#without even his full dossier.. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seancekitsch · 5 months

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HOT TO GO: an Adrian Chase x Reader x Rick Flag fic

Rick knows he shouldn't shit where he eats. Rick knows Waller would demote him in a second if she knew he was letting you and your de facto guard dog have special privileges on this mission. Rick knows he shouldn't take you up on your offer to play a game.

Warnings: threesome smut, drinking, smoking, slight knife kink, rick is a good man, reader and adrian are nuts, villain!reader, non canon compliant i like to play god and make people kiss, this is filthy, dirty talk, task force x neck bomb jokes, slight daddy kink, spitting, choking, reader is a little mean, its not poly but its certainly something

You know exactly what the file in ARGUS says about you. A boring little dossier about the full extents of your powers, your record, all of your known aliases (even the embarrassing ones), your allies, and even the common ways you’ve tried to escape capture. Nothing in the little folder says anything about your observation skills.

Nothing about how easily you pick up on phone conversations, how easily you commit to memory a glance of words on a screen over someone’s shoulder. Nothing about how you take in the tiny details, changes in expression or exactly how many things you can use in a room to kill someone in increasingly resourceful and creative ways.

Thats how you figured out Rick Flag has a type; a type that you fit into well. You didn’t mean to overhear his phone call with Waller, but you would be using it to your advantage.

You know about June Moone, about your dear friend Harley, and now his blue eyes settling on you as you try to get in and get out of this mission without fucking about too much. He likes his girls a little messed up. You figure trying to unseat Green Arrow as mayor through completely legal means and then forcibly reforming the prison system does it for him. It helps for you that he’s attractive; that means you don’t have to just use him, you can enjoy him too. Who knows, you might even get to know him enough to admire him as much as you admire the man who named himself your personal protector.

Adrian Chase had apparently put himself into prison in order to talk to you, inspired by your idea of justice and progress or something. He offered protection and you’re not one to turn down a free advantage. You didn’t exactly expect to like him though, knowing the reputation he has and the awkward way he approached you at first. But Adrian was quick to win you over, and you'd spent countless nights talking to each other through the bars of your cells. You even one night tried to "go on a date" in the mess hall. His humor turns you on though, his protection lets you run your mouth without consequences. He's killed for you before, and you damn well know he'll do it again. Waller even seems to know you're a package deal, seeing as she let the two of you be on this mission together. You don’t say it, but you hope this mission gives both of you enough time off your sentences to get out around the same time. You’d love to hang out with him free, even if you refuse to say it. Belle Reve doesn’t exactly allow conjugal visits, though.

You watch your peripherals, Adrian on one side sipping his Corona and keeping the men of Task Force X away from you, Rick on the other side with his eyes tracing your curves as you sway to the music. Adrian to the naked eye looks like he’s not paying attention to you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He sways awkwardly and scans the crowd, one eye always on you and his fingers every so often brushing against your leg. His way of checking in. Rick is more stiff, Rick is more obvious about watching you. You notice his fist clench when you brush your knuckles against Adrian’s arms. You notice how tight he holds his beer. You notice the fit of his pants.

You catch on to the fact that Rick knows what Adrian is to you, because he only decides to make his move towards you when Adrian moves away to make two more drinks for you.

You nod to the bar stool next to you, eyes not leaving the small crowd. Funny, you'd heard these missions are some kind of Suicide Squad, but here you were with the crew of sixteen still hanging on strong.

“Great party, thanks for hosting,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm, although maybe you shouldn’t be too harsh on the guy. He’s not the guy that put a bomb in your neck.

“Sure,” he laughs, low and under his breath, and he clinks his beer bottle against your empty glass.

“Can I ask you something?” Rick slides up next to you at the bar, looking past you instead of at you. It’s clear he’s trying to sus out Vig, who is dancing back towards you with his two signature concoctions. You roll your eyes at the Colonel, but lean in anyway, pushing your chest closer.

“I don’t know why I’d talk to you, unless thats an order,” you snark at him, and maybe thats unfair, but it’s part of the game.

“It’s not… don’t do that,”Rick dismisses your wide smile, the game of cat and mouse begun. You know exactly what he’s about to ask, but you have to make him work for it.

“Why him?” he asks, eyes darting from you to the man behind you briefly. You smirk, of course he asks that. Probing, looking to see if he has a chance; thinking he’s being slick about it. Adrian turns back towards you as if summoned, his weird ability to just know making him come back as if the leash around his neck were tightened. He has another drink for you, pink and fizzy.

You roll your eyes and grab the drink Adrian made for you from his hand, lifting it to your lips.

“Well, it was either him or Animal-Vegetable-Mineral Man,” you joke, voice deadpan as you punctuate your statement with a swig from the glass. You grimace. It’s almost all rum. Adrian is handsome but, my god, is he bad at ratios.

“Yeah…” Adrian joins the conversation eagerly, ready to agree with whatever you say before actually processing it. His eyes widen behind his thick glasses as he turns to fully look at you. He finally figured out what you were implying, and a smile slowly forms on your lips hidden by the rim of the glass.

“Wait really? But he’s got that, like, tree hand!”

You snort with laughter, and Rick cautiously laughs too. Like he’s in on the joke, you think.

“It would be like that scene in Evil Dead, but consensual,” Adrian continues, his voice rising just like his concern. You roll your eyes at him, already expecting this reaction. Adrian talks big game about being unshakeable but you find it so easy to rile him up.

“Calm down, Spaghetti Squash. You’re much sweeter than he is,” you pat Adrian’s cheek and he beams at you, wide mouthed and toothy and tipsy. You drag your hand slowly down his face, tracing his jaw before you let your hand fall back into your lap.

“And Handsomer?” he fishes for the compliment, and you playfully frown at him.

“You always ask questions you know the answer to,” you tease, and Adrian’s smile never fades.

Rick must be feeling pretty voyeuristic right now, you think, watching two people who just plainly adore each other flirt and touch in front of him; but Rick also doesn’t flinch away from this, you notice. Maybe he likes watching.

“He makes me laugh,” you answer your commanding officer, turning back to him finally.

“Is that a Who Framed Roger Rabbit quote?” He asks, brows furrowed, but a smirk on his face. Okay, play ball, Colonel Flag.

“See, Adrian? I told you Goody Two Shoes was a man of taste,” you glance up at Adrian again before focusing your attention back on Rick Flag. Zero in, Aim, Kill.

“Is that how you see me?” he asks, a challenge.

You tilt your head, a non-answer. Yes, kind of. He himself is good. Maybe too good. Thats probably why he does this silly little Icarus dance and gets too close to people who can and will burn him when they kiss. You glance down at his drink, then back at him and the light glistening of the residue of beer on his bottom lip, the way it shimmers in the light.

Rick is handsome in a way Adrian isn’t. While Adrian is THE choice when it comes to general compatibility and attraction and survival, Rick is A choice. He’s serious, kind, and genuinely tries to see the good in everyone, even if there isn’t any to be found. He’s a gamble, mostly because he’s more willing to gamble. He would put his faith in you and hope you would be by his side even without a bomb in your neck. He’s built like Magic Mike.

“Let Adrian make your next drink,” You tell him, lying, “He’s a master mixologist.”

Rick’s eyes move from you to your protector, whose gloved hand is now possessively on the back of your neck, right where the bomb was placed.

“And why should I do that?” he counters. Adrian tenses.

“Because maybe,” you grab Adrian’s hand and clasp it within yours, “We’ll let you keep drinking with us. You have my vote, you need to earn his.”

Rick laughs, and slumps back from you; his eyebrow twitches in curiosity. Hook, line, sinker. You squeeze Adrian’s hand.

“And how would I do that?” Rick asks.

You laugh as you take his free hand, leading both him and Adrian to another room.

Rick doesn’t understand this game.

All he knows is that he seems to lose every card he pulls, and at least half of the cards you pull. He went to college enough to know this is some deranged version of King’s Cup, but he doesn’t remember a rule that lets Adrian lick rum off of your chest or a rule that means you have to pop off a round when you pull the King.

After his third seemingly bad card, he realized you were lying about the Vigilante’s mixing abilities. He’s a heavy pour with no eye for ratios, not unlike his heavy handed and uneven idea of justice. Rick figures thats why you and that maniac fit well, both twisted and curious and reckless in the same ways. It’s attractive in you though, as much as it is off-putting about Adrian.

Ricks eyes follow Adrian’s tongue though, wet and flat and lavishing the liquor between your breasts, watching how he leaves goosebumps on your skin in his wake. He watches as Adrian shamelessly dips his face into the opening of your vest, realizing that he would push the younger man out of the way for his own turn if you gave him permission. Rick knows he shouldn't shit where he eats. Rick knows Waller would demote him in a second if she knew he was letting you and your de facto guard dog have special privileges on this mission. Rick knows he shouldn't have taken you up on your offer to play any game, let alone one involving alcohol.

You seem to whisper something to Adrian, his rum soaked chin between your nimble fingers and he moves away to take his seat again.

“My turn,” you smirk as you pull the next card from the deck, flipping it to show Rick instead of yourself.

“Jack of Spades,” he tells you. Your eyes dart to Adrian before you smile at him. That can’t be good.

“Never have I ever,” Adrian clarifies. Rick squints in confusion.

“I thought Jacks were categories,” he says, challenging the younger man.

“Well now they’re not,” you chime in, something sweetly venomous in your tone, daring him to keep pressing the issue. Rick is a man that knows when to back down.

He sighs as he puts up his hand, three fingers ready to go. You and Adrian both put up a hand as well, and you start as the card puller.

“Never have I ever… fucked Harley Quinn,” you stare him down as you wiggle your fingers, a cheap shot at him. Rick will remember that.

It’s his turn.

“Never have I ever… been arrested,” Rick admits, and you narrow your eyes at him as you and Adrian both put down a finger.

There’s a bit of pride in Rick’s posture as he settles in, all of you now on equal footing.

“Never have I ever,” Adrian starts, then pauses, biting his tongue between his straight teeth, “Worked for a government that lies.”

It’s clear that was supposed to be a dig at Rick, competition between the two.

“Ade, baby, you’re doing that right now,” you whisper to him in a soothing voice, husky but gentle. His shoulders immediately drop in disappointment.

“So you drink,” you tell him, nudging his hand holding the glass with your knuckle. He drinks, and puts another finger down, his admittance to defeat this round.

“Okay, okay,” you draw the attention back to yourself, despite your eyes watching the way Adrian’s adams apple bobs as he swallows.

“Never have I ever gotten a promotion.”

Again, Rick is the only one to put down a finger. Now he and Adrian have one finger up, and you still have your two. They’re on the same level, something they both have to be painfully aware of as you eye them up like you’ll catch and cook them.

“Never have I ever gone to prom,” Rick offers quickly, shutting up any giggle that might be on your lips as you put a finger down, now tied with the men.

“You poor things,” you muse, but Rick can tell you don’t mean it. There’s sarcasm on your tone that makes him think maybe the movie Carrie wasn’t too far off.

“Never have I ever been an only child,” Adrian says, quickly, like hes trying to throw the whole game away. There’s something about how he shifts in his seat that looks like he’s starting to get antsy of it.

Only you put your finger down. You’re out first, a fact that surprises you as much as it probably surprises the others as well.

“Shit,” you swear under your breath, and take a quick swig of your drink.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask, refusing to look at either of them, your scowl settling into your features. Right, the loser has to do something for the winners.

Your file comes to mind for Rick, and your reactions to the failed mayoral race.

Adrian wordlessly pulls you onto his lap, and your smile returns, if only briefly.

“Dunno about Rick, but I want you right here,” Adrian tells you, resting his head on your shoulder.

“Well, we can keep playing if you want,” Rick offers, “Y’know, we can all lose… learn a little bit more about each other.”

Anything so he doesn’t have to see that pout again.

Fuck, Waller’s gonna skin him.

You shrug, and he figures thats all he’s gonna get.

“Never have I ever had a secret identity,” Rick offers, and Adrian happily puts his finger down. He’s out too.

“Never have I ever,” you glance between the two men, and for the first time you look like you didn’t have one loaded in the barrel, “Had… a threesome.”

Rick’s eyebrows shoot up as he too puts a finger down, finally out as well.

“No way, who?” Adrian asks, and this is maybe the first time Adrian has addressed him personally.

“A good man doesn’t kiss and tell,” Rick replies.

“Boring,” Adrian says.

And then he pulls a card, as if the air in the room had not just crackled with tension.

Queen.

“So its questions?” Rick asks, hoping the rules haven’t changed again.

“Do you finally get it?” you reply, jumping right back into the game.

“Why did it take you so long?” asks Adrian.

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Aren’t you military trained?”

“Didn’t you say you knew we were crazy like an hour ago?”

“Hasn’t… ugh… shit,” Rick runs out of steam the questions firing too quickly.

“Take your shirt off,” you don’t miss a beat, shrugging, “because you lost.”

If you had thought earlier that tonight would have gone as well this, you would have really thought you lost your mind. Adrian twitches, thrusting a little harder into you, an attempt at a poker face forced onto his face. Rick’s eyes trained on you, maybe the same way he trains his eye on a target.

Rick leans back in his chair, in only his boxers, sweat coating his chest as he does nothing to hide the fact that he’s hard watching this display.

Adrian lazily rolls his hips into you, your jacket partially obscuring what’s happening, but you know Rick isn’t stupid. He knows Adrian is fucking you, knows your skirt is pushed up in just the right way and your underwear pushed to the side.

Adrian was barely subtle when he did it, rearranging you on his lap after the latest round of mini games had him losing his own gear and pants. You'd managed to be winning, your jacket and your skirt still on, your boots and vest tossed somewhere behind the chairs. He got handsy, big and warm and calloused against your skin. They traveled under your jacket, down your body, down your skirt. He hitched up. his knee, pushing you further back onto his lap, using his adjusting as an excuse to maneuver himself out of his boxers and under your skirt. You know you faltered, eyes fluttering as his length pushed against you, a shuddering gasp as you felt his hand pull your underwear to the side.

Adrian, however, acted nonchalant. He joked and took swigs of his drink and talked with you and Rick as if he wasn't playing you like a fiddle, as if he was not positioning you to sit pretty on his cock.

