#i am many things but sparse with words is not one of them

[terrainofheartfelt]

I apologize if this is already something you’ve discussed here, I’m just a little new to this corner of the fandom and it’s something I’m legitimately curious about. Why do a lot of Dair writers like Alison Humphrey? The way I remember the character was that she abandoned her teenage children to “find herself”, had to be dragged back to Brooklyn by her 14 year old daughter to face them at all, wasn’t very nice or supportive of them while she was there, and then left again to never return. The only time she came up after that was when Jenny was “banished” and decided to go live with her. But for Dan, at least, it always seemed to me like she completely emotionally abandoned him. Dan never referenced talking to her or visiting her that I can recall, and she wasn’t there for his really big moments like graduation or starting college or having a son or even releasing a book, which was his lifelong dream. She didn’t show up for his wedding either, which made me think they were outright estranged. I realize that in real life this might have been because of scheduling conflicts with the actress, but in universe I always felt like Alison did not care about Dan at all, not in any way that really mattered. So that’s all to say, I’m curious what about the character appealed to you, and why you saw their relationship differently? I’ll fully admit I don’t remember everything that happened on the show, so I’m wondering if there are other nuances to the character I might have forgotten or overlooked? (Also sorry this got super long, no pressure to respond immediately! I love your blog and I really am just curious about your thoughts on this!)

hello! first of all, thank you so much! I appreciate you taking the time to send this ask!

I tried hunting through my blog to find more references to me talking about this, but you know how the tumblr search function is, and I apparently really should start just, you know, tagging character names. I'm a librarian I should be better at the organizational aspects of tumblr...anyways! I found some links to meta/hcs I've written on the subject before if you want to check em out: here, here, and here.

the way my brain works with stories, is that when there's something dissatisfying, or there's a build up or set up to what should be a major plot or major character going forward only for it to just be dropped like a hot potato (something GG does a lot), I can't let it go, and in this fandom where I've taken up fic writing and headcanoning with a vengeance, I have to construct something around it to make it makes sense to me and to make it into something that feels right to the story and characters I'm interpreting and want to tell.

and Alison Humphrey is one of those characters. I'll admit that I am something of an Alison Humphrey Apologist - actually I feel like my opinion is in the minority of this corner of the fandom. idk with any certainty if that's true, but my observation is is that my stance is more lenient on who she is, but that impression was formed in my entrance into this obsession, and the clubhouse has certainly changed since I joined this corner!

so what captured my imagination about Alison is that steep drop off of her character. we obviously know she's significant - she's Jenny and Dan's mother and Rufus' first wife and second love, but after a few episodes in s1, we never see her again, there are gaps, and I want to fill them!

to answer part of your question - dan alludes to visiting his mom on holidays and school breaks a few times - he spends spring break in s1 with her, xmas in s3, and in the summer between s1 & 2 she moves in to the loft to look after Dan and Jenny while Rufus goes on tour. so...there's not a lot, but there's some stuff there

and what's also so compelling is that in that handful of episodes, we get just enough to build an impression of the kind of wife and mother Alison was before she left, and some key lines that I cannot ever stop thinking about. The first that springs to mind is her and Jenny during the cotillion episode. Jen ditches her mom's art show to go, and Alison holds her accountable after with the line: As you grow older, every choice that you make defines who you're gonna turn into. So rather than apologizing to me, you need to look at yourself and ask if you like the person you're becoming. it's very introspective and astute advice, imo. and then, dialing back an episode or two to when she comes back, Dan holds her to task for leaving, and tellingly only mentions how much Jenny and Rufus need Alison, but not him, which breaks my heart on multiple levels, and she's properly chastened for it, and keeps working after that confrontation to make amends. and all this has me infer that Alison was a very good parent, right up until she wasn't.

and the part that makes me crazaayyyy is a few scenes later in that Alison Returns episode, during the conversation she has with Rufus when they finally have a chance to candidly talk, she admits fault and cops to making mistakes, but she tells him that towards the beginning of their marriage when he was still all about his music, she supported him, and put her art to the side to support him and to take care of their growing family. "My entire adult life has been about you," she says.

and that line just...Hits for me, because it touches on this thing that can happen to women within their marriages and relationships -- especially in Alison's generation, I think generations after it's been happening less and less -- but when they had kids and got married and moved into this loft in Brooklyn, Alison was the one who virtually gave up her art for years, she gave herself and her identity over to being a wife and mom, and then after 16 years, she looked up and realized that she didn't know who she was anymore, because her identity and sense of self was so reliant on taking care of other people. and she freaked out, and self-sabotaged. And maybe the timing isn't so random, at 16 & 14, Dan and Jenny are becoming their own people, with more and more independence, and she thinks that -- while Dan insists rightfully that they still need her -- she feels less needed by them, and her days for the first time in almost two decades are blank slates, and when was even the last time she picked up a brush? she can't remember.

And, I gotta point out that Alison & Rufus & Lily were all such YOUNG parents, like early early 20s kind of parents. so that time when you're supposed to be figuring yourself out, who you are and who you want to be, she already had a husband and a baby to take care of. like, I'm in the back half of my 20s and cannot even imagine that kind of commitment and pressure.

So, while I don't agree with her methods of coping with this identity crisis, I can understand why it happened. and so I tend to err on giving her more grace. And, idk, I just...don't like that someone who should be so significant is shunted to the side...it kind of makes me think of that Gilmore Girls meta that's floating around right now, op very cleverly and artfully writes about Christopher's character, and instead of him serving the narrative as Rory's dad, he's primarily always functioning as Lorelai's love interest, and that's kind of how this other GG treated Alison. she was the wedge between Rufus and Lily getting back together, a complication to their romance, and her narrative function as the mom of two of the main characters was treated as secondary to that.

I don't know that I would equate Alison to Christopher, but then again, I am a self-described Alison Apologist, but for me, I like to envision a world where Alison keeps working to make right with Dan, because I just...don't accept that she wouldn't be there for him, whether or not he'd let her be. so...she always creeps into my fics because I just - want to fix it! and I can see multiple avenues for her and Dan to repair their relationship...which is why in my aus, she gives Dan a place to be outside of NYC, and he appreciates having that place to retreat to.

and, while we're here, allow me to rec a couple truly stellar Alison-centric fics: @mrs-nate-humphrey's it's not the end (it's an uncomfortable pause) & @strideofpride's small town predicts my fate

#asks #anon #ty for sending! #and there is never any need to apologize for long posts here at terrainofheartfelt dot tumblr dot com #i am many things but sparse with words is not one of them #gg meta #alison humphrey #<- now's as good a time as any to start tagging I suppose

[infamous-if]

.1

As won by the poll, the MC x Seven first kiss drabble is first! A few things: 1) this drabble is fucking long sorry and 2) though this is what I imagine their first kiss to be like, I don't want to go as far as saying it's completely canon, mostly because I'm sure it can go many different ways with different types of MC's. And 3rd) I tried really hard to make this fluffy and not so serious and I'm sure you can see the shift where I thought 'oh crap' but...I am not a fluff writer and I will be working on that lmao 4th) as always, I do not edit my drabbles and I really only do one draft of them so excuse the wordy/awkward sentences or typos or any of that sort and finally, sorry about that last line lmfao

“Have any of you seen Seven?”

That’s the question you’ve been asking all night since your band left The Golden Spoon, a bar in the crux of the city. It had one of your best audiences in recent memory; there were no lulls in engagement, no dull moments that made you question yourself. People loved the songs and danced their hearts out, some even asked for pictures once the set was over. Fame, however small, feels pretty fucking good. 

That holds the most truth in Seven. After the set was over, they were on a high, laughing and talking to anyone who offered them even a sliver of their time. That’s usually how it goes with a successful set--Seven becomes a magnet for all sorts of attention. Unreachable, untouchable. No wonder you barely had a chance to talk to them after leaving.

It didn’t bother you, considering you were all heading to the bar owner’s apartment for a small after-party. You just assumed you’d talk to Seven there, considering it’s an apartment. Eight-hundred square feet at most. Small enough that you could spot Seven’s familiar red bandana in any crowd. 

Or not. 

The group you just asked share equally confused looks and answer with varying shrugs. 

You huff, pushing through the slightly sparse but growing crowd. You maneuver through the kitchen and ask a haggle of women who claim they didn’t even see Seven arrive. The man standing alone in the hall? Saw Seven once and never again.

You’re growing frustrated.

With every answer, your impatient grows. Where the hell could Seven be? You came with them but were quickly swept away by the hordes of people throwing various questions and praise your way. Seven hasn’t responded to any of your texts either, which sprouts up a small seed of worry in you. 

“Hey, MC!” 

You look up to see Jazzy beckoning you over to the couch in the living room, where most people have congregated. In the center stands Rowan, gesticulating wildly as he tells a story from high school...one you’re sure you’ve heard many times before.

Jazzy waves you over again and you sigh. Half your mind still on Seven’s whereabouts, you stride through the living room and take a seat in the corner of the couch next to Iris, half your body pressed against the armrest.

“…and that’s when I had to sit down because I kid you not, I was about to fucking eat concrete…”

The group laughs as Rowan weaves a tale of failed skateboarding antics. The names of you and your friends come up a few times, and whenever Seven is mentioned you can’t help but jolt and look around in hopes that they slipped back inside at some point in the story. With every mention, your body deflates further and further.

Until your phone buzzes. 

You turn it around, only to catch Seven finally responding to your million texts asking where they are.

Seven: Roof

You quirk a brow at the message—the one word that says so much—and type something quickly in return.

You: Thought you died.

Another buzz.

Seven: Can’t get rid of me that easily.

You snort, though no one else is laughing. You lower your phone a bit to appear engaged but send back a quick text. 

You: Aw, really? I was hoping I’d finally be free of you.

Seven: Har-har. Are you coming or not? I’m feeling lonelyyyy

Your heart races and another laugh bubbles out of you when Seven sends a GIF of someone ungracefully falling on the floor. You didn’t realize how much of a relief it is to hear from them until now, seeing Seven’s text on your screen. Is your body that attuned to them? That, whenever they’re gone, you can feel their absence, so palpable it’s as if a part of you is missing? When they’re near, you feel more than complete. Drowning in so much joy that it’s almost overwhelming?

What do you call that?

You shake away the thoughts and send a reply: Coming. 

Brushing yourself off when you stand, you catch your friends looking at you. You shoot Rowan a small smile and walk out of the living room, where you quickly hear him go into another story about who-knows-what. At least the party seems interested.

Another buzz. 

Seven: Bring some bears please

You: Bears? 

Seven: Beers. Whatever. 

Shaking your head, you put your phone away and divert your path to the kitchen where you swipe two bottles of beer. You use the end of the counter to pop open the tops before making your way out of the apartment…only to soon realize you don’t actually don’t know where you’re going.

Dangling the beers between two fingers, you take out your phone. 

You: Where am I going?

Seven: Are you serious? It’s a roof. Just go up.

Seven: lol

You: I will kill you.

Seven: OMG you really are trying to get rid of me

You: Seven Lawless

Seven: Using my whole name? Just shivered. The roof entrance is down the hall to your left. Ignore the signs telling you…not to go to the roof. 

You move to the door and sure enough, there is a large sign warning of any trespassers. 

You: You mean the sign saying that ‘violators will be fined and/or arrested?’

Seven: Ignore it. It’s just a very strong suggestion

Seven: (trust me) 

Scoffing, you push it open with your shoulder and go up the single flight of stairs to the roof. Stepping outside grants you a cacophony of sounds; car horns, the sound of the wind rushing past your cheeks, music playing from Seven’s phone. 

“I’m starting to think you look at the floor plan of every place you enter just to find the roof,” you say by way of greeting as you approach them.

Seven looks behind their shoulder from their spot on the ledge, their previously blank face widening into a sly grin. 

Your heart races at the image of Seven smiling at you, though you quickly push it down. You don’t know what’s been happening but lately, everything Seven does pulls a reaction from you. A simple look makes your stomach squeeze. A brush of their hand sends goosebumps up your arms. A smile can throw your whole body out of whack. 

“I needed a break,” Seven replies, turning back around to face ahead. As you get closer, you see their legs dangling over the edge. It’s not too far below—the building is four stories—but it’s still enough to give you vertigo when you go to sit next to them. “Someone asked me to sign their divorce papers."

Your lip twitches as you hand them a bottle. “Did you?”

Seven looks over to you, gaze glittering beneath stray strands of dark hair that fall in front of their eyes. “Yes.” 

You laugh and Seven swats your following hand away in your attempt to shove them to the side. “Woah, woah!” Their brief panic from the possibility of falling is laced with humor and you let out a small, ‘sorry!’ that Seven waves off. 

"Signing divorce papers," you muse. "I wonder what we'll sign when we're global rockstars."

Their humor subsides, and their smile weakens as they toy with their bottle. You wait, silent, as Seven inhales through their nose and says, “Do you ever regret it?” They gesture vaguely around them. “Doing…all of this?”

You face ahead and think about it, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Not really. Do you?”

Seven takes a swig of their drink before setting it down next to them, lifting both shoulders in a quick shrug. “No. This is all I ever wanted to do.”

“Then why don’t you sound so convinced?”

Their eyes cut to yours and they snort a little. 

“Hey, you brought it up,” you prod.

They huff through their nose, eyes narrowing in mock annoyance. “Shut up.” Once again, their humor is brief, and you start to think that there must be something within Seven that’s torn, fighting to come out. It wouldn’t surprise you; Seven has always loved too much, hurt too much, felt too much. They call it a Fatal Flaw, how attached they get, but really, you find it endearing. It’s rare to find people like them in this world. You wish they knew that. “Ah, I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

You nudge them. “Say it.” 

They begin rocking back and forth in thought, nudging you back every time they move. “Sometimes…when I’m on stage…” They clear their throat. “Sometimes I feel so lonely.”

Oh.

You expected many things, but not that. 

Lonely? Seven is lonely? Granted, Seven hasn’t had the greatest home life, but you assumed that they found an abundance of people to surround themselves with. Hell, they looked like they were having the time of their life after the gig!

Seven’s frowning now, their eyes glazing over with an emotion you can’t read. “I see all those faces and I love it. The attention. The way they sing our songs. I feel fucking alive, you know?”

You nod, hanging on to every word. You understand them; the feeling of music and standing on that stage, singing emotions and states of being that can’t be explained in any other way but through song.

“But then I look back and…” They chew on their inner cheek, brows furrowing as they evidently search for the right words. “I wonder if they see me. Like really see me.” 

Your lips part. For a moment, you’re speechless. “Sev—“

“And I know it’s unfair to think that,” Seven breaks in quickly. “They’re fans. I shouldn’t put so much responsibility on them, but it just….fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“No!” you say. Seven jolts and whips their head toward you, giving you a look of alarm. “I get what you’re saying.” You adjust to face them completely. “I feel it too, sometimes. You just want to be seen not as Seven Lawless but…” You clear your throat. “Seven Duckstein. You know?”

Seven holds your gaze. Their eyes sparkle under the fairy lights that are strung around the lattice detailing on the roof. As their eyes dart around your face, searching for something, you wonder if it was wrong to bring up their real name. It’s always been a sore topic for them, amongst other things. You just hope Sev understands what you’re trying to say. 

They crack a small smile and nod. “Yeah.”

You let out a small breath of relief, grateful Seven understands what you mean. You gaze around, looking down at the street below. Distantly, you can feel Seven’s eyes still on you. Your skin burns under their stare, but you do your best to keep looking at the tiny people running inside shops, chatting, and slipping into cars. Living entire lives that you will never know the depth of. 

You wonder if you have learned the true depth of Seven Duckstein. Even after all these years…they still seem like a mystery to you. 

And you sort of hate how exciting that feels. As if uncovering the hidden layers of your best friend is something to look forward to. 

“I’m not lonely with you, though.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet theirs. You laugh a little. “How could you be? I’m with you 24/7.”

Seven rolls their eyes and it’s their turn to shove you. “Can you be serious a sec? I’m trying to tell you I appreciate you.” They drag the syllables on the word ‘appreciate,’ trying to emphasize the severity of the moment. 

You raise your palms in mock surrender. “Keep going. I’m listening.”

They pause for a beat. “No. I’m nervous.”

“What!”

“Too much attention.”

“You’re a performer?!”

They raise a finger. “That’s different.” 

“Oh, please—“

Somehow you and Seven fall in a lighthearted round of bickering, swatting each other’s hands as you playfully fight. That fighting soon turns into tickling, and Seven’s usually even voice turns into high-pitched squeals that you wish you could record to use against them later.

You don’t know how it happened, but somehow Seven ends up on their back, sighing happily at the darkened sky that hovers over you both. You lean on your side, your body pressed against Seven’s, and rest your head on your hand.

“Come onnnn,” you prod, poking their rib. They squirm. “Tell me how much you appreciate me.” Your voice softens as Seven’s humor dies. “Tell me how you really feel.”

You meant for it to come out as a joke, but the delicacy in your voice betrays the true intention that’s hiding deep within you.

Seven’s eyes slowly, hesitantly, glide away from the stars pulsing in the sky to meet your eyes. With their hair framing their face, their small smile, and the glare of the fairy lights dancing on their face, they have never looked so vulnerable.

So…different. 

“I don’t think I should.”

That has you stiffening. A flare of panic rises in your stomach. What does Seven mean by that? Part of you knows but…no. You’re being ridiculous. 

They turn their head away, rolling their lips. It’s silent for a moment. You convince yourself Seven won’t speak until they say, “I’m afraid. Of you.”

“What?” you blurt, eyes wide. You hardly know how to act right now. This conversation has gone a direction you’re not sure of.

They turn back to face you. “You have too much power over me. It scares me.”

You open your mouth to speak. The only thing that comes out is a pathetic noise from your throat.

Seven snorts at your reaction, frowning at the sky. “You really don’t know the effect you have on others.”

“I doubt I have any impact on others," you mutter, feeling oddly self-conscious.

“Fine then. You don’t know the effect you have on me.” They huff, throwing their bandana aside to run a hand through their hair in frustration. “It’s kind of annoying.”

You sputter out a laugh, reaching out to poke them again. “Are you seriously insulting me—“ 

Seven grabs your hand mid-way, their skin warm against yours. You look down, staring at the polish on their nails as they curl their hand around your palm. “I’m not trying to insult you.” 

“Then what are you trying to do?” you mumble, your eyes still on your joined skin. 

“I’m trying to do as you asked.” Seven inhales a shuddering breath. “I’m telling you how I really feel.”

You jerk a nod. “Okay. Sorry.” Your voice is quiet. “Go.”

Silence.

Seven’s lip twitches as they look up at you. “Nervous again. Too much attention.”

“Fuck off,” you throw out, though there’s no strength behind your words. 

It’s Seven’s turn to apologize. “Sorry.” They swallow. “I just think I might mess up my words with you looking at me.” 

You debate something. Debate the logic behind whatever you’re going to say next. This moment feels too big to make decisions on feelings you don’t know are fleeting or not. This is Seven. Your best friend. Anything you do will permanently change the comfortable camaraderie you two have had since you were kids. 

But…you can’t stop from thinking it might be worth it anyway. 

“Then don’t use words.” 

Seven’s lips part, mostly from surprise. And then you see it; the shift in their expression-- from uncertain to determined. Their eyes darken and slowly, they release their grip on your hand to place it on the back of your neck, pulling you toward them. 

Your heart races in your chest. Are you two really doing this? After years of casual closeness; sleepovers, handshakes, private looks across crowded rooms. Has there been an underlying attraction you just never paid attention to? Or maybe you did, and both of you were too afraid to confront it. 

Seven is slow at firs, as if they aren't quite sure they should be doing this after all. But when you don’t pull away they grow the confidence to close the remaining inches of space between you.

Kissing Seven isn't like anything you imagined. And you can't lie; you've imagined it plenty of times.

What is happening...?

Lips warm against yours, you clutch the leather of their jacket as they pull you closer. The kiss is a messy and desperate dance of teeth and tongues but you don’t mind. Not when Seven tastes like gum and alcohol and is sending goosebumps down your arms as they absently run circles on the skin of your neck. 

Messy seems about right.

Seven smells of lavender and pine and mint and so many other smells you never noticed until now, when you’re so aware of them and their existence that your brain can’t make out any words except Seven Seven Seven.

Seven kisses you like it's their own salvation; as if kissing you now is the only thing anchoring them to this moment. As if pulling away means breaking whatever dream you two have found yourselves in. So they pull you even closer, deepening the kiss and sighing happily into your mouth.

You could kiss Seven Lawless all night. Shit, you could kiss Seven Lawless forever.

They tug on your lower lip with their teeth just lightly before closing their mouth to plant a more chaste kiss before pulling away. You swallow a frustrated groan, stifling the urge to pull them back into another kiss. 

Your eyes flutter open at the loss of warmth.

"That...that was a lot better than I thought," they breathe.

"You've thought about it?" you joke, careful not to speak too loudly in fear of ruining the moment.

Their answering nod is jerky. "Yeah. An embarrassing amount of times."

You both laugh. The humor quickly dies. Then...the worst part comes: the silence.

The horrible, awkward silence.

See, no one ever talks about what comes afterward. The reality of realizing what it is you've just done. The panic that follows the post-kiss clarity.

“Uh…”

“Er…”

They slowly drop their hand from your neck. 

And then they burst up, making you fall back on your ass. 

“You—“ They whirl around. “Did you just kiss me?”

“Me?!” you guffaw, standing on your feet as well. “You mean you kissed me!”

“Me?” They stand there, and then a manic, happy laugh escapes them. You watch as they put their hands on both of their cheeks, blowing out a long breath. “So I did, didn’t I?”

It’s your turn to laugh. You feel drunk. “Yeah. You did.”

“You kissed me back.” Their voice comes out almost accusatory.

“Yeah.” Your brows furrow. “…I did.”

Seven and you stand there. A rush of wind passes. Neither of you speak.

Until both of you do.

“That—“

“We—“

Seven physically clamps their mouth shut with their hand. Your brain is a static fuzz of nothingness. 

Songwriters at a loss for words. It’s almost funny. 

“Is…” You clear your throat. “Is that how you really feel?”

Seven meets your eyes and then quickly looks away. “Yeah.” A mumble. “For a while now.”

Your eyes widen. “I—“

“Don’t say anything!” Seven raises a hand, stopping you. 

You jolt, mostly because Seven just acted like they saw a bug or something. “What!”

“You know in the movies and TV shows where a person confesses to another person and that other person feels obligated to say something back even though they likely didn’t think it through as long as the other person?” Seven says in one breath.

You blink. “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“—well, I always found that to be pathetic. Almost like a pity response.” They begin nervously smoothing their hands on their pants, exhaling a heavy sigh. “Just don’t…say anything, okay?”

“Seven.”

Seven, still a bit frantic, comes over to you and puts their hands on your shoulders. “Just forget this happened. I’ll get over it. I just…I may have drank a bit and I needed to get it out of my system and I don’t want this to ruin what we have.” 

You have whiplash. Maybe it was you who drank too much. You two were just kissing—kissing—and now Seven is telling you to forget it...?

“That kiss was in the heat of the moment and I mean, I did like it but it may be weird and we’ve been best friends for so long that I know you might find it odd. And hey,“--they let out a burst of shaky laughter--"maybe we can write a song out of thi--'

You pull their face forward, stifling the rest of their words in another pathetically desperate kiss that burns you all over.

It takes Seven a few seconds to catch up, but when they do, their hands go from your shoulders to your cheeks, cupping your face.

By the time you pull away, you're both slightly breathless. You say, “Just…shut up.”

Seven simply stares at you, parted lips glistening and eyes peering at you as if you’re a painting in the Louvre. Like you're something worth their awe and wonder. 

Maybe it’s now, just like when they were laying down, that Seven is seeing you differently too.

The sound of metal squeaks in the air with the door opening. You and Seven jolt, quickly shuffling away from each other just as Rowan, Iris, Devyn, and Jazzy appear. 

“We were looking for you gu—what’s going on?” Jazzy asks, her eyes darting between you two.

“Nothing.” Seven takes a wide step away from you, swiping a hand across their lips. You swear you see the shadow of a smile on their face. “We were just...talking.”

“You were missing the party, Sev Sev.” Jazzy comes over to Seven and throws her arm around their neck in some sort of move that can’t possibly be comfortable. “Where did you go?”

“Sorry, Jazz Jazz,” Seven jokes back, exasperated. They keep one eye on you as Jazzy pulls them away back inside. They steal one glance at you before they disappear down the stairs.

You stand there, ruminating over what just happened. Your lips still sting and the phantom touch of Seven’s mouth still makes the hair on your arms rise.

“You okay?” 

Rowan’s voice has you jolting back to the present. “What?”

“You and Seven.” Rowan gestures at you. “Are you guys alright?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” You wave a dismissive hand as you begin walking back inside. “Totally. We’re just peachy. What are we doing?”

“We’re heading home, actually,” Iris says, shooting you a curious look. “Party got boring.”

You snort, and you and your friends walk down the stairs to meet Seven and Jazzy in the hall. Seven looks your way and quickly averts their gaze, grazing the bottom of their teeth along their lip in evident thought.

You know, eventually, you and Seven will have to talk about…whatever that was that just happened. You’re not quite sure yet what it means. Though you do know one thing: tonight has changed something. Suddenly your friendship is something far more than precious: it’s fragile. And you can’t help but wonder what that kiss means for it.

“Should we get something to eat?” Iris asks the group as you saunter out of the building. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Rowan snorts, weaving Iris’s jab. 

“I’m okay with anything you want.” As Seven says this, they look over to you, and you know they’re not just talking about food.

“Yeah,” you decide. “Me too.”

“Burgers it is,” Iris says. Devyn hums in agreement.

Seven smiles at you, and you can feel the shift in them. When they gaze at you, something else lies there. Something else that makes your heart quicken.

Yeah, you may not know what comes next in your friendship, but you do know one thing: you and Seven will never part.

And that thought comforts you.

#drabble #seven lawless #writing #AHHHHH #ripping my hair out #it was fun writing a Not Angry Seven #It was also weird though #writing a seven that's friends with mc #snores

[pedroshotwifey]

To the Flame Chapter 3

Series masterlist

Pairing: Dark!Javier Pena x fem!reader

Word count: 3.3k

Chapter tags/warnings: fluff, smut, manipulation (kind of getting into that territory), unprotected piv sex, excessive use of nicknames, frottage, tiniest itty bitty smidgen of angst (like it's barely there), stuff I'm probably forgetting

Chapter summary: Javi takes you out for a romantic date and asks you a question you've been hoping to hear. (I'm sorry I'm rly awful at summaries)

A/N: Hey, Y'all!! Starting to dive a bit deeper! Expect the next chapter to really pick things up, and then its downhill for the most part from there. I'm beyond excited to really kick things off and so grateful for all of you avid readers!! Thank you for following along with my deprived nonsense <3

****

You wait at the end of your driveway just as the sun starts to set, as per Javi’s request. He refused to tell you why over the phone, but you have a feeling you’re going to love whatever he has planned. You’ve been out with him a good handful of times since he took you to dinner and kissed you on your front porch, and each time has been just as magical as the first. 

