#rip laws peace and quiet

[rubctosis]

                          @stormcried 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗗 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 PLOTTED 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗥 !

The early morning sun cast a warm glow on the bustling port, The Heart Pirates' submarine, the Polar Tang, bobbed gently in the harbor the bustling port of an island. Ships of various sizes bobbed in the azure waters, while traders haggled on the docks, their voices blending with the distant cries of seagulls. Law, stern as ever, made his way toward the vessel, his long coat billowing in the sea breeze. his expression belying the exhaustion that tugged at the edges of his features as he surveyed the port with a clinical eye, ensuring everything was in order for his departure. The crew, moved swiftly to load the last of the supplies and prepare for the next leg of their journey. At the moments notice, the crew had finished and boarded the submarine, ready to slip beneath the waves. the Polar Tang, glided smoothly beneath the surface, leaving the bustling port behind -  the sea gradually swallowing  the vessel - submerging into its inky depths , the portholes turned inky black, revealing the mysterious world beneath the waves.  Law, allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation as the they navigated through the ocean currents. Law ventured further into the metallic interior of the submarine,  The dim lights flickered above, casting an eerie glow on the walls. The surgeon  strolled through the narrow corridors of his vessel, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans,  passing cabins and storage rooms and his medical bay.  Inside the dimly lit control room, members of the heart pirates monitored the instruments, ensuring a smooth departure, His eyes scanned the displays and buttons - The low hum of machinery filled the air, and the soft blue glow of monitors illuminated his serious expression. as he prepared to set a course for their next destination. Law, lost in thought, walked through the narrow metallic corridors once more to reach his cabin, each step echoing with a metallic thud as he passed by crates. when he passed by he noticed a dark shape hidden there and turned away before stopping in his tracks, the figure making him do a double take.

   ❝   What the . . . .   ❞ ━━━━  his brow furrowed in mild confusion when he realized some kid had snuck into his submarine without his knowledge.   ❝   oi! who the hell are you??  how did you get inside?! ❞

#stormcried #✦．¦ ❝Violent and cruel but a good heart and kind hands ❞ ╱ ⠀ ic. ⠀ ❫ #ngl i laughed #rip laws peace and quiet

[wintaerbaer]

seven storms (jjk) (m)

summary: As a young woman of considerable wealth, it has always been your father's expectation that you would marry one of the local aristocrats once you came of age. Your family's stable hand? Certainly not an option.

pairing: Jungkook x Reader

rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

genres: forbidden love, angst, a bit of fluff, also a bit of smut

word count: 9.0k

warnings: ambiguous time periods, oc’s mom passed away when she was a child, parental strain and turbulent relationships, it’s not explicitly stated but bang sihyuk is oc’s dad, find the ‘seven’ reference, BRIEF SMUT (in the form of missionary, cowgirl, and implied unprotected, which you should not do)

a/n: this one is for the obs discord server, who came up with this plot and then flattered me until i agreed to write it lol

MASTERLIST // Read on ao3

It begins with a clap of thunder.

The dark clouds had rolled in quickly during your morning ride, the rain holding off on its looming descent even as the wind picks up and throws strands of hair across your face. You try to cling to every minute you have left before the downpour, savoring your alone time and the peaceful quiet of the morning. It may even be worth getting a little wet, you think as you watch the new stable hand effortlessly sling a bay of hale over his shoulder, for the chance to savor every moment of your daily ritual before the weather inevitably forces you back inside.

You love the simple pleasures of fresh air and the soft rustle of the grass.

Jungkook glances at you from afar as he continues his work, and even at this range, you can see his muscles shifting under the fabric of his shirt. It’s been roughly a month since your father hired him to tend the stable on your family’s estate, and while he hasn’t been unpleasant, giving you a friendly but silent nod each day as you prepare for your ride, he’s mostly kept his distance.

Today, however, is a different story entirely as a boom sounds out above your head. Your horse, a young stallion named Bam who is still being broken, startles at the noise and begins to nervously pace, tamping down the dirt under his hooves. The reins wrap tighter around your fingers as you attempt to take firmer control, but when a second crack emanates through the sky, the horse begins to buck in an attempt to throw you off.

The laws of physics cease to exist, time simultaneously speeding up and slowing down as you work to maintain your balance, clenching your muscles around the horse's back. A particularly violent whip of his head rips the reins free, and all you can do is try to flatten yourself to his back and hold on for dear life.

A pair of unfamiliar hands shoots into your peripheral vision, stroking firmly at the stallion's head and neck until he's easing back down, his erratic motions steadying until you can safely sit back up and face your rescuer.

"Are you alright?" His eyes scan your body for injury, moving from your face all the way down to your toes and back up.

You use the time to perform your own appraisal. The first thing you notice is that while he had immediately struck you as handsome when you first saw him around the property, he’s even more attractive up close: all soft eyes, perfect lips, and a tiny scar on his cheek that only adds to his allure. Add to that strong arms, broad shoulders, and a section of clearly-chiseled chest peeking out of his shirt, and you have to admit to yourself that you’re already halfway gone.

“Y/N?” His eyebrows dip as he frowns, clearly suspecting some kind of head injury as a result of your silence.

“You know my name.”

His expression turns quizzical at your bizarre answer. “I work for you. Of course I know your name.”

“You work for my father.”

“And you by extension.”

Your spine stiffens with rebellion. “I have no interest in bossing men around.”

“Why not?” He taps his knuckles on the saddle. “I see you come out to ride every morning. I could certainly tack up a horse for you in advance.”

“Because I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

His perfect lips curl at the edges. “I don’t doubt that.”

Your heart stutters a rhythm behind your ribcage, voice muted by the appearance of a dimple that dips into his left cheek. It’s not often you find yourself speechless, and the sheer unfamiliarity of it has you on the brink of a flight response; you begin to gently guide your horse back towards the stable, Jungkook walking at your side. To your surprise, he doesn’t stay quiet.

“So how long have you been riding?”

You peek down at him, but he’s not looking at you as he scratches the stallion under his muzzle. “Since I was five,” you say. “My father arranged for private instruction after my mother died. Thought I could use the distraction.”

You figured he already knew about your mother’s passing due to her absence from the estate, and his unfazed expression seems to confirm as much. Still, in a gentle voice he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t make her sick.” Another low rumble echoes through the sky, but Jungkook is prepared, already smoothing his hand over the Bam’s neck again. “What about you? How long have you worked with horses?”

He chuckles, and your belly warms. “Since before I could walk. I grew up on a ranch. Have probably spent more time around horses than people—not that I’m complaining.” A shrug pulls his shirt tight across his bulging shoulders. “Animals are better company, in my opinion.”

“You say while striking up conversation with a stranger.”

Pink blooms on his cheeks, but, to his credit, he recovers quickly. “Beautiful women are the exception.”

Heat rises to your own face, and you choose to ignore his comment as much as it has butterflies taking off behind your bellybutton. “I understand what you mean though. That’s why I’m out here every day.”

“You like the outdoors?”

“Very much,” you say. “The smell of the wind, the feeling of the sunshine on my skin and the earth under my shoes. I like to ride down to the sunflower fields and watch how they turn themselves towards the light. There’s a strange sense of kinship there.” You’re not sure what drives you to share all this with a man you’ve just met, but the way he nods along as if he agrees sets your heart at ease. “And the horses are, in fact, good company.”

He laughs again, tipping his head back to look at you. His dark hair brushes his forehead, jaw cutting so sharp a line that the temptation immediately hits to trace it with either your fingers or lips—you’re not sure which. You don’t even care if you’ll bleed.

It strikes you at that moment that you’re in a world of trouble.

The skies open up, the rain instantly pouring down in fat drops as you briskly rush your horse the rest of the way into the stable, Jungkook hot on your heels. You dismount once you’re inside and begin to untack the stallion, moving the reins up and over so you can remove the bridle first. Jungkook quickly steps in to help unhitch the saddle, and while you’d normally be inclined to make a fuss about how you can handle your own gear, you find that you much enjoy his quiet companionship. You like watching the way his gentle hands artfully work to simultaneously manage the equipment and relax the horse, giving the sense that he’s offering assistance only because he loves his work and not to patronize you as a woman (you’ve seen one too many men try to step in because they believe you to be incompetent).

Once Bam has been settled into his stall, you turn back to your companion and are met with big brown eyes already gazing at you, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Thank you for your help today,” you say. “I may be an experienced rider, but that also means I know enough to understand that you likely saved me from an injury earlier. So thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He looks suddenly subdued, nervous now without the horse as a buffer. “And if I may be forward, I hope I made a good first impression. I wouldn’t want a beautiful woman like yourself to think I overstepped.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned beautiful women now. You speak with them a lot?”

“Not recently,” he says, dimple making another appearance. “Only one.” His voice drops a decibel, flirtation giving way to sincerity. “But truly, I do just like to help. I am sure you are perfectly capable, but just because we can do something doesn’t mean we always need to do it alone. If I can help ease a burden, then I would like to do so.”

Warmth floods through you like the rain currently running off the roof, and before you can even think about it any further, you find yourself nodding. “Very well.”

The smile he gives you brightens your day more than a hundred miles of sunflower fields ever could.

“I won’t keep you then.” He begins walking backwards towards the troughs where most of the horses have currently congregated. “But I do very much look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

You do, too. And when you show up to the stable the next morning (and the next, and the next), you already have a horse saddled up for you, a single sunflower resting on the seat.

Raindrops clatter in endless sheets off the metal roof of the stable, the ringing sound blending with the blasts of thunder and lightning overhead to mask your groans as Jungkook steadily thrusts into you.

It’s been three months since your flirtation culminated in you asking him to join you for a ride one morning.

Three months since he accompanied you down to the sunflower fields, pulled you into their depths, and kissed you like his life depended on it.

Three months since the rain became your closest friend, providing you the cover you need for your more intimate moments—such as this evening when you’d arrived at the stables to find him laying down a fresh layer of straw, the flex of his arm insisting that you needed him now.

The patter of the rain ensures his moans are for your ears and your ears alone.

“Do you think the horses mind?” he mumbles into the sensitive skin of your neck as he presses even deeper into you and steals your breath, his hands cupping your ass as he grinds his hips.

“I doubt it,” you gasp, digging your nails into his back. “They’ve kept secrets for me before.”

He laughs, and you relish in the feel of the vibration of his chest pressed to yours, as if the sound is being passed directly from his lungs to your heart. “Am I your secret then?”

“My favorite secret.”

He pulls back to look at you then with wide eyes. You don’t know when it happened, when he became the absolute center of your universe, but you also know that you’ve never been this happy in your life, never felt as whole as you do with him. So you stare at him right back, absorb every angle of his face as he brushes the hair away from your eyes and kisses you with an unusual delicacy in comparison to the rough pace of his hips.

“I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, but your blood heats as if the words are brand new.

He rises up above you then, leans back so he can bend your knees to your chest and pound into you in earnest, and you’d swear the roof has disappeared and you can see every star in the sky. Galaxies swirl, planets align, and it’s not long before you’re falling over the edge and he’s following you with a deep groan—a harmony to the thunder that surrounds you.

The two of you collapse into a heap, and he pulls you into his side, your cheek pressed to his still-heaving chest. It’s serene, the consonance of his breathing alongside the tapping of the rain and the occasional snuffle from the horses.

“So, the horses are keeping secrets for you, huh?” It’s a quiet question, vulnerable as he gazes at you with tender devotion. The same stars you saw minutes ago twirl in his eyes. “Can I be told one?”

“Are you a horse?”

A breath of a laugh: “Well you’ve certainly ridden me before.”

He has a point there.

You hum to yourself as you think before asking, “What is your dream?”

“What does that have to do with—“

“Answer mine, and I’ll answer yours.”

Calloused fingers trace patterns on your hip, a faraway look taking over his expression as he envisions some distant future. “To own my own farm,” he says. “I want to be my own boss. No more having to serve others.” A smile dances at the corners of his mouth. “And I’d be able to provide for my family—have a few kids and teach them the ropes, just like my dad did with me.”

Your brow dips in confusion. “You won’t inherit your father’s farm?”

“No, it’ll go to my older brother.” He squeezes your hip on a sigh. “If I want my own farm, it’s up to me to earn it.”

“You’ll do it,” you say, and you believe it with every fiber of your heart. “I know you will. You’re the hardest working man I’ve ever met.”

It’s not a lie by any stretch. You’ve spent plenty an afternoon telling your father that you’re going to read out on the veranda as it gives you an inconspicuous way to watch Jungkook work. He’s diligent, tireless, and you’ve often used the need to bring him water as an excuse to go down and spend time with him, seeing the sweat drip off his forehead as he single-handedly trains and cares for the horses.

His eyes become glassy, a gruff clearing of his throat as he pushes the tears back and grazes his lips over yours in a gentle kiss instead. “Thank you.” But before you can deepen the kiss and distract him, he shifts ever so slightly away, a glint in his eye. “Now you.”

You puff a sigh into his chest—bold of you to think you’d be able to sneak one past such an observant stare. Still, your secrets don’t usually come forth easily, buried deep within the cavity of your ribcage so even you don’t have to dwell on them too long.

Something about those doe eyes, though, render you ever vulnerable.

“Mine is similar to yours. I want to be my own boss.”

His brows pull together. “No one would expect a lady like you to work.”

“Not for a job, for my life,” you say, irritation forcing the words from your lips now. “I don’t want my father to dictate the path my life takes. I want to choose it, whatever it is, for myself. To be in charge of my own fate.”

Jungkook is quiet for a long moment, teeth dipping into his lower lip as he considers your words. It’s something else you’ve grown to love about him, the way he stops and thinks before he reacts. So unlike your father who has always been nothing but big emotions and snap judgments.

“What would you choose?” is the question he eventually comes out with, and the pads of his fingers trace the jut of your hipbone like he’s memorizing it.

Well that’s another matter entirely. “I don’t know. Just not what my father wants for me.”

“And what would that be?”

“To marry one of the rich dandies in town,” you blurt, and his hands still. “That’s always been the expectation that’s been set since I was a girl—that my family would arrange a suitable match for me.” You’re practically spitting now, anger simmering through you. “Suitable, of course, meaning wealthy.”

“Is that so bad?” He asks it quietly, insecurity poorly masked in the way his voice trembles ever so slightly. “Some people would do almost anything to be in your position.”

You scoff. “There’s more to life than money.”

“Like what?”

“Fresh air, sunshine, the smell of the morning dew.” You tap his chest with everything you list off, as if they’re all housed within the framework of his torso. “The sound of the rain bouncing off windows, the bright yellow of sunflowers after their first bloom, watching a foal get its legs under it for the first time. Love.” You press your hand to his heart with that one, feeling the strong beat of it under your palm. “That’s the greatest thing.”

He snags your fingers, bringing them to his lips and kissing each one in succession before his hand slips into your hair so he can join his mouth with yours. The kiss is slow, thorough, his tongue trailing along your lower lip with determination as he drags you across his body until you’re straddling him.

“You’re right about that,” he murmurs before gripping your waist tightly so he can push back into you, the rain pouring on and on.

“No!”

Your father stands up so suddenly that his chair topples over with a crash, Jungkook sitting across from him wearing a look of even-keeled surprise; his eyes widen a fraction, but his overall posture remains resolved and confident.

“You dare have the audacity to even ask—“ He chokes on his words, spit flying from the edges of his lips, before pointing a finger towards where you stand stunned in the corner. “And you! You’ve been fraternizing with this riffraff? After everything I’ve taught you? Everything I did to raise you? You go and choose to associate with this—this—“ You’re worried his eyes might fall out of his head with the way they bulge as he grasps for a word, vein in his neck visibly thumping as he finds it. “Lowlife!”

“You’re wrong!” you scream as Jungkook continues to sit quietly at the dinner table. You’ll be damned if you’d just stand by and allow him to be spoken about in that way. “He’s an incredible man. He works hard, he’s respectful, and he loves me, Father. Not because of my money, but because I’m me.” Your steps echo off of the tall, looming arches of the ceiling as you move closer to Jungkook. “And I love him.”

“No, no, absolutely not. You’re only twenty years old. You don’t even know what love is,” your father barks before turning his beady eyes on Jungkook again. “You’ll never marry my daughter. You do not have my permission nor my blessing. That’s final.”

“Father—“

“You’re also fired,” he spits. “You can say goodbye and that’s the end of it. I want you off my property.” Then he’s storming out of the dining room, leaving you and Jungkook in heavy silence.

It’s only a handful of seconds before Jungkook is rising to his feet and striding from the room and out the front door, you hot on his heels. The steady drizzle soaks your clothes in a matter of moments, but you don’t even feel the way they cling to your skin, focused solely on the man in front of you.

“Jungkook!” you call, but he doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn to face you until you manage to grab ahold of his hand and tug.

You thought he’d be distressed, angry, perhaps even crying. Instead, you’re met with intensity, a fierce determination simmering under the warm brown of his irises as his gaze bores into yours and almost has you faltering.

“Jungkook, I…” You wring your hands in front of you, watch the rain run in rivulets off the ends of his hair. “We can make it through this. I can convince him—“

“You can’t.”

You huff in frustration. “Then we’ll run away together! I’ll come with you and we’ll—“

“No, Y/N.” He stills the frantic movements of your hands with his own, drawing you towards the warmth of his body until you’re nearly chest-to-chest. “I have no savings right now, no way to support the two of us. We’d be out on the street in a matter of days.” He shakes his head, brushes a kiss to your knuckles. “No. You need to stay here for now. But this isn’t the end of us, I swear to you. I am going to work myself to the bone—until I have nothing left to give. Until I can buy my own farm, my own house, and give you everything you need.” Your foreheads press together, drops of water clinging to his lips and drawing your eye as he speaks. “I will provide for you someday, love you to the best of my ability. Just give me time.”

The heavens open above you, the relentless downpour backed by the cacophony of the skies as you finally move to kiss him. He tastes of rainwater and sweat, the fragrant aroma of sunflowers and nights spent tangled together in the stables. You savor the feel of his lips against yours, commit to memory the way his tongue begs for entrance, the way you grant it with a groan that feels like both a prayer and a curse.

With a final, resounding crack, he’s pulling away as you cling to the rough skin of his fingertips until the very last fraction of a second, arms stretched to their absolute limit. And when he turns his back on you, shirt plastered to his skin, you’d swear you can hear the horses raging in the stable, the rumble of hooves and agitated whinnies ringing in your ears long after he’s disappeared from view.

The first letter comes on a Wednesday roughly six week later, written on carefully folded parchment paper in small, neat handwriting. It surprises you, coming from a man who spends all day tending horses and tossing around hay bales. You receive the letter from the carrier quietly, rushing it up to your room and waiting to read until the concealment of night has fallen and you’re confident your father has gone to bed.

My Love,

I must admit that I am not quite sure how long it has been since I last saw you. Perhaps only a handful of weeks, surely, but every hour, minute, and second has felt like an eternity. I miss you, sweetheart. I miss the sound of your laugh. I miss the way you’d look each morning, strolling down from the house with a bounce in your step and the early sunshine bouncing off of your hair. Or perhaps you are just that radiant. I would believe it, you know, that light emits from your very smile, and I know I feel warmer whenever I am around you.

Look at me; look at the man you've turned me into. I've always considered myself a simple being, glad to indulge in the dirt and physical labors of the outdoors, and yet you have me waxing poetic like one of the men in those romance novels you would always pretend to read on the veranda. (Yes, my dear, I noticed. Your stares are not so subtle.) I am lovesick, homesick, and it’s all because of you. Because my life truly began the day I looked up and saw Bam struggling with you on his back and just knew I had to help you (tell that dear beast that I miss him by the way).

Now, I must live my life forlorn, but not without purpose. Please know that I am doing everything in my power to get back to you, and I will not rest until I am holding you in my arms again. I have secured a job at a ranch several towns over; it’s good work with decent pay, and every cent that does not go towards the barest necessities is being saved for us. One day, my love. One day we will have a house and a farm, and I will be able to love you openly, with no need for secrets or the cover of rain.

In the meantime, just know how terribly I miss you, and though we are separated by distance, I hold you in my heart each day. On my way each morning from my lodgings to the ranch, I pass by a field of sunflowers. I know it cannot possibly be true, but it feels like every golden face turns towards me as I go, and darling, I’d swear I see you in every one.

One day, my love.

Until then, always yours,

J.K.

It becomes something of a ritual: while you used to spend your days out on the veranda pretending to read so that you could watch Jungkook from afar, you now settle on the front porch with a book each afternoon in the hopes of catching the local mail carrier. Jungkook’s letters come slowly but consistently every couple of weeks, and each time a letter does arrive, you spend the night drafting your own by candlelight to send back to him.

He tells you about his new job, how he’s working on a larger farm now with several other laborers. The veterans are kind to him and teaching him a lot, he says, and it eases the ache in your heart a fraction to know that he seems happy where he is and well taken care of. You write back about your favorite books that you’ve been reading and how the horses have been (you insist that you can tell Bam misses Jungkook too). But both of your letters are saturated with sentiments of love and how dearly you miss each other, reminding yourselves that every day that passes is one day closer to you two being reunited, whenever that may be.

Your father, meanwhile, proceeds as if Jungkook never existed, hiring a new stable hand who begins his work mere days after Jungkook has left. This man is middle aged, gray already streaking through his hair, and you can’t help but feel it’s a deliberate choice on your father’s part lest you fall for another lowly laborer. And though you know it is not his fault, you barely speak with the man outside of a few curt pleasantries when you go for your ride each morning.

You persist in your morning rides out of habit, but you find that they don’t bring you the same kind of joy that they used to. The grass isn’t quite as green, the air is often stifling, and the sunflowers droop where they used to stand tall against the blue skies. On one day, roughly six months after Jungkook’s firing, you’re once again forced back inside early due to rain, the storm dampening your already dreary mood. It takes a turn for the worst when you hear your father call your name the moment you step in the door and plummets entirely off a cliff when you trudge into the dining room to see a man sitting at the table.

Seokjin is not entirely unfamiliar to you—your families run in the same circles after all—but he is ultimately little more than a stranger, the two of you having only exchanged a handful of polite words at dinner parties and the like. All that you truly know of him is that he is the heir to the wealthiest trading company on this side of the country and that his father is expected to transition the entire operation to him over the next few years.

