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macfrog · 8 months

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ace sex on fire chapter six

this entire chapter is me making up for 1. the golfing line in chapter two, and 2. joel's entire experience of tlou2. naughty dog i'm waiting for ur response. 24 hours to reply

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: joel takes you on a day trip to go golfing. it turns out to be more fun than you expected

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) golf. idk what else to say. age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, more sugardaddy!joel, discussions of pregnancy + reader perhaps not wanting children, sort of possessive!joel?, praise kink, unprotected piv car sex, daddy kink, exhibitionist fantasy, creampie, more teasing + flirting, angst + pining, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 9.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“Good girl. He there?” The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare. “Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel. “He watching?” “Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily. “Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

The cab squeaks to a halt right outside the office, dropping you at the bottom of the concrete steps leading up to the revolving door. There are already bodies filtering in and out of the building, despite how early it is.

You thank the driver – Mick, you’ve come to learn. He seems to run this route on weekday mornings; it’s always him who shows up at your apartment when you can’t be bothered to walk to work, or miss the damn bus. Mick tosses a thumbs up over his shoulder and you swing out into the brilliant sun.

It’s Thursday. You’ve been home sixty-five hours, by your count. Joel gave you a couple days after landing stateside to catch up on sleep, readjust. He’d gone back to work Tuesday morning, though, 8AM sharp. Martha had text to ask where you were, and had sent six laughing emojis back when you replied with, How the fuck is he back already?

You make the climb up the steps, back to work, back to normality. It drags like a weight at your heels, the thought of returning to that gray office after three days wandering around picture-perfect, painted-pink Paris. After three days of Joel.

That split-open feeling, the cavity between your ribs – it’s sewn itself up since you got back to your own apartment, your own space. Since you showered a couple times, washed your clothes, started smelling like yourself again instead of Joel. Its sutures are made from the sound of the subway squealing to a halt, the smell of Chinese takeout from the place across the street.

But there’s a tiny piece of you, small enough to stay hidden from even yourself sometimes, that you know misses it. Misses…him. It only hurts when you touch it – the sewn-up scar, messy in your frantic attempts to close it up – it aches when you remember his hands on your waist whenever you wanted them there, his lips below your ear whenever you needed him.

As you approach the glass doors, you hear a whistle from behind, and turn to watch Joel slip out of his Rolls and jog up the steps. There’s a sports bag hanging from his left hand.

“Am I a dog?” you ask when he reaches you.

“It was an endearin’ whistle.”

“Very endearing. Don’t do it again.”

He nods once. “Yes, ma’am. Feelin’ awake yet?”

“Almost.” You follow him into the building, clicking along the polished marble floor at his side. “You didn’t waste any time getting back into the swing of things, I hear.”

You both nod good morning to the receptionists, and Joel hits the button to call the elevator.

“I’m an important man, baby,” he says, shrugging. “My job ain’t just answerin’ the phone ‘n making coffee.”

You scoff, slapping his back as he leads you through the sliding doors, which closer over and shut you both into your first moment of privacy in almost seventy hours. Joel immediately turns to face you, words behind his eyes that he can’t seem to sort into a coherent sentence.

In what you hear as an attempt to summarize, he says: “Back to reality.”

You brush the shoulders of his blazer, tug on his tie to straighten it. It’s the most you can bring yourself to do that doesn’t involve throwing yourself at him. There’s a throbbing right below your chest, like a magnet tugging you towards the man stood in front of you. Touching the padded shoulder of his suit will have to do. For now.

You lift your eyebrows, staring at the knot of his tie. “Yep.”

It’s pretty reductive, Back to reality. But then, what else is there to say? What else that wasn’t said between your bodies in Paris? A line was crossed there – you both went somewhere you can’t come back from so easily. And moving forward the way you had been before, seems equally as impossible.

There are eyes on you here. There are people who care to know what might be going on – whether they like it or not doesn’t matter. No more strutting out onto the terrace, running your hands all over one another, connecting skin and tongue in ways you wouldn’t have dreamt up two weeks ago.

No. This stays secret. A secret between you, Joel, and the French skies.

Joel places a hand on the small of your back as the elevator doors whip open. He ushers you out, and then, once in view of Martha’s desk, sidesteps to an appropriate distance.

“Welcome back,” your colleague greets you as you approach her desk. “Missed you, kid.”

You smile coyly. “Thanks,” you mumble. Guilt isn’t the easiest of emotions to hide.

Joel taps your arm gently and then nods towards his office. “Catch-up,” he says, and Martha rounds her desk to follow after him.

You drop your jacket and purse over the back of your chair and slip in behind them, leaning back on one of Joel’s leather couches with your arms crossed.

“Alright,” Martha sighs, “few things needing done this morning. First…”

You take a deep breath and slump down until your ass sits comfortably on the couch cushion, your knees draped over the arm, cradled inside your elbows.

Joel notices, and smirks to himself. He dials into his voicemail, hits a button, and a familiar voice echoes from his desk.

“Hey, Joel,” Drew’s voice says, “hope you enjoyed Paris ‘n aren’t still too hungover. I know what Jean-Marc’s like…”

Martha moves to the next bullet point, tilting her pad and tapping the tip of her pen to some messy scrawling you can’t read. You nod, eyes flitting up to watch Joel.

“Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re still good for later. S’posed to be a good day for it. Let me know if you need any help with directions. Alright. Looking forward to seeing you two soon. Cool.”

The machine cuts. Joel sits back in his chair, rests his heels on the wood in front of him. Black, shiny, ridiculously expensive shoes crossed over on top of a black, shiny, ridiculously expensive desk.

“…now, Ken needs to receive this as soon as possible, alright? I said I’d have it done by end of day yesterday – I did not, so I need you to –”

“Who’s you two?” you ask Joel, peering over Martha’s notepad.

He looks up, tossing a rubber band ball in his hands. “You ‘n me, darlin’.”

“I’m sorry,” Martha declares, “am I talking to myself–?”

You push her notepad out of your view, still staring at Joel. “What do you mean, you ‘n me?”

Martha drops her hands with a sigh. You repeat your question.

“Us,” Joel says, hint of irritation in his voice like you’re supposed to be in on something. “We’re goin’ golfing with him.”

“We’re going golfing?”

Martha, now exasperated, swings the pad under her bicep and crosses her arms over her chest, makes something of a growling noise. “You two are unbeliev…Are you listening to me?” she demands, clicking her fingers in front of you.

“No,” you reply simply, eyes locked on Joel’s.

His lips curve with a soft laugh. “You ain’t read your emails?” he asks.

Your head darts between him and Martha. Bewildered. “I was catching up on sleep, thank you very much,” you assert, nodding with finality at the blonde updo hovering over you.

You know she cares about you – at least enough to water your monstera deliciosa while you were gone – but Martha can be sharp; her outspokenness is something to admire and to fear, in one small five-foot-three frame.

She snorts, glancing over to Joel with a disbelieving shake of her head, but he doesn’t take her up on it. Just looks at her blankly and then turns back to you.

“We’re meeting Drew up at Aspen Heights. Few of his buddies are in town, he wanted to introduce ‘em to me.”

“And I’m coming – why?”

“Because he met you last week, musta liked you, ‘n he invited you.”

Your mouth opens to reply, some retort to bring into question the need for your presence at a fucking round of golf, when Joel and his words cut yours short in your throat.

“And I want you there with me.”

Martha raises her eyebrows when you look up at her. The thing is: this all seems very normal, from her perspective. You did such a good job at keeping Joel right in Paris, didn’t you? He made his flight there on time, he met with Jean-Marc without a hitch, and he was actually an hour early for his flight home.

That last part was because you’d woken up with the sun and couldn’t get back to sleep, so you woke him, too and…well. Kept each other busy until you physically couldn’t anymore. There wasn’t much point hanging around in the hotel suite when your cases were packed and your bodies were…fragile, so you left for the airport.

To her ignorant eyes – and bless her – this is all just networking. It’s you building work relationships, Joel at the helm overseeing everything and setting it all up for you. This is clear – that that’s all she thinks – when she says:

“He’s doin’ you a favor, sweetheart. You should go.”

“I don’t even have any golfing gear. I’m in suit trousers.” Your eyes trail down your black pinstripe pants, legs dangling from the arm of the couch.

“And you look fantastic,” Joel quips, though you know he’s half-serious, “but you do gotta find somethin’ more…” he waves a hand, “…golf.”

“Something more golf. That’s helpful.”

“Here,” he says, stretching into his back pocket. His hips lift from the seat of his chair, and your eyes land on the space just south of his belt buckle. He pulls his credit card from his wallet – the same one you could probably recite the numbers of by heart at this point – and holds it out. “Go grab somethin’ nice. My treat.”

My treat. Like he didn’t treat you all damn weekend.

You pull yourself up and take the card from his fingers.

“’n what about my list?” Martha asks.

Joel shrugs. “Ken can wait one more day. You got two hours,” he tells you, and then sits up straight, rubber band ball placed safely next to his Newton’s cradle. “I’ll have Rand take you.”

You follow Martha out of Joel’s office when his phone starts ringing and his head falls into his hands, letting you both know it’s not a call you want to be around to hear. As he lifts the handset, he lightly calls your name, and you exchange a sly smirk as you slip out the door.

Martha wanders off behind her own desk as you pull your purse over your shoulder. She loads her computer back up, chin lifting as she squints through her glasses at the screen.

“There’s a golf shop downtown,” she tells you, two index fingers tapping away on the keys. “Alan uses ‘em. Don’t think they’re too expensive, either. Wouldn’t know for sure, though, he spends so damn much anytime he’s in there.”

You watch her for a moment, nodding along. “Thanks, Martha.”

She holds up a finger as you walk past her desk toward the elevator. “Remember you still got my to-do list to tackle, so don’t be long!”

----------

Rand drops you on a quiet side street. He gives you his number, tells you to text him once you’re done, and the sleek black car rolls off.

On the corner sits Ace’s Pro Golf, a small, charming store, peeling wooden front painted fern green with golf-themed decals decorating the windows. You set off inside, passing under two transparent putters crossed over one another on the window above the door. An old brass bell rings out from overhead when you enter.

Its exterior is misleading. This store is huge. Overwhelmingly huge. Walls stacked with bags, clubs dangling from pegs. Baskets of balls and tees and other accessories dotted all over the creaky wooden floors, which are lined with racks upon racks of golfing clothes – shirts, trousers, dresses, skirts.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, edging towards the rails.

You slip between them, hand running along the multicolored choices, when your phone starts to ring, vibrating somewhere deep in your purse.

“Hey, Mom,” you mutter, slipping your cell between your cheek and your shoulder as you begin to search through the shirts in front of you.

“Hey, baby,” her voice sings to you. “Wasn’t expecting to catch you, thought you’d already be at work. Where you at?”

You sigh. “I’m shopping. Joel’s taking me golfing later.”

She almost chokes down the line. “Golfing?”

“Yeah. It’s this friend he went to school with, I met him at lunch last week. There’s a few of ‘em going, so he asked me along, too.”

“Nice guy. So, you’re shopping for an outfit?”

“Mhm.”

“Any…dress code?”

“Dress code?” You straighten up, switching the phone to your other ear. “Like, golfing gear? I dunno.”

She laughs. “Alright.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing! Nothing, baby.”

“Meant something, Mom. Tell me.”

“No, I just…” She sighs. “You’re sure this isn’t, like…It sounds an awful lot like a date. Like, you’re going on Joel’s arm.”

You’re silent. You suck in a deep breath, fixing an order of words in reply, when your mom cuts in again.

“I bet I’m way off. Forget I said anything.”

“Yeah, gross,” you refute, metal hangers squealing against the rail when you unfreeze. “No. Not a date. It’s, like, networking, or whatever.”

Mom snorts. “Right. Exactly.”

“Not – a date,” you repeat.

You’re relieved when she changes the subject. “Show me what you’re looking at.”

You huff, pulling the phone down and switching to FaceTime. In a second, your mom’s bright, swollen cheeks and ringlet curled hair are on the screen, and she flashes you a pearly smile.

“Was thinking maybe this…?” You angle the phone to show her a navy-blue polo shirt. “And then a white skirt?”

“Nah,” she cuts, and you flip your camera back to your face.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Too blue. You look better in neutrals. Try beige or brown. Boring colors, y’know? Blend into the walls.”

You hiss something she doesn’t need to hear under your breath and then follow it up with a slightly more polite, “Screw you.”

Her image on your screen shakes violently with how hard she laughs at herself. “I’m messing with you. You know you’ll look beautiful no matter what you choose. Wait a second, though – can you even golf?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever touched a golf club in my life.”

“Thought as much. Does Joel know you’re about to embarrass him like this?”

“He’s aware.”

“Please get him to take some videos. I gotta see this.”

“You know what,” you grumble, holding back your own laughter now, “I’m hanging up. You just solidified your place in the nursing home, you know that?”

She’s still laughing, words pushing through her cackles in desperate punches. “Wait, wait! I gotta tell you why I called you.”

“Alright, go. Thirty seconds.”

“Riley’s pregnant.”

Your face screws up. Lips curl upside down into a grimace. “Oof. Good…good for her…?”

Your mom throws her head back with a roar of laughter. “Be more enthusiastic about it. A little niece or nephew for you!”

“’s more like a…second cousin, or whatever. I bet Aunt Rose is over the moon.”

“She called me screaming this morning. I just thought you’d like to hear, being that you’re in a permanent state of baby fever.”

“Ha,” you state, blank expression never changing. It causes her to erupt into another fit of giggles. “That’s nice, I guess. For Riley. Tell her I said congrats.”

“I will. And I’ll leave out the part where you almost threw up. Alright, I’ll let you go. Good luck golfing. Come back with a hot millionaire boyfriend, maybe! Love you!”

“Yep. ‘kay. Love you. Love you, too – ‘kay – bye – bye, Mom.”

You hang up mid-laugh and her caramel cheeks disappear from the screen. You drop your phone back into your purse and slot the navy-blue polo under your arm, spinning to the rail behind you to find a skirt to go with it.

Riley, pregnant. That’s fucking insane. You two used to spend entire summers riding your bikes around your hometown, spending all of your allowance down at the mall. You swear you’re not old enough to have babies yet. Swear you’re not even old enough to be out of Mom’s house, living on your own in the city.

But then here you are, five years in, making a mental note to buy a baby gift for your cousin, on top of the pre-existing ones reminding you to message that girl who lived across the street when you were kids to say, Congrats on your engagement, and pick up a new home card for your two friends who are on their third mortgage.

Your mom finds it funny – always has. The instant repulsion you feel, the way you recoil whenever you’re asked about kids, about a partner, about a three-bed-two-bath in the suburbs with a big yard and good school nearby.

You don't think any of it's for you. And that’s fine, and every time you skate over the topic, your mom tells you it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s –

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Oh,” you snap out of your daydream, clutching a white skirt in your hands, “sorry. I’m sorry. No, I’m good, thanks. Sorry.”

The assistant smiles kindly and nods. Then he spins on his heel and waltzes off, disappearing behind a cardboard cutout of a golfer mid-swing.

It’s not lost on you, by the way – what your mom said. Sounds an awful lot like a date. You’d be lying if you said it hadn’t also crossed your mind. Joel, wanting you there with him. Giving you his card to buy somethin’ nice, which, after the last week, you translate roughly as: something I’ll like. Something he’ll see, and his second thought will be ripping it off your body.

His first thought will be what you’d look like taking it off for him.

And for that reason, you slip the short skirt under your arm beside the polo, and head across the store to find some more stuff to waste Joel’s money on.

----------

Rand pulls up by the curb a few yards down from Ace’s, where you’re sat on a bench enjoying an ice cream. He rolls the window down and lowers his black sunglasses.

“You bein’ paid for this?” he asks, grinning.

You nod, gleeful. “By the hour. Want an ice cream?”

He snorts when you hold Joel’s black card up between two fingers, tilting it in the sunlight. And then he puts the car in park, climbs out, and jaunts over to the ice cream cart by your bench.

He orders a three-scoop cone, and you nod in approval when he sits down alongside you, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

“Respect it,” you say, cheersing your own half-finished cone against his.

----------

When you get back to work, Joel’s already changed into a crisp, clean golfing outfit. It weakens your knees a little when you saunter into his office.

A long-sleeved, dark polo shirt that shows off every curve and flex of his toned arms, paired with gray, just-tight-enough trousers. And pristine white shoes so sharp and clean you’d swear he’d had them polished just for the occasion.

You ignore the way your head lightens at the sight of him and throw yourself into the chair to his right, white back from Ace’s falling between your ankles.

“Alright, Tom, thanks for lettin’ me know,” he says, arms folded, sat back against his desk. He leans back, places the phone back in its cradle, and looks you up and down. “Have fun?”

You shrug, leaning forward to pick a piece of lint from his thigh. “Didn’t know what to get for the most part, so there’s probably stuff I don’t need in there.”

He squints down at his cell phone. “Like, uh…Duke’s Scoops?”

You stare back at him, mirroring his cheeky smirk. Your leg swings, arms cross over your chest, covering the way your breath falters. He’s seen the transactions.

“You gonna grudge me three dollars on an ice cream, Miller?”

“Six fifty,” he mutters, glancing down at his phone again to double check. His tongue runs across his top lip. You want to replace it with yours. “So…that’s at least two ice creams, pretty girl.”

“It’s a hot day. Rand deserved something to cool down. We sat on a bench in the shade ‘n had a nice chat. He taught me how to swing. Verbally,” you add, when Joel’s eyebrows lift.

“Taught you how to swing,” he echoes, and you nod.

“Did you know he used to compete? Junior league?”

He pouts his bottom lip. “Mighta come up in the, what, fifteen years since I met him?”

You beam in reply, standing up and hooking your fingers through the string handles of your shopping bag. “I’m gonna go get changed now.”

“Could just get changed in the car on the way, ‘s a thirty-minute drive.”

You lean in close, eyes flitting over to Martha’s desk to make sure she’s not watching. Your lips brush softly against his ear. “I don’t wanna take any time away from other stuff we could get up to,” you murmur, and Joel’s hand locks around yours, attempting to pull you back as you skip off.

“Be right back,” you call, letting the door fall shut on his suggestive smirk, his tight trousers, and the hard bulge beneath them.

You return five minutes later in your getup. Joel has much the same reaction as you did with him, though he’s not half as good at hiding it. He sits upright in his chair, fingers tight around the armrests.

“Uhuh,” he says, eyes diving to your legs and then resurfacing somewhere around your chest. “Let me just –” he leans over to his phone, “– call Drew, let ‘im know we ain’t comin’…”

“Shut up,” you scoff. “Looks good, though, right?”

Joel’s eyes are still trained on your bare thighs, one crossed over the other. “Looks…better than good.”