You toy with the hem of your white sundress as you reminisce about that moment from a few weeks ago, trying to remember everything you felt then. Smiling absently, you thumb one of the cherries printed on the thin fabric. You’re already eager to feel his plush lips against yours again. 

Your ears perk up when you hear the sound of Javi’s truck coming up the road. You’ve memorized it at this point, because there’s a barely noticeable sputter that comes from the exhaust pipe every thirty seconds or so. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, rolling down his passenger window to reveal his beaming smile. Your stomach flips as you grin back. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he beams. He looks into the rear view mirror and sees a car approaching. He frowns slightly and pushes the passenger door open instead of walking around to get it for you, obviously not wanting to hold up traffic. “Climb on up, princess.” 

You step up, grabbing his extended hand to keep balance as you hoist yourself into the seat, quickly shutting the door behind you. There’s a stack of blankets in the middle of the bench seat, but Javi tells them you can move them if you want when he sees the confused look on your face. Once you’re settled in the middle and buckled in, Javi continues on. 

“Having a good day?” he asks as he takes another look into the rearview.

“I am now,” you reply, trying to hold down your blush. You really wish you could stop being so school-girlish around him. 

“Hm. That makes two of us.” 

You look at eachother and share a smile. He puts one hand out, asking silently for you to take it, which, of course, you do. You place your palm into his much larger one and then pull it into your lap to rest on your thigh. 

You sit in a comfortable silence the rest of the way, watching out the window at all the greenery. This is what you missed most about the countryside. When you had been up towards the city, there weren’t many trees, and there certainly weren’t any farms or rolling hills. You always missed the landscape, though your boyfriend much preferred the cityscape. Yet another disagreement that you were never allowed to have a word about.

As Javi drives, you get further and further away from houses and farms, and more into unclaimed land. 

“Where did you say we’re going?” you ask again, though you know by now it’s a feeble attempt. The look he gives you says as much. 

“You’ll see,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. You playfully roll your eyes and squeeze his hand. 

Not a minute later, Javi’s making a turn down a dirt road. It winds for as far as you can see, sparsely covered by trees and lined by thick, tall grass. Javi rolls the windows all the way up as dirt starts to kick up around the truck, interrupting the golden glow from the setting sun. 

You look at him with a quirked brow, and he smiles mischievously in response. 

“Almost there, sweetheart.” 

Another two minutes, and Javi’s turning the truck off on top of a hill, the bed facing the sunset. You glance at the blankets and a grin breaks out across your face. 

“We’re going to watch the sunset?” you ask excitedly. Javi grins and nods. 

“Help me with the blankets?” 

You both get out and climb into the back with the blankets, laying them down so that there’s a comfortable layer between the two of you and the cold bed. You can feel flutters in your stomach. How did you get so lucky? 

You both kick your shoes off and sit down, trying to get comfortable and in position to watch the sun go down. You squirm for a moment after Javi, trying to find the perfect spot. He smiles fondly at you. 

“Hold on baby,” Javi says before gently taking your hand and leading you toward him. 

He pulls you with him as he leans back against the cab, settling you comfortably in his lap so that you’re both facing the sunset. It’s breathtaking, the pinks, oranges, and purples all blending together and mixing with the soft white clouds. You lean back into his chest as you let out a content sigh. 

You feel a sense of safety and belonging within Javi’s arms, one that you haven’t felt for much too long. You feel him press a kiss into your hair, and your eyes flutter shut to hone in on the gentle sensation. 

“Gotta ask you something, baby,” Javi breaks the silence with a low tone. Your eyes snap back open.  

“Anything, Javi,” you say, craning your neck the tiniest bit to look his way. Your heart beats heavy in your chest, you have an idea of what he’s about to ask you, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. He moves one of his hands to one of yours, and you grasp it, bringing it up to your lips to place a soft kiss on his palm. 

“How would you feel about being mine? Only mine?” he asks, his breath disturbing your hair as he speaks in just over a whisper. 

Your lips split into a smile and you crain your neck to look into his chocolate brown eyes. 

“I’m already yours, Javi,” you tell him truthfully. “But I would love if you would be only mine, too.” 

He smiles gently at you before cupping your cheek to bring you in for a kiss. You melt into him as he moves his lips with yours. It’s messier than any you’ve shared with him before. It feels like one of those kisses that’s bound to lead to more, where the passion consumes you so much that you can’t ignore the desire to be closer. 

You almost bite his plush bottom lip when you shift your hips and feel him hardening beneath you. It feels like there’s fire in your veins as you grind down again, deliberately this time, and a moan escapes his lips. You haven’t gone this far with Javi yet, but god, have you fantasized about it. 

There’s a beat of silence before you and Javi suddenly spring into action. He helps you flip around on him so that your thighs are straddling his torso, his quickly hardening cock tucked perfectly beneath your panties. You reconnect your lips with his, kissing him with a hungry fervor that he returns ten-fold. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders as you grind down on him. You groan into each other’s mouths as sparks climb up your bodies. 

You repeat the movement, whining when your clit catches on the fabric of his jeans. Javi’s hands move to your waist, and guide you to do it again, both of you gasping at the friction. You know you have to be soaked through your panties at this point, no doubt creating a dark spot on his pants. 

You’re slightly surprised by your own confidence and the fact that you’re comfortable to act this way with him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Javi gets out through gritted teeth. “You really want to keep this up? I hope you know where that’s going to land you.”

You nod a bit too enthusiastically. “Yes!” you say, flinching a bit at your obvious excitement. He smirks devilishly at you, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. “Yes, please, Javi. I need you.” 

“You’ve got me, baby,” Javi whispers, leaning forward to plant hot, open-mouthed kisses on the side of your neck. You whimper, your brows furrowing in concentration as you gyrate your hips back and forth. There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling starting to bubble within your lower abdomen, slowly building with each drag. 

The thin cotton of your panties does practically nothing to tame the wetness seeping out of you and onto Javi’s pants. You tighten your arms around him as you rock yourself quicker, the coil tightening further within you. You’re moaning, gasping, and whimpering against Javi’s lips, the kiss growing sloppier with each pass. 

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as you consider your current behavior. Never in your life have you acted so ridiculously…feral. You honestly can’t think of another word for what you’re doing right now, grinding up against this man like an animal, licking and nipping at his plush lips without restraint. 

The only reason you don’t slow is because Javi’s acting the same way. Like he can’t get enough of you. His hands are gripping your hips so tightly that you’ll likely bruise, his own bucking against yours every time you grind particularly hard. The noises that tumble from his lips are downright filthy. 

Without breaking contact with your lips, Javi lets one hand trail down to slip underneath your dress, and then places his thumb between your bodies and over your clit. He only circles twice before you’re falling apart on top of him. You cry his name as your body shakes uncontrollably, his thumb continuing its movement to prolong your orgasm. 

“That’s a good fucking girl,” Javi whispers close to your ear, quiet enough that you almost miss it. You whimper at his praise, trying to keep your eyes open and on him. He’s yours, but you don’t want to waste a single second not observing his beauty. His brown eyes stare back, his imposing gaze full of hunger and passion in equal portions. 

Your lips reconnect in a sloppy kiss as he pulls the crotch of your soaked panties to the side and then taps your hips as a signal to lift up. The pad of his middle finger caresses your dripping hole, making you shudder and whimper into his mouth. He groans as he pulls away slightly and dips both of his hands between you to start undoing his belt. 

Your eyes quickly snap to his pants when you hear the clink, your mouth going dry. You don’t know why, but it’s like you’re only now registering the fact that you’re finally going to have him inside of you, something you’ve been dreaming of for weeks. 

Javi pulls his cock out, and you can’t help it. You straight up fucking moan. He’s gorgeous. His cock is thick, long, and as tan as the rest of him. There’s a bead of precum dribbling from his slit, which he wipes away with his thumb. You almost feel dizzy with how turned on you are right now. You’re not a blushing virgin by any means, but you’re also not super experienced, so the sheer eroticism of the whole situation is as almost unfamiliar as it is addicting. 

You hear him huff a laugh through his nose, and your gaze is cast back up to see him smirking at you. Your face flushes at the realization that he caught you staring—or maybe admiring would be the better term here—at his dick. 

“Like what you see, hermosa?” he inquires, his voice smooth and suave. You bite your bottom lip as you nod at him. No use in lying, you figure. Javi smiles at you warmly before leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on your reddened cheek. 

“Would you like to touch it?”

You’re glad you’re biting down on your lip right now, because you would have released another moan if not for the slight pain. You nod your head again, trying not to give yourself whiplash with the movement. One of your hands trails down, but you stop halfway when Javi tuts at you and gently grabs your hand. 

“Words, sweetheart. Verbal communication is very important if we’re going to do this, okay?” He looks like he genuinely wants you to understand, his big brown eyes boring into yours as he waits for consent. Your heart warms with the gesture. Is it possible to feel any safer with him?

“Yes, please,” you say, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. He nods at you and releases your hand to let you wrap your own around his warm length. He hisses sharply as you start to pump him, feeling the weight of him in your palm. 

“Shit, baby,” Javi strains when you let your thumb run over his head. “Sit up higher for me.”

You oblige immediately, sitting on your knees and taking your hand away to balance yourself on his broad shoulders. You look into his eyes as he grasps his cock, your lids fluttering when you feel his blunt tip press against your sopping entrance. 

“Ready?” 

You gulp and nod before remembering that he wants to hear you. 

“Yes, I’m ready.” 

Your eyes pinch shut as he starts to push into you, lowering yourself down to help his effort. You’re wet enough that it’s mostly a smooth glide, only a small pinch when he’s about halfway in. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until you’re fully seated on his lap, his cock already pressing against something heavenly within you. 

You release the breath and open your eyes back at the same time. Javi’s already staring back at you, and the look in his eyes can only be described as carnal. His pupils have taken up most of his irises, making his eyes look almost fully black. His tongue peeks out to wet his swollen bottom lip as he plants his hands back on your hips, starting to assist you in moving up and down. 

He plants his feet flat on the bed of the truck and begins thrusting into you slowly. The drag of his cock against your walls has you moaning like an animal and encourages Javi to pick up his pace. You feel boneless as he helps you bounce on his dick, letting yourself wilt to place your head in the crook of his neck. You dampen the golden skin there with your panting, but neither of you pay it any mind. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, feel so fucking good.” 

You whimper at his praise as you try to focus on keeping up your movement. You can already feel that familiar heat creeping up from the base of your spine. Your clit catches on the groomed thatch of pubic hair at the base of him each time you lower your hips, which quickly adds to the sensation. 

“Oh, Javi, I’m gonna c-come,” you struggle to get the words out as your hips stutter and your brain focuses solely on the powerful sensation between your wet thighs. His thrusts pick up again, making you yelp when he pegs that spongy spot you usually can’t reach. 

“Oh, God, Like that!” the words slip out before you can even think about them, your body desperate to feel it again. You don’t even have the mind to be embarrassed. 

“Yeah, honey? Right there?” Javi punctuates his question with a particularly harsh thrust into the same spot, and you’re immediately coming apart on top of him. Your mouth gapes as you groan out your pleasure, the sound mixing with Javi’s own. You slowly grind up and down as you ride out what might be your most powerful orgasm ever.

You can vaguely hear Javi spitting out praises through the numbness of your mind, only catching pieces of each sentence. 

“...doing so good…fucking tight…feel like heaven…”

When you come down from your high, panting as your vision returns, Javi grabs you and quickly spins the two of you, laying you down on your back without removing his cock from you. You loop your arms around his neck, more confused by the change in position than alarmed due to the residual haziness of your orgasm. 

He loses control once he has you down, slamming his hips faster as he chases his pleasure. It feels so fucking good, the tip of his cock punching into you at a brutal pace. Your fingernails claw at the back of his neck, likely leaving marks, but if Javi notices, he obviously doesn’t mind. 

He bends down to kiss—if you can call it that—and nip harshly at your neck. The light pain mixed with the simmering feeling in your abdomen quickly brings you dangerously close to the brink once again. You’re almost surprised. Even when you’re alone, it takes you longer to bring yourself to the edge than he is right now.

He whimpers into your neck, and the sound has your walls clenching around him, spurring him on. His fingers of one hand are digging into the skin of your hips again while the other is balled up and planted next to your head where he’s resting his forearm for balance. Tears sting your eyes as you feel that light discomfort of overstimulation, but it quickly fades back into pleasure. 

“Such a sweet girl, letting me have you like this, aren’t you?” 

You whimper in response as your third tonight orgasm takes over, your body convulsing beneath him. God, he has a dirty mouth. 

“Bet you taste good, too. Fucking sweet. Gonna feast on this damn pussy the second I get the chance.” 

His hips start to break their pattern, his composure dwindling with each thrust as he babbles on. 

“Don’t know why I haven’t already. So fucking soft and warm. Fucking made for me.” 

You’re not sure if he’s completely aware of what he’s saying right now, so you ignore that last comment even though it makes your stomach flip. You’re not sure if it’s with lust or unease, and you don’t particularly care to figure it out at the moment. You’re just reading too much into things, you need to stop thinking and enjoy what you have right now. 

As you push your thoughts away, you realize how close he is to coming, his pants coming out quickly as he rapidly pumps himself into you, barely pulling out with each thrust. 

“J-Javi,” you squeak out. He hums back a response, letting you know he heard you and is listening, but he doesn’t slow down. 

“You h-have to pull out, o-okay?” He hums again, but you really wish he would give you a solid answer. Isn’t he the one who was just talking about verbal communication? You try not to overthink it, you trust him. 

He thrusts a few more times before letting out a groan, and you know he’s close, dangerously close. 

“J-Javi,” you say his name in gentle reminder, trying not to panic. You watch his face and see his eyes flicker up to yours—almost defiantly, as if he wasn’t going to listen to you. It looks like it pains him, but just as he’s about to come, he reluctantly pulls away, moaning as his release lands in strips over your pussy and lower stomach, just barely out in time. 

You breathe a sigh of relief you hadn’t realized you had been holding as you let your eyes flutter shut and move a hand up to comb through his hair. You stroke gently as he comes down from his high, and then collapses partially on you. 

See? You knew he would pull out. 

You both lay in silence, him with his head on your chest, and you staring up at the stars that came out as the two of you were busy. You’re almost asleep by the time Javi breaks the silence again. 

“You knew I was going to pull out, right, baby?” He asks. 

You furrow your brows as your stomach flips again in that way that you don’t want to pay too much attention to.

“Yes,” you say as you continue stroking his damp curls. “I trust you.” 

Javi nods into you as you continue staring up at the night sky. 

You do, don’t you?

**** Thank you for reading! I would really appreciate any kind of interaction if you enjoyed this chapter. Series taglist is always open for those who would like to join!

taglist: @corazondebeskar @yorksgirl @nerdieforpedro @axshadows @melaninmommy @survivingandenduring @kewwrites @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @movievillainess721

Series masterlist

#pedro pascal #fan fiction #ao3 #smut #pedro pascal smut #fluff #javier pena smut #javier peña #narcos #javier pena #javi p #narcos smut #narcos fanfiction #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #javier peña x reader #pedro pascal character fanfic #dark pedro pascal #dark javier pena #to the flame #ttf

[229zmi]

ACADEMIC WEAPON

PAIRING: Bokuto Kōtarō/Reader

CONTENT: 4+1 things (4 times bokuto failed a quiz + the 1 time he passed), reader is referred to with they/them pronouns, reader tutors bokuto, bokuto requests the reader to shut the window on his head at one point, overuse of silly metaphors and similes #Sorry

WORD COUNT: 5.0k

(I.)

Bokuto was many things, but an academic weapon was certainly not one of them. Perhaps, he thought, an academic victim would be more fitting.

After all, marked by a large 7/100 circled in red pen for his surrounding deskmates to see (Thanks a lot, Mrs. Ishida!, he sulked), things were looking bleak for him. It was only a few days into the new term, yet he had already failed his first quiz; and honestly, he wasn’t sure if Akaashi’s biweekly tutoring sessions would be enough to pull him through the rest of the school year with a passing grade, especially with the volleyball summer camp coming up — it was all he could think about as of lately.

He needed a plan. Desperately.

“Desperately?”

Bokuto jolted in his seat. Ah, he must’ve let his internal monologue slip out again. That tended to happen a lot whenever he got too carried away in his pondering— got too in his head about something. Pouting for no particular reason, he hastened to answer Akaashi’s question with a nod before an idea suddenly materialised in his brain.

“Change your tutoring sessions to be weekly! Pretty please?” he added somewhat sheepishly, twiddling his fingers for the effect of what was supposed to be humbleness.

“Weekly?” Akaashi stared at him with a slow blink, taking a bite of his apple. He seemed to be thinking about it, which kindled a small flame of hope within Bokuto.

“Yeah! Or— or how about twice a week? Three times a week? Four—“

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for that,” he cut in with a dead expression, but at least his tone sounded sort of apologetic. But it was true: he was in the volleyball club and the literature club at school, and being a part of two clubs did take a considerable chunk of what would’ve been free time after school, hence why his tutoring sessions were scheduled so sparsely.

His eyes lingered on Bokuto’s hair, which was beginning to look deflated, and he was sure his best friend was about to enter one of his moods if he didn’t find some way to cheer him up.

“Bokuto-san,” he started, pausing for a moment to think again, “I know someone from literature club who might be willing to tutor you.”

Bokuto lifted the side of his head from off the table. A newfound hope miraculously found him and bled through his expression as he smiled and propelled himself closer to the black-haired boy as if he was listening in on some juicy yet confidential gossip, hitting the palms of his hands against the table with an embarrassingly loud slap that rang throughout the classroom.

“Really?!”

Akaashi nodded. “[L/n] [Y/n] from class 3-6 is one of the smartest people I know, and I heard they’ve been looking to make some money so—“

“I gotta go,” Bokuto quickly said. Watching him rush out the classroom, Akaashi had a feeling it wasn’t to the bathroom.

(i.)

Bokuto was many things. Shameless was one of them.

“I am looking for [Y/n]!”

Heads turned toward him, including yours, although your reaction was paired with creased eyebrows and a warmth in your face that felt a lot like embarrassment. You weren’t sure who he was to be shouting out your name like that in front of everyone, but whoever he was, you were livid. Even more so after hearing your classmates whisper among themselves, questioning if that strong-looking, handsome guy was your boyfriend and adding on that you didn’t seem like type to date.

“Is there a [Y/n] in this class?” No one spoke up, so he stepped back outside the classroom for a moment, checking the sign above the door to make sure this was the right class. Class 3-6, it read. He frowned. Maybe you had decided to spend your lunch period elsewhere.

Before he started to walk back to his classroom so he could complain to Akaashi about this unfortunate outcome, however, he felt a sharp yank against the collar of his shirt, pulling him backward and then up against the wall. He blinked, and a humourless face came into vision. Unsure of where to look, he settled for staring hard at the space in between the face’s furrowed eyebrows, wondering if this stranger was about to ask for his lunchbox or something like the bullies in stereotypical American high school movies.

“Name,” you demanded. Stunned by how you were acting like some kind of military drill sergeant, Bokuto could only keep staring. Eventually, he noticed the name tag on your blazer— [L/n] [Y/n], class 3-6!

He smiled. Just the person he was looking for.

You were growing impatient. Why was he smiling? Did he find your embarrassment funny? Tensely, you repeated, “What’s your name? Hellooo?”

“Bokuto Kōtarō, a friend of Akaashi Keiji!” he blurted out. “You know him, right? Black hair, blue eyes—“

“I know who that is.”

“Great! I have a favour to ask you.”

Awkwardly, he gestured for you to back up. You did so, albeit eyeing him sceptically as he proceeded to bow down, low enough to the point where the tips of his hair met the tiled floor. It was just your luck that a few of your classmates decided to leave the classroom at this moment, stopping when they noticed the scene before shuffling away. You heard them giggling to themselves yet again, probably ecstatic at having found another topic to gossip about.

“Get up, what the hell are you doing.” Gripping onto his broad shoulders, you frantically tried pulling him up to a normal standing position before any other witnesses could walk in on you and add on to your humiliation, but he didn’t budge.

“Hold on— please tutor me!”

“That wasn’t asking me a favour. Now, stand. Up.”

“I’m failing most of my classes, and the ones that I’m not, I’m barely passing by like a couple points! I’ll pay you and everything, just please— I really need someone to tutor me, and Akaashi said you were super duper smart and nice and cool and everything!”

“Get up. Please.” You couldn’t help sounding desperate by this point. “People are staring.”

Much to your annoyance, your words went through one of Bokuto’s ears and out the other, as if there was nothing in between.

“Can you tutor me? Please?”

“Alright, fine. But only if you stop bowing down to me.” You sighed and then stuck your hand out, holding your phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the dates and times I’ll be available.”

He shot right up and visibly brightened, his hair sticking up even more than before, like he’d just stuck a fork into an electrical outlet. You weren’t sure how that was logically possible, but whatever. “Of course! Here.”

After letting him type in his number, you added it as a contact.

“What’s your name again?” you asked.

“Bokuto Kōtarō.”

“Spell it for me.”

“Okay! B as in Bokuto. O as in Okuto. K as in Kuto…“

You shut your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose.

(II.)

bok:

hey……………..

ahaha

[image]

The image showed Bokuto’s most recent calculus quiz, tear-stained and appearing as if it was crumpled up but then flattened back out out of guilt. A red 7/100 was marked at the top.

[y/n] the super nice super cool tutor:

ok

i am available after school tomorrow

we can meet up at the library if that’s ok

bok:

YIPPEE!!!!!!!!!!!!! thanks [y/n] :p

(ii.)

Bokuto was certain now as he stared aimlessly out the window that the universe was against him in some way and that time had purposely slowed down just to spite him. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for your help — he couldn’t be more appreciative of the fact that you were taking the time out of your day to tutor him despite the two of you being strangers until recently — but after just an hour and a half of going over notes and countless practice worksheets, he was ready to stop, drop, and roll into bed.

Even Akaashi, as monotonous as he was, wasn’t this bad during tutoring. Plus, his sessions were biweekly, whereas and Bokuto had agreed on twice a week: Wednesdays and Fridays. This was only the third tutoring session with you.

“Hey,” your voice cut through his thoughts, and with a start, he realised you’d finally returned from your brief excursion to the restroom, “did you finish the homework?”

Like a giraffe or a particularly nosy next-door neighbour, you craned your neck over the table that separated you and the boy with the two-toned hair. With the backs of his ears stained vermillion, Bokuto immediately slammed his folded arms onto the table, shielding the contents of the paper from your line of sight.

“Yes,” he said stiffly. “I am— I did finish. The homework.”

Bokuto was many things. A good liar was not one of them.

You blinked, dumbfounded. “The fuck was that for?”

He roleplayed confusion by inclining his head to the side. His words came out light and airy, sounding as though he’d just sucked in helium. “What ever do you mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Perchance.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, no I don’t! I’ve got no clue what you’re saying.”

Your eyebrows pinched together as your eyes flitted between his mock-innocent expression and the worksheet peeking out from underneath his toned forearms, before lunging forward and grabbing onto the piece of paper when he least expected it.

However, Bokuto was a little quicker. With fast reflexes, he pressed down on the paper even more, now using more of his body weight to keep you from taking it away from him. You were suddenly reminded that the guy in front of you was not just some clown who was very bad at both integrals and remembering to bring a pencil, but a better-than-average athlete at the very least.

“The element of surprise,” he stated through a tight-lipped smile, “you’re good at that.”

“Let go,” you commanded, still trying to pry it from his arms.

“Why?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, I need to see it so I can check your answers and see how much progress you’ve made.” You paused for a moment. “And also ‘cause I don’t believe you. You were only on question two when I left, there’s no way you’re done.”

Bokuto gasped with a dramatic drop of his jaw. “After all we’ve been through?!”

He may as well have sounded an airhorn into a microphone, then proceeded to throw the microphone out a window. You rushed to shush him, placing an index finger on your lips with a look of disapproval across your features. “Quiet down. This is a library.”

He stuck his tongue out. “Bossy-pants.”

Your face soured like a pair of wet socks. What kind of playground insult was that?

“I am not,” you told him. “That was a perfectly reasonable request, not just for me but also for the other people around you, who would probably appreciate some peace and quiet around here.”

He laughed in your face. You swore you were going to pop a blood vessel at this rate.

“Wow, you would make a great librarian. Ever thought about working here?” Teasingly, he kicked your foot from under the table.

“Don’t do that.” You physically recoiled at the smug grin that settled on his face. Not knowing how else to retaliate, you settled for a simple, “Shut up,” which really wasn’t any better, but once more, you’d realised that too late after the words fully left your mouth.

“I didn’t say anything!” Bokuto protested.

“I don’t care. Now, let go of the paper.”

“Only if you say pretty please.” He tilted his chin up defiantly in a way that, although perhaps unintentional for the most part, effectively grated on your nerves. You glowered at him, but before you could say anything else, you first heard a faint rip, and after one more particularly harsh tug, you found yourself flung backwards into your chair all of a sudden, which then tipped over and toppled onto the ground along with you.

You winced, feeling the immediate stinging pain subside to a dull ache in your back.

“Oh,” Bokuto said, before tentatively creeping over to you. All humour in his voice and face vanished without a trace. “You okay?”

Your face felt hot, though you weren’t sure if it was from frustration or embarrassment or a secret third thing as you stared up at his hand that was outstretched to you. Ignoring it, you pushed yourself up and then stared down at the paper in your hand— or rather, the half that was still there. The other half laid on the table. Crumpled up.

You sucked in a huge breath of air. Of course, only two out of ten problems on the homework assignment was done, and the rest were left blank. You’d be less upset if he had at least tried. Was he even taking this seriously?

“I think we are done for today.”

(III.)

“Oh, he hates me for sure. I just know it.”

Akaashi couldn’t see the point of this conversation.

“You’re telling me this because…?”

With restrained effort, you whacked the back of his head with a rolled up notebook, yet he barely even appeared fazed, like this was a normal occurrence in your friendship. (It was.)

“‘Cause you’re, like, his best friend in the whole wide world, and I need your advice, dingus,” you complained. “He even introduced himself as Bokuto, a friend of Akaashi Keiji.”