Even so, Seokjin greets you with a sense of intimate familiarity, standing at your approach and brushing his lips against the back of your hand before you can stop him.

“A pleasure to see you, Y/N, as always.”

You know that social etiquette requires you to return the sentiment, but instead, you find yourself looking between Seokjin and your father, trying to figure out his purpose here.

“What is going on?”

Your father grimaces at your rudeness but opts to ignore it. “Seokjin has come here with a rather exciting opportunity, Y/N, if you would take a seat and listen to him.”

However, you remain standing, spine stiff and wary eyes shifting to the man in front of you with his finely tailored clothes and perfectly combed hair. He, for what it’s worth, doesn’t cower under your stony gaze, maintaining an air of utmost confidence as he states, “Y/N, I would like for you to marry me.”

“No.”

Your answer is immediate and blunt, coming so quickly that Seokjin barely reacts—only the tiniest dip of his mouth as if he doesn’t believe he heard you correctly. But your father leaps to his feet, face red with shock and frustration.

“Y/N, you sit down and listen to the man.”

“I don’t need to listen,” you snap. “My answer is no.”

Seokjin registers your words then, face morphing into a deep frown of disbelief as your father hurries to intervene, grabbing you around the arm to pull you out of the dining room and turning on you the moment you are out of earshot.

“Insolent girl! That man will soon be one of the most powerful in the country—nay, the world! Do you understand the opportunity he is offering you? The life he is offering? How dare you refuse him!”

“Whatever life he is offering is one I want no part of,” you argue, pulling your arm from his grasp to wrap them across your chest. “I have no interest in being married to a man like that. I want to be with someone who loves me.”

He goes deathly still for a moment, drawing connections in his head until you see the moment the realization hits him. “This is about that lousy stable boy, isn’t it?”

You say nothing, only hug yourself tighter and try to swallow down the sudden lump in your throat.

“That’s it, yes? You’re still holding onto some hope that he will come back for you and what? The two of you will go off and live in some hovel? What could he possibly offer you?” he snarls. “No, Y/N. That vermin is gone. You have a chance—a real chance—at a future here, and I’ll be damned if I let you throw it away for the idea of some lower class scum.”

As his words sink in, a chill passes through your body that’s quickly replaced with a white-hot anger, your hands dropping to your sides as you straighten your back in defiance.

“Whether Jungkook returns or not,” you assert, “please be assured that I will never, ever, marry one of your suitors. I will die before I become a mere pawn for your business deals.”

Your father stares at you incredulously, eyes practically bursting from his head. “Business deals? I am looking out for you. So that you can live the luxurious life a child of mine deserves.”

“The life I deserve is the one which I want,” you exclaim. “And these rich dullards are not it.”

Final word given, you spin on your heel in emphasis and march off to your room, leaving your father to clumsily patch things up in the dining hall with a humbled and deeply befuddled Seokjin.

The letters stop two years in.

A month passes, then two, then three before you begin to really worry. Another four gone in a blink before you start to consider that you may never actually hear from him again.

For a while, you continue to write to him, thinking that at the very least, if he’s moved to a new job, someone from his old ranch may forward them along if they know where he’s gone to. But after a year of silence transpires, the mail carrier shaking his head at you each day as you rush to meet him outside your house, true dread sets in.

Your address hasn’t changed, which means that he’s stopped writing to you for some reason. Is it possible that he’s moved on? Met another woman perhaps and chosen to settle down? Or…could it be something worse? Your mind hesitates to even go down this path, the terror seeping into your bones, but the thought creeps in late at night when you’re at your most vulnerable that something may have happened to him. Work accidents, illness—any number of dangerous things could have taken him from you without you even knowing. Then again, he sounded healthy in his final letter to you, no word at all of him being ill, and you’d like to think he would’ve arranged for someone to contact you if some tragedy had befallen him.

You conclude, then, that he must have given up. And really, after years of hoping for a shift, for some change in fortune for your futures, you cannot entirely blame him. If anything, you just wish you had seen the signs sooner, sensed some kind of shift in tone that would have prepared you for his sudden silence. His last letter, though, had been much of the same—more updates on his ranching job mixed in with poetic phrases about his love for you. You read it endlessly, poring over the words for some indication that his feelings for you had waned, sitting huddled in a hidden corner of the stables as rain pounds down against the tin roof. Instead, it just makes your heart ache to remind you of love found and lost, his final words haunting you as time continues to drag on to your dismay.

As the months tick by, you keep your promise to your father, steadfastly refusing each suitor that comes to call for you: Jung Hoseok, Kim Namjoon, and even Min Yoongi, who shows up in your dining room every evening for a fortnight before finally accepting your refusal. Meanwhile, you move through your days as if by design, going through the motions without feeling like you’re actually alive. Food is tasteless, your books void of thought, and the skies have certainly lost their color. You find that you actually prefer rainy days now, often taking walks through the drizzle and allowing the droplets of water to slide over your skin and caress you as he once did. Sometimes, it almost makes you feel as if he’s there beside you—memories of thunder and slick kisses enveloping your thoughts and soaking you from the inside out.

No fewer than seven years pass this way, with you haunting the premises of your home while your father begins to complain about you becoming a leech and a burden. You begin to question it yourself, wondering if it may be too much to waste away like this, when, three days after your twenty-seventh birthday, a discovery has you running from your father’s house and never looking back.

It’s another dreary, rainy day, and you, wanting to soak in the full effect of the emblematic weather as it pertains to your mood, have once again parked yourself on the front porch with a book. Your father passed you on his way out earlier, casting a scathing look that you didn’t even bother to grant any attention—you’ve long grown accustomed to his contempt and futile glares.

A little past midday, you glance up at the sound of a person approaching, their footsteps ricocheting off the front steps. Park Jimin comes to a halt under the porch’s cover, gazing at you curiously as if wondering why you are outside in this weather at all. However, if he finds your behavior strange, he doesn’t say anything, a choice which comes of no surprise to you. One of your father’s youngest business partners, you’ve always liked Jimin during the times that you’ve interacted with him. He’s quiet, polite, and has never made an attempt at courting you, always respecting the boundaries that many other young men have tried to cross over the years.

That being said, you’re inclined to at least offer him a greeting, acknowledging his presence with a mannered, “Hello, Mr. Park.”

“Good day,” he responds with a small bow in your direction. “Is your father at home?”

“No, he had to attend a business meeting with Mr. Kim this morning.” You frown as his face falls, a touch of panic widening his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

A delicate finger rises to rub at his temple. “Ah, I’m supposed to be finalizing a contract with Hybe Trading Company later this afternoon,” he says. “Your father told me to come pick up the documents beforehand.”

“He may be back soon,” you guess. Your father didn’t give an indication of exactly when he would return, but you do know his meeting with Kim Taehyung wasn’t supposed to last all day.

“I may not be able to take that risk.” He chews at his lip, thinking. “Is it possible that he left the contracts for me somewhere? Might you be able to check?”

Your jaw drops a fraction at his request—you could count on one hand the number of times that you’ve been in your father’s office. “I don’t think—“

“Please, Y/N,” Jimin begs. “We can’t afford to lose this partnership.”

The desperation in his expression has you acquiescing, and so you lead him inside and tell him to wait in the entryway as you head to your father’s office on the second floor.

The room is arguably the grandest in the house, with magnificent windows that give a full view of the estate’s grounds and tall bookshelves packed with your father’s collection of texts. The finest rugs protect the hardwood under your feet, and at the center of the room sits a monstrous yet beautiful mahogany desk with a plush chair at its back.

You move to the desk first, skimming the documents scattered on top for something that has the trading company’s name on it. But all you see are invoices, shipping records, and maps of different trading routes marked with your father’s notes, and lightly shuffling through the papers comes up fruitless as well.

The first desk drawer you open contains a series of highly-organized ledgers, so you quickly move on to the second, which has the same. The third drawer reveals a reserve of desk and writing supplies, while the fourth, finally, contains a mess of paper.

You rummage through the clutter, still not finding anything that seems to be the contract Jimin is looking for, and are about to give up when a stack of letters buried at the back of the compartment has you freezing, the small, neat handwriting chilling you to the bone.

Pulling the stack out with shaking hands, you quickly realize that there are a few dozen, all postmarked no more than two months apart between each one. Collapsing backwards into the desk chair, you read frantically, quickly realizing just how wrong you were about Jungkook giving up on you:

My Dearest, it’s been a while since I’ve heard from you, but I pray your letters were simply lost in transit…

I’m incredibly pleased to let you know that I’ve received a promotion. The owner of the farm, Mr. Lee, has taken a liking to me and has shifted me to a more considerable role with additional pay. I’m saving every bit I can…

My Love, I miss you deeply. And while your silence pains me to no end, I hope it is a mere misunderstanding. If you do not wish to hear from me ever again, only say the word and I will stop writing to you and remove myself from your life entirely, albeit with a heavy heart…

I still have some ways to go, but my savings are increasing exponentially, and I am learning more than ever. Mr. Lee has been teaching me about the business side of things and helping me make connections. What a wonder to have a boss who fully supports your aspirations! He insists he will be able to help me in my endeavors, and call me naive, but I believe it to be true. Rest assured, love, that I am steadfastly working hard for you, for us, and for our future…

My Darling Y/N, my heart aches to not read your words and hear your thoughts. But since you have not yet rejected me outright, I can only assume that your silence is involuntary or that it comes with deep hesitation. Whatever the reason, please know that I love you, I miss you, and I am not giving up on us unless you tell me so…

And finally, the shortest letter dated almost year back:

Y/N,

I don’t have the words to describe my feelings so I will keep it brief: I did it. If this letter finds its way to you and you wish to find me, I eagerly await you at our home…

The location is scribbled in a tangle of text, his usually neat writing askew as if he was shaking when he wrote it, and the words land with the force of a thousand bricks in your chest—the weight of seven years apart, the agony of your separation, finally culminating in this revelation.

The door to the office bangs open, and you look up, heart already racing with the discovery of the letters, to see your father looming in the doorway, face painted with rage.

“What in the hell are you doing in my private office?!”

You’re on your feet in an instant, storming across the room and shaking the final letter in his face. “What is this?!”

He pales a fraction as he registers what you’re holding before stepping further into the room and slamming the door shut. “I should have burned them,” he sneers. “I did what I did to protect you.”

“From what?” You wave your arms wildly, anger and adrenaline winding their way through your limbs. “From happiness? From a man who has spent years working hard to be able to provide for me?”

“I have worked hard to provide for you! And I will not see my legacy be thrown aside for some silly crush!”

Steeling yourself, you pull in a steadying breath for courage. “Then you won’t.”

“And what does that mean?” your father scoffs, trying to look dismissive and intimidating, yet seeming smaller than you’ve ever seen him.

“You won’t see any of it. I’m leaving.”

“What?”

Time stops for a moment, your declaration holding the air in the room hostage as your father fully absorbs your words.

“You ungrateful idiot girl!” your father suddenly exclaims. “After everything I’ve done for you? Fine then! Go live with the dogs, with the filth and slime you apparently love so dearly. I have had it with your thanklessness and impertinence and will be relieved to have you from my sight.” He steps into your personal space, pointing a finger directly at your face so close that you can feel the heat of his ire radiating off of his hand. “But know this: the second you step out of these doors, you will never be welcomed back. Never.”

You waste only two seconds longer, locked in a stubborn stare-down with your father before you rip your gaze away and tear from the room with Jungkook’s letters still in hand. Rushing to your room, you gather his other letters from your desk and stuff them into a bag along with the modest sum of money you had accumulated in case you ever needed to run.

And then you’re a bird in flight, sweeping down the stairs and out the door with nothing but a simple, “Good day, Mr. Park,” as you pass an absolutely bewildered Jimin in the front hall.

The rain is cold and heavy as it soaks through your clothes and hair almost immediately, but you barely feel it—the freedom in your heart and the scribbled location in your bag more than enough to keep you warm as you charge towards home.

The house is beautiful.

Modest, compared to the mansion you grew up in, sure. But arguably more beautiful—with a compact two stories, white wood, and neatly painted green shutters. There’s a wrap-around porch overlooking the acres upon acres of farmland, and even through the rain falling in sheets and blurring your vision, you spy two rocking chairs sitting side-by-side under the awning.

It’s been a long two weeks of journeying to get to this spot, relying on the kindness of strangers to help you navigate to the location Jungkook had written down. Now, standing at the end of the dirt path leading up to what is presumably your new home, you think that you would do it all again in a heartbeat. The past two weeks, the past seven years, all worth it to experience the hope currently blooming in your chest like the sunflowers you spent so much time admiring in the past.

You’re trudging up the path, the dirt and mud smearing along your shoes, when a darkened figure steps out from the fields to your right, hand raised in greeting.

“Good afternoon, miss. Are you lost? I—” He grinds to a halt like he’s walked straight into a brick wall, eyes wide and lips parted as he absorbs the sight of you soaked and disheveled on his property.

“Y/N?” he says it like a prayer, like he believes you’re some kind of hallucination—a phantom come to haunt him through the haze of rainy memories.

You stare at each other through the downpour, and you find yourself studying him, observing the changes that have taken place in the time you’ve been apart. He’s taller and broader than you remember, shoulders stretching wide and drawing your gaze down towards biceps that protrude below his drenched shirt. The lines of his face have sharpened with age—losing some of the youthful roundness that had endeared him to you so quickly—but he’s still starry-eyed as ever, the charming young man from your memories undoubtedly gazing back at you.

“Jungkook,” you murmur, and the spell is suddenly broken. You surge towards each other, meeting in the middle with a flash of lightning. Your arms go around his shoulders, and Jungkook pulls you into him so desperately and with so much force that he lifts you right off your feet, your mouths coming together with a heated urgency.

He’s everything you’ve dreamed of, every desperate memory you’ve been clinging to come back to life. And with every touch, every pass of his hands over your body, you feel yourself rapidly coming back to life too—joy making its way into your lungs and through your bloodstream for the first time since you were twenty years old and kissing this man in your family’s stables.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes against your lips when you finally part. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“You have no idea–”

“I do. Jungkook, I do.”

“You stopped writing—”

“My father,” you rush to say. “He intercepted the letters. I thought you stopped writing. Thought you gave up—”

“Oh, my love, never.” His hands rise to cradle your face. “I never stopped thinking of you. Never stopped dreaming of this.” He kisses you again, slowly this time, savoring every movement of his lips against yours.

You shudder against his chest, the thrill of your reunion rattling your nerves just as a cool wind blows through, and Jungkook pulls back with worry.

“You must be freezing,” he murmurs sweetly. “Come. Let’s get you warmed up inside.”

With an arm wrapped around your waist, as though he’s scared you’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep a hand on you, he guides you the rest of the way to the house, up the front porch steps, and through the front door.

“Welcome home,” Jungkook says.

You’re met first with the smell of pine and cinnamon and an impossibly comforting warmth. The first floor is comprised of a wide-open space, with a small kitchen and dining room to your left and a sitting room to your right that has tall windows and a fireplace that is currently roaring. You move around the room slowly, taking it all in, and when you notice the vase of bright sunflowers sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, you just about melt to the floor.

“I know it’s smaller than you’re used to,” he sheepishly mumbles from the doorway. “But we can expand in the future—”

“It’s perfect, Jungkook.” And it really is, every panel and floorboard evidence of how hard he’s worked, how fiercely your love has endured. “It’s absolutely perfect. I love every bit of it.”

He brightens at that, smile stretching wide. “I’m glad.”

“How did you find it?”

“Well, I bought the property after finally saving enough money. Mr. Lee helped me with the buying process.” He shrugs. “And then I built this.”

You freeze, absolutely stunned. “You what?”

“I built it,” he says simply. “I had some help, of course. But the design is all mine.”

“I…you…” It makes your thoughts spin—the idea that he did all of this. He built a house for you.

“Here, look.” He takes your hand and pulls you into the living room, gesturing at a set of empty shelves against the back wall. “For your books.”

You laugh incredulously, fully overwhelmed at this point. “I didn’t bring any with me.”

“Then we’ll start you a new collection,” he says softly, drawing you towards him.

You reach up to trace his jaw, his brow, his cheekbones—memorizing every line of this beautiful man who dared to make your dreams a reality. “I can’t believe this. Can’t believe you. The things you’ve done.”

“All for you, my love.”

Your heart thumps a steady rhythm in your throat, love and the relief of finally—finally—having him in front of you overpowering your senses until all that exists is you and him; the strain of your former life feels worlds away.

Hands find his chest in a slow migration downwards as the chill of the rain gives way to the heat of the fireplace, and it’s not long before his large hands are wrapping around your hips, a darkness in his irises that wasn’t there a second ago.

“There’s an upstairs, too, I’m assuming?” you whisper, fingers teasing a button on his shirt.

“There is.” He swallows, and you watch the bob of his Adam’s apple like a lure. “Would you like to see it?”

You lean in, skimming your mouth below his without fully joining your lips. “Please.”

Tangling your fingers in his, he practically runs upstairs with you trailing in his wake.

Finally, you think, as he pulls your clothes from your body, climbs over you on the bed, and presses into you with such tender deliberation that you think you’ll combust.

Finally, as you spend the rest of the night wrapped up together, endlessly whispering I love yous back and forth.

Finally, as you wake up in his arms the next day, his face the first thing you see.

Finally, as he pulls out a small box at breakfast, the dainty diamond ring easily the most precious piece of jewelry you’ve ever possessed.

Finally, as he takes you out on the farm and shows you the small field of sunflowers he planted just for you.

Finally, you think, as you sit in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and watch him work from afar. I’m home.

Years Later…

“Mama! Mama look!”

You glance up from your book to where Jungkook and Haneul are currently journeying in the yard. It’s a bright sunny day—the wide expanse of blue sky above unmarred by even a single cloud. Sunshine beams down onto your son’s smiling face where he sits on the back of one of the horses, a too-big cowboy hat on his head and his father at his side for support.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart!” you call. “Just be sure to listen to Papa!”

Jungkook flashes you a grin, the excitement radiating off of him in waves. He’s been talking about teaching Haneul to ride since the day he was born, so you know this means a great deal to him, especially seeing your son’s own energy and enthusiasm. Haneul has always liked the “horsies,” toddling happily around the stables ever since he could walk.

Then again, given who his parents are, that wasn’t much of a surprise.

Jungkook and Haneul finish their loop around the yard, and you hear your husband shower the boy with praise as he lifts him off of the horse’s back.

“Again, again!” Haneul cheers, bouncing in place and causing Jungkook to laugh.

“We will! Just let me check on your mother first.”

He moves comfortably, leisurely as he climbs the porch steps and comes to a rest in front of where you sit. Looming over you, he leans in until he can press a gentle kiss to your lips, reverent in his motions.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. His fingers brush lightly over your belly and its new curve.

“I’m alright,” you say, guiding his hand until his palm is resting flat. “This one is kicking up a storm though.”

As if on cue, you feel a tiny jolt—Jungkook giving a breathless chuckle as he feels the jab himself.

“Go easy on your mother,” he says in the direction of your stomach, rubbing a soft circle into your flesh. “No storms. Clear skies and sunshine.” Then his eyes are back on your face. “Speaking of, I have something for you.”

He reaches behind his back and produces a single sunflower, tucking it behind your ear before giving you one more kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too.” More than the day you met him. More than the day he left. And more than the day you finally made your way here.

“Now I should get back to Haneul before he starts yelling for me.”

You laugh out the brightest sound that’s ever come from your lungs. “Go.”

A warm breeze ripples through the trees, the sound of your son’s giggles and Jungkook’s cheerful exclamations finding their way back to where you sit.

What a beautiful day, you think, setting down your book and getting up to join your family in the golden sunshine.

a/n: thanks for reading! pls don't forget to like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed!

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook imagines #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts fic #bts fanfic

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical swearing, angst, possessive!Simon, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, praise, hand job, dirty talk, aftercare

Word Count: 6k

A/N: Part Eleven of Ink & Needle

An argument becomes a moment of understanding. Certain carnal urges are fulfilled.

Chapter Ten // Chapter Twelve

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

“Tell me why your hands are shaking.”

Are they? Is that what you’re feeling? You didn’t notice.

Bringing them up to waist level, you observe their gentle tremble. Elbows pressing lightly into your sides, arms angled inward, you curl your fingers toward your palms in an attempt to cease the shaking. They continue to quiver as if the signals from your brain to your hands fall off the trail, losing themselves amongst the millions of constantly firing neurons.

What stops the trembling are Simon’s hands.

Your palms face the ceiling and the tops of your hands are aimed toward the wood floor. Simon slides underneath, fingers delicately encasing the stuttering shake. Tattooed and large. Rough, but dry and warm. Like a light switch being flipped, you are suddenly calm. Peaceful.

Simon said he wants to talk. He wants to know. He is asking you for understanding, to allow him in even if what’s inside isn’t all that pretty. There is no obligation you’re holding him to. No standard. Simon draws up his own, presents them, lays them out flat in fan before you like a deck of cards.

It’s your move. Your opportunity to select one.

But the quiet is shattered as Adam’s voice returns, bashing against your brain like waves crashing against rock.

Whore.

Fucking whore.

The trembling begins again and Simon’s hold on your hands tightens, his large frame shifting forward into your space, creating a protective cocoon that you desperately wish to lean against but don’t.

“I’m sorry,” you stammer. The inhale you take is fractured, splitting like an atom, the energy inside you roaring into an explosion that rings loudly in your ears.

Everything is fucked. Everything is torn apart. Ripped to bloody ribbons.

Wrong and twisted and broken and just wrong.

Evie’s in-laws do not forgive easily, and Adam is the worst of the bunch. On the surface, he is ever the gentleman, but underneath is the serpent hiding in the leaves.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I shouldn’t have let him touch me. I didn’t want him to. Simon—I promise. I—”

One of his large hands releases you only to grasp the side of your face. He forces you to look at him. Forces you to gaze into those dark eyes that you could drown in.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But—”

“Don’t apologize for someone else’s poor behavior,” interjects Simon. Your wraith’s thumb brushes away the tears staining your cheeks. “He had no right.” Simon’s voice is nearly a growl, as if the memory of Adam placing his hand on your thigh personally hurts him.