This is actually only the second time you’ve fucked Adrian. You don’t count hand stuff between the bars or weird touching in the mess hall when you have time out of your cell. You know his cock, but you’re still surprised at how amazing it feels when he fills you, sat on his lap and filled to the brim with him, the only movement his little thrusts pushing even deeper than you thought possible.

Rick watches like a hawk, and you wink at him as he pulls another card.

“Eight,” He reveals.

“Pick a date,” You explain.

He points at you, and you lean over to grab your drink. The change in angle makes you moan, and you do so shamelessly.

“Ade, want me to grab one for you while I’m down here?” you ask, knowing another moan will escape you when you lean back again.

“Fuckin… Yeah,” Adrian gasps. He’s so cute.

You grab a card and pull yourself back up, attempting to bite back this moan. You fail as you lock eyes with Rick, something animalistic in his gaze. You shiver. Fuck. You want him too. You tear your eyes away from him to look at the playing card.

“Ten,” you tell him.

“Truth or dare! Alright!” Adrian is enthusiastic.

“Okay, babe, truth or dare?” He asks you.

“Truth,” you respond, deciding to play it safe at first.

“Boring!” he exclaims, “ But, are you loving this right now?”

You nod, laughing as you lean into him. Again, Rick is a voyeur.

“Rick,” you address him, still in Adrian world, still curled into him.

“Yeah?”

“You jealous?” You ask.

He’s silent for a moment, long enough for you to turn and look at him again, this time with hunger in your eyes.

“Yeah, kinda.”

You laugh, a little too dark to be a giggle, a little too light to have malicious intent.

“Truth or dare, Adrian?” Rick asks, which surprises you.

“Truth,” he declares, and punctuates it by rolling his hips up into you again, dragging himself against you, and you bite your lip. A show.

“Do you consider me a challenge?” he asks. Oh, it’s a dick measuring contest, you realize.

He contemplates it, and then moves his hand to your face, his thumb on your lip. You open your mouth, taking the digit between your lips, sucking.

“I don’t know how I could even think of you as a challenge. I mean…” He trails off, his index finger tapping your cheek.

“Fair enough,” Rick concedes.

“Truth or dare?” Adrian responds, to Rick, which surprises you. You look between the two men, stilling any motion, like the freeze frame before a fight.

“Dare,” Rick all but snarls, clearly calling Adrian’s challenge. It's interesting, being fought over like this. People have fought over your resources, your power, your alliance, but never yourself. It's a bit of an ego trip, one that strokes you better than any cock could.

“I dare you to try and show her a better time than I could,” Adrian says, and then looks to you.

His hips still as his eyes meet yours, a silent as if this is okay? You want this? And maybe, will you still pick me after all of this? His eyes are bright behind his glasses, not shying away from the fact that he’s watching you, his thumb still between your kiss swollen lips. You lead the charge, you let Adrian follow. Strangely loyal, awfully endearing. How is it that you spent your entire life in the Pacific Northwest without passing him earlier?

You nod, giving him the okay, and take his hand into yours, pulling his thumb from your lips. You swivel your hips, quietly moaning as you resettle yourself in his lap, and let him press a possessive kiss on your neck.

“You sure?” you whisper to him, and he shrugs nonchalantly. Adrian doesn't really seem like the kind of guy that would be okay with this, but if he says so, you cannot deny it.

Wordlessly, you motion for Rick to approach, and he crosses the room slowly. He gives you a show, his underwear leaving little to the imagination, the light layer of sweat making his muscles shine in the light. Rick smirks at you, easygoing despite how you can see his hand twitching. Is he sure he’s had a threesome before?

You lick your lips as he stops in front of you, and Adrian grabs for your jacket. You stare up at Rick expectantly as Adrian pulls the leather down your arms, baring your chest to the Colonel. His eyes travel down your body shamelessly, committing your body to memory, painting your portrait in his mind.

“So how should we…?” he trails off, not sure how to proceed. Adrian makes a decision for him, though, and puts his hands firmly on your hips. You’re not going anywhere, especially as he fucks up into you, the chair below him creaking. He snaps his hips to claim his place and also yours. You’re not going to fucking move. You gasp, hand reaching back to steady yourself against his firm chest, fingers flexing against his muscles. This doesn't deter Rick, however, who takes another step towards you, stopping just in front of your knees.

“Well?” you ask, expectantly, and his smirk turns into a smile as he huffs out a small laugh. Rick unceremoniously yanks down his boxers, already leaving little to the imagination but still you cannot hide the shock in your eyes when you finally see his cock.

Rick’s cock is long, handsome as he is, and a delicious shade of pink. You reach out, fingers curling around the base of his cock as you smile up at him. If Rick didn't know better, he’d think you were an angel. Good thing he knows better.

You pump his cock at the same rythm Adrian fucks you, his thrusts and your fist moving in tandem. You’re mesmerized by the way Rick’s brows scrunch up, as if you've unlocked his kryptonite, attention being the thing to break through his attempted cool exterior. Its beautiful. He’s beautiful.

You laugh, lips breaking into a smile, and you bend forward, Adrians grip on your hips changing his angle inside you shifting. He groans behind you appreciatively, and one of his hands gives your ass a slap. Rick flexes, and rolls his shoulders back.

“Do you like that?” you ask him, your voice a seductive whisper. You don't slow your rhythm, you don't look away; Adrian doesnt slow his rhythm, Rick doesnt look away.

“I like you,” Rick responds, just as flirty. You laugh, breathy and light, never breaking eye contact with your commanding officer. You roll your hips, feeling Adrian’s hands tightening on you.

“Of course you do,” you say with a roll of your eyes, finally breaking the contact. Your hand moves slowly, concentrating on running your thumb up and down the vein on the underside of his cock.

“Want some more?” he asks, stepping between yours and Adrian’s legs, his hand coming up to cup your jaw.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hear from behind you, Adrian cursing as his hands loosen their grip on your hips.

You sigh, you should have known this would happen. Adrian doesnt seem like the sharing type, even if Rick is. You release your grip on Rick’s cock, leaning away until you back touches Adrian’s chest. You look up at him, and he doesn't look at you.

“Adrian?” you coo, voice venomously sweet.

He grunts.

“Adrian?” you call to him again, voice like a song as you reach up and run a finger along his jawline.

“What?” he practically spits the word.

“Honey, where is your cock right now?” you ask him gently as if you don’t both know, continuing to run your finger along his jawline, a comforting gesture.

Finally, Adrian leans into your touch, and his arms wrap around your waist. One hand dips down, and he teases your clit. You gasp, moan turning into a giggle.

“In this sweet pussy,” he answers.

“Uh huh, so let Rick play a little. His presence here is an unethical power imbalance and I think he knows that. He’s gonna play nice with me,” you tell him, scrunching your nose at him cutely. You turn your attention back to Rick, raising an eyebrow to silently ask him if he agrees. He smiles slowly, and you reach out for him again.

Rick guides your hand back to his cock, letting you grasp him once more.

Your teamwork resumes: Adrian You Rick, Adrian You Rick. Adrian setting the speed, the pace, leaning back in the chair for leverage to fuck up into you. Grunt, moan, gasp. Groan, gasp, moan. For the first time since the game started, you can actually hear the music floating through the air from the little radio. Some crooner sets the background for this devil’s threesome unfolding.

You speed up your movements, breaking the rhythm, and Rick inhales sharply between his teeth, a loud and discordant noise that seems to break the spell. Adrian’s hands seize your hips roughly again, seeking to possess you.

Fuck.

“Listen, Man,” Rick addresses Adrian awkwardly, his jaw twitching as you speed up your movements even more, your wrist working him over.

“What, man?” Adrian asks, petulant and sarcastic. You didn't know he knew how to do that. He’s full of surprises, you think.

“Don't you think I know what's happening here?”

Okay, that makes you pause. Maybe Rick is more perceptive than you originally thought.

“Your girl here is trying to honey pot me,” he explains, his hand reaching down to adjust your grasp on him, tighter, “Am I right?”

You nod up at him, nervous for once.

“She figures if she shows me a good time I’ll pull some strings to give you time enough off your sentences so you can be released together,” he explains, and Adrian’s grip on you softens, only to have his rough hand run up and down your side.

“Are you gonna?” Adrian asks, his desire to be out with you overtaking his desire to comment on an unethical exchange of sexual favors.

Rick only shrugs.

“Why not?”

That seems to be the only answer both men need, and you breathe a sigh of relief you didn't know you were holding.

Adrian’s hand dips forward again to find your clit, and your next breath is a shuddering gasp.

“You wanna be a honey pot?” he asks you, his pressure on your clit increasing, almost painfully. You nod, a needy whine escaping your lips.

“Then show Colonel Flag how sweet you are,” he commands you, his lips now against the shell of your ear. He speeds up his fingers, panting into your ear as he shallowly thrusts into you, your bodies flush. You feel helpless, a moaning mess losing yourself to your own pleasure, almost embarrassingly so. Your head rolls back onto Adrian’s shoulder, and your over kissed lips part into a dazed smile. You meet Rick’s eyes as Adrian’s movements start to make your body jolt and shake. Your orgasm, rapidly approaching, evident to everyone.

“C’mon baby,” Adrian encourages you, his fingers digging into your thigh, holding you open as he continues his onslaught, pleasure and pain now one in the same, white heat beginning to seep into the corners of your vision.

Until the dam breaks. Adrian holds you in place, only slowing down to give you slight mercy. Rick watches intensely, his eyes never leaving your face, even as your eyes roll back and your mouth opens in a silent scream, your body wracked with tremors as your orgasm hits you like a flooding storm. Adrian holds you tightly through it all, bringing you back to earth slowly. Your chest heaves, and your eyes meet Rick’s again.

Sweet enough? You silently ask him, and he smiles, understanding fully. Adrian seems to understand too, as he pulls you up off his lap, hissing at the air hitting his cock, cold compared to the heat of your cunt.

You stand unsteadily, almost dizzy as you use your legs for the first time in over an hour. Rick reaches out for you, pulling you into his arms as you steady yourself, his warmth radiating over you.

“Wanna lay down?” he asks, as if he already knows what you want. Yes, yes of course you do, you nod your head and he leads you over to the little table, pushing all of the discarded deck onto the floor as he gently lays you down. Adrian gets up and joins Rick, standing on the opposite end of the table. You lay back, face to face with Adrian as your spine flattens out against the formica. He smiles at you sweetly, and you return it, before he winks. As if you read his mind, you open your mouth for him, and he leans down and spits between your lips. You smile up at him, eyes full of nothing but adoration.

“You want my mouth?” you ask him, and he shakes his head no. Rick the voyeur switches places with him, rounding the table until he’s standing next to your head.

“Stay still,” Rick warns you, his hands gently tilting your head back to lean off the edge of the table.

“Yes, Daddy,” you obey.

“Don’t,” Rick pauses, grimaces, blushes red as a tomato, “Don’t say that.”

You immediately tilt your head back up, looking for Adrian with wild amusement painted on your features.

“Did you hear that?” you giggle, snapping your fingers at Adrian from his spot between your legs. He laughs along with you, pointing at Rick, who rolls his eyes.

“Colonel’s got a Daddy kink!” you laugh, only stopped when Rick pulls your back down, bringing your attention back on him to shut you up.

“You want a taste?” he asks, grasping his cock by the base, and stepping closer to your bruised lips.

You nod, eagerly. The tip of his cock touches your lips, and you gladly part them to let Rick push his cock between them. You push your tongue out to taste him, salty and hot against you, your tongue massaging him as you take him fully into your mouth. Fuck, he feels good in your mouth, just as good as you thought he would. He pushes slowly, whether hes testing the waters or afraid to hurt you, you arent sure. But you want more, no, need it even. He takes a few more shallow thrusts, slow and even and safe.

We can’t have that, now can we?

You grab his hips, thumbs dipping right against his v-line as you pull him closer to you, taking him as deep as you can. Rick gasps, then groans in surprise, his voice strained as he gets used to the sensation of his cock down your throat.

Adrian, not one to be outdone, only watches the show for a moment before focusing his attention back to your cunt. Which, in his opinion, is only too clothed.

Adrian pushes your skirt up around your waist, bunching the fabric up ungracefully. His fingers rake down the front of your underwear, wet and twisted and useless now that Adrian had already made a previous mess of them. Impatient to a fault, repositioning you to pull them off smoothly would take too long.

Your focus is pulled from the heat of Rick’s cock by cool steel against your hip, and without pulling yourself off of Rick you hum, trying to get attention as you ask what the fuck is going on. Rick reaches down to rub his thumb along your chin in comfort.

“Adrian’s got a knife,” Rick explains, and as you feel the elastic of your underwear break, you relax once more. You had told Adrian one night in your cell that you wanted him to do that to you once he got his knives back. He’s a good listener.

You swivel your tongue along Rick’s cock, the hot velvet soft skin and salty sweat. You hollow out your cheeks, pride blooming in your chest as the commanding officer groans like a much more desperate man.

Adrian’s cock once again presses against your entrance, a key into a lock, and he sinks into you slowly, a loud and blissful moan spilling from his lips. You can only imagine the smile on his face. The same smooth drag, the fullness of him returns to you, and you moan around Rick’s shaft. You feel the shiver up his spine from here. He likes that, you notice, and file it away in your mind to use against him.

Adrian is not slow and gentle for long, though, quickly picking up speed now that he has the freedom to have you spead out below him like this.

His hips slamming into you shakes the table, rocking your mouth farther onto Rick’s cock. You gag, sharply inhaling through your nose to try to keep control. You reach out to him, your fingers wrapping around his forearms to stabalize you, so that maybe next time Adrian decides to be rough it wont end with Rick bruising your vocal cords. Rick moves his hands, gripping the edge of the table to keep you in place. Adrian hammers into you, fucking you onto Rick, once again a tandem rhythm between the three of you.

“Jesus, Colonel, is that your dick?” you hear Adrian ask as he presses your thighs farther apart.

“Yep,” You hear Rick confirm, his hand coming off the edge of table to brush his fingertips across your neck, “Pretty little throat your girl’s got.”

“Don’t I know it?” Adrian asks, and that effectively ends their conversation again. You’re glad

theyre starting to get along. You feel Adrian’s hands running up and down your thighs, massaging his thumbs into the muscles, but you can only be so pliant beneath him when tension builds and pools in your stomach, threatening to bring you over the edge again.