“Of course he did,” Akaashi muttered, somewhat amused by your poorly done impression of his best friend’s voice. He placed a hand on his chin to contemplate. “If you really want to know what I think about you and him, I don’t believe last Friday was as horrible as you think it was. He called me and told me all about it on his way home.”

Suddenly, you grabbed him by the shoulders. Taken aback, he stared up at you with the typical unsettling, blue-eyed gaze, just a little more wide-eyed than usual.

“What did he say?” This was serious business — you had to know.

“Nothing too bad,” he quickly answered, patting your arm as if you were some wild animal to be tamed. “Said you were kind of boring and went through some of the topics too fast, but he appreciated your efforts. He also felt bad for lying to you and for calling you bossy, even though you were— his words, not mine.”

“I am not bossy,” you said haughtily.

Akaashi rolled his eyes, then smiled. “That’s some defense you got there.”

“No, really. He’s totally being dramatic!”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that. Or, even better, you talk to him yourself.”

“No way!” You buried your face into your hands.

“I already told you, Bokuto doesn’t hate you at all. Just… try being a little more understanding next time you see him.” He motioned his hands vaguely, trying to further explain his point. “Nicer, you know? But” — you sensed that what came next would be a big but — “still be yourself. Don’t want you frying your brain over trying to act like someone else. Okay?”

You dismissed his advice with a wave of your hand. Now he sounded too much like a school counsellor for your liking. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Just as the teacher walked in and Akaashi left to return to his classroom, your phone pinged. You glanced down to see what it was.

No surprise it was a text from Bokuto.

bok:

[image]

failed my calc quiz :(( again :(((

There was a circled 3/100 in red ink in the upper right corner of the paper.

Unable to contain a scoff of disbelief, you weren’t even sure how it was possible. Nonetheless, you began to type out a response, something along the lines of a dry ‘ok’ followed by a specific time for you to meet up, but then Akaashi’s wise words of wisdom rang through your mind.

[y/n] the super nice super cool tutor:

does 5pm this wednesday work for u?! ^-^

Typing that almost physically hurt you, but you persisted regardless like the brave soldier you were.

bok:

??? YEAHHH

[y/n] the super nice super cool tutor:

alright!!!! see u then!!!! :))))

[bok liked your message.]

(iii.)

There was something off about you. Bokuto could tell, though he couldn’t quite place a finger on it.

He thought maybe it was the stress of the upcoming volleyball summer camp that was making him see things he wasn’t actually seeing. Or maybe you had changed up your appearance a bit today. But as he observed you while you were explaining a homework problem he was particularly stuck on, you looked the same. Still you, except… brighter? You looked like you were in a better mood today and, actually, this past week now that he thought about it, recalling your texts.

You were nicer, that’s what it was. Or it was more that you seemed more engaged in today’s tutoring session than you had in all three of the previous ones. From the start, you’d sat down next to him, instead of across from him on the opposite side of the table. You went through each topic much more thoroughly, refusing to move on until he fully understood the material, which you made sure of by asking him questions every now and then. And, he swore, you were even smiling a little whenever he got an answer correct on his own.

It was almost uncanny, he mused to himself.

“What is?”

He snapped back to reality. “Huh?”

“You said something was ‘almost uncanny,’” you told him, eyeing him strangely.

Shit, he had spoken his internal monologue out loud yet again. And he’d been staring at you like a mindless animal for an exceedingly long time now without realising.

“Oh, don’t worry, I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Okay.”

Shaking his head at himself, he slouched over the table in an attempt to focus on his homework. After a beat, he scribbled something down, then pursed his lips as he slid his paper over to you, indicating to you that there was one thing he was either stuck on or unsure about. “Is this right?”

Wordlessly, you glanced down at his answer, and after scanning through his work to make sure it wasn’t a thing of luck, you nodded. Bokuto fist-pumped the air, although his ecstasy wasn’t just because he had gotten the answer right yet again (he was currently on a streak of six-in-a-row— the highest yet!). Rather, he found himself looking to you in the corner of his eye with hopes to catch your reaction, and there it was again: both outer edges of your mouth curled to form what he could confidently say was a smile. A small one, but it was there nevertheless.

Then, you did something else, another thing he wasn’t expecting at all: you began to grovel to him for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry for being kind of mean to you,” you mumbled.

Okay. Maybe, that was an exaggeration (a really, really extreme one). But the effect it had on him was still as explosive as if you actually were grovelling at his feet for forgiveness.

“WHAAAAT?”

A scowl made its way to your face for the first time today. “Can you not act so surprised?”

“It’s not acting if I really am surprised,” he said with a defensive tone, placing a hand on his chest. “Plus, I’d never lie to you like that… except maybe that one time. Sorry.”

“I don’t think you need to apologise for that. You weren’t very convincing anyway.”

“What do you mean? I totally had you fooled!”

“You did not.”

“I did!” Somewhere else in the library, the librarian shushed the both of you, sending weak glares in your direction. Mindful of their warning, Bokuto quieted to a stage-whisper. “If that paper hadn’t ripped, you would’ve never found out the truth.”

“Ha! In your dreams, yeah.” You rolled your eyes before begrudgingly admitting, “But while we’re still on the topic of apologies, I guess I am also sorry for being kind of overbearing. I will work on that bad habit in the future.”

“Kind of?” he echoed. There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “You sure?”

“Yes.” You shot him a glare, and he put his hands up in mock-defense.

“Hey, hey, hey, I was just asking. I forgive you and all. But for the record,” Bokuto grinned, sharp canines poking out a bit, “I like that about you anyways.”

(IV.)

bokuto:

FAILED AGAIN

BUT!!!!!!

[image]

46!!!!!! DOUBLE DIGITS!!!!!!

[y/n] the super nice super cool tutor:

revolutionary

see u tomorrow

bokuto:

CAN’T WAIT :D

(iv.)

Bokuto was dreading this next exam. It was a big one, for sure, as it was the last opportunity he had to raise his currently failing grade up to passing standard before summer break, which was slowly yet surely inching its way toward the present. With the volleyball summer camp just a week and a half away, his odds weren’t looking very high, and he wasn’t sure if even yours and Akaashi’s combined tutoring efforts would be able to save him.

“I can’t do this.” He dropped his pencil on the table and groaned in frustration, leaning back in his chair with a dejected expression directed toward the ceiling. Nothing was making sense anymore. “Can you please open the window?”

Puzzled, you furrowed your eyebrows. “Why? Do you need some fresh air?”

“No, I’m gonna stick my big, stupid head out the window, and then you can do me a favour and close it.”

“Oh! Okay.”

Logically, you decided not to do that. Instead, you grabbed one of the soft-cover workbooks laid across the table, rolled it up as Bokuto watched you curiously, and—

Thwack!

Rubbing the back of his head, Bokuto sat up straight. If you placed his back and a ruler next to each other, you wouldn’t know the difference. “What’d you do that for?”

“Did that hurt?”

“Not really.” His gaze averted between you and the book and then you again and the book again, bewildered. “But what’d you do that for? Fun?”

“No, it was because you sound totally lame right now and it’s pissing me off. Get a fucking grip on yourself. You’re not stupid, so don’t say that you are. You’re gonna ace this test and you’re gonna ace whatever sports thing you got coming up.”

“Volleyball summer camp,” he said wistfully. There were stars sparkling in his eyes now, a stark contrast to his lifeless look seconds prior, leading you to believe that you’ll have a chance at becoming a motivational speaker or something of the like in the near future.

“Yeah, that. You— you can do this. You got this. Go you or whatever.” Yeah, scratch that option. Suddenly feeling awkward, you grimaced. Maybe it was time you just stop talking. “Never mind. Keep studying.”

“Okay.” He picked up the pencil but not before sparing you one last glance and blinking rapidly for a few seconds, wondering if he was seeing things when pink hearts started to hover around your face with a dream-like, white vignette and a romantic tune began flooding his ears. “Yeah, I think I am gonna ace this test.”

(V.)

“They whacked me with a book, Akaashi.”

Akaashi couldn’t see the point of this conversation. He tended to feel that way a lot, actually, but it was a phenomenon occurring more than usual as of lately, and he had a feeling it had something to do with two of his friends spending more time with each other over these past couple of weeks. Huh, he wondered why.

“Yeah, they do that,” he said, turning the page as his eyes glided over the words. This was like a kindergartener tattling to their teacher about something a classmate did to offend them, at least in the eyes of Akaashi. Certainly, he felt like an under-compensated, stressed-out adult at the moment.

“So how do you not fall in love every time?”

Akaashi froze. Was he hearing things right?

Before he could process his upperclassman’s words, however, a sense of déjà vu washed over him as Bokuto grabbed him by the shoulders all of a sudden, donning a serious look now.

“I’m going to ask you one thing. A favour as one of my best friends in the whole wide world.”

He shut the book he was reading and set it to the side, seeing how important this seemed to Bokuto. “Okay. What is it?”

“Don’t tell [Y/n] I passed my exam. They have to think that I failed.”

With an arch in one of his eyebrows, Akaashi attempted to not sound so shocked. “You passed your test?”

“I did. 72 out of 100!” A wide grin spread across Bokuto’s face.

“That’s great news,” Akaashi replied. “Why wouldn’t you want [Y/n] to know about that? Surely, they’d be happy for you.”

“Because. If they find out I did well on my test, then that means I won’t need their help anymore and I won’t get to spend time with them anymore. And I don’t want that to happen ‘cause I like spending time with them.”

Oh, jeez. “That’s not that how that works.”

“Okay, Mr. Smart Guy, tell me how it works then.”

“No.” Akaashi reopened his book as if to seem disinterested in the topic at hand, even though he actually was and he wasn’t really reading at all by this point. “Just ask them to hang out instead asking me to lie to their face on your behalf.”

“I’m not asking you to lie, I’m just. Well. I don’t know,” Bokuto finally admitted sheepishly, fiddling with the end of his sleeve as he pouted. After several moments of well-needed silence, he pondered out loud, “Should I text them?”

“Yes.”

Pulling out his phone from his pocket, Bokuto smiled. “You’re a great friend, Akaashi. Thanks for the advice!”

bokuto:

hey! let’s hang out this weekend!!!!

i meannnnnn at the library

at our usual time not the weekend ahahah

sorry

typo

that first text was a typo

[y/n] the super nice super cool tutor:

you failed your test?

bokuto:

yYeahhhhhh

[[y/n] the super nice super cool tutor reacted ‘?’ to your message.]

(v.)

“You seem.” You observed his face suspiciously as you pulled out a notebook from your backpack. “Happy.”

“Aren’t I always happy?” For proof, he gave you the largest smile you’d ever seen in your life and leaned in close until your noses were touching. “See? This is my resting face like all the time.”

With how close he was, you settled on staring at a faint freckle above his left eyebrow, hoping that didn’t make you look cross-eyed. “Yeah, you’re just a bundle of joy. But I assumed you would be a little down considering you recently failed not just a quiz but a big exam. You won’t be able to go to that summer camp. Wasn’t that the whole point of me tutoring you?”

He shrugged, pulling himself away. “Life happens. Things happen. But I am a changed man, and I will no longer let such minister things disappoint me.”

“Minuscule things.”

“I said that. Mini-stool.”

You shook your head. Some things, you’d learned, were better to just leave as is.

But then there was a certain point where you couldn’t just not pester him about it. That point came after noticing he was answering all your questions right and breezing through the review sheets with ease. You couldn’t understand how he had failed his last exam when he was doing so well right now, same topics and everything.

A frown seeped into your expression as you stared at his work. “You… you already know everything. What if your teacher graded your test wrong? Or misplaced it with someone else’s. Because there’s no way you—”

“No, I don’t think so,” he interrupted you with a nervous laugh, sounding strained while looking everywhere but you. You side-eyed him upon being interrupted but continuing doing so as he wasn’t really acting like his usual self, as much as he wanted to insist otherwise. Weird. “I bombed that test. Trust me. Maybe you’re just my lucky charm or something.”

“What.”

He ignored your skepticism, seemingly too caught up in his head. “Maybe you should spend time with me more often so then maybe your luck can rub off on me. Maybe you should start coming to my volleyball practices. Maybe we should start hanging out over the weekends. Summer break is almost here, maybe we—“

“Bokuto Kōtarō.”

He glanced over at you — crossing your arms over your chest and clearly not believing him — and immediately threw his hands up in the air in defeat. “Okay, I lied. I passed with a 72%.”

“I figured.”

“You knew all along?!”

“No. But I could tell you weren’t telling the truth ‘cause you’re a horrible liar,” you explained as he pouted. “It gives me second-hand embarrassment seeing you look all constipated like that whenever you try to lie. Please never do that again.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought you wouldn’t wanna tutor me anymore if I told you,” he admitted. “I like hanging out with you, even if it’s just to do schoolwork. I don’t want that to end since we never really talk outside of these tutoring sessions.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you said definitively.

“So cruel of you to say only that after I poured my heart out to you!”

Despite you hovering a hand over your mouth to conceal it, your laughter still saturated the air; Bokuto took in every ounce.

“I wouldn’t toss you to the curb like that,” you reassured him. “These tutoring sessions can continue until we graduate for all I care. And if you want, over summer break whenever you’re free, we can go to the movies or a café or wherever, really.”

He perked up at this. “Really?”

“Really.” You picked at the dead skin around your fingernails offhandedly. “And honestly? I like spending time with you, too, so it doesn’t matter what it is that we do. You are paying, though, if we go to a place that wants our money, since you promised to pay me back when you first asked me to tutor you.”

Bokuto was okay with that. Your presence alone was enough to make him feel over the moon like a billionaire anyway.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #bokuto x reader #bokuto fluff #bokuto x y/n #229ZMI

[maharlika]

flight

a short halstarion ficlet i wrote for @kingthunder for the prompt: "halsin teaches astarion how to wildshape into a bat"

uhhh that's not quite what happens here, but i hope you enjoy this ramble anyway! this is pre-relationship also so kajdlakjsd

--

Astarion stops short right outside of Halsin’s tent, and clears his throat.

“Druid, I’d like to speak with you.”

There’s shuffling from inside the tent, and then the door flap parts and Halsin steps out. Astarion fights the reflex to take a step back––he always forgets just how much larger the other elf is. 

“Astarion,” Halsin says, inclining his head in greeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Astarion looks askance at the rest of the camp. Everyone seems occupied, but in such a small space, and with such insatiable gossips as Gale, Karlach and Withers, there’s no telling who might be listening in.

“Perhaps we could speak in private,” Halsin says, clearly reading Astarion’s worry. 

“Perhaps,�� Astarion replies. Halsin lifts the entrance to his tent and gestures as Astarion blinks in surprise.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Oh, I––all right.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Astarion hunches down and enters Halsin’s tent. Contrary to what he’d expected, the tent isn’t a bear’s den. Inside, it is sparse but clean, and it smells like rich soil and herbs. There’s a bedroll tucked into one corner, and green moss covers the floor like a soft blanket. 

Astarion takes a ginger cross-legged seat while Halsin rummages around in one of his packs.

“I’m sure you’d prefer something more––sanguine, but all I have is tea,” Halsin says, his back to Astarion. He’s a hulking thing in the enclosed space, and Astarion feels a zip of something that’s not-quite-apprehension slithering down his spine to be so close to something that he knows could maul him in a blink of an eye.

“I can’t remember the last time I drank tea. I don’t know if I can,” Astarion says.

“Even if you can’t, it’s a cold night out––maybe you’d like to keep your hands warm.”

With that, Halsin pours them both tea in wooden cups. Astarion rubs his thumb across the smooth grain and watches Halsin from the rim of the cup as he takes a careful sip.

“I didn’t come here for tea, you know,” Astarion says as a pocket of warmth settles somewhere in his chest. 

“I know,” Halsin says serenely, looking at Astarion with an unnervingly frank gaze. “What is it that you need?”

“I don’t know if it’s polite to ask.”

Halsin raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know the first thing about druids,” Astarion continues, before he can stop himself or think better of it. “Well––I do know some things. But I’d like to ask…when you’re––when you become a bear, are you still in there? Inside of––the animal?”

Halsin listens to Astarion intently, with no sign of derision or amusement. 

“You’re not the first to ask the question, and you’ll not be the last,” Halsin says, after a moment and another sip of tea. “Many druids have philosophized long and hard on this, but I shall not subject you to my people’s ramblings. It is different for every druid, but suffice it to say: yes, we are still ‘in there’. I am the beast, and the beast is me. It is only my form that changes, not my personhood. When I am in Wild Shape, though, it is true that the affairs of people seem much less…important. Other things are magnified instead. Emotions, desires, senses. It is easy to get lost in them.

And there have been…accounts, of course. Live as a beast for long enough, content yourself with the thoughts of a beast and the actions of a beast, and you may lose yourself. But for a regular druid spending short spans of time in Wild Shape, it is of no consequence.”

Astarion drinks Halsin’s words like parched ground drinking the rain. 

“Would you teach me?” he asks. “Is it possible for someone like me to learn?”

If Halsin is surprised by the question, he does not show it. He brings his tea to his mouth and takes a long swallow, closing his eyes as he ponders. 

“It is a skill like any other,” Halsin says. “I have seen you use magic, and our kind is naturally attuned to the natural world. I don’t see why not.”

“And you’re not going to ask me why?” Astarion says warily.

“Would you tell me?”

“Well, not if you don’t ask,” Astarion says, fighting and failing not to pout. “You’re ruining my aura of mystery, you know.”

“Apologies,” Halsin says with a huff of laughter. “Astarion, why would you like to learn Wild Shape?”

“I think I would make a very fetching bat,” Astarion says flippantly. “And I do tire of walking all day. Tav takes us up all these mountains and hills––it’s wretched. Why walk if I could fly? And why fly if someone could carry me?”

Halsin hums in agreement, but Astarion can see he’s not so easily fooled. Those keen eyes are upon him again, gaze unrelenting.

“It’s all right, you know,” Halsin says, “to not want to be a person sometimes.”

Astarion stiffens. 

“Rest easy,” Halsin says, “I’ll not subject you to a lecture. As for your request, I’m sure I can fulfill it. When would you like to start?”

“It’s that easy?” Astarion says, squinting in suspicion. 

“Oh, learning will not be easy. But this conversation? Yes, I’d like to think so. More tea?”

“I––” for a moment, Astarion flounders. He should go, he thinks. He’s got what he came here for, and there’s no more to discuss unless Halsin means to teach him how to Wild Shape right at this moment. 

“Do you know what it feels like?” Astarion asks, eventually. “To want everything to just stop?”

“Better than you might think,” Halsin says. 

“Oh?”

“A story for another time, perhaps.”

“Well, aren’t you full of secrets.”

“I like to cultivate an aura of mystery.”

Astarion barks out a laugh at that, which makes Halsin smile.

As Halsin pours them more tea, Astarion allows himself to imagine it: the wind beneath dark wings, his body light enough to soar. It would be so nice, he thinks, to be free for once.

#halstarion #halsin #astarion #bg3 #bg3 fic #rai writes

[rodolfoparras]

Smoke Sprite

Pairing: Captain Price x Trans Male Reader

WC: ca 7k

Synopsis: Price teaches you how to smoke cigars among other things

Content warning: 18+, • MINORS DNI • dry humping • boot worship • boot grinding • verbal degradation • praise • alluded exhibitionism • Sub! Reader • Dom!Price • reference to afab anatomy (sparsely!) • power dynamics • age gap (no specific age stated but in my head it’s like 10 years between them) • no after care

Stand alone/ part of a series:

A/N: The usual disclaimer: English isn’t my first language so excuse any grammatically incorrect sentences, spelling mistakes, ooc, plot holes… heads up for long sentences as well, who needs proper structure anyway.

First time writing smut too bc at some point we ought to dive into this. Am I right or am I right? Also idk how to do accents, as a non native speaker I have a whole vocab that consist of American and British words and at some point something may sound whack but just rewrite it in your head and enjoy the fic hehe

Also don’t be fooled, you will actually learn about cigars here I did a deep dive for this

Few things were hard to come by when enlisted in the army. One of them being a good night's sleep. It was something you as well as many other soldiers battled with. You’d found that the best way to cope with it was to stay up til your mind was as exhausted as your body and one of the ways you’d  make the time pass was by smoking. 

That’s how you found yourself sitting on the window sill of the little kitchen provided on base, half way through your third cigarette, wishing your mind would let your body go to bed.

It wasn’t always bad being unable to sleep. Hours you spent awake (albeit against your will)  were also sometimes hours you’d felt the most at peace.

Tonight felt like one of those nights and the peace washed over you in waves, so much so you finally felt like you were ready to head to bed. 

Just as you’re about to follow through with that thought, a sudden noise at the door catches your attention. 

You turn so quickly you almost drop the cigarette you’re smoking, ash falling over you with the motion.  

It’s too dark to see the intruder’s face but you’re still able to see how he freezes in place and quickly raises his hand in defense.

“Relax sergeant” the tension leaves your body when you hear the intruder speak. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. It was after all one that was on your mind when you couldn’t sleep. “Didn't mean to scare you, was just gonna get something to drink” His voice sounds husky, he’d probably just woken up from his sleep.

You nod your head, as you go to sit down again, taking another drag of your cigarette as you observe the surprise guest. 

His steps are sluggish, head almost dropping as he makes his way over to the fridge and you wonder to yourself if you should turn on some light so he doesn’t trip.

“Don’t know how you can smoke that shit” Price says, somehow managing to express his disdain through his sleep like daze. 

You snort at his words before taking another drag of your cigarette, blowing out a cloud of smoke only to watch it disappear again. 

 “Look who’s talking” you say referring to the cigar that always seemed glued to his hand.

He opens the fridge, seemingly searching for his drink before he takes out a bottle of water. Soon after he makes his way over to the kitchen counter, across from where you’re sitting. The light from outside shines down on him and you can finally see him properly as he leans on the counter and takes a sip of his drink. 

He’s dressed in some gray sweatpants and a matching tank top to go with it. It wasn’t an unusual sight per say. Many times he'd complain about running hot easily so he always dresses lightly when he sleeps.  However that didn’t mean that you were unaffected by it. 

“Seriously they taste like shit and smell bad too”he says before downing the rest of the water. 

“I don’t smoke for the taste”  you say as your eyes wander from his clothes up to his neck, taking notice of the dog tags on him and the way they’re  glistening with the light shining down on them. Your gaze wanders further up, over to where his Adam's Apple lays and how it bobs every time he takes a sip of his drink, until your gaze finally lands on his face. His eyes are half lidded, lips parted and puffy and a flush coats his cheek. It’s clear that he’d just roll out of bed especially with how mussed his hair is. Despite that he looks good, really good actually.

“You should since these will take you out anyway” he says, bottle now discarded on the counter and hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Teach me how to smoke cigars then” You say tossing your cigarette out the window before turning in your seat to face him properly.

Price raised an eyebrow at that.

“What? You can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, might as well do something useful here. Teach me how to smoke cigars”

The older man scratches at his beard in thought before seemingly making a decision.  With a grunt he signs for you to move over and you do as he says. He sits down next to you, one foot propped on the window sill and the other hanging to the side of it.

Price digs his hand into his left pocket,  pulls out a wooden box of something, pops it open before sliding it over to you.

“Take whichever you want, it doesn't matter. You’ll be prepping it anyway”

“Prepping?” You look at him like he’s grown three heads. It's a cigar after all, what is there to prep anyway?

He nudges his head, signaling for you to take one. When you do so, he takes one himself before he closes the box and pockets it again.

“It’s not like a cigarette. You don’t just shove it into your mouth and smoke it. All good things come with preparation and in moderation.” 

“Are we still talking about cigars here “ you grin widely as you wiggle your eyebrows suggestively.

Price grunts at your words but doesn’t do much more as he goes into teacher mode.“First thing first, you want to know what you’re working with. That can break or make the experience”

You nod as you look down at the cigar in your hands. However, figuring out what you’re working with wasn’t as easy as it seemed. You’ve smoked for years but cigars were outside of your expertise. 

Price must’ve seen the stupefied look on your face because he says “Don’t look at it like that, lad. It’s a cigar not a ticking time bomb“

“Sorry” you say, shifting in your seat as your free hand fiddles with some loose lint from the sweats you’re wearing. 

“That’s alright. Let’s start with something familiar, yeah?” he mindlessly strokes his beard, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries to think of how to explain it. 

“You lick your cigarettes right? How come you do that?” You’re momentarily stunned by the fact that he’s picked up on this. But his question hits you next and you can’t help but feel embarrassed when you confess. 

“Force of habit I guess” you shrug, rubbing at your neck as your eyes wander from him to some random spot on the window sill. 

Hey, you’re a smoker not a smoke connoisseur. You don’t know the ins and outs of nicotine. 

He sighs heavily and drags his hand down his chin before he speaks  “That’s alright.” he says before he goes to explain. “ It's a form of prepping, not really necessary for cigarettes but some smokers do it. However prepping is essentials for cigars”

He then goes on to raise his arm in the air, giving you a clear view of the cigar in his hand.

“First thing first you do a pinch test, it’s pretty simple really. You pinch it between your thumb and point finger. Do not roll it however. If it’s dry it’ll cause unnecessary friction which in turn will cause more tears in the leaf”

He starts to demonstrate the step. You try to focus but your eyes can’t help but wander all over his hands. 

Despite the cigar being quite big, it looks something akin to a cigarette in his grip and although he’s got a rather delicate grip on the cigar you know just how rough he can be with his hands. You’ve seen it many times out on the field, and have even imagined what it would be like to be on the receiving end of the treatment. His hands always look so big and strong, dusted in chestnut hair and lined with thick blue veins. You can’t help but think of how pretty they look as he demonstrates the step. 

“You still with me, lad?” 

You lick your lips, mouth feeling dryer than any tobacco leaf. “Yeah “

“Now do so with yours. Remember just add some light pressure, it doesn’t need much more than that” he says, once again demonstrating the step. You start to feel a pressure in your chest as heats floods from your head down to your feet. You try to focus on his words but they only seem to add to the lightheadedness you’re feeling. 

“You listening?” He asks, taking note of your dazed expression.

You only manage a hum in response to his question as you go to follow his instructions. “It shouldn’t crackle since they should be properly humidified anyway but it’s always good to know the basics yeah?” He says when you both notice there’s no crackling to be heard from the cigar in your hands.

“Now we cut it. I keep this baby on me at all times “ Price says before he pulls out a pocket knife. 

“There's all types of fancy shit for cutting but the principle is to cut as little as possible rather than the opposite. You just kind of snip it off” he says as he places the knife at the tip and executes the move perfectly.