Simon doesn’t understand. He has no context to why you were even there to begin with. Seeing you and Adam together wounded him. While sitting in your chair, watching your wraith as he confronted Evie’s brother-in-law with such fury, you knew you made a mistake.

But how do begin to explain everything? How do you start to detail Evie and Archie’s lives together? How do you slot the pieces into a picture that Simon will understand? How do you tell Simon that Archie’s entire family is fucking awful?

How? How?

All Simon witnessed was you and Adam sitting together in a dark pub. All Simon saw was Adam placing his hand upon your thigh. All he heard was that one little sentence at the end. That’s it. Simon knows nothing else.

“Yet he did it anyway,” you exclaim. “And you’re angry.”

“With him,” growls Simon. “Not with you.”

Yet that fails to explain Simon’s behavior after his friends escorted Adam out of the building. As far as you know, they could have taken Adam down a side street and broken his nose. Perhaps punched out a few teeth. You hope that isn’t the case. You hope they only took him to his car.

And you’re still seething about the way Simon treated you after. The shaking in your hands isn’t simply a reaction to Adam’s inappropriate behavior. It is also a response to Simon’s rough protectiveness.

“You’re not angry with me yet you drag me around by my arm. Herd me like a fucking farm animal.” You attempt to remove your hands from his grip, but Simon is having none of it. His fingers only squeeze a bit tighter. “Is that why you were so rough with me? Because you weren’t angry?”

Your voice is rising. The need to defend yourself is insistent. Pulsing. A driving force.

Yes, Adam had no right to touch you. But Simon also had no right to handle you like he did. That too is wrong.

Simon’s shoulders heave, every muscle in his body tensing. He abruptly drops your hands. Withdrawing. Pulling away. Stepping back.

“That was,” he begins, but pauses, gaze dropping in subtle shame. At his sides, his hands form fists. “Wrong of me.” Simon glances up, and the fire returns, your wraith a burning inferno that might combust. “I saw him touch you. Heard what he said. I snapped. And I shouldn’t have.”

The apology is genuine, and while half of you eagerly accepts it, the other isn’t nearly as pleased. Maybe it’s because you’re protective of Evie, and Simon’s interference with your conversation with Adam might have ruined so much for her.

“Yet you did it anyway.”

It’s one last bite. A final sting. You try to keep it in, but you’re so goddamn frustrated.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. Even defeated, Simon is large, a looming figure you’re force to look up at.

While you’re frustrated, you know this isn’t really Simon’s fault. Sure, his behavior after the fact was fucking garbage, but he stood up for you. He defended you, was ready to toss Adam right out of the pub if you had told him to do it.

The grievance isn’t with Simon. It’s with Adam.

“It’s fine,” you sigh. It’s—”

You rub your lips together, running your hands over your face. Breathing is best. Breathing is good. The swirling pit inside your stomach is quickly rising to squeeze your chest. You need to calm down.

“It’s complicated,” you finish, not knowing what else to say.

Simon’s fists unclench. He hangs there, gaze pinned to your face, shifting slightly like he’s studying your features. “I told you to talk. I’ll listen.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

Simon takes a step forward, breaching your personal space. One black boot lands between your feet, forcing you to open slightly. You attempt to back up, but Simon is insistent, moving with you.

“Simon—”

His hand goes to the back of your neck, halting your escape. Your own hands go up to push against his chest, using his solidness as a point of support to create space. As if knowing your intention, his other hand quickly snags one wrist and then the other, trapping them in the very spot you intended to place them.

Simon’s voice drops, almost to a whisper. Yet there is heat and a blooded blade beneath it that lends itself to innate instinct. “Does he mean something to you?”

“What?” you gasp, disbelieving.

Is Simon serious? Does he truly believe that?

“Are the two of you—”

“Stop,” you say, flattening both hands against Simon’s chest. “Just stop.” Simon begins to speak again but you’re putting an end to this like tearing out a thorn from your thumb.

“Adam isn’t anything to me,” you snap. “He’s Evie’s brother-in-law.”

Simon goes quiet. The silence stretches and you aren’t sure if you should fill it with more talking or just keep your mouth shut and wait for Simon to say something.

His brow hardens, the middle of it scrunching together. “He’s not—”

“Fuck, Simon. No,” you mutter, leaning forward to rest your forehead above the spot where your hands are joined.

Simon’s hand slides away from your neck and drops to your lower back, his fingers splaying wide, pressing against the slight curve. He releases your wrists too, only to run his fingers down your arm and to your waist. You do not drop your hands nor do you draw back from him.

Simon is warm. He smells of black tea and mint with the faintest hint of smoke. You breathe deep, burrowing closer. It sends you right back into memory. This is how he smelled when you first met him at Riot Room. You liked it then, and you love it now.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs.

It’s not a question. Simon isn’t asking. And it feels right, like a good pair of jeans or perfectly brewed coffee.

You’re mine.

Sounds nice, even if you are still a bit mad at him.

“I met him at the pub instead of Evie going,” you mutter against his chest. “He wanted to talk. I knew it wouldn’t be anything pleasant.”

Simon’s hand at your waist lightly squeezes, urging you to continue talking.

“I lied. Told him that Evie’s supposed to be on bedrest for the reminder of her pregnancy. He believed it.”

“What did he want?” You hear the restraint in Simon’s voice. He’s still upset, still angry.

“That’s the part that’s complicated.”

“Tell me what you can.”

What can you tell him? How do you formulate this in a way for Simon to understand but keeps Evie’s privacy intact?

You’re silent for far too long. Simon arms around you squeeze and then release, his large chest drawing back enough that you’re forced to look up at him.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, and you comply so easily.

It is nothing but your hand in his as he leads you to the couch. Simon removes your coat and gently sets it aside out of the way. Then, he’s guiding the two of you down onto the sofa. He reclines, leaning against the arm, pulling you into his lap. You drape yourself over him on your side, facing the blank television. Resting your head on Simon’s shoulder, you place your hand on his chest. His hand is quick to follow, encasing it, clinging to it. His other arm drapes over waist, creating a bit of support so you don’t sink into the cushions.

The two of you stay like this with Simon not saying anything and you simply thinking. Bravo is in the hallway near the bedroom, head resting on his paws, alert but still at rest. When Simon breathes in, your own chest rises slightly. You close your eyes, sink into the slow expansion and retreat of his lungs, imagining yourself weightless and floating. Fingers slightly digging into the front of his t-shirt, you snuggle into the crook of his neck, leaning into his embrace.

Simon remains neutral like a rock resting in a garden bed. He is simply there, propping you up, awaiting the moment you finally decide to crack open like an egg. In these brief moments, you drift off, the stress of the evening wearing you down like a nail file.

“Evie’s in-laws don’t like her,” you mumble, voice slightly strained with sleepiness. “They’ve never liked her. They’re old money and she isn’t.” You shrug but it’s more a shifting of your shoulders. “Now that her husband is gone, it’s worsened their relationship.”

Your eyelids open slowly. Leaning your head back, you seek out Simon’s eyes. He’s staring ahead, but when you shift, he immediately turns his head as if knowing what you need.

“Her due date is coming up quick. Less than two weeks.” You sigh and rest your chin right below his collarbone. “She’s always crying. Worrying even when she’s happy. I didn’t want them talking.”

This is what you give him. It isn’t nearly enough, but you can’t detail the threats or their constant push of trying to seize Archie’s assets. They want to leave Evie with nothing. They want her out of their life. It’s like they don’t care that she’s carrying Archie’s child. It’s a waste. But it’ll only make it easier for Evie to completely cut them off.

Simon delicately rotates your wrist, presents your palm to the ceiling like an offering. He brings it up to his mouth, tenderly pressing his lips against it through the balaclava. Gently, he guides it away, runs his thumb over the expanse of your palm.

His gaze tracks over every line and dip before flicking over to your face. “You’re smiling,” he observes, voice slightly husky.

“Am I?” and you hear the lightness in it, like fluffy white clouds on a summer day.

Simon brings your hand back to his chest. Releasing it, he guides those fingers to your chin, lightly pressing with intention, drawing your gaze to his. “Call me next time.”

“You don’t—”

“I want to.” Simon nods toward the now snoozing German Shepard. “I’ll even bring Bravo.”

“Bravo is too good a boy to make anyone scared.”

You know Simon is grinning because the balaclava stretches backward, pulling toward his ears. “He’s got bite.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Simon’s fingers still linger on the underside of your chin. They sit there, then slide along the jawbone, trailing up to the ear, and back down again. It’s a gentle caress, a soothing song that causes your eyelids to flutter.

“Simon.”

“Hm?”

Your fingers reach, toying with the edge of the balaclava. The arm he originally draped over your waist curves to your hip, squeezing, grabbing more ass than actual hip. Those fingers of his that so delicately touched you are hungry creatures, creating a necklace around your throat.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“You,” you breathe, the desperation burning like starving embers in your lungs. “I need you.”

Underneath the balaclava your fingers slip. They move in tandem with your body. Together they shift. Legs straddling hips. Chest pressed against chest. Lips finding lips the moment they’re able.

You and Simon are hunger personified, meeting and meeting, melting. Grasping the sides of Simon’s exposed cheeks, you use the leverage to push him against the couch, trapping him beneath you in a perfectly pleasurable illusion. Simon is much stronger than you. With only a quick shift of his muscles, Simon could easily pin you beneath him.

But you’re the one on top. You’re the one whose hips roll against him. His fingers dig and drag up and down your thighs, over the curve of your ass, and to the very top of your hips before he repeats it all.

There isn’t any sweetness to it. It’s not tart like lemon candies or sticky like toffee. This is overindulgence. Decedent. You and Simon are teeth and tongue and lips and endless endless gasps of air between it all.

It is the spaces between, the pause beneath where the two of you linger before coming together again. That’s the perfect part. The brief flash of separation. It is then that your wraith gazes on you with lust and something dipped in ancient longing.

Atoms calling to atoms.

Plants in orbit. A small object giving way to the larger mass.

Simon sucks on your bottom lip, lightly biting. “Mine,” he murmurs, drawing you back into a fierce kiss. “You’re mine.”

His.

Yes.

You like it. You want it.

You want him.

Your wraith.

Ghost.

Simon. Always Simon.

He grabs hold of your thighs, guides your legs further out and up to his waist. In seconds you’re on your back, Simon’s large frame pressing you into the cushions, his mouth on you in moments, tasting lips and tongue, traveling over and down, tracing the line of your jaw and the curve of your ear.

And Simon’s hands never stop. They never stop consuming.

Until they do. Until you’re whimpering for him to return his hands to your body. But Simon resists, keeping you trapped beneath him but not willing to bring your bodies together.

His head dips, lips brushing lightly over yours. “Pick a number between one and ten.”

“What?” you laugh, confused.

“Do it. One to ten. Pick.”

You nibble on the inside of your cheek, thinking. “Three?”

Simon only stares.

“Four?”

Again, he remains impassive.

Is Simon trying to herd you to a specific number?

“Five?” you reply hesitantly.

One eyebrow rises slightly. Finally, a reaction.

“Fine,” you laugh. “Seven.”

“Sure about that, love?”

You cock your head and playfully smack his chest. “Eight. Happy?”

“Final answer?”

“Yes, Simon. That’s my final answer.”

Simon nods, gaze quietly assessing. In the next moment, he’s dragging you up against him, bringing both of you to standing.

“What are you doing?”

Simon starts to back away, placing roughly an arm’s length of space between the two of you.

“Bedroom,” he purrs, the word a singular command.

Reaching down with one hand, Simon grasps the front of his belt. With expert quickness, he unbuckles it and then removes the belt from the loops with a fluid tug.

“No clothes,” he continues. “And on your back.”

“Simon—”

“Now.”

You’re being herded again, but this time you like it. This time it is from a place of desire, or a desperate yearning for another. This isn’t anger driving Simon, and it’s certainly not driving you.

Simon glances over his left shoulder at Bravo. The dog immediately gets up, trudging off somewhere. Stepping to the side, Simon makes space for you to slip through. He is right there, on your heel, entering the dark bedroom with you.

Once inside, Simon shuts the door behind him, cutting of the light from the living room and kitchen. The only source of illumination comes from the windows. The blinds are down, and only slightly cracked. It allows for lines of fractured moonlight.

Simon is mostly in shadow. Just an outline in the dark.

“What are the numbers for?” you ask, your eyes adjusting to the dimness.

“Get those clothes off, love. Then I’ll tell you.”

He moves closer, your wraith one with the darkness, silently slinking into your radius. Simon is near enough to touch you, to assist in the undressing, but he doesn’t. He only watches, his chest rising and falling, an imperceptible change in the shadows.

The outer layers are easy. It’s when you’re down to your underwear, bra, and top that you hesitate.

“Everything,” he repeats.

“What do the numbers mean?”

Again, Simon doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands rise, hovering just shy of your upper arms. They pause there before shifting down to slide underneath your top, to seek out the back of your bra. With ease, Simon unhooks it. Now he helps. Now he guides your top over your head, tossing it to the side. Straps loose against your shoulders, it takes Simon no effort to guide them down your arms.

You don’t resist. His touch is gentle but purposeful.

What do those numbers mean? What does he have planned. Is the number the amount of times he’s about to fuck you? The very thought of submitting to him like that makes your pussy clench.

You’re standing in just your underwear. Simon is fully clothed.

It doesn’t seem fair.

One large hand lightly brushes over your stomach, lingers right above the delicate, thin cotton. It’s nothing fancy. Nothing flashy. Simple and comfortable. And yet you’re not embarrassed by it because Simon clearly doesn’t seem to care either.

“These can stay,” he murmurs, fingertips lightly brushing against the cotton before withdrawing.

With his other hand, Simon reaches up and grasps the top of his balaclava. He tugs. Pulls. Removing it from his head.

But your wraith is in the shadows. You do not see his features. What you can see it just the soft sweep of his hair, and a brief flash of bone structure.

“The numbers,” he says. “They’re the orgasms I’m giving you.”

“You—what?”

“You’re going to count each one, love.” Simon stands so close your bodies are nearly touching. “Mess up. I start over.”

“Simon—”

“Are you mine?” Simon is gripping your throat against, pulling you taut against him, faces close, lips closer, but not touching.

Are you his?

Yes. Always yes.

“I’m yours.”

That hungry mouth of his lightly caress the corner of your mouth. “I want to mark my territory. I want to relearn your taste. Hear those gorgeous moans I’ve been missing.”

Greedy. Simon is greedy.

The possessively primal tone sends a delicious tingle through your limbs. It remembers him. It is your body crying out again, wanting to call him back home.

“On your back, love.”

You promptly fall, butt landing on the edge of the bed.

Your wraith still stands. Is still a looming shadow.

As he takes one step closer, you lean back onto your elbows. Simon’s fingers brush against the tops of knees before sliding between, easing your legs apart, guiding them wide for him to move between.

His rough hands are soft brands against your inner thighs. They slide further toward your sex, only to purposefully pass over it instead to grasp waist and stomach, seeking other tender spots that ache for his touch.

Simon places his knee on the bed, forcing you to scoot back a bit. It also forces your legs to stay open as Simon’s hands fall to either side of you. He adjusts, leaning onto one elbow, his other hand roaming across your skin.

He studies the curve of your hip, the softness of your belly, the places where you think there is too much and not enough. Simon worships it all, leaving nothing untouched. This room is a church. You are the alter. And Simon is one of the starving flock seeking salvation.

Hovering at your breasts, his tongue passes over a nipple. It promptly hardens, reaching toward him. Simon meets it, nipping lightly, teasing the bud until it’s aching. Moving to the other, he gives it the same attention. Your fingers dig into the bedding beneath you, and your head falls back as Simon’s lips press a kiss to the valley between.

One hand returns to your hips, slides over inner thigh, hooks a finger at the edge of your underwear, pulling it to the side. The air feels oddly cold against the warmth. A shiver passes through you and Simon’s sharp inhale is enough to draw forth a bit of danger.

“First one. Ready?”

The moment your mouth forms the agreement, Simon’s thumb hovers at your entrance where your slickness pools. He draws it up to your clit, presses, swirls. It’s a sharp tug. A sudden burst. You gasp, back arching slightly as Simon continues to play with that sensitive bump. His fingers aren’t even inside you. It’s just his thumb teasing. But you’re wired, strung out from the conversation with Adam, the argument and subsequent discussion with Simon, and now this.

You are Orpheus seeing the Sun again, giving into the joy, turning back to rejoice with Eurydice. And this time there is no punishment. Eurydice doesn’t disappear. Simon, your wraith, is still here.

And you are falling apart, fingers clawing at his shoulders, hips flexing into his touch as your body clenches. The moan is choked, suppressed. Simon knows, and grins against your throat.

“Count.”

“One,” you croak, knowing you’re not going to make it seven more times.

“Good,” he purrs, wrist rotating, his middle finger sliding through your new slickness.

Simon adds a finger, begins fucking you with it while he shifts up to press his lips to yours. You open for him, and Simon slides his tongue inside the moment he inserts a second finger. Using the knee already resting on the bed between your legs, Simon guides your legs wider to completely settle between them.

Spread wide, all you can do is cling to him. You have little control, but it’s good. It’s nice. It’s fucking perfect.

Simon releases your mouth and roughly kisses down the length of your neck only to run his tongue over your left nipple. Your hips buck, and Simon meets with a thrust of his hand. His thumb on your clit is relentless and it isn’t long before you’re clenching again, this time mewling softly, trying hard to relax but failing completely.

“Two,” you gasp as Simon’s teeth lightly trap your nipple between them.

He tugs softly. Releases the nipple. Kisses it.

Fingers slipping from your body, the loss comes instantly. It is momentary. A length of a breath. Simon is already moving down your body leaving nothing untasted. The knee between your legs disappears as Simon moves onto his knees in front of the bed. His arms slide under your thighs and curve up to lock onto them. With a sharp tug, you’re dragged to the very edge of the bed.

Simon turns his head and nips his way down the inside of your thigh. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your legs to the tips of your toes. You float in coiled anticipation. Fingers drag up and down your thighs. Simon’s mouth hovers close, but not enough to make actual contact.

You don’t dare break any of it. You don’t dare make the first move.

You are the frozen mouse staring down the cat.

Simon sighs heavily, but as it tapers out, it becomes a growl. Drawing back, Simon’s fingers curl around the edges of your underwear, bringing it into his fist. It takes only two quick tugs for Simon to tug them down your legs. They disappear into the dark as Simon guides one leg over his shoulder while the other is pushed even wider.

You’re presented to him. A gift.

Communion offered by a holy hand.

Starved like a sinner seeking confession, Simon descends, parting your pussy with a slow swipe of his tongue. With the afterglow of two orgasms in your system, your body responds to Simon’s tongue like a gunshot. Like the crack of a whip, Simon swirls up, teasing your clit with just the tip, and that is enough to make your shake, for your back to come off the bed.

Without thought, your hands seek him. One slides through his hair, tangling, twisting, anchoring yourself as your hips roll against his mouth, riding his face. The other claws, gripping his shirt, snarling the fabric in your fist.

Simon sucks your clit into his mouth and it’s over. The leg not over Simon’s shoulder snaps up, wanting to trap his head between your thighs. But Simon is strong and insistent, pushing it back down, forcing you wide again to take his tongue without resistance.

“What number is that?” asks Simon.

Your lips part to answer, but Simon returns his tongue to your clit, swirling just the tip against it. It steals your clarity.

Crying out, the hoarse noise becomes a whimper as he continues.

“Number,” he growls.

“Three!” you gasp.

His smile is brief and so is your moment of peace. Simon returns, tasting and tasting until you come off the bed, your own strength and Simon’s arms keeping you in place. Everything in wiggling, itching to escape and yet desiring more.

You won’t make it to eight.

Simon places a kiss against your pussy before he guides your leg off his shoulder. It is not for rest or to give you a break. Instead, Simon’s hands begin at your knees, sliding down to your inner thighs. He finds a solid grip, guides them wide, and returns to eating you out.

That tongue of his is a viper, and you are unable to avoid its bite.

Your thighs quiver, and your legs jerk, attempting to close yet again. Meeting resting, the muscles quiver, unable to do anything else. Like your legs, your arms are at your sides, palms pressing into the bedding, fingers digging into the bedding as if you’re trying to crush fruit.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Oh—fuck. Simon. Si—”

Small death. A burst of light. So cliché and yet so true.

“How many is that, love?” purrs Simon.

Though your eyes have adjusted to the dark, it is not enough to glimpse his features in any detail. Frustrated, you focus on what you can see in the dark: his eyes.

Moonlight cuts through the room like silver steel. Sometimes when Simon moves, you see the faintest hint of brown. Fleeting. But important.

Simon is staring you down, mouth poised just shy of the curve of your pelvis.

“F—four.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Simon nods. “That’s my good girl.” His mouth returns. “My good fucking girl.”

No return. No reversal. You are forever Simon’s.

This is not a simple exchange. This is a claiming. A “marking of territory” as he put it.

Your wraith isn’t fucking you. He’s not asked anything for himself. This is about you, and his control over you. In this, you will submit. In this, you will allow him to take the lead. Because, with everything going on in your life, letting go for a bit is a cleansing.

“Five” eventually leaves your mouth but it is fractured and shaky. Simon has to prompt you three times before it falls from your lips.

When his mouth returns for another round, Simon brings his fingers with him. You remember saying “seven” but “six” is lost like a rock thrown into a lake. Simon doesn’t correct you, but keeps going, returning to his task with just as much enthusiasm as all the rest.

On this one, Simon gently eases your thighs toward your chest, keeping them close but not touching. Using some of his body weight, Simon keeps you locked into position. His tongue runs lazy trails up and down your pussy, dipping inside before trailing upward again. You cannot reach him and you opt to hold onto the backs of your legs, your fingers layering over his own that hold you in place.

Overstimulation has been your companion since number three. You don’t know where you are. You are beyond that. Lost. Gone. Adrift.

The eighth and final orgasm brings tears to your eyes. They are clawed from your sockets, ripped from you in wet lines that leave you trembling and sensitive. Simon does not ask for the count right away. He guides your legs away from your chest, bringing them to rest against the bed.