You try to focus on one or the other. Try to focus on keeping your cheeks hollow and your tongue moving for Rick. Try to focus on not coming again on Adrian’s cock while he teases and manipulates your body. You feel like you're failing though, and falling all the same, your muscles feel weak against both of them, hard and strong, your body filled with white-hot heat like molten lava.

Adrian breaks your thoughts by yanking both of your legs together, your knees knocking together roughly. Heat turning supernova, you moan loud around Rick’s cock, and he himself moans in response.

“That gonna get you to come for me again?” Adrian asks, laughter in his voice as he places both of your ankles on one shoulder, hugging your legs to his chest. The angle is… divine. Your eyes screw shut tightly, stars bursting behind your eyelids. He’s such a little shit.

You hum affirmatively again around Rick’s cock, and his hips stutter against your face, knocking into your chin.

“Fuck, Doll, you gotta stop doing that,” he sighs, but you can barely hear him. No, you’re focusing to holding onto your sanity. Everything feels so so so much, everything is Adrian and Rick, Adrian and Rick, and you melting between them. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

A strangled cry fights its way from your mouth, and a cord snaps within you. You shudder, and Adrian leans down to pin you down even further, slowing down this time to give you a little mercy. He is sweet. He works you through your orgasm slowly, gently pulling it from you, gently letting you back down to earth, gently letting the pleasure crash over you in waves. He thrusts slowly, dragging himself from you before every slow thrust in, taking you apart and putting you back together. You float back down into yourself slowly, held by both of them. Adrian pressed against you and Rick now running his fingers through your hair.

Rick pulls out slowly, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, and finally you can swallow properly, your sore jaw slack and tired. Adrian presses a kiss to the back of your knee, pulling out as well. You groan at the loss of him, at the heat leaving your body. Then again, at the feeling of goosebumps covering your skin. He lets your legs down gently, your heels coming to rest on the edge of the table as he holds you lazily.

Rick leans down, eyes dark and lustful, handsome and fully focused on you. He is dangerous.

“Can I have that honey pot, gorgeous?” Rick asks you, face close enough to kiss. You lean up, craning your neck to do just that. He tastes like rum and vanilla, sickeningly sweet. Your hand reaches up to pull him even closer, your nails raking through his soft hair. Rick’s hand quickly finds your chest, his thumb brushing over your nipple. What a tease, you think.

He parts his lips from you slowly, eyes staying closed as if savoring the moment to commit to memory.

“You can have whatever you want,” you whisper, and Rick seems to preen at that. He stands tall again and moves to take Adrian’s place. Adrian doesn't budge though.

“You gonna…?” Rick trails off, holding out his hand to gesture Adrian to the side. Adrian still doesn't budge, his feet planted to the floor. You roll your eyes, bored of the competition. Men.

“I think I’m good here,” Adrian shrugs, his fingers idly running up and down the side of your leg.

“Don’t act like she’s not the one that holds your leash, Vig,” Rick shoots back, pointing out a truth, “Everyone sees how you protect her. She's a big girl.”

Adrian visibly deflates, his shoulders drooping. If you didn’t know better, you would think Rick’s gaze is softening in guilt. But you do know better.

“Don’t worry, babe, you’re the only one that gets to come inside,” you stage whisper to him, looking at Rick the whole time. He gets it and nods instantly in reassurance.

“Better be,” Adrian pouts, “And maybe he should only get you from behind.”

It’s a little petty on Adrian’s part, but you have a bond. The Colonel is an interloper at the end of the night, and Adrian’s comfort is important.

“I can work with that,” Rick pipes up, slapping a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder, which surprisingly is not shrugged off. Adrian even looks a little surprised at the turn of events, as if he’s used to others making him put up more of a fight to get what he wants.

You turn yourself over, ignoring the ache in your core, dropping onto your feet off the edge of the table to bend over. The cool air hits you, and finally you realize just how wet you are. Fuck.

Adrian is reluctant as he moves in front of you, but he seems thankful of the shitty table, and the ability to kiss you before he grabs your head to lower it on his shaft. He kisses you softly, holding both sides of your face in his big hands. You press your lips to his eagerly, a salve to whatever hurt his ego feels in this whole situation. You know you’ll hear an earful when you go to sleep next to him later, but you don’t mind. Not when he looks like that.

You’re broken from your thoughts by the feeling of another pair of rough hands; this time finding purchase on your hips. Adrian breaks the kiss somewhat reluctantly, licking the seam of your lips before he pulls away.

You smile up at him again, and he grabs his shaft, pumping from the base to the tip twice. Like a fucking pornstar.

“Open up?” he asks, and you oblige, dramatically parting your lips and sticking your tongue out for show. His nose scrunches, his glasses fogging slightly as he laughs through his nose, and he inches closer to you, teasing you with the tip just out of reach. You pout, and then smile as he gives in, resting the fat head of his cock against your tongue.

Rick’s cock brushes against your entrance, only for a moment, and then he pushes his entire length into you with one thrust, filling you entirely.

You moan, loud and wanton, pushed further onto Adrian’s shaft as well. Both of them fill you, completely.

Rick lingers, savoring the feeling of being fully inside you, holding your hips and your bodies flush together. He pulls himself out again slowly, almost completely, dragging against you, friction that makes you whine, open mouthed and loud around Adrian’s shaft, and his grip on your head only becomes tighter. Rick takes the opportunity to land a hard smack against your ass, hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to make his mark on you the way that Adrian has, hard enough to lay claim to you.

He then begins thrusting in earnest; long, savoring strokes you're sure he will remember later, fucking his fist in the shower.

The edge of the table digs into the flesh of your thighs, you can imagine the indents they'll leave, a sweet reminder as you're sure it'll be sore to walk tomorrow. He presses into you deep, each thrust harder than the last, each thrust earning him a moan.

You push back against him, arching your back into each of his movements. Adrian moves differently, barely thrusting his hips, small movements while he keeps himself deep in your mouth, his tip kissing the back of your throat with every little push of his hips.

The room fills with moans, all three of you together harmoniously, hitting your stride.

“Fucking amazing,” Rick sighs, beginning to speed up his thrusts, his hip bones bumping against your ass.

“Right?” Adrian agrees, his thumb swiping against your cheek. Wet, like the rest of you.

“You’re a lucky man, Vigilante.”

And without warning Rick changes his angle, hips now connecting with the bottom of your ass, and you nearly scream. This new angle… this is… excruciating pleasure.

He reaches a part of you that your hadn't already known, the tip of his cock brushing against a spot that makes your vision blur. He hits it over and over, your eyes rolling back into your head as your orgasm rushes almost embarrassingly.

You feel yourself tightening around him, feel all of your muscles seizing. You try as hard as you can to keep your jaw where it is for Adrian despite the fact that Rick has the rest of your body curling in on itself.

He speeds up, continuing to hit that spot, hit that place in you. Your toes curl, and you lose your composure quickly, now moaning every time he fills you to the hilt.

You moan on Adrian’s cock, your throat vibrating around his cock, and at some point he just stops thrusting, enjoying the feeling of you on him in your current state too much.

Rick keeps thrusting, your back arching to the point where your body almost comes off the table, your hips rising almost uncomfortably to meet the angle he has set to make you come beneath him, and expertly so. You're barrelling towards that high, bracing yourself to let yourself go, to go limp around Rick Flag, to show him…

“Fuck,” Rick curses, pulling out harshly. He taps the tip of his cock against your ass a few times, and then sighs deeply.

“You are something else,” he laughs, his free hand running down your hip. Adrian takes this as his cue, and pulls himself out of your mouth too. Unlike with Rick, you whine at the loss of Adrian. You look up at him through your lashes, his smile cocky and excited.

“You wanna finish the job?” you ask your protector, and he nods eagerly, the smile never slipping.

You turn your attention back to the older man.

“It’s okay, Colonel,” you coo, your voice once again sweet with that venom, taunting, “You can have my mouth again.”

Rick isn’t going to think twice about it, and he switches places with Adrian to stand in front of you again, gathering your hair in his fist. You lock eyes with him as your tongue darts out of your mouth, a gentle lick to the head of his cock. He shudders, clearly ready. Well, you’re not one to waste time. You pull him in closer by the hips, taking his length back into your mouth.

He groans appreciatively when the back of your throat meets the tip of his cock again, kissing it. Quick, shallow thrusts this time, less about exploring you and more about an eagerness to meet his end, and to watch you meet your end once again. He holds your head still, fucking your mouth, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have cards to deal as well.

You swivel your tongue along the vein on the underside of his shaft, mapping it like hills and valleys.

He’s quick, head thrown back in pleasure and chest heaving. Adrian is not one to be outdone though, and enters you equally as quickly, no show or frills or gentleness this time. He enters you as a means to an end as well.

Both men thrust into you hungrily, chasing a high only given by you. Adrian reaches down, bending his body over you until his fingers reach your clit again, moving with a pace and desperation to make you scream around Rick’s cock. His arm will probably be as bruised as your thighs will be tomorrow morning, but it’s clear he doesn’t care, hammering into you again.

The tension you felt under Rick comes back almost immediately, your body tensing and curling for Adrian now as he puts himself deep inside you. Rick has to almost work against Adrian, his own thrusts having to fit in the waves and crashes of Adrian’s hips.

Adrian works you over, your body constricting and tensing under Adrian’s generous moans, watches you as you start to lose it.

“That's it babe, show the Colonel how good you are,” Adrian encourages, the pressure of his finger on your clit now almost violent, knowing how ready you are.

“Let go,” Adrian urges, his voice so low and wanting. Instead of you, its Rick that lets go, filling your throat with his release, salty and hot, but easy to swallow. He tastes good, not too much not too little. You swallow him down eagerly, making eye contact the entire time, and you're almost sure he sheds a tear.

It's seconds later that Adrian makes you come again.

You shudder, hard and unsexy under him, and entire loss of control, but you hide none of it from Rick. He knows you, or at least he should. Adrian comes shortly after, his release with a groan, and the two of you sink to the floor as a unit, connected, held together. Adrian keeps you close.

Your head shoots up from Rick’s shoulder as if you’ve been burned, your eyes wide as you turn your face towards the pile of his clothes. The Colonel unravels himself from you and the Vigilante, a pile of limbs doused in sweat and spit and salt. His phone vibrates; the case clattering against his belt buckle, the screen a bright intrusion to the dim lights, reflecting off of the rum bottles like christmas lights. Rick stumbles towards it, pulled by duty. Adrian pulls at you by the handful, fully enveloping you in his embrace. One so new and yet already so comforting. You picked right when you set your sights on him.

Rick bends down to pick up his phone, showing you a great view of that ass of his. You rake your fingernails over Adrian’s bicep, tracing the scar tissue lines across soft freckled skin while you watch what the other man does.

Rick’s screen illuminates a grimace on his face. Your brows furrow in confusion, and then realization.

“Waller?” you ask, voice partially muffled by how Adrian has himself wrapped around you.

“Yup,” Rick confirms, knowing he’s probably a dead man.

You and Adrian burst into laughter.

He’s so fucking dead.

Rick slips on his underwear and leaves the room to take the call.

#adrian chase x reader #rick flag x reader

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eoieopda · 1 year

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the one with yoongi, netflix, and zero chill

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader Type: Drabble; Suggestive Fluff Word Count: 1.1k Content: fuck buddy!au; birthday boi Yoongs A/N: Nobody asked for this — I just wanted it, lmao. HAPPY (belated) YOONGI DAY ‼️

Of all the texts you might’ve expected to receive from Min Yoongi — of all people —this hadn’t been one of them. A far cry from the anticipated “cum over?” and follow-up “that was intentionally cringe but seriously, get here,” it was one word:

Hey.

Simple, unassuming, shockingly innocuous. A text like this from any other person wouldn’t have set off the shop-lifting alarm in your brain, but this one did.

Until now, all of your other exchanges had been borderline — if not entirely — pornographic. Yoongi had received enough photos of you in compromising positions to fill a dossier; or the national archives, if your tits were properly classified as subjects of great cultural significance. He wasn’t the type to chat for the sake of it, certainly not without an ulterior motive bulging uncomfortably in too-tight jeans.

What the fuck?

Unable to square this flagrantly conversational message with its sender, you’d replied to ask if he meant to send it to someone else. He hadn’t, he clarified. Then, doubling down on whatever fast-one he was pulling, he’d asked if you wanted to hang out. No suggestive emojis, no “*bang out, my bad” — just an invitation, sans subtext.

It was too intriguing to ignore.

You parked in your usual spot on a side street and followed the same path you always did towards his apartment building. By now, there should’ve been shoe prints worn into the concrete from how frequently you’d passed overtop, but there weren’t. You were able to confirm as much because you were finally perceiving that sidewalk in sunlight. Even his building looked different when it wasn’t shrouded in darkness and questionable judgment.

After a quick trip up the stairs, you found yourself on familiar territory: a doormat that said “fuck off.” You snorted, staring down at it, and wondered if it knew how often you’d done the opposite.

You knocked and Yoongi answered; his usual smirk wasn’t present with him to greet you. Instead, he offered you what looked like a genuine smile and nodded his head for you to come inside. If your ears hadn’t deceived you, you might have heard him ask about your day, but they were too busy ringing as if a bomb had gone off nearby. Still shocked, your brain was left to stagger through the aftermath while you trailed off after him.

At this point, on any other occasion, he would be charting a map of your body by now — before you could even cross the threshold. There’d be a mouth nipping at the underside of your jaw, too. In lieu of small talk, his tongue would be lavishing warmth upon the curve of your neck. This time, though, Yoongi kept his hands to himself — and when he led you further into his apartment, he didn’t make a beeline for his bedroom.

Once more, with feeling: what the fuck?

You’d never seen his living room before, not even in your fucked-out wobble towards the door when your nights with him were over. It was cozy, confusingly soft in comparison to the roughness you knew right down the hall. Plush couch, plusher throw blankets, and multiple bookshelves — all seemingly hand-crafted. To your surprise, they were all full of personal trinkets, and curated works of fiction and nonfiction alike.