“Now you try,” he hands it over to you and you can’t help but feel quite confident in this part. The task didn’t seem complicated anyway. But as you go to cut it, it turns out to be much harder than it seemed.  The cut is nothing like Price’s. If anything it’s jaggedy and has the tobacco leaves crackling at the tip. 

 “That’s alright, you can-“

Before he gets the chance to say anything else, you wrap your lips around the tip, allowing your spit to smoothen out any loose pieces. 

“Oh- “ you look up at Price only to see him swallow hard. 

“That’s a good lad” he says, voice sounding deeper when he speaks “was gonna say to not slobber it down in saliva but you seem to know your thing “

Your face feels hot when you go to respond.“Thanks” 

It’s strange- this relationship you got with your captain. At first sight it might seem that you’re the one throwing flirty remarks around here. And he’s the one who acts unphased, or even annoyed at your flirting attempts. But matter of fact is he’s the one making suggestive remarks whether consciously or subconsciously and you’re the one phased by it. You wish you too could be as unphased as him because his recovering time for these types of situations is remarkable, really. 

His voice is void of any previous emotion when he goes to speak again “Now to the last part, we light it”

And of course you try to keep with him. 

“Never thought we’d get to it” you say, hoping and praying you seem just as unphased as he seems . But you can still feel your face burning and your voice slightly wobbling and the intense look he’s giving you isn’t helping you very much either. 

“Hey you wanted me to teach you” Price reminds you with a pointed look. 

“Go on please” you gesture dramatically before leaning back in your seat.

“The way you choose to light it will affect the taste. It’s all a matter of preference so to say “

“And how do you like yours to taste?” Your words come out more suggestive than intended and you can hear Price sucking in a sharp breath, head tilting and his eyes boring into yours when he says “I prefer to take my time with things, enjoy it thoroughly, make the most out of it if you know what I mean”

The mood feels different; stirring in a direction that has nothing to do with cigars and everything to do with something else, something-

“You’ll achieve that with a soft flame”

And it's quickly broken again. 

Price fishes a box of matches out of his pocket, slides it open and takes a few of them before pocketing it again.

“Always use two matches but don’t be fooled, you can’t hurry the process this is just to ensure the cigar burns even. You with me?”

You nod - maybe a bit too eagerly to show him you’re listening, brows furrowed and lips puckered in concentration and if you’d be focused on someone else you’d see the ghost of a smile on Price’s face. 

“You strike the matches and tilt them downwards, then rotate your cigar around the them “

“Like a marshmallow ”  the words slip mindlessly out of your mouth and his eyes widen in surprise before he laughs. 

You feel the tip of your ears go red but smile at what he says next “Fuckin’ hell, sure like a marshmallow “

Instead of saying something else that would result in making a bigger fool of yourself, you choose to do as he says. 

You take two matches from him and attempt to strike them. 

However it feels like the universe is on a mission to make you seem like the biggest fool because for some reason you can’t light up your match. 

After your third failed attempt paired with some curses under your breath Price decides to offer you some help. 

He leaves his place on the window sill, and leaves his cigar in the ashtray to stand behind you instead. But just as he does it, you manage to light them yourself. However for some reason he chooses not to go back to his seat.

“Like that,” you hear him before you see him, and smell his cologne behind the clouds of smoke. 

You try to keep your focus as you slowly rotate the cigar in your hands

“Good lad you’re doing so good,” the words make you feel like a match ignited, burning from your head down to your toes.  

“Is it done?” You don’t know what you’re asking about- the lessons or the torture he’s unknowingly putting you through.

“Ever heard of the word patience, kid?“ he chides and if it weren’t for your close proximity making you feel all funny you’d say something to him.

“Just one more round of matches and you’re good to go yeah?” His voice is gruff and breathy when he speaks, almost akin to the tone he uses when he gives commands on the field. You feel the wisps of hair from his beard brushing across your ear and the heat from the close proximity of your bodies. You chose to nod in response, opting to bite your tongue in fear of saying something you might regret later on. 

Soon you find yourself with a lit cigar in your hands. 

“There now to the last step” the heat quickly disappears as a gust of cold wind creeps onto your skin and you’re sure it’s not because of the open window but rather from the space between your bodies as he goes back to his own seat.  

“The most important rule of smoking- if you’re to remember anything out of this- is to not inhale it but rather take a light drag. Your body and your lungs will be thankful for sparing them, see it as something you slosh around in your mouth rather than shove down your windpipe”

You raise a brow at his choice of words.

“I am not the best teacher, “ he shrugs before picking up his cigar again.  

He puts it between his lips and takes a light drag of it and you can’t help but think that he looks attractive doing it. 

You never thought smoking was attractive. You smoked to ease your nerves and couldn’t wrap your head around what would be so attractive about a little nicotine stick and the awful smell that came along with it. But looking at him now with his eyelids hanging low, head tilted to the side as he exhales the smoke, you finally understand why people thought so. Especially now, with his Adam’s apple on show, dog tags gleaming behind the clouds of smoke and his toned arms flexing every time he goes to take another drag of the cigar. 

“You do the most work in the beginning until you see white smoke. That’s how you know it’s properly lit and you can actually start to enjoy it“ Price’s voice sounds stern when he speaks; like a knowledgeable teacher sharing information to his interested students. And you sure were interested: in more ways than one. 

“Most work in the beginning huh?” You grin wolfishly at him.

“You pull a lot of jokes, kid “ he chuckles as he continuously spins the cigar in his hand. 

Kid. Your nose scrunches at the word  “Not a kid and who said it’s a joke?” 

He doesn’t say anything. Instead he tilts his head and rubs his beard as if mulling over something before speaking again.

“You try now”

You nod your head as you attempt to focus on the task at hand. But it isn’t easy,  your eyes flicker from his fingers, to his lips, to the way he sits leaned back in his seat with smoke surrounding him.

Before you know it you’re inhaling the cigar, doing the complete opposite of what he told you and within seconds you feel the smoke hitting you all at once; blurring your vision and sending you into a coughing fit.  

“I told you not to inhale it” he tuts as he leans over to take the cigar from your hands before he goes to pat your back “damn shame you seemed so good at following directions, what happened?”

You try to speak but the burning sensation in your throat cuts you off. His hand is once again on your back rubbing up and down aimlessly before he suddenly gets up and you instinctively grab onto him “I’m just going to get something to drink” he says, repeating his words from before and you nod, allowing him to do so. 

“Here” he says a moment later, pressing a cold water bottle against your cheek.

You flinch away from the cold sensation, but grab it anyway, downing more than half the bottle within seconds. 

“Take it easy or you’ll choke again, boy”

Despite the advice you find yourself unable to slow  down and you down the rest like a man parched. 

He chuckles at your actions and grabs hold of your chin, turning your head to face him. 

“That good?” He asks, eyes shining with both hints of worry and amusement.

You nod in response feeling heat creep up your neck and ears. The feeling intensifies when his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, wiping off any remaining liquid before he pops it in his mouth to lick it off of him. 

“I - I can do better” you croak out, still trying to catch your breath.

“What’s that boy?”

You clear your throat and take a deep breath, braving yourself to speak  “I meant what I said I can do it, let me try again”

His gaze shifts between your eyes and your lips, seemingly making a decision when he goes to speak.

“Alright, come here “  he says before he goes back to his seat on the window sill, cigar tucked back between his lips, and with smoke surrounding him. He looks delectable to say the least. 

As if it were a reflex your body complies to his request, shuffling over to sit closer to him. 

You can feel your knees brushing, smell the scent of his cologne mixing with the cloud of smoke, can even see each and every eyelash on his eye along with  the gray hairs sprinkled across his chestnut beard.

You thought you couldn’t get any closer than this but suddenly he leans further in and your eyes go wide as you watch him. His hand goes to your head,  strokes your hair, and brushes back any loose strands or flies aways before it glides across your cheeks, until finally stopping at your lips. 

“Open up, now” he says, one hand under your chin and the other tapping his cigar against your lips.

“Lets try this again, yeah? You did so well, don't want the lesson to go to waste” You hum in response, parting your lips before wrapping them around the cigar. However you don’t take a drag. Instead you await his command. 

“Remember gently, no need to put much effort into it, yeah?” 

You nod as you put all your focus into doing as he says and finally you manage to take a proper drag of it, enough to taste it and enough to blow it out properly as well.

“Good lad. I knew you could do it “  the look of pride on his face along with his words goes straight to your head. Like the cat that got the cream, you think to yourself.

You go to take another drag of it and as you do he places his hand on the small of your back, soothingly rubbing up and down the length of it. You try to focus on the cigar rather than his touch because you fear that in itself will send you into a coughing fit. But it’s hard to stay focused on the cigar when his hand leaves the small of your back and makes its way up to your neck instead. You’re just about to blow out the smoke when his hand wraps around your neck and gently squeezes it.

You part your lips in surprise and as  you do so smoke leaves your mouth, coming out in little circles that quickly dissipate in the air. Your eyes widen at your little trick and he just chuckles at your reaction, before releasing his grip completely and leaning back a bit.

“Little trick I learnt “ he says innocently, shrugging even before he clears his throat, eyes avoidant of your own but manages a thank you when you pass the cigar back to him.

A rather awkward silence falls over you two as you try to process what happened. Price’s hand around your neck- the shy reaction you got from it- the fact that he knew this trick in the first place. It all hangs in the air like clouds of smoke and puts your mind in daze. It’s hard to snap out of it but once you do you wonder if you should say something or move on to the next subject. Looking at him you can clearly see he’s embarrassed about it so you choose to spare him but you also choose to store this moment in your mind for when you’re in desperate need of a replay.  

“Gotta give it to you, you were right about the taste. It’s pretty nice actually” 

He inhales sharply at that, eyes falling to your lips as he goes to speak “Yeah? Why don’t you describe it to me? Last part of the lesson. Need you to name the flavors ” His hand is now at your thigh, fingertips mindlessly tracing circles onto it and you think it isn’t fair of him. He can clearly see the way your body is reacting to him- to his touches- to his words and he still expects you to function.

You must’ve taken too long to respond because Price’s hand squeezes your thigh in warning “Sergeant” 

“Creamy- it tastes creamy sir “ you stumble over your words but still manage to get out a response. 

He hums in response, hand tightening at your thigh before once again squeezing it to get your attention. “Anything else? Any specific flavor you can name. Go on, take another drag of it“ he says before passing the cigar back to you. For once you’re thankful that your body reacts so easily to his commands. Your head’s far too gone at this point to be able to give your body instructions. 

You take another drag of the cigar, allowing the smoke to coat your tongue before exhaling it. There’s a rich sweetness accompanied with a certain bitterness dancing across your taste buds “Coffee tastes like coffee sir- maybe even hits of almond as well?” you say through batted lashes, eagerly awaiting his response.

“Correct. My favorite” he hums in approval.“You’re a quick learner,huh?” The phrase like the cat that got the cream rings through your head again but this time you couldn’t care less. This time you'd gladly accept it.  You’d gladly be the cat and you’d gladly take all the cream especially if it was -

Price grabs you by the collar of your shirt and pulls you close. “You know what else is good to learn? “ 

You gasp at the sudden motion and instinctively grab onto him, one hand at his arm, the other barely holding onto the cigar. His voice is dangerously low and breathy and the way his hot breath washes over your neck raises goosebumps all over your body.

You can even feel the tell tale sign of his thick mustache brush up against your neck as he goes to say “subtlety, my boy”  

There’s little to no space between your bodies. He’s so close to you that you can hear his gruff voice forming the words at the back of his throat, and feel how they vibrate against his chest as he speaks them.  Yet you ache to be closer so you grip tighter onto him and press your body closer to his. 

“You were fidgeting around in your seat and barely paying attention to what I was saying. I almost thought you were getting bored of the lesson but that can’t be right now can it? ” 

It's no longer wisps of mustache hair brushing against your neck but rather a full beard trailing up to the spot behind your ear. And every time he goes to speak, it brushes relentlessly against the skin,  leaving burn marks behind him. 

“No- no sir. I’m very eager to learn” your mind’s starting to feel hazy, your breath’s quickening and you can’t help but tighten your grip on him, nails sinking into supple skin. You hear him wince but can’t bring yourself to care nor to loosen your grip. 

There's a nagging voice at the back of your head telling you this is just a wet dream or even worse a hallucination as you lay bleeding out on a field. So to silence it you tighten your hold on him, hoping and praying you aren’t just imaging him.

However he seems very much real because his arm feels firm and flexes under your tight grip. Every time you go to take a breath you smell the scent of smoke and cologne that seem to follow him and all you can see is his broad back and the small curls at the back of his neck. 

“Mm eager you say '' His accent is much thicker now, desire coating his tongue and slurring his words and his tone is playful like you’ve never heard it be before. All of a sudden you feel his fingers at the back of your head, fingers burrowing into the thick mane of hair before he pulls your head up to face him.

“I expect a response when I speak sergeant “ he says, tugging at your hair in warning.

You whimper at the sting, eyes batting up at him as you go to respond to him “Y- yes sir I’m very eager to learn”

Price looks at you with half lidded eyes and with an arrogant smile across his lips as he goes to cup your cheek.  “I suppose someone so eager wouldn’t have any issues repeating the steps we learned today”

“No sir” you manage to spurt out a response as you lean into his touch. 

“That’s a good boy” he says as his thumb caresses your cheek. “So good for me, yeah?” His voice almost sounds like the one he uses on the field when he goes to praise his team, except this one is just a bit lower, more breathier and wraps around endearments only meant for your ears. 

“How about this,”  he begins to say, hand slipping from your cheek, trailing down to your neck and landing on your shoulder. He takes his time to straighten the collar before he speaks again 

“if you can tell me all the steps we went through today” he trails off once again as both of his hands slide down the length of your arms before finally stopping at your thighs where they rub soothing circles onto them. “I’ll reward you for it “  

“Only if you want to, of course” he says, as he goes to take his hands off your thighs. 

“Oh I want to ” you say hurriedly as you grab onto his hand to keep them in place.” A lot, actually” you add in a shaky tone feeling your face heat up at your own words. 

His eyes flare with desire and he takes a sharp breath before he says  “Sit back for me yeah? One leg on each side of the window, need you to sit comfortably for this okay?” 

You do as he says, one foot on the desert ground and the other one on the wooden floor and you automatically lean back on the window frame to make yourself comfortable.

He on the other hand, has one boot clad foot propped on the window sill and the other one hanging to the side of, leaning back comfortably.

Your hands are trembling in your lap, fingers still gripping onto the cigar and you can see goosebumps rising on your bare skin but it’s not because of the cool metal pressing against it or because of the howling wind. It's rather something else and  Price seems to know the very reason behind it because he says.

“You’re shaking my boy are you nervous about presenting?” He asks in a mocking tone, before he takes the cigar from you  and puts it in between his lips. While you’re trembling in your seat he looks as relaxed as ever, leaned back against the wall, arms crossed and with an expectant smile on his lips.

“No-no sir” you respond as you squirm under his expecting gaze.

“Get on with it then” he says sharply and you spring into action.

“The first thing you do is prepare your cigar. That can make or break the experience… “ you trail off as you scramble your brain for what to say next. But your train of thoughts is quickly cut off by a sudden pressure on your left leg.

Price’s foot gently nudges your thigh and once again, as if it were a reflex, your body responds to him; legs spreading further apart, to make more room for him.

Suddenly, he starts tapping  his foot impatiently, purposely grazing his boot clad foot against sensitive skin as he waits for you to recite the next step. Despite the sweats you’re wearing, you’re so worked up that every touch feels like he’s grazing bare skin. 

“Go on. I didn’t tell you to stop” he warns as he puts a punishing pressure onto your thigh, harsh sole digging into soft skin and you wince at the impact before you speak. 

“To check if your cigar is moist you use your thumb and point fingers and squeeze - squeeze it from top to bottom” the air is punched out of your lungs, your words breaking up as the boot moves from your thigh to instead rest directly atop of your dick. 

You gasp, fingers grabbing onto the edges of the window sill as your hips buck to get more of the feeling “I’m sorry- I’m sorry sir” you say, feeling embarrassed at your body’s reaction. 

However Price doesn’t acknowledge your action nor your words. Instead he decides to raise attention to something else. 

“No underwear ?” He asks, taking notice of the wet patch forming on your gray sweats.  

“No sir I sleep commando”  Price curses under his breath and you feel the pressure increase in between your legs.

 “ Of course you fuckin do” he hisses and presses down even harsher, making you jolt at the movement and you just know that the embarrassingly big patch is growing larger by the minute with the way Price grins down at the spot between your legs. And when you look down at yourself you don’t only see the large wet spot on your sweats but you also see soil covered footprints all over it.  The mess in between your legs shouldn’t turn you on but the sheer sight of it makes you whimper and buck your hips.

“What’s the next step?”

You go to respond but end up choking on your words when you feel the fabric of your sweats slip between your folds and push directly up against your sensitive clit. He even goes to rock his foot side to side, boot continuously assaulting your sensitive numb. 

“What’s gotten your little cock so excited you can’t even speak?”

You whimper at his words, eyes squeezing shut as you lose yourself in the pleasure. “You’re being mean sir”

“Mean?”  he asks, voice dripping in faux concern but never once letting up on his torturous movements. “I’m just trying to reward you here. You want your reward, don’t you?”

You nod frantically as you buck your hips up at him. All of a sudden he ceases any and all movements and you snap your eyes open up to look at him.

He raises a brow at you with a wolfish grin on his lips. You blink up at him for a moment, before it clicks; he wants you to work for it. 

You almost huff at the realization. Nonetheless you adjust in your seat, hands propping behind your back as you bend at your knees before you gently start to rock your hips: his boot once again hitting your sensitive clit. 

“We - we cut it. Not too much though, just the tip” you manage to get out the words before you break off into moans.  You don’t realize how loud you’re being until he shushes you. It’s only then you realize that someone else can see or even worse hear you two. 

“What if- what if someone sees us sir?” You ask but never once letting up on your movements. 

It takes a while for Price to respond, too entranced with the sight in front of him, leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and cigar between his lips. You can barely see his face from the smoke surrounding him but the way his chest is rising and falling at a rapid beat and the way the cigar is shaking in his grip you know he is enjoying your performance. 

Truth be told you don’t even know if he heard you in the first place but when you go speak again he says “No one will see anything I promise” he says in reassurance.”Everyone’s fast asleep and if someone even tries to look or listen I’ll teach them to mind their own fuckin business. “ 

With that you turn your attention back to chasing your high, this time uncaring about who can see or hear as you lose yourself in the pleasure. 

However your attention is brought back to him once again when he says “But maybe you’d like them to?” He says, voice sounding thick and gruff. You snap your head towards him only to see him glowering down at you with desire swirling in his blue irises and a playful smile at his lips.

You know he’s just entering the thought of it, he wouldn’t do anything you weren’t comfortable with. And you can see his gaze switching from your face to your body to gauge your reaction.  And he must see the positive reaction your body gives because he continues “you’d like for them to see how pretty you look all worked up for me? Maybe even jerk themselves off to you? Can't blame them if they did. You look too good like this” you can only moan in response as he continues to talk “maybe you’d even want them to join us. One cock isn’t enough for you. A slut like you needs to get all your holes stuffed to be happy isn’t that right?” 

Your pace increases at his words as you lose yourself to the pleasure. But you’re quickly brought back to the present when he says  “What’s the next step sergeant?“ 

You blink back the haze, as you try to scramble your brain for what to say next.

“Next you light it - you need two”  at this point you’re just spurting out nonesene, too busy chasing your pleasure. 

Although his boot does hit your clit, many times - due to your fast paced beat- it’ll miss, aim too clumsy and messy to reach it. It doesn’t take long for you to make the decision to latch one hand onto his leg, the other making sure to support your weight as you adjust his foot so that the tip of his boot hits your clit every time you rock against it. 

You know you’re putting on a show for anyone who might hear or see; legs spread wide apart, arousal and mud covering your sweats as you desperately cling onto Price’s leg and moaning desperately. However you can’t find it in yourself to care,  can’t  focus on anything other than the pleasure coiling between your legs.

You look up at Price through half lidded eyes and mouth agape only to see a similar expression on his face. 

“Jesus, look at you grinding on me like a bitch in heat, you enjoying this hm?”

“Yes yes sir, enjoy it so much” At this point you're slurring your words, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut as you focus on nothing else but the heat growing in your core.

 Your heels dig further into the floor, knees cramping from the awkward position and arms aching from supporting your weight for so long. But you refuse to let up on your pace. You’re so close to the finish line you can almost taste it.

“Almost there” you warn him before your mind’s too far gone to say something.

“Then you better explain the last step or there will be none of it, sergeant “ he says as he squeezes your thigh in warning. 

“Yes sir” you groan out before you will yourself to speak again “you puff it - you do the most work in the beginning until-“ you don’t get to finish your sentence before you’re cut off by your own moan.

 “until what sergeant?” Is the last thing you hear before you lose focus of your surroundings, eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape as you chase your high on Price’s boot.

“Until - until - it starts working by-. “ is all you manage to get out before you’re cumming- stumbling over the finish line with your back arched and with a cry of victory.

You don’t even get to warn him before you’re falling back in your seat, arms giving out and legs losing their footing.  As you do so the boot accidentally rubs against your clit and for the first time since you ended up in this situation you jerk back from the friction, dick too sensitive. 

You end up leaning against your elbow, window frame uncomfortably pressed against your spine and Price’s hands on your thighs keeping you from falling straight to the ground.

“You alright?” Price asks after a moment of silence  and you feel his hand on your thigh again, rubbing soothing circles on them.

You hum in response, still lost in bliss and he chuckles as he gives you a moment to come down from it.  

Once you do, you flutter your eyes open and smile lazily at him. 

 “Good job my boy, you did so well”

“Thank you, sir” your face burns as you respond. him and the phrase like the cat that got the cream rings through your head once again. 

Suddenly you see Price’s brows furrow, tongue poking past his lips as he looks down at his feet. 

“Looks like you left a stain there” he says as nonchalantly as possible and points to his soiled boot “could you clean it up for me please?”

Your eyes flash in surprise and for a moment the words hang in the air.  

But as quickly as they came, the words  dissipate leaving a haze behind that seems to take over your brain.

“Of - of course, sir “ you say as you scurry out of your seat but before you can get any further he stops you with his foot, firmly pressing it against your chest “with your tongue sergeant “

You suck in a breath and you can feel your dick twitch in your soiled sweats. 

“Yes sir” 

You lean in so that you’re face to face with the boot he’s wearing. It’s a simple black boot, worn out  from everything it’s been through but there’s one spot on top of it that shines like it’s been newly polished.  It’s the very same spot you zoom in on, tongue poking past your lips as you trace a path from the very bottom up to the top of it.

You feel the soft leather scrape against your tongue as the familiar taste dances across your tastebuds. And every time you go to lick the boot your nose brushes against the leather and you smell yourself on it.  Despite the work you put into cleaning it you know you’ve ruined the spot with your arousal and instead of feeling bad about it you can’t help but moan at the fact that he can’t hide the evidence of the event that had transpired. You give it one last lick before you kiss the boot and smile at him.

He curses under his breath, a mix of swear words accompanied with your name leaving his lips and your grin widens as you sit up again. 

“Enjoy  the rest of your night, kid” he says all of sudden, patting your thigh lightly before jumping to his feet. “When you’re ready to put out the cigar, just let it rest on the ashtray, it’ll put itself out that way” he says as he shows how to do it with his very own cigar before making his way over to the door.

Within seconds you’re up on your feet, moving on wobbly legs you almost fall back on the window sill. 

“Hey, where are you going?” 

“Lesson’s over” he says  simply before looking down at the watch on his wrist “and I’m old and need my rest. “ He looks away from his watch to the mess between your legs. 

“Besides, you need to get cleaned up. See you tomorrow, kid” he says with a wink as he leaves. 

“See you tomorrow” you say into the now empty room, chuckling in disbelief as you plop yourself back down on the window sill. You’re a sticky mess and should probably go shower but instead you take a drag of your cigar before you say “This man’s truly something else”

#captain john price #john price #captain john price x reader #John price x reader #captain John price x male reader #cod #cod x Reader #cod x male Reader #Alec writes #idc if there are any mistakes I’ve been editing this for so long I’m so tired of it fjdjfjfjf #anyway

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

From One Master to Another

Part 1 (ft. Riddle and Silver) I Part 2 (ft. Trey and Kalim) I Part 3 (ft. Jade and Lilia) I Part 4 (ft. Deuce and Jamil) I Part 5 (ft. Malleus and Ruggie) | Part 6 (ft. Cater and Rook) | Part 7 (ft. Sebek and Floyd) | Part 8 (ft. Ace and Idia) | Part 9 (ft. Leona and Epel)

In which Gordon Ramsay-kun is isekai’d into Twisted Wonderland. Part Food Wars, part Hell’s Kitchen, all Master Chef—Night Raven College isn’t ready to take on this Michelin Star celebrity!!

Gordon Ramsay isn't a classically trained pastry chef; he knows the savory, not the sweet. This time, the coursework involves instruction in desserts--and he'll find that he has just as much to learn as his students, Vil and Jack, do. I conducted a lot of research for this installment (reading articles on how to ice cakes + the science behind macarons, and, of course, watching videos where GR gets humbled and learns from fellow culinary masters). It provided me with a fresh perspective to write from~

Imagine this...

"... Jack."

"Yes, Vil-senpai?"

"What exactly am I looking at?"

Several countertops were covered in baking trays. Sugar circles sat upon waxy sheets, some collapsed and thinned out like wafers, others risen then caved in and cracked. It was an array of imperfections spanning the muted colors of the rainbow.

Jack clasped his hands behind his back, and tried to ignore the uncomfortable urge to itch the ears tucked under his hat, or to tear away the tangle of hair net containing his tail. His chef's jacket seemed to be straining to contain the entire bulk of him.

"Macarons," Jack reported.

Vil lifted a brow.

"... Er, at least they're supposed to be macarons," his underclassman awkwardly clarified.

Vil granted him a look of sympathy. "The poor things."

"W-Well, how did you do with your assignment?!" Jack stammered, eager to shift the subject. He glanced to Vil's table.

Lips pursed.

The model had gone with a light wash of makeup, simply a neutral brown gradient on his lids. His hair was arranged in a tight, tidy bun, flaxen bangs pinned back. Vil presented almost as flawless as a mirror's face—but certainly his cake didn't.

It was two layers tall (Jack had watched him saw and shape them earlier), stacked upon each other with a layer of buttercream sandwiched between them. The cake was starting to slope, as if in a desperate attempt to crawl to the exit. A coat of uneven chocolate frosting had hardened, forming odd peaks and lumps in a crust.