You bat your eyelashes. “Still mad about the ice cream?”

“No, ma’am. Not mad at all.”

He stands, slinging both his bag and yours over his shoulder, and walks around his desk to meet you. You give him one final warning.

“You know I’ve never played golf before, right?”

“I know,” he affirms.

“So…bringing me is kinda pointless. I am not gonna bring anything worthwhile.”

“You in that outfit,” Joel mutters – and as he passes by, he makes sure to brush his swollen crotch up against your ass – “makes it worthwhile already.”

----------

Aspen Heights is a hundred and fifty-acre course, vibrant green fairways rolling over hilly land laid out like crinkles in a sheet of green felt. Rand drives slowly up to the clubhouse, gravel crackling under the tires of the Rolls as you and Joel lean over to stare at the landscape – the unkempt, sprawling wild plants guarding the pristine course, the bunkers like giant splotches of white paint on the grass.

You turn back and look to Joel, brows knitting in an expression which could be translated as amazement, could be intrigue, or could simply be: What the fuck are we doing here?

He mirrors it, shaking his head. And it makes you laugh.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

“You could buy this place, easy. Don’t act like you don’t fit in.”

“If you think I fit in here,” he grunts, getting out of the now parked car, “you think very highly of me, angel.”

He doesn’t deny that he could afford to buy it.

The clubhouse is…much the same. Huge, grand, surrounded by a wide-open porch and fronted by a dome-shaped room, paneled by windows that reflect the scene before them.

You follow Joel’s lead, climbing the steps to the double doors by his side, staying close enough that he can guide you with a bump of his arm against yours, but far enough apart that it doesn’t look like you’re showing up together.

Inside, you follow two smartly-dressed attendants through to a room finished in dark oak, shining wooden floors under bare-bulb light figures, a solid marble bar in the center and six perfectly symmetrical high tables surrounding it.

You glance nervously around the room. Drew’s stood over by the windows with three other men – a tan guy with a white baseball cap on, fluorescent orange polo buttoned up to his neck, a shorter guy with tight black curls, fiddling with the cap of a bottle of water, and finally, a guy with dark hair combed within an inch of its life into perfect place, shoulders almost ripping through his blue polo. He looks like he’s been copy-pasted straight from a magazine called Golf Weekly, or something.

Joel takes one step across a patterned rug and Drew notices you both. He breaks off from the group.

“Hey, man.” He grins at Joel and leans over to shake his hand – well, it’s more of that slap-hand thing. They slap each other’s palms, fingers lock, one quick shake of the wrists together, and then a nod of the head. You know?

Then he leans over to you, kisses your cheek. “Sorry it’s just us guys,” he says, hand on your arm. He looks over to the three men by the window, now looking out over the course and pointing. “My girlfriend was supposed to be joining us, but she got called in to work. You two woulda gotten along, you ‘n Rach.”

You smile warmly. “That’s okay. Thanks for asking me.”

“You play much?” Drew asks, leading you both over to the windows.

You shake your head and Joel breathes a laugh.

“Total beginner,” you admit.

Drew bats a hand. “We’ll show you the ropes. This is, uh, this is Steve,” he points to Fluorescent Orange, “Caleb,” Water Bottle holds his hand out to shake yours, “and that’s Daniel.”

Up close, Daniel’s handsome. Sharp jawline, shadowed by the beginnings of stubble, a dimple in the center of his chin. He steps forward, holding a hand out, and you take it. His palm engulfs yours and squeezes – soft but sure. And then you pull away.

The men all nod to Joel, who probably nods back from behind you, and then catches you gently in his arm, cradling it around your back out of view of the others.

“We’ll be getting started soon,” Drew says, “they’re just fixing up a few buggies for us.”

Joel nods, lets go of you, and crosses his arms. You knot your hands awkwardly at your waist. He stays right by your side, though, which you’re grateful for. The last thing you need is another Jean-Marc, some cloaked assistant swooping you off away from the comfort of Joel.

“How’s business, Joel? Drew was tellin’ us about some deal you’re tryna nail.”

Daniel’s eyes are sharp, cerulean blue drilling deep into the warm brown of Joel’s, which calmly stare back. He looks a little younger than Joel, maybe on the cusp of forty, only a few light strands of grey through his deep brown fringe. There’s no wedding ring on his finger. You don’t know why you’re even looking at that.

Joel doesn’t reveal much in the way of answers. Typical of him – or typical of the Joel he is to the rest of the world. “Yeah, ‘s good. Just takin’ my time, we’re workin’ on it.”

Daniel nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He crosses his arms, biceps bulging, and then rounds on you.

“You gotta be run off your feet, chasing after him all day, huh?”

You tilt your head toward Joel. “He keeps me busy, yeah.”

Daniel leans into you, laughter crooning from his lips. It wobbles you a little, forces you one step nearer Joel’s side. You smile back, as pleasant as you can muster the courage, and he eventually leans away.

Before he can ask another question, Drew’s calling you all over to the sliding patio doors. Daniel hops back a step, nods to you, and says, “After you.”

“Thanks, Dan,” Joel cuts, stepping into the space the blue-eyed man had left specifically for you, sweeping you off as he goes.

----------

There isn’t anything about golf that intrigues you. Not even remotely. You’ve never watched it, never wanted to play it – the most you’ve dabbled in it is minigolf, and even that became a fucking bore after two anniversary dates in a row there with Blake.

Still, you watch patiently and politely as the men take their shots one by one, starting with Drew, all the way through to Daniel, who gives his driver a quick shine with a gloved hand before stepping up. On your left, Joel scoffs quietly to himself.

Daniel swings back, and his biceps swell under the tight sleeves of his shirt. You watch as his arms follow through, sending the ball hurtling through the air and well past its three predecessors.

Joel nudges your elbow.

“Ow,” you mumble, running a hand over the skin.

He gives you a perplexed look. “I said, you can use my clubs. You in there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a little too defensively. “Just…paying attention.”

“Hm.”

The men on your right groan as Daniel strides back over to join them, a satisfied grin across his face. Your eyes trace him as he leans on his driver, one white pant leg crossing over the other.

When you turn back to the tee box, Joel’s lifting his own club from his bag. His broad, muscled shoulders flex under the dark material of his shirt; his tall figure walks over to the tee, delicate fingers dancing along the handle of the club, and he clears his throat.

And suddenly, the memory of Daniel and his stupid biceps is dust in the wind.

Joel takes, like, half a practice swing. Doesn’t even have to aim, not really. Just pulls his arms back, sucks his waist in, and goes for it.

His ball lands a couple meters ahead of Daniel’s. And you wonder when the fuck golf became this sexy.

He turns back and runs his tongue over his top lip, breathing a little heavy. The sight drives you fucking insane for the second time today. And then he’s smiling at you, jerking his head in a gesture for you to join him.

You step forward, a little shy, a little hot, and wander mutely over to him.

“I got you,” he says, and reaches for your wrist.

You move to take the driver from his hand and Joel clicks his teeth, shaking his head.

“Said I got you,” he utters, and pulls your body into his, shelling around you. His beard scratches lightly against your ear.

“Joel,” you whisper, laughing nervously and tossing a quick glance back over to the men standing just feet away. Drew just said something apparently hilarious. Caleb gives him a solid whack on the shoulder and doubles over laughing. Steve’s watching a butterfly float by.

“They ain’t watchin’,” Joel says, curving his arms around yours and fixing your hands on the handle of the club. “s just you ‘n me.”

You wriggle under his grasp and feel the hum of laughter from his chest between your shoulders, the weight of his belt riding on your ass. Your cheeks heat when his chin rests on your collarbone.

“Alright,” he says, hands tightening around your own. “You’re gonna line it up, stand with your legs a little apart, little more…”

The toe of his shoe taps your heel and you widen your stance.

“Good girl,” he whispers. A pulse shakes through your body. “Now, on your backswing, you’re gonna want your left shoulder under your chin, ‘n your hands above your right shoulder. Yeah?”

“Got it,” you mumble, so unconvincing that it makes you laugh after you’ve said it.

He gives your waist a tiny squeeze and steps back, watching as you carefully lift the club and curve it around your shoulders. You hear him from behind.

“’attagirl. Keep your knees bent, you got it.”

You take one good swing, and hit the ball on your first try, but it’s…it’s bad, for sure. It’s pretty terrible. The ball lands on this side of the fairway, muddled in amongst the longer grass of the rough. But it’s your first ever shot – least not with colored balls and spinning windmills in the way – and so when you turn back to Joel with a huge beam across your lips, your expression is reflected in his.

“Good job!” he chuckles, stalking back over to you.

“Good job,” you echo with a laugh, handing him the club. You twist and hold your hand up to shield your eyes, staring down the course. “Look where it is, ‘n look where yours are.”

He glances back over to where your sad little ball sits. “We’ll get a few drinks down those guys,” he whispers, hand on your back. “See how good they are in a few holes’ time.”

----------

You’re back in the clubhouse after finishing the eighteenth hole on something of a high. Joel managed to worsen the accuracy of your competitors only so much – your end of the deal was to improve as the round went on, which you try to argue you technically did, given that you began to land your shots on the fairway around hole seven, but your argument is let down by Joel’s reminder that, on hole thirteen, he had to dig your ball out of the bunker for you.

“And I am eternally grateful to you for agreeing to never fucking talk about it again,” you say through gritted teeth, and he laughs.

“Last time, promise.”

Drew joins the pair of you at your table and slaps an arm down on Joel’s shoulder.

“Your round, asshole.”

Joel grumbles, gives your elbow a cursory tap, and slides off to the bar. Drew takes his seat, nudges your arm.

“I am impressed,” he tells you, slurring his words a little.

“Yeah?” you ask, and he nods. “I didn’t think I was so good.”

“Oh,” he shakes his head, “you weren’t. I meant I’m impressed you stuck it out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you hiss.

He snorts, head bobbing with the alcohol bubbling in his blood. “I’m kidding. You were great, for your first time. I’m really glad you came.”

“Me, too,” you admit.

Drew opens his mouth to say something else when a clatter from across the clubhouse interrupts him. You turn at the same time to see a waiter on his ass at the other side of the room. His metal tray rattles against the wooden floor, flutes smashed in a pool of champagne by his side.

“Oh, shoot,” Drew mumbles, setting his glass down on the table.

You push off your stool, sliding your drink alongside his, but he motions for you to stay.

“I got it,” he says, palm lightly tapping your wrist. “I got it.”

He shuffles off to the waiter, now being helped to his feet by Caleb. The last you see is Drew bending to grab the silver tray, before he’s swept out of your view by –

“Poor guy,” Daniel muses, fist locked tight around a lager. He pulls Joel’s stool out and slips onto the cushion, elbow brushing against yours.

You readjust awkwardly in your own chair and pull on the hem of your skirt.

“So,” Daniel clears his throat, the bottom of his glass scraping along the wooden tabletop, “how’d you find your first round of golf?”

You smile politely. “Uh, good. Yeah. I wasn’t expecting to be much, but it wasn’t too scary.”

He chuckles. “Yeah? Think you’ll be back?”

Your shoulders jerk with a shrug. “Maybe.”

He nods and dives headfirst into some long ramble about golf – something about the time he brought his sister and her kids here and how much worse they were than you, so you should really be proud of yourself, and he’d love to see you around here again sometime – but you’re only half listening. You’re stealing glances over at the bar, hunting for a chiseled jawline and monochrome beard.

You spot him locked between Steve and some other guy in all black, waiting for the bartender to draw up his order of drinks. He’s nodding, saying words back to the pair, but keeping his eyes locked on you.

You give him half a smile, half a, There you are, what the hell’s taking you so long? Can you come the fuck back? and hope he reads the words across your face.

“…so, as long as you stick with what you know, it’s actually a really enjoyable game.”

Daniel stares at you blankly, waiting for a response.

“Sure, sure,” you answer, after too long a pause to convince him that you were listening. “Sorry,” you close your eyes and give your head a shake, “was just checking on that waiter.”

Daniel nods. Follows the trail of your eyeline across the room, and looks back to you. “So, uh,” he clears his throat nervously, “I know this place downtown – Italian, has this big open rooftop seating area. If you’re interested, I’d, uh…I’d love to take you, sometime.”

You stare at him for a few seconds, frozen. Like, actually convinced the air in your lungs has turned to ice, frozen. Your eyes probably look like they’re about to burst out of your head, your mouth stuck in a dumb O-shape as you search frantically for the words to form a reply.

He smiles awkwardly. Watches as you blink straight back at him.

“I…” you manage, after what feels like fucking hours. “…That’s – so nice, Daniel, I – really – I’m flattered. Um…”

He interrupts, and it’s like a cold flannel on an acid burn. “Oh, Jesus. I – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry.”

“No,” you shake your head, suddenly animated, “no, listen. It’s – you’re –”

Daniel’s still apologizing. “Are you – sorry, I don’t mean to assume – are you and – you and Joel…?”

His head jerks. One eyebrow cocked. His fingers press into the table, making counter-rotating circles across the gleaming surface.

You stare from his hands to his face, open-mouthed. “N-no,” you tell him, with a single shake of your head. And then you realize he’s being serious. “No, no, we’re not – no, absolutely not. We’re just – friends.”

“Right,” he says, brows knitting. “It’s just – the guy hasn’t taken his eyes off you the entire time I’ve been sat here, so I just figured…maybe…”

You follow Daniel’s gaze across to the bar again, where Joel’s still standing, this time with Drew at his side. He’s mouthing Yeah, in reply to whatever Steve’s gabbing about, but not fucking listening to a word of it.

“No,” you say again, looking Joel dead in the eye. “We’re just friends.”

You turn to look back at the slick-haired man by your side, and he nods.

“But, uh,” you look into your glass, the ice suddenly more interesting than Daniel’s hopeful expression, “you’re a really nice guy, and I appreciate you asking, but I’m…not…exactly looking for anything right now. I’m – yeah.”

“Right – no, absolutely,” he says again, flustered. His fingers wrap tight around his glass and he shifts as if to stand. “That’s absolutely fine. I just thought I’d ask, y’know?”

He laughs nervously. You feel kinda guilty. He’s being so decent about it, and he means well, but you really just wish he would…fuck off.

He isn’t given the option.

Drew comes bounding over like a golden retriever and leans in to Daniel, another freshly poured pint swinging in his fist. “You’ve improved your game, Gilbert,” he sings in your suitor’s ear. “Must be years since the last time you scored an eagle!”

Daniel copies Drew’s guffawing, nodding along. He opens his mouth to say something, but Drew jumps ahead, offering to buy him a drink to celebrate.

“C’mon, my treat,” the blond tells him, and swaggers off towards the bar, a vice grip on the blue polo shirt.

The shadow of Joel slips around your back as soon as the two figures are out of view. He brushes against your shoulders and nudges his stool nearer to yours with his foot, before sitting back into it with a sigh.

You stare at him, smirking behind your hand, elbow resting on the arm of your chair. He catches your eye and watches you for a few seconds.

Sorry, he mouths eventually, and sneaks a hand onto your thigh.

You lean into him, feeling the weight of Daniel and his proposal and his fucking Italian restaurant fall like insignificant grains off sand off your shoulders. You trace a finger along the shape of Joel’s knuckles. “I feel bad,” you whisper.

“The hell for?” his voice asks, a deep rumble by your temple.

You shrug, looking up at him. “He’s a nice guy. He asked me on a date.”

“And did you want to go?”

Your face pulls into a wince, lips flinching. “Not really.”

“Then what’d I tell you about doin’ stuff you don’t want to?”

You don’t reply. Your mind sails back to that boat ride in Paris, when he basically told you off for feeling guilty about rejecting a fucking marriage proposal, never mind a downtown dinner. It doesn’t bear thinking about what fantastic rant he’s currently bottling up where Daniel’s feelings are concerned.

Joel’s a no-nonsense guy, you know this. Known it for as long as you’ve known him. He’s rational, he’s pragmatic. He says what he thinks, and you deal with however you feel about it. He doesn’t waste time making anyone feel better with lies or cushion-soft landings. His yes is yes and his no is no. And sure, maybe there’s something in there that you’d do well to adopt, too.

But there are inconsistencies to him that you can’t work out – yet. Something that makes him break his rules. He still hasn’t shared whatever the hell Jean-Marc said to him that made him sweep you off of that terrace minutes later. He won’t admit why he keeps dragging you along to these so-called ‘work’ events.

Part of you wants to break him open, chip away at him like the sculptures in the Louvre until his beating heart is in your hands, the rhythmic pulses sharing secrets like it’s speaking in Morse code.

And part of you – bigger, stronger, wiser – hopes you never get close.

When you come back to the room, sound of glasses clinking and men’s roaring laughter washing away any thoughts of jilted boyfriends or lonely golfers, Joel lowers his head to look you in the eye.

“You wanna go?”

You nod, scrunching your nose. “That okay?”

He leans in close, as close as he reckons he can get without drawing attention, and smiles softly. “You coulda asked to go home the minute we pulled up ‘n it woulda been okay. Let’s go.” And he takes your hand.

Drew’s slung over the shoulders of some argyle-patterned men who you’re sure have spent more time drinking than they have actually on the course. He’s lifting his glass, about to toast to life, or love, or fucking golf, when Joel sneaks by behind him, never letting go of your hand.

The Rolls Royce is sat in park at the bottom of the stone steps, hazard lights blinking. Joel holds the door open as you hop in under the twinkling ceiling.

“Well?” Rand asks, looking in the mirror. You respond with a toss of your head, squinting. “Did you keep your feet straight like I taught you?” he demands.

“Honestly, I was more focused on making sure I hit the ball, Rand.”

He snorts. “Office, Joel?”

“Office, Rand.”

As the partition closes, Joel’s hand comes up to cup the back of your head. You lean into it, tilting to look at him properly through eyes glazed with tiredness, alcohol, relief to be back in only his company.

And he’s staring back, eyes flitting from yours down to your mouth when you speak.

“Did you…did you send Drew over to get Daniel away from me?”

Joel’s eyes stay fixed on your lips. “You didn’t want me to do that?”

You ignore him. You want him to answer your question. “Did you?”

And then he looks up. Searches your eyes for a second, and then says, “Yeah.”

Your stare falls down into his lap. To his closed fist, resting on his thigh. His fingers are stroking the back of your head in lulling movements. You focus on the shine of his watch. And horror sets in.

“You wanted him to stay?” Joel asks, bringing you up for air for half a second.

You’re quiet when you reply. “…No. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.”

And that’s somehow scarier. That you didn’t want this decent, attractive-enough man around you. That the entire time he sat nipping your ear, your eyes, your hands, your heart was searching all over the room for Joel. Listening for the twang of his voice, looking for him out of your peripheral. Counting every second until he sauntered back to your side.

