, they’re the ones.

Leather, platform, thick straps, heavy gold buckles at the ankles.

He remembers the cold feel of them against his shoulders.

Shoving the memory away, he starts to roughly pat and feel at your legs, searching for weapons.

He hears you exhale a laugh, widening your legs obediently when he taps a hand from one to the other. “Oh, Simon, they take weapons at the door, they’re in the lovely cloakroom.”

“All of them?” His hand moves up the thigh where there isn’t the split, and he pauses when he feels steel against his gloves. Lifting his head, he arches an eyebrow at you, watches your smile widen, and then slides his fingers under the holster and pulls sharply, ripping the knife from your thigh. He tosses it behind him, making a mental note of where he thinks it lands. Moving his hands to the other thigh, then out onto the silk material of the dress, he slides his hands up your hips, over your stomach, around your back, and then to your waist.

It’s now your turn to arch an eyebrow as his hands near your chest, swiping between and under your tits.

“Do you really think I could conceal anything else in this?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you. Turn around.”

He makes you before you can, gripping your shoulder and spinning you to face the mirror. The sudden action makes you have to press your hands down onto the counter to steady yourself. Your lips twitch as he slides his hands up your hips and across your back. It’s cut low, though, to the middle of your shoulder blades, so it doesn’t take him long.

A hand moves up your bare skin, up the back of your neck, under the hair, feeling along the scalp of the wig.

You hum gently, closing your eyes as your lips twitch again, and his hand quickly leaves.

It goes instead to your mask, which he slides off, and inspects the inside.

“Really fucking funny, wearing this.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “Admit it, it turns you on.”

His lips press together, and he tosses the mask onto the counter. “What’re you doin’ here.”

“Well, I was very much enjoying myself, and then you just grabbed me like a brute and pulled me in her─”

“Stray.”

“Simon.”

You tilt your head, a smile lifting your lips as you gaze at him in the reflection.

He, though, is stone-still.

“It’s not fuckin’ funny anymore, Stray.”

Your eyebrows raise and your lips part in faux-surprise. “Oh, is this about what happened at the warehouse with Angelo?”

He hates the way you say the name, nearly purring it.

“You nearly had me and the boys killed.”

“But none of you did die, did you─”

“I said nearly.” The bark of his voice has you silencing yourself.

For a very brief moment.

“So, what, I’ve betrayed you, have I, Simon?” You snort. “That’s your own fault.”

He still hasn’t moved.

“Did you think I was going to hurt you. When we were there.”

Silence.

You’re looking at him in the reflection, mouth in a thin line, and he’s looking at you.

You don’t speak.

His mask and the dim lighting hides the flexing in his jaw.

“Do you think I’m gunna hurt you now?”

He needs to know.

He hopes you don’t fucking realise how much.

Silence stretches on again.

He doesn’t ask again, but you know he won’t move until you do.

You keep looking at him a little longer, though.

You did hurt me. You broke my heart. You betrayed me. And you don’t even know it.

Lifting your chin a little, you give him a light smile. “No. I wouldn’t let you.”

He exhales a breath, something easing in his chest but not enough. “Is that right. You know, you’ve put me in a fucking position here─”

“No, Simon, it’s you who’s put me in a position.”

Your far-too-pleased with yourself smile returns as you press your ass back against him.

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move. “I’ll finish. You’ve put me in a fucking position where I could, no, should, walk out of here, let you go, let this all be done. Or…” Suddenly, he grips your hip, hard enough that you hiss in a breath. “... I could repay you for what you did at the warehouse.”

You panic for a moment that Soap told him, but, no, the fury in his eyes tells you otherwise.

You know what a grateful Simon looks like.

“Repay me? You’ve just been moaning about how awful it was.”

“Well… You were working so hard to make it up to me, weren’t you.”

“‘Make it up to you’─”

“Grinding on my cock like that. You were practically begging for forgiveness.”

You laugh, your head tipping back slightly.

“Oh, you’re so─”

His hand suddenly darts up, gripping your jaw under your chin, tipping your head back further as he simultaneously takes a step forward, pressing you against the counter.

“No, you don’t get to fucking talk unless I tell you to,” he murmurs against your temple.

If you obey now, right now, then he knows you’re in; in once more in this twisted fucking game he should end but he just fucking can’t.

He watches you in the mirror.

Your eyes slide down to meet his.

And you don’t say a word.

He exhales a breath, dropping his chin a little so his lips are closer to your ear. “I’m gunna ruin you for him. It’ll be my cum leaking out of you, running down your sweet legs as you trot on back to him in those fucking heels.”

Fucking hell.

Your stomach twists deliciously as you gaze at him.

And you risk it.

“Is that a promise?”

You can’t see him smile as he allows this one insolence.

“It’s a given, love.”

Raising his other hand, he pulls the material mask over his mouth and then bites at your jaw and kisses down your neck.

You gasp and moan almost with relief as the hand then slides across your stomach until his forearm is against you, and he pulls you back further against him, closing the little space there is.

His vest causes you to have to arch your back though, your ass once more firmly against his cock, and he’s not going to fucking complain.

“Look in the mirror, look at yourself,” he murmurs, your eyes having fallen shut, and he bites at your jaw again as they snap open. “You’re going to watch all of this, and you’re gunna fuckin’ think about it while his cock’s inside you. You’ll be thinking of me and only me when you cum.”

Your breathing has sharpened, but there’s a burning in your eyes, some kind of anger there.

There’s probably a defensive quip for Vitale on your tongue, but you’re still behaving.

“Look at you, bein’ a good girl for me,” he murmurs, and your lips part on a sharp exhale.

He loves when you behave, almost as much as when you don’t.

His hand rises, and he tugs the neckline of the dress down, exposing your tits and making them lift higher. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, and he chuckles lowly as your knees buckle momentarily, a moan escaping you.

“Does he do this for you? He doesn’t strike me as a giver.” He moves his hand from your tits to your mouth, resting two gloved fingers against your lips. “Suck.”

You do, instantly, swirling your tongue as you find his eyes in the mirror.

“Yeah, good girl.” He indulges for a few moments longer, his cock twitching in anticipation and memory, and then he swiftly pulls his fingers away. Moving them back down to your nipples, he circles them with your saliva.

Your back arches as much as it can as you sigh out moans, remembering to keep your eyes open.

He mouths at your cheekbone, not giving you an inch of room. “How does that feel? Speak.”

“Good, so fucking good,” you breathe, trying to rock your hips back against him.

Ghost hums his approval lowly, breathing in the scent of your skin, a hint of fragrance there from whatever you’d put on it.

“I want you dripping,” he murmurs, twisting, pinching and pulling your nipples, going from one to the other. “I want you aching for my cock until you think you’ve gone mad. I want you begging for me.”

He can feel your pulse through his hand spread across your throat and neck, his fingers gripping at your jaw still.

It’s faster.

“Good, isn’t it, love. You dripping yet? Is your cunt soaked?”

Your body is on fire, his fingers so fucking good but it’s not enough.

Managing to turn your head closer to him the smallest amount, you try to find his lips, murmuring, nearly pleading, “Mmh, take your gloves off.”

He angles his head away. “They’re stayin on. And did I say you could talk?”

Suddenly his hand leaves your tits and grips the skirt of your dress, tugging it up over your ass roughly. You try not to appear too pleased as he chuckles.

“No knickers? You were wantin’ this, weren’t you? Wantin’ me?”

He brings a hand down on one of your ass cheeks, swiftly and sharply, tearing a soft cry from you.

“Speak.”

You exhale a laugh, unable to help yourself. “Your ego is almost as big as your─”

The grip on your throat tightens a little, for a moment.

“No smart words from you today, just the truth.”

The truth. How frightening.

Still, though, you smile.

“But that was the truth. And your cock is big.”

His lips are against your ear once more, voice low, demanding. “So tell me, then. You came here wanting it, didn’t you?”

You expect him to perhaps spank you again, play with your nipples maybe or caress your skin. But he gives you nothing. It’s maddening.

Licking your velvet-red lips, you exhale a long breath. “... Yes.”

You feel him smile.

“Good girl.”

He plunges two gloved fingers into your pussy.

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out, hands pressing against the counter.

He nips at your earlobe. “I’ll allow that, only because you sound so fucking sweet.”

His fingers move instantly, fucking you slow and deep.

And he barely takes a breath before speaking again.

“How many fingers does he need to stretch you properly? Dainty little things, weren’t they. Does he have to work hard, poor fucker.”

And, yes, the anger’s there again, burning in your eyes, and your teeth are biting into your lower lip.

It’s satisfying to him, as fucking twisted as it is, that you so clearly want to snap and yell at him, but you won’t. For him. Because he said you can’t.

It makes his cock so fucking hard.

He wants to see just how good you’ll be, how much you’ll obey him.

What will be your breaking point.

“Does he cum first, or does he make you first? Countless times, like I can, like I do. Does he know what you sound like when you’re desperate, out of your mind, overstimulated but fucking begging for more?”

He slips a third finger in, still moving them tantalisingly slowly but deeply as moans fall from your lips.

Yet despite giving them to him freely, anger is still clearly blazing in your half-lidded eyes.

And he can’t get enough.

“Do you moan and grip at him, beg him, hang on to him. Do you look up at him with those pretty fuckin’ eyes, beggin’ with them when your head’s too fuckin’ empty to form words? Do you─”

He catches himself.

Your words from the warehouse have been circling round and round in his mind since you spoke them.

And I love him─

Had that been it. Were you going to say that you love him fucking you.

Or that you love him. End of. Full stop.

He’d never know, and he hadn’t wanted to know.

He still doesn’t want to know.

Exhaling a harsh breath, he slips a fourth finger in.

Every breath you exhale is now a moan, one hand gripping at his forearm, and your other suddenly moves back, cupping the back of his head, your fingers pressing in.

He can feel your walls clenching around him, fluttering, and he groans against your ear.

“You gunna cum already? You been that desperate for me?”

He listens to you moan and mewl for a few moments longer, fingers flexing against your throat, before he orders, “Speak.”

Your legs are nearly trembling. “Yes.”

“Beg me. Ask me to cum.”

“Please, Simon, please can I cum, please, I need to, please─”

“Mmh, not yet. Hold it.”

You make a strained sound, eyes closing tight, and he fucking loves that you’re obeying.

But he doesn’t want to reward you. Not yet.

Lips against your ear once more, he watches you in the mirror. “Did he fuck you later, after we left, after we burned that place to the fucking ground. Did you ride him, did you tell him sweet little things to soothe his fuckin’ ego. Did you hold him─”

“Simon─”

“Did I say you could speak.”

There’s no anger in your eyes now, just…

Why would you be sad. He doesn’t fucking understand it.

Are you that attached to the fucker?

Whatever reason for it… he fucking hates seeing it.

Softening his grip on your jaw a little, he turns his head slightly, lips pressing against your cheek.

“How does this feel? Does your clit need some attention, is it aching for me? Speak.”

“Yes,” you breathe again, knees bending slightly for a moment as you try to rock your hips.

His hand finally releases your jaw and lowers, and he walks you back half a step to give himself the room to slip his hand down your stomach to the slit of your dress, yanking it up so his fingers can find your clit.

You gasp sharply as he strokes at it, your body jerking slightly as you hang on the precipice of your orgasm.

He watches you in the mirror, your eyes closed, mouth open, chest heaving.

And still you don’t allow yourself to cum.

Opening your eyes, though, you beg him with them.

Fuck…

He presses an almost kiss to your cheek. “Cum for me, love. Go on.”

You cry out as you grip at his head, your back arching, and you cum instantly. Your pussy squeezes at his fingers, gripping them tight, and he grunts against your skin, pressing another nearly-there kiss to it.

“That’s it, good girl, cum all over my glove, give me it all.”

Your body jerks as you moan, and when it finally goes slack, your head leaning back against him, he smiles.

“That was a big one, wasn’t it. You’ve been fuckin’ desperate for that.”

You just try and catch your breath, your fingertips softening on the back of his head. He pushes your head to the side with his own, then drops his lips to your neck.

“Speak,” he grunts as he bites your shoulder.

You inhale a shuddering breath, swallowing. “… Yes…”

“Good girl.” Pulling his fingers out of you, biting you again when you moan as they leave you, he groans lowly as he wipes his fingers on the ass cheek he’d slapped. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

You hum somewhat weakly in reply.

Not weak enough, though.

You gasp sharply and your hips buck as he starts to stroke your clit again. Your eyes snapping open, you lock your gaze with his.

“You’re gunna cum again for me,” he murmurs against your skin.

Still sensitive, your hips buck again, but he’s stroking so lightly, so gently, though that’s almost making it even better. His other hand slides over your stomach, his forearm holding you against him again, your hips now only able to jerk a little.

The blissful pleasure of your orgasm has only faded slightly, so with each stroke he gives, it rises a little higher… but… and you fucking curse yourself… it’s not enough.