“That’s pretty rough.” Vil bristled at the words—sparse, yet biting. Jack continued. “How many cakes does this make, four?”

The question, unintentional needling.

“Seven,” Vil begrudgingly corrected him. Then, a small smirk formed. “And yourself? How many batches of macarons does this make?”

“Urk…!” Jack’s ears flattened, his bushy tail limp. “I guess we could both use more practice…”

“Jesus.”

The curse was spoken in a hissing whisper, emerging from neither from Vil nor Jack. It came from their teacher, an older man with weathered features—the result of wisdom and stress. He had been perched off to the side, observing his students’ skills in action, his frown seemingly ever extending as the mistakes piled up.

“Right then, maybe this isn’t working out,” Gordon Ramsay muttered, his eyes passing over a macaron graveyard and the crumbling cake mountains.

Not for lack of trying.

“Chef!” Jack immediately stood at attention. “We did our best to follow your instructions.”

“As you can see, the results were not particularly fruitful,” Vil chimed in. “We could do with additional instruction.”

Gordon startled, gaping at them. “Wait, you two want me to teach you more? You’re willing to listen?”

“Yessir!! Please guide us.”

“It’s as Jack says. We are here to learn and to enhance our culinary skillsets. We shouldn’t dawdle.” Vil narrowed his eyes. “Why do you act so surprised?”

“Can’t say this has happened very often.” Gordon stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The last time I had a pair of students this cooperative was months ago.”

“Just what exactly have the other Culinary Crucibles students put you through?” Vil angrily planted his hands on his hips. “Were Epel and Rook being disrespectful?"

Jack hesitated not wishing to speak ill of his Savanaclaw seniors. Still, it was easy for his mind to conjure the image of Ruggie swiping leftovers when no one was looking—“Free food is free food!”—and Leona yawning, mentally checked out of the situation.

"It's not hard to imagine," Jack confessed.

"They'll be getting an earful from me later!"

"Hmph, kids will be kids. I've dealt with cocky adults double their age or older acting like bigger babies. What's important is that they walked out of my kitchen better than when they first walked in."

Gordon leaned against a counter and folded his arms. Air escaped through his teeth. “Boys, I’ll be straight with you. Sweets, baking—it isn’t my specialty. I could try and teach you all bloody day and we'd still get nowhere."

“Are you serious?” Jack frowned. “So that means…”

"What I've already shown you is all I've picked up from experts back home. We've hit the ceiling."

“This can’t be!” Vil reeled, looking vaguely appalled. “If it’s come to this, then how will we possibly improve our craft?"

"I don't know."

I've never been in a kitchen where I haven't been in control.

"This is a fucking mess," Gordon groaned. I've failed my students.

“What’s with all the doom and gloom?”

Gordon bolted upright at the sudden voice.

A plump ghost manifested, suited up in a chef's jacket and hat. His face was as puffy as a marshmallows, and his belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly.

The head chef at Night Raven College.

"You fellas look like you've seen a ghost," he joked. "But never mind that. I noticed you’ve been standing around and being sad for a while now.”

“Right, that—” Gordon exchanged an anxious look with his students. He fumbled for an explanation, but didn’t have to.

“Oh my! Did you make these?” the ghost chef indicated the macarons and cakes. They were hard to miss. “Brave of you to start off with such finicky things. All in all, they’re not bad attempts."

"They're not?"

The ghost chuckled. “Of course not. How many times do you think a pastry chef muddles macarons or ices a cake incorrectly before it’s passable? It’s one part skill, one part practice, and one part learning as you go. Here, let me show you some tips and tricks I picked up myself.”

Vil, Jack—and even Gordon himself—watched in silent awe as the ghost chef went about his work.

Ingredients were effortlessly measured and sifter into a bowl (“Keeps it free of lumps!”), then whipped egg whites carefully folded into the batter. “You want stiff peaks for the whites, and minimum folding to get it incorporated!” Once the macarons were piped onto a sheet, the chef picked up the tray and slammed it down several times—“To scare off the air bubbles.”

The batch of macarons was slid into a waiting oven, and he started on his next task.

Into a stand mixer went several sticks of butter. The machine came to life, whipping the fats well.

“Traditional buttercream forms a crust over time,” the ghost chef explained. “That gets gritty and unpleasant! So here’s an alternate version that doesn’t crust. It’s less sweet, but still stable, easy to work with.“

He lifted a bottle and tipped its contents into the aerated butter. Transparent syrup fell in thick rivulets, and he grinned. Powdered sugar followed, visible only for seconds before it disappeared into the gathering frosting.

“The secret is light corn syrup. Using dissolved sugar instead of powdered makes the frosting smooth and stops it from hardening. Adds a fine luster to the frosting too!”

Using a spatula, he spooned the fresh buttercream into a piping bag and handed it off to Vil. “Scrape the stuff that’s on your cakes off and try again with this,” the ghost encouraged. “Should work like a dream!”

“Thank you,” Vil said, a little bewildered by the heft of the piping bag. “I will show you a beautiful dessert by yours truly.”

“Looking forward to it.”

DING!

The oven’s timer went off.

“That’s 13 minutes! Howl-kun, can you get the macarons?” called the ghost.

“Yes, Chef! I’m on it!” Jack, in a pair of heat-resistant mitts, marched to the oven and reached inside. He produced a tray of perfect pink domes, a cloud of ruffles—the macaron’s feet—at their bases. “Whoa.”

“A nice filling and they’ll be good to go. You’ve got it covered?”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Good, good. Let us know if you need any help though, alright? That’s what your teachers are here for.”

Jack nodded, then retreated to his station. While the macarons cooled, he chopped white chocolate and tossed it into a pan with heavy cream. Moments later, they had melded into a rich ganache, sweetness hanging in a heavy cloud about it. One scoop was enough for a pair of shells, lightly pressed together.

Beside his junior, Vil was hard at work redoing a cake. His stand was set spinning, a bench scraper aligned to comb and smooth out the dollops of frosting he had painted along the sides. The cake was a blank white canvas, and Vil, the artist.

Sparks in their eyes, faces bright with the glow of determination.

“Incredible,” Gordon breathed, staring after the duo. He turned back to the head chef. “You made it look so easy.”

The ghost chef laughed and contentedly patted his stomach. “I’ve had my whole life and afterlife to master the skills!”

“No kidding. You saved my ass back there.”

And more importantly, he’s actually got the kids motivated again.

“You’re the one that’s helped us out a lot, Ramsay-kun. The kitchen is so short-staffed with so many students wanting to take the Culinary Crucibles elective this year. You took some of the instruction off of our hands. This is the very least I can do to return the favor.”

The head chef smiled. “Don’t forget, you can always call on us if you ever need help.”

“That right? Then I guess you wouldn’t mind helping me out with one more thing today.”

“Mm, what’s that?”

Gordon rolled up his sleeves, a newfound fire in his expression. “Please teach me too.”

“Huh?! You want me to teach you?”

“I’m as much of a student as they are—and I’d be honored to learn from a chef of your caliber.”

“Ramsay-kun…” The ghost teared up. “Oh, how could I refuse? I’d be happy to!! Go on now, get your own station set up and we can get started immediately.”

The creases in Gordon’s face lifted. His response, hearty and joyful.

“Yes, Chef!”

Vil glanced up from his cake. “… Are my eyes and ears deceiving me?”

“They aren’t.” Jack’s brows lifted. “I’m seeing and hearing it too.”

“It’s not so shocking,” Gordon grunted. “This is a school. We’re here to learn new skills and techniques—doesn’t matter if we’re student or teacher.“

“Fufufu,” Vil chuckled to himself. “Well, aren’t you humble?”

“Heh.” Jack found himself fighting to keep down a small smile. “I can respect that. Nothing wrong with a guy lookin’ to improve himself.”

“That makes three of us.”

We’re not that different at our very cores. Stubborn fools with dreams and aspirations of achieving something greater. For ourselves, for the ones around us.

The ghost chef clapped his doughy hands. “Isn’t this so exciting, class? We’re embarking on a culinary journey together! I hope you’re ready, because I sure am!”

They replied in unison, hearts united:

“Ready when you are, Chef!”

#twst #twisted wonderland #Vil Schoenheit #Jack Howl #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #something no one asked for #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Gordon Ramsay #Gordon Ramsay in Twisted Wonderland #imagine this #beyond the looking glass #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons

[blasphemecel]

Michael Kaiser — Molasses

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser/Reader WORD COUNT: 2.5k TYPE: Humor, Established relationship, Idk if i'd call this fluff lol, bad communication gets resolved at the end WARNING: trigger warning for CRINGE

“Is it easy for you to keep up with him?”

Your friend is interrogating you about Kaiser again. After a while, the topic of your relationship lost novelty, making way for newer drama, but it’s difficult for them to disregard that you’re dating a football player. Like, a real one, not just some dude who goes to play every other Sunday with his buddies.

You swirl your straw around your drink, looking at it like there’s slop in the glass instead of what you ordered. You wouldn’t say you keep up with Kaiser, so you shrug. “Give him a ball to kick around and he’ll be content.”

They raise an eyebrow, picking up on your sulking. Not like you’re being subtle about it. “So, I take it you’re not super stoked about things right now?”

Well, that’s the thing. You have nothing to do with what makes him happy. You don’t even call him by his first name, which is odd for obvious reasons, but also because it gives off the impression you’re one of the lackeys on his team, even though you don’t play. Or worse, a stalker fan who follows him around a lot.

Of course, you know what he’s like. That he’s a jerk who isn’t occupied with much besides himself, whose personality is cold and distant, and despite being a bit of a romantic, you’d prefer to think you didn’t have any unrealistic expectations. Maybe you overestimated your ability to tolerate how unavailable he is. And still — still! — is it such a crime to expect your boyfriend to display some vulnerability after several months of dating?

He doesn’t show you much of himself besides his persona, but you find it unnecessary, this covering up and playing His Majesty and forcing distance between you two with his paper thin smiles and showy kisses after games. You’re not a journalist trying to write an exposé on him (‘Michael Kaiser Is a Big Bitch’). You just… You just like him is all, and have a desire for a more profound closeness.

Does he share the same sentiments of affection towards you? It’s kind of a ridiculous question to ask yourself, and he’s way too pompous to allow anyone he finds uninteresting in his presence, but are you on his mind as often as he is on yours? Does he wonder about you the same way? You don’t believe you’re even half as elusive as he is, so it doesn’t seem plausible.

On the other hand, are you too overbearing? Should you pull back and relax?

You’ve been meaning to be mature and speak up about your concerns, but have been procrastinating on the conversation. For now, you wallow in your doubts while your friend suggests you break up with him and points out how big his forehead is, and how dumping a star is a ‘once in a lifetime opportunity.’

___

Kaiser is… off balance.

Not really. He’s standing upright and his posture is perfect and he’s not dizzy, but right now, the world is wrong and he can only hope the way he is clawing at his phone doesn’t betray how upset he is.

“Ness,” he says in his ‘I am about to complain’ tone. It is also only slightly different from his usual voice.

“Yes?”

“Before I continue, I just want you to know that I’m being very brave and nonchalant about this.”

Ness smiles, the expression seeming guileless as usual. “Of course,” he says eventually.

Kaiser all but shoves the screen in his face, since putting all of your offenses into words is beyond him, though it soon occurs to him Ness can’t read from this proximity and ceases the assault he’s committing on his eyes. Ness scans over your sparse chat, looks up at Kaiser again, and raises his eyebrows.

“They can’t make it to practice?” He states it in the form of a question when it appears that Kaiser is unwilling to talk, even though he’s the one who started the conversation.

“Congratulations, you can read. How many times has this happened?”

“I don’t know,” Ness says, despite knowing this is the fifth since he counted every time you didn’t show up the last two weeks. “Are they not feeling well?”

You shot him down the last two times he asked you to go out on a date. And you haven’t called before bed in a while. And you didn’t even add a kissy emoji when you told him good luck (not like he cares about your stupid emojis, but you didn’t). And whenever you see him lately, you act closed off.

“No, they’re totally avoiding me,” he says, after going through a mental flashback of all of your betrayals as if he was in a war instead of on iMessage. “Do you think I’m ugly? Or maybe boring?”

“Never.”

“Then what should I do?”

Did he have a plan for if he were unattractive? Get plastic surgery just to keep dating you or something? “You should try asking.”

“Maybe our relationship is losing its spark,” Kaiser says, completely disregarding Ness’s input. Ness continues smiling. It is unnerving, but an idea comes to Kaiser’s mind, and he’s too busy marveling at his genius to notice. “It’s an easy fix. I just need to romance [Y/n] again.”

Ness is still smiling.

“Anyway,” Kaiser continues despite the lack of answer, “you know they love those comics or whatever. It can be like a challenge. Recreate the atmosphere, sweep them off their feet. I can make my sweetie’s dreams come true. Because I’m not replaceable, and only I can do that for them. Right?”

For a brief moment, Ness considers telling him this is not the way and that he’s jumping through so many hoops, he’s going to trip and fall, but decides against it. Maybe there’s a grain of truth to what he’s saying. He doubts anyone else would come to this conclusion, for one, let alone devise a plan around it. If irreplaceable is synonymous with unique by some stretch of the imagination, then sure.

“Of course,” he says again. His eyes are big and innocent. Kaiser gets the distinct impression that Ness is judging him right now.

___

It’s already dark outside and you’re still sitting at your desk, doing mundane things on your computer, once again distracted from an assignment you’ve been meaning to do for a while. Something smacks against the window, startling you, but when you pull the curtains, you don’t see anything near the sill. You assume you imagined the noise, but another pebble hits the window, and this time you witness it as it happens.

The thought of some asshole throwing rocks at your windows irritates you, so you stand up to investigate, pressing your forehead against the glass.

Kaiser waves at you from below, looking way too cheery. You don’t know what he’s doing here, but you turn to go and let him in through the intercom — did he ring? you don’t remember him doing so — until you notice him gesturing at you to open the windows. Confused, you comply, peeking your head out, the cold breeze blowing against your cheeks and invading your already poorly insulated apartment.

“You look lovely today,” he yells out. Not a strong start, but he can redeem himself. Maybe.

“Thanks? Do you wanna come in?”

“Yes.” You lean away from the window again, but he stops you with another bizarre request. “No, wait. Later.”

This perplexes you even more, but you humor him with a weary expression anyway, resting your face against your palm.

… You interrupt his unnecessarily loud reading of some obscure love poem with a flail of your hands and a, “Cut it out and just come up!”

God, you hope none of your neighbors heard. To spare you both of this embarrassment, you don’t give him a chance to continue and instead close the windows, hurrying to let him in and unlock your door.

What’s with him, anyway? You feel a pinprick of anxiety at what’s about to come after such a strange… greeting from him, but try your best to seem stoic while you wait for Kaiser to climb up the stairs.

When he comes into view, you offer him what you consider a cool nod (which you may or may not have practiced in the mirror), and he continues to stand there at the doorway as if waiting for something. You move aside to give him space. Kaiser blinks once, figures this isn’t going his way, then follows your lead.

“Please don’t make me ask ‘where’s my hug at?’” he says, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. “That’s not like me at all.”

In your struggle to think of a neutral response, all you come up with is, “No one’s making you do anything,” which sounds more disagreeable than what you’re going for.

His lips settle into a thin line, the action calculating, as if he’s contemplating his next move. Both of you are being tactical. It’s weird considering this is supposed to be a sweet surprise visit from your boyfriend, not a battle of psychological warfare, but you don’t even know what’s going on anymore.

Then he takes a step closer until he’s in front of you, invading your personal space with his face leaning in so close to yours, resting his palm against the wall, almost pinning you to the wall but not quite. “Why not?”

“Do you need something? I kind of wasn’t expecting you, so,” you say irrelevantly. In your head, you’re still trying to make sense of this, not understanding where these corny gestures are coming from all of a sudden.

“No, I just wanted to see you. Is that a crime?” he says, backing away, folding his hands behind his back. There’s an artificial grin on his face. “Was this enjoyable for you?”

“Well, um, it was alright.”

“Did you like my recitation?”

“No…”

He read your stupid favorite series and the idiot love interest did both of those things. Does he have something that Kaiser doesn’t? And should he throw an irrational and jealous tantrum about it, shoujo style, or should he move onto the amnesia subplot?

This is awkward. You can’t think of an inoffensive topic to bring up. Perhaps deliberately withdrawing yourself from him has impaired your conversational skills? Either way, his unpredictable actions from earlier are throwing you off your game.

Kaiser follows you when you lead him to the couch, sitting in a manner you think is far too dignified considering he was serenading you from under your balcony not too long ago — prim and proper, with his ankle crossed over his knee and his hands intertwined together like he’s at a fancy meeting, offering opinions about a business deal.

You fumble for the remote with sweaty fingers, turning on the TV, hoping for a distraction. You can’t focus because you can feel Kaiser’s gaze on you, putting you on edge, burning into your side profile. He’s not even paying attention to whatever random show you started.

You turn towards him, conveying your incredulity with a raise of your eyebrows because you’re not even sure what you’re supposed to ask. ‘Why are you looking at me?’ doesn’t communicate what you want to say to the fullest extent.

“Oh, you caught me staring longingly at you. How embarrassing,” Kaiser says with the same sly smile, not sounding the slightest bit ashamed.

“Are you okay?”

“No. Have we met before?”

You scrunch your face in evident disbelief and think, OBVIOUSLY?

It makes Kaiser contemplate whether the amnesiac subplot is worth continuing.

“Seriously, you’re acting weird,” you say after gathering your wits.

“‘Weird,’” he repeats in fake amusement and looks away, switching from… whatever he’s been doing to a strange defensiveness, then adjusts the collar of his shirt. “I think the definition of that word is subjective.”

“I mean, sure.”

“And anyway, you were the one who was acting strange first.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Instead of acting like I don’t exist anymore, you should’ve just said you want to separate.”

God, Kaiser is so dramatic. Saying you were ‘acting like he doesn’t exist’ just because your world doesn’t revolve around him. You’re struggling to keep up with these mood swings. “But I don’t want to break up?”

“Oh,” he says before his lips turn up again. “That’s good,” he settles on, figuring it makes him come across as calm and collected enough.

“Honestly, I don’t know what you were doing, but… if you were worried about something, maybe you should’ve just told me?”

“You’re so cute when you’re being hypocritical.”

You cross your arms and frown, offended.

“I mean,” Kaiser elaborates, “you haven’t told me why you’re avoiding me either. And what was I doing? I wanted to find a new way to woo you again, but since you didn’t notice, it obviously didn’t work. Let’s just pretend it never happened.”

“Well, it’s hard to put it into words,” you say, picking at a hangnail on your finger to distract yourself. “I don’t want you to woo me or anything. A lot of the things you do are performative, just for show. Even all this wasn’t sincere… So I don’t wanna be in a situation where I’m opening up to you when you’re not doing the same.”

He seems taken aback by this. “Do you doubt my feelings for you?”

“Not exactly. More like the depth of them, if that makes sense?”

“When I thought I was losing you, I started acting irrational,” he says in a disdainful tone, vaguely gesturing at nothing in particular to imply this entire ordeal. “I hate to admit it, but it scared me how much it was affecting me.” Kaiser appears to regret admitting this almost immediately, though, because he tries to divert your attention by asking, “Is this the appealing kind of vulnerable? Or the pathetic one? I could repeat myself while flipping my hair from my best angle if it’d help.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry,” you say. “I should’ve just been upfront instead of playing games. You were right, that’s pretty hypocritical of me.”

“Yes, you should be sorry, making me act like a clown.” You narrow your eyes at him in annoyance. “But I guess I was confusing you, so I’ll forgive you this time.”

“Hold on,” you say, when the tropes finally click into your head (though you have to admit, as much as you love the romance genre, these things do come across as really bizarre in real life). “I don’t know if you were reading with your ass or what, but all these things are supposed to happen before the characters get together. It was way too late for any of this!”

“Haha. Is that so?” Kaiser asks, pretending he’s not dying of even more mortification on the inside. Then he pulls out his phone. “That reminds me, I organized a duel for your hand against Ness at the city center for later. I guess I should cancel it.”

“What-”

“Don’t worry, we choreographed it to be quick and painless, with a decisive win in my favor,” he says, as if any of what he mentioned is what you were questioning.

“Choreographed- Never mind, actually, I don’t wanna know. Why would Ness even agree?”

“Because I asked him to do it…?”

#michael kaiser x reader #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #bllk x reader #bllk x you

[hogwartsfirebolt]

takes one to know one

I watched him go through many. Months after our groups merged, after I was forced to think of him when I thought of the word “friends”, I became used to it. I learned his moves, learned what desire looked like on his face. 

It happened around 1 am every time, once conversation swelled with drink. His eyes would settle on someone at the pub, intense, unwavering, his lips tilted on a smile, until they had no choice but to look back. He rarely had to seek them out, within minutes of having his attention they’d be at our table, insinuating themselves near him. A few minutes more and he’d have them locked down. Men, women, it didn’t matter when he sat with his legs spread and his arm draped over the back of their chair, mouth soft and eyebrows furrowed, listening intently to whatever inane conversation they attempted to make. 

Nobody stood a chance. They left with him every time. 

Sometimes they stuck around for a while, came to two or three pub nights hanging from his arm, providing some variety to our table, which otherwise remained unchanged: Ron and Pansy, who were in a surprisingly exclusive no-strings-attached arrangement, Viktor and Hermione, who were engaged, Harry and I. I never brought anyone to the table. My own flings weren’t like his. They weren’t sparse, but the number seemed insignificant in comparison, the encounters spaced out by months rather than days. A handsome man every once in a while, whose eyes I would seek at midnight and whom I’d never see again after dawn, nobody hanging from my arm when the next reunion rolled around. It was a simple affair. Out of us six, Harry was the one with the most conquests under his belt. 

Ron would tease him relentlessly, call him a cowboy, and, once he was well and truly drunk, a whore, in a satisfied, approving tone. It surprised a laugh out of Harry, who by then had warm fingers splayed over the shoulder of the handsome man he’d beckoned to our table using nothing but his eyes that night. His hands wandered often once they’d found a target. 

“Or isn’t he, Draco?” Ron asked me, and Harry’s laugh became even louder when I nodded.

“Can’t help it,” he said, mirth shining in his green eyes. The man at his side stared at him, jaw slack, desire plain on his face. There was something magnetic about his amusement. They left within the next half hour. 

I watched it play out, fortnight after fortnight. He had a type, that was undeniable, always seeming to go after the sharper ones, the ones who weren’t afraid to meet his gaze head on, no matter how intense. They were typically in their late twenties, around our own age, and they’d definitely more often than not hail from enough wealth that they’d carry an accent to show for it. The posh thing seemed to do it for Harry. But in the end it didn’t matter who they were, how beautiful or wealthy, it never lasted more than a handful of months. It would begin with longer silences, strained eye contact, less physicality in public. Then he would stop bringing them, no explanation provided, and the hunt would begin once again. 

He made quick, efficient work of his conquest, almost effortless. Dispatched them with the same efficiency. 

That was why the night I turned around and found his eyes trained on me, I felt my stomach drop to my feet. When he saw me notice, he raised a single eyebrow and didn’t look away. He was sitting at our table, the same one we sat at every fortnight, while I waited at the bar for a new round of drinks. Under the weight of his gaze it looked different. The seating had shifted while I was away, Ron and Pansy had arrived hand in hand, Hermione and Viktor had changed seats to make room for them and they’d left only one place free for me to return to. A chair next to Harry, pressed to his thigh, his arm heavy over the backrest. And his eyes were on me. I tasted it in the back of my throat, the sharp tang of terror. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. In the months of watching him, of wanting him, sometimes keeping it a secret even from myself, I’d never once considered him watching back. And the reality of my own want, heavy inside my chest, dwarfed in a second when compared to my fear.

I turned my back to him and leaned my elbows on the bar, stomach rising and falling swiftly with my breath. 

I’d watched him go through many. I’d been unable to look away for a lifetime. I’d wanted him and loathed him, never knowing which instinct was stronger. Could I forgive myself if I allowed him to make me a name on a list, a chip on his bedpost? Could I forgive myself if I didn’t? I didn’t know. I didn’t know why he was watching me. I didn’t know why now, when he had to know I would’ve let him, at any point. 

When I felt a hand on my shoulder, a warm body leaning against the bar next to me, I knew it was him. I took a deep breath, bracing for it, and when I turned I found his green eyes fixed on my face, his mouth soft. I knew what he looked like when he wanted it, I’d seen it for months, and it was this. 

“Wow, you’re miraculously not already off fucking someone tonight,” I said, and he laughed, head tilted back, neck exposed. 

His mouth said, “Yeah, who would’ve thought it possible?” His eyes said, you know exactly why I’m here. 

I opened my mouth, trying to come up with more banter on the fly, anything to distract, so he wouldn’t be able to see how scared I was. Perhaps he already saw it. I swallowed down hard, and his eyes followed the rise and fall of my throat. 

“Two shots of vodka, two firewhiskeys, two blueberry gin and tonic,” said the bartender, placing a tray in front of me and saving me from having to come up with something to say. Before I could attempt to balance the six drinks in my hands, Harry flicked his fingers and they floated, steady, next to our heads. 

“Which one’s yours?” He asked. 

“One of the blueberry gins.” 

“Fitting. Which one’s mine?” 

“One of the whiskeys.” 

He smiled like that meant something. 

Our seats were too close. I felt the warm line of his thigh against mine, his eyes heavy on me whenever I said something, the back of his fingers brushing my back where his hand rested on my chair. I saw the group catching on, Ron pretending not to smile, Pansy trying to make eye contact with me. All I could do was swallow and pretend nothing was happening as I was swept in the intoxicating current of his interest. 

But I’d watched it happen. No matter what it meant to me, I knew what it was to him. The pub emptied out, my watch struck 2 and then 3 am. He’d usually be gone by now, with whoever his conquest of the night had been. But here we both were, watching Pansy drink Ron under the table. His hand was fully on my back now, his shoulder close to mine. 

We hadn’t talked much. My heart had been in my throat all night. 

Ron and Pansy stood to dance, Hermione and Viktor were long gone. He leaned close to my ear and whispered with whiskey-warm breath, “how much longer until you say yes?” 

Some unnamable feeling pulsed through me, hot and terrifying. 

“What makes you think I will?” 

He pulled away, his eyes traveled from the top of my head, down my neck, my chest, all the way to my feet. Then back into my eyes. 

“Please?” It came out like it was the easiest thing in the world, like it cost him nothing. If I’d been standing, I would’ve fallen to my knees. 

Nobody stood a chance, and I wasn’t the exception. It was gonna be one of those things. 