It’s rolling. The feeling. Like a snowball gaining speed down a mountain. Starts off a twinge, a plucking somewhere buried deep in your heart, and turns and turns and turns until it’s a weight behind your ribcage. Unable to burst free.

You take Joel’s wrist and move his hand to the curve of your thigh, then lock your fingers between his. He lets you. You lift your free hand to the cut of his jawline, training your fingers down his bristled beard, and he lets you do that, too. And when you pull his face down to meet yours, lips warm and wet and starving, he opens his mouth and slips his tongue past your teeth.

Your hands are knotting in his hair. You’re leaning back, trying to pull him down on top of you, but he’s stronger. His hands take a strong grip of your waist and hoist you over the center console and into his lap, your knees pressing into the soft leather either side of his hips.

“You gonna tell me what you’re up to, pretty girl?” he asks, tipping his head back. His shirt smells like his cologne. Fresh, sharp, clean. It sends your head spinning.

Your lips find his jawline and nip kisses and bites along the sharp ridge. He tastes like whiskey, tastes like the sun, tastes like he did four days ago. Sweet and smoky and laced with something intoxicating.

Joel sighs. His hands knead into your hips, and he pushes you down, grinding you into his body.

He’s hard. Already.

“Feels like you already know,” you mutter, still peppering his neck with kisses.

He laughs the cocky way he always does when you’re on this road, heading this way. His hands find your hair again and he pulls your head back, drawing a whine from your lips.

“You gonna take it like a good girl? Take daddy’s cock?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, rubbing your damp panties over the bulge in his pants.

Joel unzips his trousers and shifts the waistband loose. You move his hands and peel back the top of his boxers yourself, and he watches from under heavy lids as you take him in both hands.

“That’s – my girl,” he chokes, eyes following your pumping fists. His head tips back with a quiet groan.

You push yourself up, shuffle nearer to him until your cunt hovers over his cock, and pull your panties to the side. You’re fucking soaked, already wet enough that Joel’s thick head catches on the cusp of your entrance as you line him up, stealing a gasp from your lips.

You sink, slowly, letting him push through into your sex inch by inch, feeling yourself pull open around him. Your brows furrow, jaw falls wide at the white-hot feeling between your legs, and you look up to see your expression reflected in Joel’s.

His hands clutch at your hips. “So – fucking – tight,” he hums, eyes rolling.

You lock your knees and begin bouncing, resting your hands on top of Joel’s. You’re steadily picking up pace, each nudge of his tip against the edge of your pussy sending another spasm of stars across your quickly-blinding vision.

“Off,” Joel mumbles against your lips, fingers pinching the fabric of your shirt.

“Huh?” you ask back, looking down to where he’s already peeling it up your torso.

“Just the skirt,” he pants, desperate, “nothin’ else.”

You lift your arms and let him pull the polo from your body, tossing it onto the carpeted floor. Joel unhooks your bra and pulls the lace down, before he’s angling his hips up again, hitting you somewhere deep enough inside to steal the breath from your lungs.

And then his lips are on your naked chest, sinking into the valley between your breasts, kissing over to your nipple. His tongue flicks over and over until the bud is pointed, enough to take it between his lips and graze over it with his teeth.

Your thighs are burning. Your skirt sits bunched up on your hips, only just covering your ass as Joel’s hands press into the supple skin, lifting you effortlessly up and down. You melt into his touch, let him do the work for a few seconds as he sits back in his seat to watch your body on his.

“My good – girl,” he groans, voice thick with arousal. “You know how pretty you look right now?”

You hook your hand around his neck, draw him in a little nearer. Shake your head with a filthy smile on your lips. “Tell me.”

Joel laughs shakily. “Wanna – fuckin’ – show you off to everyone, babygirl.”

He’s kissing you slowly, his tongue pressed to yours, when you pull back and separate your lips. He’s planted a seed in your mind.

Joel’s hips stop moving immediately. “Y’okay?” he asks, light hand on the side of your head, keeping your eyes on him.

You nod, breathing heavy. “Mhm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, “just…”

You look down to your skirt, your bare thighs spread over Joel’s lap. The thought flips over and over in your head, unsure if it’s brave enough to trot down to your lips and show itself to Joel.

“Baby?”

It’s Joel, though. Same guy who bent you over his desk, same guy who fucked you senseless feet away from his flight attendants. Same guy who, a few days ago, you were in this exact position with: writhing in next to nothing on his lap.

Fuck it. Right?

“…want him to watch,” you say, in a small voice.

Joel’s expression doesn’t change, save for the way his eyes narrow. “Want who to watch?”

You look at him a beat longer, and it sinks in. He gets it.

“Yeah, babygirl? That what you want?”

“Mhm,” you reply, shifting with him when he starts moving his hips again. The car moves forward, pushing you closer into him. “Want him to – watch you fuck me.”

“Dirty girl. You want him to watch you cum for daddy, pretty girl?”

“Ye-ah,” you moan, Joel’s hands now pushing your waist down, the stretch of his cock deep inside you almost burning with pleasure.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispers, watching as your face pulls and your brows knit together.

“Only cum for you, daddy,” you whimper.

“I know, darlin’, I know. Close your eyes.”

By this point, Joel’s assured tone, his strong hands on your hips, his fucking length buried inside you, are enough to convince you. You just do as you’re fucking told – as soon as you’re fucking told.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you lean forward, hooking your chin over his shoulder and feeling him turn, his lips pressed close to your ear.

“Good girl. He there?”

The image of Daniel flits across your vision, bright blue eyes trained on you. He looks…intrigued, and stunned. He’s not breaking his stare.

“Mhm,” you say again, and start to lift off of Joel.

“He watching?”

“Y-eah,” you choke out, bouncing steadily.

“Put on a show for ‘im, pretty girl. Show him what you do for me.”

You focus on the feeling of Joel, cock fucking deep into you, nuzzling against your walls and splitting you open; the sound of his voice in your ear, gently encouraging, sweetly reassuring; the smell of him, the taste of him, the heat from his skin, and…the sight of the steel-blue stare behind your eyes. The tight polo shirt. The round biceps. Watching you.

Watching you be fucked by someone else. Watching you come undone for someone else. For the same guy whose stare he couldn’t shake while he so much as talked to you. Watching your face as it twists in filthy pleasure; listening to you make sounds, whisper words, whisper daddy in the ear of your fucking boss; have him whisper words back that make your cunt tighten around him and push the image of Daniel two steps back with shock.

“Tell me again, angel.” Joel’s voice starts to swipe Daniel away.

Your eyes peel open, the backseat of the Rolls a blur as you roll your head back. “What, daddy?” you whimper.

His hand takes your jaw, holds you in line with his own. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You breathe a laugh. It pulls across your mouth two seconds later. “M-me.”

Joel mirrors your grin. His hips buck once. You cry out. “Yeah?”

“Uhuh,” you yelp, getting louder as he snaps up into you deeper, faster, harder.

You’re drawing around him, warm and wet, feeling him deep in your stomach as your movements become sloppy and staggered. Pleasure swirls like a whirlpool between your legs, tightening, tightening, tightening.

Joel’s face sharpens into your vision. His eyes are fixed on yours. You watch his lips shape the words good girl, before he pulls your foreheads together, noses flush against one another.

“’n who fucks it like this?” he asks into your mouth.

You take a deep breath, inhaling his question, and let a satisfied exhale carry your answer back out.

“Just y-you, daddy.”

And you both fall.

You rock back and forth as the feeling drowns you both; open-mouthed, silently screaming, eyes trained on one another as you ride out your high together.

You throw your head back, eyes losing focus just inches under the stars until they blur into little white halos. Your arms lift up to lean against the tiny dotted lights, steadying yourself.

Joel’s hands clamp around your waist, holding you down on his cock as he shoots hot ropes of cum deep inside you, mixing with your own and filling you up. Your name escapes his lips hand in hand with a deep, throaty moan.

You body aches. Your cunt throbs around him, still humming with pleasure as your body curls again, falling forward until your face is hidden in the crook of his neck. His hands run up and down your spine, lips press featherlight kisses to your ear, shhing, whispering praise, bringing you slowly back into the car with him.

“Daddy…” you whisper into the soft cotton of his shirt, and you feel the weight of his cheek on your head.

His hands cup your cheeks and he lifts your face until you’re staring at one another. Your eyes are tired, you can hardly keep them open, but Joel holds you upright.

“We gotta stop this,” he whispers, and your foreheads fall together again as you laugh. “I’m gettin’ too old for it, baby.”

He’s still buried deep inside, slowly softening, but you don’t want him to go. Not yet. He reaches for your bra, helps you slip it back on, and you bend back to take your shirt in two fingers.

When you’re dressed, you sink back into him.

Joel laughs, brushing the wisps of your hair disturbed by pulling your shirt over your head. “That what you were thinkin’ about? While he was talkin’ to you?”

You smile lazily. Shake your head no. “Was thinking…about you taking me to the Italian he was talking about.”

Joel’s smile grows bigger. Biggest you think you’ve ever seen him smile before. It breaks into a laugh, a toothy chuckle, and then he kisses you.

You melt into him, tongue and teeth crashing against one another. Joel’s open palms surf along your thighs, molding around your skin. He squeezes the dimpled skin on your hips between his fingers.

“Tonight work for you?” he asks, and you giggle.

“No,” you tell him, “I got Martha’s to-do list to work through.”

He nods knowingly, eyes closing. “You want a hand with it?”

You smirk. “Can we fool around in your office between items?”

His head tips back against the headrest with an obvious expression. “What do you think?”

The car slows to a stop and Rand’s knuckles rap against the glass of the partition. You slip off of Joel’s lap, fix yourselves quickly, and then amble off back to the top floor, still a little weak in the knees.

“Home time, Martha,” Joel calls almost as soon as the elevator doors pull open.

“Excuse me?” she yells back.

He laughs. “I’m lettin’ you go early. It ain’t fair that we get to go have our fun ‘n you’re stuck here ‘til five. Let us know what needs done, ‘n then you can get goin’.”

“Ain’t that chivalrous?” Martha beams, blinking at you.

You saunter by her with a smile and toss your bag under your desk. You spin around, brace yourself against the arms of your chair, and throw yourself back against the comfortable leather.

“So,” she announces, almost fucking skipping over to you with her trusty notepad back in her clutches. “I whittled it down to just six things, so it shouldn’t keep you much longer than five o’clock…”

You lift your brows and nod along.

“…as long as you don’t find anything to distract yourselves with, that is.”

----------

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specialagentlokitty · 2 months

Text

Bobby Nash x reader - our own family

Heyyy, if you ever find the time could you please make a hurt/comfort bobby nash x platonic!reader who is a fighter based off of the prompt “ I’m not your dad” “I know…do you know that”. I’d love some more bobby as a parental figure material please and thank you. 😊 - @purplecrayola 💜

You had woken up in the hospital, you didn’t have much recollection on how you ended up there or why.

Everything was still really hazy, and but the pain you could feel radiating from your abdomen was definitely real, you could feel it.

It wasn’t bad, maybe the IV in your arm had something to do with that, you had no clue.

You laid there taking small breaths, just staring up at the ceiling, and you heard the door open.

“Hello…?” You asked softly.

You didn’t want to risk sitting up, so you waited for the nurse to come over, and she smiled warmly at you.

“Well hey you, you’re awake again.”

You furrowed your brows a little bit in confusion.

“A..again…?”

“Yes, you woke up a week ago, not for long, only a few minutes. Can you sit up for me?”

You nodded, and the nurse helped you in slowly sitting up.

She checked your vitals, took some blood and checked your injury sight.

“Do you.. do you know what happened to me?”

“You came in about two weeks ago, you had major trauma to your abdomen. Do you not remember?”

You thought for a moment, forcing the memories to come to light.

You remembered the flames, you had been called out to a huge fire at a construction site, where a couple of people were said to still be inside the building.

You had gone in to try and find them, you were with Eddie and Hen.

You heard a loud creaking noise, and you barely had time to react when scaffolding fell, and then you remembered the pain.

People screaming your name.

Rain hitting your face.

You furrowed your brows a little bit.

Was it rain?

You felt a tap on your shoulder, and you snapped out of your head to look at the nurse.

“Are you alright? Are you in pain?”

“No I uh.. I remember what happened…”

She nodded her head.

“We need to keep you in for another few days, but after that you can go home, would you have anybody you can stay with?”

“I uh.. my chief, Bobby Nash. Has he been here?”

“Oh yes, comes by every day after work.”

“Can you ask him if he can take me? I live closer to him so it’ll be easier.”

She smiled, nodding her head and you went back to think.

While you were thinking, you went back to the last thing you remembered.

You were sure it wasn’t rain, it wasn’t supposed to rain that night, maybe it was water from the trucks? But that didn’t make sense.

Why would they keep you so close to the trucks if you had been hurt?

You shook your head, taking a sip of the water that was put next to you.

You shuffled back down, deciding to get some more sleep.

You spent a lot of the time sleeping, up until the point where Bobby came to take you home, and you still sat in your own head.

He helped you to your apartment, slowly sitting you down on the couch.

“I’ve been given a strict list of what medications you’re supposed to take and when, how to look after your wound and signs of infection.”

You slowly nodded your head.

“Right now you need some food that isn’t hospital food.” He smiled.

This made you laughed a little bit.

“Can we order Chinese?”

“Oh no, you’ve got to stay away from takeout right now. So, we’re going to do some simple chicken and rice and see how that goes.”

You grumbled a little bit but said nothing.

Bobby walked to your kitchen.

“I did some shopping before coming to get you.”

“I have food.”

“You have meals you throw in the microwave, we’ve been through this (Y/N) that’s not healthy.” He scoffed.

“But cooking is effort.”

“You live five minutes away from me, you could just come over you know.”

You shrugged a little bit, shuffling down so you could lay down and you placed a hand over your stomach.

You closed your eyes, the pain medicine taking hold, letting you fall asleep again.

You weren’t sure how long you had been asleep for, but somebody was gently shaking your shoulder.

“Hey kiddo, hey.., come on..” Bobby whispered.

You opened your eyes, and you stared at him.

“It was you…”

“What was?”

Bobby helped you sit up, placing your dinner in your lap.

“I.. I thought it was raining, but it was you, crying. I.. I said something but I can’t remember what. I’m trying to remember the accident.”

“Don’t rush yourself (Y/N), you went through a lot. Just let it come back naturally.”

Bobby sat down with his own dinner, and you looked at him.

“What did I say bobby?”

He sighed.

“You called me your dad.”

You glanced back down at your plate, that part of the accident rushing back to you.

You were begging and pleading about how you didn’t want to die, about how much it hurt, begging Bobby not to leave you.

You kept calling him dad.

Bobby cleared his throat, and you looked up at him.

“I’m not your dad”

You nodded your head a little.

“I know…do you know that?”

He looked at you confused.

“You’ve been sleeping in my hospital room, the nurse told me. That’s not something a chief does for his fighters.”

“You don’t like being alone. That’s why you’ve got a cat, who by the way will be returned in the morning by Chim.”

“That doesn’t change what I said…”

“We’re not talking about this.”

You nodded your head, setting your plate down, not having touched a single thing on it.

“I’m really tired…”

You pushed yourself up with a great deal of pain, hand over your stomach.

You slowly padded away, making your way to your room and you laid down on your back, placing an arm over your eyes.

You didn’t mean to get annoyed at him, but on the medication and the pain you weren’t thinking right now.

Bobby stayed in your living room, truth be told you were like a kid to him, but right now that was a conversation for later.

His main thought was making sure you got better

#911 fandom #911 imagine #911 fic #911 fanfic #911 x reader #911 x you #Bobby Nash #Bobby Nash x reader #Bobby Nash x you #Bobby Nash imagine

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bingoboingobongo · 1 year

Text

the reason (ii)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley (Call of Duty) x Reader

Type: Fluff, smut (minors dni)

Summary: You’re the reason why Ghost wakes up in the morning, and you’re why he lets himself dream at night. (a part 2 to the right thing to do)

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: use of female body descriptions, explicit language, masturbation, needles/stitches, forced proximity, pining

A/N: hiii, so yes, this is a part two to ‘the right thing to do’ (yayyy). i’m not gonna lie, this chapter was going to be longer, but i decided to cut it so that 1. you guys can get more ghost content faster and 2. you don’t have to read 20k words. as always, likes/reblogs and comments are always appreciated, hope you enjoy :)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Part 3

In Ghost’s life, moments of domesticity were rare. Between his turbulent childhood, his initial years during and after the military, and the crippling paranoia being in special forces came with, Ghost could count all the times he had felt that comforting sense of peacefulness; of safety; of not worrying about who was waiting to kill him or who was going to hurt the people he loved; that feeling; that soft, warm, light feeling; he could count all the times he felt it on one hand.

The first time had been when he was a kid — maybe six, maybe seven. Or maybe he was younger, he didn’t know. Everything from back then was blurry. He remembered feeling safe because his brother and his father were gone, and it was just him and his mom. He didn’t know why they were gone, just that they wouldn’t be back until the end of the week. He remembered sitting in front of the fireplace with his mom, eating takeout and listening carefully as she read him a story: Treasure Island. When the book was finished, he remembered dragging his mom to the backyard and begging her to play Long John Silver while he, Jim Hawkins of course, challenged her to a pirate duel.

The second time had been at his nephew’s first birthday. It had been a small party, his brother and his wife, his mother, and him. He had been on leave for a while at that point, tending to family issues but by then, everything was fine. His sister-in-law had tucked his nephew into bed, and the rest of them were sitting outside around a fire drinking cheap beer and reminiscing over the past. He could still remember that warm feeling in his chest, a combination of alcohol and happiness.

And the last time he could remember, the third and final time, was now. It was here, with you by his side and the snow falling around him. It was the warmth of your body against his; the way you fit against him perfectly, like he was made only for you; it was the way you smelled, the way the fragrance of his cheap soap, the one you had made fun of just hours before, mingled and danced with that familiar, smokey smell of guns and bullets; the way you made him feel, light and airy and safe, as if you and him were alone together in a tiny pocket of space where nobody could reach you.

You made him feel safe. You made him feel sleepy. It was odd, because Ghost had never been a stranger to staying awake before. As a child, he spent his fair share of nights hiding under blankets with a book and a flashlight, staying up the entire night reading so he wouldn’t have to deal with the nightmares that plagued his sleep. And if anything, the military had only worsened his sleeping habits. He had gone days — one time a week — without sleep while on the battlefield. He knew how to shake off the tight grip of exhaustion, how to spit in its face and tell it to fuck off so he could keep doing his job. He had done it time and time again in the past, but for some reason in this moment, his ability to do so was escaping him.