Around you, the bed sinks as Simon shifts forward, pushing off his knees, crawling over you until the two of you are face to face. Your chest heaves and Simon’s lips are slightly parted. In the small slashes of moonlight, you glimpse the glossy shine on his lips.

Without speaking, without signaling to the other, the two of you meet. You taste yourself on him, and you hardly care. Your hands might be shaking but you reach out for him, touching him like he did you. One large hand comes to rest next to your head. The other slides up the bed.

Your hands go lower, pushing open the front of his pants.

Simon has to be aching. You want to give him some relief. You want to please him. It’s not a feeling of obligation but a deep desire to show him how much you crave him too.

“What are you doing?” he asks, breaking the kiss. As your fingers reach for him, Simon’s hips flex backward, retreating from your touch. “You can’t handle that, love. Not right now.”

“Simon,” you beg. “I want to.”

He shakes his head, lips returning to yours momentarily before leaving again. “When I fuck you, it won’t be like this. I can fucking promise you that.”

Simon’s forehead presses against your temple and you slightly turn into him, noses brushing. “Can I touch you. Just touch. That’s all.” With extreme care, your fingers find him, wrapping lightly in case he says no.

His breathing hitches, and you see that as sign to keep going. Your grip on him isn’t great, but Simon helps, easing his pants down enough that there isn’t any clothing creating an obstacle. Simon is hot and hard in your hand. It’s clear that he needs release, and though everything in you fucking aches, you want to give him this.

It’s not pretty, but you start to pump him in short strokes. Simon groans, leans into the movement, his hips thrusting shallowly to meet your hand. Softly smiling in victory, you shift your legs a little wider, sliding them up to hook over the backs of his knees. The sound Simon makes is feral and deep.

His thrusts lengthen, and you keep your hand in place, allowing him to use it as he needs. Somehow, this is so much more intimate than if he were inside you. Simon is draped over you, trapping you against the bed, and yet your legs are locked over his, keeping him in your own web. His forehead is still pressed against your temple.

You know he’s near because his grunts are slowly tapering off at the end into short moans. It’s your turn to talk to him, to guide him toward that finish line.

“Where do you want to finish?” you ask softly.

“My hand?” You lightly squeeze his cock as he thrusts and this snaps a guttural groan from out his throat.

“My tummy?” you offer.

“My thighs?”

You lick your lips. “Do you want to finish in my mouth?”

Simon’s hips stutter.

“Or inside me?” You emphasize your meaning by pressing your heels into the back of his calves, urging him closer to your pussy.

The move is so sudden, it startles you. Simon’s hand around your throat is a vice but he doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t cut off your air.

He still thrusts into your hand as he speaks. “I want your cunt dripping with me.” He shakes his head. “Not there. Not yet.” Simon keeps his hand around your throat but his hold eases.

Every thrust is stuttering and slightly off.

“Fuck,” he growls. “Your thighs.”

Though your muscles cry out in protest, you release him, dropping your legs back to the bed. Simon shifts into position, his hand falling away from your neck to draw your legs closer together. Watching is the most pleasurable part, seeing his release coat the tops and insides of your thighs. You imagine it inside you, filling you up, marking you as his.

That thought lingers, even as Simon retreats, going to the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar and the light inside only gives you a brief glimpse. There isn’t skin or a face reveal. You glimpse Simon’s hair, and seeing it almost feels wrong, like you’re witnessing something you shouldn’t.

It’s…blond.

No.

Brown?

That’s not right. Maybe it’s both or just a trick of the light. It’s hard to tell.

But the light shuts off, and Simon returns with a warm, damp cloth to clean you up. He is so careful, so delicate and gentle with the way he takes care of you. There isn’t conversation and you’re deeply thankful for that. You probably couldn’t talk even if you wanted to. The exhaustion is setting in, and with Simon’s return to the bathroom, you start to drift.

When he returns, Simon reaches up with one arm, pulling off his shirt in one go. His pants go next, and it isn’t until he’s dragging you into his arms and tossing the top sheet and comforter over your bodies that you realize Simon’s nakedness.

The two of you are on equal ground here.

Yes, there is the dark. But Simon is just as bare as you, and there is no balaclava.

Leaning forward, Simon kisses the curve of your shoulder once…twice…three times. You curl into his touch and Simon drags you even closer.

You hear it, even though it’s so quiet that you don’t think Simon intended you to hear it.

“Mine.”

Mine.

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[cozage]

The Daughter's Return Part 3

Chapter 25: Decisions

Start From Beginning | Next Chapter | Table of Contents | Read on AO3

Characters: female reader x Portgas D. Ace Word Count: 1.5k

“Do you want to go back?” Ace asked, studying your face. 

“Back where?” You focused on the newspaper in your hand, aware of his watchful eye. 

It had been a few days since Ace had woken up, but you still hadn’t made the call to Marco or the others that you all were safe. He had been making great progress since then-he could sit up almost completely on his own. His back was still heavily wrapped, but most of the tubes and wires were no longer connected to his body anymore. 

“Back home.” You winced at the word, which didn’t go unnoticed by Ace. His voice was softer when he spoke again. “To the Moby Dick.”

You stayed silent, staring intently at the paper in front of you. 

“We don’t have to,” he said, gently laying down on the bed and staring at the ceiling. He groaned at the contact between his back and the sheets, and your eyes reflexively darted over to him at the sound of pain. 

“Luffy’s not awake yet,” you reasoned. You didn’t want to have to make a decision yet. “We can’t leave him.”

“Luffy will be fine on his own.” Ace chewed on his lip, deep in thought. “If we leave before he wakes up, it’d be better.”

You scowled at that. “You can’t mean that. Luffy risked his life to save you! You can’t even stay around long enough to-”

“What if he didn’t save my life, though?” Ace’s dark eyes looked at you, waiting.

You let out a shaky breath. Certainly he wouldn’t be suggesting the same thing you had offered when he was unconscious. There’s no way Ace would want to leave…

“What if we were dead to the world?” His voice was so quiet, you could barely hear him. “We have the chance to start over. To leave everything-”

“What about the people we love? What about our family?” You argued. 

“My family is in this room.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was right. It had been the three of you for so short of a time, and yet all you wanted was a quiet life with them. 

Still, you found yourself shaking your head in disagreement. “We can’t just leave them.”

“We can.” He reached out and grabbed your hand, giving it a light squeeze. “We will never have this chance again. We have to make a decision. Don’t think about anyone else. What do you want?”

You thought about how peaceful life had been in Wano, when you had established a life, a routine. You had made friends. You never had to look over your shoulder in the market. Nobody knew who you were or what you were capable of. Could you really have that again?

But your life had always been on the high seas. You had never grown bored of island life in Wano, but surely that was only because you had goals. If you were confined to a life on the ground with no end in sight, how would you feel in five years?

“I can’t do that to Marco,” you said. “He can’t lose everyone in one day. That’s not fair.”

“So we tell Marco,” Ace shrugged. “I think he would agree we’d be making the right choice. And he’s not exactly one for gossip.”

“Don’t you think we’d grow to hate it?”

Ace quirked up an eyebrow. “Do you think you would hate it?”

You wouldn’t. He knew that, and so did you. The thought of a place to call your own made you want to weep with joy. It sounded like something you could never achieve, and yet here it was, serving itself up on a silver platter. 

“I’ll go speak to Law.” You rose from your chair, striding to the door. “It sounds like he has a call to make.”

--

A few days later, you were wrapped in Marco’s tight embrace, sobbing into his shirt. 

He had come alone and boarded the metal ship without any weapons, like Law had demanded when he initiated contact via the transponder snail. And they had vanished beneath the waves before Law had led him to your and Ace’s room. 

He had been cussing up a storm and threatening to rip the ship apart before the door opened to reveal the two of you. And then his entire demeanor changed, and the two of you hadn’t stopped holding each other since. 

Ace cleared his throat gently, trying to get your all’s attention. “Marco-”

“How’s the baby?” Marco asked, redirecting his attention. “Is it alright after Marineford? You really shouldn’t have-!”

“He-” you gave him a knowing smile. “-is completely healthy, thanks to the doctor.” You gave another nod of thanks to Law, but Marco’s was more focused on the words you had spoken. 

“He? It’s a boy?”

You gave a tearful nod. “It’s a boy.”

Ace shifted in his bed. “Marco-”

Marco ignored him. “And nothing is wrong? I mean, you used your powers for at least-”

Law stepped in, handing him a folder. “You can read all about it, Phoenix. We’re kind of on a tight schedule here.”

Marco’s brow furrowed. “Schedule? Aren’t I here to pick you up?”

The pain on your face was enough to spread panic across his as he looked between Ace and you. But slowly, miraculously, the panic melted away.

“You’re disappearing, aren’t you?” Marco asked softly, looking at Ace. 

Ace gave a simple nod. 

“We need your help,” you interjected. “We want to offer our protection to an island that Pops protected. In exchange, we just want to live there peacefully. Surely we can make the World Government believe their assassination attempt was successful. They’ve been reporting as if it was.”

Marco nodded as he wiped the tears from his face. He could switch into strategy mode almost as fast as you could. “It shouldn’t be hard to convince the world that the two of you are dead. We’re having a burial for pops in a few days.” Marco glanced at you nervously, but you kept your face blank. 

“You’ll need to take some of our belongings,” you said. “For the graveside. Take anything from my room.”

“My hat,” Ace choked out. “You can take my hat. It’s too much of a distinguishing feature anyway.”

Marco shook his head. “I can’t-”

“You can,” you said sharply, trying to keep your bottom lip from trembling. “We only have one shot at this, Marco. I need to know that you can do this.”

Your uncle let out another shaky breath, but he nodded. “I can do this. For you to live a happy, peaceful life…I’d do anything.”

You handed him a sheet of paper with a list of names. “These people have vivre cards-”

“Most of the cards were destroyed during the war with the ships, but I’ll make sure they’re all disposed of.”

“Keep one,” you whispered softly, your voice threatening to betray you. “In case you need to find us.”

Marco gave a light laugh. “Kind of defeats the purpose of erasing yourselves, doesn’t it?”

But one look at your shining eyes stifled his laughter. “I’ll keep one,” he promised. “Go to the island of Ontau. They’ll accept you. You don’t have to tell them everything, just let them know you were one of Whitebeard’s underlings. It’s far enough in the Grand Line and it’s such a small island that the Marine’s won’t bother you, but it won’t be hard for you two to defend.”

“Marco-” you whispered.

“I have 50,000 berries on me, take them all to start over. It’s not a lot, but you can buy a small cabin and some things for the baby.”

“Marco,” you said a little louder. He was blabbering to prolong his time with you. 

“And make sure you all find a nice place near the ocean. You can fish and live off the land, or get a job in town. Don’t live so far away that you isolate yourself. You need to make friends, both of you-” he gave you a pointed look. “You can trust people there. They’ll have your back when you need help, but you need to ask. Don’t be so prideful that you-”

You lunged toward him, wrapping your arms tight around him. It would be the last time you would see him for a very long time…maybe ever. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” you cried into his chest. 

“You have to.” He brushed your hair out, softly patting the top of your head as if you were still six years old. “You’ll live a better life. That’s all any parent wants, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be who I am without you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he agreed. “But now you can figure out who you are without me.”

You nodded into his chest, but you kept your arms locked around his torso. You needed to remember everything about him. Because if this was the last time…

“Look after each other, okay?” He said. You gave another nod. 

“I swear it,” Ace’s voice came from behind you, and you felt his hand on your shoulder.

You gave Marco one last squeeze and finally broke away from him.

“One last thing,” Marco said, his hand enveloping in blue flames. “Let’s see how much I can heal those pesky burns, Ace.”

Tag list! @taeyoge @teiza @tojislawyer @trafalgardnami @bloopbopsblog @dancingnewcat @dxestyi @flooofity @nyxthedragon01 @deadsnothere @h-rhodes1598  @morgyyyyyyy @trafalgardvivi  @fiestynatureweeb @frogpogjoghurt @beepboopcowboy @ms-portgas @luvyallbabes @appalost @zuchkaa @saybeyonce @stray-npc @kitsunechan707 @theyluvmesblog @heartysworld @aira-needs-sleep  @mothmomjay @ophelias-flowerss @aqualein @sehyojae @fanficwriter5 @forgotten-blues @amberash05 @firefistnoct @depressed-but-make-it-cute @stuckinthewrongworld@lizpoir

#one piece #one piece imagine #one piece scenario #one piece x reader #one piece x you #portgas ace x you #portgas ace x reader #portgas d ace x reader #ace x y/n #ace x reader #portgas d ace #portgas d. ace #cozage #✧˚ace✧˚

[trafalgarlawsfeathercoat]

Survivor’s Guilt

based on some MESSED UP (i loved it) art i saw on here (like this and THIS that made me cry)

WC: 895

CW: death, suicidal thoughts, religious imagery (i HC law as a former catholic because of the nuns on Flevance idk)

-

Trafalgar D. Water Law learned very early on that everything and everyone he loved would eventually be ripped away from him, washed away like footprints in the sand by high tide.

He was born to live this checkered life, cursed by the middle initial forced upon him at birth. He had no choice, no say in the matter. They say the Clan of D were meant to bring the Dawn, to usher in a new age, but all Law wanted to bring about was some peace and quiet. Just for a single moment.

But that was apparently too much to ask for.

Law craved nothing more than the everlasting promise of death as he tripped over the still bodies of his friends and family, corpses piling up with every step he took, but he was urged on by a will not of his own. He had to keep going. He must keep going.

He trudged along reluctantly, day after day. Life wasn’t so cruel as to only deal him bad hands- no, they had the audacity to give him hope every once in a while. A light at the end of the tunnel before that tunnel caved in too.

Being saved by Cora-san, meeting Shachi, Penguin and Bepo on Swallow Island, forming the Heart Pirates, his tentative friendshi- alliance with Straw Hat and his crew. All these moments deluded him into believing that maybe, just maybe, he could dare to dream of a better life. A happy life, even.

Law didn’t have any lofty ambitions such as becoming King of the Pirates like his Worst Generation rivals, contrary to what others believed about him. What could a place called ‘Laughtale’ offer a man like him anyways? Up until recently, he lived for the singular purpose of fulfilling his savior’s wishes, but he couldn’t even do that right. For as many messes as he had to clean up for others, Law could argue he left behind more.

Left behind. The one thing he could count on being.

The hands that touched him all faded into a distant memory, specters that haunted him whenever he closed his eyes at night. They called out to him like a siren’s song, caressing his face as they asked why he wasn’t strong enough to save them. It was no wonder Law gave up on sleeping a long time ago.

He closed his eyes now, begging to the higher powers he no longer believed in to please, please, finally grant him this one mercy. Salty sea water flooded his lungs as his body lost all its’ capabilities, any energy he had left after facing Blackbeard sucked dry as he was dragged deeper below the surface. This was all his fault. Law should have known better than to have hope for the future, to have deluded himself into thinking things were finally going according to plan.

Damn that man in the Straw Hat for giving him something to believe in back in Wano. He should have known better. There was no God; that’s why the nuns of White Town were all dead.

In the depths of the murky water, faces began to appear behind his eyelids. The other school children, begging him to come with them to safety. His parents, love shining in their eyes as they reached out their hands. Lami, looking up at him with so much trust and adoration. Cora-san and his stupid, crooked smile.

‘Wait for me, I’m coming.’ Law thought as his body sunk lower and lower beneath the waves. He could finally go home, after all this time.

As the abyss called out to him, so did another voice.

“Captain! Captain, please! You can’t die!” It wailed.

Law was suddenly pulled back above the water, dragged by the collar of his shirt to safety. He wrenched his eyes shut even harder, refusing to open them and accept reality. He had been ready to rescind the borrowed time he’d been living on since Flevance if it meant never having to deal with the loss of his loved ones again. He coughed once, twice, expelling the foreign liquid from his body as a large paw pounded on his back repeatedly.

“Bepo.” Law groaned out miserably, recognizing the Mink’s cries anywhere.

“Bepo, we have to go back.” He pleaded pathetically, his desperation apparent. Law didn't have to open his eyes to know that they were the only ones here, wherever ‘here’ was. There was no use pretending to be strong anymore, for he no longer had a crew to be strong for.

“I’m not going back! Trust them, Captain!” The Polar Bear Mink refused Law’s orders outright.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his crew, it was that he didn’t trust the world. History was repeating itself as it always did.

Law threw himself backwards onto the sandy beach they’d washed up on, shrugging off Bepo’s attempts at comfort with more force than necessary. It was only a matter of time before he was dead too.

He should’ve known better than to let anyone in, to think for a second he could walk through life anything less than alone. He should have known better than to hope that this time, surely, he could be happy.

Once again, Trafalgar D. Water Law was alive while everyone around him faded into dust. After all, the weak don’t get to choose how they die, do they?

#a writes #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #bepo #heart pirates #i’m so sad #one piece fanfic #one piece fan fiction #the heart pirates are ALIVE #not coping #not clickbait #one piece #spoilers for ep 1093 #op 1093

[desk-of-nekostar]

All right. WHERE are my petemacau girlies. Where is my vegaspetemacau fic where macau says “hia if you don’t marry p’pete I will.” Where is Macau saying “I will be p’pete’s second husband.” And Vegas saying “hey. Hey where the fuck am i in this situation.” Pete saying “we’re not even married. Wait. Are we?” And Macau saying “don’t even worry about it. Btw what do you think about a spring wedding?”

WHERE is the obnoxious Macau going “and my brother in law said this and then my brother in law did that and did I mention that my brother in law—“ Macau having the BIGGEST crush on p’pete and chay being like “wow you are more embarrassing than me about p’kim. Did you write fanfiction about marrying p’pete yet. Do you need me to beta it. Can you finish betaing my last chapter please. I’m so close to being sold to p’kim in it.”

Where!! is the childhood au where histrionic teenage Vegas constantly wants to throttle mini Macau bc hey did you know! Macau is going to marry p’pete when he’s older :) and teenage Vegas is like HES MY BOYFRIEND GET YOUR OWN (and then he cries on his rooftop and skips rocks on the pond while listening to emo music. And Pete CANNOT believe this but he is actually out loud saying the words “no Vegas of course I’m not going to marry Macau” before they even say ily to each other.) Macau gives Pete drawings and poems and flowers ripped from the gardens BECAUSE P’PETE DESERVES THEM HIA and now Pete has to pawn entire bouquets off on his grandma bc Vegas can’t stop himself from competing with his little brother.

Where is my martial arts au where Pete is Macau’s teacher and Vegas picks Macau up after class. And there is FLIRTING happening right in front of Macau’s salad!! And he has to beg “p’pete PLEASE don’t sleep with my brother everyone who does DISAPPEARS after!” And Pete is like. How do I explain a one night stand when I am just a simple martial arts teacher. And also I’m definitely going to sleep with his brother.

Every time Macau says hi or bye “I love you p’pete!” Immediately follows bc it makes Vegas SEETHE. and when Vegas calls Pete his wife Macau just judges him and is like “hia please it’s the twenty first century. What if p’pete doesn’t like that. You should say husband instead.” Pete leaves the room immediately bc Vegas calling him “my wife” is literally the the most tame thing he likes Vegas to call him.

Shit disturber Macau who’s like “hia you’re so old I think p’pete needs to trade you in for a younger model.” Macau who sits in between Vegas and Pete on the couch at any chance he gets. Macau who negotiates and somehow wins a date night every two weeks with Pete where Vegas isn’t allowed to come with them on the basis that ITS FAMILY BONDING TIME HIA. And Vegas puts up with it bc sometimes he needs to do creepy satanic rituals in some fucking peace and quiet for once.

Macau who doesn’t even realize he likes Pete!he just thinks Pete is the coolest fucking person ever! What the actual fuck is he doing with Vegas! (But he’s not going to say that out loud bc what if p’pete REALIZES and LEAVES and that means he’s not just leaving Vegas but Macau too!!!) Macau who dates a boy and is DISTRAUGHT when they break up and chay is like bro thank god he was way too much like p’pete I thought you were over that crush? And Macau is like WHAT CRUSH.

Anyway. I just think Macau having a crush on pete or pretending to in order to cause Vegas grief is great.

#vegaspete #vegaspetemacau #petemacau #kinnporsche #sorry y’all it’s 3am and I’m drunk #not!fic

[auteurdelabre]

Sleep Part II Serial Killer ! Joel x Serial Killer f!Reader

summary: You and Joel celebrate your anniversary in a unique way.

rated: 18+

tags: Blood, Gore, Weaponry, Sex, Serial Killers on a spree,

a/n: The sequel no one wanted and yet would not leave my mind. Not the most romantic... or is it? You be the judge of that one.

Part one here

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

You don't expect the road to feel like home with its unfamiliar lines and slopes. You don't expect to feel at home in cheap motels with spongy carpet and nicotine yellow walls.  

But maybe it's not the road that does it. Maybe it's the quiet man driving your car with eyes like burning coals set inside a tanned, arresting face. 

“You look angelic with the light hittin’ you like that,” he told you one morning, surprising you as you drove through the desert. Joel doesn't talk much on the road, preferring the radio or the sounds of what you pass by to fill the silence instead. 

You like it when Joel drives, it gives you time to drink in his strong profile; sharp, gaze dark under heavy lids. Your gaze twirl down to the muscles under his t-shirt, admiring the way the swell of his biceps and shoulders make the cotton strain. 

You roll your own tight shoulders, convinced you can hear the ripping of your muscles as you do. You give a soft exhale, feeling the familiar pull of need closing in on you.

Need it. Need it. Need it. 

Not the kind of need that has you sweaty and writhing against Joel's body as he talks you through your climax, though you do enjoy those. It's a different need that has you on edge, feeling like you want to peel off your skin.

Joel can always tell. 

But he steals glances over at you from the corner of his piercing eyes and he observes you, like now when you let a hand rest on the smooth curve of the open passenger window, letting your fingers dance in the encroaching night’s breeze. He just always knows. 

"Gettin' hungry?"

"Mhmm."

Joel is a watcher. He takes in details, like how your feet tap when you're restless. He sees that your neck gets flushed when you're about to come. He notices how your eyes don't crinkle when you're smiling at someone to get what you want. 