It never crossed your mind that he had personal possessions, let alone hobbies. You were shocked to learn that your recurring dick appointment involved a full-fledged person with interests. You coughed, “You read?”

It wasn’t meant as an insult, but it sure as hell sounded like one. Immediately, you winced at your lack of tact.

Just add friendly conversation to the short list of things that mouth doesn’t do.

When Yoongi blinked slowly back at you, all you could do was anticipate. What quip would he hit you with? What sarcastic remark would fly out of his mouth and how wet would it make you despite your embarrassment?

He chuckled, shrugged, and said, “Guess I do.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. Yoongi’s face didn’t change at all, remaining as airy and unbothered as it was when you walked through the door. He unknowingly left you buffering where you stood, walked around the back of his couch, and dropped down onto the cushions.

You might’ve stood there all night, wondering what sort of wormhole you’d fallen into, but he glanced back over his shoulder at you. It wasn’t expectant, the way he eyed you. In fact, he seemed just as confused as you were.

“You good?” Yoongi asked, eyebrow slightly raised.

You opened your mouth to respond; nothing came out. Am I? Does anybody else smell burning toast? You closed it again without saying a word.

Resigned to this frighteningly domestic fever dream, you padded over to where he was — apparently — waiting and sunk down into the cushion next to him. Though you couldn’t explain why, you left a few centimeters of space in between your thigh and his. Grinding yourself down onto his naked lap was one thing, but this all felt so blatantly out-of-bounds.

Once you were settled into your spot, you watched with suspicious eyes as he turned on the television. He’d begun to scroll through Netflix’s newest additions before you’d bothered to blink.

Yoongi was in the middle of asking you what sort of movies you typically watched when you blurted out:

“I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

He hit play on whatever choice he’d made and set the remote back down onto his coffee table. “What’s happening is Tazza because you said you’ve never seen it.” He responded easily, like none of this was wildly out of the ordinary. Then, he turned to smile at you again. “It’s a great movie. Probably my favorite, honestly.”

There wasn’t a single coherent thought in your brain, just the sound of sirens and flashing red lights. Is this what he meant when he asked you to hang out? Sitting on his couch, fully-clothed, watching a movie? His favorite movie? The one he knows you haven’t seen?

Maybe that was how normal friendships worked, but this friendship blew your back out on a bi-weekly basis. This friend routinely rearranged your guts, whispered depravity in your ear — and throughout all of that, he noted the distinctly non-sexual shit you mentioned in passing.

Things you didn’t even remember saying.

Using some sort of app on his phone, he dimmed the lights. As the opening scene blared from the screen ahead, he nestled himself down into the couch looking downright huggable. It wasn’t a word you’d ever have attributed to Min Yoongi until now, but there was no other way to process the weird urge you felt to nestle into him.

You didn’t, though. You stayed firmly planted within the bounds of your designated cushion, straight upright with perfect posture you’d never previously exhibited. Still, you were staring and you couldn’t quite help it.

Yoongi could sense it, it seemed. He pulled his gaze off the screen and set his sights on you. And he kept them there, inhaling quietly then exhaling a soft sigh. “It’s my birthday.”

If that was meant to be an explanation for summoning you, it only made matters more confusing. Stupefied, you peeped, “Oh? Happy — um — h-happy birthday?”

He looked shy, which was yet another word you’d never expected to associate with him. Even in the dark, you could see the way his cheeks flushed pink.

Yoongi swallowed, nudging your nearby thigh softly with his knuckles. “I didn’t want to spend it alone.”

#jade’s drabbles #bts drabble #min yoongi drabble #yoongi drabble #yoongi day #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #yoongi x you #min yoongi fluff #yoongi fluff #bts imagine #bts scenarios #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenarios #myg #trashlibrary #re: the one with yoongi netflix and zero chill

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raina-at · 5 days

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Manipulation

This is a prequel of sorts to this ficlet from last year, but it stands well on its own.

-----

Sherlock is never sure, right to the bitter end, why she does it. Why she holds on to John so desperately. Why she lies, and manipulates, and plays his insecurities like a fiddle, why she clings to him.

He would like to believe that she loves John. That she loves her daughter. That there is a part of her, however deeply buried beneath self-interest, that wants to have a genuine human connection.

He’s pretty sure it’s not true. At least it’s not what he saw when he looked at her. When she smirked at him on the Tarmac.

He remembers what Magnussen said. How John is his pressure point, and he is Mycroft’s. He’s pretty sure that whatever game Mary is playing, he’s as much of a pawn in it as John is. She’s holding John’s heart and his daughter hostage for her own safety, and she knows that having a knife at John Watson’s jugular is the same as having one to Sherlock’s, and Mycroft’s.

Sherlock hates being manipulated. It’s ironic, because he’s so good at it himself, and he used to do it without a second thought.

But he’s learned the hard way that anything you gain through manipulation—forgiveness, say, to pick a not so random example—isn’t real.

Mary, however, has no such compunctions. She shot him in the chest, and from the moment John knew she played the victim of circumstance, and Sherlock went along, ensuring that John believed her story, believed her to have acted out of desperation, not cold calculation. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that she would kill them both if they showed any sign of seeing through the mask.

But what she doesn’t realise, and learns too late, is that two can play this game. Three, in their case.

She sent John hundreds of texts during the time they were separated. One more manipulative than the other.

Interesting how you’re picking a psychopath who abandoned you over your wife and your child.

Do you care about your child at all?

You’re turning into a deadbeat. Just like your dad.

He doesn’t care about you, John. He never did. He’s telling you what you need to hear because he’s missing having a live-in servant. That’s all you are.

He’ll leave you again. And if you think I’ll take your sorry arse back when he does, you’re delusional.

I’ll take your child and disappear. You’ll never find us.

What she doesn’t know, what she will never discover, is that Sherlock learned from his mistakes.

That he sat John down after that evening at Baker Street, and told him everything about her. About how dangerous she is. That they looked at the memory stick, and discovered that it was empty. That Mycroft supplied them with a full dossier. That every time John texted her back, Sherlock was the one composing the text. That every word she exchanged with Mycroft in the background was shared and analysed.

That Sherlock trusted John. That he told him the truth. That he finally said, “I love you. I need you. Come home. Bring your child. Let’s be a family. Like we were always supposed to be.”

That so many of her texts reached them as they lay entwined on Sherlock’s bed, talking, listening, kissing, touching, trusting each other.

That every word John said to her on Christmas was a lie, a script he wrote with Sherlock.

It’s astonishing to Sherlock that she believed the Magnussen story. It makes no sense at all. He would never be stupid enough to risk his, John’s and Mycroft’s safety on a gamble that Magnussen would take a laptop. And Sherlock would never be stupid enough to shoot someone in the head in front of witnesses.

But she stays in her corner, the entire time. Magnussen’s death, his sudden departure, the Moriarty ploy, all the moves they made to scare her into getting sloppy, nothing works on her. She remains in her role as the expectant mother, the reformed criminal, the devoted wife just so glad to have her husband back.

She works on John the entire time. She loves him, she needs him, she wants to start over. She wants him to trust her again—she doesn’t know that he never did—she wants to do counselling. She starts a campaign to get John to agree to move. House in the country, better for their daughter. John sends Sherlock a summary every day, and it’s masterful, the way she plays her cards. John never had the serene, peaceful childhood she says she wants for their daughter. She even offers graciously that he can see Sherlock as much as he wants, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the baby’s schedule.

How generous, Sherlock thinks, to offer me scraps off your table, to offer me to John like a toy, a hobby, an indulgence.

And he sees now, with every word she says, with every indulgence she offers as a generous, gracious gift, how she managed to pull the wool over their eyes for such a long time. How she positioned herself as the gracious facilitator, how she played on both his and John’s insecurities, their hurts, their broken trust, until it seemed like she was bringing them together, when in reality, she reinforced John’s self-doubt and his distrust of Sherlock.

In the end, it’s no use.

In the end, her time runs out.

The night John’s daughter is born, they come and they take her away. Sherlock doesn’t know where they’re taking her, and he doesn’t care. He hopes they throw her into a hole and lose the key. He hopes they never see her again. He hopes they can forget her.

But he knows he can never unlearn the lessons she taught him. They won over her lies by being honest, and they won over her manipulations by trusting each other. The second he stopped manipulating and lying to John, he won. And the second he starts again, he’ll lose.

That night, they take their daughter home. That night, he makes another vow. One he intends to keep.

-----

Tags under the cut as usual, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #my fic #johnlock fic #may prompts 2024 #manipulation #I hate Mary can you tell ;-)

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gatheredfates · 2 months

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KORET SWAN.

Nickname: Kor. Generally only reserved for people she knows well, otherwise it's Koret or Captain. Age: Mid-thirties. Nameday: 32 Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon (All Saints Wake) Race: Mix-race Ala Mhigan Highlander (on her father's side) and Limsan Midlander (on her mothers). Gender: It's complicated. I could write an entire essay about Kor's perception of gender and where she fits in it but that would take up 90% of this mini dossier. However, to keep it brief: Kor is unsure if her desire to abandon her femininity is due primarily to her father's distain of it or that she simply does not see herself as a woman. There are times where presenting masculine suits her, pronouns and all, until she suddenly feels alienated and abandons it altogether. There are times she feels she is everything and nothing at all. There are times were being a woman is a comfort and strength. She fits somewhere on the spectrum of gender fluidity, but she is constantly questioning her place and constantly feeling invalidated by the way her own mind undermines her when it comes to it. She is a pronoun because it is easy; she is not employed because she believes she is always female. If she could stop thinking about it altogether, she would do it in a heartbeat. Orientation: Bisexual, no preference. Profession: Captain of the Wolfsbane; a notorious galleon once commanded by her father, Dimitri. It was 'gifted' to her in a decrepit state when Kor was considered old enough to command.

Fleet Captain of her father's ships in his death, answering predominately to the thalassocracy of Limsa Lominsa when called upon - though she mostly ships goods for Firelight Trading Company.

Warrior of Light in the applicable verse!

PHYSICAL ASPECTS

Hair: A deep, wavy crimson, cut just above the breast. Kor will often plait it when she is working — if not cut it shorter altogether. See aforementioned gender grappling. Eyes: Amber. Her father's eyes. In her non-WoL verse, she lost her right eye in an altercation with @riftdancing's Blink after her father tried to pit her against the other woman and her forces. The loss of vision was a mercy to spare her life. Skin: Pale, closer to her mothers, though she tans without too much trouble. However, seeing much of her skin beyond her face is reserved only for those she trusts, as beneath her clothes her body is marred with scars and pock-marks from her father's abuse. There are callouses on her hands. Tattoos/Scars: See above regarding scars. She is considering adopting some tattoos in light of seeing Vamp and Rex's, but hasn't committed fully to the idea yet. FAMILY

Parents: Dimitri Swan, youngest in a family of Ala Mhigan men forced to watch their city fall. He abandoned his homeland quickly after revelations about the Garleans and the Mad King emerged and took to Limsa for promises of wealth and prestige. Fighting, bargaining, trading and even killing for what he wanted, he became a notorious figure within Limsa Lominsa — reviled and respected in turn —and was not one readily crossed. His desire for a true-born son to inherit his legacy was all-consuming and, ultimately, his undoing.

I haven't given a name to Kor's mother yet, but she was a pretty little thing Dimitri met one night in the Drowning Wench. He wooed her with promises of a luxurious life and the first few years of their marriage were unremarkable — primarily due to Dimitri being constantly at sea. However, when she failed to produce a living heir after two daughters and numerous miscarriages/stillborn children, his opinion of her soured. She died when Kor was thirteen of a 'mysterious illness', though she maintains her mother simply gave up on life due to his ongoing abuse. In her youth, she hated her. As an adult, her opinion of her is complicated. Siblings: One full-blooded sister, Lily. Because I play hard and fast with character ages, and the canonical passage of XIV time makes no sense to me (and I don't subscribe to it), she died at the start of ARR. Whether that was one year, five years or anything in between... you tell me.

Kor is also aware she must have an innumerable amount of half-siblings due to her father's sexual appetite. Even when their marriage was good, there were always rumours he was taking women in far-flung ports — something he denied at first, but wholeheartedly used as a battering ram later as another blow to hurt his wife. It would bemuse Kor if he only shot blanks, but she's not an optimist. At this stage, none have come out of the woodwork and tried to communicate with her. Grandparents: She knows little about them. The ones on her father's side died during the fall of Ala Mhigo and the ones on her mother's she never learned anything about. Others: (God this is going to get so long).

To begin, Kor has a rather large extended family. On her mother's side, she has her cousin Paprika (played by @riftdancing). On her father's, she has Ashe and Eve. Dimitri tried to look like he was assimilating into Limsan society by taking on his wife's last name and abandoning his own, leaving Ashe with to carry the mantle of 'Hawke'. However, Kor was never close to any of them until adulthood.

In Ashe and Paprika's case, though they lived within the same city-state, Dimitri's iron fist over his family ensured Kor couldn't ask for help. They were also not really in a position to assist without inflicting his retribution onto them. Dimitri abandoned his brother when Ashe's father first arrived, and consequently isolated his wife from any contact with her family.

Eve didn't come into the picture until Kor was well and truly an adult. Ashe kept up with her via letters but, due to going due west to Thanalan with the other refugees, she was only able to escape her own captivity in her mid-twenties. They are incredibly distant for numerous reasons I won't get into here (because it'll be a novel).

Kor found a pseudo-father figure in my partner's character Rex, though she will not admit it to him directly. They came into contact through my character Crow (I enjoy all my characters being loosely interconnected), another fleet-captain hoping to push Dimitri out of the picture because he conflicted with her aspirations, and he quickly surmised her predicament through Crow's inference and Kor's eventual admission. His company is a second home to her, both metaphorically and literally these days.

Literally because she's dating one of the Head Mechanics — an Ala Mhigan man by the name of Vamp. This was another cheeky ploy by Crow to give Kor some connections to her homeland in the company of a man she knew to be gentle and kind; to the point she refused his charter from Limsa to Ul'dah, even if Rex was paying handsomely for the fare. Crow hadn't expected them to grow as close as they did... but she also won a bet, so that was nice. If she's in Firelight, she can be found in the workshop or the airship hanger keeping Vamp company while he works on Firelight's various vehicles.