It was something about you — it was everything about you — that made it hard for him to stay up. The way he unconsciously synced up his breaths with your steady, even ones; the way the warmth of your body pressed against him rolled off of you in waves, encouraging him to just give in; the way you somehow made him feel so relaxed and peaceful and content, as if you were a long-term mission he had finally accomplished; everything about you made his eyelids droop and his mind hazy.

And it killed him to have to wake you up, to have to be the one to disturb your rest when you looked so happy and satisfied sleeping. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t risk falling asleep when he was supposed to be protecting you. He would be letting you down, and he knew that disappointing you — or worse, getting you killed — would hurt far more than waking you up. So with a heavy heart and a stiff shoulder, he carefully nudged you until you woke up.

You opened your eyes slowly, peeling yourself off of him as you looked around, trying to remember where you were. He watched you bring a hand to your mouth as you let out a yawn, your eyes squinting shut as tears welled up under them. “My turn?” you asked, your voice slightly scratchy.

Ghost swallowed, your voice was definitely doing something to him. “I don’t know,” he said, “you think you’re awake enough to do it?”

You huffed, “Do I even have a choice?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” you said, letting out a sigh as you cracked your neck. “Give me a second though.” He nodded, watching as you rubbed your hands in front of you, before slapping yourself on the cheeks lightly. “You gonna sleep in here or outside?” you asked, sniffling a little.

He wanted to stay outside with you, but the cold was starting to get to him and he could already feel his back starting to get stiff. “Inside. But I’m showering first,” he said, picking up his bag as he moved to stand up, “and I’m getting your gun. You think I’m gonna let you keep watch unarmed?”

“Don’t bother,” you told him, shaking out your legs as you stood up, “I’ll get it myself.” You followed him into the house, and he could hear you rustling around behind him as he walked into the bathroom. He had forgotten how small the bathroom was, or maybe he was just large. He barely fit between the sink and the door, causing him to have to shuffle awkwardly just to put his bag down.

He let out a sigh as he stared at himself in the mirror, running his hand down his face. Looking in the mirror was always weird for him. In one way, he could look at himself and register that that was Ghost, that was who Ghost was, who he looked like. But Ghost wasn’t the same as Simon, and the face staring back at him? That wasn’t Simon either. He knew Price considered the man under the mask to be Simon, that the mask was what ‘made’ Ghost. But if he was being truthful, he wasn’t really sure if he knew who Simon actually was, if Simon was even still a part of him after all these years, bright-eyed but scared and hidden under the surface.

He looked away, peeling the mask off of his face. He stared at it for a moment before folding it neatly and placing it on the sink. He started taking off the rest of his gear too, his vest, his boots, his belts, the various pockets and holsters he kept clipped to his thighs and the accompanying firearms. He turned on the shower, the pressure was dismal and the water ice cold, before unzipping his jacket, peeling off his undershirt, and stepping out of his pants and boxers.

The water had barely warmed up by the time he got in, sending a shiver down his spine. To make matters worse, the showerhead was much shorter than him, reaching only up to the base of his chin. He winced as a sharp sting of pain shot through him when he tried to crane his neck downwards. He tried reaching for the back of his neck, but the shower was small and maneuvering around was difficult.

His thoughts trailed over to you again. For some reason, it was weird to think that you had been in this same shower just a few hours before. What had you been thinking about then? Had you been thinking about him? Or had you been thinking about the others? If you were thinking about him, what were the specifics? Did you like him or hate him? Want him or not want him? And if you did want him, how did you want him? Did you just want him as a friend or as a trophy? Did you actually want to know him, to be there for him, or was he just an accomplishment for you to boast about, a way to prove you were able to conquer the elusive Ghost?

And what if you wanted him as more than a friend? What if you wanted him the same way he wanted you? With him towering over you, his fingers working miracles inside your wet cunt or with you pressed against him as he thrust into you over and over and over again. Maybe you wanted him to push you down flat against a table and whisper dirty things into your ear as he pulled you back on his cock, or maybe you wanted to push him down on a bed and ride him until your legs gave out and he had to take over for you.

Shit, he thought as his cock began to twitch, but he couldn’t stop himself. His mind kept coming up with new images, new scenarios that only stoked the fire growing in his core. You on your knees, your lips swollen and red and wrapped oh so tightly around him; you sitting on his face, your thighs clenching around his head and your hands gripping on for dear life as you came into his mouth; you tied up to a bed while he held a vibrator to your clit as you whined and wiggled and begged as orgasm after orgasm racked your body.

Fuck. This wasn’t right for him to be thinking of you like this. He was your boss for fuck’s sake, your coworker, your teammate. It wasn’t fair to you for him to be thinking of you this way, not when you were just a few yards away. But god damn it, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been this hard, so hard it was on the verge of hurting and it would be so easy to just get rid of his stupid erection, all he needed was a few minutes. That was all it would take, and besides, what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, right? He stifled a groan, using one hand to ease himself onto a wall as the other finally wrapped around his cock.

He shuddered at the touch, staying still for a moment before he started moving his hand. It had been a considerable time since he had touched himself; so long, in fact, that he really couldn’t remember the last time he had. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to imagine it was your hand wrapped around him instead of his. He knew how it would feel too. Somehow, despite all your time in the military, your hands were still butter smooth and pillow soft.

He let his mind continue to fill with dirty thoughts of you as his hand stroked his shaft, letting his head fall back against the wall. He swallowed down a groan as he brushed his thumb over his tip, spreading his precum along his erection. He tried to pretend it was your smooth hand rubbing along his dick instead of his own rough one, letting his mouth hang open as his hand slid along his cock at a steady pace.

He threw his head back against the wall, letting the pleasure wash over him in waves as the fire in the pit of his stomach grew. He could feel his breaths shallow as his hand moved faster along his cock. He snaked another hand down to cup his balls, shuddering at the touch, while his other hand moved to focus on the head of his penis. It wasn’t long until he could feel his balls start to tighten and his cock start to throb. He closed his eyes as he let the pleasure dictate his movements. He focused his attention to his tip, stifling a moan as he finally came onto the tiled wall. He tried to ride out the high for as long as he could, shutting his eyes as he felt his cock start to soften.

He opened his eyes, watching as his cum began to drip down the tile. Shit. Had he really just done that? He could feel the shame bubbling up on his stomach already. God, he was your boss, you trusted him, and he took that trust and spat in its face. He rubbed one of his hands down his face, leaning the other against the shower wall as he considered the weight of what he had just done. He had violated you, and for what? A few seconds of relief? Cupping his hands, he gathered up the cold shower water and splashed it against his face, his eyes falling to stare at the cum-stained wall, a glaring reminder of his wrongdoings.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered to himself as he washed it off, desperate to get rid of the sight of it. He took one last look at the area, forever tainted by the knowledge of what he did, before reaching for the soap. He felt dirty, dirtier than before, and suddenly he was desperate to clean himself.

Letting out a sigh of frustration, he turned his attention to the rest of his body, grabbing the soap you had left behind and lathering it up in his hands. Washing his body was awkward in the small space, but not completely impossible. He tried bending down again, and this time he was relatively successful. It was painful, considering he probably had a nasty cut on his back and he was essentially hunched over at a forty-five degree angle, but he was able to get his hair wet enough to wash it which was all that mattered.

He finished up his shower, wrapping the towel around his waist as he shook his hair dry. The cabin was much colder without his clothes to keep him warm, but that was the least of his problems. Gracelessly, he turned to examine his back in the mirror, pursing his lips as he saw the nasty scratch just below the base of his neck. He wasn’t surprised at its presence, after all he had felt a bullet graze past him while they were being shot at, but he didn’t realize the extent of the damage. He had assumed it was just a small injury, a minor scratch he could sleep off, but the wound in the mirror was longer than he thought.

He sighed as he reached for his first aid pack, pulling the suture kit out. He turned to the mirror again, trying to get a better look at the scratch. He turned his attention back to the kit, squinting hard as he tried to get a good grip on the needle. Once he was finally able to, he stood up to look in the mirror again, trying to twist around to get a good angle, but it was no use. Ghost threw the needle down onto the sink, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. He knew he should have asked you for help, but he knew the stitches would take a while and he just wanted to sleep.

He put his cargo pants and undershirt back on, ignoring the sting from his back as he grabbed his equipment before tugging on his balaclava once more and exiting the bathroom. The cabin seemed emptier without your presence filling it up with thick tension. He tried to take a deep breath but was interrupted by the stinging pain from his back. He exhaled, clenching his jaw as he bent over to grab his bedroll from his pack.

The sound of creaking behind him caused his head to shoot up, his hand curling around the handle of a small pocket knife he kept in his bag. He swiveled around to see you, your hands in the air with one of them clenched around your blanket. “Woah there, Ghost,” you said jokingly, “I come in peace. You alright?”

He relaxed a little, before remembering what he had done in the shower and stiffening again. “‘M fine. What are you doing here?” he asked, wondering if you had somehow heard him.

You lifted your blanket, “Figured I’d give this to you, that way you can sleep on the bed instead of the floor.”

He eyed you warily, before reaching it out and grabbing it from your hands. “You sure you don’t need it?”

You nodded, your eyes wide and encouraging as you watched him ball it up in his hands. He gave you one last look before turning around to the bedroom, content to call it a day when he heard you gasp. He looked around to see you, one hand over your mouth and the other pointing at him.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his stomach dropping with worry. Did he somehow leave something behind that exposed what he had done in the shower? Fuck. He never would have forgiven himself if this ruined your relationship. He would have to leave the task force, that was for sure, he wouldn’t be able to see you without knowing what he had done, what he had messed up, what could have been.

You stared at him like he was crazy. “Ghost,” you said, your voice laced with disbelief and something else, concern? “Your shirt… There’s blood on it.”

He groaned, partially in annoyance and partially out of relief. Of course his cut started bleeding now. “Oh, that?” he said, feigning ignorance, “it’s nothing, just got clipped back in the forest. It’ll be fine.”

You stared at him, your mouth gaping open. “That is not fine,” you said, “do you see how much blood there is? That needs stitches. Get over here, I’ll sew you up.”

“It’s—”

“No excuses,” you said sternly, silencing the words in his throat. “Sit,” you insisted, pulling a chair from the table.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but he sat down in the chair nonetheless. “Off,” you said, moving behind him and tugging at his now bloody shirt.

He stilled, his heart skipping a beat. He knew you were just saying it to get access to his wound, but still, it wasn’t like he had ever actually undressed in front of you. “You know, if you wanted to see me shirtless, you could’ve just asked. No need for all this ‘stitches’ business,” he said, trying to hide how nervous he was.

“Ha ha,” you said sarcastically, and he could practically hear you rolling your eyes from behind him. Was that a good sign? Was that a bad sign? He couldn’t tell.

“Just saying,” he said, before lifting the shirt off his body, being careful to not lift his mask in the process. He could hear you suck in a breath as your eyes scanned over his back. He suddenly felt incredibly self conscious as you stared at him; he knew his body was far from perfect. His back alone was littered with scars from wartime, knife scratches and stabs, scrapes and bruises, bullet scars. He knew it was perfectly normal for the military, an occupational hazard, but he couldn’t help but worry you would be disgusted by the sight.

You didn’t say anything though, just groaned quietly as you crouched down — to rifle through your bag, he assumed. “I’ve already got an opened suture kit in my bag,” he said, listening to you stop your searching.

“Oh, so you knew it needed stitches earlier and you still let it sit?” you asked, the disapproval clear in your voice.

He sighed, “Now who’s sounding like Price?”

“Yeah, well, Price is right,” you said, echoing Ghost’s words. “See what happens when you don’t apply stitches? Now I gotta clean up all this blood.”

“All this blood?” he asked, his head tilting towards you slightly, “is there that much?”

You clicked your tongue, and he could feel you eyeing him, “I guess not,” you said after a while, “but your shirt smeared it around a lot. Your back could probably give Carrie a run for her money.”

“Carrie?”

You hummed, the sound of you moving towards the kitchen sink filling the quiet room. “Have you never heard of Carrie?” you asked, turning on the tap.

“Is that the one with the uh, with the girl?”

“The one with the girl?” you called back over your shoulder, “real descriptive there Ghost.”

He scoffed, “Just hurry up and get these stitches done before I fall asleep.”

“Just hurry up and get these stitches done before I fall asleep,” you repeated in a shrill falsetto, mocking him. He turned to watch you as you returned from the sink, a damp cloth in hand and a small smile on your face. “No squirming, the water’s cold.”

He took in a breath when he felt you sliding the cold cloth against the plane of his back, suppressing a shudder when you swiped the fabric over the cut. He stayed still as you continued wiping down his back, listening to your quiet breaths instead.

He tried to ignore the awkwardness that settled in between the two of you. Or maybe there was no awkwardness and it was just a figment of his imagination, because you seemed completely unbothered by the silence. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad thing, that you were so calm even though your fingers were ghosting over his back. He wondered if you could tell how nervous you were making him, how you were making his cheeks heat up under the mask every time your breath tickled his neck, how his muscles tensed up every time your fingers brushed against his skin, how his heart pounded in his chest with every little sigh or concerned click of your tongue. In a weird way, he was thankful for the blood smeared on his back, considering it allowed him a valid excuse if you asked why his skin was turning red.

He felt you lift the cloth off of his back and walk back over to the sink. Your soft hands wringing out reddened water from the fabric as you ran it under the tap. You returned to your spot behind him again, continuing the task of wiping off his bloodied back. You started to hum quietly as you worked, setting off another swarm of butterflies in Ghost’s stomach. He couldn’t tell what you were humming, it could’ve been a song or it could’ve been a random melody you made up. Either way, he enjoyed it just the same, listening closely to every note.

After a while, he felt you take a step back and stare at him for a second, before returning to the sink and discarding the cloth inside it. “Get the kit out,” you said, your back turned to him as you washed your hands. He complied, stifling a groan as he bent over to pull the kit out from his pack. He fiddled with it as he watched you walk back to him, noticing the way your eyes lingered on his chest for a split second before extending it out to you.

“Alrighty, I don’t think I need to tell you this is gonna sting,” you said as you set up your materials. It was silent for a moment, before he felt you put one of your hands against his back for leverage. He tensed up at the touch of your cold hand against his skin, and you pulled your hand away. “Sorry,” you said, sucking in a breath.

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, “just didn’t expect it.”

You hummed, “So this is okay?” you asked, putting your hand on his back again.

He nodded, stifling a wince as he felt the needle pierce his skin. Once again, you were humming as you worked. For some reason, the entire scene felt oddly domestic: you humming as you patched him up, with a storm raging outside. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the two of you were in his flat in Manchester.

He had never really given much thought as to what domestic life with you would look like. He had never allowed himself to, after all, what was the point of entertaining a dream that would never become a reality? But now he needed something to take his mind off the painful pricks of the needle, and you had already proved yourself to be a worthy distraction.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to actually live with you, to have someone to do laundry with, to do dishes with, to wake up with, someone to come home to. He had a feeling you would never approve of the way he lived currently. It had been a while since he had been in his flat, but he could still remember how he left it. Light gray walls as bare as when he got them, his closet filled only with empty hangers, his kitchen cabinets empty save for a few pots and pans, and one lonely set of dishware. His bed wasn’t any better, he didn’t even have a bed frame. Just a mattress pushed against one wall, one white pillow at the head and a neatly folded white blanket at the foot.

But if you moved in, everything would change. He could line the walls with photos of the two of you, fill his closet with your clothes. His dishware wouldn’t be lonely because he’d have to get another set for you, and he wouldn’t mind spending the entire day shopping for a bed frame as long as it was with you. He wanted to wake up with you, to be able to roll over and bury his face in your chest; he wanted to come home and wrap you in his arms after a long day, or to feel you sidle up behind him as he prepared breakfast.

The more he thought of a life with you, the more awkward he felt with you behind him. You were so ignorant of everything he thought, you didn’t know how badly he wanted you, how he would kill anyone for a chance with you. In your mind, he was nothing more than a coworker, someone you only talked to at work, but in his mind, you were his entire world. When he let his mind run wild, you took up every thought, every whim, every idea. You were tattooed on his mind in technicolor; everything was laced with your presence, your being.

“Alright,” you chirped, clapping your hands together. “Stitches are all done. I can’t believe how well you took that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that even Price at least winces whenever he gets stitched up. No offense, Ghost, but sometimes I seriously question your humanity.”

“What, you think I’m a robot?”

You snorted, “It wouldn’t surprise me, especially with that mask. It really sells the impression that you’re a cold, heartless, killer.”

“Yeah well, can’t let the enemy know I’ve got a heart, can I? That’s a sure recipe for disaster.”

“Oh so you do have a heart?” you asked, turning to face him.

“Last I checked.”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

“What, you want proof?”

You shrugged, “Can’t hurt.”

Ghost stared at you for a moment, his mind racing a thousand miles a minute. He didn’t know what possessed him when his hand reached out for yours; it was as if he no longer had control of his body and he was just a spectator being forced to watch as his body moved on its own. His hand grabbed yours, and he watched as you stilled, but didn’t pull away. He pulled your hand to his chest, letting it settle above his heart.

Ghost tried his best to keep his breaths steady and his heart from hammering in his chest, but between the warmth of your hand against his cold skin and your wide eyes which were trained on his, he had a feeling his heart might have skipped a few beats. It was silent for a moment before you spoke.

“I guess I was wrong,” you whispered, your eyes flickering down to sneak another glance at his chest.

“I guess so,” he said in response, his eyes dipping down to stare at your lips. They were reddish-pink and slightly chapped from the cold weather; Ghost wanted to kiss them. Slowly, he looked back up at you, meeting your gaze. You seemed awfully nervous all of a sudden; a stark contrast to your usually confident and relaxed nature. He wondered if he was making you nervous, and if it was a good nervous or a bad nervous.

He didn’t want you to be nervous that he would hurt you; he would never hurt you. Doing so would be like stabbing himself in the heart, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t look at your tear-filled eyes and know that he was responsible. He wanted you to be nervous that he had caught you staring, that he knew you liked him. Of course, Ghost didn’t know anything at the moment. Once he realized how distracting you were to him, he made himself stop trying to read you, that way he wouldn’t have to worry about even more things.

“Oh shit,” you said, breaking the silence, “you said you were tired right? You should probably go to sleep, I don’t want to keep you up.”

Ghost was slightly disappointed as you pulled your hand away, but the way it lingered for just a second too long — as if you wanted to go back for another touch — didn’t slip by him. “Of course,” he said, rising from his seat, “we’ve got a long day tomorrow. We need to find the others and secure exfil. I don’t think we’re gonna be taking on Zhelyazkov any time soon after this.”

You nodded, your lips pressed into a line as you watched him grab his hoodie from his bag and slip it on. “Wake me up when you get tired,” he said, turning towards the bedroom.