And he observes when your car enters poorly populated towns. He takes note of secluded locations, checks over tired towns with poorly organized law enforcement. 

"There's a diner a few miles away," is his rumbled reply. You shine your best toothy smile his way, one that shows your gratitude. Your eyes crinkle when you do. 

"Sounds perfect." 

While your need is sporadic and at times unpredictable, Joel's need is always simmering just under the surface. Like dynamite lying dormant and you are the spark that sets it on its course, it's inevitable end.  

His need is coiled there like a snake in his belly waiting to strike with fangs. He never shows them to you though. You're kept safe in the harbor of his devotion. 

You don't know that you can call it love because you're not really convinced either of you are capable of it. But it sits comfortably enough behind your ribs for you to be at peace with it.

It's that sensation which leads you to continually hand him the keys to your car. The same sensation which lets him sleep next to you in rundown hotels with one creaking bed. The sensation that lets him enter you over and over, bodies shining with sweat, foreheads pressed together as you offer moans into one another's parted mouths like communion. 

It's being seen by one another you think. Brutality meeting brutality. Finding mutual appreciation for the beauty in the ferocity. That when Joel's teeth dig in at your neck when he fucks you he's not doing it to break; he's doing it to give. 

You pull into the sparsely filled parking lot of the diner when the sun begins to dip behind the mountains. It makes the world seem hazy and sweet as Joel cuts the engine. The two of you sit in the car, eyes fixed on the rundown diner as night approaches. 

"No more 'n eight by my count," Joel offers in his slick southern drawl. A voice rough like gravel but smoothed over with molasses. 

"Count on nine," you tell him peering into the diner windows from the car. "Cook in the back and a busboy."

"I was counting the cook 'n it's slow so the busboy'll have been sent home for the night," he tells you confidently. 

"Alright then. Eight." 

He looks at you across the seat and you nod at his unspoken ask. Joel likes traditions; he holds them dear like the tin man grips his shiny heart from the Wizard.

 It's the same tradition that has him Joel his broken watch he wears three times before he goes to sleep each night. The watch you've never asked him about and he's never offered information on. You don't mind not knowing, you have a feeling the answer won't bring solace to either of you. 

But traditions like this one seated next to one another in your car? Those you indulge him in, even finding a fondness at times for his rituals. 

You both move towards one another before you press your forehead to his. Both are damp and sticky with the balmy end of the day, but there is something comforting about his warm flesh pressing against yours. His eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning across golden cheekbones. 

"Blood like rubies," he murmurs.

"Blood like rubies," you echo. 

You sit like that a second longer before feeling Joel's mouth graze yours. 

"Let's go, beautiful."

///

"You know this is our anniversary," he tells you as you approach the diner hand in hand. You quirk a smile in his direction, amused. 

"Really?"

"One month," he says with a nod. He pushes the creaking door of Gerry's Diner! announces the peeling painted sign on the wall opposite.  Right next to the spot a security camera would be if they had one. Of course they don't.

A little bell dingles overhead and you both glance up at it before your eyes sweep the quiet restaurant. 

A couple and their toddler sit in the booth closest to the door. An older couple are in the booth to your left sharing what looks like a greasy roast dinner. 

A middle aged woman carrying a paperback leaves her payment and tip on the table. She shoulders past you and Joel quietly giving you both a polite, tight-lipped smile. 

One down. 

"You just made it," a woman with a yellow name badge called Wendy tells you with a practiced smile as she sails over to you. "Kitchen is just about to close."

Joel and you murmur your thanks, allowing her to show you to a booth that looks older than Joel and you combined. The green vinyl seats are peeling and the table is scratched from years of wear. 

Wendy smells like kitchen grease and old floral lipstick, the kind you think your mother wore. 

"Drinks?"

"Black coffee for me, Coke with a cherry for her," Joel rattles off your drink order with a wink. 

"A cherry?"

"Mhmm," you smile up at her. "I like 'em."

Wendy nods and walks back to the counter but not before she walks to the front door of the diner switching off the buzzing neon "open" sign and turning the placard on the door to read "closed". 

Sometimes it's too easy. 

"Two in the corner," Joel tells you in a quiet mumble, having just seen them from this vantage point. "Eatin' dessert."

You nod and when Wendy comes back with your drinks you smile up at her over the menu. You look at the special: cheeseburger with bacon. You don't really see how that's particularly special but it sounds good enough and the price is right. 

"Two of your dinner specials with fries please. No bacon on mine." 

Wendy nods, writing in her small spiral notepad just as a piercing wail is heard over the din of the quiet restaurant, pulling her attention over her shoulder.

 The toddler with the parents is displeased, slapping his hands onto the cheap table and knocking forks to the floor with a clatter. 

"Fucking brat," the old man in the booth near yours grouses to his anxious looking wife. "Should've kept the little bastard at home."

"Earl, shhh." 

You look over Joel's shoulder at the older couple, brow furrowed. You don't like the way Earls wife cowers from his menacing glare. 

Earl's about sixty with an oversized baseball cap on. He's got ears that stick out too far not to be comical. Earl feels your gaze and he catches your frown. He sneers at you before going back to his rubbery looking dinner. 

Wendy takes your order to the line cook in the back, a scrawny man with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his thin mouth. His unwashed hair is in a hairnet and his sleeveless shirt is yellowed under the armpits. 

You fish the cherry in your drink out with a spoon and pop it into your mouth while Joel drinks his coffee. You tie the cherry stem into a knot with your tongue as Joel gazes at you. It's one of his favorite tricks even though you think it's overdone. The cherry itself is sweet. You place the stem like an offering on Joel's napkin. 

The food arrives shortly, giving you and Joel plenty of time to scope out the other patrons. 

A serious looking nurse is scribbling something down in a notebook, still wearing her scrubs. A half empty mug of coffee sits next to her hand. 

The toddler is still whining and the parents look past their limit. Even the wife of Earl looks irritated behind her thick wire glasses. 

You open your burger to find bacon and give a slight frown as you pluck it from your meal, placing it at the edge of your plate for Joel. 

He swipes it eagerly, adding it to his own on his burger before biting into it. Ketchup and grease mingle, dripping down his bearded chin. 

"You look like a vampire," you tell him playfully, pressing a napkin to the mess. He gives you a slow wink before swallowing. 

"Who says I'm not?"

You watch the parents hail Wendy over and pay their tab sheepishly, giving tired smiles at the waitress before they grab their squirming toddler and head out the door. 

Tinkle tinkle. 

Joel's eyes sail back to you, brow raised. You nod and watch as he slides from the booth, sauntering towards the bathrooms. You watch through the window as the couple and child drive off into the dark of the night. 

The music is playing through a static-y radio station and now without the toddlers whining you can hear it more clearly. 

"Bright Eyes," you tell Joel with a bit of pride when he returns to the booth after having locked the door to the diner from the inside. 

He knows of your love of old music. It's one of the things you bonded over during your first day together. When the desert twisted ahead of you and you hadn't been sure if letting him drive had been wise. 

"Classic," Joel nods, chewing a fry thoughtfully as he listens, humming quietly along with the tune. 

Is it a kind of a shadow?... Reaching into the night… Wandering over the hills unseen

You've always liked this song. Liked the gentle sway of it. It's always buoyed you, made you feel that glittery sensation you get when you hear a tune that makes you feel awake.

"You know it's about dyin', right?" Joel asks during the chorus. 

"Really?" You drain your Coke glass, the sticky syrup clinging to your lips. 

"Mhmm," Joel dips another fry in ketchup. He's got a dreamy look on his face when he looks at you.  

"Huh, you slump back in the booth, licking the remnants of french fry salt from your fingertips. "Never knew that."

"Glad to be your teacher."

You give an amused chuckle at that. Joel likes to think he's teaching you things. Sometimes he is, sometimes he's just talking to hear himself speak. You don't mind though, his voice feels good in your ears or huffed along your naked body. 

You glance around to see the couple with the Sundae giggling to one another as they feed each other strawberry spoonfuls.

Wendy is back, ready to settle up everyone's tabs you think. The hour is late. Her ankles are swollen from her work; you can see them under her opaque tights. 

"Anythin' else for you two?" Wendy asks Joel. Up this close you see the lines of her tired eyes.

Joel shines a bright smile her way, one that reminds you of those animals that bare their teeth not in greeting but warning. 

"You look tired, Wendy. You wanna sleep?"

"Huh?" 

She gives a quirked half smile, dipping her head a little closer to catch what he said, clearly confused.  

She doesn't see the straight razor he's pulled from his pocket until it's swimming through the air and slicing a brutal slash along her neck. 

Droplets fly from the blade onto your cheek and you sigh gently at the warmth dropping along your skin like rain. 

Wendy doesn't even have time to realize what's going on. She just gurgles, gripping her throat like she's choking on a candy. Her bubble gum pink nails stand out sharply before they are drowned in thick red. 

By the time the other tables have looked up, you're in the kitchen taking out the distracted line cook with your knife. You consider using one of his, but you suppose you have traditions of your own.

He doesn't make a noise, kind of like he's always known this was his end and he's at peace with it. He slumps onto the grill making a sizzling noise and emitting an odor not unlike the bacon Joel took off your plate earlier. 

You hear shrieking come from the main part of the diner. The patrons have cottoned on now. The two couples and the one angry looking nurse are making the most noise. 

Their cries make a shiver roll up each notch along your spine. An ancient feeling, one from the earth and passed into your body. One that has your thighs clenching together tightly as you round on the tables, knife clutched. 

You glance over to the far side of the diner, seeing the young couple with the sundae already gone. Asleep for good. But it's not strawberry ice cream they're covered with. 

You walk over to him, noting the uncanny ability he has to not have a drop of blood on him.  Earl’s wife is shrieking at an unholy pitch, her hand on a stunned Earl's shoulder. The two stare up at Joel from the booth.  

"Like a lullaby," Joel croons from behind you, hand squeezing the back of your neck with affection as he moves to the cowering couple in the booth next to yours. 

You look in the booth at the nurse and see the fatigue written there in her expression. She works so hard, now it's time to be done. Time for her to rest.  

She tries appealing to you in Spanish but you don't understand. You see fat tears slide down her freckled cheeks and take in the way she cowers further into the booth. 

"Time to sleep," you coo gently at her, smiling. 

It's frustrating how quickly it goes. Almost as if you go to sleep and wake up with your hands smeared with blood that's not your own.

You only break from the trance-like state when the world gets loud again. A new song is playing. Hit me with your Rhythm Stick.  

"You look so fuckin' good when you do that," Joel offers huskily from over the booth at your left. You slowly glance at him in a daze, a crooked grin on your face 

"It feels so good," you slur, feeling drunk. 

You look back at the carnage in the booth, gaze falling over the stabs, the slashes, the slit throat and tangled limbs. Eyes frozen in an unending gaze, mouth parted in a silent scream. 

It makes you feel proud. Accomplished. 

Sated. 

"Please!" Earl cries now, his hand trembling out in front of him as if that could hold off Joel's approach. His wife is already gone, her head somewhere under the table. Joel takes Earl by the back of his neck, dragging him to a stand next to him. 

"Watch honey," Joel says to you with a feral smile as he slits the whimpering man's throat. Rivulets of crimson run down the column of the older man's throat, getting caught and bleeding into the pale grey collar of his shirt. 

The old man gives a gurgling sputter before collapsing onto the table, his head making a sickening crack as it makes contact before he tumbles to the floor. 

Hit me with your rhythm stick … It's nice to be a lunatic … Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!

You sigh, pupils blowing wide as you come to stand closer to Joel. You kiss his shoulder and he tips your chin with the flat of his blade, urging your eyes to his. He sees the shiny dark that's overtaken them and his lips curl into a knowing smile and the warmth in it could almost be love.

"That's what I like to see," Joel murmurs. 

You smile up at him as you drag a finger along the pool of red on the table. You look at the blood on your digit before you hold it out to Joel as an offering, an unplanned tradition on your part. He takes your wrist in one firm hand, wide fingers wrapping loosely and drawing your hand closer to his face.

Joel meets your eyes with an unwavering gaze and sucks your finger into his mouth, warm and damp. You let out a shaking breath, eyes stuck on where his pouty mouth wraps around your finger.  

"Know just what I like, don't you?" He rasps as he pulls off after licking it clean. "And I know just what you like."

You don't answer him. You simply pull yourself up onto the blood splattered table. Your heel digs into the edge of it; skirt flipped up and soaked panties on display as your thighs fall open.  

You hold yourself up with your elbows before giving Joel a patient smile. 

Joel doesn't hesitate, just pulls himself from his jeans and tugs the lace fabric of your panties to the side as he steps between your thighs. Much like your knife, he plunges, fucking you fast and hard as the table rocks under you. It's how you like it at times like this. 

You give a giddy laugh, loud and free. Your head tilts back and you let him hold you in place as the laughter bubbles from your lips. Joel watches you in amazement before holding your thighs further apart so he can enter you as deeply as possible. 

"You're somethin' else," he tells you fondly. 

You let your head fall back further, body jolting in the warm red blood. You can feel it soaking the ends of your hair. Joel's hand moves from where it was on the table to your thigh, gripping a moment before moving to your throat. Each new piece of you he touches is left with a pale red imprint. 

He presses gently on either side of your throat just under your jaw and the sensation makes your approaching climax even more potent. It makes the world slow down and get quiet. It wraps you in a world with just Joel and you existing in it. 

"That's it," he grunts out when you start to come. He loosens his grip and blood rushes to your head. "That's mine, baby. Give it here."

He holds you loosely by the throat, eyes solemn despite the broad smile he wears. You come for him, thighs quaking. He follows soon after you, pumping into you as he groans your name. 

You both pant heavily, foreheads coming to touch as you even your breathing, just as you did in the car. He pulls out of you slowly, watching your brows saddle. 

"Full?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Thank you."

He kisses you full-lipped and slow, his body draped over yours. He holds you in this embrace, forearms braced around your head like a halo. He's mentioned seeing you as angelic before and you wonder if he still sees that as you lay covered in blood. 

Maybe he sees it more.

"Wait here," he murmurs against your mouth. "Gonna go set everythin' up."

You watch his muscled figure cross the diner in search of the electrical box. You hear him shuffling in the back as you sit up, feeling as the blood dries to your skin. 

By the time the sheriff shows up tomorrow they'll be nothing but a burnt out diner caused by some faulty wiring. Joel knows all about that stuff, his background in carpentry and home repair is useful. 

Joel comes back with a jacket from the back office. 

"Might be a lil’ big but it'll do," he tells you as he helps you into it. "Just until we get you into a shower."

"Only if you'll join me."

"Count on it," he smiles, kissing you again before taking your hand. The scent of burning plastic has started - the fire in the back. The alibi. The scrubbing of all evidence you were ever here. Your fingerprints gone. Your half eaten burger charred.

"Speaking of numbers," you tell him with a glance around the still diner. "I count seven."

"Told ya," Joel insists smugly with an arm around your shoulder like he's the football captain and you are the head cheerleader. "No busboy."

He guides you to the door, the one marked closed. But something unsettles you, something that knows there is an outlier. It's the thing that makes your cast your eyes around once more. 

And then you see it, the dark black shine of work boot. It sticks out just a fraction from the booth at the far end of the diner. Your eyes settle on the grey tub full of dirty dishes sat upon its table. 

"Whatdda ya know," you muse. Joel follows your eye line, giving a frustrated exhale through his nose before the two of you are approaching the table. 

Joel is irritated, giving a growl before gripping the figure and pulling them out from under the table. 

The man gives a scream, trying to wrench from Joel's grip when he spots the carnage at the other tables at which point he goes silent. His face is pockmarked and his glasses are smudged. 

His face is white with fear. He's no younger than twenty, no older than twenty two. Younger than you'd prefer but still old enough. 

"All yours baby," Joel grins, holding the man by the back of his neck like a disobedient kitten. "You were right after all."

You shake your head almost shyly before urging the hand Joel grips his weapon with against the young man's throat. 

"Happy Anniversary, Joel."

Joel lifts his brows in surprise before he smiles at you warmly. He presses the eager blade into unwilling flesh. 

"Happy Anniversary, Bright Eyes." 

#dark!joel x reader #dark!joel miller #dark story #dark!joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #dad joel miller #joel miller #joel miller smut #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller tlou #joel x reader #joel fanfic #joel the last of us #joel tlou #tlou hbo

[internetgremlin-writes]

Flat Spin [Chapter Nine]

Summary/Prompt: 1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal 2. A state of agitation or panic [informal] As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x Female Reader

Word Count: 6,100

Warnings: Sexual references, general Chapter 8 Aftermath content

Previous chapters: ONE || TWO || THREE || FOUR || FIVE || SIX || SEVEN || EIGHT

Newton's third law is that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. 

The following hangover lasted for two days.

The next morning, you thought you were dead. Or at least you did for the thirty seconds you got to sit in that odd, floaty feeling you get when you wake up with a hangover, right up until the point where a quiet “Cariño,” brought your attention to the side of the bed where you met the soft brown of Carlos’ eyes as he waved a croissant under your nose. 

You groaned loudly as your stomach flipped and a wave of nausea crashed over you with such force you physically shuddered. 

“Get that thing away from me now,” you managed to groan against the pillow. Carlos must have managed to understand the muffled garble because the rich, buttery send drifted away.

“Good morning,”

“No,”

“What?”

“Just…” you stopped to swallow down another wave, Carlos’ peppy attitude grating on you intensely. You couldn’t finish the sentence. “‘M going to lie on the floor now,” you rolled out of bed and army-crawled into the bathroom where the cool slates were all but calling your name in the balmy morning. 

You got a whole five minutes of peace before he was grinning over you again. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Monaco winner,” you squinted at him and caught the lens of his camera flash as the sunlight caught the polished glass. You made a certain hand gesture in his direction that made him make a gleeful noise. 

“I think I’m dying,” You heaved yourself over the toilet bowl and felt his presence come mortifyingly closer before his hand landed warm on your back.  For the first time, it occurred to you what you were wearing - after a second of sifting through your swimming mind you realised it was a T-shirt, much bigger than anything you owned.  “It feels like my soul is being ripped from my body,”  You coughed, felt your mouth water and weakly tried to push Carlos away when you realised there was no escaping your imminent fate.

“So dramatic,”  he tutted, but his tone was softer, his touch careful and he stayed far too close for comfort as your body tried to expel whatever alcohol was remaining in your stomach.  Suddenly you were small again, fragile.  Something he could so easily break should he choose to. 

“Says the person who kept feeding me champagne,”  you moaned, the word like acid on your lips, and you felt your stomach heave again at the mention of it.

“Come on, you’re okay,”  Carlos’ encouraging hands were lost on you, he was trying to get you to stand, but the thought of standing made your head spin and you flopped back onto the floor, pushing your forehead harder against the tiles as you waited for the feeling to pass again, swallowing furiously and breathing deeply through your nose.  “Oh Cariño,”  he seemed to realise that there was no amount of enticing he could do to get you off the floor right then.  “Can I help?”  

“Please,”  you were so hungover tears were pricking your eyes.  “I just need a shower,”

You were semi-correct.  One cold shower and a bottle of electrolyte-spiked water later you’d made it downstairs to the lobby, lolling your seat in the breakfast lounge with sunglasses firmly in place.  But you were sat up, opposite Carlos, and picking at the display of bland, carby foods he’d fetched for you.

Carlos, who’d started the day annoyingly bright, seemed to have finally felt his hangover arrive.  He’d lost a bit of colour from his cheeks and had also gone from trying to wolf down the buffet he’d raided for himself, to nudging the bits of ham curling around the edge of his plate with his fork.  You’d have had more sympathy for him except for the fact that it was largely his fault you were in such a state. 

You were about to open your mouth to tell him off for complaining that he, too, wasn’t feeling so good when the other half of his bad influence dragged a chair around the table that was clearly meant for two, and down plopped Charles, fully accessorised with a large pair of Ray-Bans.

“Lando is not coming for breakfast,”  that didn’t surprise you, the younger Briton rarely drank and even he’d been roped into the chaos of last night.  “He’s not in good shape,”

“Surprised you’re here,”  you mumbled.  Charles shrugged, and made a vague gesture that said ‘me too’.  “D’you know where Seb and Mick are?”  If the group of twenty-something-year-old athletes had taken such a battering, you dreaded to think what had happened to poor Seb.

“Flew back to Switzerland earlier,”  Charles told you, swiping a pastry from your untouched plate as payment.  You took another gingival sip of the black coffee you were cradling, not even bothering to protest the blatant thievery.

“Where’s my phone?”  You patted your pockets, knowing full well your phone wouldn’t be there.  You hadn’t looked at it all morning, in fact, you weren’t even sure it had survived Jimmy’z and made it back to the hotel.  “Oh god,”  the words were small and defeated, accompanied by your head falling into your hands.  You knew that if your phone were missing, it would have to stay missing for at least another day; there was no way you could stomach going on the hunt for it in the state you were currently in. 

“Upstairs, I put it on the charger,”  Carlos didn’t even look up from his eggs, but you nudged his foot under the table and felt him respond with gentle pressure against your ankle.

“Thanks,”

Charles stood in a dreamlike fashion shortly after, hardly remembering to bid the pair of you goodbye as you watched him drift unsteadily back to the elevators.  The rest of the morning was spent back in your room.  The Champagne remainders were untouched, but Carlos made a good effort at finishing off the French treats that came with the celebratory hamper as you curled against him, your eyes unfocused on the mindless, trashy TV you were both pretending to watch.

The afternoon followed with an hour of lazy head, Carlos so settled between your thighs you’d thought he’d fallen asleep there.  You came quietly against his mouth, rocking your hips to match his languid pace, your fingers tightening in his hair.  The endorphin rush that spread through your body, too, was slow.  It gently made its way through your nervous system, clearing your head and healing you so blissfully that you barely noticed him kissing his way back up your stomach until you were cuddled against his chest.  Carlos held you tightly as you slept off the last of the hangover together.

“I hate this bit,”  his calf-like eyes were focused on you again.  He had that devastatingly handsome look on his face, the one he had in interviews when he’d just missed out on a pole, or a podium, or a few hundredths of a second to Charles.

“It’s just over a week,”  You promised.  He shrugged.