Her relationship with Blink is... a thing. Don't quantify it. In another life, they're dating. In another-other life, one is dead by the other's hand. She's the embodiment of 'I fucked around and found out' — literally! What are they? Is she an ex, an enemy or something in between? Who knows! She calls her a friend these days. That's close enough.

You know who Kor's best friend is? She won't say it. It's Sarrai. Sarrai will happily say it, though. She'll sing it from the rooftops! She once asked Kor for her bones if she successfully died and the Captain was far too taken aback to say no. Dark humour wins again.

There's also some lore around her and my other best friend's OC Beau, but a lot of that is tied into Beau's WoL verse and makes it hard to properly quantify here without talking about that verse and making this post even longer. However, there's a lot of homoerotic tension. That's all you need to know. Same for the numerous connections she has with my friends' ocs at FTC and beyond. Most of them aren't active on tumblr but they know. They know. Pets: I jokingly have the Ugly Duckling out on Kor. She had a dog called Nipper in her WoW verse. Maybe she has a pet? Who knows.

SKILLS

Abilities: Kor is a captain. With that come a myriad of skills including, but not limited to: commanding a ship and reading the seas; diplomacy, negotiation and bartering; mastery over a myriad of weapons including a gunblade and a musket (I maintain Kor was a musketeer in ARR despite it being moved to machinist in HW); a depth of political understanding/manoeuvring; and a shit-tonne of luck. She also possessed the Echo, a 'gift' given to her the night her sister died. Hobbies: Kor is a workaholic. Down-time is few and far between, because it gives her too much time to think. However, she does enjoy reading for its escapism.

TRAITS

Most positive trait: I think it's her accountability. Kor doesn't like to admit she is wrong and doesn't like to look weak, yet she will grit her teeth and apologise eventually because she knows it's the right thing to do. She's also got mountains of endurance and will put her own life/limb on the line for her love ones because she knows she can take it. Most negative trait: Her melancholy. Kor is jaded from a lot of life's experiences, and this manifests in someone who is closed off, hostile and downright nasty when people push her too far. She battles with extreme suicidal ideation that can often make her endurance a detriment because she doesn't always care if she dies. Her father called her a dog for her bark but she's also known to bite.

LIKES

Colours: Navy blue, bottle-green and red. Smells: Sea-salt, brine and freshly-carved wood. Smoky cedarwood colognes and anise. Rum and other similar spirits. Coffee. Textures: Water, wool and steel. The feeling of wood beneath your fingers. Drinks: Hot chocolate.

OTHER DETAILS

Smokes: Frequently. It's her go-to vice, only because it has less 'negative' side-effects to alcohol. Dimitri was an alcoholic and Kor possesses his rage. She knows what she can be like when she drinks. Drinks: ...Semi-frequently. Just because she knows what she's like doesn't mean she won't partake, especially in times of turmoil and strife. These days she tries to drink sweeter things like mead and wine, rather than hard spirits/beer, because she finds she's more aware of how much she has drunk rather than losing herself to the bottle. Drugs: She's dabbled, but it's not for her. Kor has an addictive personality and wrestles enough with booze and tobacco. She doesn't need anything else. Mount Issuance: Does a ship count? I also fully believe that the fall of Garlemald has brought technological advancements to Eorzea and Rex would not have passed up the chance to build things like cars and motorbikes. If so, Kor has the latter. Been arrested: Sure! She's been drunk and disorderly and had a few nights in a Limsan gaol. That's kind of the part of being a privateer, y'know?

Tagged by: @sundered-souls — at least for this one! I'm going to try and do one character per tag. Tagging: @halikyon, @zylphiacrowley, @abracarabbit, @laurel-resting, @starforger, @corsair-kovacs, @cindernet-explorer & @eriyu! (provided you haven't done it already; if so, maybe an alt?) If you'd like a chance of being tagged, you can like my permanent interaction call here!

#｡･ﾟﾟ･ — sea speaks #｡･ﾟﾟ･ — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 : koret #｡･ﾟﾟ･ — sea answers things #｡･ﾟﾟ･ — character answers / memes #god i knew this was going to be massive for her and it's like #i didn't even include ~everything~#and it's still huge!!

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 4 months

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How does Yves celebrate our birthday?

(P.S. thank you for the delicious content!)

However you want to celebrate. It could be as simple as having you make a wish and blow the candle out on the succulent birthday cake in the solitude of his living room, or as grand as a ballroom party where you invite all your friends and families, you get to dance in the most intricate dresses and suits made by his own skilled hands.

You would think that he commissioned the world's best fashion designer to create your outfits, but it was all himself after months of preparation. Yves would painstakingly hand sew every sequin, every bead, and it's this level of detail that makes your dress stand out.

Yves would work with teams of event managers and certified professional hires to facilitate your birthday. He would lead, even having a hand in the kitchen. He creates the menu and ensures that everyone he hired has the same faces throughout, because training starts a year prior to your big day. He remembers everyone's names, everyone's probability of making mistakes and ability to handle a variety of strange and unlikely scenarios.

His staff members would be confused and terrified as to why Yves has protocols if an armed intruder were to crash the party. Each person has their designated evacuation sites and roles to keep you, the guests and themselves safe. Most would already decide to back out after he handed them a thick booklet that details all the programmes happening on the day and all the potential scenarios they might face. Yves has his lawyers present with briefcases of waivers, NDAs and other binding contracts.

They thought that he was some sort of dangerous figure, better not involve themselves into something that they're going to regret. No pay is high enough to compromise their safety. But those who stuck around for years realized that he's just an extremely careful man who loves his darling to death.

The bomb-diffusing classes he required them to take were never put to use, they never once had to use a firearm to protect themselves and the guests, they never had to apprehend anyone who tried poisoning the food and the intensive first aid, toxin control and chemical dossiers they had to memorize by heart wasn't too useful. At most, they just had to deal with minor scrapes and burns in the kitchen. It's just a normal, lavish birthday party with friendly faces. Where the special birthday person is just a civilian who Yves spoils rotten.

He has over two hundred members, yet he knows the details of every single one. Even if two had the same name, he knows which is which. Yves remembers and they know that, which added more pressure on their shoulders. It always freaked them out when Yves caught them slacking off and he called them by their full name, with perfect pronunciation no matter how ethnic.

They cannot trick him into thinking they're supposed to be on break. There are numerous other employees, there is no way he remembers the roster for the day, right? Wrong, he was the one who made the schedules after all. And that unnerves them, he's just like a machine!

However, they appreciate being seen and valued individually. They're not just another tool to him, they're human with their own specific strengths, weaknesses and Yves sees that. It in turn motivates them to do their best. That, and the fact they cannot worm their way out of trouble at all. Reward and fear go hand in hand.

While he prepares for the biggest annual event 12 months prior, Yves somehow managed to spend enough time with you without raising suspicions of the surprise. Of course, you know it is going to be outstanding every year, you just don't know the true magnitude of preparation conducted by Yves.

On the day of your celebration, Yves would be in the kitchen, cooking your meals. It's going to follow the same menu he and the other senior chefs crafted, but yours is a lot more personalized- salted, sweetened or spiced to your liking. The rest of his kitchen staff focused on massive batch production to cater to potentially thousands of attendees.

Only Yves would be allowed to do your makeup and hair. You wouldn't want anyone else anyways, they couldn't compare to his skills and his knowledge of what you're trying to go for.

You spend the entire day being praised, loved and revered on stage. Yves standing by your side at all times as his entertainment team facilitates the event.

Dozens of photographers capture every angle of the happiest possible moments. His personal hidden video cameras running and feeding data back to his vault in real time.

You get to eat with the group of people you cared for the most, or if you rather eat with him alone, he will also humor you.

In the end, you would go home exhausted but happy. He will take care of you; by preparing a fresh set of comfortable clothes while you take a shower. If there's something particularly difficult to remove, such as hairspray or silicone prosthetics, he will help you with no complaints. The mess is left to Yves's loyal team to clean up.

He will give his employees a week to recoup before jumping right back into planning for your next birthday. Yves has to rent a moving truck every year just to transport all your presents from the ballroom to his home.

Or, perhaps you think that's an overwhelming way to celebrate another year of being alive. Maybe you wanted a gathering, but in a much smaller scale.

Then, he would host a party at his house. Yves will be in charge of the food, the decor and the activities. You don't have to lift a single finger, a number of his hires would also be involved, just that you wouldn't see them around. Yves tried working with your friends and families for the surprise, but their intent mostly doesn't align his. It's either that they're grossly wrong in thinking what you really wanted, they're trying to put the spotlight on themselves or they just don't take it as seriously as they should.

You would notice on your special day, his living room looked quite different from what you're used to. His gothic flair wasn't as pronounced, anything fragile was hidden and all other doors aside from the kitchen's and the bathroom's are locked shut.

Colourful banners, posters and ribbons that fit the theme you wanted decorated the walls, inflated balloons made the place lively and there was constant upbeat background music playing.

He provides extra seating, there is a zone just for children and teenagers with a plethora of toys, gadgets, game consoles, books and art materials. He brought in a couple of his team members who he knows work great with children to supervise the area. Yves made it as appealing as possible to people who tend to be disruptive when bored (usually ages 16 and below), so that they would stay contained there and not interrupt the 'adults'.

If some happened to breach containment, he would send his handlers a death glare for not doing a good enough job as he guided them back into the room.

But otherwise, Yves would be going in and out of the kitchen, holding trays of homemade food. He allows you to mingle with your guests, even those who are in the wretched "zone". Yves will begrudgingly step foot inside just to be with you, everyone felt the horrifying aura emanating from him though.

The children would play with you, but avoid Yves like the plague.

He would fix your plate of food for you, filling your cup with your favourite drink when it's empty and generally babying you. Yves wants you to enjoy the day, to forget that report deadline, your exams or that urgent email. He is going to handle it.

Just tell him whenever you're tired, he will drive everyone out of his house in his own polite, manipulative, reality bending way almost instantly.

You could either spend the day opening gifts or taking a nap. Yves is simply happy you had a good time.

Or,

You perhaps prefer a much smaller audience to please. A dinner with your friends or family at a nice, trusted restaurant, a maximum of 10 guests. In all three scenarios, Yves must bake the cake and help you dress up. He is the only one you trust to do so.

Yves would send out the invitations to them, deeply observing their life so that he could ensure they're coming. It would mean the world to you for them to attend, he doesn't want to see you disappointed.

The week leading up to your special day, he will do everything in his power to clear their schedules for you, be it from sabotaging their romantic relationships so they wouldn't abandon your little gathering for date nights, to slipping subconscious reminders to take their medications so they wouldn't be too depressed, anxious or psychotic to come, to poisoning their lecturers so they would have an extended deadline for their assignments, to intercepting the news of their dead relative first, so they wouldn't go to their funeral or mourn on that day, to calling them and dishing out insane guilt trips and/or threats.

The effort was all worth it to see your gleeful face smiling at the full attendance.

Of course, this is all paid by Yves. At the end of the day, you would come back home a year older with a full heart and stomach. Your guests would come home to clean up the mess Yves made in order to make them show up.

Or,

You don't want anyone else. You just want him to be there with you on your birthday. And you wanted to be involved in the process.

He will be more than happy to set up a romantic candle lit dinner at home, cooking a delicious, well portioned meal for two. He follows whatever tradition you're used to doing well.

You will receive a present from Yves, usually it's something you desperately yearned for, but never told anyone. It's fascinatingly eerie how he could figure it out every year.

You could pipe icing onto the cake you and him baked earlier. Laughing at the lopsidedness of your handicrafts while Yves kisses you on the temple for helping him in the kitchen.

It wouldn't be as grand, as flashy or as lively as the first two. Not by a long shot.

It's quiet, peaceful and sweet. But never lonely or empty.

As Yves is right there with you, teaching you how to hold a piping bag correctly. A pint of handmade icing wasted later, you managed your first successful border.

He hugged you from behind and praised your abilities. You melted into his touch as he pressed his lips on the top of your head.

The two of you shared a slice, because you were stuffed from the main course. Anyone could tell that the edible decor was made by someone inexperienced. But Yves didn't care, neither should you.

It's your birthday, and you get to decide how to celebrate it.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #oc yves

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denialcity · 2 months

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for adoration grow - tobiizu unconventional hanahaki au - 588/?

He was the choice only because of Izuna, and because Madara could be easily manipulated via Izuna, and because Madara could and obviously did strongarm his own clan into doing as he wished. Without Izuna there, it was glaringly obvious Tobirama was ill-suited for the task at hand.

No, even with Izuna there, Tobirama felt a bit at a loss. The Izuna he knew from battle and information dossiers wasn't a complete picture and while he knew this, it was another to experience it. This was Izuna at home, a different creature altogether.

[for adoration grow tag] / [chrono tag for browser] / [full live WIP document for my patreons here]

#tobiizu #senju tobirama #uchiha izuna #for adoration grow #hanahaki au #made in denialcity #uchiha madara

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xamaxenta · 2 months

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genderfuck sabo ..... o lord help me.

sabo who switches his entire identity for whatever the mission needs to the point he isnt even entirely sure what to call himself anymore but he knows he looks good in red lipstick and a tight blue dress as much as he does in a trenchcoat and a suit jacket

sabo on an infiltration mission for the revolutionary army with a long blonde wig and a dress slit all the way up the thigh, hes getting intel from men whose hands linger on his hips and waists and hes getting keycards from their pockets and hes drugging his dates champagne so when they stumble up to the hotel room sabo can drop his unconscious ass in the bed and get to the good stuff. he changes into a waittresses outfit and walks right into the staff only areas with a confident smile and no hesitation, he brings a plate of room service up to his targets room and the guards let him in without a second thought; hes delicate, coy, his bangs and some clever makeup hide the scar on his face so hes just a beautiful blue eyed waif of a woman with the perfect pink lips that the guards exchange a look and say Why Dont You Come Inside And Stay With Us And The Boss For A Little While, because sabo already knew what they liked from the premission briefing so of COURSE he put a little gloss on his mouth. the boss likes them dressed up so when the guards bully him out of his clothes (or so they think, but what they dont know is that theres a tracker and a denden radio in the uniform sabo leaves on the floor) theyre distracted by the long lines of his legs, wrapped in nylon leggings, a garter skirt holding them up on his little pale waist, and a silky baby blue bra on, they dont even notice the cups are padded because sabo looks so fucking good, shyly and nervously stepping out of his clothes like a naiive virgin and asking the boss to p-please be gentle... 🥺 its ok if its just you mr boss sir... right...

he KNOWS the guards are going to grab him because the dossier already told him the old man just likes to watch, and he lets them, twists and squirms and pretends until theyre both close enough--

and then he smashes their heads together, one in each palm, with so much force they both crack and dont get up, blood splatters his bra and his cheeks and the boss yells, but he cant even get the sound out before sabos sat in his lap, one finger cutely laid over the bosses lips and his other hand gripping the guys windpipe in a dragon claw so tight he cant scream if he tried. he leaves him dead in the chair and swings his heels by the straps on his finger while he searches the room for the papers he needs

he washes off the lipstick and pulls off the wig in the mirror, wipes the blood off his face and dresses like a simple maintenence man, zips his bloody sweaty body, still wrapped in silk and lace, into a baggy denim workmans suit and strolls back down the hall with a toolbox full of classified documents and no one bats an eye as he passes, none the wiser

i am just here insanely horny lol

Thank you…. Itadakimasu delicious seriously i loved all the clothing changes

Sublime…

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freeleyenrashespeakstruth · 10 months

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what troubles me most... (to my leftist friends and family)

How can seemingly intelligent people see everything going on all around the nation and the world, and not see anything wrong happening? Before Trump got in the picture, we all saw things happening, but we were never allowed to question it and the politicians just did what they wanted to do. Some of us got mad, but we dealt with it. And we all got along with each other for the most part. There was some hate, but not much.

How can you not see that all media outlets praise one political party and condemn the other? The media is so biased you would have to be a doorknob not to see it. And the division is so fierce that normally intelligent people fight to the death almost to defend their party of their choice. Horrible, violent, nasty things being said and done, but it's allowed by only one side and not the other, and nobody sees this going on?

Then Trump entered the picture. He took down all his opponents by exposing their crimes and inadequacies, in his way unfortunately, and took the nomination by storm. Hillary was so sure she was gonna be president that the DNC put up the congratulations banners months before the democrats even voted. Bernie Sanders said so, and they all denied it. Then once Hillary won the nomination, she admitted it and fired the head of the DNC. Then a minute later hired the same woman for a position on her presidential cabinet for 10 times the salary.

Then, seeing a surprising loss to Trump, Clinton got a dossier from a foreign spy that claimed that Trump colluded with a foreign nation to steal the election. But even if it was true, wasn't she doing the same exact thing? And nobody caught that? And now, after all these years and all the wasted time and money, the accusation against Trump is proven false, and was instigated by Clinton with Obama and Biden in full knowledge of it, and the nation looks like total fools by it.

And EVERYBODY attacked. They were fierce too, and from both sides. Who could Trump trust? Roger Stone was so dangerous to this nation that the FBI SWAT team were organized to arrest him at 4:00 AM while he slept peacefully next to his wife, with his children sleeping peacefully in other rooms. And this much necessary organized attack was so important and top secret that nobody else knew it was going to happen. Except CNN who filmed it live as it happened. And still so many people do not see this?

And they attacked Trump with everything they had, on both sides. And never in the entire time since he became president has anything positive ever been reported on any main stream media outlet. Even FOX denies the positive things they said now.

Only one man is bad. Can't you see this?

Only one political party is bad. Can't you see this?

Think about how Hitler may have taken over Germany and the others. Do you see a connection without mentioning that one man?

This is the second time ever recorded in the world's history that this has ever happened. Jesus was the first. Can't you see this?

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alexanderlightweight · 1 year

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Wednesday ask - I love your Claimed by Fire and I was wondering how the story would go if Magnus knew that Alec was his soulmate and had to get through the Clave to get to Alec. Just a thought! I adore your writing and have been reading your works on AO3 for a long time, I just got on to tumblr so I’m still trying to figure out how this works! Thank you

okay this was fun to write and i hope you enjoy it! thank you so much for the prompt

Magnus stares at the small, still flickering fire message. It’s a shriveled little thing, more char than words but he knows what it says.

It’s his name.

His demonic name that no one should know but his father and there are words and what looks like blood and tear stains and something in Magnus breaks.

It should never have made it to him.

Not if what he thinks it means is true. If Magnus’ soulmate is a nephilim, then their fire message should never have reached Magnus, not while he’s in the spiral labyrinth.

Magnus wonders how many notes were sent. How much desperation his soulmate poured into his messages, for this one to reach him.

The end of the message read Lightwood, no first name, whatever was written the flames ate away.

Magnus knows this isn’t one of Maryse or Robert’s traps, they wouldn’t ever insinuate or sully their children with even a hint that they were soulmates with a warlock.

Which means that Magnus’ soulmate is being raised by people who hate Magnus. Who hate what Magnus is, who hate his people and his magic and don’t even believe he has a soul.

It’s intolerable.

Magnus has not waited eight hundred years for this gift to be denied it.

Magnus refuses to let the clave and shadowhunters take one more thing from him, because they will, if they find out, and they’ve already taken so much.

So Magnus plans and he researches and he threatens people and tortures others and he kills until he has a complete if sparse dossier.

Three Lightwood children and a foster-fourth who bears a different last name.

A babe, Max, too young to send a message. The middle, Isabelle, who is still in training and Alexander, the oldest, the Lightwood heir.

Alexander is his, Magnus knows the moment he reads his full name and his magic surges with hunger.

Cat and Ragnor plan with him, carefully. Ragnor takes them deep into his memory, to show Magnus every secret he can without risking the oaths he once took to teach at Idris.

The clave doesn’t think warlocks can be trusted, so they don’t consider that warlocks trust each other, some of them at least.

But Ragnor loves Magnus more than he loves the sanctity of his own mind and he welcomes both Magnus and Cat in, so that all three can get as much information as possible.

“You’ll have to be quick, once you're through the wards.” Cat reminds as they look over the layout and the weaknesses.

“What will you use as a distraction once you’re in? It could take ages to find him.” Ragnor asks, reading glasses perched as his nose as he carefully draws an array.

“I’m going to open a rift to Edom.” Magnus says casually, like he hasn’t been refusing to do so since the start of the war.

“Magnus—” Cat trails off, biting her lip and then nodding solemnly. She understands that to him, the risk is worth it now in a way it wasn’t before.

“Your father is a bloody arsehole.” Ragnor mutters and scowls at the table when Magnus chuckles with relief at Ragnor’s predictable reaction. “At least you’ll get more of your power back, this will break what’s binding him to Edom, won’t it?”

“Yes,” Magnus admits easily. “Even the Council doesn’t know my heritage, only my abilities. If they knew what the risk was, they would never have asked me. However they have, that I chose to go through with it is their own fault.”

Which is true. Magnus has been at the forefront of this war, his magic and blood spilled more than any other as he fights for life and freedom and sometimes for revenge. Because Magnus is owed his pound of flesh and when he storms Edom for the soul born of his soul, he’s going to take it.

—

Magnus opens the rift slowly, carefully. Ragnor used the last of his priceless nephilim artifacts to create a spell that will let Magnus slip past the wards and go to the location Magnus knows from Ragnor’s mind.

So it’s with shocking ease that he enters Alicante in the early glow of dawn. A pink and orange hue dapples over the sky as the sun peeks up over the great forest and mountains that protect Idris.

And Magnus opens the rift and the sky bleeds red and the air fills with screams. Magnus tucks himself away, up high and in the shadows so he can watch the nephilim run like ants, screaming and shrieking like so many downworlders do in their raids.

Some are killed instantly, unable to get their weapons in time and unprepared for violence in their perfect little city of rotten divinity. Magnus is getting bored, watching the demons trying to crash into the towers and the shadowhunters trying to drive them away. Some get ripped in half and others dropped into the rift for other demons to devour.

It’s gruesome and horrific and possibly the most gory massacre Magnus has ever had the pleasure of watching or instigating and he can’t even enjoy it properly.

He has something more important to concentrate on.

He doesn’t find him for ages. Not until several hours have stretched past, the demons still coming but slower than they once did. Idris may yet survive this, it seems Magnus’ father has finally awoken and is calling some of the more controllable ones to him, the ones who haven’t scented angelic blood and answered Magnus’ call.

It’s a culling the likes of the nephilim have never seen and yet Magnus forgets it all when he sees a demon fall from the sky, a red-fletched arrow through its eye.

Magnus is too slow to track the arrow and another demon crashes into the tower the archer is hiding in.

The tower goes down.

But the demon also falls, a small figure wrapped around its neck with something glinting in the air.

Magnus is in delighted awe.

His soulmate realized he was about to fall — Magnus would have caught him, will always catch him now he’s found him — and instead, jumped on the demon and is now hanging on via some kind of weapon in its body. The demon twists up and up, wings beating powerfully as it tries to dislodge it’s attacker and Magnus holds out his hand and says, “bring him to me.”

The demon comes, ignoring the hunter clinging to it, obeying the master who claimed it.

Magnus lets the demon get above him and then destroys it, his magic wrapping protectively around his soulmate and Magnus steps out, catching his soul in his arm.

“There you are.” Magnus says, his entire being filled with a sense of delighted awe.

His shadowhunter is shocked and bloodied, but he’s whole and he’s in Magnus arms. And then hazel eyes are lighting up with equal awe and weapons are being dropped as arms come up around Magnus neck.

And Magnus is being kissed with the desperate and innocent passion of someone who has been waiting to be found.

“Sayang, my Alexander.” Magnus murmurs, “you clever boy. Getting your messages to me, shall we go home now?” And then because he needs to hear it, he murmurs his own name and Alexander kisses him, more chaste now, shy rather than untold years of agony being soothed.

“Anywhere, as long as it’s with you, Magnus.”

He’s told and Magnus summons his boy’s weapons and in the middle of carnage and devastation, he opens a portal and takes his soul home.

#writing wednesdays #writing wednesday #lumine writes #shadowhunter au #shadowhunters #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #immortal husbands #my fics #my fanfics #my ficlets

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pascaloverx · 6 months

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As It Was (S2)

Chapter Ten

previous season next chapter

Summary: Lots of news in this new season, which will be full of several twists and discussions. And of course, lots of James Buchanan Barnes.

Author's note: Dear readers, I will be writing this fanfic again. This second season will have shorter chapters and it will probably take me a little longer to update the fanfic but I hope you like it!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS STORY, there may be adult content and verbal and physical violence.

Waking up in a hospital bed is much more uncomfortable than it seems. In fact, at first I thought I was dead. But it was when I tried to move and felt a pang in my stomach that I realized I was alive. I don't know how happy or sad this makes me. Someone I believed was good cheated on me, someone I loved died and I have no idea where the hell my ex husband is.

"Thank God you finally woke up, I'm going to call the doctor but try to stay conscious for the next few minutes at least." Dave speaks happily as if he's been yearning for me to wake up.

A few moments later I was so confused that I didn't even notice a team of doctors and nurses entering my room, it was almost as if I were a rare specimen. They are analyzing my every mole, asking standard questions like do I see this or that, do I remember my name, and checking my moles as soon as they enter what appears to be my hospital room.

"Doctor, what happened to me?" I ask, fearing that they are analyzing me because something terrible is about to happen.

"You may be a little confused in the next few days, the shot you took hit your spleen, which resulted in complications in his surgery. You got on induced coma for a while so that we could guarantee a recovery. The exact time you were in a coma was six months. The good news is that your body has fully recovered, without any apparent signs of trauma. For any additional information, you can ask the doctor on duty or the nurse who will be responsible for the care of this ward." The doctor speak so seriously, I feel a little confused with so much information.

"Will I be released soon or will I have to stay here for a long time?" It's the only question I long for the answer.

"We have to keep you here for at least another day for further observations but probably tomorrow, you will be released and you can go home." He speaks subtly with precision. It's a relief knowing that I will soon be able to leave here if everything is okay with me.

Dave enters the hospital room a few seconds after the doctors leave, looking extremely relieved. I really want to hug him but you're afraid to make sudden movements.

"You look like you got hit by a truck but I'm so glad you woke up. Sam and the girls were just as worried as I was, wondering when you would wake up." Dave says sitting in the companion's chair next to my hospital bed.

"How is Bucky?" It's all you can think about, wondering how my ex-husband was, who risked his life because of me.

"You won’t like to know. I think for your recovery, it’s better if you know this later.” Dave says while holding my hand softly.

"I need to know how he's doing Dave. If you consider yourself my best friend, start talking." My authoritative tone must be more powerful now because Dave seems to want to obey me.

"Barnes is working..." Dave sounds so uncertain saying this like he's afraid of my reaction.

"What do you mean, working?" Something inside me says I'm going to get stressed in the next few minutes.

"His father figured that Killian and Rogers would betray him and made a dossier and secretly handed it in before he died. The FBI and national security had no doubts about Barnes' innocence so as soon as he recovered from his injuries, he returned to work. I think he even got promoted." Because this information doesn't surprise you, it reminds you why I ended up ending my relationship with Barnes.

"What a son of a bitch, how can he come back after everything we've been through...what about Rogers and Killian?" This I really hope that one of them is at least arrested.

"Both are on the run from the police, but they disappeared. Which is kind of good news." Dave talks trying to sound optimistic.

"They both have reasons to kill me. Which makes it even worse." Stress slowly eats away at me as I imagine how unbearable my life will be.

"We will be with you and Barnes will also take care of you. Rumor has it that you're going to have cops watching." Dave tries to calm me down, which somehow works.

"I think I'm going to need some time to adapt to this information but I'm glad I'm back." I say, holding Dave's hand tightly as I lie to his face. I'm not happy, I'm desperate. My father died, my ex husband is still the same idiot and there are two cruel men wanting my head. I couldn't be more fucked up.

#bucky barnes x oc #spotify #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #reader insert #steve rogers x original female character #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier series #sam wilson #wanda maximoff #yelena belova #fanfic steve rogers #steve rogers angst

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infinitysisters · 9 months

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“Moral grandiosity seems to have infected the nomenklatura class of giant corporations. It is not enough for them to ensure that the corporations make a decent profit within the framework of the law; they must claim to also be morally improving, if not actually saving, the world.

So it was with Alison Rose, the first female chief executive of the National Westminster Bank, a large British bank 39 percent owned by the British government. When first appointed to the position, she said that she would put combatting climate change at the centre of the bank’s policies and activities. Whether shareholders were delighted to hear this is unknown.

But the bank, under her direction, went further. Its subsidiary, Coutts, founded in 1692 and long banker to the rich, compiled a Stasi-like dossier on one of its customers, Nigel Farage, before “exiting” him from the bank, to use the elegant term employed by Ms. Rose. (Defenestration will come later, perhaps.)

Farage is, of course, a prominent right-wing political figure in Britain, as much detested as he is admired. There was no allegation in the dossier that he had done anything illegal; indeed, in person, he had always acted correctly and courteously toward staff. What was alleged was that his “values” did not accord with those of the bank, which were self-proclaimed as “inclusive” (though not of people with less than $3.5 million to deposit or borrow). Farage was depicted as a xenophobe and racist, mainly because he was in favour of Brexit and against unlimited immigration. That anyone could support Brexit for any reason other than xenophobia, or oppose unlimited immigration other than because he was a racist, was inconceivable to the diverse, inclusive thinkers of Coutts Bank.

Ms. Rose saw fit to leak details to the BBC about Farage’s banking affairs, claiming to believe that they were public knowledge already. She did not mention the 40-page dossier that her staff had put together, about Farage’s publicly-stated views. The Stasi would have been proud of the bank’s work, which comprehensively proved him to have anti-woke views.

Whatever else might be said about Mr. Farage, no one would describe him as a pushover, the kind of person who would take mistreatment lying down. Even the Guardian newspaper, which cannot be suspected of partiality for him, suggested that the bank and its chief executive had questions to answer.

It was not long before Ms. Rose had to beat a retreat. She issued a statement in which she said:

I have apologised to Mr. Farage for the deeply inappropriate language contained in [the dossier].

The board of the bank said that “after careful reflection [it] has concluded that it retains full confidence in Ms. Rose as CEO of the bank.”

The following day, Rose resigned, admitting to “a serious error of judgment.”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 $𝟏 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧.

The weasel words of Ms. Rose and the bank board are worth examination. They deflected, and I suspect were intended to deflect, the main criticism directed at Ms. Rose and the bank: namely, that the bank had been involved in a scandalous and sinister surveillance of Mr. Farage’s political views and attempted to use them as a reason to deny him banking services, all in the name of their own political views, which they assumed to be beyond criticism or even discussion. The humble role of keeping his money, lending him money, or perhaps giving him financial advice, was not enough for them: they saw themselves as the guardians of correct political policy.

It was not that the words used to describe Mr. Farage were “inappropriate,” or even that they were libelous. It is that the bank saw fit to investigate and describe him at all, at least in the absence of any suspicion of fraud, money laundering, and so forth. “The error of judgment” to which Ms. Rose referred was not that she spoke to the BBC about his banking affairs (it is not easy to believe that she did so without malice, incidentally), but that she compiled a dossier on Farage in the first place—and then “error of judgment” is hardly a sufficient term on what was a blatant and even wicked attempt at instituting a form of totalitarianism.

This raises the question of whether one can be wicked without intending to be so, for it is quite clear that Ms. Rose had no real understanding, even after her resignation, of the sheer dangerousness and depravity of what the bank, under her direction, had done.

As for the board’s somewhat convoluted declaration that “after careful consideration, it concluded that it retains full confidence,” etc., it suggests that it was involved in an exercise of psychoanalytical self-examination rather than of an objective state of affairs: absurd, in the light of Ms. Rose’s resignation within twenty-four hours. The board, no more than Ms. Rose herself, understood what the essence of the problem was. For them, if there had been no publicity, there would have been no problem: so when Mr. Farage called for the dismissal of the board en masse, I sympathised with his view.

There is, of course, the question of the competence of the bank’s management. Last year, the bank’s profits rose by 50 percent (I wish my income had risen by as much). I am not competent to comment on the solidity of this achievement: excellent profits one year followed by complete collapse the next seem not to be unknown in the banking world. But the rising profits under Ms. Rose for the four years of her direction seem to point to, at least on some level, of competence. How many equally competent persons there are who could replace her, I do not know.

Still, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬, as illustrated in this episode, is worrying. Would one trust such people if the political wind changed direction? Their views would change, but the iron moral certainty and self-belief would remain the same, like the grin of the Cheshire Cat. How many meetings have I sat through in which some apparatchik has claimed to be passionately committed to a policy, only to be just as passionately committed to the precise opposite when his own masters demand a change of direction?! The Coutts story is one of how totalitarianism can flourish.”

—

Theodore Dalrymple

#the new totalitarianism #political righteousness #totalitarianism #secular religion #moral exhibitionism #apparatchiks #professional managerial class mind virus #ideological fundamentalists #insane in the membrane #Theodore Dalrymple #western decline #Neil Farage #persona non grata #the new inquisitions #barbaric #national Westminster bank #the self anointed

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ghostly-gifts · 7 months

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🎃🌹 Trick or treat!!! 🏍️🎃

On this haunting Halloween night, @technicallyverycowboy has been haunted by the spooky ghost @justanothervariant, and they've left behind a treat!

A Different Game

by @justanothervariant

When Gun first asked him to keep an eye on Porsche, Vegas’s thoughts naturally turned to seduction. He’d used his attractiveness many times to gain an advantage, ferret out information or bring someone over to the minor family. Besides, Porsche was a handsome guy; this time, it might even be fun.

Destiny seemed to be favouring him; on his next visit to the major family compound, Vegas spotted Porsche alone and struggling with his lighter. Vegas stepped up to his side, smoothly lit the cigarette and began his well-honed routine of smiles and flirtation. But instead of smiling back or blushing, Porsche looked distinctly uncomfortable. It wasn’t until Vegas dialled it down a notch that Porsche seemed to relax; an alarm tripped in the back of Vegas’s mind, and he realised that he might need to rethink his tactics. That evening he called on his main family informant, and within the hour he had a copy of their comprehensive dossier on Porsche Pachara Kittisawasd.

Vegas skimmed over the details of Porsche’s martial arts training, his family background, his educational history. His attention snagged on a note that Porsche had worked for years at a local nightclub called Hum Bar. The staff and regulars would be able to tell Vegas far more about Porsche than any dossier, so he put on his favourite shirt and went to see it for himself.

The owner, resplendent in sequins and leather, welcomed him with a wide smile and literal open arms. “Welcome, welcome, always nice to have such stylish guests!” she beamed. “My name is Yok, your hostess for the evening. This is your first time here, I’m sure - I’d remember that handsome face for certain.”

Vegas smiled, immune to the flattery. “Actually, I’m here because one of my friends told me about a bartender that works here - Porsche, is it?”

“Ah, sorry khun, Porsche isn’t working tonight,” Yok said, with a regretful cluck of her tongue. “But we have many other talented servers to help you. I’ll introduce you to Mo, he’s a genius with cocktails.” She signalled to one of the bartenders and said, “Mo, this gentleman is an honoured guest this evening, be sure to serve him well.”

“Of course. What can I get you, khun?” asked Mo.

Vegas slid a folded 1,000 baht note across the bar and asked, “Can you tell me any more about this Porsche? I’d really love to meet him.”

Mo’s eyes locked onto the money, but he said regretfully, “Oh, well…sorry, khun, but Porsche is my friend. I don’t think I should tell you anything without asking him first.”

Vegas nodded to hide his irritation, then added a second note. “I see. Well, at least tell me this - is it even likely that he’d be interested in me, or are his tastes more…conventional?”

The bartender glanced around, then snatched up the money and said, “I’ve only ever seen him leave with female guests, so sorry.”

Vegas turned away, the man already dismissed in his mind. His informant had seemed sure that there was some interest between Kinn and Porsche, but perhaps it was only on his cousin’s side. Perhaps Porsche was straight, or closeted, or had just never experimented with a man before. Whatever the truth, Vegas realised that going into full seduction mode was more likely to spook him than win him over. Malicious delight shivered through him as he imagined Kinn’s graceless attempts to woo Porsche, the possessiveness and entitlement that would be so off-putting to a guy with no experience. Vegas smiled to himself, a new plan already settling into place.

To win Porsche over, first Vegas would have to become his friend.

* * *

Vegas was used to getting quick results. Whoever he put his mind to pursuing - Kinn’s exes, Gun’s business contacts, random strangers in clubs - sooner rather than later, they gave in to him. It made his slow, subtle wooing of Porsche a novelty, but one he found himself enjoying immensely.

When Gun next visited his brother for lunch, Vegas went to say hello to the bodyguards but didn’t linger. He made small talk, tried to appear genuinely interested in their responses, and didn’t focus on Porsche more than anyone else. Kinn and Tankhun both gave him suspicious glares but he smiled and shrugged it off, noting Porsche’s frown at Kinn’s possessiveness.

At the diamond auction, he delighted in the palpable awkwardness between Porsche and Kinn; his cousin looked out of his depth, despite his pretty friend’s attempts to encourage him. When Kinn smiled at Porsche like he was suffering from indigestion, Vegas could hardly believe his good fortune. To capitalise on the weirdness between the two of them, Vegas gave specifically worded instructions to his mole on the bar staff then collected a small glass of clean water and took it to Porsche.

When Porsche was reluctant to take it, Vegas said, “I know you’re on duty and don’t have much time for breaks, that’s all. But no problem, I’ll take it back.”

“No, wait,” Porsche said, his face betraying all of his emotions as he wavered before finally taking the drink. He downed it hastily, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Thanks.”

Vegas nodded. “We’re not so harsh with our people in the minor family. Standing around all night, you’ll get thirsty. You should be able to go and grab a drink.”

Porsche’s smile was quick, reluctant. He gestured to his earpiece and said, “I get shouted at for not standing up straight enough, never mind leaving my position.”

“My cousin always was more of a stickler for conformity,” Vegas said, adding a note of regret to his tone. “But to me, you’re a person first and a bodyguard second.”

Vegas saw the moment his words snagged in Porsche’s brain, the hint of surprise and gratitude.

“Anyway, I’ll let you focus,” Vegas said, briefly laying a hand on Porsche’s shoulder. “Remember, though, that your own needs are as important as anyone else’s.”

“Yeah, okay,” Porsche nodded.

Later, sitting in his booth surveying the crowd of rich idiots and bootlickers, he saw Porsche staggering from the room and nodded to his men to follow. They knew what to do, where to take Porsche. A word from his inside man would send Kinn up to the Imperial Suite, where he’d find Porsche passed out ‘drunk’ on duty. Repercussions would follow, punishment guaranteed, the wedge between Kinn and Porsche driven ever deeper.

Vegas allowed himself a smile as he settled back and sipped his champagne; so far, his plan was working beautifully.

* * *

A couple of days later, once the dust had settled, Vegas messaged his informant for an update. It was a surprise when, instead of just replying, Ken showed up at the compound to give a report in person.

Vegas took Ken into his office, shut the door and asked, “What’s so important that you had to risk coming here yourself?”

“I thought you’d have questions,” Ken replied, his gaze dipping to Vegas’s lips.

Vegas sighed; this was a complication he didn’t need. “I see. Go ahead, then.”

“Porsche was right where you said he’d be,” Ken said, grinning. “Kinn looked like he’d been slapped when he saw him, sprawled out and snoring on that big fancy bed. He made us leave while he sobered Porsche up.”

“And he believed that Porsche had wandered in there and passed out drunk?”

“Yes, I said I saw him drinking earlier. Khun Korn was furious, so Kinn gave him to me and Big for his punishment,” Ken said, malicious delight glinting in his eyes.

“I’m sure you didn’t make it pleasant,” Vegas said wryly.

“It was brutal,” Ken said with relish. “I fucking loved it.” His spiteful glee was almost charming, but marred by his obvious, pathetic hunger for praise.

Ken went on to give a full report of the main family’s business for the last few days, Vegas interrupting a few times for clarification or more details. When they were done, Vegas said, “Thanks for all the intel. We really do appreciate it. And remember, if Porsche goes out anywhere without Kinn, call me immediately.”

“I will, khun,” Ken said, hovering despite the dismissal.

“Was there something else?” Vegas asked, disquiet stirring.

Ken licked his lips. “It’s just…I’m off duty tonight, so I thought we could - ”

“No,” Vegas interrupted. “Not tonight, I have too much to do.”

“You said that last time,” Ken said, a hint of a whine in his voice, then in English. “It’s been ages, Vegas. I miss you.”

Vegas managed, somehow, not to roll his eyes. Instead he reached out to run his thumb across Ken’s pouting lower lip. “I know. I miss this mouth, believe me. But Pa has given me a very important task, and I need to focus. It won’t be much longer, I promise.”

Ken’s tongue darted out to lick Vegas’s thumb. “Maybe I could just blow you, then? I’ll get you off real fast, I swear.”

His bratty eagerness was tempting, but Vegas shook his head. “I said no. Do we need to do some more discipline training?”

“No,” Ken said immediately. “Fine, not tonight. But soon, right?”

“Do you think I’m a liar, Ken?”

Ken swallowed. “No, Khun Vegas.”

Vegas smiled. “Good boy,” he said, knowing it would make Ken shudder, viciously delighted when it did. “Now run along. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

* * *

When Vegas got the call from Ken, he dropped everything and drove over to Hum Bar. As he’d predicted, Porsche was awed by his new motorbike and needed only a little prodding to take it for a drive.

“Where shall we go?” Porsche called back to him as they sped down the floodlit roads.

“Anywhere you want,” Vegas replied, wrapping his arms around Porsche and leaning into the warmth of his back.

It was exhilarating, riding with Porsche. He drove fast and took risks, but handled the bike deftly enough that Vegas could relax and enjoy it. Vegas reminded himself that this was just part of a plan, but it was hard not to get caught up in Porsche’s enthusiasm, in the freedom of driving into the night not knowing where he was going. Elation bubbled up in his chest, dizzyingly bright, and he raised a fist and a cry into the night sky. He caught Porsche’s grin, couldn’t help laughing; he didn’t feel like himself, suddenly, in an oddly comforting way.