“Yes, sir,” you said.

The soft cushion of the bed was a warm welcome compared to the hard wood of the chair, although this time he didn’t have the warmth of your hands to keep him company. He set his stuff down next to his bed, letting out a groan as he lay down. It felt like ages had passed since they first arrived at Zhelyazkov’s base and he started shooting at them. Ghost let his eyes fall shut as exhaustion began to kick in, his mind too tired to think. Sleep came to him quickly once his head hit the pillow. His eyelids became too heavy to open and he could feel his body sinking into the mattress.

Ghost wasn’t typically a dreamer, and yet that night, he dreamt of you. There wasn’t much meaning or direction to his dreams, just images and flashes of you, brief pockets of peacefulness or lust. He dreamt of waking you up in the morning with breakfast in bed, savoring the way you smiled up at him, your sleep-filled eyes crinkling at the corners. He dreamt of holding you against the wall, one leg wrapped over his shoulder as he ate you out, drinking in the way you cried out his name. He dreamt of walking along the street with you, one hand wrapped tightly around your waist as he admired the way you looked up at him with loving eyes. He dreamt of thrusting into you on a fur rug in front of a fireplace, delighting in the way your nails scratched down his back.

For too long, you had been nothing more than a distraction to Ghost. It was all he allowed himself to categorize you as, a mere inconvenience in his job. It was all he allowed himself to categorize you as, because the truth? The truth was that you were so much more.

You weren’t just the reason Ghost forgot to triple check his intel; you were the reason he looked forward to early morning meetings with the team. You weren’t just the reason Ghost had gotten sloppy at covering his tracks; you were the reason his heart fluttered whenever you were nearby. You were the reason his chest skipped a beat whenever you brushed up against him, you made his cheeks heat up whenever you pretended to flirt. You were the reason he flared up with jealousy whenever you talked to Soap instead of him. You were the reason for his bad mood when he didn’t see you at breakfast. You were the reason he felt safe; you were the reason he lowered his guard. You were the reason he made himself get up in the morning. You were the reason he let himself dream at night.

1K notes · View notes

mmmichyyy · 4 months

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🌸 gallavich fic rec list 🌸

welcome to my 2023 fic rec list! i went through my ao3 bookmarks and my tumblr tags from this year so here's some (not all, or else this post would go on forever) of my fave (new & older) one-shots, completed multi-chaps, wips & ficlets <3

make sure to check out my 2021 list & my 2022 list ! since i'm not going to include fics i've mentioned before in this year's list :)

& don't forget to check out @gallavichfanficlibrary @gallavich-fic-club @gallavichthings @thegallavault for more recs plus @galladrabbles & @gallavichmeta too ✨ let's go!

one-shots:

doesn't matter where we go by @heymacy (The boys take a road trip.)

to think that we could stay the same by teatrolley (post-breakup au, but Mickey gets out of prison, Caleb doesn't exist, and we get really into their past and Ian’s (struggling) head)

of going home by @lalazeewrites (Valiant has taken the greatest fall from grace the superhero world has witnessed in years. The Shrike is an unregistered vigilante who doesn't even ping the radar of Chicago's crime fighting scene. Ian is forcibly put on leave from his job and returns to the Gallagher house, a failure all over again. Not only does he not know what Mickey does when the world goes dark, he doesn't know that Mickey is still living southside at all. Not since the events of eight years ago.)

quiet by @babygirlmickey (In the quiet of a perceived absence of scrutiny, Mickey can be incontrovertibly tender. Or: 5 times Mickey lets his guard down, as observed by various third parties.)

all i need in this life of sin (is me and my husband) by literatii (As embarrassing as it might be, Ian is not only his husband but also his best friend, and Mickey is pretty damn okay with that. Why the fuck would he find other people to do the exact same shit with that he already does with Ian, minus the fucking, when he can just do that shit with Ian plus the fucking? It makes no sense. Or: Ian wants the two of them to have more friends. Mickey doesn’t.)

thirteen hours by @crossmydna (Ian has known for thirteen hours that he’s not crossing the border with Mickey, so he makes the most of the time he has left with him.)

queen of decatur by jaxington (“How’d you know that?” Ian asks, smelling chum in the water, the observant little fuck. “Not like your brothers are getting sent to lady prison all that often.” Mickey thumbs at his lip, trying to find a way out of this conversation. It probably wouldn’t be too hard to distract Ian just by taking of his pants, but he is trying this new thing where he actually tells Ian what’s going on in his head. “No.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “It’s my mom.”)

like strings of fire by @gardenerian (mickey finds a safe and colorful way for ian to indulge himself when hypersexuality rears its ugly head.)

the needle and the burning body by squash (jesuisgourde) (Mickey had two burning torches for hands but he knew what to do with them. Ian's head was on fire and all he knew was how to run and keep running. How to find a cliff and jump off. How to make Mickey chase after him, again and again. And in a cold cell in prison, Mickey catches him.)

some fucked up romcom by godisthedice (Two years after they locked him up, Mickey told himself that he was done with Ian fucking Gallagher for good. Two years as a free man and he's marrying him for all the wrong reasons.)

when the sun goes down by @sam-loves-seb (super cute and fluffy lifeguard au!)

lava java by @stocious (He's being really unprofessional. Mickey might not even be gay. He might be hitting on a straight man through takeout cups.)

here's to hoping i'm not what kills you by @crestfallercanyon (After a confrontation gone bad, Mickey and the Gallaghers get Ian to the hospital. And look, Mickey always knew that if the Gallaghers had a will they'd find a way, but being roped into their schemes himself wasn't something he'd planned on signing on for. All the Gallaghers need to know is Mickey's helping out because he's not pure fucking evil. They don't need to know Mickey was scared shitless when Ian got knocked unconscious, Jesus, he can barely admit that to himself. Once Mickey knows Ian's not dead and not dying, he's out of there. Except he can't bring himself to leave.)

to the thawing wind by @gardenerian (Living and working in the icy chill of an endless winter, Ian and his family are assigned to work the farms to bolster food supply. They live quietly enough, following the rules, until Mickey and Mandy Milkovich (with all their secrets) are moved in across the road.)

i'll come meet you where you are by @crestfallercanyon (Mickey comes back from prison with a ring of vicious bruises around his neck and an edge to him Ian doesn't recognize. But he came back. He came back, and now it's time for Ian to meet him halfway.

closing in walls and ticking clocks by c_cups_bitch_u_wish (So, this is happening. Mickey is sitting in the corner of the bedroom on the comfiest fucking chair he’s ever sat in, and his adult self and adult Ian are about to fuck. And he’s going to watch. What's most odd is that this doesn't even feel like the weirdest thing to happen to him today.)

a spark of fire by @lingy910y (“You wanted us to finally have some time alone. You wanted to keep me safe, but you didn’t really care as long as we were together. You didn’t want it to end.” Mickey swallows a lump in his throat. “I…I don’t fuckin’ know.” “But can I, uh, ask you something else?” Ian rubs his thumbs together. “You like me, Mick. You fucking like me.”)

flip fuck? by @gallawitchxx (Mickey’s always thought that Valentine’s Day was fucking gay. But then some dramatic, ginger fuckhead had to move into the room next to his, and steal his hole, his heart, and the attention of his tumblr mutuals. Mickey decides to keep it lowkey when he asks Ian to spend the evening together: You wanna hang out on Tuesday? Ian’s response is quick and gives absolutely nothing away: Sure thing! That big-dicked idiot better remember it’s fucking Valentine’s Day.)

completed:

prelude motel by @whatthebodygraspsnot (When Mickey’s secret spot is infiltrated by an intriguing stranger, all the warning signs are there. Despite the voice in the back of his head telling him to disengage, he can’t help but bite off more than he can chew, running straight back to the spot and the stranger when a job leaves him injured. Enter: the Prelude Motel - where, for the next three days, Mickey finds himself hiding from more than just his pursuers.)

garden song (series) by @gardenerian (two gorgeous fics about ian's bipolar, about hope, healing, and tomatoes)

better by anomalously (It's been ten years since Ian's seen Mickey.)

in your love by @sgtmickeyslaughter (Mickey had been out of prison for 2 years and Ian never would have known until they ran into one another on a random night in May. Ian fights for the love they shared while Mickey fights for the life he built, as they both struggle with shame and guilt from their shared past it becomes clear that they cannot help but be drawn to what is bright and beautiful between them.)

whumptober 2023 (series) by @sam-loves-seb (21 beautiful fics of angst & hurt/comfort)

out of nowhere by @suzy-queued (Ian should have never offered to hide his father's stash of gold. Now he's stuck living on a deserted piece of land in the woods, alone, losing his sanity. Mickey wants nothing more than to disappear — from prison, from his family, from the entire world. If only he knew where to get his hands on a cool million. The Gallagher gold. Mickey wants it. Ian will do anything to protect it. Who will cave first?)

all these things i have left to say to you by @crestfallercanyon (After all this time that Ian's been missing, he leaves a tape recorder on Mickey's pillow. And on it? An hour of pure, unfiltered, Ian audio that is all, apparently, dedicated to him.)

wips:

keys to my heart by @milkovichrules (Ian finds his stable college life getting difficult when a new neighbour moves into the dorms.)

intro to quantum dating by @spoonfulstar (another college au) (one of my fave fics of all time!!)

the ink is a witness to this by @palepinkgoat (six chapters about the stories tattoos can hold and hide.)

order up by @heymacy (Ian and Mickey work together at a Chicago diner. They like to push each other's buttons - all their buttons. How long until the dam finally breaks?)

second chapters by @squidyyy23 (When Mickey’s PO assigns him a job at the local library, he’s pleasantly surprised—not that he’d ever admit it. Practically lived in the prison library, and what better way to start his new life than with a career he might actually enjoy. And when he meets the charming, clever, utterly fuckable, redheaded children’s librarian, well, shit just keeps getting better and better. Mickey’s definitely not interested in anything serious right now, but what’s the harm in a little fun?)

electric blue by @goodkwuestion (Paramedic Ian Gallagher knows true love exists. He's not going to settle until he finds it either, no matter how much his friends and family roll their eyes at him. Mickey Milkovich, on the other hand, isn't sure about all that stuff. He's an engineer with a long to-do list, and chasing rainbows isn't on it. He'll never say no to a good time and a pretty face though. When they meet, it will feel like kismet, something inevitable that neither of them can shake. Honestly though, who would want to? Falling in love can be the easiest thing in the world, especially when the whole universe is rooting for you... That's if the whole universe is rooting for you.)

ficlets:

all of @heymrspatel's drabbles, especially this one of ian being self-conscious about his body

docks scene & birthday suit gardening ficlets by @metalheadmickey

all of @lupeloto's sweet & domestic ficlets

@sam-loves-seb's meta about ian being the moon and mickey being the sun

ian's birthday ficlet & 31 ways we never meet (a.u.gust 2023 ficlets) by @callivich

airport confessions by @dynamic-power

gallavich drabbles by @whatthebodygraspsnot

all of @howlinchickhowl's a.u.gust 2023 ficlets!

(if you made it this far, i also write fics occasionally too so here's a self-promo lol)

#gallavich fic rec #gallavich fic #ian and mickey fic #gallavich fic recs #ian x mickey #gallavich

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scoonsalicious · 9 days

Text

Unwanted: Chapter 23, Undressed - Pt. 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions: of drug use, drug dealing, stripping, prostitution, drug overdose, seizures, organized crime.

Word Count: 1.6k

Previously On...: After using your quick wit and computer skills to get you both out of a sticky situation, Tony offered you a job, and a beautiful friendship was born.

A/N: And we are ON THE MISSION! Welcome to Atlantic City, besties!

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

The Wiggle Room was nothing like Beantown Burlesque, of that you were certain. For a stripclub, Beantown had still managed to cater to a relatively upscale clientele, demanding exorbitant cover charges, selling overpriced drinks, and charging a premium for lap and private dances– hell, Tony Stark had gone there. And they never, ever, encouraged you to take on any ‘extra’ services for customers. Sure, clients asked, but girls were fired for accepting, and if a client wouldn’t take your ‘no’ for an answer, Beantown’s bouncers were more than happy to send them flying out the door on their asses.

You quickly learned that The Wiggle Room played by an entirely different set of rules when a customer asked if he could snort a line of coke off of your ass during your first shift. Everyone, it seemed, was high on some kind of drug, customers and coquettes alike. It made it surprisingly easy to get information out of people without rousing too much suspicion onto yourself.

Within the first two weeks, you and Sam were able to uncover that most, if not all, of the missing women you were investigating had either been, or tried out to be, dancers, bought drugs, or prostituted themselves out of the club. You were definitely in the epicenter of the disappearances. You positively had the where, but you were still far from discovering the why and the who.

You and Sam had set up a temporary caseboard in the dining nook of the apartment you were using as your safehouse. The two of you had already been good friends, but playing a couple at the club and sharing tight accommodations had intensified the power of your bond, and as you sat in front of the caseboard eating your Chinese takeout together, you couldn’t help but rib one another.

“Lavender definitely has a thing for you,” you pointed your chopsticks at him, referring to one of the club’s older dancers, who, at 45, had taken a shine to the Falcon from the moment he’d taken his position as member of the club’s security team.

“Well, can you blame her?” Sam said, slurping up the noodles of his lo mein. “Hard to resist a good piece of dark chocolate, and Ole Sammy’s a fine box of Godiva.”

You wrinkled up your face. “Okkkay,” you said, “ignoring the fact that there’s so much gross in that statement that I don’t even know where to begin, should I give her your number, then?”

Sam nearly choked on his food. “Absolutely not!” he coughed. “She’s got six kids!”

“Wow, Samuel,” you said, pretending to be offended on Lavender’s behalf, “I didn’t realize you were prejudiced against single moms. Does Sarah, know that fascinating tidbit about you?”

“Nuh-uh, Baby Girl. Don’t you go tryin’ to put words in my mouth. I got nothin’ against single moms– they’re the backbone of this country– but Lavender’s also got six baby daddies she doesn’t know how to quit. I ain’t lookin’ for that kinda drama in my love life, thank you very much.”

You took a bite of your chicken & broccoli. “Fair point,” you conceded. “I’ll allow it.” Sam tipped his head to you in his thanks.

You let your attention drift back to the board. In addition to photos of the missing women, you’d also managed to populate it with a combination of ID photos and mugshots of the club’s employees and management. As you’d learned the identities of your coworkers, you’d been able to piece the hierarchy of the organization together, but you only got as far as the club’s owner, Vladimir Kozlov. When you’d sent his name and some covert photos back to the Tower, you hadn’t been surprised to receive word back from Natasha that Kozlov had, at one point, been a low-level thug in the Russian mob. What you hadn’t yet been able to decipher, however, was how he kept the club afloat. According to your research, the Wiggle Room was hemorrhaging money, its expenses far surpassing its recorded income, yet Kozlov dressed himself in the finest European suits and drove a seemingly never-ending rotation of sports cars that would rival Tony’s.

You and Sam had both come to the shared conclusion that Kozlov didn’t have the brain cells to run a successful, let alone lucrative, criminal operation on his own, and therefore, there must be silent partners involved in the club that you’d not yet been able to identify. The drugs that were sold out of the club could account for some of its income, but not nearly enough.

“I’ve got an idea,” you said, turning back to Sam.

“Why do I feel like someone just walked over my grave when you said that?” he asked you with an exaggerated shiver.

You cocked your head. “Probably because it’s a terrible one.” Nibbling on your lower lip, you debated whether or not to tell him. He was going to hate it, but you couldn’t think of a better way to get closer to Kozlov’s inner circle. “I think I should start buying drugs from Kozlov’s men.”

The look Sam gave you was withering. “Pocket,” he warned, “that’s an actual crime.”

“I’m not going to do them, Sam!” You put down your carton of rice. “I just need to make them think I am. Kozlov keeps the girls that buy from him close– he likes how they come to rely on him. I think it gets his rocks off to have them be dependent on him. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he lets things slip in front of them because they’re too strung out to pay attention.”

Sam seemed to consider your proposal. “I don’t like it, Baby Girl,” he said. “It sounds dangerous. What if he tries to take advantage of you?”

You held up the silver bangle that served as your distress signal. “Then I call for the calvary,” you said. “I won’t actually be high, so I’ll still have my wits about me.”

“So, you think you know enough about gettin’ high to fake it in front of a bunch of drug dealers?” Sam asked, clearly thinking you were overestimating your acting abilities.

You puffed a breath out of the corner of your mouth. “Yeeeeah. So, here’s the thing… I might have spent a good chunk of my teen years on a variety of illegal substances.”

Sam’s eyebrows went comically high. “Come again for Dark Chocolate?”

How to be truthful yet maintain your sense of dignity here? “Everyone at the Tower knows how my childhood was rough, yeah? That my parents were shit? And that’s the reason I don’t have anything to do with them?” Sam nodded. This much of your past, at least, was common knowledge, and you were more or less keen to leave it that way. “Alright, so, part of that shit was that my mom and her boyfriend were drug addicts. Mom preferred meth and booze, but the boyfriend was less discriminate. He’d do anything if it got him high enough. When he needed me to… let’s say ‘behave,’ he’d give me something, whatever he had on hand. Weed, MDMA, coke, benzos, Special K, opiates. Really didn’t matter to him. The drugs made me easier to control. So, I know how to act like I’m high, because I’ve been high. A lot.”

The look in Sam’s eyes morphed from disappointment at your idea to horror at your revelation. “Fuck. Baby Girl, I had no idea.” You couldn’t meet his gaze; unlike your past as a stripper, this was something you were deeply ashamed of.

“It’s fine, Sam,” you told him, picking your food carton up again just to give you something to focus on. “It was a long time ago.

“What made you stop?” he asked, no judgment, just genuine sincerity in his question.

“Same thing that saved the rest of my sorry ass,” you shrugged, playing with the flaps of the paper carton. “Tony. By that point, though, it was mostly just Adderall to focus on school work and so I could stay awake to take more shifts at the club, and weed for when the Adderall wouldn’t let me sleep.”

“One time, I took too much Adderall to cram for a final, and I had a seizure. Tony had to take me to the hospital, and he was furious– I’ve honestly never seen him so mad. Trust me when I say it made his fight with Cap look like a playground spat. I thought for sure he was going to wash his hands of me. I wouldn't have blamed him.”

The memory of it played through your mind, the sheer disappointment in Tony’s eyes as the doctors told him what they’d found in your system.

“But, the thing was, Tony blamed himself, said he’d put too much pressure on me. Kept saying he was turning into his father, and he couldn’t have that. So, instead of tossing me out on my ass like he should have, he got me help.”

Sam’s mouth hung open. “I’m sorry, but I think we know two different Tony Starks. This altruism does not jive with the man I work with.”