“Always feels like longer these days,”  You felt yourself melt against him at his words.  The advantage to Carlos’ private jet sponsorship was the equally private lounge access he got before his flight; at least this time you could say a proper goodbye.  You pecked his lips for what felt like the thousandth time that day.  You wanted to tell yourself it was just the hangover and the adrenaline crash that was making you feel clingy, but you knew deep down something had changed.  You just weren’t sure what - or how - just yet.

At least it was a night flight home.  You slept from the moment you found your seat until you were set to land, and that was only because a steward gently touched your shoulder and informed you so.  Your dad picked you up at the airport and you slept once more, the whole car journey home.  You were way too big for him to do so, but somehow you remembered briefly waking up to the feeling of him lifting you out of the car and placing you into bed.  For a moment you were the eight-year-old girl who’d won her first-ever karting race, a gruelling, wet affair that had taken everything out of your tiny body and that night too you’d slept all the way home and right through your dad carrying you to bed.  You’d clutched that trophy so hard you woke up the next morning with it still in your hand.

This time around there wasn’t a trophy in your hand the next morning.  There was the dull ache of the final stages of recovery headache and an equally dull, gnawing hunger that seemed to be coming from somewhere much deeper than your stomach.

*****

“Finally,”  was the first word to pass Andrea’s lips as you made your way downstairs for breakfast.  You weren’t sure if she was referencing the monumental lie-in you’d had or the fact that you’d cancelled the celebratory brunch you were supposed to have yesterday morning before their flight home.  You figured she meant both.

“I told you not to expect her yesterday,”  Your dad sent you a wry smile from across the breakfast table and slid you a mimosa.  Your stomach twisted, but it was weak and you wanted to make it up to your mum for standing them up yesterday.  She’d had a busy morning; a spread filled with pancakes, waffles, even french toast, with a whole tray of bacon, eggs and sausages.

“Bloody hell mum, were you expecting The Queen?”  You joked at the sheer volume of food, not that you were complaining as your dad piled your plate high, the day of barely eating finally catching up to you.

“Just my little champion,”  You smiled appreciatively, not even bothering to correct her terminology.  A single win wasn’t a championship, but this one sure as hell felt like it.  Either way, you weren’t going to complain when you had a “sim and gym” day with Katie and were going to need all the energy you could muster to survive that.  The other downside to having a rugby player as your coach, she got some kind of sick kick out of forcing you to do the most gruelling workouts on the days when you needed it the least.

Fortunately, your parents lived within an hour from Silverstone, so you took advantage of the slow lunch before getting changed into your team colours and packing your laptop and a gym bag for later.  The green seemed to shine a little brighter that morning.  You couldn’t help but admire the way your new Ray Bans seemed to complement your polo perfectly.

You hadn’t expected an honour guard, but the welcome you got when you walked into the Aston Martin headquarters was oddly quiet.  The receptionist barely lifted her head as you scanned in, and you made it all the way to your office completely unbothered, which, you thought, must have been the first time that had ever happened to you.

You popped one of those little pods into your coffee machine and contemplated snapping a picture to send to Carlos.  The man was a borderline coffee snob and with Ferrari being so deeply Italian, they seemed to have professional barristers on every corner endorsing the habit.  He’d scoff at whatever you had in your hand whenever you saw each other in the paddock and you knew his reaction would be the same towards your little coffee machine.  Could you really complain though, given how many of their exquisite drinks you’d had for free in the last few weeks?

Your thought process was interrupted by a knock on the door.  A young man in a polo shirt that was at least two sizes too big and a name badge pinned on an angle you had to tilt your head to read was hovering in the door.  You could tell by the blue of the badge that he was an intern.

“Hi,”  you volunteered it became apparent he wasn’t going to offer words.

“Oh, um, hi,”  

“What’s up? Did Katie send you?”  You could see the poor boy physically wracking his brains trying to remember if he’d met a Katie yet.

“Uhm, no I can’t remember her name - sorry - but, there’s a- like a meeting, soon?”  He paused to check his watch  “In twenty minutes.  Whole team in the… the big conference room,”

Why they had sent an intern to tell you rather than Katie, or even an email, was lost on you.  

“Thanks,”  The intern moved as if he was going to rock back on his heels to leave, and then changed his mind, swaying forwards again.

“Congrats on Monaco, by the way!”  He almost shouted, making you flinch a little and the champagne-induced throb in your head threatened to return for a moment.  “My little sister - she loves you.  And - I mean I do too - not like that!  But you’re really cool,”

He’d gone an impressive shade of pink, but the sentiment warmed your heart.

“That’s very sweet of you guys!  Hang on,”  you leaned over and grabbed a sticky note from your desk.  “What’s your name?  And your cubicle number?”  He hastily told you his name was Luke, and gave you the location of his desk in the intern pen.

“Cool, thank you.  I’ll get something for your sister sent over there,”  He nodded and retreated in a rush of thank yous.  There were always boxes of merch in your office, so it didn’t take you a minute to put together a little gift bag with a couple of your driver cards, a mini helmet model and a couple of caps, all signed for Luke and his sister along with a few other Aston Martin branded bits you had lying around.  You stuck the note with Luke’s number on the top of the bag, grabbed your coffee and made your way out.

The intern pen was on the way to the meeting rooms, so you slipped the bag under his desk on your way down, thankful that the rest of the interns also seemed to be out running errands. You’d been caught before in there and when one intern gets a sniff of their hero, you tended to get stuck in a mob it would take you at least an hour to extract yourself from.

The sheer size of the big conference room always surprised you.  Four long tables made a square, with projectors on all four sides of the room and space for a speaker to stand at one end with a platform and a microphone.  You very rarely had to go in here, meetings involving you were usually smaller affairs, or they were much larger and much more informal whole-team briefings. 

You were one of the first to arrive, despite the fact that the meeting was due to start in two minutes.  Fortunately, Seb was already there and almost instinctively you found yourself sliding into the empty seat beside him.  Despite your mother’s incredible brunch spread that morning, you still found yourself a little disappointed that there wasn’t a snack in sight.

“Do you know what this is all about?”  You whispered to Seb, the room so imposing you felt like a child in a school assembly hall, unable to raise your voice despite several other conversations happening around you.  A steady trickle of people were making their way in, several of whom you didn’t recognise, others you were more familiar with.  Your whole pit wall team was present, as well as Katie and Britta, John the social media admin and even Mike, who sat close to the podium with the microphone.

Seb shook his head, curls following the movement with a gentle bounce of defeat.  You made a non-commital noise of acceptance.  “How was yesterday?”  The question was accompanied by an elbow in your side and eyes shining with mischief.

“How was yours?”  You instantly reflected the question, but Seb stopped you with a clear look of ‘I asked you first’.  “It was rough,”  you admitted, trying hard not to recall the gory details of the morning in Monaco, but even so there was a small, proud smile fighting to make its way onto your face.

“I nearly missed my flight,”  He admitted with a wry smile.  You wanted to push for more details, but something Charles had said at the hotel breakfast distracted you.

“Wait, you went back to Switzerland - how are you here?”

“Supposed to still be there,”  he sent a look in the direction of Mike that screamed Red Bull sulk for a second, eyebrows drawn in and an impressive pout.  “I was only told about this last night.  I had to fly in this morning,” 

You were about to press further when Mike stood up and cleared his throat, effectively commanding the full attention of the whole room.  Silence fell so suddenly it was as if a mute button had been pressed.

“Right, well thank you all for coming.  I think we all know why we’re here,”  You did not like the pointed look he sent in the direction of you and Sebastian, especially considering you very much did not know why you were there.  You sent a desperate look towards Katie, hating the feeling of being caught out.  She wouldn’t meet your eyes.  

“First of all, congratulations where it’s due.  First and third for the team is an outstanding effort,”  there was a round of rather stilted applause, you and Seb standing out as you both launched into much more enthusiastic clapping, which you quickly ceased.  Mike was fiddling with the projector.  You took the opportunity to lean towards Seb.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t going to be positive?”

“Y/N, where do you want to start?”  Mike’s direct address snapped your attention right back to the front. 

“Um…”  Under his steely gaze, you had nothing to say.

“Let’s give you some options, how about that?”  The tone of his voice made it clear that that was not a question he was waiting for you to answer.  “How about assaulting a marshall?  Or marching into the Haas garage?  Acting as if you’re the only one in charge of the decision-making? Breaking into the Red Bull hospitality!?  Or perhaps your concerning relationships with other drivers? To name a few,”

Oh.

“‘Oh’ indeed,”  

“Sorry-”  Sebastian interrupted, the attention of the room immediately gravitating towards him. 

“You’re not innocent either, Vettel,”  Mike’s tone was icy as he spat the German’s surname.  You felt Seb shift beside you and knew immediately that he was switching from the gentle, bee-loving neo-hippie mentor back into the petulant driver who rose to world-dominating fame.  A fantastic scowl graced his features, clearly offended at being interrupted in such a manner.  

“What assault?”  The ‘W’ came out like a ‘V’ when he was cross.

“We’ll start there, then,”  Mike snapped.  He threw a letter down and watched it slide along the elongated desk to where you stopped it.  You didn’t need to open it because there was a copy of the contents being projected on all four sides of the room.  An official FIA statement.

A fine of 20,000 euros is to be paid by the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) alongside a requested formal apology for the physical assault of a pit lane marshal during the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix.  The driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) shall receive 1 point on their Superlicence for unsportsmanlike behaviour.

It wasn’t the money that felt like you’d just been kicked in the chest.  

“Unsportsmanlike?”  Your voice was smaller than you would have liked.  “But I didn’t assault him,”  you sounded like a child, and it was clear in Mike’s expression he wasn’t interested in your side of the argument.  

“What did you do then, Y/N?”

“I-” You took a nervous sip of coffee.  This was going to be a long meeting and you were not going to cry at the first accusation.  “I was running to the Haas garage to find out about Mick.  He grabbed me and stopped me,”

“And then what?”

“I…wriggled,”  it sounded ridiculous when you said it out loud.

“So you got into a physical altercation with a pit lane marshall?” 

“I didn’t hit him or anything!  I just got away from him,” 

“Y/N, I don’t want to hear it.”  You knew better than to argue back.  “Which brings me to my next point.” The image changed slightly, and two more letters were sent down the desk.

A fine of 5,000 euros each is to be paid by the driver of car number 5 (Sebastian Vettel) and the driver of car number 15 (Y/N Y/L/N) for the illegal entry into a competitive garage (HAAS Formula One Team) during racing hours in the second red flag event of the 2022 Formula One Monaco Grand Prix.

“Oh come on!”  Sebastian spoke from beside you where he was reading his copy of the statement.

Mike was staring right at the two of you with an exasperated fury that made you want to disappear.  You weren’t one for getting in trouble at school, but you could easily imagine this was the way teachers looked at naughty children.  It didn’t sit well in your chest.

“Sebastian, you illegally entered their garage!  Please argue that,”

“It was very clear we were both only there for the concern of our friend,”  Seb spat the word at Mike like it was venomous.  “Y/N couldn’t tell you a single detail of that garage, she was in a state,”

That was true, the only memory you had of the Haas garage was the stony-faced man in the white shirt who told you Mick was alive and the feeling of the world splitting apart beneath your feet. 

“And you want the FIA to believe that?”  Mike ran a hand through his short, grey hair and for the first time, you noticed the bags under his eyes.  You wondered how long he’d known he was going to have to handle this.

“Sportsmanlike behaviour?”  Sebastian scoffed.  “Clearly not,”

Mike had had enough of the conversation.

“You’re not to argue the fines,”  he sent a pointed look in Seb’s direction.  “You’re both to pay in full out of your personal accounts, you’re both to write formal apologies.  And you’re never going to display such immature, unprofessional behaviour again.  This goes against everything we stand for as a team and you’re both going to make a very public rectification, understood?”

You nodded, your focus suddenly extremely limited to the square of the desk in front of you, unable to look up and meet the eyes of anyone in the room.  Your face was burning, your vision was swimming and you knew you had never been so embarrassed in your life.  You could feel Sebastian beside you, almost quivering with rage and his hands balled into tight fists in the periphery of your vision.  Unlike you, his whole body was tense, on high alert and ready to fight.

“You’re also extremely lucky that Christian is a very reasonable man and isn’t pressing charges for your little stunt in the Red Bull swimming pool.  How stupid could you possibly be thinking that was a good idea?”  You sank further into your seat, what had appeared nothing more than a hilarious prank at the time suddenly was thrown into harsh, bleak contrast as you realised just how dangerous your idea had been.  Although it had been your idea, John was rounded on for his turn of telling off.  You didn’t even feel like the pressure had been taken away from you, as you watched the beloved members of your team that you had slowly grown closer and closer to being reprimanded on your behalf.  The guilt was eating you alive.

“A team apology has already been issued to Red Bull.  I don’t want to hear another word about this now-”  Mike interrupted at least three of you who had spoken up over the stunt at once.  “John, you stick to your team’s ideas only from now on and Y/N and Sebastian - you’ll be having separate PR briefings because you know Drive to Survive will be all over this,”  Mike paused to rub his temples.

A break was suggested, and half the room stood to go and locate coffee.  Mike took two paracetamol and you couldn’t help but think he had the right idea, however, you felt like you were glued to your seat.  Katie was still refusing to meet your gaze and with Seb and Britta murmuring over an iPad in rapid-fire German, you suddenly felt very small and very alone.  You were almost willing for Mike to hurry up and continue the onslaught because at least it gave you something to focus on.

After the break, you moved on from fines to receiving a very public lecture about your attitude towards tyres.  Apparently arguing with your strategist over broadcasted radio is not something well endorsed by Aston Martin, regardless of who’s opinion was right. 

“You have one job, Y/N,”  Mike snapped.  “Just the one!  Drive the fucking car.  The idea of it being a team sport is that we sort the rest,”

That was enough to tip you from embarrassment to anger.

“I drove that ‘fucking car’ to first place!  And had you boxed me to inters I would have driven that fucking car right into a fucking wall.  I argued because I was right,”

“You weren’t right, you were lucky!”  

“I’m the driver, if anyone knows the tyres it’s me,”

“You’re barely out of your rookie season.  You respect the strategy we give you,”

“Not when it’s wrong!  I listened to you in Imola and-”

“Enough!  Y/N that is enough!”  Mike was red in the face, and his hands slammed down right in front of you so that he was towering over your seated frame as he shouted.  “Maybe your friends at Ferrari can call their shots but you are not contracted for your opinion and we do not want to hear it.  Need I remind you Lawrence’s son is waiting for your seat,”

“How dare you talk to her like that,”  Sebastian’s voice was so controlled it screamed danger.

“Be quiet, Sebastian,”  Britta’s hand landed on his arm.  Seb dropped whatever he was about to say, but it couldn’t break the intense stare you were stuck in with Mike himself.

“And as if that wasn’t enough damage-” 

Mike stepped away from you, clicking on a few slides further where a collection of images made your stomach sink.

“Schumacher is young, he’s popular and he’s already formed a close alliance with Sebastian.  We chose to ignore whatever your relationship with him may be.  Your personal life should be none of our business,”

You knew what was coming next.  One of the pictures on the screen was of you wrapping your entire body around Mick right as he’d stepped out of the safety car, his head buried in your neck and Sebastian closing in on you.  The second image was taken shortly after; you were gripping each other’s forearms with your heads pressed together.  To an outsider who didn’t know the depth of your bond, it was obviously intimate.  The third photo was at the end of the race when you’d jumped into Carlos’ arms and he’d held your legs.  You hadn’t noticed at the time but here, caught in HD, the way his fingers splayed across your bum was not friendly, nor was the way he was looking at you in total awe.  The quality of the final photo dropped off significantly, but the evidence was so much worse. 

A grainy picture that was taken in the dark of Jimmy’z.  Carlos’ hips pressed so close to yours there wasn’t a spec of space, his hand in your hair and the other on your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. His nose was at the juncture of your neck and lips millimetres from your skin.  You were no better, eyes closed and lips parted in clear bliss, a hand gripping his bicep for dear life and the other fisted in the front of his shirt, clearly encouraging him into you.  

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N,”  Katie’s voice was quiet enough that few people would have heard her.  The disappointment in her tone echoed in the pang in your chest.

“It’s not what it looks like-”

“Shut up, Y/N,”  Mike snapped.  “You have done enough for a lifetime in less than 24 hours.  I don’t want to hear another word from you,”

“But I’m not dating Mick, it’s not-”

“ENOUGH!  The adults are talking now,”  

That stung.  The tears that had been intermittently welling in your eyes finally spilt over as you swallowed the lump in your throat.  You made an exaggerated gesture of running both hands across your face in frustration to remove the evidence, although you knew it was obvious he’d finally made you cry, and in front of the whole team no less. 

The PR team were suddenly speaking up, discussing how much they’d offered the magazine companies that had hold of the paparazzi photos to keep their silence.  Mike had sat down and for the first time, there was an efficient, business-like feel to the meeting rather than a public humiliation.

Within the next half an hour several cover-up stories had been prepared and were ready to be released if - and when - the rumours started.  You weren’t consulted on a single one, despite it being your personal life under the microscope.  Katie was the only person sticking up for you, and you had a strong sense that you were not going to be received well if you tried to offer anything.  You didn’t understand the full scope of what the PR team were suggesting, too many business-like words and complicated, contractual terms for simple things that you were simply too overwhelmed to be handling right then.  From what you understood they’d be saying you’d broken up with Mick and Carlos was nothing more than a drunk moment.

Agreements were starting to be murmured and there was a restlessness you could feel spreading amongst the whole meeting.  Mike announced the dismissal and people were nodding and iPads were being packed away.  You didn’t dare move.  Seb was the second person out of the door, his expression nothing short of stormy.

Mike spotted that you were still rooted to your seat amongst the steadily growing flow of people leaving.

“I want your apology done and published tomorrow.  Pay the second the FIA contact you.  Keep your head down, you do nothing between now and Baku but train and I swear to god Y/N, you pull another stunt like this again and you’re out, I don’t care how talented you are,”  

You held Mike’s gaze, something childish in you refusing to acknowledge him further than a swift nod.  You tried not to look too much like you were scampering out of the meeting room with your tail between your legs, but you knew it was obvious.

Sebastian was in your office.

“Looking for these?”  He held up your car keys, which were exactly what you were looking for.  There was nothing in the world that could stop you from immediately getting out of the Silverstone complex as quickly as possible.  You nodded, fully aware that your chin was wobbling as you fought off a fresh wave of tears. 

“Good.  Come on,”

He marched ahead of you through the building, out into the car park and unlocked your car, opening the passenger door for you with an expectant look.  He didn’t say a word as he climbed into the driver’s seat, and pulled out of the complex with impressive speed.

“Cry now,”  He said.  You didn’t need much encouragement. 

He drove in silence for ten minutes, whilst you tried to cry as quietly as you could.  There was something big building in your chest and it was hurting the more you tried to control yourself.  Seb pulled off the main road into a leafy, sheltered run-off that was totally uninhabited.  He parked, rounded back over to your side and without a single word pulled you up and into his arms.

He held you tight and allowed you to finally let out the broken sob that sent you spiralling into a full-blown panic attack. 

“Sorry-”  you choked out but Seb immediately cut you off with a firm ‘no’.  He didn’t try and talk you through it or get you to stop, instead letting you work your way through the way your body was attempting to rip itself in two until you somehow found your own breathing rhythm and your chest stopped squeezing and the sobs settled to a gentle stream of tears.  He just held you, firm and fast against his chest and let you figure it all out yourself. 

“You need to cry,”  He told you when you tried to apologise again,  the both of you now sat on the floor in the late May sunshine.  “You’ll feel better.  But not in there,”

“Oh my god, Seb-”  the wave of dread that had temporarily pulled back crashed over you once more, and you immediately curled towards your senior, his arm opening and pulling you into his shoulder as if it was second nature.

“I know,”

“My career is over,”  you moaned, a fresh stab of pain shooting through you.  “Lance has been waiting for me to fuck up for years,”

“They are not going to sack the winner of Monaco,”

“But-” 

“Look,”  Seb handed you a stack of papers you hadn’t noticed he was carrying.

“What is this?”  

“I printed them off last night.  I thought we might need them,”  Each sheet was a photocopy of a news article, each about a scandal involving an F1 driver.  Seb himself and the Multi-21 incident was on the first page, there were several other on-track episodes, but what mattered most to you at that moment was the list of after-party allegations.  From wild parties to sex scandals, the list of drivers with gossip surrounding them was ridiculous.  Seb plucked the bottom paper from your hands.  It was several screenshots of ‘news’ from Monaco two nights ago.  Lewis in the club bathrooms, Checo allegedly cheating on his wife, Lando had been caught kissing that girl he was talking about, Charles had a very public fight with Charlotte, and Mick had been seen walking a girl home. 

“Scandals are part of the job,”  was all he said.  “How many of these do you remember, Y/N?”  You flicked through the pages again.

“Maybe three?” 

“Exactly my point.  It all dies the second they see something more interesting to talk about,”

“But it’s different, they already don’t take me seriously because I’m a girl, and now they all think I’m fucking half the grid and have evidence,”  The image from the club flashed across your mind again.  You had a feeling Mike had only put up a select sampling.

“I know,”  Seb pondered  “I don’t have the answers for that one,”

“Thank you,”  you hoped he knew how much you meant it.  “I think you’re the only person who can make this feel like it isn’t the end of the world,”

“Do you know how many times Christian told me off in front of the whole team?”

“No?”

“Enough that I just used to laugh when he tried,”  You gave a wet giggle at that.  “Do you want to go to McDonald’s?” 

“I always want to go to Maccies,”  you agreed, allowing Seb to once again drive as you pulled out of the quiet spot and rejoined the main road to find the nearest food source.

“One day, we will laugh about this,”  He handed you the prized milkshake from the drive-thru window.

“I can’t believe he actually called me a diva over tyres,”  Seb managed to grin around his veggie burger. 

“Yes.  But you need to know, Y/N, the way he spoke to you was completely unacceptable,”

A few of Mike’s choicer phrases bounced around your head. 

“No jokes about that, okay?  I’m going to do something - or say something - I don’t know what yet,”

“You don’t have to,”

“I’m your mentor.  And you’re my friend.  I’m not letting anyone talk to you like that and get away with it, do you understand me?” 