When I leaned in to kiss him, I saw the next few weeks play out in my head, pictured all kinds of moments, kisses like this one, and I knew I would risk it even if I had to go back to watching, after. We were in a bedroom within one moment and the next, he apparated us wandless, wordless, mid-kiss. 

“Finally,” he whispered into my neck, while his hands made quick work of the first buttons of my shirt and his magic took care of the second half, delicate and fine as fingers. My mind was scattered with his power, his hunger, the heat of his lips dancing over my clavicles. 

He got me down to my pants before I pushed him off and onto his back, unwilling to let him be the only one to taste. If I had him for a night or a couple, I’d use every moment to do the things I’d spent my whole life imagining. 

I kissed his neck, his chest, the short hair there, the peak of his nipples and the fall of his sternum. I kissed the shallow pit of his belly button, started to make my way down before he held my chin and brought me firmly up, back into another mind-bending kiss. 

“Finally,” he said again, voice splintering. “I’ve wanted you for some time.”

I pulled back, hands around his hips, legs bracketing his body, a powerful line of heat against the insides of my thighs. 

“Do you say that to everyone?” I asked, couldn’t help it, even though it laid me bare in a way I wasn’t prepared for. 

His breath was shallow on his chest, his nipples hard, pink lips parted. He sat up a little, rough hands cupping my shoulder blades, my lower back. He’d lost his glasses at some point, and his eyes were a blaze. 

“I’m saying it to you.” 

His words sent a pulse through my belly, but I knew him, I’d watched him, and knew I couldn’t hold him to the things he said here, in the small space between us, tangled in his bed. I swallowed and he followed the movement with his eyes, then with his hand, palm to the side of my neck, thumb pressed to the heart of my Adam’s apple. I watched him between half lidded eyes, waiting, at his mercy. He closed the distance between us, pulling me into the kiss by the neck, tongue-first, slow and wet. 

“You don’t have to do that,” I whispered. “I’m already here”

Again, like he needed to make sure I heard, “I’ve wanted you for some time.” 

He pointed the statement with a thrust, working his hips, making sure I could feel how much he wanted it. It traveled through me like an electric current, and I let my head fall forward, laid my forehead on his shoulder, panting as I moved with him, a slow back and forth. 

“Why now, then?” I breathed out, mouth open against his salty skin. One of his hands braced harder around my body, the other behind himself on the bed, balancing as he came up to his knees with me still in his lap. He didn’t stop there, kept pushing forward until I was on my back, watching him hover over me. His hair dripped sweat onto my chest, and there was something in the way he looked at me, a hunger that reminded me why I’d been so scared in the first place, the scope of his want so transparent and electric that I feared I would simply disappear, stop being real the second he looked away from me. 

“I don’t know,” he said, painfully honest. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pants and pulled, a few inches down before the garment disappeared into thin air as though it never had existed, willed away by his wordless command. I made an embarrassing little sound, and he smiled, a tiny, amused thing. “I think I hadn’t been fully honest with myself about it.” 

My breath caught. I closed my eyes, trying to work through it, opened them again and ran a hand down his chest, pulling lightly at the hair at the center. I thought it, and tried not to say it, but it was out before I could stop, “I knew you’d be like this” 

His thigh had found its way between my legs, and he pressed forward, drawing a sharp breath out of me. 

“Yeah?” He muttered, eyes never straying from my face. “Like what?” 

“All-encompassing,” I whispered, and felt a hot blush immediately gather in my cheeks and neck. He noticed, too, and followed its path with his lips, the mere suggestion of a kiss against my skin, delicate and slow. 

“Tell me your pleasure,” he said, nose brushing my neck. “What do you like?” 

It was hard to think of what I wanted when it seemed like I was getting armfuls of it already, without asking. I came up on an elbow, slid a hand down his chest, between his legs. He responded beautifully, a moan leaving his lips, all warm breath against my throat. 

“I like it deep, and hard.” I let my fingers slow down, matching the rhythm of his breath. “Slow. I like it slow.” 

“I can do that,” he said, but he didn’t stop me, instead allowing himself to move into my hand, find a rhythm too, pressing open-mouthed kisses to my neck. 

I spread my legs, giving him more room, and like this, holding him between my thighs, allowing him to take what he needed from my hands, it felt like doing it already. He lifted his head, coming in for a kiss in the last moments, and it was into my lips that he groaned his release, warm puffs of breath as his hips worked, then slowed to a still. 

It took him a moment to readjust, and he spent it against my lips, catching his breath. He kissed me, my chin. 

“I can still do that,” he assured, sounding pleased. Then, “I just… might need a minute.” 

A sudden laugh bubbled out of me, not having expected him to be like this, too, the intensity and power of a few moments ago taking the shape of someone who, at the end of the day, was just a guy. He lifted himself up and then dropped down beside me, his head cupped in a propped hand so he could keep on watching me. 

“Why do you always do that?” I whispered after a couple seconds of silence. 

“Do what?”

“This.” I furrowed my eyebrows and gave him my most intense look, trying to emulate the way his gaze just would not let up. He laughed, and let his head fall on the bed properly, unruly hair spread around his head in a dark halo. 

“I know I’m intense. I’ve heard it before,” he said, gaze trained upwards as though speaking to the ceiling. “It’s just the way I — It’s not —,” he stopped, backtracked. “I was trying to say it’s not personal, but I bet it’s even worse with you, actually. It’s always been. I’m sorry.” 

“No, I know,” I replied immediately, because I did know, and I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. “I don’t mind.”  

“When I want something, it’s the only thing I can think about,” he whispered, rolling his head to the side, eyes finally on me again, as though pulled by a magnet. “I guess it shows.”

“I watch you too,” I confessed, a half-voice almost afraid of itself. Fear warring with truth. 

But he said, “I know,” low into the space between us. “I’ve realized. That is the real answer. That is why now.”

I took it in, felt it like a fire-tipped arrow straight to the chest, the acknowledgement that no matter if this was a one-time thing, I wouldn’t, after all, be a name on a list. The possibility that this wouldn’t be a one-time thing at all. He saw it in me, and his gaze changed, took on the hunger again. 

“I thought you needed a minute,” I said, not looking away. 

His eyes moved between my legs, then back up. “But you don’t.” 

He was already moving, his hands searching skin, but I stopped him with a fist to the center of his chest, gentle, one last sliver of self-preservation, the need to know for sure that he knew what I meant. 

“You knew I would’ve let you, at any point,” I said, no point hiding it anymore. “But you didn’t try.” 

“Draco,” he whispered, “I didn’t know. I would’ve been trying the whole time.” 

It was one of those things. A gamble. I’d watched him go through many, I couldn’t know that he was being truthful. And yet, I realized, he couldn’t know that about me either. He’d watched me with others, watched me follow them home, come back and do it again weeks later. He’d been a friend, and he’d watched. He’d watched me go through many. 

I began to smile. 

“Takes one to know one,” I whispered.

His hands found my hips, the side of my neck. I let him fall onto me like a rainstorm, and we met each other in the middle. 

#obviously i listened to cowboy like me by taylor swift way too much #drarry #drarry fic #draco malfoy #harry potter #mywriting #also at this time i will not be taking complaints about how absurdly powerful and attractive harry is #the press conference is overrrr

[katcoquette]

Home

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x wife!Reader

masterlist | taglist

summary: requested by anon! you're worried your husband might miss the birth of your first baby, but instead you get a sweet reunion after months apart.

★ word count: 1.4k

★ tw: pregnancy

★ author's note: idk if I even want children but I would for this man & this was such a cute request thank you <;3

You hadn’t seen your husband in months.

Although it wasn’t unusual for him to be on assignment for months at a time, you were usually allowed to go with him- he’d spend weeks training, still coming home to you every night, and you’d only be apart for a few days when the actual mission was taking place- but this time was different.

He’d told you it was highly classified, and he was being forced to leave a three-month pregnant (and extremely upset) you at home.

The details were sparse, the time frame vague, and you hadn’t been able to talk to him more than a handful of times in the four months he’d already been gone.

To say you were miserable would be an understatement- you were hormonal, worried, scared, and you missed him more than anything. On particularly hard days, you’d spend hours feeling sorry for yourself, cursing the navy for forcing your husband to miss out on so many of your firsts.

Your first child, your first pregnancy, finding out the sex of your baby (which was sitting in an envelope in your nightstand- you refused to do that without him), and several other firsts you’d wished he could be there for.

You were in the middle of one of these pity parties when you heard a knock on the door. You groan, dragging yourself out of bed to answer, and open the door to see two smiling faces standing on the other side.

“Mrs. Bradshaw.” Jake grins, walking past you to set your mail that he’d collected on the table. “You’re looking chipper this morning.” He notes sarcastically, making a noise when Natasha hits his arm, which you appreciate. You shut the door behind them and collapse onto the couch.

“I’m almost eight months pregnant, Jake, and it’s the middle of summer. I’m fucking miserable.” You rest your head on Natasha’s shoulder when she sits down next to you and look up at Jake where he’s standing in your living room.

“What are you two doing here? I thought we had planned tomorrow? Or am I mixing things up again?”

“Taskforce decided to stop by a day early. In the area and all of that.” Jake smiles, and you’re sure he’s hiding something as he sits down in the chair across from you.

Bradley had enlisted his friends in a ‘taskforce’ to check in on you while he was gone, and they’d had a field day with it. The officialness of it all was highly amusing to them and to you, (because why wouldn’t they check on you anyway?) and the joke had taken off from there.

You roll your eyes, letting a smile peek onto your lips. “Right. Right.” You hum, then gesture to your posture on the couch. “Well as you can see, I’m doing great.”

He chuckles, “I always knew you were my favorite.”

This causes a full smile to grace your lips. “I really do appreciate you guys looking out for me.” You squeeze Natasha’s hand, and she smiles back at you.

“We don’t mind at all, Y/N. You’re family.” She assures you.

You nod, and she follows up with a question, “How are you actually doing?”

You sigh, resting your hand on your growing stomach. “It’s been hard. I’m worried he’s not gonna be back in time. I mean what then? It’s bad enough to be going through the pregnancy without him, he’d be heartbroken if he missed the birth.”

At this, Natasha shares a look with Jake. You notice immediately and sit up straighter. “You two know something, don’t you?”

“Wellll…” Jake starts.

It doesn’t take long for you to convince them to spill their classified information: you pull the pregnancy card, shed a few tears that they see right through but kindly pretend they don’t, and then they’re swearing you to secrecy.

He’d be home in a week.

༛ ༛ ༛༛

The next week was one of the busiest of your life. You got the official notification two days ago, and now you were standing with a few other families in the hanger.

You fan yourself with the envelope anxiously, waiting for him to land. When you see the jets fly overhead, you stuff the envelope into your back pocket.

And then the engines are cutting.

Your breath hitches in your throat and your movements stop as you see the canopy of his jet open. You’re frozen in place, a sob threatening to escape from your throat at any second as you watch him climb down, take off his helmet, and spot you in the small crowd that had gathered to welcome their family members home.

All you can manage to do as he jogs toward you is return his smile, tears already pooling in your eyes, and hold open your arms when he reaches you. He sweeps you up into his arms, turning once before letting your feet hit the ground again.

“Bradley…” You choke out, clinging to him so tightly you’re not sure anyone would be able to pry him from you again. “Hi baby.” He says it into your hair, his head buried into your neck as you hold each other.

When you readjust your grip on him, he realizes just how relieved you are to have him back. He rubs your back soothingly, cradling your head to his shoulder as you cry.

“Hey…” He chuckles through his own tears. “It’s okay, I’m not leaving you again.” You nod, turning your head to rest it against his chest. His arms tighten around you again, and he kisses the top of your head, and you realize how much you’d missed the safety you found there.  

“Are you doing okay?” His hands move to cup your face, eyes first glancing you over, and then searching your own for any sign of deeper distress.

You nod, putting your hands over his. “I’m okay.” You confirm, and he smiles at you, satisfied with your answer. “Good.” He squishes your cheeks together, making you laugh.

And then he’s kissing you. If one kiss could heal all the pain from your months without him, it would be this one.

He only pulls away enough to allow him to speak, resting his forehead against yours. “I missed you more than anything, sweetheart.” He runs his hands up and down your arms, and even though the heat was pushing 90 degrees, you still get goosebumps.

He takes your hands and holds them out, putting some space between the two of you.

“Let me get a look at ya.” He grins, and looks you up and down, focusing in on your bump that had grown significantly in his absence. He gingerly places a hand there, “I missed you too.” You can feel your baby shift, and then a soft kick hits against his palm.

He looks up from your stomach in awe, and you smile softly. “We both missed you, so so much.” You press another kiss to his lips, and then it’s your turn to inspect him as he takes off the rest of his gear.

“And you’re okay too? You’re not hurt?” He shakes his head, “No, everything’s good.” He pulls you back into his arms, sighing contently. “We did it. Not too bad, huh?” He jokes.

“Speak for yourself.” You tease back, and he laughs. “God, that was too long. I missed out on so much.”

“But you didn’t miss the most important part.” You remember the envelope in your back pocket and pull it out, holding it between both of your faces. “And I saved this part for you.” He smiles, plucking it out of your hands. “I was wondering what that was.” He winks.

He’s barely opened the envelope before he’s realizing what it is. “Is this?” You nod, moving under his arm to his side so you can open it together. You hold his hand on your shoulder as both of your eyes scan the page, and you spot the news at the same time.

A gasp leaves your lips as you look up to see an affectionate smile on your husband’s face. “I had a feeling.” He says softly. You glance back down to confirm one more time, finger brushing over the words on the page.

“Our little family.” He breathes out, bending his arm so you’re tucked back into his chest, and pressing another kiss to your head, whispers “I love you.”

With the paper in your hand, and more tears in your eyes, you throw your arms over his shoulders, and kiss him. “I love you too.”

“Let’s go home.”

taglist: @gcldtom @picked-off-by-barzal @sarahghae @lucianaasf @strawb3rrydr3ss @pennbii @owenniasstars @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @oliviah-25 @classygirlything21 @theliterarybeldam @littlebadariell @averyhotchner @kyramaximoff @rosie-posie08 @teti-menchon0604 @shaded-recs @choochoo284

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #top gun maverick #rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun 2 #top gun fanfiction #rooster bradshaw fic #rooster bradshaw x you #rooster x you #rooster fic #rooster bradshaw x y/n #rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfic #top gun #rooster fluff #bradley rooster bradshaw fluff #bradley bradshaw fluff #rooster bradshaw fluff

[anjelicawrites]

Follows directly from this because I am a hoe. NSFW and 18 + only, obviously. Loss of virginity, cunnilingus, cumplay, overstinulation, romance (hey it’s me!). Reader is AFAB but I’m using they/them pronouns. By the way, the crown stays on during sex.

“I ask for so little. Just fear me. Love me. Do as I ask, and I shall be your slave”.

You take a too deep breath in surprise, your eyes widening.

“If you answer ‘no’, I will never bother you again - he says, feigning a calm he doesn’t feel - if it’s ‘yes’, though, we can marry right this instant and never be parted again”.

His hand hovers near you face, on instinct you close your eyes and lean into his warmth, realizing too late what you’ve done, Aemond smirks in victory.

You need to say no, it’s easy, one word and you’ll never see him again. You’ll never see him again, the realization hits you like an horse’s hoof in the chest. He is... he is many things, awful and terrible, beautiful and enchanting, fair and cruel. You can change him, you tell yourself, you know there’s still a good man in there, maybe with your help... you are lying to yourself, you desire him carnally, there’s no salvation for him and you as well: all these night spent imagining his weight on your body, your hands giving you a pleasure that tasted like ashes in your mouth. Liar! Liar! A whore, the whore of the Kinslayer turned King.

“Yes” you murmur, eyes lowered.

You are ashamed of yourself, your baser instincts winning against your morality; you don’t want to be parted from him, though.

“Look into my eye, my sweet - his fingers find your chin, delicately he lifts your face - Did I hear well? Did you say yes?”

“I did” you can feel shame spreading his warm fingers throughout your body, all your fighting for nothing

“Thank you my love. You will never regret your decision”.

You don’t have time to answer with anything, Aemond’s voice calls for a Septon; he is not going to waste a moment more.

The old man tries to say something, Aemond doesn’t care and forces the man to marry you two on the spot, your hands tremble in his, your voice breaks as you go through your vows. It’s good that Aemond carries you bridal style out of the throne room, your legs shake too much to get you anywhere.

With long strides he marches through the maze that’s the Red Keep, you hide your face against the leather of his tunic, shame and desire battle in your chest, until Aemond opens a big door which leads into a sparsely furnished room where a huge bed catches your eye.

“I didn’t want to furnish our marital chambers by myself. They belong to you too, my love” he says earnestly, your head spins at the thought, all the fears your Septa instilled in your brain surfacing.

Aemond delicately places you on the bed, then he kneels between your legs, his eye searching yours.

“My beloved, I swear I will keep you safe from everything, even myself - you gasp in surprise - outside I am their King, the one they should respect and fear, within these walls I am your humble slave. Ask me anything and I will do it, you command me here”

“Aemond...”.

He’s left you speechless, his cheeks bear a faint redness under your stare, his face on your knees in surrender, your hand on his nape, savoring the soft skin there.

“Please, do of me what you want - he purrs like a cat - have me, release me from this pain”.

His hand goes to the bindings of your dress, the other to the buckles of his tunic, waiting for your permission to start undressing the two of you. You nod, the knot in your throat forbids you from speaking, your breath hastens as both your clothes fall from your bodies, until you are in your shift and he is in his breeches, opened to relieve the pressure of his erect cock.

You can see his manhood partially, the girth terrorizes you: that would never fit inside of you, he’s going to tear you open! Your hands stop his from advancing up your legs, from brunching up your shift, he stares quizzically.

“Please don’t hurt me - you can’t control the panic in your voice - please I don’t want to be hurt!”

“I would never do such a thing!” his hands fly to your face to dry your tears

“The Septa said - your words are stopped by sobs - she said... she said it will hurt and that I should subject myself to it for my husband. I am so scared Aemond! It looks so big!” you start crying uncontrollably, your face against his naked chest.

Aemond hugs you tight, his arms keeping you upright against his body, his lips softly murmuring sweet nothings in High Valyrian to soothe you, his poor love. He knows he is big, he still thanks the Gods that have given him the chance to learn how to use it in Harrenhall and helped him overcome all that happened to him, to be ready for you, his true love.

When your tears finally stop, he dries your face with his thumbs, his lips find your forehead.

“What’s the name of the Septa? I will have her publicly punished as my wedding gift for you”

“No Aemond please! She was doing her job! - your hands go to his naked chest, your fingers scratching his skin - I don’t want blood and pain as my wedding gift, please!”

“Will I ever be able to tell you no, my love? - he concedes with an unhappy hmm - I will sternly reprimand her, will that be acceptable for you?”

“Yes, thank you” you answer, your eyes avoiding his, you feel so ashamed

“Will my beloved spouse give me a kiss? A real one?” he tries to be cheeky to diffuse your fear, you nod, shyly.

His lips on yours are soft, he tries to keep under control his need to finally have you, his hands on your hips fist the soft material of your shift; he knows that, if his hands were in your beautiful locks, he’d lose control. You moan in the kiss and he slips his tongue in your mouth, gently playing with yours, your hands in his hair fist his locks until your lips part. You look so beautiful, your chest rises and falls fast, your lips plush from the kissing, your eyes big with curiosity and fear. His hand travels to your cheek to caress the skin there, to give you solace.

“I can’t promise it will be painless. There are ways for me to prepare you and minimize the discomfort. Would you like me to try?”.

In his mind Aemond is begging you to let him make love to you; now that he knows your taste he’s barely keeping any  form of control on himself. His cock hurts with every breath he takes, he needs to be buried inside of you. You push your forehead against his; you know he’ll be gentle, your heart knows it, your brain tells you that sooner or later this marriage should be consumed, better do it now than later, when you’ll be even more terrorized by the memory of his girth.

“Yes, please. Be gentle” you hate that your voice sounds so small and scared

“Always. You command my every action” and you do, you just need to ask and he’ll burn the Seven Kingdoms for you, you are the only one that truly matters.

Your hands shake uncontrollably when you bunch your shift around your hips and remove it with a big huff of breath. You don’t look at him as he stares at your naked body, the heath of his stare enough to turn your nipples into pebbles. He says something you don’t understand in High Valyrian, his eye trained on you for the longest time to imprint in his mind your form. He tries to hide a moan of pain the moment he stands up to remove his breeches, he turns around not to scare you with his manhood and you stare at his ass, firm and toned. You shouldn’t find him as beautiful as you do, the Kinslayer King, the Monster King, the man who has shown you only kindness.

“Lie down on the bed, your head on the pillows, you need to be comfortable for this”.

His voice wakes you up from your thoughts, he is naked, the scars and healed burns everywhere on his body, one of his hands cups his engorged manhood while the other goes to the small piece of leather keeping his hair out of his face. He’s far more handsome than you could ever imagine.

“I thought I should turn around” again, the shyness in your voice, you hate it

“Let’s forget what your Septa told you. Lie down and spread your legs, I want to see all of you”.

Shame burns through you as you comply. How bad must he think of you when seeing your wet cunt on display, the symbol of your need for him. You close your eyes and miss his tongue wetting his lips, so much sweet nectar already and you have just kissed; his cock pulsates painfully at the thought of breaching your virgin cunt open and mold it to accept his cock and his cock only.

“Look at me” he commands and you can only follow his order.

His hunger scares you, the dark smile on his face, the way the lilac burns in his lonely eye give away how much he wants you and your body, the pain and pleasure he’ll bestow over you before the night is over.

Like a predator he stalks towards you on his hands and knees, until he is between you legs, his face over yours, his cock leaking right over your cunt. Your hand goes to his eye patch, your fingers curl around the strap

“Please Aemond?”

“You wouldn’t like it” he says, immediately self conscious

“I am as naked and defenseless as I’ll ever be, please husband”.

He sneers, for a second you are afraid you have angered him, that his words were all for show

“Your wish is my command, but remember that you asked for this”.

With a fluid movement he removes his crown to make space for the eye patch to be thrown away. You would have expected everything, but the sapphire nestled in his void orbit surprises you, it’s sparkling quality reflects the distorted image of the person you’ve become after saying ‘yes’ to him. Without thinking you lift yourself up and kiss the scar, soft, butterfly kisses spread on its entirety as Aemond trembles over you, your courage and affection a surprise for him.

When you lie back on the bed, his lonely eye holds a different quality, a feeling of warmth and care you’ve never seen there, he even looks like he’s going to cry.

“Aemond?”

You want to ask if he’s feeling good, you want to say how sorry you are, his voice stops you, the desire and pain clear

“Please my love, I need you. It hurts so much to keep myself under control”.

Your eyes travel to his cock, angry red in contrast to his fair skin, the veins prominent and fluid leaking from its head. You spread your legs even more for him, your cream forming the thin tendrils between your lips.

“Do what you need, husband, I don’t want to cause you any more pain. Bury yourself into me, I don’t care if it hurts”

“But I do, my love”.

Slowly he lowers his face to yours, his lips finding yours in a scorching kiss, his tongue entwined with yours, his cock slipping up and down your wet slit. You moan in the kiss, your legs instinctively curling around his hips, his hands spreading them open again. He travels downward, his mouth leaving kisses and hickeys everywhere on your body that will be hidden by your clothes, his tongue wickedly soothing were his teeth hurt you. Those beautiful white pearls worry your delicate nipples until you sob and beg for mercy, his lips sucking the pain away. You don’t know where he is going, you are conscious only of the trail of fire he leaves on your body, the way he makes you feel, out of control and wild, your hips crushed by his weight, or they would buck violently. When he finally arrives your pussy, you are leaking obscenely, your legs over his shoulders otherwise you’ll close them in shame, his eyes feasting on the spectacle that’s your hole clenching around nothing; soon enough it will clench around his tongue, and cock.

Despite the agony that’s his manhood, he kisses up your tights, his teeth leaving marks of ownership all over the soft skin, until he can spit on your cunt, adding to the mess there. You are already out of control, your hands curling on the cold metal of his crown and his silky hair, his tongue invading your hole has you holler, you are so sensible now, his nose the sweetest torture against your clitoris, his hands manacles on your thighs. He kisses you leisurely, torturing your delicate pearl until you explode on his face, his hips grounding painfully on the sheets. He needs to be inside of you, you are not ready and he is not going to come outside of you. He can hear your ragged breath, he knows he should grant you mercy, but he is running out of time and he eats you again, two fingers spreading your hole slowly, looking for that special place that will make you come. You beg him, you scream his name as he explores you, scissoring his fingers to open you up, his tongue everywhere until you come again and he doesn’t stop, a third finger breaches you and your ordeal continues, pleasure burning your body, your hands fruitlessly try to dislodge his face to no avail, each orgasm robs you of your strength, until you lie in a puddle of your own cum and his saliva.

He’s never seen anything more beautiful than you now, loose and ready, tears down your cheeks, eyes lost. Aemond fists his cock to spread the mess of combined comes all over his shaft: now you are ripe for him to take.

His long body covers yours and you look at him lost when you feel your legs being placed on his trim hips, his bulbous head entering your hole. He doesn’t stop when you moan and arch your back, his voice softly telling you that is better this way; you feel like he’s cutting you open, loose and wet as you are, you can feel his girth, every inch of it inside of you and you wail your discomfort until his hips touch yours and you’ve never felt this full in your entire life.

You are velvet, silk around his cock, your muscles trying to clench around his thick manhood, your fingers scratching down his back keep him routed, until he can’t control himself anymore and his hips start moving, slow and deep pushes that breach you open even more, your nerves firing with every movement, pleasure sparkling slowly throughout your body with each push. Your hips start following his, your feet planted on the sheets to help you move, help you reach this pleasure you know is just within your reach. You scream when Aemond changes his angle and start hitting a special place within your body, your cunt squeezing him brutally, his thumb on your clit until you come and he follows with a bellow of pleasure. You have no control over your body now, you can’t close your legs or stop the overflow of his seed out of your abused hole.

“Look at me, my love”.

His voice is fatigued and low, your eyes obey his command. He is kneeling between your legs, his chest rising and falling hastily, his spent cock is covered by both your fluids and specks of your virginal blood. Keeping the eye contact, he drags his index finger through the mess and sucks it; he continues until he’s cleaned himself up and you are burning with shame and need. He lies on the bed on his side, facing you, his arm curling around your tired body.

“A good man would clean you up and let you sleep, you did so good for me. I am no good man, though, I will have you again and again, until my hunger is seated”.