You smiled and shrugged your shoulders again. “Not my fault he likes me better than you, Samuel. I am a lot cuter.”

“Debatable,” Sam replied before taking a swig of his beer. He looked thoughtful for a moment. “If you don’t think it’s gonna be too much of a temptation for you,” he said after a pause, “I think the drug-buying might work. We can give it a shot, at least.”

You sipped your iced tea. “Won’t be a problem, Sammy. The girl who constantly did that stuff is gone, and she’s not coming back.”

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #mcu bucky barnes #james barnes

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inkedroplets · 1 year

Text

You Owe me a New Desk

“I know I sprang this on you—” “Because you knew if you didn’t I would say no,” Kara said hotly, wondering if she had also purposefully chosen to tell her at the DEO to stop her from making too big a scene. She glared at Alex, hoping to see a hint of guilt on her implacable face, annoyed when she found none.

“It's dinner, Kara. you act like I’m trying to marry you off,” Alex said, arms already crossed over her chest, having expected resistance and prepared accordingly.

“Not yet, anyway,” Kara replied, shaking her head again, her hands still on her hips, fingers digging in to stop her from mimicking Alex’s pose, knowing she would cut a far more intimidating figure. “But at the rate, you’re going …” “It is one date,” Alex said. She snaked her right arm free and held up her index finger, although Kara suspected she would have much rather held up the middle one. “You don’t even need to think of it as a date. Think of it as a night out.” “A night out,” Kara repeated. “Yeah. Do you remember those?” “I missed a few game nights,” Kara said, her already fraying patience dissolving to nothing as they slipped back into the same quagmire they had been stuck in for months now. It seemed no matter what topic, whether it be something as banal as the weather or a metahuman attacking downtown like all roads lead to Rome. Every conversation with Alex always led back to Lena and how (in Alex's words) she needed to move on. As if it could ever be that simple. Although to everyone else it certainly seemed that way. Life for everyone else had simply seemed to have gone on. As if Lena's sudden absence was something that had happened a long time ago.

There had been a few desultory outings where the conversation often lagged and some of the takeout that normally disappeared so quickly remained untouched. She remembered a game night that had fizzled out after a brief game of Exploding Kittens and turned into an impromptu movie night that had been something Kara had needed to get through rather than enjoy.

But the group (minus Kara) had found their footing soon after that. Karaoke where lyrics were belted out (oftentimes offkey) and at the appropriate eardrum-shattering decibel. Game nights filled with laughter interspersed with the occasional howl of indignation when someone invariably pulled too far ahead in points or when a house rule had been broken whether on accident or on purpose.

Kara had watched it happen in a state of incredulity, bearing witness to the speed at which things had returned to normal for everyone else, at how fast their fractured circle had closed in reaction to Lena's absence. Life had simply gone on for them. But not for her. And seeing her friends joke and laugh, and have spirited debates over who out of the group would have the best chance of surviving a zombie apocalypse and what were the superior pizza toppings, turned her incredulity to white-hot anger. Anger that had all the forethought of a bull in a china shop. It rampaged around in her chest, seeing red everywhere, looking for something to smash, to gore. It was why she had eventually stopped going to game night, (even if all she had done since Lena’s absence had been to act as a scorekeeper).

“You’ve missed six,” Alex countered “Six then.” “And every time someone tries to make plans with you, you always find an excuse not to—” “Me being busy is not an excuse,” Kara fired back and gave her cape a hasty flutter, drawing attention to it the same way a magician might before attempting some sleight of hand. In truth, it was an excuse, but with how busy she had kept herself, it would have been hard to accuse her of lying. She had practically begged Andrea for more work, happily snapping up whatever puff piece or blogpost that she threw her way. Andrea had been far too happy that her Pulitzer-winning reporter had suddenly come around on soft news after being so vehemently against it to question why she was now more than happy to pen an article about ‘What your favorite kind of tea says about you’. She had also redoubled her efforts as Supergirl, spending more of her time patrolling the city. Anything to keep busy, to keep herself distracted. Not that it was ever enough. “You can take one night off, Kara…” Alex let out a sigh that sounded like it had been kept under pressure for a very long time, almost a hiss as her gaze that had been so steely just moments ago softened. “I know this has been hard…” No, you don’t.

“I know you miss her.” “I don’t miss her!” Kara shouted. The ensuing silence and the feeling of suddenly being watched as everyone in the room turned to look in her direction made her cheeks burn. Doing her best to ignore the fact that to the others in the room, she and Alex had become the only two players on the stage of a sold-out show she stalked forward so that she could lean close enough to whisper to her. “Kara…” “I do not miss her,” Kara murmured. She pressed a hand flat against her forehead and let it slip over her eyes briefly like a shroud. In the transient darkness, she saw herself. Not a perfect reflection but her as she had looked trapped in the Fortress’ defenses that Lena had reprogrammed on the fly. Defenses that had been put in place originally as a Luthor failsafe… “Okay,” Alex said placatingly. “You don’t miss her. After what she did to you—” And what did we do to her? Kara thought, the image of herself fading from her mind’s eye as she let her hand fall back to her side. “Can we not, Alex? Please?”

“Why don’t you head home for the night?” Alex suggested as if she wasn’t the reason that Kara had stopped by the DEO in the first place instead of heading straight home after her patrol. “Just think about it, okay? The date… or not date.” “Yeah,” Kara said, already beating a hasty retreat towards the door. She could hear the indistinct whispers of some of the agents in the room as clearly as if they were whispering into her ear instead of someone else’s, ignoring the looks of concern on many of the faces she passed.

I’m fine, she told herself. She repeated that to herself with each step like a prayer. And when she had put the DEO behind her, had flown up high enough so that the city below had become a bed of glittering jewels, she repeated it aloud with the same quiet desperation one might have when earnestly wishing on a star. “I’m fine.”

Kara wasn’t fine. How could she be when there didn’t seem to be a single potsticker in all of National City? She had tried all of her usual places and been turned away for one reason or another at all of them. Catching them as they were closing for the night, being swamped with orders, and just being plain out of food (although Kara could have sworn she smelled something cooking in the back).

She had however been offered an apology each time she had been turned away. Five apologies of varying sincerity did little to blunt her disappointment at being denied one of the few things that might bring her a tiny bit of comfort. It wasn’t until she had returned home defeated that she realized how strange it had been that every place had known her by name. Not that she didn’t frequent any of them enough for them to know her name, but she knew for a fact that none of them did. She had been a regular customer by virtue only, always having to give her name (sometimes several times) whenever she picked up an order. Not that she minded. But it had been odd to suddenly become a known entity at all five restaurants. Even stranger that a few of them had done a very noticeable double-take when she had walked in as if they had been expecting her.

The words: Could this day get any worse? trembled on her lips when she collapsed onto her couch, still in her Supergirl suit. She didn’t dare speak them aloud, though. She knew better than to tempt fate. Knew from experience that life could turn on a dime and be unimaginably cruel. Krypton’s destruction. Having to watch her home be destroyed before her eyes and at that moment (and for a long time after) a selfish part of her had wished she had been destroyed along with it.

Compared to that, how could a squabble with Alex and being denied her favorite food ever measure up? Only, she knew it wasn’t just that. It was being faced with the fact that her passion for journalism, something that had fulfilled her in a way that Supergirl never could, had seemingly vanished and her attempts (that had become more and more desperate) to recapture it had only made her more sure that it might be gone for good. It was the distance growing between her and all her loved ones and how little she seemed to care as she watched it happen. It was the unimaginable bitterness that ate away at her like acid from how she had hurt Lena and how Lena had hurt her. It was how at times there seemed to be no bottom to her pain. It was the recurring nightmare she had frequently of being back in the Fortress. Watching Lena disappear into the portal with Myriad. Trapped once more in that glittering cage. Even the most vivid of nightmares couldn’t replicate the pain of kryptonite, but what it could do was convince her sleeping mind that she was trapped there. Trapped with no way of escape. And when she woke up drenched in a cold sweat, she wasn’t sure whether she was in her bed, in the Fortress, or back in the Phantom Zone…

“It’s the potstickers,” she muttered. Her stomach gave a very loud rumble a few moments later, making it that much easier to pretend that’s all it was. She had plenty to work with in her fridge. At a quick glance with her X-Ray vision, she saw leftover pizza, Thai food, and half of a burrito that looked about the same size and general shape as a small anaconda. But no potstickers. “Maybe if Alex didn’t invite me to the DEO under false pretenses to set me up on a blind date,” she muttered, finding it easy to imagine a scenario where if she had arrived only ten minutes earlier her favorite place wouldn’t have run out of food. That very likely outcome annoyed her almost more than Alex trying to dictate her love life. Lena would understand. The thought was like a bolt from the blue, too quick for her to stop herself from thinking it and too ingrained in her to be surprised that she had. Lena had been the one she had always gone to when she wanted to vent, especially if it was about Alex. She had always seemed to know when Kara simply wanted her to listen to her vent and when she wanted advice. Something that Alex still hadn’t mastered. While she meant well, Kara thought she approached helping her with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball at times. Her hamfisted attempt at getting her out of her funk by setting her up with a stranger was evidence of that.

Alex is being so annoying today! You wouldn’t believe what she did. She actually tried to set me up on a date!! Sometimes she just needs to mind her own business!! And every Chinese place in the city is out of potstickers. And when I say ‘every’ Chinese place I mean every single place. I checked them all.Writing the text was cathartic, the modern-day version of writing a letter that you had no intention of sending. The relief would be fleeting, of course, although Kara had no idea just how fleeting.

She had tossed her phone aside and begun taking mental stock of what she had in her cupboards and fridge, trying to figure out what to do for dinner when her phone chirped weakly from underneath one of her throw pillows.

She swiped her finger lazily over the screen and felt her stomach enter freefall.

“Oh, no no no no…” Kara squeezed her phone hard enough to produce an ominous cracking noise that made her drop it directly onto her face. Flinching, she let it slide down into the crook of her neck before scooping it up, careful not to crush it (regardless of how tempting that sounded at the moment).

She dragged her index finger over the screen and stared open-mouthed at the message she had never meant to send, but had done so anyway. She let her eyes unfocus and slowly zero in again as if that might make the message disappear.

When her vision sharpened again and she saw the message was still there, Kara let out a low moan, wishing she could have willed it out of existence through sheer desperation, certain that if such a thing were possible she would have no trouble at all pulling it off.

But it was the message just below it that made her do a double-take.

I couldn't care less about the potstickers, but please, do go on about how awful Alex is…

The message was so unabashedly Lena that Kara had no trouble imagining her speaking the words aloud, the imagery so vivid that she could have sworn she heard Lena's voice echoing in her head.

She stared at it a moment longer before she typed out a very hasty, I'm sorry, not sure what else she could say. Her thumb hovered over the send button, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. That wouldn't get a response. She was certain of that. Not when the other apologies she had sent had never once elicited a response from Lena. The apologies she had agonized over sending in the first place and regretted on the days when her anger at Lena outweighed the pain of missing her, of hurting her.

#most definitely a work in progress #I don't know how to share private posts so everybody gets to bear witness #supercorp #can something be angsty and smutty at the same time?

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inourtownofhawkins · 11 months

Text

𝓓𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬

Summary: You and Eddie finally move in together.

Author’s note: Finally, some fluff lol

CW: Some sex references, mostly just fluff, Cheerscoops reference if you squint

Word count: 740

Any hate will not be tolerated, constructive criticism is welcomed.

Contrary to popular belief, you and Eddie never formally decided to move in together, you’d never had the conversation of “let’s see if we can move in together”. In reality, you had come over to Eddie’s apartment one night to cook dinner with him and watch a movie and then you seemingly just never left, not that Eddie really minded.

Although you did split your time between your own shared house with Eddie’s apartment, it became clear as the months went on that you would rather just stay at Eddie’s to get out of the shared house. There wasn’t any bad blood between you and your housemates, they were old school friends of yours after all. But the main problem was privacy.

Whenever you and Eddie would try to have a movie night or even try to get it on in your room, one of your housemates – usually Robin – would storm in and ask to borrow something or just annoy you. As much as you loved Robin and Chrissy as housemates, you knew you wanted your own space, and you wouldn’t be able to find it with them in the house.

Thankfully, your job wasn’t a big issue for you as you were able to work remotely as a freelance reporter; but dealing with Robin being Robin and Chrissy and Steve acting like loved-up teenagers, you found working at home a rather stressful affair.

While staying at Eddie’s you could actually get work done, when you two weren’t constantly making out, that is. But you soon slipped into a routine; you would be awake for when Eddie left for work to make him coffee and kiss him before he went, before going back to bed for a few hours to sleep, then you would work in his kitchen and wait for him to come home so you could cook dinner together and settle down for some video games or a movie before bed.

By the time your lease was up in your shared house, you almost instantly told your landlord that you were moving out and signed a new lease with Eddie’s apartment. And that was that.

The day you formally moved in and signed the necessary paperwork, Eddie had baked you a cake. At least, he told you he did, but you could tell from the plastic container in the trash that he’d bought it. Not that you minded, of course. You knew Eddie couldn’t bake to save his life and the last time he did, he almost set fire to the shared kitchen and the smell of burnt chocolate lingered in there for several days afterwards. Because who knew you shouldn’t put a plastic bowl in a microwave to melt chocolate?

The cake itself was simple; double chocolate with caramel buttercream with “Welcome home, Sweetheart” written on the top in cute white icing. Even though Eddie hadn’t baked it himself, you still loved the thought that had gone into getting it for you.

After eating a stupid amount of cake, you and Eddie relaxed with a movie. Well, after squabbling like children for over an hour over which movie. You had wanted to watch Love Actually, and Eddie had wanted to watch Final Destination. You’d tried to settle it reasonably at first by negotiating like adults, promising to do each other’s household chores for a week and buying takeout but when negotiations fell through, you’d resulted in a good old fashioned food fight with the remainder of the cake and whatever else you two could get your hands on from the fridge.

You came out victorious, even after being rugby tackled to the floor by Eddie to avoid getting whipped cream in his hair.

Once you’d both taken a long shower and cleaned up as much of the apartment as they could, you flopped onto the couch to watch the movie, Eddie, naturally, giving commentary the entire way, much to the delight and slight annoyance of you.

By the time the movie ended, you’d had fallen asleep on the couch. Eddie looked down at you cuddled into him, a faint smile coming onto his lips as he played with your hair a little. He slowly got up from the couch, being as quiet as possible as he turned off the lights and the TV before turning back to your still sleeping form.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered as he gently picked you up. “Let’s get you to bed.”

#spilled ink #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff

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helixobesity · 4 months

Text

🌀 Ring 🌀

• Guess I should put this old journal I got to good use this year! Maybe just day to day worries or fun stuff that happened!

Oh! Speaking of fun for a first entry, I got a letter in the mail and it was my great aunt! Said she was clearing out her attic and found this gorgeous ring, and she sent it over to me! It fits absolutely perfectly, I can’t wait to go out to dinner with it tonight!

• Why does everyone keep saying I look… bigger?

I mean, I’ve just been wearing this new ring, and it’s a little tight sure

And I feel fine

People keep saying I look… fuller?

Is that a compliment? It must be, right!

Right?

• Ok so it’s been a couple days and

I maybe sorta see what people mean…

It’s only been a week and I’ve put on like 10 pounds!

I have no clue how I’ve been eating like normal I swear!

Maybe I should go on that diet I keep talking about doing… it’s still the new year after all

• Wow ok uh, summertime really snuck up on me this year but uh… guess my partner, I mean, ex-partner, wasn’t too happy that I’ve gained, like, nearly 50 pounds this year. I uh, got so winded when we were.. trying stuff together, he said it was a “turn off”… but honestly it just made me more excited. I’ve been getting like that a lot recently, maybe with how my thighs are touching all the time, and the fact I’ve gone up 5 pant sizes has been driving me… what am I saying??

Anyway, His loss though! I’ve been doing everything right! I’ve been dieting, working out, taking the stairs at work, I just… I keep putting on more weight? God this is really hurting my head. When’s my takeout coming?

• Heyyyy diary! Back again, and uhh, I think I’ve gotten kinda.. fat. Oooh feels weird to admit that, everyone keeps saying I’m fat at work! Well, they did before they “fired” me after I ate out the refrigerator, again. And, like, I’ve definitely put on weight. A lot a lot of weight.. idk what’s bigger than 100? That much! But I promise I’m doing everything these stupid diet plans say to do, and my belly just keeps getting bigger and bigger and…

Wow I’m getting super hungry again...

• Diary! I always forget to write in this stupid thing, but my new partner found it while cleaning to go live at their place, and I’m so excited with all the holidays coming! I’m, like, way too big to live on my own now, moving is so hardddd, I’m a big pig! 550 pounds is.. big right? Or.. is it… god I’m starving again, hope my darling gets back soon from getting food. Hang on, did this ring always used to be so shiny… it’s pretty.. and really, like, pink!

• My partner feeds me lots!! I’m soooo happie! They say I’m their, like, good piggy! And it’s soooo hott! I wannas be fatter… way way fatter, I’m so hungry, partner is feeding me as I write this! They even got me a new ring to go with my old one!! And I… I… did I always used to think about food so much? I… wasn’t this fat a year ago. What happened? I… oh god did the ring… Make… me…

Hehe~

What’em I saying? I love food! I wanna be soooo so much fatter, it’s not enough. I gots to be fatter

I gotta eat

I need to be fatter…

So… much fatter…

🌀💿🌀💿🌀💿🌀💿🌀💿🌀💿🌀💿🌀

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letsgetrowdy43 · 2 months

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What my aus are doing for valentines—

The Windy City—

Connor and Lucy are staying in and Connor is making her dinner, nothing too big, just a little intimate date for their first Valentine as a couple. They swapped gifts, she got him a little scrapbook of memories of their first few months together, and he got her a bracelet from an antique store they visited together. It was a cute little night, with lots of candles, which set off the fire alarm and created a last memory of their adorably cute but horrific valentines.

The Littlest Hughes au—

Honey is a little mad at Quinn right now for his angry little text, but the second he gets in the door she’s immediately in his arms placing kisses all over his face as he mumbles to her about how much he’s missed her. They don’t do much, just order Chinese takeout and watch baby TV shows with Warren. When they finally put him to bed they just went up to their room and laid in bed together, just holding each other as they talked about their week and Quinn profusely apologized for his pissy behaviour.

Tiny dancer au—

Sunny is gone out for Galentine's Day!! Her roommate bribed her into going out by promising to buy her a bottle of wine after dinner, so the two of them and three of their other friends got all dressed up, bought flowers and cards for each other, and went out for a nice little dinner. And then went home and got wine drunk in Sunny’s apartment!!