“Yes, but shouldn’t I say something?  Feminism and sticking up for myself and all that?”

“I think experience is more important here.  And keeping you out of any more trouble,”

“Thanks, Grandpa,”  

“Hey, enough of that!” he nudged your elbow, and the pair of you dissolved into emotionally drained giggles over your shitty burgers.

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

Liked this? Check out more of my work here: MASTERLIST

Helloo, long time no see!

As per standard Iggy behaviour, I vanished for a few months but I'm back! Uni is finished, I can finally breathe and I have three months until I start my job in which priority #1 is finish Flat Spin so I hope you're all ready for an onslaught of writing >:)

I've missed being here so much and I'm so excited to pick up this story again. Hopefully, we can all remember the 2022 season lol. As always, this is a work of fiction based on real life but nothing more. I'm sure Mike is actually a lovely person and a great team principal, I just needed him to be like this for The Plot! (also can we talk about Aston Martin this season? Suddenly I'm not feeling like this fic is totally delusional hehe)

Anyway, so happy to be back. So excited for the next few months!

Lots and lots of love, Iggy

Taglist: @imreallylosingit @serialkillertbh @sticksdoesart @piceous21 @whosays75 @xscorpioxmoon @j-brielmalfoy @22yuki @teapartydreams @guccicloudz @valkyrie418 @nochillnel

@ruledchaos @isabellabrodar @ccloaned  @ihearttheoriginals @ferrarifwendvale @bradfordbantams @bobohumyonlyboo @zoobabystation @formulacads @f1-incorrect-s @alicekepley @thembeforethea

(taglist is too big for one post so 2nd half are tagged with a link post don't panic!)

#flat spin #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz #formula one #f1 #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz junior #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz jr #sebastian vettel #mick schumacher #aston martin #fanfic #fanfiction

[peachnewt]

Midnight Snack - Dogs vs Moths

Necessity is the mother of invention. But being bitter, pissed off, and determined is at least a sibling to invention.

Two weeks after New York's finest rolled out their Robot squad, consisting of ten robotic "dogs", they were used in the suppression of a protest. Originally a peaceful protest until someone yanked a flag out of a protestor's hands and ripped it while shouting expletives. Yelling, pushing, phones capturing the phenomenon of one idiot baiting an already wounded social movement.

Of course the cops came. Of course they set the robotic dogs on the ones holding the signs asking to be heard. There were more protestors than baiters, therefore they were the ones that needed to be "quieted down".

Of course people got hurt.

One woman broke three of her fingers, trying to get her sleeve out of the robot dog's joints, and ended up being dragged 9 yards. One teenage boy suffered a concussion, knocked out when a robot dog ran him over and made him fall onto a curb. And one elderly man, not part of the protest or baiters, just a guy trying to get a bag of apples from one side of the street to the other, tried fending off one of the robot dogs, only for his cane to accidentally strike the cap off the canister for the flamethrower option that the police assured the public "was not operational", and "had safety measures that made what happened a one in a million chance".

The fiery plume had been seen three blocks away. People ran, flattening signs, bodies, and the fallen apples into mush. The old man was still in a burn ward a week later.

Social media threads tried pointing out the countless dangers and damage the dog-shaped robots had done. The press conference given by the police commissioner had called the deployment of the robots a "success against those who would work against law and order".  He neglected to mention that the protestors had a permit for their protest and it had been legal.

Of course outcry against the robot dogs were stifled as hypothetical "good reasons" to use the robot dogs were passed out. Dangerous domestic situation? Use a robot dog instead of cop. Fire in a building? Use a lightweight robot dog to find survivors quicker, making fire and rescue more efficient. Need a guard for a daycare facility against "child predators"? Robot dog; cheaper in the long run, and doesn't have to pass a background check.

Why would a child try to pet the robot dog and get their fingers caught in the joints and seams? That would never happen. It's not a pet, the child should know better.

And yet the police unit with the ten robot dogs had an elementary school submit names for the robotic units. Names like Spot, Basil, Fluffy, Corncob, Piddle, Optimus Prime, Shadow, Terminator, Frankenpup, and Ash.

Of course some people got angry.

And Will was more than angry as he read article after article and social post about the ten robot dogs being hailed as "law enforcement's best friend".

Louis had walked by with another stack of patents and eyed the steaming mug of tea in Will's hand. "Fanboy, any harder and you're going to break that mug."

Will glared at the screen and put down his tea. "Have you seen this?"

"Yes." Louis put half the patents on Will's desk before sitting at his own. "And you should hear what Megan had to say to it."

"Right. She's a former cop. She pissed?"

"She's been going through her contacts to find anyone associated with NYPD or company that made those robotic canines and sold them. She wants to yell at someone so bad.

"How bad?"

"There might be an impromptu combat tutorial later tonight. Make sure you're wearing your cup if you're going to be dumb enough to be the "volunteer" again."

Will hissed and adjusted his hips in the chair. He didn't want to remember the last time he forgot.  "Noted."

Thankfully the "combat tutorial" was cancelled by alarms blaring and Will and Louis running off to find something that someone else found and shouldn't have.

Instead Megan posted an article on the community board of things to do when encountering a robot dog.

1 - Run

or

2 - Smash the hellhound with a long blunt object. Then run.

Three weeks, and another "successful deployment of robotic units" later, a high school robotics team from a small town in Oklahoma submitted their winning design to the patent office. The submission was a formality, for the students, and teacher in charge of the robotics team, had uploaded the schematics to the internet under public domain.

The winning robot was a moth whose hollow body was little bigger than a can of spray paint, and wings over two meters wide. A head with two curly feelers and wide jewel-like eyes, contained a spraying nozzle.  The wing span was necessary due to what it's hollow body would carry.

A can of expanding foam.

They had named it Sky-ju. Probably because naming it Mothra wasn't allowed for copyright reasons.

With the schematics came a video file showing how the robot would flutter off the ground, swoop, hover, and, with the instruction of the person holding the controller, spray the expanding foam on a cardboard cutout shaped suspiciously like a robot dog.

The robot dog was smothered, and the Sky-ju flitted off to spray another day.

Of course Will followed a link to give a charitable donation to the school's club.

A day later someone submitted an altered patent for the moth, but a third of the size, and instead of holding a spray can, it could hold a small bladder full of salty, sticky, pickle juice to aim at the joints of robot dogs. And this one came with a black furry covering for the body that could be removed and cleaned.

It had been named Fluff-ra. And kids were allowed to pet it without fear of their fingers being stuck in joints. As proven by the video posted later that day of kids taking turns with Fluff-ra in a park, squirting down empty soda cans.

There had been a "support me" link. Or course Will bought a Fluff-ra acrylic charm. It would go perfectly with his collection of other nerd-flavored charms he hung on his Christmas tree like ornaments.

Louis, of course sipped his coffee, and shook his head. "You know there could be problems with this getting into the wrongs hands."

Will sighed and signed off the latest patent for a three chambered thermos.  "I know," he admitted.

"What's  to stop someone turning the moths into flamethrowers? Or to give it a can of Axe spray to fumigate someone's house? Or bought by the police and filled with pepper spray?"

"What would have stopped the NYPD from using those dogs against protestors instead of using them for fire and rescue like they promised?" said Will. "I know me buying an acrylic charm doesn't do much in the face of an institution that relies more on brute force than de-escalation. But I need to keep hope somehow."

"I didn't mean to shoot down your hopes and dreams It's just..." Louis finished the last of his coffee. He shouldn't drink another today. Not if he wanted to sleep on time. "It's hard to see them when I've seen a lot of people using things the wrong way for the wrong reasons."

"That's why you have me as your partner," said Will, smiling.

"Hm. Didn't think we would end up in a moral discussion about robot moths and dogs."

"Nearly came close to an argument," said Will.

"Probably," admitted Louis.

"You can make it up to me."

Louis cocked an eyebrow, thinking of all the ways he could "make it up" to Will. "Oh?"

Will grinned, so saucily that it could have been bottled and sold for barbeques. He leaned over and whispered to Louis. "Godzilla verses Mothra movie tonight? The original 1960s version?"

Not what Louis expected. But he would run with it if seeing an old monster flick would make Will happy. "Okay."

"And then maybe afterwards... you could pretend to be one of the moth fairies and me a lost explorer on an island?"

"There are fairies in a Godzilla movie?"

"You'll find out."

Of course he would.

---

You can watch Mothra vs Godzilla free on Tubi, Shout Factor, and Youtube!

#getting in deep #peachnewt #support getting in deep #midnight snack #a response to robotic dogs being used by police

[heliacalxrising]

Hell-ish Timeline

The Earth: The planet is formed by God, and the angels are sent to watch over it. The dinosaurs are the first life forms, as well as the aquatic fish.

The Garden: The Human Experiment by the Elder Angels. Lucifer is smitten by Adam and Lilith, and their friendship lasts a year; Lucifer and Lilith are discovered to be having an affair and forcefully separated. Lilith is banished from the Garden and Lucifer is on lockdown for six months before he manages to escape. He steals the Fruit intending to give it to Lilith thinking it might keep her safe, but she insists on giving it to Adam and Eve to save them from Heaven. This event triggers the Root of All Evil to take place.

The Trial + The Fall: Lucifer and Lilith are arrested and taken to court before the Elder Angels; deemed guilty for their crimes despite pleading ignorance, Lucifer is forcefully thrown from Heaven with Lilith jumping after him; they crashland in Hell, breaking Lucifer's wings and transforming Lilith into the First Demon.

The Dawn Age of Hell: Lucifer and Lilith attempt to create something out of the barren wasteland they landed in. The Sins are the first to form, with Asmodeus and Satan as the first and the oldest. The Ars Goetia arrive as well, establishing themselves as the keepers of Earthen Knowledge and ancient magic. Lucifer tries to return to Earth many times, only to discover the chains holding him in Hell are never breaking. Slowly, they begin expanding the realm, forming the Rings and the Sins each take a Ring to rule over in Lucifer's name, with Pride being the first; "Pride goeth before the Fall".

The Sinners Arrival: Human Souls did not start arriving in Hell until the time of Noah. When the Great Flood killed them all, save for Noah and his family upon the Ark, Lucifer and Lilith were shocked by this predicament. In a surge of empathy, Lucifer began to try and redeem the Sinners, establishing rules and order. The Sinners, prickly and dark, began to respond well to this new land, and Lucifer felt hope. He began to try and contact Heaven for help on his endeavors, but he was consistently ignored.

The Dark Age: Sinners kept arriving, becoming worse and worse with every generation. Law and order were beginning to strain under the weight of it all. Lucifer discovered that the Sinners were blaming him for their wickedness through Paimon, and when he reached out to Heaven one final time, he was given one clear message: You are responsible for humanity's darkness, and thus you shall only ever behold the wicked hearts born from your actions. In retaliation, Lucifer became a cruel ruler, establishing terror over his realm in order to bring things back into proper order. He frequently tortured and ate Sinners at his own leisure; when the Sinners realized he wasn't going after the Hellborn, this began the divide between the Sinners and the Hellborn, forcing the Hellborn further down the hierarchy. The Dark Age lasts for 4,000 years.

The Silver Age: Extremely brief. Lucifer's depression had taken hold, and the Dark Age was coming to a quiet end. There was relative peace for about 300 years, with the surviving Sinners warning the newly manifested Sinners to toe the line and not piss off Lucifer lest they want to be ripped apart or consumed.

The Extermination Age: Lucifer was finally dragged back to Heaven to discuss the idea of the Exterminations. He begged and pleaded for a chance to redeem the Sinners properly, trying to persuade Sera that the Sinners could make the work if they really wanted to, but Sera insisted it could not be done. After hours of back and forth, Lucifer finally reluctantly signed the deal to allow the Exterminations. The Sinners are rounded up from the other Rings, trapped forever in Pride, to be nothing but sitting ducks.

A New Heir Is Born: Charlotte Morningstar is born -- under mysterious circumstances -- 2,000 years after the first Extermination Day. She is the apple of her father's eye, and the pride of all of the realm of Hell. Unfortunately, shortly after her birth, the King and Queen are rumored to be slowly drifting apart.

The Hazbin Hotel: Currently happening; the Princess of Hell is trying to redeem souls, much like her father before her. Except this time, she promises that she will succeed, and Lucifer hopes that she will.

#headcanon;; #long post tw

[north-blue-hearts]

Famous Last Words

CisFem Reader x Trafalgar Law

CW: Violence, swearing, mature themes, erotic romance, angst, creative use of devil fruits, this story is still in progress, I will add content warnings as needed.

Chapter 4: Teenagers

The world came back into focus, muted and useless to you compared to the man up on the stage. Tall and graceful, singing into the microphone and moving easily around the stage. The scrubs had been torn away to show off the costume for the song, and his eyes danced along the rows and rows of faces in the crowd as he entertained everyone.

Your soulmate was Trafalgar D. Law, lead singer of Your Synthetic Enchantment.

Realization and dread slammed into you at the same time. Your soul mate was one of the most famous people in the entire world. Millions of people knew who he was. Fans followed him and the band almost obsessively.

News coverage. Interviews. Cameras.

They traveled by submarine specifically to avoid having fans follow them from one show to the next, so that they could dock on islands in peace and have time to themselves before the show. There were rumors that they had devil fruits and paid people off to keep it quiet. There wasn’t anything that they had that could be kept private.

Or secret.

Would the marines take you away to some secluded island if – no. No, wait, what would they do for him? His life was far more important, what if the murderer learned about this? What if he hurt Law to get to you?

Panic flooded into your chest and your breath caught for a completely different reason. He couldn’t die, he couldn’t. You didn’t even want him to know harm or pain.

You had to leave. You had to. If you left then he wouldn’t see your face, if he never saw you, then he wouldn’t know. You could know, and you’d be okay. You’d be okay because he’d be safe.

He would.

You could do it.

Tears flooded your eyes as you watched him on stage. You didn’t want to leave. You didn’t want to be any further from him than you absolutely needed to be. You wanted to tell him everything. You wanted to know what your name sounded like on his lips, your real name.

You were angry with Nami.

She said you’d know. She didn’t say how frighteningly powerful that knowing was.

“Caddy?” Zoro’s voice cut through the noise around you as he put a hand on either shoulder and turned you to look at him.

Your eyes are ripped from the stage, and you look at Zoro. Tears are pouring down your face, and you’re dizzy from the flood of emotion.

“You okay?” He asks, wiping the tears away in the hopes that you’ll be able to look at him clearly. “Talk to me, are you just fan-swirling or whatever it’s called?”

You grab his shirt, your mind and heart and body are all at war, and it’s everything you have to yell. “Get me out of here, please!”

You can feel the air around Zoro shift, as you’re hastily wiping tears from your eyes. He lifts you up directly, hugging you to his chest, and shifting you only enough to hook both your legs into one arm, holding them against his waist so he had one hand free.

He pushed his way through the crowd smoothly, but you were barely halfway through the throng when the song ended. Zoro kept making his way in the darkened arena, but the words from the stage made you flinch.

“Thank you!” Law said into the microphone. “It’s our pleasure to be performing for you all, here on the Polestar Islands!”

The crowds’ screams reached a brand new crescendo, before calming down again.

“I have an important announcement before we continue with tonight’s program.” He says, and the edge of the entertainer is leaving his voice. There’s a vulnerability in it that the crowd has keyed in on.

“Oh no.” You say the words softly, but Zoro hears you, and stops pushing through the crowd, turning to look toward the stage with you.

“I’ve met my soulmate.” He says, and the hush that hits the arena is absolute.

You can feel Zoro’s eyes drilling a hole into the back of your head, but you can’t pull your gaze away from the stage.

You hear a voice, you know it’s Nami, but you’re so far from her.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” She screams at the top of her lungs, fingers twined with Vivi’s the two of them holding their hands up in the air.

There’s a short chuckle that escapes Law and the entire arena breaks into cheers. There’re a few people sobbing, you can hear them around you, but finding one’s soul mate is almost everyone’s dream in this world.

You can hear his thanks tumbling into the microphone as the crowd slowly calms down.

“They’re… shy though.” He says, and you can feel his eyes almost searching the crowd for you. He’s quiet as he searches the crowd, but it almost looks like he’s looking over every single fan. As though he’s asking for their support – close as he’d ever dare to beg.

“He’s asking his fans to back off.” Zoro murmurs, and you nod.

“For you.” He says it so quietly you’re certain no one else could’ve heard, but you don’t nod or shake your head. You just grip his shirt a little tighter.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, taking the held breath of the arena as understanding.

The big screen at the back of the stage shifts, and a song title slams into the screen as Law begins to sing and the band picks up with him at the same time.

“Now I know… that I can’t make you stay, but where’s your heart?” He sings, beginning the song as you tug on Zoro’s sleeve again, urging him back through the crowd.

He continues his push through the subdued crowd, people slowly coming out of their own stupors as the lyrics revitalized the arena. By the time you cleared the arena floor the concert venue was back to normal.

Out in the hall, it was nearly empty, the heavy doors closing behind the both of you, the only other people around were those coming from or going to the restroom. Zoro stops once you’re in the hall and pats your back.

“This far enough?” He asks. “I can take you all the way back to the General.”

You shake your head, letting yourself be set back on your own two feet as you took a moment to compose yourself.

“Thank you, Zoro.” You murmur. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“For what? I’m here to work. I’m not a fan.” He admits, jerking a thumb back to the arena. “Though, I guess I’m not going to ask you out to coffee tomorrow.” He says, and gives you a toothy smile when you look up at him in shock.

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” Zoro assures you with a laugh, ruffling your hair. “Usopp says teasing someone is a good way to distract ‘em.” He explains. “I didn’t mean to make you panic like that.”

“There she is!” The voice that called out was cheerful, and didn’t sound at all dangerous, but Zoro had you behind him in a blur.

The man who had spoke up put his hands in the air. He was really tall, kind of a mess of limbs, with bright makeup that looked a little clownish. He wore a shirt covered in hearts, and burgundy slacks with a matching, open blazer over the light pink shirt. He had a messy mop of hair on his head, and looked about as dangerous as a newborn giraffe.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m Donquixote Rosinante, Law’s manager, you can just call me Cora-san.” He explains, before pointing at the other, taller, broad-shouldered fellow with him. “This is Jean Bart, our head of security.”

Zoro was not relaxing. You peeked out from behind him and wondered if he could take two people, both of whom were decidedly larger than he was. It wasn’t often anyone made Zoro look small.

“We’re not – we won’t try to force anything.” Rosinante says carefully. “But we would like to talk somewhere privately.”

“Caddy?” Zoro prompts. “What’re we doing?”

You look around, and realize the hall is completely empty, save for the four of you. You look back at the other two.

“No one will know?” You ask apprehensively.

Rosinante smiles, and something in it makes you feel at ease. “We have people who are currently going through the security videos, removing you from all of them.” He promises.

You pat Zoro’s arm. “It’s okay.” Zoro relaxes and steps to the side. “Can you go back to the others and let them know I’m okay?”

Zoro looks over at you, his face scrunching up a little. “That’s… not normally how I work.” He admits.

“Oh! Oh, right you’re… you were actually hired, right.” You clear your throat. “Then, it’s best if you do what you’d normally do, I think.”

“Roronoa Zoro,” Jean Bart says. “Now I recognize you. It’ll be good if you come along as well.”

You blink a few times, but Zoro steps toward the two gentlemen and you follow along close behind. Rosinante smiles, turning and leading the way while also making sure to smile and chat with you as you walk. The other man’s eyes are forward the entire time, and he either pulls Rosinante or shoves things out of his way as you all walk.

“Law has been talking about you for weeks.” Rosi explains as you walk. “He was flustered about having such a vivid dream, but the more he talked about it, and thought about it, the more he realized what had happened. Poor Sachi went through almost a pound of paper, drawing your likeness over and over until he was satisfied it was correct.”

You feel your face go hot and you’re quietly glad that the concept of desperation wasn’t just on your shoulders.

“He wanted to search the entire island when we got here.” Rosinante continues. He’s so happy as he’s talking, you don’t dare tell him that he’s effectively showing off Law’s baby pictures behind his back with how much he’s spilling to you. “My boy, I’ve never seen him so flustered.”

Jean Bart clears his throat. “Cora-san, you’re going to upset him.”

“Huh? Oh, haha, yeah, you’re probably not wrong.” He admits sheepishly, one large hand behind his head as he grins. “Sorry about that. He was so adamantly against believing in Soul Mates though, for years.” Rosinante says, rambling again. “Statistically improbable, he’d say. So much more for him to focus on. He only agreed to the tour for the rest of the band. It’s hard for them to meet people, you know, and the boys were hoping their soul mates would see them while they were on tour. I mean, ten million tickets sold over two hundred islands, then statistically, the odds are in their favor.”

“Ten million tickets?!” You exclaim your eyes going wide.

Rosinante nods. “It’s a little less than Uta’s last world tour, but it is the first world tour for this band. It’s a very respectable turn out.”

“It’s… an amazing turn out.” You agree, feeling a little overwhelmed just by the sheer number of tickets.

Jean Bart opened a door and stepped aside, letting the three of you file into the room before him. The small room was just about big enough for maybe ten people, and there were three other doors coming from it. Jean opened the far right door and it opened into a long hall way.

Rosinante kept walking. “Down this way is a nice, quiet, secluded waiting area. It would’ve been used by a second or third band, if we were touring with openers or closers, but it’s just our little troupe, so there’s a lot of empty spaces.”

“The show has about an hour to go, maybe a little longer with an encore. Do you have any requests?”

You looked at Zoro and then back as Rosinante as he motioned for you to seat yourself where ever you wanted within the sizable room. You could see a band group fitting in easily, and there was a monitor on the wall. Rosi turned it on and there was a feed of the concert.

“It’s from the security cameras, so the sound will be a bit… brash, but you can watch the concert from in here. We can bring you something to eat, oh the restroom’s just down the hall. Jean can stand guard outside, and make sure no one meanders down the hall unexpectedly.” He states, working through the short list of options.

“Um… I…” You sit on the couch, and Zoro stays by the door as Rosinante sits across from you and Jean steps outside. “Water?”