And he knows it.

“Need somethin’ inside you, don’t you,” he says against your ear, still holding your gaze.

You nod, your breathing long, deep and shaking as you try to regulate it.

He exhales a breath. “Not yet. And this time, you’re not gunna take your eyes off yourself.”

Fucking hell…

Dropping your hand from his head, you flatten both palms against the counter and shift your gaze to your own, and he chuckles quietly.

“Good girl.”

His fingers quicken.

Your teeth grit as you try to stifle a sharp gasp.

“No, no, don’t be doing that…” He’s looking at you in the reflection still, head leaning against yours. “… You’re gunna look at yourself and you’re gunna be loud.”

The way he caresses, circles and strokes your clit, the leather of his glove slick against it…

You’re leaning your head into his, hips bucking, and you give in, mewling loud enough to fill the space because you don’t care, it just feels so good.

He’s biting at your shoulder and neck again, too, almost with a sense of frenzy.

And then he starts talking again.

“What does he say when I mark you like this? Do you hide it from him? Do you avoid him?”

Muscles in your jaw jump and flex as you grit your teeth tightly

His eyes flick up to you. “Speak.”

“Yes,” you grit out.

“And what does he say?”

You stare at yourself, eyelids fluttering a little as pleasure sparks through you.

“Speak.”

Your jaw is clenched tight, teeth pushing into each other.

Suddenly, you turn your head closer to his.

“Kiss me.”

“No,” is the instant answer.

He’s punishing you, and you know it.

It could be worse.

He could have left.

So why hasn’t he.

Why is he here, fucking you.

If you betrayed him, if he hates you that much, why is he here.

Why is he asking these questions.

Why does he care.

Does he care.

You’ll probably never know.

The anger that had been bubbling inside you, simmering in some kind of control, now explodes as you gaze at him.

How could he care.

Your elbow drives into his lower stomach, just under his vest, and then you slam your head back, the back of your head colliding with his nose and jaw.

“Fuck─ What the fuck─” he starts hissing, releasing you automatically.

Spinning, you shove him backwards.

“What─”

You shove him again, silent.

His brow is furrowed, eyes slightly wider. “Love, are you oka─”

You shove him again.

He falls back onto the loveseat with a grunt, and you straddle him instantly, gathering the silky material of the dress around your hips. His eyes narrow slightly in realisation then, his hands going to your thighs, gripping them.

“This what you want, huh─”

“Shut up,” you snap, releasing the skirt of the dress and tugging his belt open. “I don’t want to hear from you anymore.”

His mouth still exposed, you can now see the self-satisfied smirk he gives you. “You want my cock inside you instead, yeah.”

“Shut up.” You pull open the button of his trousers.

“You that desperate for me?”

“Shut up.” You yank the zip down.

“Do you cling at him like this─”

Your hand flies up, gripping his jaw.

Leaning closer, you hiss, “Shut the fuck up.”

His smirk is now gone, and an anger that nearly matches yours smoulders in his dark eyes.

And then he knocks your arm away, so you punch his shoulder, then grab at his throat, your other hand going for his trousers. He shoves your hand away from his throat so you use both hands to pull his cock out as he fists at your dress, lifting it higher to expose your pussy.

From this angle, he can see it glistening now, wet, open and ready for him.

“Christ…” he hisses through gritted teeth, watching you position his aching, flushed pink tip against your hole.

Watches you sink down on him, his cock disappearing inside you.

He makes a strained sound in the back of his throat, balling your dress up in his gloved fists.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, Simon,” you breathe, hands now firmly gripping his shoulders.

Fixing your gaze on his eyes, before he can answer you start to move your hips, and you don’t want to be slow, you don’t want to tease, you don’t want to give him any gentle satisfaction at all right now, so you set a hard, firm pace, riding him aggressively.

“I bet your cock was hard the moment you saw me, and the way you came running after me… Who’s the desperate one?”

His eyes flick up, locking with yours, and your entire body is taut, waiting for him to switch this once more, while also feeling pleasure burst and spark through you.

“I told him about your base and here you still are, fucking me, wanting me wet for you, marking me… like you don’t even care… and what if one of your boys had died─”

Snarling, he shoves your hands off his shoulders, grips them at the wrists and holds them at your sides.

“You’d better watch your mouth.”

You laugh, and you don’t know where it comes from. “Oh, have I hurt your feelings? I didn’t know you had any.”

He’s silent, the only sound his short, harsh breaths as you ride him.

You don’t look away. “Take the mask off.”

“No.”

“Take it off.”

“No─”

“Let me see you.”

He falls silent.

When he moves, it’s swift.

A hand darts up and grips the long hair of the wig, and he yanks, pulling your head back.

You cry out as your back arches, small, delicious bursts of pain sparking along your scalp where the wig is secured.

His other hand runs firmly down between your tits, to your stomach, to your hip, gripping it. It’s possessive, how he does it, and it pisses you off. Knocking his arm away so he releases the hair, you grip his shoulders again, nails digging in, and you lean forward until your forehead nearly presses against his mask, and you wrap your arms tightly around his neck, locking you in that position.

He pushes against your hip, trying to put some distance between you but you won’t let him.

“Look at me,” you hiss, and he does, stilling as your eyes lock on to each others.

And, somehow, neither of you speak.

You just look at each other.

His gaze is hard, jaw tight, and you just ride him as you grip at him. Ride and squeeze your walls around him until…

His lips part on an exhale, no, not an exhale… a moan.

Ghost moans.

The corners of your mouth lift into a breathless smile as you squeeze him again, desire surging through you.

He grits his teeth at the sight of your smile, low grunts coming from the back of his throat, hands now tight on your hips, and you feel something feral snarling and snapping its jaws inside you.

“Come on, come on, come on, come on…” you hear yourself murmuring, squeezing your slick walls around him every time your hips rise.

His mouth is open, fast, quiet breaths escaping him, and you want to kiss him, you want to bite at his lips, you want to have him kiss you fiercely and deeply in the way that shows you he cares, even if it’s just now, even if it’s just for a little while.

Your mouth hovering over his, you don’t, though.

Because he doesn’t kiss you.

Makes no move to.

Gasping as a wave of pleasure suddenly rolls through you, you realise one of his hands has moved, his gloved fingers now somewhat clumsily stroking at your clit.

There’s almost a sweetness to it; that he’s still wanting to give you pleasure, make you feel good despite both your previous words, despite the slight curling of your lip and his hardened eyes.

You hate him.

He probably hates you.

“Cum, cum for me…” you suddenly realise he’s groaning, fingers of his other hand gripping at your thigh, almost desperately.

Gritting your teeth, your nails bite into his shoulders.

You hate him, you hate him, you hate him, you hate him…

“Cum for me,” you hiss, the pace of your hips starting to stutter slightly as your orgasm nears, dangerously close.

He’s staring up at you, unable to stop small moans and grunts from falling from his open mouth.

“Love─”

“Cum in me,” you command, and he inhales a sharp breath, hand darting from your clit to your hip, gripping tight, and then his hips jerk as he cums.

His eyes squeeze shut as he exhales a deep, shuddering breath, and your own fall shut as you moan, feeling his cum deep inside you, and the thought of it, the feel of it, the knowledge that, yes, it will leak out of you exactly as he intended, has you cumming, too.

Your head falls forward, leaning against his, and you hear his short, sharp breaths as you mewl, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back, fisting your dress there.

Your hips slow to a stop as he breathes hard against your shoulder, and you try to soften yours, your arms staying around him.

The only sound that now fills the room is his breathing, and you just listen to it. Just feel him against you, inside you.

His hand flattens against your back.

His fingertips press in a little.

Gentle.

You pull back, press your hands against his chest and push yourself off of him.

His cock slips out of you unceremoniously, and he grunts as it does, but you’ve already turned away, adjusting your dress and flattening it.

You hear the metal of his belt clanking together as he tucks his cock away, before he zips his trousers up then secures the belt.

Pulling the top of the dress up over your tits, adjusting them, you then smoothe the dress down. Running your hands down the wig, you run your tongue along your lips, feeling the lipstick having collected in some areas. Smoothing and spreading it out with your finger tips, you’re aware of how silent he is behind you.

You hate him.

“This was the last time,” you hear yourself say.

“Sure it was.”

Why is he still entertaining this, entertaining us.

You’re about to ask that exact question, snap, shout, scream it, when he speaks suddenly.

“You’re scared of Vitale, aren’t you.”

You still, hands paused in needlessly adjusting your dress again, eyes flicking up. Turning to him, you’re expressionless.

“What?”

He’s still sat down, hands resting on his thighs, mask back in place, eyes on you. “I saw it. At the warehouse. Why does he scare you.”

A corner of your mouth lifts a fraction. “Nothing scares me, Simon.”

“I did.”

You pause before you can catch yourself, so you make your mouth lift a little higher. “You didn’t. You startled me, there’s a difference.”

His eyes haven’t left you. “I know what I saw. On all accounts.”

Exhaling a breath, you push your hair over your shoulder. “Think what you like.” Turning away, you head towards the door.

“Stray.”

His tone has you halting, but you keep your back to him, staring at the door.

You hear him stand, take a few steps towards you.

“I know you were scared of me. I know that. What I don’t know…” You remain silent. “... What I don’t know is if you were scared for me.”

Silence.

He can’t believe he’s fucking said it.

Not even a proper question, just words, but words that have been rolling round and round in his mind incessantly.

He gazes at your back, that tautness in your shoulders, your waist moving as you breathe, your head slightly tilted down.

Then, you half turn to him… and there’s nothing on your features.

“Why would I be. I’m nothing but a whore, remember.”

A coldness spreads through his chest as he watches you go, his own, fucking regrettable words, in your voice, echoing in his mind.

─

Reblogs and comments make my day in a way I can’t describe.

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged or removed in my future works! (Note: I'll only tag if age is in your bio) Sorry if the tag doesn't work!

Masterlist

Tagged: @sistasarah-sallysaidso, @gifsbysimplysonia, @ryethebrokengae, @poohkie90, @corvusmorte, @captainutsstuff, @ff-huntress

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #ghost smut #simon 'ghost' riley x you #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #my writing #flamehairedwritings

73 notes · View notes

lazypanartist · 11 months

Text

Ben Reilly x Academic! Punk! Reader HCs

Established relationship

Reader is like a projection of me + a girl I'm interested in 👀 May also lead into another project

---

He's not impressed by much, but you..

Well

When you explain anything mathmatical to him, he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky

Even if he knows, too

Just

Every little thing you do impresses him

He'll hang over your shoulders and watch you do homework

Nodding along as you balance equations or whatever

(IDK, I failed out of math last semester)

If you have anything with patches, he'll ask you wtf they mean

"What's.. Bikini Kill?"

"Riot Grrl band from the 90s."

"Who are the Dead Kennedys?"

"Another Band."

Please remember he's

1) a clone

2) only recently out from under Ock

3) just got back from the bottom of the bay

And he doesn't know popular bands, either

"Who are the.. Reagan Youth?"

"Band. Anti-facist, founded when Reagan became president."

"Okay."

Might not get all the history references either, but he LOVES that you do

Man loves studs

When you introduce him to any spiked piece of clothing, he decides that he Needs One, Too

Which leads to a mildly confused Peter

"Where'd you get the choker?"

While mans is just chilling on May's couch

"Stole it from Y/n."

"You mean borrowed, right?"

Ben just looks up from what he's doing

"They're only getting it back if they steal it."

Next day you're just like "Hey, Ben, have you seen my choker?"

He hands it back wordlessly

Please get him one of his own

You steal his hoodie and he tries stealing your clothes in retaliation

Queue this becoming a normal occurance

Even if he doesn't really fit into your fit 😂

He at least grabs accessories

Looks at a sticker on the back of a glove

"Who's... Panicking at the Disco?"

"Brandon Urie. Used to actually be a band, now he's kinda the face of it."

"Okay."

104 notes · View notes

borntoocry · 5 months

Text

she won't go away

summary: camilla is a senior with a developed eating disorder she can't push off her. her best friend and crush, Ellie, knows nothing about it. until they skip school and Ellie becomes suspicious.

trigger warning: ED.

word count: 2.3k

I fully expected the clothes on my body to fit like a glove before my first day of senior year. But as I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the material that won’t pull, I want to scream loud enough to break every glass reflection in the world so I never have to see myself again. This may be extreme, but one would understand if they knew the extremes I went to to lose weight.

I figured that if I didn’t eat as much as I had and picked up on a running habit, I’d lose the nasty weight I put on junior year.

“What the hell? That’s impossible,” I groan as I pick at the clothes and pinch my belly.

“Impossible how good you look?” my mom asks, flooding into the bathroom.

I immediately rub my hands down my clothes and look at her reflection in the mirror. I try to focus on her as best as I can. “No,” I say. “I don’t. This shirt and these jeans are tight.”