Never a God au—

Angie goes out with all the singles on the team for drinks after practice, she can feel Nico’s eyes on her the entire night. Angie, Nico, and Jack get a cab together, Jack is the first one out of the car telling Nico to make sure Angie gets home safe but the second he leaves the car her smile grows as she looks at the man whose arm is wrapped tight around her torso, “wanna come to mine, I may have a little gift for you,” she whispers the last part of the sentence in his ear which has his grip on her growing slightly tighter as he nods speechlessly.

#thewindycityau!!#thelittlesthughesau!!#tinydancerau!!#neveragodau!!#quinn hughes blurb #nico hischier blurb #connor bedard blurb #adam fantilli blurb

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jaembun · 4 months

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i can’t get over you.

you’re not together, and you never check your inbox. he carries on anyway ！⠀⸻⠀lee donghyuck x gnr ⠀ angst (?) fwb au voicemail format ⠀ cw mentions of drinking & vomiting suggestive (ish) ⠀ wc 1.6k ⠀ now playing . . ☆

생각⠀writing a whole ex fwbs smau aint enough nooo i gotta write ts too 🤦‍♂️

⠀☆⠀00:12 AM

wow. that was—great. i had a good time, and i hope you did too. i think your phone’s dead, because you were all over chenle asking to borrow his, so maybe you’ll only hear this in the morning. [he laughs] i hope the hangover isn’t too awful tomorrow. my hip doesn’t hurt too bad from whacking it on that counter, in case you were wondering. i didn’t know you were gonna lift me like that, that was crazy! mark gave me a weird look when i came back to the others, but he always looks like that after a few shots—like he’s just sucked on a lemon. anyway, goodnight. get back to me soon, yeah? maybe we could do that again—it doesn’t have to be serious, no labels or anything. just a bit of fun between friends.

⠀☆⠀11:35 PM

[whispering] my phone’s the one nearly dead this time. eight percent, so i gotta make it quick. tonight was.. really nice. thanks again. the takeout was really cool of you too, and i’ll pay you back when i get in. i’m talking so quiet ‘cause im in an uber, and i think i just saw the driver giving me a dirty look through the mirror. he has his own playlist on—i mean, unless there’s a new radio station called ‘on the grind’ with two fire emojis and, like, the one of the arm flexing? it’s all been pretty bad stuff so far, but there was this one song, and—it kinda reminded me of you, a bit. [a pause, before he brushes over it] i tried to shazam it because i’d look weird leaning over the console to see what it was called, but it was over by then. bummer! we’re coming up on my street now, though, and i’m on three percent now, so i’ll go. see you soon?

⠀☆⠀09:47 PM

injunnie asked me about that mark you left. i made up something about my kitchen cabinet door, but i know he didn’t really believe me. he had that look in his eye, you know? that one where it feels like he sees right through you. anyway.. maybe we should keep them somewhere less noticeable next time? we’re not—you know.

i’m going out with mark and chenle tonight. they’re doing a two-for-one on cocktails and there’s karaoke, so i think it’ll be fun. i probably won’t see it ‘til tomorrow, but call back when you hear this. [he laughs] or if i am still up and drunk when you call then you can sing me a lullaby, yeah? [an awkward pause] uh. i’ll just—talk to you later.

⠀☆⠀10:26 AM

[hesitant] oh my god. i didn’t—sorry. i should’ve told you i had someone over. i completely forgot about the brunch thing, it’s my fault. kind of a dick move, too, i really am sorry. i don’t know how to.. i’ll buy you dinner, or something. to make it up to you.

[a prolonged pause]

[haltingly] that—that was just a one-time thing, though. just.. just in case you were wondering. it won’t happen again.

[another pause, and the sound of him shifting in his place]

so, um. yeah. i just wanted to apologise, ‘cause you were gone before i could get the chance. call me when you hear this? if you want to, that is.

⠀☆⠀00:03 AM

i guess.. i guess you’re busy, or something. sorry. i know it’s late. you’re probably asleep. or working? renjun told me you’re on night shifts now.. did it slip your mind with me? or maybe you’ve told me already, i don’t know. i think my memory’s been getting worse lately. [a scoffed laugh] fuck, maybe you’re with—you know. someone else? that’d be fine, obviously, i know we’re not.. yeah. hell, i was the one who said we weren’t gonna be exclusive.

[a pause]

i haven’t been, um. seeing anyone else, though. not since that last time. it’s just you. but if you were, then.. anyway. i heard jeno tell you his friend was single the other day. that jaemin guy? and that restaurant downtown would be nice for a night out, tonight. they do that salad you like, and—and the side dishes.

[a second pause. he takes a breath in]

i think.. i think i need a drink. text me once you listen to this?

⠀☆⠀11:58 PM

[sounding a little breathless] hi! i think im going to fill your inbox up at this point. maybe the reception’s bad in the taxi. but anyway—i had fun tonight. again. i.. i missed you, you know? [a giggle] wow, i think i feel a little light-headed. in a good way, obviously. i almost forgot what it was like with you. oh! and the actual reason i called—you left your hoodie here. better come grab it soon, or i’ll have it for myself. you can never have too many clothes. [he stops for a moment] does that sound too.. ah, nevermind. i hope you get home alright. talk to you tomorrow, baby.

⠀☆⠀10:49 PM

renjun asked me what we were doing. i knew he probably knew—or at least, like, had an idea of what was going on—but it still surprised me. nearly choked on my drink when he sprung it on me out of nowhere. i thought he just wanted to get lunch. i told him the truth—that we’re just.. messing around. he’s not gonna tell any of the others, so don’t worry. he thought— [a stilted laugh] he thought that we were together. but.. well. we’re not, obviously.

[a pause. he mumbles something to himself, cuts himself off, then tries again]

did jeno give you jaemin’s number? he had that gross grin on his face the other night, that same one he did when he kept trying to set chenle up on a blind date. and you never did tell me if you were out with him the other night. not that it, like, matters. but still.

[a second, longer pause]

anyway. i think i’m gonna go to bed. can we get dinner soon? i’ll pay.

⠀☆⠀11:18 PM

hey. [a small pause] i don’t know why i’m calling, really. i’m just at my apartment. watching reruns and drinking through that wine chenle gave me—which is awful, by the way. i think he was just trying to get it out of his fridge by offloading it onto me.

that movie you told me you watched all the time back in uni was on earlier. i would’ve called then, but my phone was dead, so i kept it on. it was pretty good, actually. kinda.. sappy. but in a good way. romantic, i don’t know. romcoms have never really been my thing, but i know they’re yours, so.. yeah. [a tired laugh, and a pause. the tv is faintly audible in the background] i didn’t know i could get wine tipsy this early. maybe that’s why i called out of the blue? ah, i don’t know. i’ll go now, though—this episode’s just starting to get interesting. let’s talk later.

⠀☆⠀01:21 AM

[he’s yelling, almost, struggling to be heard over the beat of the song blasting through the speakers] yah, why did you dip? i was—i was looking forward to tonight, you know. jeno is boring, and mark is a lightweight, and jisung steps on my feet when we dance. it would’ve been way better with you here. and i miss you, baby. they need to fire the DJ here, because they’re seriously awful. i might just ditch the rest and come find you instead.

[he stops, considering it]

actually.. yeah. you won’t mind, will you? yah, pick up, c’mon. call me back, ‘cause i’m on my way to your apartment. i’ll buy a bottle of malibu on the way so it won’t taste as awful when we throw it up later, and you can set up that speaker chenle got you last year, because i know you probably still have it stuffed in a closet somewhere. [his voice returns to normal volume, and the music is abruptly significantly quieter] get your dancing shoes on, baby. and.. take your shirt off? [he giggles, and his laughter interrupts his goodbye] i’ll be there soon!

⠀☆⠀02:17 AM

fuck. can’t you just—can you pick up? please? i need it, i need you to hear this. i feel like i’m going insane, it’s fucked up. [a pause, and a slightly shaky breath] why did i say that? why did i say no labels? fucking.. fucking mark and shots and that bruise from that fucking counter. i’ve drank too much, and i hope i forget i’ve said this in the morning, but i—i need to know. it’s just you for me. that time with that guy was stupid, and i should’ve kicked him out as soon as i woke up, but i knew about brunch and i knew you’d be coming over and i was feeling petty so i just thought.. i thought you’d get jealous, i don’t know. it was stupid. i’m sorry for lying, baby. i didn’t mean to. is it—is it just me for you too? did you save jaemin’s number? did you text him? please tell me you didn’t. he doesn’t know anything about you, not like i do. i still have your hoodie, and renjun thinks i need to get my shit together, and chenle nearly threw up on my shoes on the way out the bar, and i just.. i want you. i want you so bad, it’s killing me.

[a long pause. his mumbling is inaudible]

call me back when you hear this.

#⠀⠀⏖ works ⊹ ᶻ ⁺⠀⠀#⠀⠀해찬 ⠀ ✶⠀⠀#haechan #lee donghyuck #haechan x reader #lee donghyuck x reader #nct dream x reader #when hes tryna b Cameras but hes rly hold on We’re going home😂😂🤦‍♂️🖕😭

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luckycharms1701 · 5 months

Note

Howdy Friendo *tips hat with a sheepish smile*

Pleasure being able to read a handful of your delightful little shorts thanks to a dear friend of mine (the little turd bless her heart 🙄😆🧡) and wanted to express my impressment with your stories. You truly have a gift with words! I was wondering if I might make a request? No worries if you don’t have the time or energy to do so (must take care of that beautiful mind first and foremost honey)

But how would the Bay/Rise boys (you pick) react to their S/O calling them, obviously having been crying and saying “I need you”? I’m curious to see to see your take on it my dear, but again take care of yourself first please and know how wonderful you are!

howdy anon-chan!! *curtsies*

thank you very much for saying such sweet things!!!!!!!! 😭😭 i’m really really (two reallys!) glad you’re enjoying my silly little turtle thoughts

i really hope you’re still around lol, i know this ask has been in my inbox for a While. happy to talk about this though, it’s sweet to think about!

the rise boys struck me upside the head with this one. i had fun, thanks for asking!!

Raph- “I’m on my way!”

Raph is up and out of the lair practically before you finish your sentence, grabbing his sweatshirt if it’s daytime. Doesn’t think about Leo’s portals, doesn’t think about the Turtle Tank or the Shell Hogs, just runs. He is on the phone with you the whole time he’s on his way, asking if you need him to pick anything up. He tries to ask what’s wrong, but you just sniffle, so he doesn’t push it. It’s quiet until he lands on your fire escape and hangs up. The second he’s in your apartment you’re in his arms. “It’s okay sweetheart, Raph’s got ya.” He lets you do whatever you need to do, cry or beat on him or pace, but he’s touching you the whole time. He’ll get a little upset if you don’t want to tell him what’s wrong but he will also get over it because he understands. Holds you all night long for like a week afterwards, to protect you.

Leo- Shing

He is already in your apartment, hanging up his phone while the portal closes behind him. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong hermosa?” He grabs you and tangles you with him on the couch, until there’s no telling where you end and he starts. He wants to talk about it. But he will ramble on about whatever pops into his head while stroking your back until you calm down. Once you’ve calmed down though, he will coax it out of you. If it’s something that he can fix, it gets fixed immediately and with extreme prejudice. If it’s not something he can fix, prepare to be pampered. This turtle will worship the ground you walk on when you let him.

Donnie- Click

Hopefully you’ve been around long enough to understand how Donnie works, because he did not just hang up on you because he doesn’t care. He proves that by showing up at your apartment a bit later with your favorite takeout, favorite candy, a giant cat plush, and your favorite movie. He’ll let you do whatever you need to do while you watch the movie, whether that’s curl up on his chest, lay your head on his lap, or cuddle with the cat plush on the other side of the couch. (He might get a little jealous of the plush if you choose the last option, but he won’t say anything. Yet.) After the movie, he’ll tell you that he’s willing to listen if you need to talk. You need to be careful though, because if he finds out someone hurt you, it’s jover. No more Mr. Nice Donnie.

Mikey- “Leeeeo-” Click

Mikey tumbles through the portal and promptly bundles you up in a blanket and sets you on the couch. He bustles to the kitchen, chattering at you while he makes tea and whips up something quick to eat. he sets it down on the coffee table and then starts hand feeding you, still chattering away. once the food and tea are gone, he pulls you into him, blanket and all, then asks what’s wrong. he’ll listen, he’ll give advice, he’ll sit in silence with you, whatever you need. he won’t leave though, not even if a mission comes and his brothers need him, not until he’s made you laugh. it doesn’t take all that long, he’s got a talent for it. he stays a few extra days anyway, just because he missed you (and to make absolutely sure you’re okay now).

#tmnt #rottmnt #rise raph #rise leo #rise donnie #rise mikey #writing tag #if your friend is who i think it might be #i agree #an absolute gremlin #donnie bringing you a cat plushie courtesy of my cat laying on me and purring up an absolute storm while i was writing this #honestly had trouble with mikey's because it wanted to turn into a full blown fic #also i was sitting here grinning like an idiot while telling myself 'no!! you're upset!! stop that!!'#now excuse me i'm going to be late to my volunteer job again #really need to stop writing on saturday mornings

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admiringlove · 2 years

Note

hello!! congratulations on 2k followers! thats a big milestone :)

i'd like to send in something for the event!

my name is yves and my favorite haikyuu character is sakusa 💌 i like to draw digitally in my spare time and i love spicy food and sweet snacks. other than drawing, i also like calling with my friends, listening to calming music and designing characters. oh and, if this info is helpful i'm an INTP! :)

thank you for your time and again congratulations on 2k!! you deserve it 🤲

spicy food and late night calls.

hello yves! thank you for the request! i hope this came out as well as you imagined it :)

when the doorbell to your apartment rung, you didn't expect there to be two delivery men from two different stores standing on the other side. they looked just as confused as you. and when you said that you hadn't ordered anything, they said the same thing.

"but the order was placed by sakusa kiyoomi."

you raised an eyebrow, immediately pulling out your phone and texting him.

hey, did you order food and flowers?

his reply comes within milliseconds. as if he was waiting for you to ask that question.

omi: they're for you.

his reply makes you smile, reminding you of how you were early on in your relationship with him. going on dates that had very low budgets because of how broke the two of you were, him buying you small trinkets and telling you the same thing as he did now, "they're for you". you remember the time he gifted you a new digital pen—it had been from his first official salary from being in the msby jackals. he'd said the same thing to you when you'd looked up at him in awe after opening the gift. "it's for you", his voice had been soft, but it echoed through your heart as you wrapped your arms around him and shed tears into his chest, thanking him for simply being there. he'd kissed the top of your head, telling you not to cry as he rubbed your back. from then on, you'd taught kiyoomi how to draw on a tablet. he found it quite irritating at first, having to keep his hand above the screen. but from irritated groans to your background snickers, he'd learned. and now, he preferred to draw parts of you on the screen. whether it be your eyes, the little specks of white and black in them in much detail. or your hands, every vein and bone accentuated.

you let out a small chuckle as you apologize to the two delivery men, taking the bouquet and takeout inside. as you place the packages on the counter, you find the note attached to the flowers.

and then, there's a call incoming from your phone. you know it's him by the ringtone you'd kept for him.

"you're quite the charmer, omi," you grin, "sending me food, flowers and handwritten notes even though you're halfway across the country? how romantic."

"so i don't even get a hello anymore," he retorts, "how unromantic."

"you don't need a hello when all you'll be getting are kisses from me when you get back," you mumble, "but really, how'd you manage to send a note you wrote yourself when you're in okinawa?"

"i went to the florist last night," he says, "wrote the note and told them to deliver it tonight. isn't that thoughtful of me?"

"i think you're getting in over your head," you giggle, pulling out the takeout containers, "also i can smell the spicy stuff. my nose is tingling."

"yeah, i don't miss that at all," you laugh when you hear him say that, reminiscing the time when you first made him eat the noodles from your favorite restaurant. his face had gone red, sweat dripping from his chin to his hair, and he had his tongue out to quench the heat. all you could do then was laugh as he drank glass after glass of iced water.

"you should've told me you have a low spice tolerance," you tell him, opening the container and taking your first bite, "how was i supposed to know you would turn into a tomato?"

"my mouth was on fire," he quips. you can just visualize his narrow eyes and playful frown, "and before you took me there, you should've asked me if i could handle it or not. how was i supposed to know that you would attempt to murder my digestive system?"

you grin, plopping down on your couch as your voice becomes soft, "i miss you already."

"i know," he tells you, "four more days and then i'm back."

"four more days and then i have okinawa's finest sweets coming home to me."

"i knew it," he feigns an offended gasp, "you're using me for food."

"oh no," you say, in a disappointed tone, "you caught me."

#sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa fluff #sakusa drabble #sakusa kyoomi headcanons #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #haikyuu fluff

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sariel626 · 1 year

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Interrupting a Stream

So in this reader is a YouTube Streamer and being honest, I got inspiration for this while watching shxtou twitch vods. Yes I know twitch is very different from YouTube.

Oh, and your Streamer name is Seranisin, Chat calls you Sera for short. The first game is called Night of the Consumers, the second is Mr.Hopps Playhouse

TW: cussing

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“Stupid frickin’ customers! I was one shelf away from beating the game!” (Y/N) screamed at the screen which showed the words ‘You’re Fired’ in a blood red colored font. The chat was blowing up at the streamer’s rage, mostly ‘LMAOOO’s and some offering strategies to help the female when she began her 17th attempt to stock the grocery store shelves without running into any customers.

Right as (Y/N) was calming down, the front door to her shared home opened, Chuuya had finally gotten off work and he was ready to see his partner after a long day. When he didn’t see (Y/N) in the living room or the kitchen (probably eating an entire bag of chips again) the ginger walked over to (Y/N)‘s gaming/streaming room. The door was closed. Of course she’s streaming right now.

Chuuya went and grabbed a bottle of wine while contemplating if he should order takeout or cook something. While pouring his glass, a victory scream rang out, “TAKE THAT YOU WRINKLY MANAGER! I AM COMPETENT ENOUGH TO STOCK SHELVES!” It came from none other than (Y/N) herself. This made Chuuya chuckle to himself at how immersed his girlfriend could get in a video game.

Unable to decide on takeout or cooking at home, and since he figured that scream meant the stream would be ending, Chuuya waited a few minutes before going to (Y/N)’s room and opening the door to find…her still streaming. He concluded it’d be a good way to scare off any simps from the chat (he’s wrong, we never back down) so he asked what she would prefer for dinner while leaning against the door. (Y/N) snapped out of her surprised stupor and replied, “uh…takeout. You are aware that I’m streaming, right?” “I thought you ended it after that victory scream” this made the female streamer blush from embarrassment, was she really that loud?