He makes good on his promise, taking you until you beg him softly to stop, that it hurts; even then he can’t stop being inside of you, his soft cock nestled into your hole. You wake up to his hips moving languorously against yours, his manhood hard inside of you and he makes you ride him, until the pleasure wins over the shame you feel.

When the servants come for the morning bath, he orders them away and carries you to the tub, where he washes you, his fingers slipping inside your sore hole until you come for him, again, his lips stealing your breathless moans of pleasure and pain.

He leaves you be for the day, in charge of organizing the furniture of your shared chambers. It takes you the whole day, he has so many books and you too many dresses (the Seven help you when all your belongings arrive to King’s Landing), that dinner time comes and you are barely done. You are organizing the quills and parchments on his desk, when he enters on swift feet; he takes advantage of you not noticing him, to reach you and hug you from behind. You scream in fear and he kisses the side of your neck, his voice softly telling you to calm down as his hands travel to your chest.

“Aemond - you beg - please I am still recuperating”

“I’ve left you to your own devices all day, you can’t be that sore - one hand bunches up your dress to get to your weeping hole - you are deliciously wet, my love and we have all these furniture to christen”.

Your hands grab the wood of the desk as his index slides inside of you. He is right, you are ready for him, again.

“Just, be gentle, please? I am so sore” you try to hide your face, to no avail, he wants to kiss you as his hands undress you both.

He has you on his desk, fast and hungry, books and quills shaking with every trust and then you ride him slowly on his sturdy chair, him moaning against your naked chest, leaving kisses and hickeys everywhere his lips can reach. He’s still inside of you when his hand follows the curve of your ass to your puckered hole.

“Aemond!” you squeal, trying to move your backside away from his hands

“You have two other holes for a reason - his voice is dark and smoky in your ears - if you’ll let me, I’ll make sure to show you how pleasurable their use can be”.

You moan, knowing that you will give in sooner or later.

On his knees he licks you clean, leaving your overused clit alone. The King on his knees for me, you think, everyone fear him and he is mine to command. An unknown rush of power travels through you, you shudder and it’s not for his ministration.

Aemond keeps you for himself for as long as he can, taking your body to the heights of pleasure, fucking you with a hand on your mouth as the Kingsguard relates messages to him outside your chambers, because your moans are only his and nothing is more important than filling you with his seed and giving you pleasure. It becomes a problem when the people at court start talking, whispering that maybe the King is ashamed of his consort, thus keeping you under lock and key, away from prying eyes. One unlucky lady says this within his reach, the first day you are with him in the Throne Room and he is fuming with rage, ready to have her tongue removed for her stupidity. You are the only reason she can leave court and King’s Landing whole, asking the King to show mercy; you are conscious of the way the courtesans stare at you, your own power naked to their eyes.

That very same night you are straddling his hips, his cock nestled flat between your drenched lips. On a whim you grab his throat, not tight enough to hurt, but you want to stake your claim; his eye widen and you can feel his cock jump between your folds.

“You said I command you here, my slave King. What would you do if I order you to make love to me slowly? Or to not touch me for the whole night?”

“I would do as you say” his whole body shudders and relaxes under yours, the crown askew on his head

“Make love to me my slave King, then, be tender with me” and he does, for hours.

You wake up later that night, the candles long consumed, the light of the full moon lightens the whole room. Aemond is hugging you, your face burrowed against his chest; you need to use the restroom, every time you try to move your husband tightens his arms around your body. You think about the interaction with that stupid lady, how Aemond had yielded to your prayers; maybe there still is a good man there, you weren’t just fooling yourself in order to accept his offer. He’s done nightmarish things during the Dance, who hadn’t though? Maybe, just maybe, he can change, with your help he can become a merciful ruler, show your people the same kindness he does you, even in the depths of passion, when he burns you with his desire. Maybe you will win this challenge, you hope as his arms curl like manacles around your tired body.

Aemond’s taglist: @phantoms-main-blog

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen

[iamthecomet]

Pretty Please, i need to hear more of your thoughts about the new guy & Mountain in the greenhouse. I am so weak for the thought of them not being able to wait until they get back to one their rooms. Maybe because the new ghouls is so nervous, he has a little feeling of wanting to "get it over with" & Mountain has been waiting for him to ask but trying not to make a move incase he spooks him 😭😭

Yes of course! Not quite headcanons, not quite a ficlet, about Aeon and Mountain's first time under the cut.

To be fair, Aeon and Mountain danced around each other for a while before the green house incident. Mountain didn't want to push Aeon into anything he wasn't ready for, and Aeon didn't know how to ask without making things awkward. He feels adrift a lot of the time. Like he's looking in through the window at the existing pack and trying to find a way to squeeze himself into it. They're all so close, they've been together for so long. It's not that they don't want him or include him. They do (most of them). It's just that there are so many inside jokes and casual touches that he hasn't figured out how to earn yet. He knows Aurora feels the same way--and that makes them gravitate around each other. Sleeping in the same bed most of the time, curling up with each other instead of the other pack members. So, he knows, that probably isn't helping his cause. The earth part of him is drawn to the gardens, the greenhouses, the forest. To Mountain. He feels an equal pull toward Aether--but Aether lets him in. Talks to him. Teaches him. They spend time together while Aeon tries to master his quintessence magic and learn Aether's guitar parts. Mountain is different. Quiet. Reserved. Communicating more often with touch and eye contact than actual words. Everyone else seems to be able to understand him. Like a secret language Aeon doesn't know but yearns to learn. Something about Mountain smells like home. So, he asks Mountain for help with his earth magic. It's always been weaker than quintessence. And he doesn't have plans to use it, shouldn't need to. But it gets him surrounded by the smell of fresh tomato vines. It gets him into the greenhouse, warm and humid and smelling like turned earth. It gets him close to Mountain. And Mountain is happy to indulge him. To teach him to use his magic gently, to coax flowers from their buds, to push roots deeper. To support life. It happens all at once. The building chemistry between them pulling taut one afternoon while Mountain is teaching Aeon about topside growing seasons and how he gets around them. Aeon doesn't plan it. Mountain just has a smear of dirt across his cheek. His freckles golden in the sunlight streaming through the glass walls of the greenhouse. He smiles fondly at Aeon and then Aeon is on him. Awkwardness be damned. Hands threading through the waves of Mountain's hair. Mouths slotting together in a kiss that tastes like fresh herbs and sunlight. They don't make it back inside because it just happens. Aeon sliding into Mountain's lap. Grinding down against him. And Mountain pulling him in. Holding him close. Dragging dirt dusted fingers over Aeons ribs, through his sparse happy trail, over pebbled nipples. And Aeon is responsive. Shuddering in Mountain's arms with each light tough, gasping into his mouth as Mountain drags a blunt nail over a nipple. And how is he supposed to wait now that he has him? Mountain lays back in the soft dirt--next time he'll let Aeon get dirty. But not yet, not the first time. He works Aeon open slowly, drags it out for as long as he can. Basking in the noises Aeon makes. In the way his body shudders and clenches. In how when Mountain makes him cum the first time Aeon bends down and digs his fangs into Mountain's collarbone as he spills across Mountain's stomach. They take it slow, decadent, lazy. Aeon grinds down on Mountain's cock, drives it into the spot inside of him that makes him twitch over and over. Mountain tries not to press bruises into Aeon's narrow hips and fails. Despite the locale, it feels like luxury, decadence. The sun has dipped to the edge of the horizon when they finally make it back inside. Mountain's hair, and Aeon's knees dusted with a fine layer of dirt. Aeon just barely catches the look Rain and Dew share when they catch sight of them--knowing. Like they've been there before. Mountain doesn't give him a chance to linger--to ask--before he's pulling him off toward his room for a bath, and another round.

#comet canons #comet writes #Mountain/Aeon #Mountain ghoul #Aeon ghoul #ghost fic #ghost fanfic #ghost fan fiction #ghoul thoughts #ghost headcanons

[ravenmichaelisstuff]

//TW: Very brief mention/allusion to non-con from Ghost comics. Description of getting hurt(?) I am bad at this

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

//CW: a bit NSFW, soft, little hurt/comfort, first time together, love making more than anything, like I am serious, I made it so fucking soft. Top!Soap& Bottom!Simon, probably OOC but who cares 💗

Just a brief idea

Let's paint a picture in your mind of Soap and Ghost coming back from a mission that turned out to be a total shit show. Exchanging no words, Soap just simply follows Ghost to his room.

When they both enter the very sparsely decorated room and Ghost locks the door behind them all the emotions they held during the mission are set free.

They almost lost each other. There was so many things they wanted to say- yet the silence was deafening. They both stood in the middle of the bedroom not sure how to proceed with all those feeling they had for one another.

Ghost couldn't rise his eyes from the floor, afraid that if he dared to look at Soap they would be back at that fucking warehouse they just came back from. Afraid that he will see the shrapnel Soap had barely dodged deep in his chest.

"Simon, ah thought-" The image of Ghost heaving for air in the burning warehouse flashed before his eyes. "God, I thought ah won't be able to take ye out of there..." He pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to push away the stinging in his eyes.

"The fuck you did that for?" Ghost still wasn't looking at Soap. His voice raspy and strangled. "I ordered you to get the fuck out." Ghost's fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his own skin.

"Is that even a question, Lt? You really think I would leave ye there?" Soap's voice was calm, maybe a bit hurt.

He steps closer to Ghost and slowly raised his hand to put it on Ghost's clothed chin. The touch was feather light as if not sure it was allowed.

Ghost shuddered and raised his head, his eyes meeting Soap's.

And that is when the Scot saw wet patches on the balaclava right under Simon's eyes.

He cupped Ghost's fave in his palms and brought his face lower so their foreheads and noses were brushing against each other.

"Oh, Simon..." Whispered Soap.

"You could have d-"

"But I didn't. We didn't." Soap grabbed Ghost's hand and put it over his heart. "See?It's still going."

They stood like that for a while before Soap felt some of the tension leave Ghost's body. He then put his hands on the hem of the mask, hooking his fingers under it just a bit.

"Can I?"

The lieutenant noded and Soap slowly pulled the mask off.

Ghost's hair was a sweaty mess and his cheeks were wet and smudged with black paint. Soap pressed his lips right under Simon's eyes.

Somewhere during the shower of kisses Soap was providing to Ghost, their eyes fluttered close.

When their lips finally met it was like the air was punched from their lungs and the only way to breathe again was getting closer.

Ghost wrapped his arms around Soap's neck as the shorter man put his hands on his waist. Slowly Johnny's hands started to wonder more- but only over clothes not daring to sneak his hands under Ghost's shirt.

But Ghost wanted this. First time in a long time he felt like what was happening to him was right. Maybe it felt a bit like it could be his true first time. First time he did it with someone he actually wanted.

With Johnny. Safe.

Yeah- he wanted it.

So he raised his arms to show Johnny that he wanted the shirt off. He took the hint and pulled the shirt off of him, brushing his ribs and belly with warm fingers.

Then Soap almost tore his own t-shirt off of himself.

Ghost let out an amused laugh when Soap's head got stuck in the material and after helping the other out- they both chuckle.

"Well that's a good start on my end."

"I don't think I expected more out of you, Johnny..."

Soap smirked and grabbed Ghost's hands. Slowly pulling him towards the bed.

"So you admit you already thought about it, huh?"

"Fuck off"

It was nice to see Simon like that, flushed from his face down to his chest.

It was even better to see him laid out on the bed under him, tips of his ears burning red. Mouth open and panting softly, letting out quiet moans and whimpers as Johnny was slowly burying himself between his legs. When he finally bottomed out he fell in Ghost's arms. Heart to heart they were giving each other time to adjust to the euphoric feeling flowing through their whole bodies.

Only when Ghost started slowly moving his hips did Soap move as well. They found a slow and deep rythm that quickly made Simon into a whiny and whimpering puddle.

Soap hiding his head in the crook of Ghost's neck and leaving red and wet marks from his collar bone to right behind his ear.

It didn't take long for the rythm to become uneven and erratic as they both came moaning each other's names like a prayer. Soap's back marked with red scratch marks.

When they came back from the high of it, Soap slowly pulled out and laid next to Simon, pulling him into a cuddle. He couldn't stop looking at Ghost's legs which were still a bit shaky from the orgasm.

They both smiled.

First time writing something longer like this I think. Still very new to writing nsfw, so I appreciate feedback ❤️❤️ love ya all!

#ghost soap #soapghost #ghostsoap #john soap mactavish #ghost x soap #cod #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #soap cod #soap mctavish #cod modern warfare #simon ‘ghost’ riley #ghost simon riley #simon riley x john mactavish #ghost mw2 #they need a hug #i am a inexperienced Ghost truther #soft ghost #soft soap

[nevesmose]

Perturabo was silent for a long time, his attention completely focused on the disassembled objects spread out before him.

"No, Fulgrim," he said eventually. "I am not fun at parties. Why do you ask?"

The Primarch of the III Legion smiled. "No reason in particular. I merely wondered if you'd like to take advantage of so many of the family being close by."

Fulgrim stepped away from Perturabo's worktable, elegantly avoiding the discarded parchments and empty grey plastek sprues littering the room.

"Goodnight then, brother. I shall leave you to your..." he paused briefly, for once unable to find the right word. "Figurines," he finished.

"They're miniatures," the Lord of Iron said bitterly. Fulgrim gave the briefest of shrugs and left the room.

Oh, Perturabo, he thought fondly as his brother's door slid closed. Don't ever change.

"I told you he'd say no," a rough, low voice called from further down the hallway. "If it was anyone but you he would've started throwing things."

"Very comforting, Ferrus." The two primarchs walked together for a few moments in a close, pleasant silence. With anyone else Fulgrim would have found the quiet oppressive, felt the need to speak, to act, to perform in some way.

It had never been like that with Ferrus, and in his introspective moments he treasured that quiet as something uniquely theirs.

"How goes the process of civilising our newest brother?" Ferrus asked.

Oh, Konrad, Fulgrim thought. Please change, even just a bit.

"He has been a challenge," Fulgrim admitted. "More so than I expected."

"Really?" Ferrus asked, amused. "I thought you relished a challenge."

"Not this one," Fulgrim answered. "Have you ever considered the logistics of bathing a fellow Primarch?"

"I could be persuaded," Ferrus said.

Fulgrim gave him a pointed look. "Not like that. I mean someone of our size and strength who adamantly refuses to even consider basic hygiene. And our father wants me to turn this... being into a capable leader of his own Legion."

Fulgrim sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"At the moment it's a miracle if he sleeps through the night without some kind of outburst. His latest development is wandering the corridors to scream at every mortal he sees about the exact time and nature of their deaths."

"You must be tired."

Fulgrim laughed bleakly. "Tired," he said, as if it were some arcane alien concept. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Come in, then." Seemingly without intending to, they'd arrived in the hallway outside Ferrus's chambers.

"The Gorgon of Medusa invites me to his quarters," Fulgrim said archly. "People will talk. What scurrilous rumours they might spread."

Ferrus shrugged. "Let them."

The room was cool, sparsely lit and, with the exception of Forgebreaker in pride of place on a wall rack, minimally furnished. The opposite of his own in every possible way, but at times like this Fulgrim found the contrast refreshing.

Ferrus flung himself down onto a primarch-scaled couch as Fulgrim's gaze was drawn to the incongruous sight of a rectangular open-topped frigerator unit containing ice and several glass vessels.

"And what might this be?"

"Oh, that," Ferrus said. "One of the latest archaeo-tech recreations based on analysing residues from ancient Terran artefacts. It's an alcoholic drink somehow brewed with crystals."

Fulgrim took a single delicate sip and wrinkled his nose slightly.

"Apparently it was extremely popular on old Earth, but only for a very short time before something else replaced it. Magnus would be able to tell you more."

"I imagine he would," Fulgrim said, turning his attention back to Ferrus. "But with the greatest of respect to the Primarch of the Fifteenth, I don't particularly care about Magnus just now."

For a long moment neither of them said anything. Then Ferrus slid back on the couch, legs parted, and patted a hand on the seat just in front of him.

"Come on, sit down."

Fulgrim quirked an eyebrow.

"Did I stutter, Phoenician? Sit down. You need to relax."

"If you insist," Fulgrim said. He moved to sit cross-legged in the space between Ferrus's legs. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned his full weight back against Ferrus.

"There you go," Ferrus said, starting to run his hands through Fulgrim's long hair. "You don't have to be perfect every single moment of the day."

"Perhaps," Fulgrim replied, closing his eyes. "But then what would I be instead?"

What is this called, he wondered, sudden and cold. What are we doing? The idea threatened to ruin everything if he dwelt on it. To ruin this, whatever it was that he and Ferrus had.

We're Primarchs, he thought. There isn't any existing human word or concept for what we are or choose to be, other than what we decide for ourselves. Like the first ancients naming the stars.

A single cool metal finger poked him gently in the back of the head. "You're thinking," Ferrus said. "I can tell."

"Congratulations. I knew if you saw other people do it you'd eventually start to recognise the signs," Fulgrim replied without any real malice, tilting his head back as Ferrus's hands resumed their movement through his hair.

He felt Ferrus's chest move behind him as he laughed. "You wound me, Fulgrim. I'll withdraw from society to weep and write poetry."

"Anything but your poetry, I beg of you," Fulgrim said quietly. "The galaxy isn't ready for that level of pain and suffering."

#AND THEN THEY FUCKED #it's primarch fluff and cuddles time #fulgrim is the kind of person you can just throw in a word or two here and there and let him talk for half an hour #ferrus “emotional support” manus #stroking someone's hair is genuinely one of the most intimate things you can do imho #trying to broaden my range by writing about nice things #you can have a few memes as a treat #CERVEZA CRISTAL #divider by @squishyowl #fulgrim x ferrus #fulgrim/ferrus #fulgrim #ferrus manus #wh40k #warhammer 40000 #horus heresy #warhammer 40k #wh30k #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #best way i can describe it is fulgrim is an ADVERBS person and ferrus is a STATEMENTS person #neves writes

[alexiswritingstuff]

A Man And His Guard. 1/2

Status: Completed.

Pairing: Gustavo Fring x male reader.

Other appearances: Mike Ehrmantraut.

Summary: During the rise of Gus’ paranoia, Mike hires you in an attempt to ease it. You work where he does, do everything he says and later even learn that you are to go home with him.

Neither of you knew what to expect of each other, but how does one Mr. Fring react when you will not stop making... comments. 

Warnings: flirting.

Always be aware that there might be spelling mistakes and such in my writing. I do read over them, but they can just slip under my radar sometimes.

A/N: I think this is the first time I am actually writing a male reader fic so I hope I do it justice. I am a male myself but I rarely use gendered terms with the reader anyway. 

Also I’m like terrible at flirting so if the readers lines aren’t great then... my bad ig.

This is a two part series, so begin waiting for the next edition to arrive!

I hope you enjoy!

More Gustavo fics.

It was around the time that Lalo Salamanca was presumed ‘not dead’ when you had gotten the job.

Their crew was sparse, most had been taken up at posts where they surveyed the other properties/places that Mr. Fring usually went to. So Mike reached out with an offer.

You knew him from work done in the past where you had acted as a guard for a person he wanted to meet, for a reason you had later learned, but that specific guy had a target on his back from a lot of local businesses.

For this job, like many others, you had no idea what you were getting into. And even if there was a proper brief, none of it would prepare you for what would actually come.

Gustavo Fring had been a name thrown around many times in your life. A very common thing when working in this particular field. 

But, seeing him right there in the flesh, on practically a daily basis at this point, was a thing that there wasn’t any words to describe. Because usually no one lived to even talked about it, or, obviously, they weren’t allowed to.

It was some time in the late hours of the afternoon, the liveliness of restaurant slowly reducing as time went by.

There were barely any customers occupying the booths or the neighbouring tables, and the new people coming in usually just wanted something for the road if they couldn’t be bothered to wait in the drive through.

You were moving amidst the dinning area, the long dust pan and brush in hand as you collected up stuff that had fallen during peoples meals, and swept across the beige tiles that felt increasingly bright in the sun.

The surroundings were still a bit noisy. People were chatting away, cars passed at almost every minute, there was muffled clatter from the other employees as they moved around kitchen equipment as they cooked.

It wasn’t that bad.

In fact, the only thing that you didn’t really like about ‘working’ in Los Pollos Hermanos was the need to wear its uniform.

Being a guard in this side of the business usually enforced the wearing of dark coloured clothes. It was a way to keep up a feeling of mystery, provide the impression that you were a person not to be messed with.

But there you were, stood in an obnoxiously bright yellow shirt which was paired with that damn red visor and a matching apron, to top it all off.

This might as well have been a punishment than a job.

After however long, you completed your round of the dinning area and ducked into the hallway beside the drinks machine, finding the place where you had initially picked up the dust pan and brush to return them.

And you did, a deep breath filling your lungs once the equipment was leaned back up against the wall.

It had been a long time since you had worked around a plethora of people and their own individual personalities, so coming to this work place almost felt jarring in comparison. People were properly polite. Gave smiles that were actually genuine. 

The clear of someone's throat emitted from somewhere to the left, and your head turned in that direction immediately, your feet soon following, “Mr. Fring.”

“Has the floor been cleaned?” The way he dressed for work was always so smart, though it kind of reminded you of SpongeBob, and it perfectly matched with a lot of things about him.

You gave him a simple nod, “Yes, it has.”

“There are still a few customers out there, so I’ll do the last round once they leave.” you then explained and turned yourself to face the doorway that lead to the main area, attempting to peer round it so that you could see into the dinning area again and the car park through the windows.

“Any signs?”

The words left you just blinking for a moment. You had thought by taking your leave from the conversation that it would bring on its end. But now you were looking back to the man who hadn’t moved a step.

Anyone else would’ve been confused at what he had meant by that question. but you knew instantly. And even if it was your job to check, it sort of made you feel bad that you had to.

“No one came.” you stated, plain and simple so that it wouldn’t display your pity, and Mr. Fring subtly took in a deep breath, his chin only slightly raising, “Good... Go clean the empty tables.”

Now was when he was about to walk away, probably to go back to his office to make calls as a way to further check if there was any new information, but when he watched your face crinkle up in what looked like distaste at the task he had just given you. 

He seemed to become a little distracted.

“Do I at least get paid more?”

Sure, Mr. Fring had a lot of encounters with many different people, each with their own separate way of approaching things, different ways of speaking. 

But no one had ever attempted to talk the way that you did. Especially when in direct contact.

It was a thing that could only make him stare, even glare, in an attempt to hide his surprise. But it wouldn’t shake you. In fact all you did was shrug, “Oh, well.” you breathed out, giving him one last glance before you moved to get the cleaning supplies.

“I guess if it’s for you then I’ll do it.”

~

You found yourself making your way through the many hallways of Los Pollos Hermanos. An amount that after a long day made the building feel like a maze, though the size wasn’t even comparable to one.

Soon, you had located the way to your bosses door, a deep breath sucking into your lungs before you raised your hand to knock against it. The sound was the only thing that filled the hallway.

“It’s Y/n. Y/n L/n, Sir.” you called quickly, realising that at this time he was always expecting to be in danger. A mysterious knock to his door wasn’t exactly going to help with that.

It took a good minute for there to be any kind of response, but after it sounded like an object had been set down, the muffled voice finally came through the gaps of the door. 

“Come in.”

Your hand grabbed at the handle, the cool metal almost shocking the warmth of your skin, before you twisted it until the door was pushable. “Hey,” you had began, ready to step into the new room. But that was quickly halted when your eyes fell on its contents. 

It was very dark compared to literally any other room in the building. The walls may have been a little darker already, but because of him relying on only the light from the sun and a lamp residing on his desk, it took you a moment to actually see anything.

You cleared your throat when your gaze landed on a waiting Mr. Fring, “Sorry to interrupt-- Lyle said that you wanted to see me earlier?” you explained and finally stepped into the room so that you could close the door behind you.

“I didn’t know I had made such an impact already.”

Mr. Frings eyebrows had twitched in a way that almost wasn’t visible. However, the rest of his face didn’t change, “When accepting the job, did Ehrmantraut explain what it would hold?”

Your shoes scraped the ground as you stopped yourself about a step away from his desk. Your back straightened as you took a moment to think, “He barely does when he has an offer.” you pointed out simply, though your tone changed when you next spoke. “Was I wrong?”

“Did he mention that you would be working for me... personally?”

In that moment, you had paused for about three seconds, even if it had felt like 10 minutes in your head, as a certain word rung through your ears over and over again.

“Personally, huh...” you repeated. It tasted sweet on your lips, your mind running very fast over any of the things that it could mean. “I guess I didn’t quite catch that part... But I like the sound of it.”

Through your now, slightly, dazed state, you had missed the way Mr. Fring had lowered his head just a tad. His lips were pressed together. His eyebrows begging to furrow though he wouldn’t let them, especially when you had spoke again.

“Am I supposed to go get you stuff? Run errands, drive you places-- That kind of thing?”

The man before you almost huffed a laugh. He dipped his head as he slowly pushed back his chair. “In the future, it is possible.” Mr. Fring was now stood up from his seat, his feet taking him round his desk in such a slow pace that it had your pulse raising. “But for now we are going to my home.”

He stopped in front of you, about two and a half steps away, with that strong gaze he always held. Though this time it most definitely felt different as your breath was close to hitching, “Now I really do like the sound of this.”

In about a second, Mr. Frings body had entirely stiffened.

It was unnoticeable to people who had just met him as he was usually quite a ridged person, the wind couldn’t even sway him. But to someone that knew him enough, it was clear as day.

The intimidation he had held on his face had faded as if it had just been wiped off with a cloth. It was almost like he had forgotten how to breathe.

Suddenly, before you could clock anything, Mr. Fring turned towards his desk like there should be someone waiting on the other side. It almost startled you. But soon, a hand of his reached across the surface of the table. 

“Mr. Fring?” you had questioned, any and all excitement now being swarmed by confusion. 

Just as you were about to move, try to catch the look on his face, his feet had began to twist until the rest of his body urged to follow.  And now, he stood, facing you once again. 

His eyes were aimed at what you could now see was some kind of sticky note folded in half, and then they flicked to yours. 

His chin raised until it was in level with your own and by the next time you had blinked, the note was held out in front of you. 

“Read it.” was all he said when you hadn’t taken it, and after just looking at him for a moment, you sucked in a quiet breath, retrieving the paper from between his fingers. 

By the time you had began unfolding it, Mr. Fring had turned once again, making his way back to his deskchair when your eyes landed on the word in black ink.

“Lakeview?” The chair squeaked beneath him as he sat, but besides that he didn’t even bother to look up. He simply grabbed a pen and dragged a clipboard in front of his eyes. 