“Then change out of them,” mom says.

I like that she can be optimistic, but at the same time it angers me. She’s never been a bigger woman–always skinny and petite with hair that never fails her. I, on the other hand, depend on the way my hair falls on my face or how my clothes sit on my shoulders or stomach or how they hug my waist. She can put on a potato sack and still look flawless. And for that, I don’t always stand by her affirmative words. They may be kind, but they’re tainted. I am her daughter, and for that reason she sees me through a different lens.

“Mom,” I murmur.

“What?”

Can’t you see? I want to ask her. But instead, I say, “They were supposed to fit me.”

Her eyebrows raise up, silently asking, ‘What do you mean?’

“Nevermind,” I say, opting out of the conversation. Maybe if I don’t think about it, I won’t feel the pressure.

I walk out of the bathroom and into my room. I throw off the top and grab a black shirt from my dresser. Mom follows me in but doesn’t fully enter, she just stands at the door.

“You shouldn’t feel so insecure, Camila.”

I hold back my scoff. It’s stupid, though, because I spurt out a smart remark. “Yeah, well I do.”

“You did lose weight,” she says, “if that’s what you want to hear.”

I pick a jean skirt and shimmy into it. It slightly sags and I smile at my mom. “Thank you.”

She continues talking about my health and such but I tune her out. I pull on a thin cardigan, my dirty white sneakers, and my black backpack overly decorated by pins. By the time I’m done, my mom is whistling from the kitchen. I know this because I can hear her scuffling and the whirring of the microwave.

“Yes!” I shout.

“Eleanor is here!”

I roll my eyes at the nickname and peek out the window. She sure is, in her black Jeep. I run down the hall and stop by the kitchen bar. My mom has left me yogurt and fruit. I look up at her and smile. She’s done this every day since I was in first grade. Then, there was more on the plate, but the main dish was the yogurt and fat slices of fruit (besides grapes).

I pick it up and start for the door, but the soft voice of my mom cuts between my path.

“You hang out with her a lot, huh?”

I look at her and laugh. “Yeah, we’re friends,” I say.

She pulls her lips in and her eyes turn to crescents. The look on her face is one I know all too well–she’s trying to look into me. I may not be lying–well, not really–but my face still warms up and I switch from my right foot to my left.

I swallow harshly and say, “We’re just friends.”

She shrugs and picks up her mug of black coffee. She stares over the ceramic, sending a questioning set of eyes my way.

I take this as a queue to leave.

I rush to Ellie’s car and hop in, my backpack falling between my legs. It thumps against the floor and a ‘damn’ rushes past her lips.

“What?” I say.

“I mean,” she says, rubbing her neck, “it’s barely the first day and your bag is already heavy.”

“So?”

“You don’t have to be so prepared.”

“But I want to be,” I tell her as I pick up an ugly piece of watermelon.

She lets me enjoy my heavy bag and drives us to school. She picks at my fruit and I let her eat my yogurt with my spoon. We don’t really care about that kind of thing, we’ve been friends since freshman year and she’s never minded. She doesn’t swallow the spoon, either, she just paws at the edge of the spoon.

By the time we get to the parking lot, it’s ten minutes to the bell. We sit with the engine off for a minute or two and just watch everyone rush in. I don’t really remember much of anything before this summer. If even that. The slight eating disorder has stolen a bit of my memory.

As if she can read my mind, Ellie asks, “Do you remember freshman year?”

I shake my head. “No, not besides us meeting. And you know,” I say, looking at her, “the occasional first hang-outs and birthday parties and stuff.”

She grabs my hand and lifts it to her lips. It shouldn’t catch me by surprise–she does this a lot, the kissing hand stuff–but my heart stutters and I struggle taking a breath.

“Ah, how I miss that.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“It was love at first sight,” she says in the same tone.

What does that mean? I feel the need to ask. She’s staring deep into my eyes and I so desperately want her to be telling the truth but she may well not be. She may be saying this platonically.

I nod.

She reaches over the console and kisses my cheek. She lets go of my hand and steps out of the car. I do so as well, dragging my heavy backpack over my shoulders.

I don’t ask about the comment or the kiss on the cheek. I don’t think it matters why. We’ll be going to college before we know it and most people want to be single then to explore and kiss and fuck who they want. I’m certain she’s all I’ll think about, but I’m not sure I’ll be the one on her mind.

After fourth period, Ellie rushes up to me before the cafeteria doors and pushes me against a patch of lockers. “Let’s skip,” she says.

“What?” I ask with a contorted face. “It’s the first day!”

“So?”

I look like a puppy the way I frown and shy away from her. “I want–need to show up.”

Her hands run down my arms and one hooks into my right hand. “Fine,” she whispers, a whine in her tone. “Only for lunch.”

“Won’t we get in trouble?”

She sputters like an engine. “No. They don’t care.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“C’mon, Mila.”

I look around and then down at our conjoined hands. “Where?”

A big smile spreads across her face and she pulls me down the hall. “Somewhere you’ll remember.”

“Where?” I ask again.

She turns her head and purses her lips. “Shush and c’mon.”

“I’m hungry,” I whine.

“I’ll feed you, don’t worry.”

She does. On the way to wherever we go, she pulls into a McDonalds and buys a twenty piece and two medium fries. I remember saying I was hungry, but as the food sits in my lap and the greasy smell pours into my nose, I feel ill. I hide it well enough for Ellie to tell, though. She doesn’t know and I want to keep it that way.

On our way to the location, Ellie jokes about my self control. How I’ve yet to steal fries or begin eating. I laugh but the darkness behind the joke spills out and tries to suffocate me. So I peek my head out the window and let the warm air enter my lungs.

When we get there, I do remember: a patch of dust and dead grass beside train tracks. It’s after a bunch of business buildings and venues. We found this place when Ellie got her license the summer before junior year. Joel, her adoptive dad, didn’t care where she went, nor how old she was. All he cared about was if she had her license.

We would come here and eat burgers and fries and milkshakes. That was the year Ellie began smoking weed, and this was the perfect spot to do so. I never smoked, but I’d watch her.

“I miss when we would sit here and just not say a word,” she says with a joint already in her hand. I want to tell her no, that we have class, but she puts up a good sober act.

I nod and sit down on the log still lying on the ground from a year ago. I put the food between us and take out my fries. I nibble on one fry while she downs half of them in one go.

I don’t speak, I let her do all the talking. I’m trying to add up all the calories I’m consuming. I’ve never been the best at math but when it comes to this I’m a fucking expert.

I think I eat about five fries before Ellie notices. She turns to me while she stubs out her joint and almost hisses. I think about chunking them all in my mouth, but she’s caught me now.

“You haven’t even had a chicken nugget,” she tells me. She opens the box and pushes it towards me. “I already ate my half.”

“Oh,” I murmur and nod. “Sorry.”

She doesn’t acknowledge my apology, but she does acknowledge the biggest elephant in the room. “You’ve lost a lot of weight since summer started,” she says. “Are you okay?”

I hum. “Of course I am.”

She sighs and reaches over, grabbing my fries. She places them inside the chicken nugget box and slides them over to her left. She scoots in and grabs my hand, tucking all of my fingers into a fist and caressing my knuckles.

“You don’t look it,” she murmurs.

I don’t know if I should take this as a snide or concerned statement. I opt for just shutting up. I know remaining silent doesn’t help my case, but it doesn’t plummet either. I just sit with her thumbs kissing my skin and look at the dirt.

“I don’t mean this as a rude thing,” she continues. “You just look underfed, not well taken care of. You look whiter than normal and it’s been hot out.”

I tsk. “Okay,” I moan. “Ellie, I'm more than okay. I just sat inside all summer. You wouldn’t know because you were gone for half the summer.”

“–And here for the other half, so I know something’s been up.”

I don’t like that she’s trying to crack me open. If I wanted her to know about the eating issue, I would have brought it up. But it’s none of her concern, because it’s not even her body.

“I am fine,” I say sternly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

She shoots up and looks over me, trying to intimidate me. She never has but now, I feel like a rock has slid into my throat and won’t go away. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I am!” I say, now almost shouting.

“No,” she says, violently shaking her head. “You aren’t, and I care about you, Mila. So please” –she kneels on the ground in front of me– “tell me what’s going on.”

I stare at her, my eyes drilling into her own. Gloss covers the surface and I realize my safety might concern her more than I thought. I shift in my seat and I take her hands. “I haven’t been eating, you’re right. I wanted to lose weight and all the working out and cutting out bad stuff wasn’t working. So I just stopped.”

She leans forward and kisses me. It’s a small peck, but it feels like a bigger gesture than it is. Her face pulls away from mine but I follow her. I kiss her gently, my nose softly rubbing against hers and our breaths panning against one another’s faces. It’s the only breeze that alerts us that we’re here, and this isn’t some dream.

I speak first. “I’m sorry,” I say.

She pulls away and kisses both my palms. “No. Don’t apologize for not telling me. I just wish you trusted me enough to tell me this. I want to help you any way I can. I know it’s not something easy to fix, but I’m willing to sit down and help you.”

I kiss her cheek. I mumble a thank you in her ear and rest my forehead on her shoulder.

“So,” she chuckles two seconds later, “what are we going to do about this kiss.”

I shrug and scoot back. “What do you want to do about this kiss?”

She chuckles and stands up, pulling me with her. She grabs the leftovers and we race to her Jeep. I slide right in and immediately, we make out. It’s heated, and I don’t know if we should keep on doing it.

I actually think we should wait. I kindly and slowly pull away, a trail of saliva that once linked us falling onto the fat of our lips.

Ellie takes this as a sign to get going. She turns on her car and drives back to school, where no one but our teachers care for us.

#ellie williams #elliewilliams x reader #ellie williams tlou #lesbian romance #oneshot #ellie williams headcanons #ellie x fem reader #ellie the last of us #the last of us #ellie williams x you

24 notes · View notes

anonymouspuzzler · 1 year

Text

ok back to your regularly scheduled Lobotos. featuring design notes, parenthood speculation, and some primo Crossover Content slash preview of some more shit you're gonna be seeing in this queue real soon

(alt text/image IDs under the cut!)

[Image 1 ID: A design sketch of Loboto standing upright with a neutral expression, wearing only black boxer shorts, missing his prosthetic arm and shower cap. His left arm is sticking straight out in a t-pose. There is a detail shot of his head in profile to the side. Next to him are design notes reading: - about 1 head taller than Sasha/Milla, nearly 2x coach - stick build, but with tummy; legs taper out at ankles - numerous stitches on head, sloppy stitches on arm stump, scar on side (stolen kidney), throw misc injuries (scars, burns etc.) where appropriate - sparse body hair; hair on head is in uneven chunks (growing unevenly around scar tissue) - avoid making feet too long, they're actually pretty tiny - extremely minimal chin; profile should always look slouched at neck/shoulders]

[Image 2 ID: An additional design sketch based on the previous image, showing how the shower cap and prosthetic layer on top of Loboto's body type; the glove on his left arm and a pair of torn-up jeans have been drawn in as well. Next to him are design notes reading: - prosthetic slightly out of proportion with real arm, a little too short - harness tightens at shoulder, possibly buckles for straps underneath, release at end of sleeve where wooden arm starts? (built to stay on tight, not for easy removal; muted pain response minimizes discomfort) - forearm & hand is fully just a pepper grinder with thin claws (leave deliberately unclear how it moves; unconscious TK?) - in close-up make bolts & stitches uneven and sloppy; done one-handed, no finesse, poss. w/non dominant hand - 3 cap patches, far left, small far right, one at top/back; covers most hair & scars - pants should always be a little too short unless implied to be specially tailored; he's too dang tall for fast fashion - all "his" clothes should be worn out, torn up, poorly/not repaired; intact clothes should be visibly stolen slash "borrowed"]

[Image 3 ID: Three drawovers of the Loboto design from the first image, showing him in different sets of clothing, labeled "alt outfit samples". The top option shows him in a baggy t-shirt that hangs off his shoulders and only reaches midway down his stomach, and drawstring-tied shorts that are baggy at the legs, cinched extremely tight at the waist, and barely cover his boxers; this set is labeled "coach". The rightmost option shows him in a bulky turtleneck with the sleeves rolled up, over which is a long sleeveless dress; this set is labeled "sasha & milla". The final, bottom-and-leftmost option shows him in his usual boots and torn-up jeans, as well as a better-fitting turtleneck with only the sleeve on his prosthetic rolled up, and an apron reaching mid-thigh with the Psychonauts logo on the top-left corner; this set is labeled "uniform".]