Meanwhile, the chat was blowing up

Cryos3267: Who’s the hot guy at the door?

Gumiberry: Is he single?

Kawaii-Chan: if he is, can I have his number

XXJuliusXX: Is he Sera’s boyfriend?

Seweit42: He can’t be, he’s too short for her

Chuuya was going to leave to order takeout for them both until (Y/N) saw that in the chat. She smiled sweetly with malicious intent hidden behind it and called her boyfriend back in. Chuuya, hearing the sickly sweet sound from his girlfriend, walked into the room, silently praying you weren’t about to kill him for interrupting the stream.

(Y/N) looked directly at the camera, “Seweit42, if you really think short guys can’t land hot girls…” the girl pulled Chuuya down by his shirt collar and kissed him, making sure the monitor could see them. Chuuya gladly returned the short kiss until (Y/N) pulled back and looked at the camera “Then explain that.” If chat wasn’t already blowing up, it was now. The female turned back and said, “If you want, you can go order takeout now, I’ll join you after Mr.Hopps Playhouse” but Chuuya just wrapped his arms around her waist, “After that? Like hell I’m leaving.” The girl rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless, “Well then, get on the chair, but this is a horror game.” “Like a game could scare me. Who do you think I am, dove?”

Ten minutes later, Chuuya’s trying to convince you that Mr.Hopps is not cute while you’re collecting tapes

Chuuya: it’s a demonic bunny rabbit probably the size of that blond ponytail fucker from the Agency. He’s got the eyes of their doctor when she’s gone batshit

Y/N: Chuuya, don’t you see those adorable, very pettable ears? And those eyes aren’t screaming murder, they’re begging to be loved

Chuuya: quit fucking summoning him with the toys!

Y/N: (proceeds to trigger every single toy) it’s not like he’ll catch me anyways, I’m too good for-

Proceeds to get jumpscared making Chuuya cling to the gamer and spin the chair around, “Fuck that!” (Y/N) looked at her boyfriend, blinked a couple times, and laughed, spinning the chair around while laughing. The short-tempered male was quick to retaliate, “I was trying to protect you from the demon bunny! Don’t laugh at me!” “It’s just…it’s just a video game. Mr.Hopps isn’t real.” The female wiped a tear from her eyes. She was right, he’s just a piece of code in a video game. There wasn’t anything for Chuuya, a mafia executive, to be scared of. It was still funny that he was though.

Soon enough, (Y/N) beat the game and ended the stream. Standing up and stretching, she asked, “So what food are you in the mood for?” But Chuuya was still recovering from the ending, he looked up at his girlfriend, “Y…You pick” “Aight, Chinese sound good?” “Sure” To be honest, Chuuya wasn’t thinking about food, he was still caught on the ending and how you barely flinched at the Giant Mr.Hopps, is it a streamer thing?

“Yo Chu, you good? …Hello? …Oh well, guess I’ll just help myself to the best wine in the cellar!” That snapped him out of it. “Don’t you dare” “Welcome back to planet Earth, Chu. I’m gonna order the food and if you want, we can play Mr.Hopps 2~” (Y/N) whispered the last bit in his ear and Chuuya tensed, “Count me out” He walked to the living room and sat on the couch, flipping through the tv channels.

After placing the order and getting the food, (Y/N) and Chuuya were cuddling on the couch watching Iron Man 3. It was clear that both of you were beginning to get drowsy and so out of nowhere, Chuuya says, “You know, you were really sexy today when you kissed me in front of your fans.” “Thanks Chu, you were really cute today when we played Mr.Hopps. Your reactions were adorable and *yawn* I wouldn’t mind having you join me again.” (Y/N) closed her eyes as she began to doze off. The mafioso smiled at his cute girlfriend, turned the tv off, and carried her to their shared bedroom before crawling in next to her. “I wouldn’t mind it either.” And with that, the ginger fell asleep with a smile on his face.

———————————————————————

This ending was way softer than I expected it to be. Kinda derailed from my original idea

It’s fine though, we all need some Chuuya fluff in our lives

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #nakahara chuuya #bsd chuuya #chuuya x reader

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sentinelpri · 2 months

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Feather In The Wind (Valentine's Day Special 2024)

The first Valentine’s Day that Dabi spends with the Paranormal Liberation Front is a peaceful one- at least compared to what he’s used to. After a childhood full of pain and trauma- ruined holidays and cold nights spent outside pushing himself to the edge with his individual training while his father ignored him in favor of abusing Shouto- being in his own large, lavish room within the confines of the base is… Interesting, to say the least.

There’s no booming yells reverberating through the walls, no ashes or burn marks on the floor, no slaps echoing through the hallway. His old family is dead and gone to him, instead replaced by Toga who barged into his room with Twice just over an hour ago to share a sushi dinner with him on his bed.

He isn’t sure he considers the members of what was once the League of Villains a family or even a group of friends, but they’re people who share his ideologies, and they love him more than anyone else ever has. So, when they come knocking at his door with dinner to make sure he’s fed, he doesn’t deny them, nor does he rush them out. He figures there’s no better way to spend the day of love than with the few people who truly love him. That’s why it’s nearly past two in the morning by the time they finally fuck off and leave Dabi with the takeout container trash and a soy sauce stain on his wrinkled bedsheets.

It’s a quiet night, so Dabi finds himself going out to the balcony with a cigarette in hand. He lights it with his quirk and lets out a sigh as the cold air consumes him. Snowflakes fall over him in quick succession, melting on his hot skin and clothing, leaving him damp but still warm due to the insulating nature of his quirk. He takes a few long drags from his cigarette and watches the smoke he blows out puff up in the frosty air.

The base that they all stay in is a large tower that oversees the rest of Deika City. It’s a quiet and peaceful town with most of the members being part of the liberation front. They go to bed early most nights so they can wake up even earlier come morning to train for the cause… Dabi almost wonders if the gullible grunts Re-Destro and Shigaraki have gathered and molded are just as bad as the society of heroes they’re fighting against. They blindly follow their grand commander, not questioning his authority or morals, blindly agreeing with everything he says even when it’s not in their best interest. Dabi supposes he’s not much better, though. He’s never agreed with Shigaraki’s morals a hundred percent, but he’s never dared call the man out- especially now with his newfound power, he and this organization could end Dabi in a heartbeat.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, Dabi supposes. While Shigaraki is going mad with power and while his objective becomes more and more questionable by the day, they both want the same thing in the end; to destroy heroes and the terrible society they’ve made since their manifestation.

He isn’t sure why he bothers. His life has been a living hell for a long time and soon enough, he’s going to go up in flames like the rest- probably by his own doing… Hopefully by his own doing. Dabi laughs to himself, mulling over it all. Then, something small comes into view. At first, he thinks it may be a piece of trash or even some sort of animal, but it gets closer until he makes out the familiar shape.

Dabi blinks and burns his cigarette out, abandoning it on the floor of the balcony so he can narrow his turquoise eyes at the red feather that’s just landed on the railing. Is it a coincidence? No, it must be from Hawks. It’s too large to be from a bird. But what does it mean? Is it a signal? A warning? Some sort of fucked up joke? He’s well aware that the pro hero frequently uses his feathers for spy work and wonders if he should light the damn thing on fire, but then he sees something else in the distance- no, someone, and he quickly puts together who it is.

Hawks is flying towards him in a downward trajectory. At least three fourths of his feathers are gone and some of the ones remaining on his left wing are singed at the ends. His jacket isn’t over his shoulders despite the freezing temperatures, instead balled up in his hands and pushed up against his abdomen. The blond’s whole outfit is tattered and there’s blood on his hands and face as he weakly flutters towards the tower.

After what feels like forever, Hawks gets close enough that he’s hovering about ten meters above the balcony. A harsh gust of wind seems to knock the last of Hawks’s energy out of him and send his body falling down to where Dabi’s standing.

Part of Dabi wants to tell the poor bastard to get fucked and go inside so he can enjoy the rest of his night, but before he can think better of what is arguably a poor decision for him to make, he finds himself reaching out and catching the pro hero in his arms. Hawks crashes into him with a pained groan, wrapping an arm around Dabi’s neck. His wings have given out and he’s too weak to do anything else, so Dabi wraps both arms around him in return to support his weight.

“...Hawks,” Dabi breathes out, too shocked by Hawks’s entrance to say much else. He drags the man inside through the screen door of his suite before the two of them can be caught outside like this by Shigaraki or any of the other lieutenants, locking the door behind them and quickly glancing out the glass of the door to make sure they haven’t been seen. A quick sigh of relief falls from between his lips when he realizes that no one was outside or nearby, but that relief is replaced by confusion the second he notices Hawks is too weak to walk as well. “What-?”

“I… I didn’t know,” Hawks starts, voice raspy. There’s clearly something wrong aside from the basic injuries and exhaustion that are already apparent. Dabi thinks he may have to press for that information as he sets Hawks down to sit on the edge of his bed, only for Hawks to pull his crumpled up jacket off of where he’s been holding it against his stomach to reveal a massive burn wound. It’s ghastly and large, just on the left side of his abdomen, bleeding and fresh. It looks like there’s shards of varying sizes in it, perhaps shrapnel from an explosive or some sort of weapon-based quirk. “I mean, where else could I have gone? You’re not my first choice, but you were nearby and I’m sure this is your area of expertise.”

“You could’ve gone literally anywhere but here… And you chose to come here to Deika city,” Dabi sighs. On top of soy sauce stains, he’s also going to have blood stains on his sheets. That’s going to be a fun lie to come up with if anyone sees his room before he has the chance to wash them… Huffing, the white-haired man goes into his connected bathroom and grabs the first aid supplies. Thankfully, he’s so used to burning himself from overdoing it with his quirk that he has to treat second and third degree burns regularly. When he returns, he sets the supplies on the edge of the bed and glares down at Hawks. “First aid isn’t exactly my forte, dumbass. Best case scenario, you’re going to lose a ton of blood. Worst case scenario, you’re going to die of an infection in a few days.”

“Calm down,” Hawks says with a dismissive wave. “I trust you. You know that.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dabi points out, because truth be told, their relationship is complicated. Hawks may or may not have killed Best Jeanist and brought him to be turned into a Nomu- that much is true, but if Dabi is anything, it’s a good judge of character. He’s well aware that while the other man isn’t completely brainwashed like a lot of the other pro-heroes, he’s at least misguided and intent on staying complicit in allowing them to continue upholding their vile hero-centered society. On the other side of things, Dabi knows that Hawks understands him as well, and that they can’t truly be friends let alone anything more than that… At least they shouldn’t be. Yet, they both frequently toe the line of what is and isn’t appropriate for a relationship that’s supposedly based around their work. “And even if it weren’t… Neither of us should trust each other.”

“Just try your best,” Hawks shrugs.

“Fine. Take off any of the clothes covering your injuries and lie down,” Hawks does as instructed, removing his clothes painstakingly slow for someone who’s supposed to be having a dire medical crisis. First, his shattered visor and headphones, then his boots, followed by his socks, then his tattered shirt and pants. The only things left on are jewelry and his boxers as he lies down on the end of Dabi’s bed. Dabi sits beside Hawks’s left hip on the mattress, his first aid kit in hand. His eyes flicker between the bloody jacket on the floor and Hawks’s injury. “Be prepared for this shit to hurt like hell.”

“Whatever happens happens.”

With that, Dabi gets to work.

“Oh, yeah, because that’s exactly what I need right now- a dead hero on my hands.”

“Think of it this way; I’m sure Shigaraki has explicitly ordered you not to kill me despite your suspicions about my loyalty to the cause, so now you have extra motivation to keep me alive.”

“Tch, fine,” Dabi rolls his eyes for what feels like the millionth time that night as he puts a pair of gloves from his first aid kit on. He rinses Hawks’s wound with saline and dampens some gauze with the same solution. “Only for you would I keep a pro-hero in my god damn bedroom…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hawks shakily replies with a wince.

“Nothing, just know that you’ve only got tonight. You try to mooch off of me any longer than that and I’m kicking your sorry ass out of here.”

“Fine, fine.”

An awkward silence falls upon them. Dabi continues to work, slowly but surely, packing the wound to the best of his ability. Part of him wonders if he should’ve recruited Toga- she wouldn’t rat him out for keeping Hawks here, and she would certainly be much better at tending to the hero’s injury, but part of Dabi wants to be the only one to do this for Hawks. Dabi’s mind races; why would Hawks come here, will he be okay, what does this sort of intimate interaction mean for them, what if Shigaraki finds out about this, and most importantly-

“Who did this to you?”

“Huh?” Hawks blinks, seemingly baffled by the question. “Why do you care?”

“Just tell me who did this to you,” Dabi demands. “I want to know.”

“Tch, what are you gonna do? Kill ‘em?”

Dabi feels his cheeks burn red. In order to keep himself from meeting Hawks’s eyes, he focuses on the wound a little more than he needs to, paying extra attention and being especially gentle with how he covers the packing job. Just to be safe, he tapes an extra layer of gauze over it and pulls out some tape bandages.

“Maybe,” Dabi answers, perhaps a little slower than he should for it to be believable. “Now sit up so I can finish up.”

“Since when do you care so much?”

“Does it really matter? I assume you were trying to capture whoever it was anyways.”

“Yeah, I was trying to apprehend her to turn into the police, not kill her,” Hawks says. He tenses as he forces himself to sit up straight despite the evident pain that’s telling him not to. “Don’t tell me… You’re upset that I’m hurt?”

“So what if I am? You rocked up to my place at two in the morning on Valentine’s Day expecting me to play nurse- I think I have the right to be just a little pissed,” Dabi retorts, wrapping the tape bandages around Hawks’s mid-section to fully cover the wound on his side.

“I’m surprised you’re keeping me here… And that you helped me in the first place,” Hawks sighs and lays back on the bed as soon as Dabi finishes. Against his better judgment, Dabi joins him. The two men lie on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, side by side, far closer than two friends- two enemies- two comrades, should be. Hawks turns his head so he can look at Dabi, and while Dabi doesn’t return the heated stare, he can most certainly feel it burning holes into him. “Why?”

“Because it’s you,” He whispers before he can think better of it. Dabi, usually so calm and so collected, feels himself falling apart. He reaches out to hold Hawks’s hand. Everything that follows is nothing but uncharacteristically impassioned word vomit. “And I don’t know what it is about you that I like so much, but I couldn’t just let you fall and snap your neck or crack your pretty little head open on my balcony.”

“Heh, you like me?” Hawks teases, intertwining their fingers and giving Dabi’s palm an affectionate squeeze.

“It’s not like that,” Dabi raises his voice and snatches his hand away. Briefly, he wonders if this was a mistake. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Yeah? So what if I am? What are you gonna do about it? I’m already injured as it is- you’d have to tear a limb off or kill me for things to be any worse than they are now.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Thanks for this…” Hawks responds. Dabi looks over to see the man smiling at him. “I owe you one.”

“No shit. Seriously, why’d you come here in the first place? Even if you were nearby, let’s not pretend that your injury was life-threatening enough to make you desperate.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I don’t have anyone else?”

“Really? No family? None of your pro hero friends? No fan girls to spend the day of love with?”

“No,” Hawks answers. He rolls onto his uninjured side- into Dabi- and places a hand on his chest. Dabi freezes at the touch. “I’m not very close with my family and my ‘pro hero friends’ aren’t my friends, they’re my coworkers. The fan girls are… A little much, too. It’s not smart to get attached to any of them.”

“And yet you’re attached to me? Or, attached to me enough that you felt safe coming here, even knowing who I am and what I’m capable of.”

“I didn’t say that I was attached to you at all, Dabi. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“But it’s obvious,” Dabi points out. “Just like I’m attached to you… You wouldn’t have come here and trusted me to help you like this if you didn’t feel something for me.”

“And you would’ve let me crash on your balcony and die in the freezing cold or ratted me out to Shigaraki and the others if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“So, what? Does that make us friends now? I know you’ve been trying to get buddy-buddy with me for a while. I bet you’re real happy now.”

“Friends? Let’s not pretend it’s that easy,” Hawks says with a sardonic laugh. “We both know it’s not.”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not. We both know how this ends, anyway.”

“Then don’t argue semantics with me, you prick.”

And for a moment, the two men share a glance; a moment of peace wherein there’s no hero and no villain, no war, no anything or anyone but the two of them. Gold burns into icy blue. Dabi assumed he’d lost his heart long ago, but he’s sure it skips a beat when he feels Hawks’s calloused hand over it through his clothes.

“Dabi?” Hawks starts, love and adoration radiating off of him in potent waves that make Dabi nauseous.

Dabi reaches over to place a hand on top of Hawks’s.

“Yeah?”

“What are we after this?”

“...I think we both know the answer to that,” Dabi says, because he knows deep down that this won’t work. It never could. They don’t have a chance. Putting a label on this would just upset them even more when it inevitably has to end. “Let’s not make this more complicated than this needs to be… I mean, let’s just enjoy each other while we can.”

“Right. I guess we shouldn’t let this change anything… Well, aside from the obvious, that is. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page! I’d hate for you to catch feelings and-”

Annoyed by Hawks’s bluffing, Dabi interjects.

“I never said that I hadn’t caught feelings, you idiot; just that we shouldn’t label whatever it is that we are,” Dabi rolls over to face away from Hawks. He’s unsurprised when Hawks scoots closer and tosses an arm over his waist. “You better be out of here by the time I wake up tomorrow.”

“Trust me, Dabi, you won’t even know I was here in the first place.”

Dabi scoffs and closes his eyes, unable to shake the uneasiness that comes with someone holding him so sweetly. And, for a moment before he drifts off into sleep, Dabi briefly wonders if this is what love- or friendship, or whatever the hell this is- is supposed to feel like, like someone trusting you to take care of them and offering you affection in return, like the scent of burnt skin and blood and sweat lingering on his bedsheets.

When he wakes up the following afternoon, Dabi is so groggy that he almost forgets what occurred the night before until he sees red splotches on his bedding. He glances over at the other side of the bed to see that it’s empty, but that there’s still a few strands of blond hair left behind on one of the pillows. Then, he rolls out of bed so he can check the bathroom and balcony.

As he expected, Hawks kept a promise for once and left before Dabi woke up. Disappointment threatens to wash over, but at the very least, Hawks was kind enough to leave a red feather on the balcony. Dabi steps outside and picks it up before the winter wind can blow it away, a fond smile threatening to take over his lips as he takes it in, knowing that Hawks will be back soon enough.

What a beautiful Valentine’s Day gift.

#bnha hawks #hawks #mha hotwings #bnha hotwings #hotwings #my hero academia fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia fanfiction #boku no hero academia #bnha dabihawks #dabihawks #bnha dabi #touya todoroki #toya todoroki #valentine's day #valentines day #valentine's day 2024

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