“Am I allowed to ask, or is this going to be a game of hard to get?” The urge to smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth when the tip of his pen visibly stilled. Though, when Mr. Frings head slowly raised as if it was in slow motion, that feeling had stopped in a instant. 

His eyes were almost harsh when they met with yours, as if they could pierce right through your own. They never moved and as time passed, he hadn’t even blinked. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

It was a warning. He knew it, you knew it. 

So, guess his surprise when the only thing you had done in response was, once again, simply shrug your shoulders. 

His whole body froze like it had done before, though this time he hadn’t broken the eye contact. 

Every other person he had met, even ones that worked for him, crumbled under his gaze when someone had pressed his patience or authority. They would look away, forget how to speak, or quickly turn on their feet to do whatever he had asked. 

But not you. 

Your shoes were planted in the same place as before until you wanted them to move. 

“You know, I do like a good game, Mr. Fring.” It was so silent in that room that it was like you could physically see your words pierce through the air. A pin could drop and the sound could be heard as if it was played through a thousand speakers. “I think having an opponent like you is going to be great fun.” 

That was when you had officially turned on your heel. The smirk broke across your lips the moment you faced the door, and even more so when it had opened.

By the time you were back in the hallway, sifting the post-it back and forth between your fingers, the image of Mr. Frings expression was clear in your mind in a way that made it so hard to not laugh. 

His lips were parted. Every muscle in his face looked as if it had been frozen in time, tense. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

He almost lost the grip he had on his pen. 

~

You ended up back in the main area of the restaurant, your eyes being hit with a much dimmer colour this time as the sun began to hide.

All the tables had already been cleared earlier by you, and Mr. Fring when he couldn’t keep his mind occupied. The customers had gone home, hopefully pleased with their meals, which let an almost eerie silence hang in the air as the other employees had left too.

You moved through the rows of tables, searching for even the slightest speck of dirt or trail of crumbs that would set a certain man off if he saw. But there was nothing.

It had all been more than thoroughly cleaned.

So, you ended up by the table next to the entrance, a slight sigh huffing through your nose. Your body wound round the back of bench closest to the door, a hand reaching for the red blinds that covered the window.

Your fingers parted two of the slats, and you made yourself slightly lean over the bench so that you could get closer to the glass that lay beneath the blinds.

Upon first glance of the world outside, everything seen was slowly being engulfed by the black mass of night. One so deep that it had started to prevent the ability to see the horizon.

The only car in the parking lot was Mr. Frings, coloured in such a way that it would’ve been invisible in the evening light if it wasn’t for the reflections from the surrounding lamps.

There was no one in the car, no one outside of it, and no other vehicle stalking around, as the rest were just general cars that passed by on the main road, and that was now like every 10-15 minutes.

After making sure that there was complete satisfaction with the fact that there was not a singular person in the vicinity, you let the slats set back into the original places, stepping away from the window so you could make your way through the restaurant. 

Again.

The sigh that left your mouth this time was of relief when you opened the door, to what would be a supply closet for anyone else. There they were, sat in the neatest pile you could be bothered to put them in. Your clothes.

Pretty much the only item of your own that you got to keep during the day was your shoes, so when that sweet sweet fabric was in your hands, it was utter peace. Paradise. Like reuniting with a long lost lover.

Upon imagining how a person would look standing in the middle of a closet and practically cradling a set of clothes, however, you straightened yourself up into the usual guard posture, any remnants of excitement fading from your face.

And then you swivelled on your foot, leaving the closet like you had never even been in there.

By the time you had gotten to the front of the restaurant all over again, the clothing happily held in your hand, it seemed that a certain Mr. Fring had beat you to it.

There was no way to tell if he had disliked having to stand there waiting as his head was directed towards the window you had been look through before, his hands clasped behind his back that made him properly appear like a business man.

Or just an old man.

If you could see his face however, you thought that you would’ve seen that usual, intentionally, blank expression. A theory that was then proven to be true when you had stopped by his side. You cleared your throat, “I take it we’re going to yours now?”

His spine straightened in about a second when your voice found his ears. He had gotten lost, his gaze consumed by the endless possibilities of what waited for him outside the restaurant. 

But in the next second, by the next time he had breathed, his body twisted towards you like he had been standing like that the whole time. The previous vacant look that carried across his face was replaced by a smile, though his eyes had not changed.

And that was it. That was all you got.

Mr. Fring passed right by you without another word, his footsteps echoing around the unsettlingly empty room, before he made his way through the door with the exit sign shining above it.

When it had closed again, further encasing the restaurant in a strong silence, you had begun to blink, your brain at least attempting to process what had just happened.

However, the longer you stood there, the further away Mr. Fring became, and by now he was on the path between the rows of parking spaces. Getting closer and closer to his car.

You almost stumbled over your feet as you made your way over to the exit yourself. 

The door opened in a flash, engulfing your skin in the night air, and you were about to continue walking... Until you heard the jingle in your pocket. “Shit.”

There was a meeting that you had with Mike about a day prior. He gave a run down of the usual stuff that went down in Los Pollos Hermanos and, at least, the basic duties that the boss would have you do. 

You were given a set of keys, each for pretty much any place that Mr. Fring had access to himself. Now it seemed that he was testing your memory. 

After glancing back at Mr. Fring, you let out a hushed grunt, pulling the keys out of your pocket from under your apron, and then turned back to the door, locking it in a speed that should’ve gained you an award.

You swivelled round after doing a test pull on the handle and basically began jogging to catch the man who was now very close to that blue vehicle.

But just as the distance was beginning to shorten, a few things began piecing together.

The sudden change, the smile that he used on other employees, something that he hadn’t used on you all day until it was time to leave the safety of the restaurant. 

You understood that he would have to put on an act at some point, sure. Though apparently it hadn’t occurred to you what that would mean until now. 

He was the boss, and you were just some random guy who had a job in his business. 

That doesn’t exactly give the right to catch a ride with him, now did it?

“Uh, Mr. Fring?” 

The man himself had just placed a hand on the roof of his vehicle. His eyes were once again aimed into the distance, and it took about five seconds to get himself back as he then turned to you, the same smile taking over his lips, “Yes, Y/n?”

“I believe that I’m supposed to be getting picked up on something called Lakeview. Would you happen to know where that is?”

It wasn’t a name for a person, as you knew for a fact that if the man in front of you had a target of any kind he would just straight up say it, and it wasn’t going to be a place because Mike would’ve at least said something.

It was a pickup point. 

Mr. Frings chin slowly raised. And now, with the smile that took over his lips, his eyes seemed to crinkle with it, “Lakeview road?”

Your spine straightened, all the air coming into your lungs feeling like it was on hold, especially when you nodded your head as a commitment to your idea. 

Mr. Fring simply turned his head upon the confirmation, and he pointed towards the road on the other side of the main one, which was directly across from the proper entrance of Los Pollos Hermanos.

You squinted your eyes after following the direction, trying to see the road that was partially illuminated by a streetlight as your shoulders attempted to ease from the previous tension. 

And then you spotted it. A car parked beside the red fencing. 

It was one that you didn’t recognise, but still. 

You were right.

In order to keep the smug look off of your face, you lightly bowed your head when your attention went back to your boss. “Thank you, Sir.” you said and Mr. Fring simply copied your previous movement before finally opening his door.

“Have a good night.”

By the time his car had left the grounds of Los Pollos Hermanos, you had made it to the edge of the main road. You were stood on the concrete sidewalk, a streetlight towering over your head as you looked back and forth to gage where any oncoming traffic was.

You only had to do it once for each side, tonight apparently being a night where not many people were aiming to travel.

So on you went, now jogging across the two lanes until you got to the other side like that one chicken did. Your shoed feet were met with a mix of sand and stones this time as there was no sidewalk to even the ground.

And then there it was in front of you. 

A blue RAV4.

The driver must have sensed the new presence as within the next second, the door on their side had opened, a scene that had your feet slowing by the time the figure was out of the car. 

It was a woman. One you had seen in a picture when Mike showed members of the crew working for Mr. Fring. Mrs. Ryman? Her and her husband were the people ‘occupying’ the safe house. 

“Mr. L/n?” she questioned, and as soon as you gave her a nod of confirmation, she immediately proceeded to walk to the back of the car before any sort of question could fall from your lips.

She grabbed the handle on the left side of the door and pulled on it until it was open about half way so that your eyes could cast onto whatever was inside. You almost tilted your head like a dog. 

There, in the back of a damn car, laying on his side very uncomfortably, was none other than Mike Ehrmantraut himself. 

It all made sense.

It was late at night. Mr. Fring had now left Los Pollos Hermanos, meaning that if anyone was watching him, they would have followed his car to see where he was going next. 

None one was watching you.

The urge to laugh was fighting itself way up your throat, but you took a deep breath in through your nose and let yourself walk forward when Mrs. Ryman had turned to you expectantly.

“You didn’t have another one of those sandwiches today, did you?” A grunt followed your words as you practically shoved yourself into the trunk of this random car, and shifted until the left side of your body was fully pressing into Mike’s. 

The door was only just able to close again. 

The surroundings were plunged into darkness. A few beams of light managed to filtered through the gaps in the backseats and the trunk cover enough so that you could make out the face of the man before you as you dropped your pile of close on your lap.

“I see you worked it out.” 

Your body felt like it sunk into the walls of the car though it had barely moved, your hands raising to rub at the skin of your face either in disbelief or tiredness, “I will admit that I thought you were talking about an actual lake at first.”

Mike huffed a laugh at that, the two of you slightly rocking together when the car started backing up. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t try to find one.”

“Me too.”

Despite the fact that you were currently sat, cramped, in the back of a car. There was a feeling of comfort that had been kept from you throughout the day. Especially now that Mike was with you. 

He might’ve been a man that has killed multiple people, and is not afraid to do the same to more... but so are you. 

When you are on the right side, his right side, he’s just another old guy that you would see walking down the street, or sitting in a restaurant.

Being in this business meant needing to keep connections with certain people hidden so that they wouldn’t end up getting hurt as a result of someone trying to prove a point. 

He was the closest thing to family.

Mike let one of those deep breaths seep through his nose, and you swear it almost sounded like the huff of a dragon. His head leaned back into the wall behind him. “How’s Gus?”

Ah. The question you knew was bound to be asked soon.

You shuffled slightly even if it wouldn’t do much, more scared of accidently kicking Mike in the ribs than anything else now. “Obsessed with me.” 

The look Mike gave you was one that you could feel even if you couldn’t properly see it, and you tried not to smile as you fiddled with label of the shirt you held. The man most definitely rolled his eyes. “No, no... He’s obsessed with everything else to be honest.”

A sigh passed from your lips into the air inside the car. 

Your head shook, a mixture of emotions filtering through your body as your mind reminded itself of Mr. Frings previous behaviour. “He really wants him to just show up already, but... man, I don’t know. I’m not sure if he’s actually prepared for that.”

“Well. That’s why you’re there.”

You tried to fully sit upright, only getting about half way before you looked at Mike with narrowed eyes, “Yeah, about that-- You know, when you said that you needed my skills, I was thinking more along the lines of stakeouts or surveillance stuff, or like... having me fight someone at least.”

“I didn’t exactly prepare to become a janitor.”

The car was most definitely somewhere down the main road by now. Mike’s head remained where it was, not even bothering to tilt it in your direction when he next spoke as he simply closed his eyes instead. “Still part of the job.” 

You stifled a scoff, just watching the man when he attempted to cross his arms over his chest. “Gives you more acting lessons too.” Mike then added and you supressed the urge to kick him, more like nudge him, with your foot. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” It was your turn to roll your eyes.

“You’re still paying me more.”

~

The sky above was pitch black by the time of arrival on Jefferson Street. The quiet outside, the warmth of the car, and the general darkness worked together in a way that was the opposite for most people.

The distance between Los Pollos Hermanos and Mr. Frings house was far enough that if there was a kid sitting in one of the backseats they would be in a deep sleep.

But as an adult, you were wide awake. Especially when you felt the car begin to slow after a turn.

You attempted to prop yourself up from your slouched position, your eyes trying to find an angle where you could see out the window, despite the fact that it was very much impossible to do from inside a trunk.

“We’ll be out in a minute.” Mike assured, observing your many attempts at moving. You sunk back, mirroring his position when you hit into the wall of the car, “And how do you know that?”

As if on cue, the ride to the house seemed to have come to an end. The car stopped, again slightly jolting the two of you together. “We’re in the garage.” The monotonous edge to his voice was audible more than ever.

You could only blink for a moment as the muffled sound of someone getting out of the car echoed through what most definitely was a garage. “Jeez-- How many times have you had to do this?” you questioned, and it had Mike’s head shaking in a second, a grunt rumbling through his throat.

The door beside you finally opened, and though you had to squint due to the sudden light, you swung your legs to the side, eagerly pushing yourself out of the trunk.

“Oh, man.” you breathed out once on your own two feet, and moved to the side so that Mike could get himself up while you stretched your arms high above your head in a way that your spine needed very much. “Do we really have to do that every time?”

“It’s the safest way.” Mike insisted as he closed up the car and your head shook, “Seriously?” But he ignored you, starting to walk through the garage. “Follow me.”

Even after a ride like that it was immediately work time.

You wanted to complain until you couldn’t speak anymore, but nevertheless you complied and followed behind the man like a duckling does with its mother.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes flickered around the room when Mike opened the door to what was originally a living room, “Hey, Mike.” a man had called, and Ehrmantraut started to spark up a conversation. 

However, when your gaze landed on the desk that his friend was sat at, your brain seemed to tune it out.

There was about about seven different monitors on and working. Each screen displayed a shot from wherever the camera was placed. It varied from the entrance and exits of this house to what you assumed was Mr. Frings. 

But even then they seemed to changed at the click of a button to an entirely different location.

Maybe he was prepared.

“L/n.”

Your eyes snapped to the door way to find Mike stood about halfway through it. He tilted his head to the side and you began walking all over again when you realised what he meant.

So, now, he lead you through the hallways of the house. You nodded at anyone you passed, seemingly understanding the tired look on their faces though this was your first proper day.

Eventually you found yourself in the basement of the house, and while Mike continued through the room, your feet slowed on the platform before the last two steps, your eyes yet again being consumed by the new atmosphere.

This was where the couple stayed after doing their daily appearance out of the house, as the rest was swarmed by a bunch of dudes.

They had most of the stuff they need. They had cupboards, a kitchen area along the furthest wall, a clothing wrack. There was a king sized bed, and a table to your right where they could sit and do whatever they wanted if they weren’t upstairs at this time.

And though your mind practically begged you to continue looking around. A certain question sprung through your thoughts.

“Listen, I appreciate the fact that there are a lot of things you can’t tell me about this job,” you began, a hand placing down on the little railing, “But am allowed to ask why you have just lead me into a basement?”

Ehrmantraut was now stood in front of the big shelf that sat at the corner of the right wall. It extended to the ceiling but the width was about 4 columns worth. Your eyebrows were quick to furrow when he reached for one of the shelves.

Even more so when quiet beeps sounded from what only could be a keypad.

“Mike?” you had questioned, a mild laziness to your voice as your brain consumed itself with finding the source of noise. And then your feet finally moved, allowing you off of the platform, onto the carpet. 

But it seemed you had stopped as fast as you had started.

Your body almost jolted when a mechanical sound pierced through the air, and soon, Mike grabbed onto the middle divider with both hands, beginning to pull on it as hard as he could.

A rumbling rippled through the floor you stood on as the shelf scuffed against the carpet, and despite your disbelief, the mechanism disconnected from the first column of shelf.

It was opening like a natural door would. There was certain things on shelves that shook with the movement, though others appeared as if they had been glued down. Just there for decoration.

It wasn’t until the shelf door was turned as much as it could against it’s hinges that your eyes allowed you to focused on what lay beneath it. Your jaw almost dropped. 

It was a tunnel.

There was a goddamn tunnel that connected this house to the next.

“No way.”

Mike didn’t have to tell you twice when he signalling for you to follow him this time, and upon going through the doorway, turning into the passage, it almost gave you chills. 

But that was more due to the fact that the temperature was different than in the house.

The walls of the tunnel were a grey concrete. One rose higher than the other leading the ceiling to have to curve to meet with them both, and support beams, the same colour as the walls they were up against, were placed about two steps apart, the lights situated between them.

Not even a deep breath could ease the speed of your heart. In fact the closer the journey was to its end, the faster it went. 

So, when the back of, what you were assuming was, the same mechanism as in the previous house was now right in front of Mike, your shoulders fought to lower.

There was a combination of knocks that the man did against the smooth door. A sound that echoed through your ears over and over again the way ripples moved in water.

Mike took about a step back with a sniff when muffled beeps came through the, practically invisible, cracks of the door, and your body instinctively straightened like a soldier in front of their commander.

The door had opened.

There was no reasoning for the way you felt right then and there. 

You had met Mr. Fring earlier. You had seen him, you had spoken, exchanged even informal parts of conversation, and have stood beside each other on multiple occasions. 

So why, as you stared back at the man who was now revealed in one of his usual suits, was it like your lungs had forgotten their very function.

Mr. Fring gave Mike a nod to which the man did the same, and before you knew it, with a clear of his throat, Ehrmantraut turned on his feet, beginning to make his way back through the tunnel.

Your lips parted as you watched him go, though no words could even try to roll off of your tongue. The scuff of his shoes were the only thing to echo through the air, so when that familiar voice broke through, it had your head turning back within seconds. 

“L/n.”

His eyes were already on yours by the time you were back to your original stance. 

Your eyebrows were raised, a mixture of eagerness and excitement rumbling through your chest and ears when he tilted his head to the side. A gesture that Mike had used earlier to get you to follow him. “Come in.”

Just you and Mr. Fring.

“I’ll show you around.”

next 

#gustavo fring #gus fring #gustavo fring x reader #gustavo fring x male reader #gus fring x reader #better call saul #better call saul x reader #mike ehrmantraut #male reader #bcs

[lackablazeical]

Addams! AU Snippet 6: 'Freakshow'

FULL CREDIT TO WRITER NewFallenLeaves ON A03!!!!!! SHE MAKES KILLER ANGST AND FLUFF ALIKE, CHECK OUT ALL HER WORKS!!!! NOW!!!!! IF YOU LOVE OR CARE ABOUT ANYTHING, DO IT. NOW. BEFORE I GET U /J

As usual, art to add on! It was a 1 layer challenge I gave up on partway thru, mostly just cus I wanted to be done with it, lol! Greyscale is always so fun, tho!

Full snippet below the cut! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

---

“Hold still, you little scumsucker.” As the burly human patted Mikey down, he came up quickly with two small daggers tucked into Mikey’s belt, as well as the ones hidden in the holster at the small of his back. “Shit, kid, how many more knives have you got, huh? Cough ‘em up.”

“Well,” said Mikey, “There’s the whole family with Mr. Stabby, and Miss Gashy, and the Puncture Brothers, and Auntie Slicer, and–”

The pile of small blades was already over half-a-dozen strong, and the man still managed to find three more.

“Oh, no!” Mikey wailed as the last one hit the table. He twisted against the tight ropes that bound his wrists behind his back, “You’re going to take all of them?”

“We know who sent you, we’re not taking any chances.” Finally satisfied, the man hauled Mikey none-too-gently by the elbow and dragged him out of the covered wooden cart that served as the freak show’s ‘office.’

The small encampment was reminiscent of a traveling gypsy convoy, with colorfully painted covered wagons. Some were cages for “FEARSOME GRUESOME MUST-SEE MUTANTS” with bold-lettered signs and warnings to stay back. Others were smaller, with striped awnings and shelves of cheap merchandise or galleries of rigged carnival games, with “STEP RIGHT UP AND TAKE A CHANCE” invitations for any fool willing to throw away hard-earned coin.

The heavy-set human dragged Mikey toward one of the larger cage carts. “Gonna put you someplace where you’re too worried about stayin’ alive to think about running off or causin’ trouble.”

He stopped in front of the enclosure. It looked as sparse and uncomfortable as any of the other terrible accommodations in the traveling freakshow. Unadorned iron bars, no straw or hay strewn for the mutant held within. The guard shoved Mikey through and slammed the cell door behind him.

Mikey tumbled onto the grated metal floor, lying prone while he waited for the man’s footsteps to fade. As soon as everything was silent, he flipped upright. From the corner of the cage came a low, throaty growling, and the occupant of the cell rose to his feet.

Even hunched, the alligator mutant was massive. Four times Mikey’s size. Larger than Raph, even, and little else save teeth and muscle.

“Don’t be…alarmed.” Every word the alligator spoke was slow and deliberate. “I…won’t harm you.”

“I know!” said Mikey. “I made Donnie do research on everything before I came.”

“You…know?”

“Woulda been pretty stupid for me to run in here without knowing everything about this lame-o sideshow. Besides, getting details is easy. It was supposed to add to Mama’s Spectacle Spectacular, after all. She bought it. And it woulda been such a cool thing, too! Everybody loves her circus, she has all the nicest hotel rooms for her performers, and you get to eat at the buffet, and the bar is open all night, and–”

“You…don’t seem…concerned,” said the alligator. “Were you…not poached…like the rest of us?”

“Ha! Nobody could poach me if they tried. Know how much Donnie has to add to his tranq formula to knock me out? Betcha don’t, because it’s a lot. I have resistance.” With a quick roll of his hips and shoulders, Mikey twisted his bound hands from behind his back and hopped over them like a backward jump rope. “Boy, am I glad they put me in here, you’re my first choice, anyway.”

“For…what?”

“For helping, of course! These humans turned out to be a bunch of dirty, no-good, double-crosser, deal-breaker cheaters, and they took Mama’s money and tried to cut and run. So now Mama wants me to burn the whole thing to the ground! Isn’t that great?! Anyway, are you good with pulverizing all the stuff? Because Raph didn’t wanna come, he was busy watching the Mrs. Cuddles’ Puppets-in-Peril Halloween Specials marathon. So if you could go ahead and do all the smashing, that would be awesome.”

“…smashing?”

Instead of replying, Mikey stuck out his tongue as he reached for a spot on the back of his neck, just below the rim of his shell. He withdrew a short, narrow length of sharpened metal, and proceeded to cut through the ropes.

“You managed…to sneak in a weapon,” the alligator marveled.

“Pffft,” said Mikey. “He only took my knives. This is my shiv.”

With his hands free, Mikey took a moment to stretch like a dancer before a routine. Then he promptly flopped down into a sitting position, legs crisscrossed. He set the shiv down on the floor of the cage and began pulling random assorted items out from non-existent pockets in his clothing and lining them up. “I still got lots of good stuff, see? This is my bolo, and this is my garrote, and this is my ice pick, and this is my can opener, and this is my bookend, and this is my cherry pitter, and this is my…”

The alligator watched as Mikey continued unabated. He blinked slowly at each new addition to the stockpile, his face becoming more and more skeptical as the items became less and less…perilous. When Mikey placed a penny down, he finally spoke.

“What…exactly…do you intend to accomplish…with a coin?”

“Ooooo, goody, I’m glad you noticed, I like this one.” Mikey flipped the penny with his thumb and caught it between his fingers. When he held it up to the light, the sharpened edge all around its circumference gleamed. “We’ll use it first!”

He tugged loose a lacing from the knee of his pants and looped it around the penny. Then he stood, approached the bars of the cage, took a deep breath…and began shrieking.

“HELP HELP MISTER JAILER GUY, I’M SCARED I DON’T WANNA GET EATEN BY AN ALLIGATOR!” Mikey twisted and rammed his shell against the bars to make even more noise. The camp echoed with resounding, repeated clang-clang-clang. “LEMME OUT LEMME OUT LEMME OUT OH PLEASE OH PLEASE!”

Several of the freakshow guards were on ‘patrol,’ roaming the perimeter of the camp. One who was nearby didn’t exactly come running, but he did seem annoyed and stepped quickly in the direction of the cage. “Shut up, kid. The more you screech the faster that freaking monster’s gonna chomp on you, just to get the goddamn noise to sto–”

The guard’s yells pitched up into a howl as a razor-edged penny, launched like a slingshot, lodged in his eye.

“What’s wrong?! What’s wrong?!” a fellow guard hurried up to assist him.

Mikey grinned as he picked up another weapon from his cache, aimed it between the bars, and punched a button.

Two metal barbs pierced the second man’s chest and an electrical current lit up his entire frame with sparks. He collapsed to the ground, convulsing.

“That’s my taser,” Mikey said. He reached through the bars and fished a keyring out of the guard’s pocket and quickly released the lock. He jumped onto the cage door and rode it as it swung open, dropping the taser in the dirt beside the unfortunate human, current still running.

“Come on, mister—ah–” Mikey craned his neck to look at the advertisement emblazoned across the top of the cage, “--Lethal Leatherhead! Smashy-smash, while I torch everything!”

Tentatively, Leatherhead stepped out of his enclosure. “You wish…to burn everything? With what…?”

But Mikey had already withdrawn a liquid-filled bottle from some hidden pocket in his coat. He drew a long, silken scarf from his glove by sleight of hand, flicked it to catch the flame on the tail of his mask, and then stuffed the burning wick into the neck of the bottle. “Molotov cocktail!”

He flung the bottle through the window of the largest wagon. The resulting explosion blew out the remaining glass, and Mikey dashed forward to intercept as guards raced to escape the inferno.

“What the hell is going o–”

“Machete!”

The man who had unluckily blundered closest to him gurgled, the handle blooming from his throat.

“Clothespins!”

Another guard screeched and flailed as two small wooden clips were driven into his eyes.

“Lanyard!”

Strangled gagging.

“Teacup!”

Wailing.

Leatherhead watched from the open door of his enclosure as Mikey continued his spree, shrieking the name of every item he produced and laughing maniacally as he dashed from one victim to the next.

A rhinoceros mutant in the cage next to his leaned towards the bars. “Friend of yours?”

“If it will convince him…to not jam a small kitchen tool down my throat…” Leatherhead ripped apart the hinges on the rhino mutant’s cage, “...then I will readily be his friend.”

The screech of “Rice paddle!” and a subsequent choking sound echoed across the grounds. Both mutants cringed.

“...rice paddle. Sure.” The rhino tagged along after Leatherhead as he moved to next cage. As that door bashed open, a warthog mutant jumped free and clasped hands with the rhino. They jostled briefly before turning to flee into the night. “Good luck with your crazy friend.”

“Bottlecap!” Mikey cackled from somewhere across the camp. “Stapler!”

Wet, squelching thumps and more screams.

A gangly mutant with mantis-like arms lounged near the door of his enclosure, watching Leatherhead expectantly. “That kiddo yous got over there has the right idea, I say,” he drawled.

Leatherhead nodded. “Fist,” he said. And punched the cage.

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