[Image 4-5 IDs: A two-panel black-and-white comic showcasing Puzz thinking through Loboto design options. A doodle of Puzz, wearing a t-shirt and overalls and looking thoughtful, thinks "I wonder... what IS the best way to stylize Loboto with his eyes closed?" There are three drawings of Loboto's head with his jaw hanging slightly open as he snores. In the first, there are half-moon shapes drawn in his lenses to imply closed eyes, labeled "just shaping the eye part is simple, but do you lose the 'lens' feel...?" The second shows him with his eyes looking completely normal, labeled "is it funnier if his eyes always look open?" The third shows half-moon eyes and the lens frames shaped to match, labeled "you COULD squash and stretch the lenses but that reads like eyebrows..." The second panel, labeled "SOLUTION:" in bold text, shows Loboto lying in bed asleep with his prosthetic removed and left hand draped over his chest, snoring. Rather than any of the previous eye options, he's just wearing a quilted sleep mask over his eyes, with the shape of the lenses visibly bulging underneath.]

[Image 6 ID: A two-panel comic of Loboto and Oleander, asleep next to each other in bed. Loboto is wearing a baggy t-shirt and has his prosthetic off, his left arm behind his head under the pillow, his head tilted to one side. Oleander is to his left, right arm behind him under the pillow, left arm crossed over his chest. The second panel shows Loboto's eye lenses suddenly lighting up with an audible "CLICK.", making Oleander jolt awake.]

[Image 7 ID: A real photo of a sculpted molar on a chain hanging from a big round business sign-frame, which previously made the rounds on Twitter. Drawn on top is Loboto, beaming and holding a nervous Raz over his head, shouting "RAZ GET THE TOOTH".]

[Image 8 ID: A drawing of Loboto reaching up rapturously towards a photo of a calzone. I can't explain this one.]

[Image 9 ID: A drawing of a shirtless Loboto, wearing his shower cap but not his prosthetic, sitting up sleepily in a pile of pillows. He is covered from the waist down by a thick blanket with a wavy pattern.]

[Image 10 ID: A black and white drawing of Loboto, grinning and giving a thumbs-up at the camera with his left hand, and the G-Man from Half-Life, smirking at the camera and holding his left arm at his side, shaking hands. I can't really explain this one either.]

[Image 11 ID (MAJOR PSYCHONAUTS 2 SPOILERS IN DESCRIPTION): A four-panel comic of Loboto. In the first, he is grinning nervously, left hand on his hip and right prosthetic arm gesturing vaguely, saying "Sorry, kid, can't tell ya aaanything 'bout this job"; in the background, roughly where he's gesturing, is a figment of Truman's brain case on a shelf. In the second panel, his grin has grown even more anxious, and he is shrugging up towards a lamp that resembles Gristol's crown, saying "Yeah, just. Nothin' I can say 'bout my boss." The third shows him standing on a representation of the swirling pattern outside the Astralathe, gesturing broadly with a very anxious expression, under an even larger crown-lamp and surrounded by framed posters with various telling images (an egg in a basket, the mobster tooth fairy, Maligula's eyes, a box with an arrow pointing inside, a skull with crossed-out eyes) and text ("SHHHH", "NOT YOUR REAL DAD", "HELP", "VISIT DROWNED GRULOVIA", "THEY HAVE MY KID'S ADDRESS"). Loboto, frantic, screams "LOOK AT ME HERE SAYING NOTHING *OUT LOUD* ABOUT MY BOSS". The final panel shows a confused Raz and frustrated Sasha standing nearby, both in their suits, Sasha smoking a cigarette and saying, "He's giving us nothing". Loboto, collapsed in an anguished heap on the floor, whimpers, "I'm going to die here."]

[Image 12 ID: A black-and-white drawing of Loboto, grinning and giving two thumbs-up, wearing a crop-top t-shirt reading "WORLD'S LEAST-ISH ARRESTED DAD".]

[Image 13 ID: A black-and-white drawing of Loboto leaning out of the window of a beat-up, welded-together franken-car, smiling widely and waving with his prosthetic arm. There is smoke emitting from the back, a vanity plate reading "T33TH80", and bumper stickers reading "HONK IF U HAVE TEETH" and "MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT". Standing behind the car, slouched-over and holding a suitcase in his left hand, is Dart.]

[Image 14 ID: A black-and-white drawing of Loboto speaking into a phone held in his left hand, twirling the cord in one of the fingers of his prosthetic. He says into the receiver, "Heyyy, kiddo, it's dad. Listen, you know cool pre-teen slang, don't you? Can you explain 'cringe' to me real quick? I gotta figure out if I'm being flirted with or insulted or both."]

[Image 15 ID: A sketchy black-and-white drawing of Loboto speaking on a phone, sitting backwards in a wooden chair. The phone cradle is sitting on the floor, and the cord is tangled in the fingers of Loboto's prosthetic, which is hanging over the back of the chair. He glares at the receiver and says, "Look, I know the brain's still in his head, but you didn't *specify* it had to be *removed* in the contract, so I say you owe me that bonus! C'mon, work with me here! My kid wants to go to band camp!" Phoebe, sitting in a beanbag to the left of him listening to a walkman, looks up disdainfully and corrects, "I said I wanted my tracks *on* Bandcamp, dad."]

[Image 16 ID: A black-and-white illustration of Phoebe sitting at a drumset, with Loboto lying on the floor in front of it, reading a dentistry book, head leaning against the bass drum. Phoebe is holding a drumstick in each hand and glaring down at the set, steam coming out of her ears, saying, "Ooough...!! This stupid solo's getting me so steamed!!!" Loboto replies, "Mmm, steam's fine, but no fire, sweetie, all right? Remember the hospital blocked daddy's number."]

[Image 17-18 IDs: A two-panel comic of Loboto and Phoebe. In the first, Loboto is kneeling on the ground hugging Phoebe tightly, shoulders shaking and a tear leaking out of his eye. Phoebe, dangling slightly even with Loboto crouching, grabbing at his arm with one hand, groans, "Daaaaad you're so *embarrassing*." The second panel shows Loboto, now standing with Phoebe hanging limply in his arms and looking back at him with mild irritation, staring dumbfounded at a wrecked, burning car. The speech balloons read: Loboto: "This isn't one of yours is it sweetie" Phoebe: "No one can prove anything" Loboto: "okay it's just daddy's car is still three towns over and we were gonna get a ride home from daddy's boyfriend in this car" Phoebe: "your *what,*"]

[Image 19 ID: A black-and-white illustration of Dr. Habit from Smile for Me and Loboto having an animated conversation. Puzz's anxious yet furious face is barely peeking into frame from the very bottom of the image.]

[Image 20 ID: A black-and-white illustration featuring Loboto and Phoebe alongside Habit, Putunia and Kamal from Smile for Me. Phoebe, grinning mischievously, is using pyrokinesis to light Putunia's boxing glove on fire, to her visible delight. Habit has gone into a panicked crouch at the sight, while Loboto, looking over a jar of teeth, looks over in mild surprise. Kamal is running up holding a fire extinguisher from the other side of the screen, motion-blurred and screaming.]

#anonymous puzzler art #psychonauts #psychonauts 2 #caligosto loboto #phoebe love #psychonauts 2 spoilers #tw for toplessness slash suggestive #long post

156 notes · View notes

icouldntcareless22 · 1 year

Text

Mrs. Grinch & Mr. Sunshine

A request from @lethallyprotected about sunshine! Jisung x grumpy! Reader. Hope you like it!!!

If you have any requests I will be glad to listen!

Barista! Jisung x Customer! Reader (f)

Acquaintances to lovers, fluff

Words: 1,4k

"Is your father a thief? Because he stole all the world's stars to put them into your eyes!" You stared dead into his eyes, pondering your life choices and most importantly your barista choices. He smiled brightly, too brightly, for the unholy hour you were both forced to wake up and handed you your first cup of the day, filled to the brim with coffee.

"No, but he must be a ring leader with all the clowns I attract" you huffed out, hand already spread out to accept your drink from the lousy brunette. You greedily swallowed a big gulp of it, your eyes flying to his messy hair and crisp apron. He must have gotten up earlier than you and you cried a little inside.

"Ohh Come on! It's Valentine's, princess. Everybody deserves a compliment!" He whined, flashing a big heart shaped grin that fit the holiday to the glove.

You furrowed your brows "Don't call me princess" you bit, annoyance obvious in your tone. You weren't one of the girls that fell with that kind of line.

Rather than princess, witchling fit you better.

He blinked at you innocently and opened his mouth once again "Mrs Grinch then?" He inquired, one eyebrow high but upon seeing your deadpan expression, he exploded with laughter. He literally threw himself on the countertop, almost doubling from laughter on top of it. You huffed a breath, left him some of your change and walked towards the door. "See you later Mrs Grinch!"

You didn't bother looking at him instead you waved a hand over your shoulder as a goodbye and called back "Sure Mr Sunshine"

...

You weren't running.

You were calm.

You were quiet..

You were in your zone...

And so fucking late!

You speed walked to the cafe on your way to class. The morning philosophy class you had to take this semester wouldn't be so bad with a coffee in your hand. Or so you had convinced yourself.

You threw open the gigantic glass doors and rushed to join the queue of the grumpy students trying to get their dose of caffeine. You were just about to reach goe your phone to busy yourself till you reach the counter but a call stopped you.

"Mrs Grinch!" Ryunjin shouted.

You blinked. It sounded familiar...

"Mrs Grinch!" She shouted, this time her gaze locking with yours. You checked if she was looking at someone else around you but when you saw no one giving her the time of day, you raised one brow and pointed at yourself.

She enthusiastically nodded so you hesitantly left the queue and approached her. You stopped in front of her but didn't said anything. So she grinned, pushed the cup towards you and quoted "From Mr. Sunshine" You let out a breath at this. Jisung had his ways, that was certain. You thanked her, but she dismissed you with a wave and a knowing smile and ushered you out.

You tentatively took a sip.

Black, just how you liked it.

And he knew that.

...

This continued for several days and you slowly started to make your appearance, besides the busy mornings, to the afternoon shifts of a certain loud barista.

"Hello Mrs Grinch! I see today you are not in a hurry!" He greeted you cheerily, but you couldn't pay attention at him. You only could stare at his hair.

"You dyed it" you said instead. His lovely chestnut hair was replaced by a bark blue black that was enhancing his features sure, but it also gave him an edge that you weren't used to.

His hands immediately flew to his tresses, giving them a tug. "Does it look bad?" He wondered quietly, almost insecurely. But that couldn't be, loud he may be but insecure he was not. And he had not a single reason to be.

"No. They look good. It's just not.. very you" you concluded as you tapped your chin in your search for the right words.

He smiled slyly. "What is very me?" he questioned, leaning over the counter that always separated you. You stared into his eyes.Shrugged.

"Sunshine core, I guess. Black to go" you changed the flow of the conversation quickly. He whined for a bit but, eventually, he turned around to make your coffee.

"Why you always leave? Can't you stay here for coffee for once?" He asked, still whining cutely to you. You paused your search for money to give him a confused look. Why would you? He saw the question in your eyes and exclaimed "I would be over the beans happy! Get it?" His giggles surrounded you.

You wouldn't be able to focus in there. The music, the chats and...his laughter would, surely, be distracting. So instead of an answer you told him "Keep the change" and walked out of the door.

...

Once more you were in the cafe for leisure rather than need. You had wanted to relax and enjoy a cup in your own pace. You entered and quietness welcomed you. From the melodious jazz music till the airiness from inside the bar brought you a sense of calm.

Until you saw Jisung'a face.

His bright heart shaped smile, that you had used to seeing upon his face, was missing. In fact his lips were turned downwards almost in a pout, but sadder. You roused the cashier slowly. "Who is the Grinch now?" You asked, gently without your usual bite. Today seemed like he could do without it.

He met your eyes a with small smile, that seemed all he could muster at the moment. He turned and started making your coffee, without a single word. So you stood there and watched him. Usually in his haste to turn around again and talk to you, he would rush and make small mistakes, he would curse or laugh the pain away and he would ask about your day. Today was not usually. So you asked instead. "Are you ok Mr. Sunshine?" Low and gently. You were afraid of raising your voice to a normal tone, as if it would shatter a very needed barrier he had build.

He sighed.

The sound came from somewhere deep insiyhis chest. "One of my friends...he had a fight with his girlfriend..and when I took her side, he said a couple of things.. Nothing you should be worried about. I am fine." he concluded, eyes on your cup, on the check out, anywhere but you.

"I see" you hummed. And began gathering your things and your cup from the counter. "I hope you don't worry yourself too much, Jisung. Talk to him. It's not fair to you to be uncomfortable or insecure about something he said in anger and, probably, didn't even mean." You said and left the shop before he could answer.

On your way to your dorm you couldn't get out of your mind the image of Jisung pouting and avoiding your gaze. You stood still for a moment and signed before turning around. You knew just what to do to cheer him up. So you walked to the nearest bakery, bought the freshest and loveliest cheesecake and made a bee line to the coffee shop, where the unhappy barista worked. You opened the enormous doors again, this time more cautiously.

You checked the tables and the stairs, but the boy was nowhere in sight so you approached the counter, fully prepared to leave the cheesecake and leave. But, of course, it was that moment he chose to return to his post.

His eyes widened a tiny bit, but he quickly put a small smile on his face and approached you. "Hello again. Want anything else?" He asked quietly, his eyes fleeting from yours again.

Now or never. You told yourself.

You placed the baked good on the countertop and pushed it lightly towards him. "No. But this is for you. Hope you feel better" you muttered and speeded towards the exit yet again. The fresh air hit you but before you could step further into him and away from the cafe, your name was being called. Or rather you peculiar nickname.

"Mrs Grinch! Y/N!" Jisung called, breath elaborated from his jog.You turned to him, unsure of what to make of this sudden persuasion. You raised a brow and jotted your chin towards him, a silent invitation to speak first.

He looked very pink in this new and natural night, you thought. "So....ummm..I was wondering..if you.. would like to go out sometime." he asked, nervousness taking over. "With me!" He quietly squealed, almost forgetting the most important part.

You looked at him, really looked.

A sweet boy, who knew how you took your coffee, asked how your day was, how you were feeling and what plans did you have.

Were those enough to like him? No.

We're those enough to get you interested in knowing him? Yes.

And you got the feeling that you would come to like him easily. He was sweet, cheery and warm.

Your personal sunshine.

"I would love to go out with you"

♡⁠♡♡

90 notes · View notes

harrisonarchive · 3 months

Text

Photo by Mike McCartney:

“On board the Royal Iris just before the boys performed on the all-night Riverboat Shuffle [presumably on July 6, 1962]. They’re in the second-best dressing room — Acker Bilk had the star’s room — behind the captain’s bridge. We’d heard of something called an ouija board. We knew you turned a glass upside down on a table and somehow it would connect you to the supernatural. So the boys held each other’s wrists to create a magic circle. The only thing we didn’t know was that you had to put your hand on the glass!” - Mike McCartney, Remember: The Recollections and Photographs of Michael McCartney (1992) “We once did a Ouija board thing when we were kids, it was just me, George… and John, I think… So we weren’t really into all that, but somebody just said, ‘Let’s do it.’ So we’re touching the glass, you know, saying ‘OK, nobody push it, OK?’ So then, suddenly… whoa, it’s moving! Now, my mum had died a couple of years before and it says, ‘Congratulations… son…’ And we’re going, ‘NO!’ ‘Congratulations… son… number one… In NME!’ And so we were all, ‘Oh, f**k off! There’s no way she would know what NME was’. And there’s George, you know (laughing). He’d been pushing it all the time! Bad boy!” - Paul McCartney, NME, October 2010 (x)

#George Harrison #Paul McCartney #John Lennon #Mike McCartney #The Beatles #George and Paul #George and John #fits queue like a glove

289 notes · View notes

bxwitched · 1 year

Text

Come Fly With Me - Part Six

Warnings: 18+ only. Sexual tension, slow burn, alcohol consumption, angst, fluff, hurt, comfort, mentions of misogyny, very minor mention of war.

Word Count: 2.9K

Character Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Summary: After you land yourself in a spot of trouble, a favour from a friend lands you in the classroom at Top Gun.

A/N: Comments, reblogs and likes are all appreciated! You can find my masterlist here.

True to his word, Jake knocks on your door at seven sharp and your stomach twists as you answer it. The simple black tee fits snugly and leaves little to the imagination, the fabric just barely hides his abs and the way that his blue jeans hug his strong thighs has you inhaling sharply. He looks like sin and he knows it, the smug bastard.

You feel the flush as it creeps up your body, moving from your chest to your neck and then finally, settling in the apples of your cheeks. Your eyes reluctantly return to his face and you can see the amusement on his features, embarrassment floods you as you realise that he's been watching you ogle him in silence for a good minute.

He's sporting a cocky grin as he reaches out to lean on your doorframe, his bicep flexing beside your head as he leans his weight into it.

"See something you like darlin'?"

His voice is teasing and you scoff as you step out into the hallway and turn to lock your door. You can feel the weight of his stare on your back and the scent of his aftershave lingers in the air around you, making you feel dizzy.

"You know, as much as I like your uniform Spitfire, I think I like this more. You clean up real nice." He looks delighted as he takes in the sundress you'd chosen to wear, it's plain but pretty and fits you like a glove, highlighting your best assets. You feign shock as you spin on your heel and press a hand to your chest.

"A compliment from the Hangman? I'm honoured!" Your tone is mocking and he lets out a hearty laugh, one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and puts his dimples on full display. You find yourself chuckling as well as you tuck your keys away into your bag.

"Thank you. I'd say the same but I don’t want to feed your ego any more." He quirks an eyebrow in your direction with a knowing smile and you huff, pushing at his arm jovially.

"God, you're insufferable. Now, I believe you promised me a drink Seresin."

"Yes ma'am." He gestures ahead of him and starts walking and you quickly fall into step with him. He leads you out to the front of the barracks and over to his truck, a large black pick up that looks like it cost a pretty penny or two.

It's not far to the Hard Deck and the two of you chat idly as he drives along the darkened streets. There's a undercurrent of tension between the two of you and you don't miss the way that his eyes flicker down every so often, straying to the hem of your dress. The fabric has ridden up slightly from sitting down, exposing more of your bare thighs to his gaze.

He parks up outside of the bar and the two of you make your way over to the front entrance, as you reach the door he pulls it back for you and motions you in ahead of him, leaving you pleasantly surprised by the gentlemanly gesture.

"Ladies first."

The place is busy for a weeknight but not nearly as packed as your first night in Miramar and you're grateful for it, needing to relax after the long day of training. You spot a free table in one of the quieter corners and ask Hangman to order you a beer as you head over to it, leaving him to queue at the bar.

It doesn't take long for him to be served and you watch as he interacts with the older woman from last time you were here, Penny you think her name is.

You can't hear what they're saying but you can see that he's laying the charm on thick. The brunette throws him a fond yet chastising look before her eyes flicker to you briefly, you notice that her expression changes and your eyes narrow as she says something to him that makes him grin. He utters something back and she shakes her head as she hands him over a couple of beers and swipes his card through the register.

He makes his way over with confident strides and you thank him politely as he passes you one of the brown bottles before sitting down in the chair opposite. He raises his drink to his lips and takes a long pull, and you do the same, exhaling slowly as you swallow and the cool beer slips down your throat.

He leans back in his chair and you frown as the corner of his lips lift in a smirk.

"What?"

His expression is roguish and you huff out a laugh as you run a hand through your hair. You feel nervous under his unwavering gaze, something that you've not felt from a man in a long time.

"So why are we here tonight? Do you make a habit of taking your wingmen out for drinks?" His expression is smug as he leans in closer over the table.

"Only the pretty ones." You look at him unconvinced and he sighs, shifting in his seat and draping an arm over the back of it.

"I meant it today when I said we're a good team. You're smart up there and unlike the others, you can keep up with me." You arch a brow at the backhanded compliment and he falters then, his tongue gliding along his lower lip apprehensively as he considers his next words carefully.

"But I still don't know a thing about you, so maybe I just want to get to know you a little better."

The corner of your lips turn up in a half smile and he visibly relaxes. It's almost endearing to see Hangman, usually so cock-sure being unsure around you and you watch as he takes a swig of his drink, his eyes still locked with yours over the bottle.

"Careful, Lieutenant. You’re starting to become somewhat likeable.” Your tone is teasing but he can hear the underlying challenge. “And by likeable I mean that I no longer want to sabotage your plane.”

"Stop." Your quip seems to reinforce his confidence and his expression turns coy as he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. It has you squeezing your thighs together just a little bit tighter as warmth stirs in between them.

His free hand shifts to rest on his knee and your eyes follow the movement of his index finger as it strokes across the rough denim, his class ring glinting as it catches in the low light of the bar.

You pick at the label on the bottle absentmindedly, just yesterday you wanted to strangle this man and now he's starting to get underneath your skin. The thought of it is both frightening and arousing and you know that if he keeps looking at you like he is right now you're both going to be in trouble.

"How about a game, darlin'?" His smooth drawl lulls you out of your racing thoughts and you lick your lips nervously as you try to regain your composure.

"What did you have in mind?"

That's also how you've found yourself bent over one of the pool tables, lining up your cue stick to take a shot as Hangman admires you not so subtly from the side.

One beer had quickly turned into three and whilst you didn't normally drink when training for an upcoming mission he had been able to convince you to let your hair down for the night, arguing that as the two of you weren't scheduled to fly tomorrow a little fun wouldn't hurt.

The alcohol that you've consumed has definitely lowered your inhibitions but Jake’s demeanour remains unchanged. His last two beers have been alcohol free and he’s been sipping water for the past twenty minutes, his voice firm as he stated that he doesn’t drink and drive.

It's put you in a playful mood and you can't help yourself, feeling emboldened as you dip just a little bit lower, your chest brushing against the grass green velvet with each steady breath.

You can feel the slight chill on the backs of your thighs from where your dress has risen and you feel giddy, stomach fluttering at the idea that he's getting a good view of your backside from the position.

You drive your cue stick forward and grin as the cue hits your chosen ball, successfully sinking it in to the hole. You straighten and throw him a cheeky wink over your shoulder, his eyes are darker than before and the corners of his lips are turned up in a smirk as he rounds the table and surveys it.

"How about we make this a little more interesting, sweets?" You arch a wary brow.

"How so?"

"If I land this next shot-" He moves in closer to you, his mossy greens locked on yours. "I get to ask whatever I want and you have to give me an honest answer."

You feel a pang of anxiety and your stomach turns. You already know what he's going to ask you and you know that you can't avoid it for much longer. You want to be able to be honest with him but you can't predict his reaction and that worries you. You certainly don't want him resent you or think any less of you as a pilot for how you came to be here.

"Okay." You swallow deeply as you agree, pushing down your nerves.

If he notices your change in demeanour he doesn't mention it, he proceeds with his shot, folding himself over at the waist and lining up his cue stick with the ball. You watch as he draws it back and then presses forward, the cue strikes his ball sharply and sinks it into the pocket in one perfect shot.

He stands up, back to his full height and turns to you before perching himself on the edge of the mahogany table with a pleased expression.

"What's going on with you and the Admiral? You looked pretty tense when he caught you on the tarmac." His face is mischievous but you pick up on an undertone of what you think might be concern. Your poker face falters as you exhale and bite the bullet.

"He's my godfather."

You don't know what he was expecting to hear from you but you know from the look of sheer disbelief on his handsome face that it wasn't that. You would laugh if you didn't feel so anxious.

"Wait, hold on now-" His eyes are wide, head titled to the side as he holds his palm out in a stop motion. "You're telling me that Admiral Simpson is your godfather?"

You nod slowly in affirmation and study his face carefully. You had expected that he would be angry, that he would accuse you of only getting to be at Top Gun because of your relationship with Beau, but to your surprise he doesn't. His expression is neutral as he processes the newfound information.

"My dad was a Royal Navy pilot and flew in Iraq, he and Beau flew a lot of joint missions together." He nods in understanding but stays quiet, giving you room to you elaborate.

"Dad never really came home from the war, you know? I was young and my mother couldn't deal with it all so she left, I never saw her again. The point is, Beau did a lot for us, more than I can ever thank him for."

You can feel the tears pooling in the corner of your eyes and you quickly blink them away, you shouldn't be emotional after all of this time but the pain is still there, buried deep inside of you.

You plaster on a smile as you lean on your cue stick but Jake sees straight through it.

"My turn. What does home look like for you? If I'm not mistaken you're from Texas, right? Go longhorns?" He beams then and it lights up his entire face.

"Damn straight. Home is a small town, I try to go back and see everyone when I can, my parents, my sisters and the dogs."

"You have sisters?"

"Yup, three of em'." He smiles fondly as he recalls his family. "The oldest one, Emma made me an uncle last year." He lets out a chuckle at your surprised face.

"What about you, sweetheart? There ain't a husband or boyfriend at home that I need to worry about now, is there?" He's grinning from ear to ear and you scoff, brushing past him.

"Don't worry, you're safe. I'm split between the base and the carriers, I used to come and see Beau a lot but it's been back to back for a while." He frowns then.

"That sounds a little lonely." You shrug as you lean down to take your next shot, the way that he observes you is distracting and you swear lowly as you miss, the cue just barely skimming the ball.

He makes his way around the table to stand next to you, he's close, practically trapping you and there's an intensity in his eyes that freezes you in place.

"You know, what I still don't understand is why the Royal Navy would send only one of their pilots across the pond to take part in a US Navy operation. Why don't you clear it up for me, darlin'?." You take a deep breath as he mocks you. You already miss the milder, more genuine side of him.

"Are we doing this now?"

"Yeah, we're doing this."

"Alright." You stand up straighter, squaring up to his large frame as you lock your gaze with his. "You want to know why I'm really here? Because Beau did me a favour. I disobeyed orders when a mission went pear shaped and when I got back on the carrier I was put in front of the CO to be reprimanded."

You clench your fists as you remember the older man's words, harsh and biting.

"He was livid. He told me that he was going to make sure I never flew again, said that women weren't meant for the Navy and that we can't follow orders, that we are too weak and undisciplined. I shouldn't have done it but I just saw red and I hit him."

Jake's expression is stormy and you note the way that his cheek moves as he clenches his jaw.

"That bastard deserved it." You nod, a sad expression on your face as you think over the events of the past six months.

"The Navy didn't see it that way. To them, I assaulted a senior officer, they wanted to court-martial me, Jake." You can feel your eyes watering, your throat getting tighter as you continue to speak. "I didn't know what else to do so I called Beau, he still has old friends in the ranks and he managed to pull some strings to get me on to this assignment, he saved my career."

The tears have spilled over onto your cheeks and you look down, embarrassed as you swipe them away.

"Hey, hey. Come here."

You startle as he wraps his strong arms tightly around you and pulls you into his body, your head resting in the crook of his neck. You try to steady your breathing, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest as you inhale the comforting scent of his aftershave. His body is warm and firm as he cradles the back of your head with one hand and rubs soothing circles into your back with the other.

He pulls away when your breathing finally evens out and you can't find the courage to look at him, mortified that he's seen you in such a state and in here of all places. You know that you must look a mess right now, your eyes will be red as will your nose and cheeks and your little display has surely attracted a few pairs of eyes within the bar.

"C'mon, I think that's enough for tonight. Let's get you back to base." He rests a hand on your back as he guides you out of the front doors and over to his truck.

You both come to a stop outside of your door and he lingers as you slide the key into the lock and turn it. You're about to push it open but you still with your hand on the knob, you let it go again and turn around to face him once more.

"You know Seresin, bar the minor emotional breakdown I enjoyed myself tonight." Your face twists into a sheepish expression then. "Sorry for that by the way."

You lean forward hesitantly and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, it's soft and sweet and Jake inhales sharply, his breath catching in his chest when your lips connect with his skin.

You pull back slowly, your eyes scanning his for a reaction. Your lips leave heat in their wake and his dilated eyes follow them as you pull away, his brain screaming at him to close the distance between the two of you and press his mouth against yours.

"Thank you." You've rendered him silent. Gone is the confident, flirtatious Hangman that made easy sport of taking the most beautiful woman in the bar home with him on a Friday night, all he can do is nod back at you dumbly as you move away.

You slip into your room and close the door behind you, leaving him stood there in the hallway with a bewildered look on his face.

Part Five

@luckyladycreator2 @ollyoxenfrees @callsign-blue @dempy @harper1666

66 notes · View notes

theluckywizard · 11 months

Note

Hello! Here is a prompt if you would like one: Rose/Hawke, Florence and the Machine prompts, "And for a moment, When I'm dancing, I am free"

This is all for you, Ammy! My fill for @dadrunkwriting

The Assassin's Masque (or Highfalutin Hawke and his Foxy Boss Try Subterfuge at Halamshiral)

Rating: Teen

Genre: Sexy fluff and subterfuge

Word Count: 3736 words

Warnings: N/A

Pairings: Rose Trevelyan x Garrett Hawke

Inquisitor Rose Trevelyan must conduct herself carefully at the Winter Palace as they work to collect the necessary intelligence to find and stop the Tevinter assassin. Luckily Inquisition agent Hawke is there to lend a hand.

Please enjoy my OCs Rose x m!Hawke (he hates his first name) as they get up to their usual mischief.

Illustrations by yours truly!

“I’ve heard they let these olives ferment in the gut of an august ram before harvesting for fancy canapes,” says Hawke from behind his mask, sidling up next to me. He whispers the next bit behind his hand. “They go digging for them in their shit, you know.” I know he’s not trying to blow our cover, but he damn well can’t resist can he.

“Delightful. Orlesian gastronomy is so inventive,” I answer, not taking the obvious bait. “And you are…?”

“Hawke,” he replies, beaming underneath shadowy peacock eyes.

“The illustrious Champion?” I ask. He inclines his head once in a tidy nod.

“And you– I feel as though I’ve seen you somewhere. Contessa Ophelia perhaps?” he says. Maker, I’d love to swat him. He’d love it too. I can feel the insipid weight of nosy eyes upon us. Everyone's a critic here and everyone’s a show, our interaction being dissected fifty ways already. The Champion of Kirkwall is hard to miss, easily one of the tallest men in attendance, his attire somehow perfectly Free Marches and yet perfectly flamboyant as well and he’s been working the crowd for hours already. Eyes follow him wherever he goes and I can hardly blame them. His vibrant plum colored justaucorps falls nearly to his knees, fitted over a waistcoat embroidered elaborately in gold and his starched white cravat and ruffled cuffs are equally garish. His hair is tied back with an elegant plum ribbon in a darling little queue. Hawke certainly knows how to make a statement.

“Lady Rose Trevelyan,” I reply with a measured smile.

“The Inquisitor? The Herald of Andraste? Maker’s breath, I figured if you somehow finagled your way into this affair you’d show up in some manner of pompous uniform, not this gorgeous getup,” he says, surveying me up and down as frankly as ever, pleased as punch to pop off a compliment. “Is that your infamous hand!?” He gestures to my right hand. I consider whether it would be all right to laugh at the intensity of his antics. I’ve seen him entertain multiple guests, each of them effortlessly charmed by his exuberance left giggling and fanning themselves. I shake my head with a smile and hold up my left hand to him. He makes a show of beholding it like the holy weapon many consider it to be and then bows elegantly before me with his foot extended forward, raising my gloved hand to his lips.

“Your worship,” he says, and his smolder is hidden behind that ridiculous peacock mask but I can feel it bearing down on me, probing for that weak spot he knows I have for him. “Let me see your dance card. ” Forceful as ever, too. If I’m to present myself with the proper clout, I’ll have to match him somehow, spar with him.

“I’m not sure there’s space for a personality as colossal as yours,” I tease him. He shakes his head with a grin.

“Oh I’ll make it fit, I promise you, Inquisitor,” he says, scrawling his name gleefully onto the next spot. “I see the Duchess has claimed a dance! She’s a delight. I’ve danced with her once already. If you dip her, she’ll be putty in your hands. Do with that bit of info what you will. If your fancy leans that way.”

“My fancy is leaning toward these petit fours.”

“Watch you only have one. The variety of deep mushroom in it can have a moving effect,” he says, suppressing his giggle. I contain my smile and retract my hand from them which he immediately claims and boldly tucks into his elbow as the music breaks before the next dance begins. I know he’s a competent dancer having taught me to lead, but I’m anxious with all these eyes upon us that our familiarity with one another will be difficult to conceal. Perhaps I should just look as starry-eyed as every other guest he interacts with. It wouldn’t be a terrible stretch, though resisting all the terrible jokes I wish to make with him will be a challenge.

Hawke bows low before me on the ballroom floor, and I catch a glint of playful pale blue from behind the peacock. The music pipes up, a lively uptempo waltz that prompts an immediate smile in me. There’s no feeling as liberating as a breathless waltz, flying about the floor on light feet. He tugs me taut against him, his dashing smile properly contagious.

“And how did you secure an invitation to such an illustrious affair?” I ask him.

“Now, now, Your Worship. I have an air of mystery to maintain,” he replies. I feel slightly admonished, remembering Josephine and Leliana’s careful instruction in the Game. Being forthright shows naivete, reveals too much. One must choose words carefully, couching them in riddles, relegating the truth to the barest subtext. My eyes drift up to the wall where Cullen’s installed himself, and I consider how difficult speaking that way must be for him. In fact, I feel certain that Josie and Leliana have instructed him to stay by that very wall, keep his mouth shut and look pretty. An easy sell for a man who’s interest in the Game amounts to less than nothing. “I don’t understand why people don’t just say what they mean,” he’d said and the women had looked at each other with anxious eye rolls and patiently explained its uses while he scowled and huffed in protest.

“So, in a race between a Bull, a Halla, and an Orlesian Courser, who’s going to win?” Hawke asks, his wit sharpened to a fine point in this setting, abandoning some of the goofiness I normally adore about him.

“Depends on whether one of them gets shanked in the starting gate,” I mutter, glancing around as he sweeps me weightlessly across the floor.

“Interesting! That would be poor sportsmanship, but certainly within the official rules,” he remarks. He pulls me closer and speaks in a low voice as if only to me. “You dance like a dream, Inquisitor.” The involuntary flutter in my stomach was already poised for action by the spiritedness of our dance, but the compliment unleashes it. We have an entire audience, party guests pressing against the rail above the ballroom to watch as the Inquisitor is swept away by the Champion of Kirkwall. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. He may be leading, but I’m now aware of the effect I have on him. Hawke pushes me out for a heady spin and then reels me back in exuberantly, and I feel the heaviness of the stress of the affair easing, like he’s charging me with confidence and courage for the covert tasks to come.

“Perhaps you and I might disappear after this,” he says in my ear and it’s not quite quiet enough. I see at least one guest cover their mouth in shock and delight and turn to the person next to them to point at us. Even as we dance I mentally freeze, trying to understand his angle, what he could possibly mean beyond actually wandering off for a quick fuck. “Find a quiet corner out of sight. The guest garden looked rather inviting.” If he was sincere he’d be grinning, but there isn’t a smile on his face. He’s sharing the next move and creating cover. And a torrent of rumors, but cover.

“Are all Fereldans as presumptuous as you?”

“I can think of at least one who is not nearly presumptuous enough,” he replies, with a cheeky glance at Cullen’s side of the mezzanine. “But no. I’m incorrigible. And I find you… most bewitching.” I manage to control my blush, remembering that the Game is an act, no matter how much truth there is lurking underneath it all.

“I’ve far too many people to meet still. Perhaps. If you can track me down.”

“I’m famous for my investigative abilities, you know,” he says, beaming again.

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t bother trying to hide?” I reply, gathering up the social credit earned by this playful, titillating exchange.

“Tell you what. I’ll take care of the introductions and then we can claim a corner of the guest garden.”

“The guest garden. I’ve been told it’s gorgeous.”

“Yes, it’s divine. We can cozy up. Plop some caprice coins in the fountain. I’ve got a pocketful to share,” he says.

“Sounds rather lovely, actually,” I say, allowing myself to smile.

“I’ve heard the library is next to none. It’s just upstairs from the garden,” he continues, spinning me again and then catches my eyes again with meaning. “Containing rare untold works you might enjoy.”

“The library?” I confirm.

“Yes, the library! Great big room. Stuffed with books. You know.” I lean back to scold him as the music reaches its rousing conclusion. He dips me low, his face close enough that I feel his breath soft against me, his eyes locked to mine. (cont below)

“Want to get out of here?” he asks. The mere thought of it causes waves of heat to wash slowly over me from down low as I recall our last tumble before leaving Crestwood. Aware of the attention fixed upon us, I allow my smile to tease at one corner of my mouth, attempting something of a sultry look under my mask and I nod very slightly, allowing him to lead me from the dance floor by the elbow.

As we make our way back out of the ballroom into the Vestibule, we are stopped several times for introductions by suddenly solicitous guests. Anyone on the arm of the Champion must be worthwhile, I surmise, as I’m now showered with attention I did not previously merit. An hour ago I was a spurious connection at best; a minor noble from a quaint and distant land with some very odd markings who may or may not have walked out of the Fade. Even the fact that I’d successfully closed the Breach seemed like a distant achievement; what makes me an icon in Fereldan is more dubious here in Orlais, far removed from the eyes of most guests. We haven’t pressed into Orlesian territory to resolve rifts yet. But on the arm of the Champion of Kirkwall, I’m instantly more compelling, elevated by his own legendary status. Surely a beauty, perhaps a wit.

We continue through the Antechamber, past the guest wing toward the grand staircase in the rear. Hawke leans down as if to graze my ear with his lips, sliding his hand around my waist provocatively.

“We should try this way first,” he says softly. “Otherwise we have a date with a trellis.” He takes me obviously by the hand and whisks me around the corner of the staircase, sweeping me up the stairs and into his arms. “If you giggle a little bit it will sell it.” He backs me against the wall between two doors and fumbles in the pocket of his elaborate jacket. “The number of things one can hide in this jack is truly astounding. I can’t be happier.”

“What are we doing?” I hiss. He leans down so it looks like he’s kissing my neck, but he looks over my shoulder and begins to pick the lock.

“Visiting the library of course,” he whispers. My heart knocks against the inside of my chest with both the thrill of the moment– breaking into a restricted area of the Winter Palace and my occasional lover looming over me so provocatively. A pick clatters on the floor after a particularly forceful crank of his arm. “Shit.”

The noisy footsteps of guard boots sound at the bottom of the stairs and begin to ascend. I step on the errant pick and grasp Hawke by the neck, hooking a leg over his hip and pull him down for the most theatrically passionate kiss I can dredge from within me, our ridiculous masks knocking into each other until they’re crooked. And of course he responds as if it was his idea all along, grasping my thigh with convincing fervor, shoving me gently against the marble column behind me.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” demands a guard, emerging from below in a pair. We break apart like teenagers caught, adjusting our masks, smoothing our clothes.

“Desolé, desolé,” says Hawke, which, by his strained accent, is probably one fifth of all the Orlesian he knows. One guard elbows the other, gesturing to us with his head.

“Euhhh, c’est le Champion, n’est-ce pas? Avec une amoureuse, en plus.”

“Le Champion? Ah, bon. Si, bon.” The guards wave us onward with their blessing and I’m once again reminded of the permissiveness of Orlesian sex culture. It was spoken of in somewhat horrified hushed whispers in Ostwick and laughably I’m now I’m the direct beneficiary.

“Le Champion de Kirkwall. More like le *Champignon* de Kirkwall,” I snort to myself, when he turns to trap me again.

“Think you’re funny, eh?” he says, bracing himself against the wall on an elbow over my head and bending to brush his lips over mine lightly.

“Mm hmm,” I tell him, rooting around in both of his pockets for his picks. I’m met with two cavernous bags full of Maker knows what. “There’s a lot going on in here. I need your picks.”

“Oh it’s fine. I’ll let you rummage around for a bit,” he says with a grin, breathing in the floral and cinnamon scent on my hair deeply. “You smell like pie. Or those ginger biscuits from Starkhaven that come in little tins. Shockingly edible.Was that on purpose?”

“Hawke,” I tell him, grasping his chin and meeting his eyes. “Focus.” He shoves his hand into his right pocket while my hand is still in there, running his fingers lightly down my palm like a proper rogue before feeling around for the picks in question. He folds them into my hand inside the pocket and I know he’s gazing at me from under his brow the way he usually does when he wants something from me. I turn around to attempt the lock. He presses his lips to my neck, his breath whispering across my skin. Maker, Hawke.

“We don’t have an audience, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” he says, nudging my ear with his nose. “We have to be prepared. One could arrive at any moment.” I’ll allow it. He could be right. They could be just around the corner.

The lock should be within my skill at this point, but I talk it out in case he wants to weigh in.

“Five pins,” I remark quietly. “Did you drop your tensioner?” It stands to reason that the library wouldn’t have a particularly complex lock on it. It’s a library after all.

“Let me grab it.” I lift my foot so he can reach down for it, his hands skimming over my waist and hips on the way. He holds it out to me from under my arm. I slide the tensioner in and feel delicately for the first binding pin, which clicks satisfyingly into place. I clutch a couple tools between my lips so I can see what I have available and pick out a bent snake for the next couple pins.

“This is unbelievably provocative,” says Hawke in my ear. “Mouthful of tools and all.”

“It would be a lot more so if I actually crack it,” I answer, glancing at him over my shoulder. He kisses my cheek, breaking the sultry act for a hot minute. My look lingers on him, a quietly affectionate smile crossing my lips before I go back to the lock. I drop to my knees for better leverage.

“Raising the stakes on our emergency theatrics, don’t you think?” he says above me, earning a swift smack on the boot. The pins click into place one after another and the cylinder rotates smoothly, the door unlatching and drifting open slightly.

“Et voilà,” I mutter with a grin. We both glance askance and then slip through the entry. Even in the darkness a guard perks up across the length of the grandiose library, calling out in Orlesian as if we were common party guests who’d just bumbled our way in, his sword at the ready just in case. Hawke strides confidently toward him and in a swift motion shockingly reminiscent of our earlier dancing, slips behind the guard, eases him into a reclined position with his neck inside the belt of his arm and rapidly renders him unconscious. He steps this way and that, looking for other inconvenient eyes and then pushes his mask up, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Right. That should give us ten or fifteen minutes or so,” he says, dragging the guard into a nook between a towering bookshelf and a table and binding his feet and wrists with lengths of cord he had tucked in his carpet bag sized pockets.

“Leliana mentioned Celene’s occult advisor, is that what we’re looking for here?” I ask, pushing my mask up. He nods, suddenly all business.

“Apparently she keeps an office up here. I had it from a pair of elven servants I bribed.”

“They spoke Common?” I ask, perplexed. Hawke answers me competently in Orlesian.

“‘Blundering foreigner’ is a useful look in the right situations,” he says with a grin. He slides back into Common. “Don’t look so surprised, you monster. Back here.” We hurry quietly across the cavernous library, watching carefully for other guards and enter a room lined with urn-topped pedestals, fringed with moonlight that filters in through the impossibly tall windows. “Supposedly her lair is in this area somewhere. But this doesn’t look right for a witchy type, does it?”

“If she’s everything Leliana says she is, I’m sure her space is hidden away,” I say, heading toward the book shelf in the back and knocking on the wooden bits to hear for changes in reverberation. The shelf to the left gives the unmistakable hollow sound I’m looking for and I glance over at Hawke, who comes over to help look for the mechanism.

“Eye level or lower. Wouldn’t make sense to put it in a difficult to reach spot. Discreet would be chest to hip height,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s done this sort of thing before.

“Nor would the mechanism likely be in the door itself. I’ll check the right side.” We comb over the books, checking for undue resistance or volumes that look out of place. My finger catches on one that feels sturdier than any of the others. I give it a stiff tug. The bookcase to my left swings inward. Hawke grins at me.

“I could get used to this you know,” he says as we peer our way into a darkened room.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Lurking about places with you all sneaky like.”

“We’ve done plenty of that already. You’re feeling nostalgic for Crestwood,” I say, poking him in the side.

The entire space is cast in a dancing aquamarine light from an enchanted brazier on the right. Instruments of arcane significance are carefully arranged on both the advisor’s desk and a side table looking a little creepy if I’m being honest. Dried floral specimens hang tidily above the workbench which has rows of bottles of powders labeled in some manner of coded shorthand. The space smells of dawn lotus and sandalwood and recently extinguished candles. Rather lovely, really.

“Smells like a Lowtown brothel,” grunts Hawke in response to my thoughts. I smirk at him with a raised brow.

“Familiar, is it?”

"What? My investigations have taken me to all manner of seedy establishments," he says, browsing through unlocked desk drawers.

"Mm hmm."

“I couldn’t be arsed to pay for sex if that’s what you’re implying,” he answers, tapping my rear playfully. “Look at this.” He hunches over a massive book on her desk, bound in the skin of an animal with its hair intact almost like the smooth, spotted coat of one of father’s hunting hounds. The corners of the grimoire are secured with ornately filigreed metal fittings. Maker knows how old it is or what secrets are contained therein. I reach for it to open it but Hawke catches me by the wrist.

“I should have said– don’t touch anything. It could be rigged with spells for all we know,” he says softly. He withdraws a dagger out from under his jacket, gives it a tentative poke looking for a magical trap and then uses it to unfold a letter that sits partially curled on the desk. I swing around the desk to read it upside down.

“It’s from Celene,” I say. “She begs Morrigan to be by her side all night. Concerns about assassins.” I glance up at him. “So she knows already.” Hawke cranes his neck around me, his expression plainly perplexed by whatever he’s caught sight of.

“What?” I ask. He walks out of the office. “Hawke.”

“There’s a cat,” he says, over his shoulder. “A Maker forsaken cat. It’s a little weird, right? Don’t normally think of cats in these great palaces, do you? In the library no less.” A sense of uneasiness washes over me as he approaches a small gray tiger that walks curiously in our direction.

“Hawke,” I say again, my heart stopping. Hawke turns to me fully, gesturing behind him.

“You don’t like cats?” In a whisper of motion, the cat silently grows into an elaborately, darkly adorned woman behind Hawke. Celene’s arcane advisor. Hawke turns back before I can warn him and he stumbles backward with a startled curse. I jog to Hawke’s side instinctively, feeling sure that I’m better off next to him in the presence of such a creature, whose office alone smacks of blood magic and competence.

“Well, well, well,” slinks a sultry, smoky voice across the silver-lit library, the figure gliding like an enigma embodied. “What do we have here? The Inquisitor, fabled Herald of the faith, delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the blessed Andraste herself and some… manner of lace-festooned brute? ‘Tis hardly the place for guests.”

Hawke tilts his head with dawning familiarity and taps his finger against his lips.

“Mordred? Morgoth? Morgan is it? No, no. Give me a minute. I’ll get it.” All vestiges of mystery evaporate as Hawke disassembles her with his usual antics. She slumps her shoulders and rolls her eyes. “Morrigan."

"I should have guessed it was you.”

#hawquisitor #hawke x trevelyan #hawke x inquisitor #garrett hawke #purple hawke #hawke at winter palace #wicked eyes wicked hearts #dragon age fan fiction #dragon age fan art #In the Shattering of Things #Now part of my longfic forever #da drunk writing circle #dadwc #theluckywizard

14 notes · View notes

greatqueenanna · 10 months

Note

Is there anything about Hans’ clothing/color palette/pattern designs that hint at Hans’ true alignment before the twist is revealed?

Narratively, the biggest visual hint of Hans' true intentions was his gloves. Gloves in Frozen tend to represent someone hiding their true self - as we see when Elsa uses them to hide her magic. Hans always wears gloves throughout the film - in every outfit he wears and in every interaction he has. The only time he takes off the gloves is when he is revealing his truth to Anna. This is a big visual queue that Hans was only his true self when he told Anna his plans.

Another hint that is more notable if you're into animation and character designing, is Hans' visual appearance overall. Disney villains are quite iconic for their angular or intense features, their association with lime green and/or purple, large chins, and pointy or large noses. Hans fits these tropes to a tee. He has a large chin and pointy nose, a triangular face, a purple ascot (I think that's what it's called lol), and green eyes.

These features are of course not only restricted to villains and are actually sometimes used for narrative purposes - Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame for example has these color tropes because he is meant to be misinterpreted as a villain by the characters (due to her race) until they actually get to know her. Bruno from Encanto is also heavily associated with this trope as well because he is also meant to be misinterpreted as a villain.

Because we know these colors are heavily associated with villains, character designers can use them to help tell a story or get a point across. In Hans' case, it's to visually hint that he is a villain even though he is not acting like one at first glance.

You can read more about these tropes below.

Evil is Angular

Villainous Cheekbones

Thin Chin of Sin

Secondary Color Nemesis

#greatqueenanna/responses #Hans #Prince Hans #Frozen

14 notes · View notes

fantasyinallforms · 1 year

Note

Okay you HAVE to do “First thing you should know…it was an accident.”

The last prompt of the March Madness Fotfics event! Thank you, @sunnyrosewritesstuff! It's fitting that the last prompt I do for this event is the one I went a little crazy with.

Also, find this and my other work on A03! https://archiveofourown.org/works/46128451/chapters/116124325

bagginshield {G} 3217 words

Title: Happy Accidents; part 1

There were many things you could say about Dis Durin. Chief among them was that she loved her boys with her entire being. She especially loved spoiling them whenever the occasion arrived, and this week there was an occasion. It was Fili and Kili’s 11th birthday, and Dis had a small catalog in front of her filled with places she could take them. The boys sat on either side of her, eagerly throwing their opinions into the mix.

“Thorin! What do you think of this one?” Dis called to him as he walked inside from his shop. Thorin peered over the table to read what she was pointing at.

“Plant and sip? Isn't that where you build terrariums and sip on wine? You might be about ten years too early for that one, sis.”

“They have non-alcoholic parties.” Dis rolled her eyes. “What do you think, boys? You get to build a terrarium for a cactus or succulent.” Yells of excitement flooded the house for the next few moments as Dis got a clear answer to her inquiry.

“Alright, we’re going next Saturday at 2pm. Thorin, make sure you’re free.” Dis commanded matter of factly. Thorin put down the cup of water he was drinking to cock an eye at his sister.

“What makes you think I’m going? I have a black thumb. I’m good at building things, not growing them.”

“It’s not about being good at it! The boys want to spend more time with you. Do it for them” As if on queue Fili and Kili abandoned their excited conversation about cacti and rushed Thorin’s legs.

“Please, uncle! Please, please, please! It’s really hard to kill a cactus!” The boys refused to stop hopping around his legs until he eventually gave in.

“Fine! I’ll go!” Thorin shouted, running his hands through his hair in defeat. He glared and rolled his eyes at the pleased self-satisfied smile Dis was now sporting.

A week later, he was pulling up to a barn-style building with a wooden sign hanging from it called ‘The Sipping Plant. To the right of the building was a long greenhouse. It was a locally owned place, not a chain. That actually made Thorin a little happier. Being a small business owner himself, he understood the struggle. He waited for Dis to arrive, and they all walked in together. The inside had a distinctive boho vibe to it. The front seemed to be a store. There were shelves lined with pots, trinkets, and various plants. As well as some handcrafted wood-based items like birdhouses and pre-made planter kits. An older man wearing overalls and gardening gloves greeted them just inside.

“You must be the Durins! Go ahead and get settled in the back party room, and I’ll direct your guests through as they come in. You’re expecting 14 people total, correct?” The man asked.

“Yes, 14. Are you the owner?” Dis asked.

“Me? No, no. I just work here. Name is Hamfast Gamgee, but that's a mouthful, so you can call me Gaffer. Owner is Bilbo, and he’ll be leading the terrarium building” Gaffer led them to the back room. Beds of plants lined walls, and wide tables with matching wooden benches sat in neat rows facing another table on a raised platform at the front of the room. The room had been decked out in balloons and ribbons, and the chalkboard at the front read ‘Happy birthday, Fili and Kili!’ in pretty loopy handwriting. Strung between 2 very tall cacti was a banner that said ‘WELCOME.’

Dis sat them all at the front middle table, and they waited. Soon the room was filled with Fili and Kili’s friends and a few parents. The room was a buzz with voices, and Thorin was wondering how this mystery instructor was going to get everyone to quiet down. Just as he thought that, the lights in the room turned off, then turned back on again. The noise died down as everyone looked toward the door. In walked a short man (thought that was relative to Thorin, who was 6’6ft) with curly honey-brown hair. He wore jeans and a ruffled yellow shirt covered by a green gardening apron with large front pockets. He had a round face, an adorable button nose, and his ears were just slightly pointed. His mouth fell open as he watched the man walk across the room and take his position behind the table.

He stopped in front of the chalkboard and surveyed the room before addressing everyone in a pleasant tenor voice. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he could sware the man's eyes lingered on him just a tad longer than the others in the room.

“Welcome! My name is Bilbo. Raise your hand if it’s your first time here.” most of the room raised their hands. “Wonderful, thank you for being here. I know this is in celebration of two very special birthdays. So let's start with making sure our birthday boys stand out!” He approached the table they were sitting at and knelt down. “Looks like I have two queen bees today” He handed them a pair of bee antennas. The boys took them hastily and put them on their heads.

“But wait! We’re not the queen! Mama would be the queen! Can we be prince bees?” Kili asked excitedly. Bilbo looked at Dis, who seemed a little flustered but gave a small nod. He returned to the table, got another pair of antennas, and handed them over.

“Prince bees and their mom, the queen bee it is. But what about your Dad?” Thorin paled immediately

“I’m their uncle, not their dad.” Thorin quickly rushed to say. He really wanted this man to know that he was very much not taken. Bilbo nodded and returned to the front. He instructed everyone to get a drink from the coolers in the corners of the room and walked them through the different materials they would be working with. They each chose a pot and two succulents from the plant beds Bilbo pointed to. When they sat back down, Bilbo laid out rocks, a bucket of soil, and some decorations at each table. The rest of what Bilbo said was lost to him. Enchanted, he watched small, nimble hands dirty themselves in the soil and expertly transplant the succulent from the temporary pot it was in into the more permanent one in front of him. How could a person be this cute?

“Alright, now it’s your turn. I’ll walk around if anyone needs any help.” Bilbo announced. Shit. He hadn't been paying attention to the actual words the man had been saying. He grabbed the little trowel in front of him and layered a big scoop into his pot. Before he could start taking the nursery pot off his succulent, Bilbo picked up his pot and dumped out the soil.

“It looks like you might have missed a step. Rocks first for drainage, then soil.” Thorin failed to keep the blush off his face as he corrected his mistake. Eventually, they made it to the final decoration stage. They were instructed to decorate their pots and soil however they wanted. The boys seemed to be having a blast decorating theirs with little plastic dinosaurs and spaceships. The artist in Thorin liked this part a lot himself, although he was going for a less busy aesthetic than his nephews. He was deep in concentration when he heard a stool pull up beside him. Sitting on the stool, Bilbo was at eye level with him. From a distance had thought the man had brown or maybe even dark blue eyes, but now that he had a good look at his face, he saw that his eyes were, in fact, a deep shade of green. Deeper than emerald but far more mesmerizing.

“That looks amazing! Most of my adult clients are usually pretty tipsy by this point in the process. Is that a crow?” Bilbo asked enthusiastically.

“It’s a Raven. I’ve always really liked ravens.” Thorin replied sheepishly.

“As you should! They’re smart, beautiful birds and more helpful in a garden than you would think. It's very detailed. I wish I could draw half as well as you.” Bilbo giggled, and Thorin couldn't help but smile at the sound of it. He felt like a kid that got the attention of his crush, and he didn't want to lose it.”

“I’m good with my hands!.... I mean, it’s my profession using my hands… Building things! I build things. Mostly out of metal but also wood. So you could say I have a lot of practice being creative.” He wanted to bury his head in his hands in embarrassment. Luckily he was rescued from his torment by another table asking for help.

“You should get his number after this!” Dis hissed in his ear, causing him to jump. Thorin shot her a slightly incredulous look. “I’ve known you my entire life. I can tell when you get heart eyes for someone, and you practically ogled the man on his way into the room.”

“Chances are he’s not even gay!” Thorin hissed back

“I forgot your gaydar is hopelessly broken. There are two pride flags in this room, Thorin. Which means if he’s not gay, which I would bet money he is, he at least won't take offense to the question.” Thorin looked around the room to find the flags he clearly missed. One was sitting right on the desk in front of him, nestled in a jar of sharpies. The other took him longer to find, and it wasn't until he looked back at Bllbo that he saw the flag pinned clear as day to his apron. Well, it wasn't sure proof, but it definitely boded well.

It had been a few years since he had tried his hand at the dating pool. He valued his space and his solitude and wasn't willing to give that up for just anyone. One look at Bilbo's, though, and he was considering it. Surely he was being silly. He had met this man an hour ago, but something about him radiated like sunshine through thunderclouds, and it made Thorin want to try.

The formal part of the party ended, and the room was left to them for cake-cutting and unwrapping gifts. The boys were over the moon with all of it. Thorin was particularly happy with their reactions to the wooden swords he made and painted for them. Soon after the last package was unwrapped, guests started filtering out until, finally, it was just Dis, the boys, and himself. He took the antennas off the boy's heads and whispered to his sister.

“You get the boys home. I’m going to hang back for a moment.” Dis’s face lit up, and she pushed his nephews out of the door, sparing him a wink before she left. He wrestled his nerves and turned back towards the party room. Bilbo was wiping down the chalkboard and humming an unfamiliar tune. In all his nervousness, Thorin's approach set off an unfortunate chain of events. He went to step onto the raised platform and underestimated the ledge causing him to trip. In an attempt to break his fall, he absent-mindedly grabbed the saguaro cactus standing to the side of the chalkboard. This caused him to jump back in a jolt of pain, again, forgetting the ledge. Thorin fell backward off the raised platform and crashed into a table. The table's legs snapped under the weight of the impact, sending it and him to the floor with a bang.

His head swam for a moment, and there was a light ringing in his ears as the world came back into focus. It was a very pleasant focus as Bilbo's face was now inches from his.

“Mr. Durin, are you ok! Gaffer, help me get him up, then go grab the first aid kit!” Thorin felt his body get pulled into a sitting position, and finally, he fully regained his senses.

“First thing you should know…it was an accident. Second thing is that I will definitely make you a new table,” Thorin mumbled, clutching his head. He winced when he realized one of his hands was covered in cactus spines.

“I’m not worried about the table! Do you need me to call an ambulance?” Bilbo fretted. He was kneeling on the floor in front of Thorin, one hand supporting his back and the other resting on his chest.

“No, no, I’m sturdier than I look. I might need help getting these spines out of my hand, though.”

“Yes, I can help with that. Here lean on me, and I can help you up.” Bilbo braced himself so that Thorin could lean on him instead of his injured hand.

“No offense. Are you sure you can help me up? I’m twice your size.”

“I’m stronger than I look, but to be safe, make sure you lean into your other hand.” It was a little bit of a struggle, but Bilbo was able to help him stand up and get seated on a proper bench. A short time later, Gaffer came running back in with a first aid kit in hand. Bilbo took it and pulled a chair to him so close that their knees interlocked. He held out his hand, motioning for Thorin to hand his over. When he did, Bilbo took it in a firm but gentle grasp.

“I am so sorry, but this next part will sting a lot, and the pain will likely ache the more spines I take out. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have urgent care do it?” Bilbo met his eyes with a worried expression. Thorin put his hand on Bilbo's knee.

“No, I’m fine. Like I said, I’m sturdy.” Thorin enjoyed the little blush that crossed Bilbo's face at the casual touch, but he retracted his hand, not wanting to overstep. Bilbo started plucking the spines out in silence. He wasn't wrong; the more spines came out, the worse it hurt. Sensing Thorin’s discomfort, Bilbo tried to strike up a casual conversation.

“So, what were you on your way to ask me before all of this happened?” Bilbo asked, still concentrating on his hand.

“I was returning the antennas, and I was going to say thank you. The boys had a lot of fun.” He winced as the last of the spines came out. “Is that all of them?” Thorin asked

“No, I have to get the fine hairs out next, then clean it. This next part won't hurt as bad, but it will feel weird. Bilbo pulled out a little jar of glue and coated Thorin’s hand in it, then placed a few gauze pads over it. “The glue will dry and pull the little spines out. So were you just coming to return the antennas, or did you want to ask me something…else?” Thorin’s head snapped up to look a the bashful smile spreading across Bilbo’s face.

“Well, I should probably ask for your number. You know, just in case I decide to put my hand through another cactus. You do definitely seem to know what you’re doing.” Thorin tried to flash a cheesy grin, hoping his attempt at being smooth wasn't as horrible as it sounded in his head. To his delight, Bilbo started laughing.

“I’ve had a lot of practice bandaging accidental cacti wounds. I’ve never had someone break a table, however, so I will get to add that to my list of firsts.” Bilbo looked him right in the eyes with a sweet smile and ripped the glue-soaked gauze off his hand in one clean motion. Thorin wrenched his hand back in a yelp of pain.

“You said that wasn't going to hurt as much!” Thorin grumbled, rubbing his hand

“I lied, sorry! I needed you to not tense your hand. I’m sure it feels much better now. I just need to clean it with some peroxide, and we’re all done.” Bilbo gingerly wiped his hand down. When he was done, he gave the back of his hand a little pat and got up. Thorin was sad to see him move away. He was also sad to realize that Bilbo had never actually given him his number. Thorin pulled the car keys out of his pocket and scratched behind his head in a nervous gesture.

“I appreciate the help, and again, I’ll make sure you get another table. I guess I should probably head out.” He started to turn around for the door when Bilbo called him back.

“Wait! You just crashed into a table; there is no way you should drive home! Y-you could have a concussion or… something. Let me drive your car home, and Gaffer can follow behind us to take me back.” Thorin was not about to question getting to spend a little more time with this cactus-loving gardener.

“I live about 30 minutes away so as long as you're sure. My truck is a stick shift. Is that going to be an issue?”

“Not at all! I love driving stick!” Bilbo seemed oblivious to his double entendre, then turned a wonderful shade of scarlet. “I mean, I drive stick all the time! Wait, no I… just give me the keys….” Bilbo swiped the keys from his hand and quickly walked out the door, not making eye contact. Thorin stared after him with a lopsided grin and fond eyes. He had known Bilbo for all of two and a half hours, and he already wanted to kiss the man silly.

The car ride was comfortable. They listened to a few songs off their playlists and then swapped stories about their jobs and hobbies. All too soon, they pulled up to Thorin’s house.

“Wow! Your house is way nicer than I thought it would be! Not that I thought it would look bad or anything! It just doesn't match up to the aesthetic I thought you would keep.” Bilbo put the car in park and stepped out. Thorin did the same. He walked around to the side of the car Bilbo was standing on to continue the conversation.

“That’s because my sister picked the house. Most of what makes me, me is in a workshop around the back. You should see it sometime. I know you do projects of your own I think you’d like it.” Thorin hung the second bid for more time together out in the open, hoping Bilbo would take it.

“I think I’d like that,” Bilbo replied, blushing. Thorin held his breath as those deep green eyes looked through lases up at him. Bilbo stood comfortably in the shadow of his broad frame and heaven above; he looked like he was meant to fit there. The air hung heavy for a moment before Bilbo rolled up onto his tiptoes and planted a chaste kiss on Thorin’s lips. “I have to go but… you should call me!” He felt him slip something into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, then turn and walk away. He stared in shock as he watched Bilbo’s pleasant form disappear into a yellow Volkswagen. When he checked his pocket a moment later, it was a business card for The Sipping Plant with a heart drawn around where Bilbo’s number was.

#bagginshield #thilbo #bilbo x thorin #the hobbit #fotfics #FIAF(me)fics #fanfiction

17 notes · View notes