Eventually Porsche pulled into a small parking lot down beside the river. The surrounding businesses were shut and there was nobody around as they settled onto a bench overlooking the river. The breeze was fresh, lifting Vegas’s hair gently. The water lapped below them, its soft susurration calming and kind. Lights twinkled in the water, a string of headlights streaming across the bridge nearby, but here it was dark and quiet with only a little light to show him Porsche’s face.

He looked happy, at first, his cheeks pink and his smile wide. It was disarming, genuine and honest, aimed at Vegas without intent or agenda. Vegas told himself that it was a weakness; his heart sang a different song.

But then the smile dipped, and his head dropped, and Vegas knew he’d been right; softness always meant weakness.

Vegas played his opening gambit. “Tankhun looked wasted, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that. I take it you had a good night?”

Porsche shrugged. “I guess so.”

“You guess so? You know you smell like perfume, right?” Vegas asked, grinning.

“Oh. Yeah. I met a woman at the bar and we went outside but…” Porsche sighed, tilted his head back. The moonlight silvered his bronze skin; he looked, Vegas thought, beautiful. “My head wasn’t in the right place, I s’pose. It’s not usually a problem for me, I can switch off my brain when I’m with someone, but since that thing with Kinn - ” At that he stopped dead, eyes widening before he looked away.

A cool, vicious thrill spiked in Vegas’s gut. As he’d hoped, maybe even expected, Kinn had overplayed his hand, and Vegas was ready to reap the benefits.

Vegas laid a gentle hand on Porsche’s shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Porsche said, something raw in his voice and his eyes. “I’m really confused, and I feel like I don’t know myself any more, and I’m making all these stupid choices and I don’t even know why. Do you ever feel like that?” He glanced over at Vegas, and shook his head. “No, of course you don’t. You always know what you’re doing, right?”

Vegas blinked, covered his surprise. “I like to have a plan, if that’s what you mean. Doesn’t mean I always know what I’m doing.”

“But you’re so…put-together all the time,” Porsche said, tilting his head in an alarmingly endearing way. “Your clothes, and your hair - your amazing bike over there…not like me, I just stumble from one disaster to the next. Runs in the family, I guess.”

Vegas took a moment to think, unsettled and uncertain. “I don’t think that’s true,” he eventually said. “You seem to be doing fine to me. Being a bodyguard is a tough job, I couldn’t do it. But you look like you’re fitting right into it.”

“Fuck, don’t say that,” Porsche exclaimed. “I’m only here to protect my brother, this isn’t who I want to be. The dumb thing is, if he knew what I was doing he’d be so ashamed.” His tone was plaintive and vulnerable; it called to the predator in Vegas.

“Surely he’d appreciate you taking care of him?” Vegas asked.

“I don’t know about that.” Porsche slumped back on the bench, his long legs sprawling out in front of him. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve had to be more of a parent than a brother, and it sucks. I don’t know how to be his dad, y’know? But our uncle is useless and just brings trouble into our home. I do my best to shield Chay, I don’t want him to have to do the same ugly shit that I’ve done just to survive. Thing is, he’s almost 18 and suddenly thinks he knows it all, but when I look at him I still see that miserable little kid who kept asking where our parents had gone.” He swiped the back of his hand across his nose, glanced over at Vegas and said, “But you know what that’s like, right? You look out for Macau, I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” Vegas said, thrown. That instinct to pounce on Porsche’s vulnerability was ebbing, replaced by a sense of empathy, connection. “My father wants him to start getting more involved with our family business, but I’ve been shielding him from it as much as I can. I can’t do it forever, though.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Porsche nodded, nudging Vegas with his elbow. “I knew you’d get it.”

Vegas smiled, unable to resist. “But do the little shits appreciate it?”

Porsche laughed, sudden and irresistible. “No, they definitely do not.”

The silence stretched, and Vegas let it expand comfortably between them. He knew that Porsche’s life was filled with noise and busyness, commands and directions; he needed to be different, a safe place for Porsche.

“Why does Kinn hate you so much?” Porsche asked eventually. “You’re family, right? But he keeps telling me not to trust you, and I don’t get it at all. You’ve been so kind to me - like tonight.”

Against all odds, a weird swirling sense of regret kicked up in Vegas’s gut. But he smiled softly and said, “We’re family, yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. He sees me as a rival, not a cousin. That’s the way we’ve been raised - I know it might not make sense to an outsider but that’s how it’s always been.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Porsche said bluntly. “Family is everything. You should all support each other, not fight over everything.” He looked at Vegas, completely without obfuscation. “Did you never get on, then? With any of them?”

Vegas was all set to use the opening, say something to undermine Kinn and build sympathy for himself. But then, out of nowhere, he was hit with a memory of playing in the park with Kinn while their mothers sat chatting in the sunshine. He hadn’t thought about that for a long time, and to his horror he felt his throat thicken and burn. He was about to shrug it off, get back to his plan, until he saw what looked like sympathy in Porsche’s expressive eyes and the words began to flow.

“We used to play together - Kinn and I, I mean. Our mothers would arrange it, when our fathers were busy. Sometimes we’d picnic in the park, or go to our favourite sweet shop, or drive out along the coast and spend the day by the sea.”

“That sounds nice,” Porsche said.

“It was,” Vegas said. “But then Pa found out and he…he put a stop to it.”

“Oh,” Porsche said; just that, oh, but it was soft and understanding, and Vegas had to clench his jaw against the tears that prickled behind his eyes.

The silence swept back in and Vegas fought for control of himself; he was off-plan, unprepared.

“I suppose,” Porsche said slowly, “that it’s hard for you to make friends in your position. But maybe, if it’s not too weird or, like, against the rules…maybe you could think of me as your friend.”

Vegas laughed; he’d prepared a line just like that to use on Porsche, and the ridiculous coincidence struck him as hilarious.

Porsche frowned, sat up straighter. “Okay, I get it, you wouldn’t want to be friends with someone like me.”

“No, Porsche,” Vegas said, unthinkingly reaching out to grasp Porsche’s arm. “It’s not that - of course I want to be friends with you. It’s just…nobody’s ever said anything like that to me. Everyone’s scared of me, or hates me, or wants to use me.” He stopped himself, honesty swelling too close to the surface.

“I’m not scared of you,” Porsche said with a big grin, knocking his elbow into Vegas’s ribs again. “I think you’re a much nicer guy than anyone realises.”

Painful as it was, Vegas managed to smile. “You’re sweet, Porsche. But you’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” Porsche insisted. “I know these things. I’m good at reading people.”

It was almost funny, how wrong Porsche was; how much Vegas wished he was right.

“We should be getting back,” Vegas said, his reluctance less of an act than it should have been. “Kinn will be thinking I’ve kidnapped you.”

“I don’t really give a flying fuck what Kinn thinks,” Porsche said expansively, but he stood when Vegas did. “Thanks for tonight, though. I needed to get away for a while.”

“You can always reach out to me,” Vegas said, his hand resting on Porsche’s arm for a long moment.

Porsche’s expression, for once, was hard to read as he studied Vegas’s face. “You too,” he said. “The only good thing to come out of this mess so far…is you.”

Vegas had no answer to that. He let Porsche drive home, smiled and demurred at Porsche’s gratitude. When Porsche hugged him, tight and close and sincere, Vegas closed his eyes and squeezed back just as hard. It was foolish, and childish, but for a moment he let himself pretend that they could actually be friends.

* * *

Vegas smoothed back his hair as he waited for Porsche to answer the bell. Behind him in the darkness stood a group of men, waiting as instructed.

The gate creaked open and Porsche said, “Vegas? What are you doing here?”

“I came to warn you,” Vegas said, adding a little fear to his tone. “One of our informants told me that there’s a plot to kidnap Kinn - is he here yet?”

“No,” Porsche frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Pa called Uncle Korn to tell him what we’d heard, and he mentioned you had this week off. Apparently your roommate said Kinn was planning to come here to see you.”

Porsche’s expression melted from confusion to annoyance. “To drag me back, probably. Asshole.”

Porsche’s eye roll made Vegas smile, until he caught and hid it. “I brought some men with me to protect you, you should come with me now,” he said. “Uncle Korn is going to call Kinn back home.”

“So much for my week off,” Porsche sighed, “but you didn’t have to come all the way out here yourself, you could have called me.”

“I wanted to make sure you were safe,” Vegas said, a lie but also not.

Porsche smiled and gestured Vegas inside. “Well, come in for a second while I explain to my friends.”

“And Porchay? He needs to leave too,” Vegas said, following Porsche across the lawn.

Porsche smiled over his shoulder. “It’s okay, he’s away at camp. Thank you, though.”

Guilt tugged at Vegas’s belly. “Sure. I have a younger brother too, remember?”

Two men were sitting at the garden table, the air thick with the smell of pork frying. One smiled at Vegas, the other narrowed his eyes and blatantly looked Vegas up and down.

“This is Jom, and Tem,” Porsche told Vegas, then said to his friends, “Sorry, but you need to go home. I have to leave now.”

“Oh? Emergency booty call?” asked Jom, waggling his eyebrows.

“Some men are on their way here who you really don’t want to meet,” Vegas said, noting subtly how Porsche blushed at Jom’s words. “I’m sorry to break up your evening, gentlemen, but believe me that it’s for your own good.”

When they looked at him sceptically, Porsche added, “He’s not kidding - clear off home, now!”

“Ugh, fine,” Jom grumbled, stuffing his mouth as he stood.

“Will you be okay?” Tem asked Porsche.

“Sure, Vegas will take care of me,” Porsche said.

Vegas froze as Porsche’s words thudded into his skin like bullets. His trust in Vegas, instinctual and freely given, felt like a burden and a blessing all at once. It was new, but not unwelcome, and made Vegas feel like scum.

As they all hurried across the lawn, Kinn stepped in through the open gate. “Porsche?” he said, his puzzled frown turning into a sneer as he added, “Vegas? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you get the call from your father?” Vegas asked, striving to keep the triumph locked down inside. “Donna Giulietta has sent some men after you, they’re probably tailing you right now. I came here to warn Porsche that you might be bringing danger to his door.”

“You fucking snake,” Kinn growled, moving towards Vegas, but Porsche stepped in between them to everyone’s surprise.

“Look, we all have to leave before those thugs arrive,” Porsche said, glaring at Kinn. “Vegas is here to help me, and I trust him. I’m not sure why you’re here, though.”

A flash of hurt surprise crossed Kinn’s face, before he schooled it back to his habitual scowl. “Well, how convenient. How do you know he didn’t bring them here?”

“If he was behind this, would he really have called your father to warn him, and then come here to help me?” Porsche snapped back.

“Porsche,” Vegas said, taking Porsche’s arm, “we don’t have time, they could be here any minute.”

As if on cue, a white van screeched around the corner. Vegas barked orders for his men to get Kinn to safety, then hurried Porsche across to his bike. As Porsche gunned the engine and Vegas climbed on behind him, he was unable to resist a grin back at Kinn before they sped away.

* * *

Vegas directed Porsche to his family’s safehouse. The Italians weren’t aware of it, Kinn had never been there, and it was probably the safest place for them to be. It was also peaceful, serene, beautiful without being showy; a contrast to the opulence of the main compound, and hopefully a place where Porsche would feel relaxed.

“Wow,” Porsche breathed, strolling out along a pier to a small summerhouse sitting over the lake. “This is gorgeous.”

Vegas leaned on the railing beside him, watching the stars swimming in the black water. “Yeah. I’d live here all the time, if I could.”

“Why can’t you?” Porsche asked, glancing over at him. “It’s not that far out of the city.”

“Macau needs to be near his school, he couldn’t live here, and I wouldn’t leave him,” Vegas said. “And anyway, Pa would never agree. He wants me close, so he can keep an eye on me.”

Porsche turned to face Vegas, one elbow on the wooden railing. “Hey, thanks for getting me out of there. That was a pretty close call.”

“Sure,” Vegas said, and smiled. “I told you before, I’m here when you need me.”

The words were like bile in his mouth. Somehow, lying to Porsche wasn’t the same as lying to Tawan. His secret lover was also a liar and a cheat, but gobbled up every word of praise, every platitude, every false declaration; it was easy, unsatisfying. But Porsche was earnest and genuine, sincere, kind. Lying to him made Vegas feel the weight of every label that had ever been pinned to his chest, made him long to be a different man.

Without warning, Porsche leaned forward and kissed him. Vegas was stunned, caught in a moment of hesitation. This was the perfect outcome, the fruition of his plan, the best possible way to hurt and weaken Kinn. Why, then, was he reluctant to pounce on it?

Porsche pulled back, brows drawing down. “Sorry, you don’t seem…I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” Vegas said, grasping Porsche’s hand. “That was just sudden - I didn’t know you were interested in me that way.”

Porsche’s smile was a light in the darkness. “Well, I am,” he said playfully. “What are you going to do about it?”

This was what he’d wanted, what he’d planned and worked and manoeuvred for; but again, the flirty response stuck in Vegas’s mouth.

“Vegas?” Porsche asked, a touch of hurt in his tone but his thumb stroking gently over Vegas’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Vegas said, summoning a smile. “Tonight’s just been…a lot.”

Porsche’s free hand lifted to rest on Vegas’s cheek, butterfly-light. “I know. But we’re safe now.” He leaned in, watching Vegas’s mouth, and kissed him again.

Vegas closed his eyes and kissed Porsche back, a hand on his hip to pull him closer. He felt exhilarated and sick, aroused and disgusted, until it was too much and he had to draw back again.

“I can’t, Porsche,” he gasped, adrenalin making him shaky. “It’s not fair, you don’t deserve this.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I can make my own decisions, Vegas - I’ve had enough of other people deciding what I need.”

“No, listen to me - I’m not the man you think I am,” Vegas said, a sense of desperation creeping over him; he couldn’t bear to imagine that soft glow in Porsche’s eyes turning to loathing when he realised he’d been played.

“I don’t care,” Porsche persisted. “I know you’ve done bad things, probably even worse than I know, but I still want you, Vegas. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me any more.”

When Porsche kissed him again, Vegas was too weak to resist.

#kinnporsche #gift exchange #fanfiction #ghost: JustAnotherVariant #haunted: technicallyverycowboy

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