Zoro bites his lip to keep from snorting, and Rosinante smiles. “Sure thing, Miss – ah, sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Ar… Arcadia.” You say quietly.

“Very well Miss Arcadia.” He says, turning slightly and grabbing a bottle of water from a mini-fridge tucked under a vanity. “You can request a song, if you like? I can make sure he knows.”

You shake your head. “I like,” you smile softly. “A lot of their songs, so it’s okay.”

Rosinante’s face lights up, but he doesn’t say anything, giving you a few minutes. The bustling manager is starting to realize that it was probably a bit of a whirlwind for you, coming down here.

“After the concert, he’ll have backstage passes to deal with, won’t he?” You question, taking a drink.

Rosinante sighs a little, cheeks tinged pink. “He does, technically, yes.”

You tilt your head and Rosi looks sheepish. “If we found you, he had every intention of canceling the meet and greets. But!” He says somewhat hopefully. “We only gave backstage passes to people the band already knew on this island. We didn’t want to have a throng of people in the backstage in case someone made a connection. I mean, the assumption was the connection would be for Sachi, Penguin or Bepo, and not Law – at least when we initially set this up.”

“It’s only like, six people, I’m sure -.”

You reach into your pocket, pulling out your backstage pass, and Zoro does the same.

“Oh. Well, that settles that then.” He says. “I’m assuming you’re okay being seen by your friends?”

You smile. “Yes. They were going to find out about this one way or another.”

#Famous Last Words #Trafalgar Law x reader #x reader #reader insert #trafalgar d water law #band AU #Soul Mate AU

[haikyuu-sins]

Smutty first prompt with Law please!!

Starting off strong with some smutty Law~ These are just going to be little drabbles, so nothing too long! This one isn’t smutty so to say, but I still had fun writing it! 

Minors DNI.

Warnings: Choking

If Law had one guilty pleasure, it was buying clothes just so he could rip them off of your body and have his way with you. Sure he could just take them off like a normal person, or even use his devil fruit, but where would the fun be in that? 

Sometimes it would be underwear. Other times it would just be a simple tank top with nothing underneath. He loved watching you walk around in the things he bought for you, knowing that they were soon going to be a tattered mess on the floor. 

This particular night, he had you wear something nicer. Your anniversary was today and it just so happened that they would be stopping at an island on the actual day, which didn’t happen often. 

If he was being honest, he didn’t actually buy this particular dress for you with those intentions though. He simply wanted you to have something nice to wear, something that he knew you would feel beautiful in because he loved seeing you feel confident in the things you wore. 

The dress was hung up in perfect view for you to see as soon as you walked in. You suppressed the wide smile that was about to spill over by biting your bottom lip. Walking over to the dress, your hand ran your fingers along the silky material. 

“Happy Anniversary. Like it?” Law asked as he leaned against the frame of the door. His lips tugged up slightly, smiling to himself because he knew he did a good job with this dress. 

You let out a quiet gasp, not hearing him and turned around to face your boyfriend. It was then that your smile truly came out. You threw your arms around his neck, your smile not once faltering as you gave him a soft kiss on his lips. “I can’t even tell you how much I’m in love with this dress.” 

“We’re going to be at the island soon, why don’t you get ready?” he kisses the top of your head before leaving to let you ready in peace. 

It didn’t take you too long, just a quick shower and styling your hair to your liking. Once you were finished, you grabbed the dress and slipped yourself into it. It felt like it was tailor made just to fit you. 

You could feel the submarine begin to rise, letting you know that you had arrived at the island. Grabbing a necklace that Law had gifted you, you attempted to put it on before it was taken out of your hands and into another's. 

“Let me.” Law clipped it in the back and you turned to look at him when he finished. This was supposed to be nice and romantic, but fuck-Law couldn’t take his eyes off you. All he could think about was tearing that dress off of you and leaving you naked before him. 

“Anything missing from the look?” you spun around in a circle so he could see you from all angles. You weren’t able to see the animalistic look in his eyes as he basically eyefucked you until you turned around to see him slowly making his way over to you. 

“You look good, but you’d look so much better with my hands around your throat.” One of Law’s tattooed fingers trailed up from your chest to curl around your neck that just fit perfectly in his hand. 

“Yeah? That really completes the look, don’t you think?” you smirk, as you grip his wrist lightly. He licked his lips as he now felt you grasping tighter on his wrist, your way of indicating that you wanted him to squeeze your neck tighter as well. 

His own smirk grows as he only does what he’s told. Law leans down to your ear as he begins to hear your breath hitching. “I’m gonna have fun with you tonight.”

#one piece #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #trafalgar law #trafalgar law headcanons #law headcanons #one piece trafalgar law #one piece headcanons #op trafalgar law #one piece x reader

[madnessreruns]

okay okay… of course you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but i’d LOVE an edward nygma x male reader

Whoops!

Edward Nygma x Male! Reader

Summary: Ed’s tired give him a break man

Note: I completely forgot what his apartment looked like, so I tried to make it as vague as possible. I also tried to make it as directed to a male audience, but I didn’t know how to incorporate it well. I tried to rewrite this multiple times so that’s why it took this long.

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“Good Evening Ed!” You entered the apartment, removing your coat as you looked around for your boyfriend. “Ed?”

He usually met you at the door, welcoming you and announcing excitedly what you two were going to eat tonight, but instead he was no where to be seen.

You entered farther into the apartment, the wet bottoms of your shoes from the rain squeaking uncomfortably loudly. You peaked into the kitchen, the absence of Ed made you uncomfortable. You home without the most important thing in it.

You stepped into the room, noticing the window wide open, the wind blowing in. You walked over, shutting it, grabbing a towel to wipe up the rain that had spilled on the window sill. Gently picking up a plant that had been pushed off the window sill and was knocked into the sink. Ed would have picked it up if he noticed so, why wasn’t he around?

You exited the kitchen, checking out all the windows to make sure the rest of them were closed nice and tight. The rainstorm outside had winds strong enough to blow them open if you weren’t careful enough.

Nothing else was broken or had fallen over like the plant in the sink, so instead of worrying about that, you worried about the apparent disappearance of your boyfriend.

“Ed? Ed! Are you here?” You called out, going silent waiting for a response. You didn’t hear anything, just you, the wind, the rain and the silence.

An uncomfortable eerie weight hung in the air, a mixed feeling of unease and wort rested in the bottom of your stomach. A shiver ran down your spine, the apartment was painfully cold without your coat the the remaining cold from the open window.

When you finally entered the bedroom you found him, finally. He was laying in the bed, snoring away. You let out a chuckle, removing your shoes as you walked towards him.

You leaned down gently moving a lock of hair out of his face. He was so peaceful when he sleeps, soft snores and almost silent murmurs. Yes, he talks in his sleep. Whether it be riddles, random words, or the weirdest fucking things you’ll ever hear.

“No, I don’t have termites in my ear…”

“Ed seriously what the fuck??”

You gently shook him, trying to wake him, it was like 6 in the afternoon, he must’ve gotten off early and decided to take a long nap. He softly stirred, turning over, shooing you away.

“Ed, baby it’s 6:24, wake up,” he groaned, stuffing his head under his pillow. You scoffed, gently grabbing onto the bedsheets- before ripping them off into the floor. He immediately protested, turning over to throw his pillow at you.

You burst out giggling as he horribly missed, almost knocking down a picture. He glanced up, hairball messed up and looking like an absolute mess as he was only in a wife-beater and a pair of weird boxers. Hearts? Really Ed.

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“So? Did your alarm not run off or was the 5 hour nap a choice?” You hummed, rubbing Ed’s back as he practically fell into you.

“Choice…” his miffed voice was barely decipherable as he stuffed his face into your chest.

“Hm, bad day?” You looked down at him, letting out a quiet chuckle.

Ed didn’t respond, he just let out a frustrated groan. You knew it.

These assholes at the precinct kept teasing him for being different. Bunch of stupid lads, like their any better. He just a wants to be himself and a bunch of overgrown middle school bullies turned into alcoholics and criminals disguised as people who want to uphold the law.

“Want be to beat the shit out of them?” You joked, he smiles into your chest, looking up at you, standing all the way back up.

“If your up to it,” he chuckled.

“Then consider them- fucking destroyed,” you pretend to throw punches, making stupid little grunts. He laughed, walking over to the fridge, opening it up and getting a box of some fruit.

“Their just mad I have a better boyfriend then they do,” he smiled, booping your nose.

“Oh damn I didn’t know they were into men,” you thought out loud.

“Oh their not,” Ed said, getting a bowl from the cupboard, “But with how they act no women would want to date them,” he continued on, “The only chance they have is if they start dating each other.

You barked a laugh, knowing one day they’d get a taste of their own medicine.

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#edward nygma #edward nygma x reader #edward nygma x you #gotham #gotham x reader #gotham fox #gotham tv #gotham 2014 #gotham tv show #x reader #cas.txt #mutuals <3

[levmada]

based on this meme @postwarlevi sent on discord SO LONG AGO IM SORRY the other day LMAO

content/warnings: post-canon (no spoilers), worth a giggle, Levi hates driving

wc: ~.5k

“Levi.”

No answer. Frowning, you glance over at him behind the skinny black wheel that’s used to steer. His eyes are flickering between a dozen things at once, including every needle on the dashboard.

“Levi,” you whisper, squeezing the so-called ‘grab handle’. Same as you, his knuckles are pasty from holding on so hard; what muscles you can see of his arms from his elbows down veiny and hard.

You should’ve listened to him when he said that renting one of these three-ton “death machines” would be a bad idea; he didn’t know what the grab handles were, either.

“Levi.”

“I’m focusing,” he snaps, and shifts the clutch as you take a turn. “Quiet. Or I’ll drive to a shop and buy some duct tape.”

You laugh out loud, feeling hysterical. “We’re in the middle of nowhere!”

Not entirely true. You insisted on starting out cautiously, practicing on these deserted, rural roads with green land stretching in all directions after passing the written test to drive, which you also insisted he do.

Levi wholeheartedly agreed with one of these suggestions.

“I have one functional eye,” he retorts. “And eight fingers.”

“I couldn’t even tell!”

A scoff. “Neither could the Marleyans who sold us this thing.”

“Look, we have three eyes, and eighteen fingers between us. It’s fine. This is just a learning—” you laugh again, “—a learning curve.”

He glares at the asphalt ahead. Fact is, he never would’ve agreed to any of this hadn’t he thought it would be useful.

And you really wanted him to. Women aren’t “allowed” to have license to drive, whatever that means.

His mood is already so shitty that just remembering that fact pisses him off more. Women dedicated their hearts to fly through the air and get eaten by Titans where he’s from. They can’t drive one shitty death machine here?

Then you softly gasp, and he’s ripped from his train of thought just as this black death machine is almost run into a ditch. He swivels the wheel just in time to the tune of you squealing, and stops.

He puts the death machine in park, and stares at you above that hand clapped over your face. The engine idles softly.

“Sorry,” you breathe, high in your throat. “We were going so fast, the trees started blurring.”

“Blurring,” he deadpans. “They blurred when you flew through the sky, too.”

“That’s my point!” You’re whispering this for some reason. “But it’s not like a horse. We have to follow a guided path, between lines, with other cars, which are…” You settle back in your seat, sighing long and loud. “…bigger.”

He settles back too, or tries, and cracks his knuckles. That ache in his leg is starting up again... he’s been tense, to say the least.

All his life it’s been easy to take after new things, but you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you frown. “You want me to take over?”

While against the law, you mutually agreed it’s a stupid law, so he’s had you practicing, too. But mostly the written test.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “I won’t freak out and make the driver crash.”

“I won’t freak out when my passenger makes a little noise, causing me to crash.”

He smirks a little behind his good hand. “Then it’s agreed. Knock yourself out.”

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#levi fluff #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader #levi drabble #levi ackermann x reader #aot fluff #levi x reader #aot levi #attack on titan x reader #captain levi x reader #g.scribe

[caker-baker]

Bite

Stop it.

The vampire shoved part of their fist in their mouth, watching the hero do what they always did.

Being good was sometimes shed with immortality, with power, ripped away with bindings that once held a soul.

Heroes were good, even with power, even knowing it didn’t always amount to something important.

Was this hero important? Was this hero so worth it that for the first time in a long time, old tears found the way to the vampire’s eyes?

They were not good, and no vampire would fool themselves into thinking anything different. Reckless chaos was what vampires brought into the universe, and long since had peace been considered too idle for them.

Peace was a fool’s game, someone without power trying to reach it under guises of harmony and unity and what have you, and yet…

And yet and yet and yet.

People—breathing, delicate, heart pumping blood through their veins, run of the mill carbon copy people—tried so hard.

Stop it.

The vampire bit down on their fist harder, something in the back of their mind wondering how long it’s been since an action like that would have pierced the skin. The front of the mind was too busy to intercept, focusing on the flashing police lights, Hero talking to law enforcement as they handed off one more, amount to nothing important, good deed of a person.

This particular amount to nothing good deed had caught Hero’s eyes because of some thieving attempt.

Plebeian.

If the hero craved real justice, the vampire could manipulate the world just so they could set it right again. Topple the crème de la crème of society, expose the biggest of frauds in the world, create real chaos, chaos the hero could take time to fix, to do something other than nothing.

The vampire thought of their usual chaos, the fear in the night routine, urban legends walking among the carbon copies, waiting in the dark.

That wasn’t something the hero could fix, and yet…

And yet and yet and yet.

They walked the streets, escorted people home, waited in alleyways for urban legends to get to them first.

The police and the lights faded, and again, Hero waited in the streets, still for a moment to catch the swish of clothing in the dark.

“Hi again.” They greeted with a smile, glancing up at the source of the swish of clothing.

Taking their fist out of their mouth, the vampire hopped down.

One took a surprising amount of caution to seem a noticeable and unnoticeable perfect mix of human being. Hopping wasn’t part of the vampire’s life, but gliding would draw attention.

“Hi yourself.” The vampire greeted back, staying halfway in the dark. “You’ve been quiet around here lately.”

“You know me, I go where there’s high traffic.” It was meant to be a joke, the vampire could only assume.

“Burglars are suddenly high traffic?” They doubted the hero could see their raised eyebrow, shrouded in the dark.

“Slow night tonight. You plan on causing any trouble?” The hero smiled, and so did the vampire.

“Not tonight. My dance card is fully queued.”

The hero, long ago, assumed the vampire to be some sort of vigilante. They were never corrected, because the truth was far worse.

The back of the vampire’s mind spoke again.

Stop it.

“Oh?” The hero asked. “Should I be jealous? Here I thought I was the only one conversing with the tall, dark, stranger hidden in shadow.”

“You might not be the only brightly colored hero basking in streetlight that swings by here.” Their eyes glided across the hero’s form, only for a moment, only to see their vulnerability.

The hero snorted. “Can you tell them to back off, then? This is my area.” They made a show of posing in a proud manner. “Yeah. I’m kind of a big deal around here, so…”

The vampire snickered.

Do it.

“A big deal?” They echoed. “Please. Talk to me when you’ve overthrown an oligarch.”

The hero’s over-exaggerated pose deflated. “Hey. I’m working on it.”

And it could be done. Do it. They’ll forgive you. It might take years, but it’s years they’ll have. One day they’ll die. They can be mad, or they could be dead. Do it. Exposed neck. No witnesses. Bite. Them.

The vampire shoved their fist back in their mouth and stumbled back.

“Woah! Hey,” The hero walked forward, stopping abruptly when the vampire put their other hand out, signaling for them to stay. “Are you ok?”

The back of their mind, the front of their mind, thoughts of all kind mixed together. Sickening and kind, fragile and indestructible, before the curtain dropped on human emotion, after everything heightened tenfold, the need to see humans and mimic, the pull of chaos, and then everything in between, resting on the shoulders of this unimportant hero, who could live forever if they just–

Stop it.

Slowly, they lowered both hands. “Yes, apologies, I-”

‘I’ what? Come closer, little hero.

They backed further away. “I have dizzy spells.” What a horrid lie. “Sometimes I just need to be nearer to a wall, to rest.”

This didn’t cement the noticeable and unnoticeable human traits. The vampire was always the right combination of clumsy and agile, never before had they faltered. Dizzy spells?

“No big. Do I need to find you some water? Call anyone? One of those other brightly colored heroes?”

The vampire hid the brilliant grin that bloomed across their face, not that it mattered, they had fully immersed themselves into the darkness the shadows provided, meaning that the hero couldn’t see their eyes.

Sinking down the wall, the vampire looked to the hero, bathing in the streetlight.

Importance and unimportance. How trivial it all was in comparison to human force, vampiric chaos, a rivalry gone on for far too long.

Bite them. It’s a kindness, this gift.

“No. It’s only me, no one to call.”

The hero sat at the opposite end. “Consider me your emergency contact, then. How long do these normally last?”

Stop it.

The vampire enjoyed this human. This one force in the universe as a constant. But this constant wasn’t forever. They would die one day. Death was constant, Hero wasn’t.

What good was an inconsistent without their ability to be good?

“Not long.” The vampire stood again, the action taking more from them than they originally realized.

It wasn’t until the hero spoke again that they felt an unusual mortal weakness.

“Stay here.” The hero also stood. “I’ll get you some water.”

God, this ache in their chest was painful in a way they hadn’t known since their human death. The weak knees that buckled with the hero’s absence was a sensation they wished they couldn’t feel. Those old and stale tears once again sprung to their eyes.

Had they always been this dramatic? Had it always hurt?

Even the darkness that comforted and protected creatures like them was now suffocating, but suffocating it had to be.

The hero’s footsteps echoed around the corner.

Stop it.

#the ending is up to interpretation. sorry for the absence. once again forgot I was a real life human #vampire x hero #hero #vampire #vampire snippet #hero snippet #heroes #vampires #hero x vampire villain #villain #hero x villain #heroine #villainess #heroes and villains #snippet #writing #did the vampire bite them? who’s to say #y’all. y’all are to say. #do other people say y’all?? i did some light traveling #southern was ingrained in me for sure #i feel so stupid saying it now #writing snippet #if you were a vampire would you bite someone you cared for to make them immortal? #is that by itself immoral? or is morality strictly human. but by extension caring for a human contains traces of the moral self

[sublimecatgalaxy]

Something soft w Eddie but like he survives the upside down! Like just almost comforting reader that he’s not going anywhere.

He’s a soft boy doing soft boy things 😂❤️

Thank u in advance 💜💜💜

UGH. Like I know I'm writing a fix it fic but I needed to write this ASAP. This might be the only thing I write tonight but we'll see. I've had a really hard day.

Eddie is not someone who typically looks peaceful. Even when high in the clouds, a joint between his nimble fingers, he always looks like he's stewing over something and trying to solve one of the many worlds problems

But right now, sort of sedated, sort of awake, he's completely and utterly calm and quiet, the lines on his forehead relaxed as I brush a washcloth over his collarbones and chest. My eyes stick on the tattoos that litter his damaged skin, my heart aching painfully as I think back to the deep wounds on his sides from just a day ago.

He's lucky he lived.

The bats were unrelenting and by the time Dustin managed to find Steve and have him help him get Eddie back up through the gate, I was a mess. Sobbing, breaking down into hysterics in Robin's arms- completely set on the fact that Eddie was going to bleed out and be ripped from the safety of my arms.

But the son of a bitch pulled through and helped save the world- as much as we actually could.

Somehow, the group managed to convince the police, with the help of Hopper and the good side of the US government, that there was something biggest at play with the suspicious murders- that Eddie, let along another human, could never have possibly been responsible for something like this.

He's extremely lucky that he managed to escape with his life and his freedom- completely able to heal and move on with his life after witnessing such terrible things. There's still work to be done with Vecna and the wrath he's unleashed on Hawkins but for now, we can breathe and come together as a whole to figure it out, no longer spread across the globe.

But Eddie still has no clue that he's safe and that he's no longer on the run from the law. He's too busy sleeping away his pain, allowing the deep gashes on his sides and legs to heal.

"I'm gonna be honest," a voice startles me and my hand drops the washcloth, my eyes looking up to find Eddie staring down at me, "I'm kind of bummed you don't have a sexy nurse outfit on while cleaning me up, doll." A grin fans across my lips as I sit down on the side of the bed, watching him look around the room with a cough. He looks perplexed, his hands lifting at his sides as he bites at his lip. "No cuffs, a good sign I presume?" His hair sprawls out across the sterile pillow beneath him, his eyes hooded and swollen but he's genuinely a sight for my sore eyes, still so handsome though so close to death.

"We cleared your name." I shrug nonchalantly, resuming my duties with the washcloth as I drag it across his neck, hearing him hum contently. "It's a long story but you're safe." His eyes flutter shut at my reassurance, his hand reaching out to rest on my thigh.

Silence takes over the room as I listen to the beeping from his heart monitor, anxiety chewing away at my brain as his eyes search desperately through mine. I know that I said he's fine, he's here, alive and well, but apart of me just doesn't feel that this is actually real.

"You say I'm safe but you don't actually believe it, do you-"

"I watched them pull you through the portal, skin literally hanging on my a thread. Dustin said you were choking and when I asked on what, Steve just looked at me and muttered 'blood'." His eyes widen as I cut him off, his swollen lips parting in quiet shock but he listens to me nonetheless. "Dustin was a blubbering wreck- I was a wreck." I whisper, setting the washcloth aside with a sigh, burying my face in my hands briefly before looking back up at him.

"I'm here- I lived, fuck- I don't know how I survived but I'm here." He whispers, tugging me by my shirt to scoot closer to him, his IV'd hand coming up to cup my cheek. His eyes are shining with fearful tears but there's a bittersweet smile on his lips. "I told you I'm not leaving this earth without you. I promise I wasn't being romantic." I giggle tearily with a sarcastic laugh, reaching out to twirl a strand of his bangs around my fingers.

"You just scared the shit out of me, man." I huff, rubbing at my eyes as I listen to him quietly breathe; a reminder that he's still here, pulling me into his arms regardless of his pain level or discomfort.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi

@crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the-heart @vampviolets@haylee-e@popehaywardssecretgf @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife @smoke-and-fire @officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @smoke-and-fire386 @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy @myaloveee @thyris-is @lagataprrr @aaaaslaaaan @minjix @luvrosee @storytellingwitht

#eddie #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic