#without the gun in it and you can’t move bc they won’t let you and you can’t do anything except lay on the ground | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

apocalypticgargoyle · 3 years

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Gene... My baby mama... I need... More alt!dream... Whatever you got fr. I just need more I'm.. I love him (probs not as much as you) but I love him

You're in luck bc I'm running on rip fuel for him. [ALSO I WROTE THIS BEFORE EVERYONE DID THE TECHWEAR STUFF FOR HIM I'M SORRY. I'LL GET IT IN NEXT TIME. I PINKY SWEAR.]

𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐃. ♘ 𝐚𝐥𝐭!𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 (𝟏𝟖+)

pairing: alt!Dreamwastaken x fm!reader

warnings: smut (18+), language, semi-public sex, light mentions of needles, domination

previous part ♘ fanart that i can't stop crying over

recommended listening: Hi Frequency by Vague002

The bus swayed slightly, your grip on the cool bar tightening to keep you from knocking into Clay as it turned. The dark city outside the windows bustled with sparkling lights, catching your eye every few seconds. As more people filed into the cramped space, Clay grabbed your hand, looping your arms around his waist and smugly grinning as you fought not to blush. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Will this be your first time in a parlor?” He asked, voice low and raspy as he whispered to you, not wanting to disturb the other members of society who just wanted to get home after a long day of work.

You nodded your head, making him chuckle. You knew it would be a different experience, mainly because it was taking place during the tattoo shops “after hours,” which Clay had only briefly explained the benefits of attending. “What are you getting done again?” You asked, moving so your hands were holding onto his arm instead, fingers brushing against the exposed skin peeking from beneath the cut-up shirt under his dark jacket.

He shrugged. “I couldn’t decide. Why don’t you pick?” He joshed, smirking at the way your eyebrows raised.

“I don’t want to be responsible for a mark on you,” you murmured, making him snort.

He hooked his fingers into the neckline of his shirt, stretching it down enough to reveal the litter of hickeys peppering his skin that you had left the night before. Your eyes widened as you swatted away his hand, looking around carefully in hopes that no one had seen them. He looped an arm around your shoulders, loving the fact that you were so worried about the crowd when all he wanted to do was fluster you.

He pressed his lips to your cheek, the warmth of his body encompassing you. “I love it when you get all blushy,” he teased. “Seriously though, you should pick. I won’t look at it if I don’t like it,” he snarked.

You groaned lightly. “Clay, come on.” He brushed his lips against yours.

“I trust you, sweetheart,” he cooed almost mockingly, his nose moving to press into your hair.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to remember what was already on his body. You thought about the impending reality that whenever he saw the new tattoo, his mind would linger on you, and for some reason, heat traveled to your ears at that thought. “Um… what about a bird?” You asked, voice uneasy as if on eggshells.

His face twisted into a pleased smile. “A bird?” He repeated. You shrugged beneath his arm, making him chuckle. “I like that. George likes doing bird tattoos too, so you might just make his night,” he added, his praise and approval making your stomach fill with confidence. He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your shoulder. Your mind began to forget what the two of you probably looked like to the other people as his scent invaded your senses. “Will you hold my hand while I’m in the chair?” He joked.

You scoffed. “Are you gonna cry?” You teased, making him chuckle.

“No, I’m just clingy,” he answered without skipping a beat. Your grin was hidden in the soft corduroy of his jacket.

The tattoo parlor was nothing like you had expected. The door was locked behind you after a bouncer let the two of you in, the man leading you two up a staircase and into a dimly lit room. The sound of heavy metal music and the buzz of tattoo guns swirled together, echoing off the dark brick walls. You slipped your hand into Clay’s as he talked to the receptionist, your eyes attempting to focus on one detail instead of letting the atmosphere overwhelm you.

The thick layer of smoke above your heads made you scoff, realizing it was coming from the opposite corner of the shop, a hookah lamp sitting on a coffee table like an outstretched octopus. The people around it seemed to be discussing something rather intense, their haircuts sharp and defining almost as if they stepped out of some kind of alternative fashion magazine. There were three tattoo artists, each with a white lamp focusing on their work as they carried on to the beat of the music.

Clay’s description of the place flashed into your mind, making you realize just how off the cards the parlor actually was. Clay took a toothpick from the receptionist’s desk, taking it between his white teeth before being waved down by a shorter man with dark hair across the floor. You followed closely behind him as Clay greeted the man; you quickly realizing that this was the famous George.

As Clay shrugged out of his jacket, George pulled out a binder, standing beside you as he flipped to a page with scattered drawings of different flight poses of birds. Your eyes drifted away from the page as Clay’s arms came into view. His old t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off was doing wonders for his biceps. Before you knew it, the two of you agreed on a mix of a few designs resembling a crow and Clay was laying on his back with his hand tucked behind his head. The spot he was filling was in the dead center of the flesh of his upper arm; a spot that George had grumbled about being awkward to reach, especially on someone as large as Clay.

You watched closely with curious eyes as George began to tattoo the design on Clay’s arm. Clay’s other hand was wrapped around the back of your elbow as you leaned on the chair at Clay’s side. His finger pads drew circles into your skin as you asked George about how he got into tattooing, making small talk here and there.

You liked George, mainly because he was quiet until he conjured up some kind of relentless backhanded comment. His tattoos revolved around a giant tree stretching from his back and down his arms. You wondered how long he had to sit for it and what the healing process was like. As he worked, his teeth played at his snake bite piercings, his dark eyes focused intently on the work in front of him.

Clay switched his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, his hand tightening around your arm with a small groan as George reached a sensitive spot. “Don’t be such a pussy,” he grumbled, continuing his work. He stopped, cleaning off some of the sprayed ink and filling a new cap with grey. “You have any work, pretty girl?” He asked you, voice low and charming.

You shook your head, earning a small tsk from him. “This is the closest she’s been to a tattoo gun,” Clay prided, making George sarcastically raise his eyes.

“A total virgin, huh?” He joked, winking at you. “Dream’s not corrupting you, is he?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek trying not to blush. “I’m trying,” Clay leered, smirking at you with his smug ego hinting at his lips.

George bit back a laugh. “Don’t get horny in my chair,” he muttered, eyes trained on the lines he was scaring into Clay. “Speaking of, I heard you got busted up by Punz, and by the looks of it… seems right,” he commented, gesturing to Clay’s eye that seemed to have started fading finally.

Clay let out a dry laugh. “His ribs are still healing,” you added, making George smirk with a shake of his head.

“You know what all that’s about right?” George asked you, taking his foot off the pedal to grab more paper towels from his desk. You looked up at Clay whose jaw tense as he chewed on the toothpick. After you shook your head, George continued. “Punz’s sister is stupidly in love with Dream,” he plopped back in his seat, swiveling his chair, and drawing a hand through his locks, revealing the bleached undersection. You had the fleeting mental image of him tying his hair back to reveal it.

He pulled on a new glove. “Madly in love, huh?” You pried, twisting your chair closer to Clay’s shoulder. Clay rolled his eyes at the fact as if he had been bugged about it for years. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend, Clay,” you teased, and he looked up at you with a tired expression, making you bite back a giggle.

After George finished, you followed Clay through the door, breathing in the fresh air; or as fresh as it could be in the midst of the city’s industrial square. Clay’s fingers knitted together with yours as he led you down an alleyway, flicking aside the toothpick. You chewed on your lip in anticipation before he pinned you against one of the walls. His devious grin sent shivers down your spine as you looked up at him.

You swallowed. “Shouldn’t you take it easy? Let your arm heal a bit?” You asked, voice coming out in a soft whisper as his lips pressed against your neck. “Won’t it hurt a bit with your ribs, too?” Your heart hammered in your chest at the fact that someone could turn the corner and catch the two of you.

He chuckled against your skin, slipping his hands beneath your skirt to grip your ass. “I like the pain,” he mused, tongue grazing against your skin as he pulled your hips against his. He kissed you hungrily as if not being able to press his body against yours for that hour was too much for him. His hand dropped to wrap around the back of your knee, moving his own leg to prop your thigh up against his hip as your hands dug into his hair.

The friction from his jeans made you moan into his mouth as his hand moved beneath your shirt, fingers fitting beneath your bra to palm your breast. He mumbled praises against your lips at how good you made him feel and how beautiful you were.

He turned you, your hands planting against the coarse brick as he ground his hips against you. You bit your lip, trying not to be loud enough to draw attention to the two of you, which seemed to be the last thing on Clay’s mind as you heard him unbuckle his belt behind you. You could practically picture his cocky grin, controlling eyes set as his hand gripped onto your hips, shoving your underwear to the side. “You were so much fun to show off tonight,” he chided darkly, lips brushing against your shoulder. “Such a good girl.”

As he pushed into you, one of his hands moved to knot into your hair. He moaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, tugging on your hair as he pulled your hips back against his. A low grunt tumbled from his lips as he set his rhythm, basking in the fact that you were secretly ready for him to ruin you as soon as you stepped into the parlor.

His fingers moved to wrap around your neck, the thought of his tattooed hand tightening around your pristine skin sent shivers through your body and heat flushing your cheeks, the tension in your body tightening. As he pressed you closer against the wall, you thought about the power he had over you; his height and build would make it easy for him to break you if he wanted, yet even as he pounded into you like he wanted you to forget your own name, the restraint he showed was enough to send you over the edge if you let yourself divulge in the thought.

Clay pulled out of you, only to turn you, your shoulders hitting the wall again with a soft thump as he hoisted you up ever so slightly, thrusting up into you as his hand dig into your thigh, the other resting against the brick beside your head. Your arms looped beneath his jacket, raking down his skin as you held onto him.

He groaned as your thighs tightened around him, making his hips stutter as if he were trying not to let himself finish too early. He dug is face into the crook of your neck, burying his teeth in your neck to stifle his grunts of your name. Your head tilted back against the brick, hand moving to tighten around the wrist that was beside your head for some kind of anchor.

His hand wrapped around your waist, driving himself deeper into you, brushing the part of you that needed him the most. You moaned, carding your fingers into his hair as he pressed his lips to yours roughly, wanting to taste your pleasure as it washed over you from his movements.

You tugged on his hair, making his cock throb inside of you, him finishing inside you with a low groan, his hips snapping against yours to stimulate a reaction from you. The feeling of his sloppy pleasure as his movements lost their rhythm sent your hips grinding against his, his teeth marking your shoulders as a reminder of his work on you.

Your toes curled, finally reaching your orgasm as he murmured dirty expressions of him ruining your pretty clothes against the wall. As he pulled out of you, your knees felt weak, threatening to buckle beneath you. You tried not to give off how much he had trashed you, but the warmth snaking down your thighs and your bliss-ridden mind proved otherwise.

Long story short, the bus ride home was rather interesting.

Dream Taglist: (follow this link to be added :))

@karlkitten @pluto-dizzz @more-like-reyna @honk-izzie-was-taken @marrymetheonott @froggyy06 @ghoulandghost @savingpluto @marshmallow-babe @drunkpumpkincake @unstableye @tinyegg @behzzyboo @darphobic @twist3dtinkerbell @sparkletash @lindsayhunz @shroomieissmall @mintmochiii @clubfairy @aroyaldarknessblr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg @victory-is-here @rat-poisin

#dream x fem!reader #dream x reader #alt!dream #alt!dreamwastaken #dreamwastaken imagine #dreamwastaken smut #dreamwastaken fanfic #dream smut #dream imagine #dream x you #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt x y/n #mcyt x reader #mcyt smut

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seiyasabi · 3 years

Text

Bulls in the Bronx

(So…. long story short, I’m now a hucow simp. Thanks a lot @/biskywrites and @/dark-side-blog2 for making me this way (ﾉД`) lol, all jokes aside, I wanna suck some tiddy milk from a buff man ;)) Anyways, this is Yandere Hucow(Hubull?) Bokuto x Fem Reader ;0 This fic allows me to flex my farming knowledge lol, bc my grandparents owned ponies and dogs.

TW: !Noncon!, !dubcon!, creampie!, he hits you twice!, somnophilia!, predator vs prey?, manipulation!, cumflation!, breeding kink!, size kink!, ur a farmhand!, lactation!, tiddie sucking!, Asshole farmer Ushi, etc..

Please don’t proceed if any of the above are triggering! Also, sorry if Bokuto is too OOC lol)

“Bokuto got into the lackweed again,” You can’t suppress the laugh that explodes from your mouth. The idea of the biggest hucow (hubull??) on the ranch freaking out (again), because he’s now dripping milk is hilarious.

“Where on Earth does he keep finding those damn weeds?” The other farmhand laughs as well, stooping down to fill two buckets with water.

“I think those grass seeds were cross contaminated, the other hucows also started to lactate a lot more than usual. But, it’s kinda funny that our best breeder is dripping like a heifer,” Chuckling in acknowledgement, you can’t help but feel a pang of pity. Poor Bo, he’s probably really self conscious at the moment.

“Maybe I should go check on him-” Your coworker almost drops the bucket she’s filling, looking up at you as if you just grew three heads.

“Why would you do that? Did you forget that he’s going in rut soon?” Frowning, you glance down at the floor in mild shame.

“Well, yes, but he isn’t supposed to start until next week! Plus, I’m not ovulating right now, so I won’t trigger him,” The other girl thinks for a moment, before nodding slowly.

“I suppose it’d be fine. If anything, he may calm down if his favourite handler is there,” Nodding, you grab two buckets from the shelf beside you. Squatting down next to your coworker, you place a bucket underneath a faucet, turning the circular handle to the left. A gush of cool water rushes out, quickly filling the plastic pail. Quickly switching it out for the empty one, you wait a few more moments, before turning off the rushing water. Grabbing the handles of the buckets, you lift them whilst standing to your feet, using your legs instead of your back.

Nodding towards the other girl, you bid her farewell. Turning on your heel, you tromp towards the bull pens. The large red barn is quite a far distance from the shed you were once in, causing you to break out in a light sweat. It doesn’t help that it’s mid spring, causing the farm to be quite warm.

Setting the buckets down on the dirt ground, you wipe your brow with the back of your hand. Huffing out a deep breath, you quickly move the concrete slab keeping the barn closed away from the sliding door, before shoving it open. The sound of the cowbell on the red and white door handle on the inside clinks noisily, queuing a symphony of deep ‘moos.’

Picking up the buckets with bent knees, you hurry inside, relishing the feeling of the barn’s fans on your sweaty skin, “Hey guys, is the barn cool enough for you?” Grumbles and shifting of large bodies are all you get in response, causing you to laugh, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Gunning it for a certain grey haired bull’s stall, a bright smile makes its way onto your face, “Hey, Koutarou, how’re you feeling?”

He’s currently laying on his bed of compact hay, tears sliding down his handsome face. His cute ears are droopy, his bell earring not jingling with life like normal. His tears drip between his septum piercing, and drop onto his well defined abdomen, “Not good, (Your Name).”

With a small gasp, you set down the pails rather harshly, some of the cool liquid sloshing onto the wooden floor. Hurrying towards him, you sit on the prickly ‘mattress,’ “What’s wrong? I heard that you’re lac-” A small sob leaves his lips at your words, causing you to grab his hand reassuringly, “Are the other guys making fun of you? I can go yell at them if you’d like!”

The buff bull-man sits up, one arm covering his chest self-consciously, “No! They’re not being mean,” He grips your hand almost to the point that it’s painful, “I-it’s just… my chest hurts, real bad.”

Nodding in understanding, you motion towards his covered pecs, “Let me see, Bubs. I’ll see what I can do.”

His face flushes bright red, “But it’s embarrassing!” You shush him sweetly, releasing his hand to coax his arm away from his chest.

“It’s okay, I won’t make fun of you! I just wanna help you,” After a moment of hesitance, he obeys, revealing his swollen, red nipples.

The area around his nipples is raised as well, showing just how much his milk is backed up.

Eyes softening even more, you delicately rub both pecs, “You’re alright, Bubs. This happens to the cows sometimes when we don’t milk them as much as we need to. If you’d like, I can go find a pump!”

“No! I don’t wanna pump!” You jump slightly, and move away from him, only for his hands to trap your own to his chest. More tears gather in his eyes, as he becomes distraught, “I don’t want my milk to go to waste!”

Taken aback, you nod, although you don’t understand his reasoning, “Kou, why’re you acting like this? You know we don’t get rid of milk, we sell your guys’ milk at the market.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t want you to sell it. I want you to drink it,” The look of shock on your face is mistaken as disgust, causing him to cry even more, “Do you think I’m weird? Why do you look like that?” Seeing the bull act so sensitive is adorable, but you feel as though you have to comfort him.

“No, no, it’s okay! I’m not weirded out, I’m just surprised. I’ll go get a bucket-”

“No bucket!” Sighing at his weird behaviour, you cock an eyebrow at him.

“Then how am I supposed to collect it?” A big grin crosses his teary face.

“Drink from me! I promise I’ll be good!” Shifting in discomfort, an anxious sweat starts to form on your brow.

“Ahaha, that’s funny, Kou. You know I can’t do that,” More tears well up in his eyes, squeezing your heart painfully, “Don’t look at me like that, Bubs. I don’t think your owner would like me getting so close-”

“I don’t mind,” Ushijima’s voice booms throughout the barn, scaring the living daylights out of you. Whipping your head around, you make eye contact with the large male, an uncharacteristic smirk on his face, “As long as my star bull is happy, I’m happy.”

Kou releases your hands, only to grab your face, forcing you to look at him, “See! He doesn’t care! Please, (Nickname), please help me! My udders hurt so bad!”

With Ushijima’s eyes on you, and Koutarou’s sad and pain filled face, you finally relent, “Okay, okay! Don’t freak out, Bubs, I’ll help. You just gotta let me go.”

He releases you quickly, before shoving your head towards his chest. The jingling of his earring is heard, telling you that his ears are no longer pressed down on the top of his head. You hear heavy footsteps walk away from his stall, probably gathering the bulls to let them graze outside.

You try to push away from where your head is being smushed, but the bull gives you no leeway, “Why aren’t you drinking?” The male practically whines, as you whack his shoulder lightly.

“I’m being smothered in between your tiddies, Kou,” You chuckle in slight discomfort, but he finally allows you up. Moving towards his most swollen nipple (the left one), you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, causing a small stream of milk to come streaming out.

A small moan leaves the large man’s lips, as he shoves you once again face first into his chest, “Don’t tease, (Nickname), I feel like I’m dying!” A flash of empathy goes through your heart.

Removing your hand from his nipple, you take a deep breath, and latch yourself onto him.Your chapstick covered lips are soft against his sensitive skin, causing him to keen. When you suckle, a tidal wave of milk bursts into your mouth. Luckily, it doesn’t taste very bad; his milk tastes like vanilla, causing you start to slurp it up like a babe.

Your one hand kneads his other pec to soothe him, “Fu-fuck, you’re making me feel so good!” You don’t bother trying to say anything, instead, you just suck harder. Your unoccupied hand squeezes his tit that you’re currently nursing on, causing him to pump out more of his yummy milk.

After a few long moments, you release his nipple. A drop of milk trickles down your chin, which the large bull laughs at. A thick finger wipes off the excess, pushing itself into your mouth. A tender look is in the grey haired man’s eyes, as he kisses your forehead.

“Thank you, pretty girl. Can you do the other one, please?” Now that he’s no longer in a painfilled state, he’s back to his normal, boyish self. Nodding, you lick your lips, before latching on to his other nipple. He barely chokes back a moan, his hand gripping the back of your head.

You suck as hard as you can without hurting him, pretending his nipple was a straw to a thick ass milkshake. Between your massaging and sucking, his teat no longer feels as painful as it once did.

Pulling away, you give him a wry smile, “There, all better. Well, I should pour your water into your trough now,” Standing up with wobbly legs, you move towards the filled buckets. Picking them up one by one, you pour it in with unsteady hands. Why are you so shaky right now? “Well, I should get going now. I hope you feel better later,” You try to walk out of his stall, only to be yanked back into Bokuto’s lap. Both empty pails fall to the ground unceremoniously, clattering loudly through the empty barn.

“Don’t leave me, Lovely, I need you,” His warm skin against yours feels nice, and you suddenly feel sleepy.

“Kou, I’m tired. I think-I think I’m gonna take a nap,” He runs his fingers (through your hair/over your scalp), tantalising you into drifting off.

“That’s alright, (Nickname), I’ll watch after you,” With a muffled ‘Mhm,’ you fall into a deep slumber.

When you awoke, you woke to your body shaking. Brow furrowing, you blearily open your eyes, only to see a tuft of grey hair in between your bent, spread legs.

His long tongue is currently fucking in and out of your dripping cunt, his thumb rubbing against your clit.

“Ku-Kou? Wha-“ He looks up immediately, a look of shock on his strong features.

“I-It’s Not what it looks like! I-I just wanted a taste!” You groggily push at his head, catching his ears slightly, causing a small jingling to sound throughout the empty barn.

“You didn’t ask, why, why are you-“ He grabs your hand, kissing each knuckle with a slobbering kiss.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Let me make you feel good! You taste so good,” You yank your hand back, trying to kick off the hand that currently wrapped around your right thigh.

“Get off of me! Bokuto, you-you’re doing this without my consent! I thought we were friends!” You shout, pushing at his face harshly. He grabs one of your hands, trying to kiss it, only for your other to clap him upside the face harshly, “Don’t! You’ve already done enough.”

Kicking him away (even though he’s much larger and stronger than you, meaning he just moved away), you stand to your feet, pulling back up your halfway down jeans and panties.

Snatching up the buckets previously discarded, you don’t even shoot the crying bull a glance, just turning on your heel, and stomping away.

Tears of your own drip down your face, humiliation and betrayal weighing down your aching heart.

Forcefully sliding open the barn doors, you run from it, catching the eye of a certain green haired farmer.

It seems Bokuto fucked up.

But that’s okay, when he goes into rut, there’ll be nothing keeping him from breeding you full of his massive calves.

You avoided the bull barn like the plague for the next week. The hucows are very pleasant company. They treat you as if you’re their young, making you feel well loved.

That is, until Hachi asked you why you’ve been avoiding Bokuto. She’d told you that he hasn’t acted the same, in fact, he’s acted depressed and withdrawn.

Since then, you’ve stuck with aquatic life. The fish, swans, and ducks don’t give you that much trouble.

But, when you come back from the pond and fish pools, the farm is ensued with panic. Apparently, Bokuto’s finally gone into rut.

And, unfortunately for you, he’s on the prowl for you.

So, when your coworker runs up to you, begging for you to calm him, you turn on your heel, and start walking back towards the pond. They can figure this out themselves, you’re not going to sacrifice yourself to someone who tried to take advantage of you.

Sadly, that doesn’t work out.

You’re immediately stopped by Ushijima, his broad form blocking you from advancing forward, “Where do you think you’re going?” His arms are crossed, an angry scowl on his usually handsome features.

“I forgot something at the pond,” You lie, smoothly, “I’m going to go grab it real quick-”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” His strong voice booms, “What you’re going to do, is march yourself into the barn, and make my prized bull happy.”

Your own scowl forms on your pretty face, “I will do nothing of the sort. Interspecies sex is illegal! You can fire me for all I care, I’m not going in there!” You try to move around his large form, only to be manhandled into a chokehold.

His left arm is wrapped around your neck, your back to his chest, and your face being held in a large hand, “Interspecies sex is legal when a human and hybrid are mates,” He hisses through gritted teeth, and you struggle in his hold, “If you don’t go in there, I’ll drag you in.”

“Fuck you,” You spit, “I’ll fucking castrate you!” You kick backwards, landing a solid hit on the large man’s groin. With a loud yell, you’re let go, allowing you to run towards the farm’s parking area. Pulling your truck’s keys from your pocket, you haul ass, not bothering to look behind you.

The barns and sheds fly past you, as you run through the open field leading to the car park. You suddenly hear loud footsteps follow after you, and you assume that it’s Ushijima, that is, until you hear them, “(Nickname)! (Nickname), where are you going? Why are you running away from me?” Bokuto’s voice rings out at top volume, hurting your ears. His voice a lot more gravely than before, and without looking at him, you know that he most likely looks crazed.

You don’t respond, trying to pick up the pace. You click the unlock button one time, only unlocking the driver’s side door. Because you had a head start, you cleared the field in less than three seconds, allowing you to hop into your truck, and lock the doors. Shoving the key into the ignition, all whilst buckling your seatbelt, you press on the brake, and turn it, only to hear the spluttering of your failing ignition, “Come on! Don’t do this-” Bokuto slams into the driver’s side door at top speed, rocking your large vehicle harshly. His hands and face are pressed against the window, his expression looking like that of a kicked puppy. You then notice the fact that the buff male is completely naked, his impossibly large cock bobbing against his toned stomach.

“Why are you trying to leave? I need you so badly, pretty-pretty. Why don’t you open the door, and we can figure this out? I promise I’ll make you feel good, after all, us bulls pride ourselves in taking care of our mates,” You cringe in disgust, not bothering to answer him. Instead, you continue to fiddle with your ignition, muttering expletives under your breath. His large hands start to beat on your driver-side window, trying to gain your attention, “(Nickname), come out already! Ushi already cut your fuel line, so you’re not going anywhere! Come on, I just wanna make you feel good-”

It was your turn to cut him off, “Shut up! We aren’t friends anymore, Bokuto, much less lovers! Just leave me the fuck alone! I’m sure many of the cows would love to help you through your rut, why can’t you just ask them?” Tears of frustration dot your eyelashes, as you pop open your glove box and search for your phone. Catching sight of the black cased (phone type), you snatch it from its confines with a loud ‘Aha,’ “Don’t make me call the Farmer’s Union, Bokuto. I’ll report you and Ushijima for-”

“You won’t! You love me too much!” His frantic words raise in volume, as he hit the glass even harder than before, “You wouldn’t put me down! Come on, (Nickname), why won’t you call me ‘Bubs’ anymore? I love you!” You swipe open your phone, and go to the contacts. Pulling up the Farmer’s Union phone number, you go to press ‘call,’ only for the shattering of glass to halt you.

You scream in both fear and shock, throwing up your hands to protect your face. This, in turn, causes you to drop your phone. In this time, Bokuto is able to grab you by your arms, and drag you towards the broken window. Your seatbelt keeps you in place, causing him to pull you even harder, and making you scream in pain.

You use your arm to whack his against the broken glass on your truck’s window area. He releases you in a moment of pain, allowing you to unbuckle yourself, and throw yourself to the passenger side. Once there, you unlock the door, and bolt towards the road.

“(Your Name), come back here! Stop being so difficult!” You pay him no mind, a few meters away from the busy road. Noticing a car speeding towards the area you’re running to, you push yourself even harder, trying to throw yourself into the road. Unfortunately, you’re grabbed by two buff arms that encircle your waist. They use all of their strength to smash you into their chest from behind, knocking the air from your lungs, “Are you crazy? You could’ve been hurt!” You thrash and try to bite at him, causing Bokuto to backhand you across the face, “Now look what you made me do! If you’d been good, I wouldn’t have had to do that!”

To be completely honest, you’re in shock. Bokuto has never raised a hand at you, and that slap wasn’t a warning tap. No, that was him using a good majority of his strength, causing your cheek to throb painfully.

You continue to thrash and curse after freezing for a moment, drawing the eyes of concerned coworkers, “Let go of me! What the fuck is wrong with you? Put me down!” You try to kick him in the junk, only to kick him on the inside of his thigh. In retaliation, he backhands you again, this time on the other cheek. Gasps and whispers are heard from those around you, drawing the large hucow’s eyes.

“There’s nothing to see here, guys! Just my mate making a scene,” He shakes you a bit to shut you up, causing you to become disoriented. The farmhands and other hybrids look like they’re about to step in, only for Ushijima himself to show up.

“What Bokuto said is correct,” His harsh gaze is on you, his hand gripping his dick, “She’s just making a scene. Let them through.”

They reluctantly go back to their business, as Koutarou guns it to the empty bull barn. Ushijima only watches as you’re dragged to the large building, as tears drip down your face in fear, and his fist at his side clenches in fury.

Stomping into the barn, Bokuto makes quick work of getting to his stall. Once inside, he tosses you on the hay mattress, and straddles your waist. With pawing hands, he rips your t-shirt and jeans off of you, leaving you in your bra and underwear, along with your boots and socks. Yanking off your boots, be tossed them out of his ‘room,’ as you try to throw punches at his muscular chest. He grunts, but doesn’t stop.

With beefy fingers, he yanks off your bra, ripping it in two. Your tits jiggle at his harsh movements, making him lick his lips in enjoyment. He then rips off your cotton panties, exposing your cunny to his hungry eyes.

“You’re beautiful, pretty-pretty. I can’t wait to see you stuffed with my calves,” You shake your head no rapidly, pushing his hands away from where they rest on your hips.

“No! Stop it, Bokuto! I thought we were friends!” He tightens his grip on your pelvis, forcing your legs open.

“That’s Not my name, (Nickname), you know that. Now, you know that I’m way more than just your friend-I’m your mate, and you know that I’ll provide for you and our calves,” With grubby fingers, he rubs at your clit, trying to draw a good reaction from you.

You squirm in response, trying to wriggle out of his one handed grip. You shove at his chest, but he remains unmoved, choosing to press down harder than before, “Stop it! Let me go!”

He inserts his middle finger into your moist cunny, forcing it in and out. You try to kick him in the head only for him to catch your leg with the hand that previously held your hip, “If you wanted me to eat you out that bad, you should’ve just said so, pretty girl,” Before you can refuse, he throws your legs over his shoulders, and dives in.

His long tongue fucks in and out of your hole, one of his thumbs rubbing your clit. A loud whine escapes your throat before you can stop it, making you feel a wave of disgust for yourself. Bokuto shouldn’t be making you feel good, he’s assaulting you, after all.

But, when his tongue brushed against your g-spot, you can’t help but convulse in pleasure. Thighs quaking, you try to stop yourself from cumming.

“St-stop! I’m, I’m gonna-“ He stops before you can cum, instead, pushing your hips down to where his cock lays against his abs. Forcing the bulbous head against your tiny hole, he pushes harshly, trying to fuck into you like an animal, “No! No! You’re too big! You’re going to tear my-“ With one powerful thrust, he forces his way inside, and you can’t help but scream.

Tears drip down your face at the feeling, your pussy feeling like it’s been ripped open. Bokuto grabs your head, and forces it against his chest, practically making you take one of his pink nipples into your mouth. You’re immediately met with the taste of his vanilla milk, drinking it up as the hucow starts to buck into you at a lightning fast pace.

Your teeth bite down on his nipple, but instead of being angry, he just moans in lust, “Yes! Yes, pretty girl, you’re taking me so well!”

His hand that isn’t cradling your head goes to your tummy, feeling his huge length moving underneath your skin. He presses down a bit, causing another wanton moan to leave to both of you. With this thought in mind, he picks up the pace, practically fucking you into unconsciousness.

Eyes rolling back, your ruined cunny gushed pathetically, coating you and the bull with your juices, “(Nickname), you’re so pretty when you cum,” He continues his breakneck pace, getting close to orgasm himself, “I’m gonna fill you up so good, that you’ll be dripping with my fun for days! Your little womb will be bloated with my fertile cum!”

You try to speak, but you can’t, just continuing to suck his yummy milk from his teat. Walls fluttering with another orgasm, you feel yourself clamping down on his enormous cock.

With one last mighty thrust, he seats himself fully inside of you, cumming directly against your unprotected cervix. A muffled scream erupts from your chest, as you feel your womb expand with copious amounts of beeile cum. Releasing his nipple, you throw your head back, a loud cry echoes throughout the barn, as you squirt once more around his cock.

Now completely filled to the brim, you pass out from the trauma. Entirely exhausted, Koutarou grins down at your bloated form. He rubs your tummy like a Buddha statue, kissing it tenderly.

“You’ll be a good Mommy, I’m sure of it,” he then trails his hand up your abdomen, groping your right tit, “You’ll look so pretty all milky and filled with my calves.”

The sound of a throat clearing gains Bokuto’s attention, as he practically throws his naked body over yours. A loud ‘moo’ of warning escapes his chest, even when he notices that the person is just Ushijima.

“I see that she mates with you well,” His eyes trail over your sleeping face, not straying downwards, “I hope this means that you’ll enter more shows.”

Bo smiles, “Yes. Now I need to show off, so my mate thinks I’m an eligible male.”

Nodding, Ushijima turns on his heal, making his way to leave the barn, “I hope your children take after you in strength. (Your Name) is a lot prettier than you are, so maybe they’ll be pleasing to the eye as well.”

Snorting, the grey haired man’s ears twitch, jingling throughout the room, “You bet she is. She’s perfect.”

#yandere bokuto #bokuto koutarou #yandere haikyuu #yandere haikyuu imagines #yandere haikyuu x reader #yandere koutarou #bokuto x reader #bokuto imagines #bokuto haikyuu #hybrid au #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu au

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shootybangbang · 2 years

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Hi. I had to psych myself up to ask un-anonymously ☺ I feel like a stupid derp new kid bc I'm new to tumblr & struggling w/ fanfic. Anyhoo, I absolutely adore & look up to your writing. Your descriptions are always so brilliant & lovely, sth I struggle with. Your nsfw pieces perfectly mix spicy & moving. I especially love "In Which You Both Demonstrate How Not to Ride a Horse." I was so touched & wanted to cry, & with so few words. Waiting to read "Things Asked & Promised" bc I know I'll enjoy it & want to give it undivided attention.

Could I pls ask for a nsfw Arthur x fem reader piece where they're accidently voyeuristically discovered in a hot n spicy moment? If not it's ok. Thank you for your writing!

I realize that what I am doing is the equivalent of handing someone a cup of tuberculosis after they asked for ice cream and for that I am sorry

[Ao3 link] [Part 2]

In which quills are shed [Part 1/2]

Bluegill scales cover the oak slats like a scatter of half moons. Or, viewed through the lens of your current mood, a scatter of torn fingernails, each one ripped clean. Glancing up at the man at the other side of the table, you drag the back of the knife viciously against the dead fish’s decimated mail, and another shower of parts falls against the notched wooden surface like a morbid spray of rain.

Micah asks. “You and Morgan still fucking?”

He says the words loud enough to carry across the whole of what ragged remainder is left of the camp at Beaver Hollow. The two strangers sitting by the cave’s open maw look up from their card game, and you feel a faint, falling sensation in your chest. The kind that flutters through when you miss a step going down the stairs.

Keeping your head down, you continue scraping at the bluegill.

“Nah, can’t be. Doubt that miserable bastard can even get hard, the state he’s in now. And even if he could, can’t see him lasting more’n two minutes without, y’know…” Micah wheezes dramatically, adopts a wet, hacking cough that sounds despairingly close to the real thing.

You put the tip of the knife to the seam of the bluegill’s belly, then rip it open with unwarranted violence. Droplets of fish blood spatter against the front of your dress.

“Now, if what you’re looking for is satisfaction, I’d suggest you head on down to my tent.” From the periphery of your vision, you can see Micah jab his thumb towards the lean-to set up in the shadow of Dutch’s tent. A hint of bile rises to the back of your throat. “I’ll show you how a real man fucks a woman.”

Come any closer and I’ll show you how to skin a snake, you think, groping for innards with your fingers. Grasping the bluegill’s pebble-shaped heart, you yank out a string of entrails that glistens dark red and gleaming, and let it drop from your hand onto the table with a wet plop.

“Best time to do it’d be now, while Morgan’s out gettin’ himself killed.” Micah says this affably, as though you’ve acquiesced. “And on the off chance that he does come back, what he don’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

You lever up the flap adjacent to the fish’s cheek with the tip of the knife, then reach in to tear out the gills. The fanned red edge nicks the pad of your thumb. Wincing, you jerk your hand away to check the cut.

“Aw, didja hurt yourself? Here, let me see—”

The moment he steps towards you, you flinch and brandish the knife like a weapon. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding up both hands, retreating. Under his breath, he mutters, “Goddamn touchy little bitch.”

Beside the mouth of the cave, the shorter of the two strangers (what were their names? Joe and… Clem, or something?) stands up and rests his hand on the hilt of his holstered gun.

You flick your eyes towards the overturned soapbox beside the campfire. There, Dutch glances up from the book in his hand and holds your gaze just long enough to acknowledge your plight. He raises his eyebrows, then deliberately turns his head away, returning his attention to what might be his millionth perusal of Evelyn Miller.

All of your potential allies are either departed or well out of sight: the girls at the river, Charles on the hunt, Sadie on guard duty. John, scoping out a potential lead up north somewhere.

And with him, Arthur.

With exaggerated precision, you lower the knife and lay the edge of its blade at an outward slant adjacent to the bluegill’s puckered mouth. You lift your head to look Micah in the face, then slam your hand against the dull heel of the knife hard enough that it decapitates the fish in one swift motion, slicing through scale and muscle and bone with a beautifully crisp thunk.

He doesn’t seem impressed. Micah says, “You really gonna keep on pretendin’ you can’t talk? I heard you well enough the other night, while I was sittin’ out here on guard duty.” In a high, breathy voice, he squeals, “Ohhh, Arthur!”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. Hot with shame and anger, you duck down and glare instead at the dead fish. Its round, sightless eyes stare pointlessly back at you.

“Alright. If you’re still gonna play at bein’ a deaf-mute, lemme spell things out real clear for you.” Micah makes an obscene gesture, points at himself, then rubs his fingers together to indicate that he has money, all the while enunciating loud and slow, “HOW… MUCH… TO… SUCK MY—”

“I am not for sale,” you snarl. “And I would sooner cut off my own tongue than put it anywhere near your diseased prick.”

“So she can speak,” he says, unfazed by the insult.

“Probably speak better than you and every other contemptible fuck in this camp. Van der Linde included.”

“Wouldn’t say that if I were you. If word got to Dutch that you were disrespecting him— well, ain’t no telling how he’d react. Might even find it… disloyal. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.” As he speaks, he nods towards the northern stretch of woods banking the cave, where the blackened and twisted branches left from an impromptu pyre still lie scattered. And beside it, the shallow grave of what little had remained of Molly O’Shea afterward, unmarked and unmourned.

A cold trickle of fear runs down your spine. “Arthur wouldn’t—”

“Arthur this, Arthur that.” Micah pronounces the name as though it were something foul in his mouth. “Open your eyes, you dumb cunt. Black Lung’s gonna be dead within the week. If not from the fuckin’ plague, then for sure by the Pinkertons. Just look at him. He can barely walk.”

Within the week. God. No, he’s not… he’s not quite that bad…

(not that bad yet, a voice murmurs from inside your head)

“And when he’s six feet under,” he continues. “You’re gonna have nobody on your side. That is, unless you start courtin’ new loyalties now.”

Micah Bell has laid all your worst fears out in front of you as frankly and bluntly as an assortment of dead fish at market. And to this, there is but one response. Not denial. Not anger. Only the deepwater chill of utter despair.

“You ain’t that stupid. I’m sure you can see the writing on the wall.” His voice smooths to something unctuous and oddly familiar. It takes a second for recognition to click. This is the same voice he uses when flattering Dutch. “So what’s it gonna be? You gonna cast your lot in with a corpse, or you gonna make the smart choice and go with the man with the highest chance of making it outta this place alive?”

“I’ll go to the grave with him before I go to bed with you,” you hiss.

Micah laughs. “Oh sure, you’re all bravado now, but we’ll see what you really are when the shit hits the fan. A whore. Just like every other cunt here.” He raises a hand in farewell and starts walking away, calling over his shoulder, “You know where my tent is, honey. Come find me after you ditch Morgan.”

With a great deal of effort, you force yourself to train your focus back on the bluegill. You slip your knife to a space just above its spinal cord and angle the blade parallel to the table, then begin carving its pale meat away from the thin, clustered bones.

Filleting has always seemed inordinately wasteful to you– throwing away perfectly good meat, that’s what it is. A stupid and tedious method, and truth be told half the reason you hate doing it is because you’ve never been particularly good at it— but Arthur always complains about spitting fish bones otherwise, so… so…

The realization sifts in as soft and cold as autumn rain. So soon I won’t have to do this anymore.

No. No, no, no— that’s not true at all— you’ll be filleting fish until your dying day, and you’ll roll your eyes and sigh all the while, and he’ll be just as annoying, asking melodramatically whether you want him to choke to death on a fish bone, and… and…

A teardrop falls onto the back of your hand. Another falls onto the half-stripped bluegill, then another, and another, all raining down in rapid succession until you have to put the knife down to wipe at your eyes with your sleeve.

— — —

You hurry to the hitching post at the first, faint rumble of hooves, standing next to the grazing horses straight-backed and overeager. The light blue dress you’d borrowed from Tilly looks nearly white in the pines’ damp shadows, and it cuts through the gloom so starkly that when John emerges from the woods, he startles.

John is alone.

“It’s alright,” he says, answering the anxious, searching look on your face. “Arthur’s just a little ways back. Shouldn’t be more than a minute.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’s wrong. Said he was gettin’ somethin’.”

A white-hot curl of contempt coils tight in your chest. You narrow your eyes. “Dutch is sending him out on another errand before he’s even back from this one?”

“What? No, nothin’ like that. S’cuse me,” he adds, swinging his leg over the saddle to dismount.

Gathering your skirts in your hands, you hastily backstep a few paces away to give him space enough to maneuver. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I’m pelting you with questions before you’re even out of the saddle—”

“You don’t gotta apologize,” John interrupts. “You ain’t done anythin’ wrong. And hey, uh…” his voice drops low with the gentle lilt that seems to always accompany well-intentioned white lies. “He’s… I think he’s doin’ a little better. Weren’t coughin’ as much as he usually does.”

Over and over again, you’ve played along with these small farces. Little fictions woven for your benefit. The only one who’s taken it upon himself to tell it to you plainly is Micah, and in a sick, bitter way you’re almost grateful for it.

You force a smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

John sighs. He looks at the thin path that picks through the mountains and into camp and sets his mouth to a stubborn, flat line. “Listen,” he says, and there is conviction in his words now, whether true or misguided not for you to determine. “Arthur’s gonna be alright.” Awkwardly, as though sympathy were an undertaking largely unfamiliar to him, he pats you on the shoulder. “He’ll pull through,” he says. “He always does.”

It’s another twenty minutes before Arthur finally arrives, his clothes gritty with buffeted dust and his shoulders slumped with apparent exhaustion. Bedraggled and drained, and when he spots you standing by the hitching post, his smile is weary, worn thin by the long miles he’s traveled.

“Hey there,” he calls out.

“Hey,” you reply. “What kept you?”

“I’ll show you in a bit. C’mere.” He sets himself on the ground, and pulls you into what’s clearly meant to be a quick embrace before he unsaddles Athena. But when he lets go, you don’t. Bemused, he rests his gloved hand on top of your head, runs his fingers through your hair. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, hiding your face against his chest. “I’m just glad you’re back, and not— shot full of holes, or skewered, or something.”

“Course not. Just scopin’ the place out for now. Gettin’ shot full of holes and skewered comes later.”

You raise your head to fix him with a severe, unamused look, and his smile quickly fades. “You’ve been cryin’,” he says, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

What isn’t wrong? The blood flecked at the corner of his mouth and shirt collar, the quietly pursuant eyes of the strangers by the cave, the cold portent of what might come next, all of it building up day by day like a red rime of rust.

“Nothing’s wrong.” With a note of mechanical cheeriness, you tell him, “Hey, that net Charles set up in the river finally worked out! Caught a bluegill, so I—”

From the staging ground behind you comes Dutch’s voice from on high, shouting his name. A master calling for his errant hound. Arthur doesn’t even look up. “Tell me what happened.”

You shake your head. Reluctantly, you step away from and gesture towards camp with an unenthusiastic wave of your hand. “He won’t be happy if you keep him waiting. Especially on my account.”

“Dutch,” Arthur says, and he sounds more tired than angry, as if even resentment has been ground out of him by the sheer weight of his fatigue. “I won’t be long,” he says. “Meet you at the tent.”

— — —

His cot is uncomfortable without him in it. Especially these days, as the first tinge of autumn begins to assert itself. The evening chill that much sharper, the afternoon that much darker. Pulling one of his jackets over your shoulders, you sit yourself on the cot’s rickety edge and lean towards the crate set at his bedside, gently lifting the chipped saucer you’d covered the plate of roasted bluegill with to keep it warm.

It’s long since gone cold.

With the tent flaps drawn down, everything here dims to an ambient blue, tinted by what light manages to filter through the navy canvas. Rather gloomy, really. Near impossible to read anything without squinting hard at the print.

But with the tent flaps up, they’ll accuse you of eavesdropping. Which is an activity that you’d partake in enthusiastically, you admit, were it not for your precarious position in camp. A position predicated solely on Arthur’s wellbeing and Dutch’s (extremely conditional) goodwill.

They’re having some sort of protracted argument up there on the ridge. An argument which has lasted— you check your pocket watch, peering irritably into its cracked glass face— about sixteen minutes now. It takes some effort to make out who exactly the participants are. Dutch, of course: his booming baritone is difficult to mistake. And Arthur, and John, and… Bill? Micah, too. And a voice you don’t quite recognize.

Bill shouts something that carries the tone of accusation, and Arthur snarls something in reply. And… now it seems like they’re all yelling. Then Dutch again, cutting in to mediate.

Things quiet down after that, diminishing back to just a muted murmur of dissent. You hear Arthur’s heavy, plodding footsteps a short while afterward, crunching against hard-packed dirt and the scattering of dead leaves that have begun to fall. He pulls up the tent’s left flap and pins it back and you throw a hand up to shade your eyes against the blinding mid-afternoon sun.

Against that brightness he is momentarily cast in silhouette. In that shadow, he is imposing still, his broad shoulders and looming height undiminished. But when you’ve blinked the dazzle out of your eyes, it’s just Arthur again, looking well and truly expended.

He doesn’t even bother taking off his coat or setting his satchel down before he sits down beside you. The cot’s metal frame lets out a pitiful squeak.

“What was that all about?” you ask.

“I ain’t sure myself.” Idly, Arthur presses a palm between your shoulder blades. Tentative, then firm, as if feeling for a solid surface in the dark. With things gone to vapor, something to hold onto, to follow through to the end. “Lot of bluster. Lot of talk about ‘loyalty’. And faith.”

“I thought I heard you snap at Bill.”

“Yeah. He called you a Delilah.”

That’s a new one. “A Delilah,” you repeat, smiling a little. “That’s surprisingly literate, for Bill. I’m almost impressed.”

Arthur’s voice is quiet and worried. “He sure as hell didn’t come up with it himself.”

“Then who do you think…”

He doesn’t answer this. Just briefly curls the hand at your back into a fist, bundling the cloth there between his fingers. Holding on tight before he lets go in that way that says, later. “Anyway,” he says. “I got you something.”

“Arthur, you don’t have to—”

Rummaging through his satchel, the straps and leather of the thing just as battered and scarred as himself, he pulls out something small and round, and tosses it into your lap.

An apple.

“Found a little cluster of fruit trees not too far from here,” he says. “Someone’s attempt at an orchard, looks like. They’re only just comin’ in to season, and most of ‘em are still green, but I found a few ripe ones. Could take you there later today, if you want.”

“You were late because you went apple picking?”

“You’re always whinin’ about how much you miss sweets, and I figured this was the next best thing.”

Ah. He’s caught you. As he does again and again. Without even meaning to, he’s trapped your heart in his hands like a child catching a grasshopper: guilelessly, heedless of the desperate, dire flutter between his fingers. No escape, but you’ve never been more willing to die like this, so long as he keeps smiling at you the way he does now. Soft and focused, as though everything else has fallen away.

You bite your lip against the inopportune swell of emotion and argue, “Twice is not ‘all the time’.”

“Oh yeah?” His smile turns to a smirk. “Abigail said you keep openin’ that biscuit tin she keeps her sewing supplies in and lookin’ all disappointed. Like you think those needles are gonna magically turn to biscuits the forty-seventh time around.”

“It’s not a biscuit tin. It’s a macaroon tin,” you say, your voice petulant with longing. “I love macaroons.”

“Yeah, well. Eat your apple and pretend then.”

You run your thumb over the plump curve of the apple. Speckled gold and striated with crimson, it’s smaller than what you’d find at the grocer’s, but with a richness of color that makes it look like something plucked from a fairytale forest. You almost can’t stand to eat it.

Almost. When you bite through to the apple’s white flesh, the clarity of its sweetness catches you off guard. Like a last, golden taste of departed summer.

“It’s good, right?”

“Thank you,” you say through a mouthful of fruit. “I really… I— um… ”

It’s not something you’ve ever gotten good at, showing appreciation. With kindnesses like this, it’s all you can do to stumble through the words and lay your hand on his knee, hoping to convey with touch what you cannot do with words.

He lays his own hand over top, keeping you there. Arthur traces over the ridge of your knuckles as you gnaw the fruit down to its knobbly core, then asks gently, “So, you gonna tell me what happened?”

No use in putting it off any longer. He’s more persistent than a dog at a bone, with some things. You happen to be one of them. Staring down into your lap, at the apple’s yellowing hull held loosely in your hand, you say, “Micah told me I should fuck him if you… you know.”

“If I die,” Arthur says flatly.

You give a single, reluctant nod.

“I’m gonna kill him.” He says this calmly, as though it were a task as mundane as any other. Chop wood, draw water, murder Micah. Arthur starts getting up, and you have to grab at his coat to drag him back down.

“I told him I��d sooner die than fuck him,” you tell him. “And I mean it.”

At this, Arthur sours. He fixes you with a long, hopeless look, too exhausted to be angry but with just enough energy left for irritation, then sighs and passes his hand over his face. “You think I like hearin’ you say shit like that? Scares the hell outta me, the way you keep talkin’ like you’re gonna follow me to the grave.”

“But I—”

“But nothin’. Listen” he interrupts, and he drops his voice down to little more than a whisper. “I’ve been talkin’ to Sadie and Abigail. When I’m gone, you go to them and they’ll—”

“Stop it,” you say in a small, shrill voice. “You’re not gonna die. I won’t let you.”

And then you start crying so hard that your shoulders shake. Big, heaving sobs that you’re sure half the damnable camp can hear, but you’re past caring. Let them hear what they’ve done. How they’ve ruined you, ruined him until he’s become but the torn up shadow of his former self. An apple core chewed to its very stem.

Arthur pulls you against his chest. He tucks your face against the junction of his neck and shoulder, and you can feel the heave and fall as he draws in a deep breath, then lets it out shuddery and slow. “No,” he murmurs, gripping you tight as you soak the collar of his shirt with tears. “Of course I won’t.”

When your sobs abate to hiccups, he shifts to press a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your cheek, and another to your mouth. And though it begins chastely enough, it deepens almost immediately into something urgent and hungry. Clutching at each other as though drowning, your hands frantically working him out of his coat and the nip of his teeth at your neck— until abruptly, he shoves you back and turns away, shoulders hunched as he shoves his hand over his mouth and coughs.

Relatively speaking, it’s not so bad this time. Just a few frightening seconds of hacks and wheezes. The terrible whistle of air through his ruined lungs, and then the short, choppy inhales afterward as he tries to catch his breath. At this point, there’s nothing unfamiliar in it, but the sharpness of that newly ruptured horror— the jagged ridge of horror at that first glimpse of blood at his lips— splinters through with each iteration. The wounds of the past do not mitigate those yet to come, and so it is with this.

You scramble off his cot and start towards his trunk, but he grabs the sleeve of your dress and shakes his head. He’s not yet recovered enough air to talk. Panting hard, he holds out the hand he’d covered his mouth with and flips it palm up to show you the absence of blood.

“I still think you should take some,” you reply, frowning.

“…s’alright,” he gasps, not looking it at all— face flushed from exertion and eyes bloodshot, spacing every cluster of words with a strained and shallow breath. “Besides, we’re gonna… go through that bottle of tonic in no time if you… keep givin’ me a spoonful every time I cough.”

“Water, then.” But when you pick up the pitcher by his bed, you find it empty. “Goddammit, I keep on forgetting to— alright, give me a second,” you say, skirt flaring out like a dervish as you turn and sprint out of his tent.

The barrel of rainwater is a ways up the ridge, wedged behind the chuckwagon. On your way there, you run past Charles, who calls out to you as he carries a clutch of dead pheasants that hang from his hands like bloodied feather dusters. You return his greeting with a hurried “hold-on-i’m-getting-water”, then promptly slam into someone very large and solid and fall on your ass, dropping the pitcher in the process.

“I’m so sorry,” you start to say, but the last word dies in your mouth, because halfway through saying it, you decide no, you’re not very sorry at all, actually.

The black-coated stranger, the one who’d put his hand on his gun when you’d pointed a knife at Micah, looks down at you with an inscrutable expression on his face. The pitcher has rolled to a stop right beside him, and when you reach for it, he steps on its handle with his boot.

He, Micah, and that other skinny bastard. You’d like to gut them. You’d like to see them choking on the gallows, legs dangling and dancing feebly in midair. You’d like to fasten the noose yourself, see in their eyes the same fear you feel now. Instead, you smile very sweetly and say in as polite a voice you can muster, “I sincerely hope to see you get hit by a train someday.”

The man spits on the ground and the smile he returns resembles the rictus grin of rigor mortis. “Micah did say you had a mouth on you. See if we can’t put it to some other use.”

“I bite,” you reply tersely.

“Not without teeth—”

“That’s enough.” Charles interrupts, striding over. His voice is calm and forceful, in that quiet way those assured of their own strength eschew volume. He stands over you, and you find yourself face-to-face with one of the dead birds he’s carrying, its round amber eyes glassy and still. A compatriot, you think. Both your fates wholly dependent on the volitions of men with guns.

The stranger’s mouth tightens to a half-sneer, but he raises his boot. You snatch the pitcher away as though he might change his mind, clutching it to your chest like it’s precious.

For perhaps a second— a second that seems to stretch to minutes— he stares Charles in the eye. And though you can see neither of their faces very well from your place on the ground, you can well imagine the line of tension drawn between them, taut and electric as wire. Then he shrugs and steps to the side. He continues down the ridge, deliberately clipping Charles by the shoulder as he stalks towards the hitching post.

You wave away Charles’ outstretched hand and get to your feet by yourself, patting dirt from your dress in faint puffs of dust. “Thank you,” you say. The second time today that you’ve had to subject yourself to the uncomfortable ordeal of gratitude.

“Don’t know what Dutch was thinking, letting Micah bring in men like that,” Charles says in a low voice. “The way he looks at you and the other women…”

“Yeah, I… think I’ll stick closer to the girls from now on.”

“You do that.” He watches as the stranger’s back diminishes with distance, the black coat melting in with the shade of the pines. “And I’ll keep an eye on him.”

As he walks with you towards the chuckwagon, you wipe the pitcher clean with your skirt and briefly mention the day’s catch, the bluegill bright and iridescent in its panic as it had flapped against the netting. The foolishness of fillets. The abundance of wild game in spite of the dearth of everything else, and poultry dishes. But for all your blathering, you’re unable to steer the conversation away from the inevitable. All roads lead to Rome, and all talk leads to Arthur.

“I don’t know,” you reply dully when Charles asks after him. You balance the lid of the rain barrel against its wooden rim, and the reflection that stares back from the crescent of revealed water is dark-eyed and wan with uncertainty. You dip the ladle through the image like shattering a mirror and splash the water into the pitcher. “John said he was doing better. But I think he’s losing weight again, and he’s so pale, and…” Humorlessly, you huff out a bleak laugh. “He did promise not to die, so we’ve got that going for us, at least.”

Charles is quiet awhile. The rain water sloshes a little less noisily against the pitcher with each addition until it is nearly silent. Finally, he says, “I’ll see if I can’t convince Dutch to let me take on some of the scouting jobs in his place. Have him focus on hunting instead. It’d be easier on him. And he’d come back to you every night.”

The third thank you of the day, and by far the most meaningful. There is no simple phrase that springs to mind that doesn’t feel grossly inadequate.

“Charles,” you say, and the measure of trust you have in him makes him one of the perishingly few men you’d ever offer this to. “If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all…”

“Just be well,” he says. “Both of you.”

It’s funny, actually. You’d made this same proposition to Arthur early into your acquaintance, and his answer had been much the same. A simply stated, don’t die.

When you get back to the tent, Arthur’s lifting the saucer and peering at the roasted fish with some curiosity. “You cut me a fillet?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You fill the tin cup from his mess kit until there is scarcely a millimeter between rim and ripple and set it carefully on the bedside crate.

“Well, thanks. Appreciate it. Guess I should be sick more often if it makes you this sweet.”

The possibility of future illness is dementedly reassuring. He’s clearly trying to needle you a little, drive you to irritation to distract from despair, and you have to bite your lip to fight down wretched sentimentality.

“I still think it’s a stupid way to eat fish,” you say.

“Right,” he replies, groping in his satchel for a fork. “Because it’s so much smarter to risk my life every time I want a cut of trout.”

“Only because you think it’s appropriate to try and inhale half the fish with a single bite. You’re supposed to take small bites. You ever heard of savoring a meal?”

“You ever heard of efficiency?” he asks, and you playfully kick at his boot in response.

He says something impolite about your general taste in food. Impractical, he snickers, before gracing you with the worst mispronunciation of “hors d’oeuvres” you’ve ever heard. And you fall easily into the old pattern of banter, an ersatz normality at best. Like a single strip of gauze over an axe wound, fragile and frayed, but it’s something. It’s something.

He drains the cup only after a considerable amount of coaxing, and you suspect that it’s rather on purpose. Caretaking has never been your strong suit. It must be bizarre, and not without a considerable amount of confused satisfaction on his part, to watch you fuss over him like this, trying hard to turn the reticent, abrasive impulse to something gentle. Like a porcupine pulling out its own quills, shedding that which has cloistered its taciturn heart for so long.

When the plate is empty, he sets it aside and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then makes as if to set out again. You pull at his coat with both hands and state rather than ask, “What the hell are you doing.”

“Told you I’d take you out to that orchard.”

“Not when you’re half-dead on your feet, you’re not.”

He scoffs. “Can’t tell you how many times I been sent out on jobs in even worse shape than this.”

You say, “I know.”

“If you know, then—”

“It’s because I know!” you snap at him, a little spark of anger flaring like a sputter of hot oil. But not at him. “I’m not Dutch. I’m not about to ask you to drag yourself back on the road when you’re sick and exhausted and… and like this.” You sweep your arm horizontal as if presenting him for show. “And all for my sake.”

He stares at you like you’ve just recited something blasphemous to him. And him sitting there like a penitent silent to this new heresy. Not a word of denial.

“You keep doing things for me,” you say, voice breaking. Both your hands are balled up in your skirt, wadding up the worn linen with your knuckles white. “Even when you’re…”

Dying is the word that you won’t say.

… even when it’s supposed to be the other way around,” you amend. You kick his boot again. “You stupid man.”

The added insult has him quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re well matched, then.”

“Two idiots.”

“Two idiots,” he agrees, kicking off his boots. Arthur shrugs off his coat and tosses it expertly against the back of his chair, where it hangs in a perfect parabola, then heaves the rest of himself onto the narrow cot, squirming to the left until there’s just enough room for you to lie sideways.

When you pull down the tent flap and crawl in beside him, he stretches his arm out to accommodate you, letting you rest your head against his shoulder as he unties the ribbon binding your braid with one hand. He loosely combs through the plait until your hair curtains your back, the ends still waved.

“I talked to Charles about fish bones today,” you say, cheek pressed against his shirt.

“What’d he say?” His voice is vague and drowsy. A good sign. It’s the nights he can’t sleep that worry you the most.

“He said fish bones are thin enough that you can just eat them if you chew long enough.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think it’s awful.”

“Thank god,” he says. “For a second there I was a little worried you might agree with him. And that I’d have to beg you to never serve me fish again.”

You flick him on the shoulder and he kisses the top of your head, which seems an appropriate microcosm of your usual interactions. And as he drifts into sleep, you lay there awake for a long while, listening to the cadence of his breathing. The slow in and out of it, and the occasional wheeze interspersed like an afterthought. By the time you’re able to fall asleep, the bright line of sunshine splashed at the gap beneath the tent flaps has deepened to orange, stained red by evening.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #ask #rivetingrosie4 #my work #red dead depression 😊#in which quills

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rotshop · 3 years

Text

help girl i just woke up and im already thinking abt mag s/o again. anyway please consider ;

[ tw body horror, some brief light gore and violence ]

[ note ; reader is SLIGHTLY described. the only thing mentioned is that they have a noticeable, identifying scar on their face

hank + mag s/o

-he knew you even before the boombox incident. he doesn't even really remember how you two first met, he just remembers that you started talking to him and then just kinda kept coming back. at first he wasn't the biggest fan of you since he was 'doing just fine on his own,' but...he admittedly was already really attached to you. they've never been much of a talker and that's especially noticeable to you at that point in time but ,,, they respond enough with signing, nodding / shaking their head, or the occasional speaking that you're able to carry some conversations pretty well.

-he doesn't really. have. a lot of people in his life. you're really his only real close friend, it's kinda hard for him to fully wrap his head around it so !! they chose not to, instead focusing more-so on whatever it was you were rambling to them about that day.

-not super sure of where to put this lmao but ummm ehe . he's actually surprisingly touchy with you????? like. you've hung out at his house a few times and he just like. you'll start out sitting next to each other and you'll end up either laying with your head on their chest or vice versa . its . a little funny . you tease him about it a little and he just flicks your shoulder. also traces your scar a lot if you'll let them, they're not entirely sure why they do it, they just . like asking you about it occasionally.

-also you have scary dog privileges. they might look like any other grunt at that point but they're still tall as fuck and idk man !! something abt getting a blank stare from someone who towers over u would probably make u shut up and mind ur own damn business.

-again, he's not super good at fully recognizing / acknowledging certain thoughts and feelings of his but . yknow. he can definitely tell he at least worries about you a lot more than he would some other grunt he just met. he can definitely tell there's a reason he doesn't mind you touching him, whether by grabbing his hand to go show him something or just placing a hand on his shoulder or arm (most likely arm, again. hes tall. ). they can definitely tell there's a reason that they find themself genuinely enjoying your interactions.

-after the park thing you don't see them for a long time. everytime you try and call him the lines dead, everytime you try and ask others about him you just get choice words, all in all you're pretty much lost on the entire thing. sure, you know what happened but . it just never sits right with you. it doesn't help whenever people ask questions about them or give you wary looks because of your association, half steps back when you take one forward.

-anyway. yeah nevada goes to shit and you get magnified for the aahw. by now you just. don't really talk about hank. surprisingly, you have a little more of your old memories than the average mag !! congrats. problem is they're all foggy enough that you only really distantly decipher them. lmao. you aren't super high on the ladder but you're a pretty tough mag to beat. you're well known enough that other mags tend to hang around you when there's not much else going on. v2 mags especially think it's fun to mess around with you by jumping on your back or otherwise clinging onto you . idk man u've got like . a little family here .

-at one point or another there's an outing youre on that ends up going wrong. you get split up from the rest of your unit and are forced to hide out in some old abandoned building while you wait for backup. you're a little too injured to try and walk all the way back, a heavy gash on your side preventing you from doing too much in the moment. when you hear heavy steps on concrete you're able to give some sort of noise of relief, turning your head to look over your shoulder at whichever agent in your group had finally found you-

-you're instead met with red goggles and the end of a gun.

-any kind of relief is snatched away, you know damn well who it is by just the bit you can see in the dark alone. even standing in the shade between two windows (one of which you were sitting by, probably how they seen you in the first place- if that's the case though, it's a little weird they hadn't just shot at you through it.) you knew it was him. you're already stumblingly forcing yourself up to as much of your full height as you can manage, taking some kind of defensive position even as one of your hands ghosts over your gash. the throbbing pain of it and the feeling of blood sticking and running down your skin is enough that you can't seem to focus on the fact that he won't stop staring at your face.

-it doesn't take long before your legs seem to fail you, forcing you forward a bit as you kneel in some sort of attempt to keep upright. you're too busy hissing under your breath and screwing your eyes shut in pain as your hand covers your side to notice your company stepping forwards. you're snapped back to attention when there's a hand on your face, fingertips digging into your skin as they yank your head down a little further. you know you should be grabbing him, that you should be digging your claws into his torso and ripping him clean in half, throwing whatevers left aside and leaving. you know thats what you were told to do, what you were told they deserved anyway. yet, you aren't. instead, you're just giving some warning growl as you stare at them. you notice how the end of the gun is pointed away from you, how their touch seems to outline the mark on your face.

-"If you try and hurt me, I'll kill you." That's the only real heads up you get before he's crouching down and shoving your hand out of the way, grabbing something from his pocket to get to work on you. you don't fail to notice how little attention they're paying to you (aside from the focus on your wound, of course), that you could just rush forward and slam them into the ground if you really wanted.

-ok im skippin g ahead bc this is already way too goddamn long for hcs DEJWJCS

-anyway. it's a complicated relationship for a while. the others tend to avoid you a little but he just keeps showing up around you. they keep staring at you and just hanging around in your general area. it's not that much of an irritant if you ignore all the weird emotions and thoughts it keeps bringing to the forefront of your mind, forcing you to once again try and meddle with your memories.

-eventually he just starts walking over to you and sitting down next to you. sometimes he doesn't say anything at all, just sitting there and seeming to wait for one thing another- he never seems to find whatever that is, as he always gets up and leaves without a word at some point or another. then they start talking, its just little things at first, point-blank statements you can't say much on. sometimes they're just saying they and the other three will be gone for a bit othertimes it's some half-demand to let them look at the stitches they did on you (semi-related, he's not good at them. the stitches are pretty rough. at one point or another sanford has to redo them properly lmao)

-but then there's one particular night. they do the normal thing, come over, sit down next to you, not say a word. this time though you note how they're facing you. instead of some reminder or a demand for anything, he's pulling his ask down and asking a simple question. 'What do you remember?'

-it's a long conversation. he's talking more than he normally would by a long shot, occasionally stopping whenever his words seem to especially fail him and get stuck in his throat. you don't even really remember moving around, or even him pulling you in any way, you just know you somehow end up laying next to him with your head on his chest.

-whenever the memories do seem to click into place, it's hard. you have a lot of choice words for them yourself, months of being left alone without a word bubbling up with a vengeance, they listen to them. while some mags (such as yourself) do have the ability to speak, the san and dei don't think they've ever heard one with that much emotion in their voice. they've especially never seen a mag just break down like you do, they're both tensing up a little from their far away spot when hank's walking closer to you. instead of you lashing out or swiping at him though, you just sit there while he wraps his arms around you (as best as he can at least, it's a little difficult but he's able to get them around your neck and reach his other hand behind you well enough). you're eventually doing the same to him, though it's more so just your hands resting on their back.

-it takes a good while for proper trust to be rebuilt along with an honest, proper explanation from hank that only you're privy to. eventually though, there's enough trust that you're able to hang around him again without narrowly avoiding an argument or anything. they don't like being super affectionate or 'vulnerable' in front of the other two, so most times they prefer being in your or their room. also they're still touchy lmao, doesn't help that you're mag sized now and so they just want to hold you . its hard to explain, he's never been super affected by others heights and even when he is it's usually a negative thing for him but . for some reason . he just likes being shorter / smaller than you lol ,,,,,,,, hope you like holding them a lot bc that's what you're gonna be doing

-holy shit these are long so . i think .i am going to stop here.

#hank j wimbleton x reader #madcom x reader #madness combat x reader #madcom imagines #madness combat imagines #rot writes #hank 'jmy s/o is twice my size and could turn me into a fine wine if they really wanted to and i love them for it' wimbleton

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the-bau-quinjet · 3 years

Note

hiii! i don’t know if you have done this but can you do a hotch x reader where they get kidnapped by tobias instead of reid? xx

4 Months

Warning: Criminal Minds level violence, drugs, torture, rabid dogs

Word Count: 3562

a/n: I decided to switch up some of the specifics, just to make it a bit more fun to read. I hope you like it :) Also, we're pretending Rossi was there bc he is really the father of the group and it fit better than having Gideon 🤷‍♀️

Masterlist

"JJ, we have to split up." You barely looked back at her, missing the nervous expression on her face as you ran toward the cornfield. "I'll take the field, you take the barn."

You slowed to a brisk walk as you neared the cornfield, raising your gun in front of you. You couldn't help but think about how pissed Hotch would be if he knew what you were doing.

You shook off the thought, knowing he would do the same if the roles were reversed.

Spotting movement, you moved farther into the corn, trying to spot any signs indicating which way Tobias went. A bent corn husk was the last thing you saw before the world went black.

"He's not a witness. He's the unsub." Hotch's eyes went wide as he realized you and JJ were there without backup. "Call JJ, now." He instructed Morgan, taking out his own phone to call you.

Hotch's eyes met Morgan's as both calls went unanswered. No words were exchanged as everyone ran out to the SUVS, putting on bulletproof vests as they went.

Hotch was nervously tapping the steering wheel the entire drive to Hankel's house. He couldn't stop replaying your last conversation.

"Y/N, you and JJ go talk to Hankel. Find out if he saw anything." Despite his stern expression, you could tell his eyes were smiling at you.

"Sure thing." You nodded, mouthing 'I love you' before turning to JJ.

That's it. He didn't even have the chance to mouth it back. JJ would've seen, and even though the team has theories about your relationship, you haven't confirmed anything yet.

He pulled into the driveway, running up to the house, gun out before anyone could stop him.

Prentiss followed Hotch, Morgan and Reid took the left, Rossi and a local cop took the right.

They tore through the house, clearing it with fierce determination, but came up empty.

"It's clear." Rossi called, joining Hotch and Prentiss in the living room. "Where are Morgan and Reid?"

Hotch spared a glance out the window, discovering the barn likely being cleared by the missing agents.

Everyone ran out of the house, arriving outside the barn just as Morgan and Reid lead a distressed JJ outside.

"What happened?" Hotch questioned, glancing over JJ's shoulder into the barn. Clearly you weren't there, but he needed to hope.

"We split up. Y/N went into the cornfield... I had- I had to shoot them." Her voice was detached, eyes glazed over.

"The dogs." Morgan clarified, leading JJ to a paramedic.

"Dammit. The house is clear. No sign of Y/N or Hankel." Hotch ran a hand through his hair, trying to clear his mind. The worry was nearly overpowering, but it wouldn't help find you.

The sheriff approached, removing his hat. "A deputy two towns over gave directions to a man matching Hankel's description. He's headed for a hunting lodge."

Morgan nodded to Prentiss. "We'll check it out."

Your head was pounding. A vile scent reached your nose, causing your eyes to flicker open. You flinched at the closeness of the man in front of you.

"Tobias..." The name slipped out in a whisper.

"They're not here. It's just me now." He stated, calmer than you would've expected.

"Who are you?" You asked, trying to portray a fake sense of calm.

"I'm Rafael." He pulled out a revolver, adding a single bullet to the six chambers.

"No. You don't have to do this." Your heart ached, fear gripping your body as he aimed the gun at you.

"It is my duty to enact God's will." He said, right before pulling the trigger.

Hotch pulled back into the driveway, leading Garcia into the house.

"His computer setup is in there. If there's even a hint of where they might've gone, I need you to find it." Hotch gestured to the back room.

Penelope nodded. Carrying her own computer bags, she followed Derek into the depths of the house.

"What've we got?" Hotch questioned those remaining around the table.

"He knew he could throw us off, pretend to be looking for a hunting lodge." Emily spoke quickly.

"We've got piles of information, journals, notebooks. We're still sifting through it all." JJ added, shirt still bloody from yesterday.

Just then, Reid rushed in from another room. "The walls in the bedroom, they are covered in the latin phrase 'honora patrem tuum', honor thy father."

"Garcia, look for anything you can find about his father." Hotch gave out orders, but his focus was elsewhere. What was happening to you?

"Over here!" Morgan called from outside.

The team ran around the house to see Morgan opening a cellar door. Nodding slightly, Hotch and Morgan made there way inside.

"Tobias Hankel, FBI." Morgan shouted, receiving no answer.

They quickly found the dead body of none other than Hankel's father. Even the new information did little to calm the worry brewing inside of Hotch.

"Confess your sins." He ordered.

"My sins? I don't have any sins." You did your best to hold back the tears, trying to figure out who you were talking to.

"Everyone has sins. Confess, and you will be forgiven." He stared you down, waiting for a response.

You simply shook your head, mouth slightly agape. The smell was getting to you. You couldn't think straight with the pain in your head.

"I- I don't know what-"

"YES YOU DO. CONFESS." He hit you, whipping your head to the left.

"Hotch, he took drugs to escape. Dilaudid cut with a psychedelic." Emily relayed the information her and JJ got from Tobias's sponsor.

"We've got something too. The dates in his journals don't add up. He was talking about his father as if he was alive months after he killed him."

"His father beat him, preached about sin." Emily replied, putting the pieces together alongside Hotch.

"Split personality. Profile the father. He could be the key to finding Y/N." Even just saying your name he felt his heart clench.

"Who are you?" You questioned him as soon as he walked through the door, trying to figure out who you were dealing with this time.

"Tobias." He moved about the cabin almost nervously.

"Who was here before?" You knew Rafael, but the other personality was a mystery.

"My father." Definitely the most violent. He was who you had to look out for. "I'm sorry if he hurt you."

Tobias looked over you newly forming bruises before pulling off his belt.

"No. No what are you doing?" You felt your heart rate increase as he wrapped the belt around your arm. You could barely register the words he was saying, something about escaping from the pain.

"Please. I don't want it. I'm fine." You begged, tears brimming your eyes. He ignored your pleas, injecting the drug into your bloodstream.

Despite how much you hated it, you felt the relief he was talking about. The pain was gone, even if just briefly. You thought about your time spent with Hotch. It didn't feel like long enough. You wanted more. You had so much you wanted to do with him.

"Aaron..." You mumbled his name between kisses. "They could see us." You did little to stop him, despite your words.

"We should tell them." He whispered against your mouth, holding you close. "They would be happy for us."

You sighed blissfully, forehead pressed against his. "Really? You know they've got a pool going to see when we'd finally get together. Who do you think had money on 4 months ago?" You laughed into his neck, pulling him closer.

"My bet's on Rossi. He knows us both too well." Aaron smiled, a full genuine smile.

"You're probably right, but just to make it interesting, I'm betting Reid. He's too observant not to have noticed." You squinted at the window, knowing Reid was staring at the closed blinds on the other side.

That earned a laugh, one you could feel in his chest pressed tightly to your own.

"I love you." He kissed your head, content to hold you for a little while longer.

"I love you too." You leaned ever farther into him. "We can tell them when we get back from this next case."

"Deal."

"Get in here!" Reid called from the computer room, pointing to a screen where you were being broadcast. You were handcuffed and tied to a chair, clearly beaten.

"Pick one to die." The voice of Tobias could be heard, despite him not being visible on the screen.

You shook your head, staring into the camera. You wanted to plead for Hotch to save you, but you knew it wouldn't be fair. He didn't need that on his conscience.

"Choose one, and I will free another."

You shook your head again, trying to think of a clue you could give the team. "I won't let you hunt them like a poacher."

"Now. Or I will kill them all." He threatened, lifting you from the ground.

"I'll pick who lives." You stuttered, breaths coming fast and short. "The right screen."

You were forced to watch as he turned off the camera, leaving the screens to show the heinous murders he was about to commit.

Suddenly, Rossi was talking to you through the screen. The sight of him nearly brought you to tears.

"Y/N. This isn't your fault. None of it. You can't blame yourself. We will find you, but I need you to be there when we do."

You knew exactly what he meant. You were already blaming yourself, despite Rossi's father like relationship with you, it was hard to believe him.

It did give you the strength to remember the team though. You needed to see them, all of them, again.

"He's back!" Morgan called everyone in to view the screens again.

"Confess your sins." They watched as he beat you.

You cried. You begged him to stop. You begged Tobias for help, but nothing worked.

Hotch felt his heart break even more with every word.

Suddenly, you were on the ground, still tied to the chair. You were seizing, Charles Hankel watching as it happened.

The screen went dark, causing Hotch to punch the desk.

"Dammit." He shouted. He didn't care if his worry was beginning to poke through the surface. He needed to find you and he needed to do it now.

"The timestamp." Emily's voice drew him out of his head. "There's only a few minutes between the time of death and when it was posted. He's got to be close to the crime scene."

Finally. Something that felt like progress.

They watched the screen as you appeared again.

"Choose one to die." It was Rafael this time.

"I can't. I can't do it." Your face betrayed every emotion you were feeling inside.

"Pick one." He stated again.

"Me. Kill me." You nearly begged.

"You said you weren't one of them. Your team has 7 other members. Choose one of them to die."

You shook your head, fear gripping you once again as he pulled out the revolver.

"Choose." He connected the gone to your forehead, resting it there.

"No." He pulled the trigger, watching as you flinched.

"Choose." You shook your head, tensing as he pulled the trigger again.

Hotch felt his heart in his stomach, internally begging you to just say a name. He couldn't watch you die, not like this.

"Choose." He pulled the trigger yet again at your silence.

"I won't do it." You held firm, knowing you had limited chances.

"Choose one to die."

You opened your mouth, panting as an idea came to you.

"I choose... Aaron Hotchner." Your heart ached even saying it, but you needed to give him a clue. "He's a classic narcissist. Thinks he's better than everyone. He'd go to his grave knowing he was wrong." You winced internally, trying not to give away your plan.

Hotch left the room, trying to understand your words. The two of you had just argued about the definition of classic narcissism.

"I think you're wrong." You laughed at his amused expression.

"Yeah? Or do you just like making me exasperated?" He questioned your motives, pulling you closer as you laid in bed together.

"Maybe a little bit of both." You shrugged, leaning up to kiss him. "Promise me something?" You asked, a nervous expression on your face.

"What?" He looked at you with so much concern, you felt your heart beat a little faster.

"If... If I die, you can't blame yourself." He opened his mouth to protest, but you kept going. "I know you Aaron. You'd take it to grave thinking it was your fault. I can't let you do that. Not when I know you blame yourself for Haley's death." You felt your heart break for him and the pain he had been through. "Promise me." You were nearly begging.

"I promise." He whispered, his throat tight at the idea of losing you.

He was brought back to the present by the sound of Rossi's voice.

"Hotch, you know Y/N didn't mean any of that." Rossi tried gently, unsure of how Hotch was coping with your situation.

"I'm not a narcissist. What's my worst quality?" He looked at the apprehensive looks everyone was giving him. "I'll start, I have no sense of humor."

He nodded along as his team listed his faults.

"None of you said I ever put myself above the team, because I don't. Y/N and I just argued about the definition of classic narcissism." He paced, trying to put it together. "I'd take it to my grave... Grave was a hint."

"What? How do you know?" Reid shook his head, trying to understand the logic.

"I made a promise. It's a long story." He shook his head, trying to clear the memory so he could focus. "Y/N knew I would remember it."

"A cemetary. It's got to be a cemetary." Morgan added.

"No cemeteries on the map." Garcia was typing away on the computer.

"Like a poacher." Reid whispered, staring at the screen.

"Reid?" Hotch looked at him, eyes pleading for an answer.

"That's what Y/N said in the first video. 'I won't let you hunt them like a poacher.'" He said it louder, more excited than before.

"Garcia, any reports of poaching in the area?" Hotch asked, the idea of finding you causing hope to erupt in his chest.

"Yes, at Marshall Parrish... and there's a cemetery on the grounds." She gave them the address, watching as they ran out to the SUVs.

"I'm sorry." Tobias said it so softly, you were almost certain you didn't hear it at all.

"Wh- why?" Your eyebrows pulled together in confusion, trying to make sense of it.

"He'll win. In the end, he always does." He rose from the crouched position, slowly injecting you with more drugs.

"Hotch!" You screamed, feeling arms restraining you from behind.

You watched as he went into the hostage situation, unarmed and without a vest.

"Derek. Let me go!" You struggled in his grasp, straining to get free.

"There's nothing you can do, he's already inside." He stated the truth, although it did little to calm your nerves.

You settled down, throat tight with worry. You bit your lip, eyes flitting between the door and windows. You just needed a sign, anything to say he was alright.

The sound of a gun firing stunned you. You were frozen in place, fear consuming you. You had just told him you loved him for the first time this morning. What if you never get to say it again? What if that's all the time you got.

You stared in horror as everyone ran toward the house, only to freeze when a voice shouted everything was fine.

"It's fine." He huffed, carrying the small child out of the house toward a waiting EMT. "Baxter is dead."

"Aaron..." You whispered the name, realizing how powerless you felt when he was in danger. The two of you made eye contact across the yard, a reassuring look in his eye.

"Aaron..." You whispered, blinking rapidly as you slowly came to.

"What about Aaron." Charles. Tobias's dad was back.

"I couldn't stop him. I couldn't keep him safe." You muttered to yourself, not fully understanding the situation.

"Is that a confession?" He asked, voice hard.

"Yes." It was more of a breath of air than a word, but it was all he needed to condemn you.

He unlocked your handcuffs, forcing a shovel into your newly freed arms before dragging you outside.

"Dig." he instructed plainly, watching over you as stray tears wet the ground beneath you.

"Clear." Morgan called from one side of the shed.

"Clear" Hotch replied from the other. With the whole team in the small space, it wasn't exactly necessary but it was habit.

Hotch could feel his nerves picking up again as he realized this meant you were still with Tobias. He paced back and forth, feeling powerless.

"Spread out. They have to be on foot." He left without waiting for a response, turning left with JJ to look for you.

You did your best to stall, but Charles wasn't the most patient.

"Dig faster."

"I'm trying. I'm trying." You whimpered, movements speeding up ever so slightly. The massive knife in his hands causing your own to shake.

"You're weak. Move." He huffed, throwing his jacket to the ground before ripping the shovel from your hands.

A flash of light in the trees caught your eye. Flashlights. Your team. Aaron.

Your eyes flickered between the man in front of you and the trees, causing him to turn.

You took the split second he wasn't looking to grab the gun from his jacket, swiftly aiming it as he turned back to you knife raised.

"Only one bullet in that gun." He lunged for you, falling backwards after you pulled the trigger.

You dropped the gun, quickly tossing the knife away.

"Tobias?" You cried, moving back toward him.

"You killed me." He seemed surprised, but grateful at the same time.

You felt the tears pouring down your face as you apologized.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." You grabbed his hand, watching the light fade from his eyes as he asked one final question.

"You think I'll get to see my mom again?"

You barely registered the arms around you, pulling you to your feet. You couldn't take your eyes off of Tobias. He wasn't the one who hurt you. He helped you, or at least tried.

"I killed him." Your breathing picked up, vision blurring.

"Y/N, look at me." You turned to the voice, blinking rapidly to stop the tears.

"Aaron?" You took a stuttering breath, trying to make sure this was real.

"I'm here. It's okay. You're okay. You're safe now." His words were just as reassuring to himself as they were to you. You caught JJ's eye over Hotch's shoulder, quickly moving to hug her.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry. I never should've-" You cut her off.

"None of this was your fault. It was my idea to split up. I'm so sorry." You cried into her shoulder, knowing how guilty she must've felt.

She hugged you back, tears brimming her own eyes at seeing you alive again.

She lead you to the EMT, not commenting on the look you threw over your shoulder at Aaron. He quickly followed you to the ambulance. JJ left you to talk to Hotch, who stayed beside you the entire time the medics looked you over.

"I didn't mean it." You said when you were finally alone, sitting between the open doors of the ambulance.

"What?" Aaron questioned, his mind not following your own train of thought.

"When... When I had to choose. I didn't mean any of it." You could feel the tears coming, but this time you did nothing to hold them back.

"I know. I knew the whole time." You brushed your tears away, looking you in the eye. "I love you so much." He whispered, his own eyes feeling watery.

"I love you too." You leaned into him, relishing in the feeling of his arm around you. You couldn't help but look over at the team, all of whom quickly pretended not to be watching. You huffed a laugh.

"Yeah, I think they're going to have some questions." Hotch smiled, glad to see you happy even if just for a second.

"After this case, right?" You looked back at him, confirming you still wanted to share your relationship with the team.

"Deal." He smiled, arm tightening around your shoulders to pull you closer.

You couldn't help but bring it up on the jet ride home.

"So, who had money on four months ago?" You questioned, tucked into Aaron's side on the couch.

"What?" Emily raised a brow at your sudden statement.

"That's when we started dating." You grinned at her shocked expression.

"Dammit Reid." Morgan huffed, handing over the money.

"Don't forget Rossi!" Reid high fived the older man, the two grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Looks like we were both right." Hotch smiled into your hair, trying to hide his laugh.

"Yeah. We make a pretty good team." You smiled, leaning into his touch.

"I love you." He murmured, face still in your hair. You turned your face into his chest before responding.

"I love you too."

Permanent taglist:

@averyhotchner @jesuswasnotawhiteman @madewithsebstan

#aaron hotchner x you #hotch x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #hotch xy/n #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner fic #hotch fic #hotch fluff #hotch one shot #hotch angst

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ncssian · 3 years

Text

A Favor: Part Twenty-Three

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: so yeah this isn’t my best work bc i havent been feeling great lately but i hope you guys can stay patient with me until i get my shit together. we’re almost to the end🤞

***

Sitting crammed between Elain and Feyre on the gray couch in Lana’s office, Nesta has to cross her legs prettily and pretend she doesn’t want to peel out of her skin right there. She doesn’t know what she was thinking when she invited her sisters to one of her therapy sessions, but she’s assuming it would be considered rude to kick them out now.

“Who wants to speak first?” Lana’s bob swings as she looks at each of them. The office is ice cold today, and Feyre and Elain’s presence doesn’t help the chill in the air.

Nesta crosses her arms before she can be asked to speak. “No, thank you,” she says. She knows everyone probably expects better from her, but no way in hell is she going to be the first to open up in front of this crowd. “Feyre,” she turns to her youngest sister instead, “why don’t you say something?”

“Actually, why don’t you set the example, Nesta?” Lana gives her a look, making her cheeks redden with irritation.

“Fine,” Nesta grumbles. She clears her throat. “As you can see, I have made moves to reconnect with my sisters. I invited them here because I hoped that therapy would bring us closer and also make them more… tolerable.”

Elain coughs, “Bitch.”

Nesta smiles tightly. “Elain could especially use this, I think.”

Lana is already frowning. She never frowns this early into a session. “We’ll start with an easy question, then. What’s been on your mind lately, Nesta?”

Nesta purses her lips, pretending to think. “Nothing important. I’m looking at jobs for the summer. I think Azriel keeps sneaking money into my purse, and it’s starting to become more than a little condescending. I caught up with some friends from school, and I was polite enough to pay for lunch.” She mentions off to the side to Elain, “Lucien was there, too.”

“Why would I care?” Elain sneers. She spies Lana’s disapproving look and lowers her head demurely. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

“That’s alright,” Lana says. “Why don’t you go next?”

“Me?” Elain’s head snaps up, and Nesta holds in her snicker.

“Start by describing your relationship with Nesta. I heard you two used to be very close.” Lana uncaps her pen, preparing to write.

Elain flushes lightly and folds her hands. “That was when we were children. The only thing keeping us together was that we shared a home. When we stopped living in the same place, some of us had no problem leaving others in the dust.”

“You can use my name,” Nesta rolls her eyes, “I’m right here.”

From the corner of her vision, Feyre cringes.

“Are you saying you feel abandoned by Nesta?” Lana continues probing.

Elain’s answering silence tells more than enough. Therapy must actually be paying off, though, because Nesta only thinks about interrupting and defending herself for a second before shaking it off. Her mind focuses on the word abandonment instead.

Lana is focusing on the same thing, because she leans closer and says, “Being abandoned bothers you?”

“I never said that,” Elain says indignantly.

“It would bother most people.”

Nesta watches Elain sigh and blink her big doe eyes at Lana. She’s always been able to use those eyes on anybody for anything. “I just don’t understand why I’m the villain for expecting a little loyalty,” Elain says sweetly. “Especially when you take a look at this face.” She cups her round cheeks. “You know psychology. How could you abandon this face?”

Nesta’s jaw hangs open. “Are we still talking about me?” She remembers Cassian telling her the story behind Azriel ghosting Elain, and a pang of guilt and pity hits her. She still hasn’t talked with Elain about why Azriel left Velaris, and she knows she won’t be able to decide whether to spare Az or not until she does.

“So that’s my turn,” Elain finishes up. “Feyre can go next.”

Lana is writing something sharply on her notepad, but she nods coolly. “Feyre, how would you describe your relationship with your sisters?”

“Oh, we don’t have time for all of that,” Feyre laughs awkwardly and waves a hand.

Nesta agrees, but the look Lana gives Feyre tells her that yes, they do have time.

Gulping, Feyre glances around. “Well, I was born last, so I guess that made me the outsider of the family. I never had much in common with my sisters, but now that we’re older I… hoped that we would grow past that.”

Translation: she hoped that once she found her happy ending in Rhysand’s arms, poor little Nesta and Elain would happily assimilate into her new community of wealthy friends, putting the cherry on top of her perfect life. And while Elain did that exact thing, it’s always bothered Feyre that Nesta won’t do the same.

Feyre continues, “I admit I’m not the best at understanding Nesta. Elain and I get along fine now, but Nesta…” Feyre meets her eyes. “It’s like nothing we do is enough for her, but for some reason I can’t stop trying.”

“Whose fault is that?” Nesta mutters.

“You want her approval,” Lana hums, taking notes.

“Is that what it is?” Feyre looks away.

Nesta refrains from saying yes, that’s exactly what it is, and it’s not my problem if you keep looking for something I can’t give.

“What are your feelings about that, Nesta?” Lana turns her focus to her. “Remember that this is a safe space.”

It really isn’t, not with two siblings holding long term grudges against Nesta. But once and for all, she’s going to set the record straight. “I spent most of my life being a bad sister.” Nesta’s voice is apathetic, straightforward. “I let Feyre take the burden of providing for us even though I was the oldest, and I didn’t know how to be anything other than cruel to my family. So once I had the means to do so, I cut everyone off for all of our sakes. I still don’t regret it, because being a stranger is better than being a bad sister.”

In that way, Nesta is a bit like her mother. Nesta was angry after her death, but she knows she would have been even angrier if Magdalene Archeron had lived and continued to be a disappointing parent. In that way, both of them are wise for leaving their families when they did.

“Or you could just be a good sister,” Elain interrupts with a drawl.

Nesta smirks bitterly at her. “I’d rather die.”

Feyre takes in a breath. “Why? Why are you like that with us?” She blinks furiously, and Nesta can see the simmer of her emotions. “It was okay when we thought you hated everybody, but you don’t. You only hate me and Elain.”

Nesta looks to Lana for help, but her therapist is sitting this one out. She sighs through her nose. “I don’t hate you,” she says, even though they might never understand. The next line comes with great difficulty. “I’ve loved you since before I even knew what love was. But I don’t like you very much, Feyre, and you don’t like me, either. Please stop trying to change that.”

When she finally meets Feyre’s eyes, though, they’re glimmering with tears. “How can I stop trying to change that?” Feyre whispers. “How can I give up on us like that?”

For Nesta to give Feyre and Elain the relationship they want from her would require nothing but lies on her part. And as much as she wishes she was capable of lying about this, she can’t do it.

Looking away and down at her hands, Nesta mutters, “It’s not fun for me either, but it’s how I am. I can’t be easy or friendly with you. I hate watching you try to make me be easy or friendly.”

Nobody says anything to that, but when Nesta looks up again Lana gives her a remote nod that Feyre and Elain don’t catch. Thank you for your vulnerability, it says.

“You said something interesting, Nesta,” Lana breaks the silence. “Did you see your sisters as your responsibility to raise?”

Nesta shrugs. “I was the oldest,” she repeats.

“Your father was the oldest.”

“He wouldn’t do shit even if you held a gun to his head, so I was up next.” Though Nesta hadn’t done shit either. Neither had Elain, but the rules have always been different for her. Elain redeems herself to others by handing out sunny smiles and pretending to have the intelligence of a fawn.

Lana stares at Nesta until Nesta’s skin starts to heat. “What?” she says defensively.

Ignoring the other two women in the room, Lana leans forward. “You told me once early into our relationship that part of the reason you left Tennessee was to get away from your sisters. You said you were heartbroken when they ended up following you here.”

Nesta doesn’t breathe or look to see her sisters’ reactions.

“Now I’m going to ask: did you really want to get away from your sisters, or did you want to escape the feeling of failing them?”

Nesta doesn’t know how to answer, because to her they might as well be the same thing. Having Feyre and Elain around is like having a weight tied to her chest. The lingering guilt every time Feyre is in a room, her existence screaming I’m the reason you’re still alive. Elain’s constant expectations of unconditional support and loyalty, whether it’s reciprocated or not. It’s all so heavy. And it all goes back to the fact that the three of them were once just helpless children.

If she couldn’t take care of her sisters, how is she supposed to take care of any child, ever?

Nesta releases a weary sigh. “You’re going to bring this up the next time we have the baby talk, aren’t you?”

Lana’s eyes sparkle. “Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet.” But Nesta can see from where she sits that her therapist’s notepad is covered in bullet points.

***

“I need to use the bathroom.” Feyre is hopping back and forth on her feet once the session is over. “You guys head down to the parking lot without me.” She exits in a rush, leaving the two sisters alone. Nesta hisses in frustration, nearly chasing after Feyre so she won’t have to face the inevitable awkward conversation with Elain.

By the end of the session, it was Elain that broke and pleaded with Nesta, “Don’t do everything we want, then. Just keep doing better, the way you’ve already been doing. I’ll be happy with just that.”

Nesta was surprised that Elain had even noticed her efforts, but she retorted, “And how do you plan to do better?”

To which Elain twirled her hair and murmured something halfheartedly about, “I might be more open to taking criticism or whatever.”

Though it was the absolute bare minimum, it was still a relief for Nesta to hear Elain admit that she has flaws worth criticizing.

Now, Nesta clutches the straps of her purse and turns for the stairwell leading to the parking lot. Elain follows without comment.

Inside the stairwell, Nesta asks, “Have you spoken to Azriel since he left Velaris?”

Elain looks surprised at the sudden question, and doesn’t remember to be guarded when she answers, “No. Why?”

Nesta shrugs, her heels thumping loudly on the linoleum stairs. “Because I know what happened between you two. I know why he left.”

Elain halts midstep, grabbing Nesta’s arm and turning to face her with wide eyes. “What do you mean, you know? He told you?”

“He told Cassian, and Cassian told me.” Nesta hardly cares that she’s being a poor friend to Azriel by spilling all this to Elain, and continues, “If I had known he was such a coward, I would have kicked him out of our place a long time ago… but I figured I would get your input on it first.”

She’s never seen Elain look so genuinely pleading before. “Get my input on what?” Elain breathes. “What did he say about me? Was it something I did?”

At that torn face that borders on heartbroken, Nesta decides that she’ll do more than kick Azriel out of the cabin. She’ll kick him off the whole mountain.

She shoves Elain’s back to get Elain detached from her and moving down the stairs again, and as they walk, Nesta spills everything she knows. She tells Elain about Rhysand’s talent of shoving his nose into places it doesn’t belong, and how one conversation with him managed to convince Azriel to ditch Elain for good. She tells her about how instead of having a straightforward conversation with Elain, Azriel chose to leave the city and hide out in the mountains like a pussy. She might sound blunt, but Elain needs blunt. She needs to know the unfiltered truth of things.

By the time they reach the floor where their cars are parked, Elain is silent. “Did he really say that?” she finally asks quietly. “He said he wants me to hate him?”

“That’s what I heard.” After a moment, Nesta feels the need to add, “You should hate him, though. He fucked up bad.”

When Elain continues strolling for their cars without replying, concern bites at Nesta. “You are mad at him, right? And mad at Rhysand? You’re not going to forgive them, right?”

“I’m not a total pushover,” Elain snaps. She stares at the cement ground as they walk. “I’m just… more disappointed than anything else. He gave up so easily.” She chuckles without humor. “It sounds like he was looking for an excuse to get away from me.”

Nesta frowns. “I don’t think he would’ve spent so long moping around our house if he wanted to leave you.” Though they can never truly know what Azriel was thinking or feeling until he grows a pair and talks to Elain. Still, she shudders at having to defend him.

“I take it he doesn’t mope anymore?” Elain says.

Nesta doesn’t know how to answer that truthfully. She knows there’s more to Azriel than he lets her and Cassian see, and she knows he’s gotten better at keeping his feelings to himself. So she says, “It looks like he’s doing better, but I really don’t know.” They reach Elain’s car.

“Were you in love with him?” Nesta suddenly asks. Or worse, is she still in love with him?

Elain digs around for her keys in her purse. “You know how I am. Of course I was.”

“Not anymore, though?”

Elain looks up, keys now in hand. “It’s hard to still feel love for someone I haven’t talked to in two months.”

Then it wasn’t real love. Nesta is relieved, even though it doesn’t change the fact that Elain is hurting either way.

Elain jabs her keys at Nesta and says sharply, “Don’t you dare punish him for what he did. That’s for me to decide on.”

Nesta’s brow creases in refusal. “I’ll do what I need to do, and you do you.” She’ll have to be careful with her plotting, though, considering Azriel is Cassian’s brother.

“No.” Elain surprises Nesta with the force in her tone. “He’s your roommate and your friend. Keep treating him like it.”

Elain makes it sound easier than it is, and Nesta wants to argue until she sees Feyre heading down the parking lot toward them. “Fine,” she grumbles halfheartedly.

Elain gives her one final long look, not of threat but something else. “Thank you—for inviting us today.” That’s all she says before getting in the driver’s seat of her little red car. At the same time, Feyre catches up to them.

“Where are you parked?” Feyre pants as she approaches Nesta. She sounds a bit out of breath, like she ran to get here before Nesta could drive off alone.

Nesta points down the lot to where her scrappy old car is waiting for her, and Feyre straightens up with a grim smile. “I’ll walk you.”

Nesta knows that arguing isn’t worth it, so she allows Feyre to trail her the rest of the way to her car. Once they reach the old thing, Nesta gives a curt goodbye and heads straight for the driver’s door. Before she can touch the handle, Feyre attacks her from behind with a hug.

“Get off me, freak!” Nesta tries to jostle her way out of Feyre’s arms. She tries being nice to her sisters one time and this is what she gets—

Feyre only squeezes her tighter. “You don’t have to hug back. Just let me love you my way.”

Nesta squirms for another second before stilling. Swallowing tightly, she stares at the reflection of herself and Feyre in the car door window. One of her hands goes to where Feyre’s hands are clasped around her stomach, and she stands there without moving. She can’t remember the last time she shared affection with a family member like this, but it must have been before their mother died.

The warmth at Nesta’s back doesn’t leave, like Feyre is trying to pour all her understanding into the hug. Silently saying, I’m finally starting to get it.

In a way, Nesta is starting to get it, too. After all, how do sisters with such a complicated history begin to forgive each other?

Not by apologizing, but by doing better in the future.

***

On her way home, Nesta remembers at the last minute to stop by Gwyn’s apartment to pick up one of her sweaters. She doesn’t know when Gwyn started raiding her closet like it was a free mall, but she has a school event next week and doesn’t plan on letting her nicest clothes rot at Gwyn’s forever.

Nesta enters using the key beneath the doormat, knowing Gwyn is at work and won’t mind her stopping by. She scans the living and dining areas for a glimpse of brown cashmere, but only finds scattered books and a disorganized mess. Her fingers twitch with the urge to stop and tidy up the place, but she continues hunting for the sweater. Gwyn promised it would be waiting in plain sight for her.

Realizing the scatter-brained girl probably forgot to put the sweater out for her, Nesta pauses in the hallway leading to Gwyn’s bedroom and bites her lip. She doesn’t know if bedrooms are off limits or not, considering how often Gwyn and Emerie have barged into hers, but she knows she doesn’t want to make a second trip here just for a sweater.

Without giving it further thought, she strides into Gwyn’s room—

And yelps to find Gwyn on the bed.

Except she isn’t alone, and there’s definitely another body under the dark green blanket with her, and whoever it is definitely has their head between her legs.

Nesta spins away at the same time she hears Gwyn’s cry of surprise. She braces one hand against the doorjamb and presses the other to her freezing cold face, not having any words for what she just saw.

“Nesta?” Gwyn calls from behind her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Um, have you seen my sweater? It’s the expensive one.” She’ll just grab it and leave. Or maybe she’ll just leave—yes, that sounds like a good idea.

“Nesta?” a new, deeper voice repeats.

Gwyn hisses, and Nesta freezes because she recognizes that voice. She wants to be wrong so badly, but she has to whirl back around to confirm for herself.

“Azriel?”

***

a/n: i decided to cut this chapter short and add an extra one to flesh out my silly little gwynriel subplot. so if there’s anything specific or random you wanna see happen in the next chapter tell me bc i might have space for prompts!!

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook a favor: @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @frosted-crackers @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @arinbelle @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland @moodymelanist @pixieelea

#ncssianwrites #a favor #nesta archeron #nessian #cassian #nessian fic #nessian au

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plague-of-insomnia · 3 years

Text

Ch 180, Part 2: The Servants At Work

(This is a continuation of my translation and summary for ch 180, beginning when the flashback-within-a-flashback ends and ending with the chapter’s conclusion.

You can find Part 1 here, which covers Bard recollecting the cave where he met Sebastian.)

Hit the break to read/see more…

In the armory, Bard hears a loud thumping/shaking noise right above him, so he takes off upstairs, fearing for the life of the other servants.

When he gets there, there’s a trail of blood, and he fears he’s too late—Finny and Mey Rin must be dead.

He doesn’t have too long to feel sad, though, bc he soon sees Finny approaching, dragging a bloody column in on arm and a dead body in the other, his face the picture of innocence.

“今日はたくさん “お客さま”が来てるみたいです,” he says cheerfully, clearly influenced by Sebastian’s love of euphemisms.

Or, in English:

Boy, we sure have a lot of visitors today!

Bard’s spidey senses warn him an enemy is about to make a move, so he grabs Finny and whips out his pistol, but before he can shoot, someone else gets in a perfect headshot.

Mey Rin reveals herself as she stands on the stairs, in full battle mode, and Bard hardly recognizes her. She warns Finny not to let down his guard, and says she took care of all the enemies outside.

When asked how many Finny has taken out, he admits he’s not entirely sure: “Three of them!…Or was it four?!”

Bard loses it, grabbing Finny by the shirt and calling him stupid:

馬鹿野郎！！自分が始末した敵兵の人数くらいちゃんと数えとけ！残存数を把握してなきゃ全滅できたかどうか確認しようがねぇだろうが!

In English:

You idiot! If you don’t count the number of enemy soldiers you’ve killed, you can’t know how many are still left! If we don’t know how many are left, then we can’t be sure they’ve been wiped out!

You may think Bard is being overly harsh to Finny here, but in the narration, Bard remembers he heard at least 5 sets of footsteps, meaning there’s at minimum one attacker left.

Moreover, he then yells to Mey and Finny, “敵を一人見逃せば味方が10人死ぬと思え！”

Which, in English, means:

If even one enemy is left alive, he can wipe out ten of our own men!

Is this what happened to Bard? Was he negligent in the heat of battle and let an enemy soldier escape, only for him to return with the reinforcements that wiped out Bard’s entire regiment?? 😭

After asking them for directions to “the brat’s room” (Ciel—at this point he calls him “ガキ” (gaki), which can mean “kid” or, less kindly, “brat”—also, “little demon,” amusingly. So Bard doesn’t acknowledge Ciel yet as his young master.)

Nevertheless, Bard won’t let innocents die on his watch, so he rushes up the stairs, gun in hand, hoping he’s not too late, missing Finny’s warning that Sebastian should be up there.

Creeping up the stairs, Bard witnesses two men trying to break into (what is presumably Ciel’s quarters).

He knows it’s two against one, but they don’t have any cover and he has the element of surprise. However, it’s possible Ciel could be caught in the crossfire.

Still, recalling his slain son and how he didn’t have the chance to save him, he can’t sit by and do nothing while Ciel’s life is in danger.

With renewed determination, Bard prepares himself to make his move….

And that’s where we’re left until next month…!

~#~

Please do not repost any of this material without credit/claim it as your own. I spent money, time, and effort/spoons putting this translation and summary together and would appreciate being credited for my work via reblogs or mentions.

As always, I do my best to provide as accurate a translation/summary as I can, but I’m only human, and I do make mistakes. Apologies in advance if I do.

#black butler #黒執事 #bardroy #ch 180 #kuro spoilers #kuroshitsuji #phantomhive servants #part 2 #my translation #english translation #finny #bard #mey rin #tw child death #tw blood

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loversandantiheroes · 3 years

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Can. Can we talk about how dexterous and clever Whiskey’s hands are. Can we talk about how strong and nimble and skilled they are. Can we.

(Hands anon) And honestly I’m a Frankie and Mando girl as well, you KNOW they hands are just as good 👌🙌

I want you to know I have tried to come back to this ask I don’t know HOW many times, but I always get incredibly distracted and just kind of stare into space with my eyes glazed over for like forty-five minutes. Can’t imagine why...

1.8k words of pure hand-related yearning featuring Din, Frankie, Whiskey, and a bonus Ezra bc I was compelled.

Din’s hands are exactly what you’d expect in some ways - broad and strong as vise-grips, but meticulously deft when it comes to things that require care, whether that’s stripping down his weapons to clean them or patching your wounds (a surprise in and of itself given the impatient, almost flippant way he tends to the holes in his own hide). What is surprising is just how soft his hands are under those ever-present gloves. If you ever bring it up he’ll only huff a laugh, insisting his hands are as much a part of his toolkit as his weapons and his armor, and he wouldn’t be much of a Mandalorian if he didn’t take care of his tools. Unpainted beskar needs to be cleaned and polished frequently, his guns need to be maintained, and the leather of his gloves need oiling to stay supple. And his hands, too, need maintaining. And well, hide is hide, and the oil he uses on his leathers goes a long way towards making sure his hands don’t crack or chap.

He’s a man of opposites, especially once you start to get past his defenses. He can be absolutely unyielding and also shockingly gentle. With the armor on he can be almost brazen about the way he touches you, particularly if what’s between you is purely physical. Just scratching an itch? Oh, he can do that, that’s easy. And those hands can lock you down better than any binders. But if it becomes more than that, if he starts pulling you close when he’s just down to his flight suit and there’s no cold press of metal between you, and finally works up the courage to pull those soft-worn gloves off? It’s hard to imagine this is the same man. He’s hesitant. Nearly timid, you think at first, until you realize his hands aren’t trembling just from nerves but from the effort of control. Touch is a luxury Din has never been afforded, something new to learn in the dark of his bunk with you pressed up against him with your back to his chest, overwhelmed by the simple contact of his fingers curling hesitantly around your own. Give him time to breathe, to process, to touch without fear that it will overload him or that he might by some pure accident of excitement touch too hard and hurt when he doesn’t mean to (it is, he still thinks on his more rueful days, what he is built for; not this tenderness). Your patience will absolutely be rewarded.

Frankie’s a bit of a different story, bless his heart. His nails are starting to look a little less ragged these days - the nicotine gum has gone a long way towards both helping him back off the cigarettes and keep him from chewing them ragged when his anxiety’s off the rails - but given when he’s grounded he tends to go for more hands-on jobs, his hands can take a horrible beating. If he’s not seeing anyone he doesn’t bother much trying to take care of them beyond pumice soap and the occasional application of vaseline or bag balm in the winter time when they get chapped. But if that should change, suddenly he’s blisteringly self-conscious about his hands. The spots where the skin is rough and peeling, the calluses that he’ll never be able to file down and the ones he is only just beginning to see fade (index finger, between the first and middle digits - his thumb still worries over it absently, as if trying to rub it out). He buys a nail brush, starts using balm every night, trying to work the coarseness out of his hands before he ever dares to touch you with them.

And god he wants to touch you. Touch is a grounding thing for him, a much-needed anchor to keep him in the here and now. If he’s near enough you’re almost certain to find his hands on you - snaking his fingers between yours, or resting his hand light and warm against your thigh when you come along for a drink with the boys, or pressing his palm flat and solid against your back to keep you steady when he walks you to the car after. And that’s maybe the thing that clings to your bones the strongest: how safe those hands make you feel. He’ll learn your body until he knows every dip and curve, knows the paths to skate his fingertips along, where to press in deep, where to only graze until he’s got every nerve singing. But it’s that sense of safety that overwhelms you, that feeling when his hands cup your face or settle gently on your hips or close warmly around your own that there isn’t a force in the world that could hurt you as long as he’s there.

Tell him so. Fold his hands up in your own, brush your lips over his knuckles, and tell him that you know you’re in good hands - in the best hands. It’ll nearly crack his heart in half to hear it. He knows what those hands have done, no matter how hard he’s tried to wash them clean of it. But if they can make you feel safe, then maybe they’re worth something after all.

Whiskey is too vain not to take care of his hands, let’s be honest. Though there is a bit of practicality to his vanity - there always is, somehow, like the grain of sand that spawns a pearl. He learned early enough that if he was fool enough not to take care of his hands it played hell with his ability to use them properly, and much like Din, he fully recognizes that his hands are as much a necessary tool as anything Statesman could provide him. Decades of experience with his lasso, whip, and guns have left the palms of his hands thickly callused (his right only slightly more so than his left), but careful attention has assured they’re never outright rough. The way he uses those hands, though, that’s a different story. They’re strong and shockingly clever, and just as greedy as the rest of him. Whiskey has a permanent case of Roman hands and Russian fingers, all too likely to have his hand dangerously high up your thigh in public (and far higher still if you’ll let him), but always just out of the view of the people around you. He’s a menace, through and through, but rest assured, he won’t be putting his hands on you unless he’s sure you want that (and if you do, he will absolutely make every second count - he is as greedy for your pleasure as he is his own).

If he’s managed to get himself in a state where there’s more than just his libido involved, well, it’d be disingenuous to suggest that tactile greed ever goes away, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that, but it does change. He still wants to touch you (there isn’t a second in the day this man does not want to be touching you, somehow in some way), but it’s different. It’s smaller touches among the big ones, almost innocuous. Fixing your necklace when it’s crooked. An idle stroke of his thumb along your wrist, or a brush of his fingers along your forehead to sweep the hair out of your eyes. Helping you in or out of your coat, or taking a knee to do up the laces of your winter boots, or nuzzling ever so briefly into the back of your neck while his clever fingers cinch up a knot into the new apron you bought while you were on a baking kick. The man’s got twenty years of latent domesticity stored up and he can’t quite help it if you bring it out in him.

When you meet Ezra, he’s down to just the one hand, though you don’t quite notice at first. You're making your introductions - new dig crew, small, but seemingly well-seasoned, even counting the young girl that keeps a nervous orbit around Ezra - not quite clocking the way his right arm moves just a little different under the thick fabric of his suit until you close your hand around his and feel the hardness of metal under his glove. If anyone is bold enough to ask how he lost the arm, he’ll just give a grin and insist it is not lost: he remembers exactly where he left it. His remaining hand is striking somehow when you first see it without the thick gloves on. Wide palm, thick fingers, a prominent thumb joint. A small black target tattooed there in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. But his right hand, his new hand, he never takes the glove off of that one. It’s accident the first time you see the thing in full, poking your head in his tent to let him know breakfast is running a little late on account of a brief problem with the water pump. You find him sitting on his bunk in a battered thermal shirt with one sleeve cut off, his suit shoved down to his waist as he wrestles the prosthetic into place as Cee adjusts the harness over his shoulders. It’s by no means top of the line, but it’s no cheap thing, that much you can tell. The fingers, you know by now are fully articulated, and you can see now the digits and palm are thickly padded with silicone grips. Ezra’s face hardens at the intrusion, Cee freezing behind him like a startled deer. But then he sees it’s only you and the tension drains, his face softening, and he assures you they’ll both be out in a tick, just as soon as he’s made himself presentable.

It’s weeks later that you realize he’s only ever touched you with his right hand once. Just the handshake that first day. It’s tough to notice, honestly. He’s not one to crowd into your space if you don’t want it, unless of course he’s trying to make a point. You remember the floater that had wandered into your camp trying to make trouble, and the way Ezra had put a seemingly amiable hand on the man’s shoulder as he talked, smiling big and broad, and it wasn’t until the man cried out, dropping to his knees and clutching uselessly at his shoulder that you realized the full strength he carries in that prosthetic. But every time Ezra is close enough to you to touch, it’s his left that finds you. He makes a point of it, even going so far as to stay to your right when you walk together, but you don’t fully notice until one day he turns to you with an awkward twist to take hold of your arm with his left rather than his right.

It’s later, much later, in the dim quiet of your own tent, when the small touches finally snowball into something larger and more urgent and finally you feel that hand on you, bare and broad and warm as he cups the back of your neck to draw you close, and he almost laughs into your mouth when you suddenly ask him why he does that.

“Dear heart, if I am to touch you, I mean to feel it.”

Perma-Tag: @missredherring @dovesnroses @astroboots @magpierhymes @alienprincesspoop @aasimarr @maythxthirstbxwithyou @recklesswit

Pedro Perma-Tag: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @corvueros @thirstworldproblemss @littleferal @krissology @frannyzooey @Forallthestarsinthesky @princess76179

#Anonymous #pedro pascal #din djarin #frankie morales #agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #ezra #ezra prospect #hands hands hands #shockingly tame all things considered #ezra's breaking pattern a bit but hell #I finished a thing #I'll take it #this is the part where I have a mild panic over whether or not I should be using taglists for headcanons #I think too much #idk lmk if you don't want to be tagged in these things #I'm gonna go drink coffee and wash dishes

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cazimagines · 3 years

Text

Let me treat you (ZemoxTransReader) (Ftm)

Request from Anon: Zemo x Reader where they start to fall in love, but the reader gets hurt super badly in the stomach and Zemo has to like examine the wound. The reader keeps pushing them away bc they’re trans (ftm) and wear a blinder and they’re afraid that Zemo won’t like them anymore

Word count: 2k

Warnings/Tags: Mentions of guns and blood, slight angst, mainly hurt and comfort

Please don't upload this anywhere else

This is being cross posted on my ao3 account under the same name

Authors note: I hope this lives up to your expectations. I’m happy to get requests for one shots as people have such unique ideas like this.

Your back pressed against the wall as you glanced around the corner, waiting for the right moment to shoot. You could see down the road the figure of three men with guns pulled around ready to shoot if you ran past. You had to get them by surprise. Sam, Bucky and Zemo had all split up from you so you were on your own as you tried to work yourself back to them. You clutched the gun in your hands as you counted the moments down.

3...

2...

1...

Your legs moved quickly as you ran across holding the gun and pressing the trigger randomly. Your eyes were focused on the hiding spot ahead. Without stopping to see if you had hit them or not, you disappeared down the next road. Feeling your heart beat heavily against your chest you slowed down, gasping for breath. Your chest hurt from needing to breathe and your binder clung tightly to you, making you gasp for more air. Your hand grasped onto the wall beside you, supporting you as you learnt over to recover.

Footstep sounds rang in your ears, coming from behind you. You quickly spun around, aiming your gun at the person behind you. Your eyes were blurred with tears from your lack of breath but as they focused, you lowered your gun realising it was Bucky who was jogging up to you.

“Are you okay, y/n?” Bucky asked, taking in your worn out appearance.

“Yeah, just” you pant, stopping every few words to breathe, “Catching my breath, that’s all”

Bucky puts his hand on your arm gently pulling you down the road, “Sam and Zemo are ahead of us with the rest of the enemies. They need all the help they can get”

You nod, picking up speed at the thought of Zemo defending off everyone. You weren’t with the Avengers when the civil war had happened, so all you knew about Zemo was from what everyone had told you about. Specifically Bucky, who hated Zemo and with good reason. You pictured him as a man who was psychopathic, with an icy glare and fierce eyes, yet all the time you have spent with him was completely different. Dare you say it he was kind, funny, thoughtful. He gave everyone food, clothes, a place to stay. Yes, it was for his own advantage as well, but you couldn’t help but feel part of it was because he wanted you all to be okay. You enjoyed conversations with him as well, you always had a fondness for learning languages. Zemo indulged your interests. In the spare time you had together, he had taught you Sokovian his mother language. You were picking it up quickly, much to his surprise and Bucky & Sam’s annoyance when you two have your own conversation, which they can’t understand. At the safe home you were staying at, it had a massive library. One night you had asked Zemo to read you a book. Sitting opposite him on an armchair, you closed your eyes as you listened to his sweet Sokovian voice slowly lull you to sleep. The next day you had awoken somehow on the sofa with his coat draped around you. You had been too embarrassed to bring up that evening with him, and it seemed the same way for Zemo who hadn’t mentioned it again after.

You and Bucky jogged around a corner to see Sam and Zemo hiding behind a wall. As you caught up with them, their eyes flicked to you and Bucky. Zemo turns to you and briefly nods. His hair was slightly messy, stands fell over his forehead not in their usual position pulled back by hair gel. His chest heaved slightly as well, and his hand clutched the gun harshly. “Five men, ahead” he mutters

“Nice of you to join us” Sam says sarcastically, his mouth tugging up in a slight smile as he looked at you and Bucky.

Bucky shot him a dirty look while you focused on the five men ahead. They knew Zemo and Sam were there, but they didn’t know about you and Bucky, meaning you could take them by surprise. Bucky counted, making you all ready for the attack. You could feel a sweat bead drip down your forehead in anticipation.

“GO” Bucky shouts as you grab onto the top of the wall, pulling your body over and starting shooting instantaneously.

But then you felt something hit you. On your right side, just under your chest.

A yelp of surprise tore out of your throat, which quickly turned into pain as your body tensed up from the shock. The pain felt immense and spread throughout your body quickly. Your nerves feeling as if they had been lit on fire. Your legs gave out, and you watched as you slowly tumbled down onto the ground, but before you could reach the floor, you felt a body push into the side of you. It pushed you down and covered your exposed side with itself. The smell of cologne overwhelmed you, and you could feel his champaign stained breath on your face. His fur part of his coat tickled your face slightly. Zemo placed his arm beside your face to prop him up just above you as he used his other arm to shoot at the opposition.

With Bucky, Zemo and Sam all shooting at them, all the enemies eventually ran away. Zemo’s head turned to focus on you. His eyes were glazed with worry and his eyebrows furrowed as he focused on the blood that was leaking through your shirt. If it was any other time, you would have been blushing like mad. But you were trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall from your eyes because of the pain. You bit your bottom lip, slightly drawing blood as you stopped yourself from crying out.

“We need to get him back to the house,” Zemo tells Bucky and Sam urgently. He wraps his arm around your back, pulling you up onto your feet. He and Bucky have you wrap your arms around their shoulders and support you as they quickly rush you home. His hand presses on the wound to hold the blood in. You tried to stop him from staining his glove with your blood, but he refuses to listen.

Thankfully, the house wasn’t too far away from where you had been fighting, so you arrived there in no time. They carried you in and laid you on the sofa just inside the door.

“I need you two to rush to the shop and grab some bandages and antiseptic wipes. We don’t have any here” Zemo orders Sam and Bucky. They eyed each other, shocked at Zemo taking innovative for once but they don’t argue back and head towards the door. Bucky glances back as he reaches the door and you nod to him, letting him know you were okay with being left with Zemo. Zemo notices the exchange but just bites his tongue, choosing not to comment on it.

“I need you to take your shirt off,” Zemo says, refusing to meet your eyes as he tugs his gloves off. Your eyes widen and you shake your head at him.

“No, I- I can’t,”

Zemo glances back to you frowning, “What? I need to check the wound y/n and put a bandage on it”

“I-I can do it, or maybe Bucky can,” you say, looking away from Zemo.

You hadn’t told Zemo you were trans. Bucky and Sam knew. They had known you for a long time, but you never really told Zemo and the thought of telling him scared you silly. You didn’t know how he would react. You liked him; you liked him a lot though you shouldn’t, and you didn’t want to ruin it by telling him and him reacting badly.

Zemo’s face hardened as he heard your words, and his eyes dropped from yours. “You don’t trust me” he states

“No Zemo that’s not-” you try to say but Zemo cuts you off,

“No, it’s okay Y/n, I understand. I’m not a good guy, we all know this. Why would you even give me a sliver of your trust? I don’t deserve it.”

“Zemo…”

“I was a fool to think of you any differently”

You tried to sit up to move towards him but you felt a shock wave of pain as you moved your wound making you cry out and collapse back into the sofa. Zemo was instantly by your side, kneeling down, his eyes full of worry. He grabs a hold of your hand and clenches it tightly to help with the pain.

“Don’t move. At least do that for me y/n”

The doors slam open with Sam and Bucky rushing in, “They’ve followed us here. Me and Bucky will keep them away while you treat his wound” Sam says pushing the medical equipment into Zemo’s hands.

“Wait-” Zemo tried to say, letting go of your hand to grab one of them but they had already left the building again.

He glances down at the stuff in his hands, then back up to you.

“Seems like you have little of a choice”

“I can attend to my wound”

Zemo’s jaw tenses and his eyes flash with anger as he looks at you, “Do you really hate me that much?”

“No, that’s not it, Zemo,” you exclaim

“Then why! Why are you so determined to refuse my help y/n,” Zemo says raising his voice

You look away from him in shame, and he stands up, groaning. He brushes his hands through his hair angrily as he paces around. He split off his coat and chucked it angrily onto the chair beside you, making you flinch slightly. You watched him walk around, though you are upset and in pain you couldn’t help focus on how good Zemo looked in that purple turtleneck.

“I like you y/n” he finally says, turning to look at you. Your throat runs dry and your eyes widen in surprise as those words slip out of his mouth and nestle deep in your heart.

“You are intelligent, funny, handsome. Everything you do I adore. Who you are, I adore. And I never thought that I would love someone after my wife, especially a guy. I’ve never felt this way about a guy before and it scares me, but I love you y/n. And I know you don’t like me back but please let me treat your wound, you are bleeding out and I don’t want to see you in pain”

You were left speechless at Zemo’s confession. Your heart swelled and beat rapidly against your chest, but your throat was dry like the Sahara Desert. With the more time gap between where you say anything, Zemo stares to get palier thinking he has fucked up.

“Zemo...you idiot, of course I like you!” you finally exclaim

He moves his mouth wordlessly, looking intently in your eyes as if trying to see if you were lying, but slowly the realisation breaks over him. His mouth turns up in a smile, but then something crosses his eyes and he frowns at you again.

“But then why don’t you want me to help you?”

You take in a deep breath and finally tell him, “Take my shirt off”

He cautiously walks up to, unsure of what to make of the situation. You feel his fingers gently brush against your skin, making you shudder. He slowly lifts the shirt off, careful to make sure it doesn't stick to the wound. As he lifts it off, your binder becomes plain to see.

His mouth opens slightly as he takes it in, then gazes at you in the eyes.

“Oh y/n, I don’t care about that. I like you for who you are”

“Really?” you question still worried.

His lips turn up into a slight smile as he looks down on you, he reaches forward gently brushing his hand against your face. You lean into it, closing your eyes slightly as you enjoy the contact.

“Really”

You grin happily at him, making him smile back as he sees how happy you are. He gathers the bandages and wipes and attends to your wound as you relax, enjoying the feeling of the man you love and loves you back, treats you.

Taglist: @multiyfandomgirl40 @ineffablebean @freyjasamael @avgravy @jayxkelsi (Not sure why it won't let me tag you) @huntheimpossible @checkurwindow @there-goes-thefighter @bunniwritesx @montypythonsholysnail

#zemo #zemo x reader #baron zemo #zemo x y/n #zemo imagine #zemo x you #tfatws #daniel brühl #marvel #mcu #helmut zemo #i love zemo

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kaus-quietis · 2 years

Photo

Cello Anon! Hello again ahahah~ First of all, I am glad you feel comfortable sharing all kinds of questions about the Conjurer here, I hope my blog is indeed a safe space that invites to character contemplation and embracing the beauty of complicated characters. My blog wasn’t always one dedicated to Fedya, but I guess since January 2022 it officially is... Rachmaninoff started it all, I tell you.

For those interested in the first part of our discussions, the link is here. I will copy the text of the rest of your ask below the cut and add my answers there too. I hope you and fellow BSD fans will enjoy this nice, calm talk, largely about Fedya of course.

Cello Anon: “Also, I am not too worried about Fedya dying in the June chapter (that is.. if we have a prison gang chapter,, maybe Asagiri-sensei would change pov again =_=) bc he says so confidently that Dazai can't kill him,,, so it'd be just cheap writing to kill him off the very next chapter lol…. What I am more worried is Dazai might try to force and glean information out of Fedya being pushed into a tight spot now,,, but I have full faith in him, he will wriggle out of the situation and again the Dazai vs Fedya will become a stalemate as always.”

Ngl I have the slight intuition that ch102 will be a flashback chapter or, like you suggest, one that switches the point-of-view. But intuition does not help us much in this talk, because literally anything could happen. Still, writing-wise, I don’t think Asagiri would fall into the trope of killing characters off for shock. This never happened so far (Akutagawa and the entirety of the Port Mafia don’t count, they’re still there, they exist, unlike Odasaku...). And also ngl when I’ve read Fedya saying “You can’t kill me”, my Devil May Cry 5 love triggered and I couldn’t unhear Dante’s crazy battle theme there lol

* I will never get over how cool it sounds especially when sloooowly approaching enemies and letting the build-up grow and grow like in the video until minute 1:00, because in the game, the better you play, the hotter the music gets mmmm. Honestly I am infatuated with the moments from minute 4:00 onwards. To understand what I mean by “You cannot kill me”, just listen till you reach rank S and beyond, the lyrics repeat partially at SSS. Even if other battle themes are cooler imo, like... I’m sorry but Vergil’s theme 💦💦💦 I still love fighting as Dante the most).

Now, Dazai forcing information out of Fedya is indeed a plausible (and in my opinion very likely to be true) explanation as to why press him to the point of killing him. But I suspect Fedya is an “all or nothing” type of person, like me, so things cannot take that turn, or if they will, he will bring hell itself with him.

Cello Anon: “Moreover, we still need to know what his ability is,,, I have read many theories about his ability but none of them scratch that particular itch for me lol. Oh and also, I saw you mention somewhere (I can't remember where) that he might have a long-ranged ability after all,,, seeing the bloody chaos he pulled in Ace's ship, I agree. Let me raise you one more-- this man SINGLEHANDEDLY killed all the guards in the 7th Agency prison as well! Even if, say, Ace's guards were caught offguard, there is no way the 7th Agency guards won't put up a fight and not try to protect their very valuable prisoner?? Maybe, I am overlooking something but I am leaning towards his ability having an additional long range feature….. Not like he needs his ability for his plans anyway. All he needs is a knife (I sometimes wonder if the fandom collectively forgets that Dead Apple exists bc wherever I turn, esp after the prison games started, all I can see is "Dazai at least spent some time in the PM while Fyodor is too weak and has no training at all!" The moves on this man doesn't seem like one without training???) and a gun and he is all set lol. I am amazed at how little he uses his ability and yet manages to be feared as the most dangerous man in BSD currently so much that Dazai wants to kill him off,, not even capture, straight up /kill/ hahaha”

Dear Cello Anon, did you notice how on my blog I never speculate on what Fedya’s ability, Crime and Punishment, actually is? Or how it works? My essay too, it is about Fedya’s personality, and thus it will not touch upon that kind of speculation. Do you know why that is so? It’s because I personally find it meaningless to speculate on his ability on my blog, precisely because it can be anything. I love reading posts who collect information, interpret it and deduce anything they can, and yet I myself refrain from doing so, and just await its reveal by Asagiri and Harukawa themselves. There are plenty of loose threads, one scarier than the other (like you pointed out, he killed the entirety of the Seventh Agency security guards in ch55 by himself, without a scratch, and that, together with “cleaning” the entirety of Ace’s ship in ch42, is not only impressive, but also frankly bonechilling. The post you are referring to is this one, in whose replies dear Alex (the post’s OP) wondered if Fedya has indeed a long-range attack too, as a possibility. While I love the idea, I neither support nor deny it. I simply do not hold any position in the “What is Fedya’s ability?” debate yet. I wait for more information. Lastly, it is indeed fascinating that Fedya used his ability extremely few times so far (or so it seems), and I love him for I admire this character for his strategical use of all resources he has at hand, be it ordinary means (classic stuff like information dealing, spreading false info, hacking, making deals, kidnapping with the purpose of obtaining info etc.), or just a handful of (seemingly disconnected) people. I will also talk extensively about Fedya’s methodology in my essay.

Cello Anon: “And hopefully we get to know his backstory on what actually made him start on this path and more (I bet something something to do with the Great War??) So yeah, he can't die now,,,, and as you say, he is too intelligent to die just like that. He carries a major part of the manga on his back so I won't accept his death without a satisfactory arc if he indeed has to /die/ after all T_T”

I am so excited to know his backstory too! Quite frankly, I will just lose my mind once it is revealed. Now, although Fedya’s age is not yet revealed (if he indeed has an age at all), if he is around Dazai’s or Kolya’s age (anything between 22 and 26, or even till 29 if we count in Shibusawa), then that means he was likely a child or a young teenager during the Great War, which in the BSD timeline took place 15 years ago, if I’m not mistaken. Yosano too (currently 25 like me), after all, was just a child when she took part in it, with Mori exploiting her ability to the point of breaking her spirit apart (ch65). I do talk a bit about the War and Fedya in a section where I speculate about something, but that one still needs to be fleshed out. We’ll see how it will turn out...

Cello Anon: “If this ask spoils a lot of your planned essay, you needn't answer it,,, your views about Fedya and mine seem a lot similar from what I can see :D --Cello Anon (I love this name <3) PS: I am starting to read Pandora Hearts bc of that one scene I saw on your blog and I really like it so far! PPS: I don't know which is the right blog to send you asks sorry! If you plan to answer this, you can answer on either, I will check it out no problem :)”

This was such a lovely interaction! Thank you for the asks, and for your enthusiasm <3 also I am SO happy to hear you started Pandora Hearts, it is indeed such a good, intricate story, with plenty of things to dwell on and all characters are simply superb! I hope you will enjoy the reading experience, as well as following MochiJun as her artstyle evolved and bloomed through the series. (Also yes, for BSD things like these, I much prefer receiving the ask on my main blog here <3) Have a peaceful Sunday~

#bsd #bsd manga spoilers #Lav answers #Cello Anon #I will not add the usual fags for Fedya here because I do not want to flood the searches with fragile speculation posts #or my openly / randomly shared fandom and gaming stuff #'needn't' hmm... well I saw someone reblog a post about how beautiful it is to use needn't and mustn't and I agree -#- but will such words lead to me deducing who the Cello Anon is? we'll find out in the next episode haha

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rebeccccccaaa · 3 years

Text

ɢʀᴀᴛɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ

____________________

ʙᴏᴅʏɢᴜᴀʀᴅ!sᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʀᴏɢᴇʀs x ᴍᴏʙʙᴏss!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: Mob boss!Readers x bodyguard!Steve Rogers Some other gang leader doesn’t believe reader is the boss bc she’s a woman and he tries to manhandle her until Steve attacks him and then she thanks him with smut

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: Smut 18+, major angst, but there’s fluff because I can’t help myself ;)

ᴛᴡ: sᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ/ʜᴀʀᴀssᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏ�� ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴜɴ ᴜsᴇ

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ’s ɴᴏᴛᴇs: Ah! I’ve never written anything about mobs and shit I’m so excited!

_____________________

“I’ll be fine,” you cupped Steve’s face.

“I should go in there with you. You’ve never met this guy and the others said he was creepy,” Steve sighed resting his hand on your hip. Steve was essentially your bodyguard highly recommended by your father when you took over the mob.

“Sit here and eat your muffin, read your newspaper and if anything happens I’ll shout,” you grinned.

“Y/n,” Steve said sternly.

“Sit down,” you patted his shoulder.

He eventually sat beside the door grabbing the newspaper before taking an aggressive bite of his muffin making you giggle. You fluffy his hair before entering the room for your meeting with another boss. Your father advised you to expand trading and you’ve never been one to be ‘social’ so it was something you put off for years now. But now it’s getting late so here you are talking to a creep that offered a trade with you.

“Hi, thank you for coming,” you said entering the conference room.

“Why hello? Aren’t you a cute little thing,” the man snarled.

“Excuse me?” you quipped.

“Well, had I known there’d be a little plaything for me while I wait I would’ve come by sooner,” he stood up towering over you.

“I’m sorry, you must be very mistaken, sir. We don’t degrade women here,” you smiled sarcastically.

“Haha, you’re funny. I do like women who can make me laugh,” he grabbed at your hips.

“Sir, you are incredibly mistaken. I am the leader of this mob and if you lay your disgustingly meaty hands on me one more time I won’t hesitate to put a bullet through your thick skull,” you growled. The man’s temper bursted and he aggressively grabbed your throat pulling you too close to his body.

“Listen here you little brat, you’re gonna do what a woman was meant to do and if you don't get on your knees baby girl you’ll get what’s coming to ya.”

“Get off of me!” you shoved him back.

“Nu-uh pretty girl, you’re gonna suck my cock until the big man gets here whether you like it or not!”

Steve sat eating his muffin trying his best to ignore the muffled voices from inside the conference room. He couldn’t help but worry about your safety being with that creep. When the guy first arrived he groped one of the housekeepers and laughed as if he did nothing wrong. Steve sat there desperately hoping this meeting with that scumbag doesn’t go well and you'll drop him. He can’t even imagine working with a man like that, especially when you're a woman.

Suddenly he heard a shriek emerge from the room and Steve bursted through the door. He pulled his gun out seeing the man bending you over your own desk pulling the hem of your pants. Steve aimed the gun and shot the man in the back of his knee making him fall to the ground groaning in pain.

“Fuck,” you groaned running to Steve. He held you tightly in a panic and you breathed heavily against him.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

“I think so,” you swallowed loudly.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you looked at the writhing man on your floor.

“I’m sorry, fuck! I’m sorry!”

“Steve, get out,” you ordered.

“No, sweetheart I’m not leaving you alone again with this man,” he raised his voice.

“Steve, please,” you looked at him.

“Baby,” he sighed.

“Go!”

You looked back at the man still squirming on the floor in pure agony. You pulled a pack of cigarettes off your desk placing one between your chapped and bitten lips. You walked around the desk keeping your eye trained on the shithead. You grabbed your lighter and lit the cigarette before reaching inside one of your drawers and grabbing a gun.

The silvery metal reflected the smallest light around your office as you approached him.

Steve stood in the hallway with his hand resting on the handle of the door, biting his lip anxiously. His heart sank when he heard a gunshot and he bursted through the door finding you sitting with a cigarette between your lips and your gun in hand.

“What the hel-” he found the man dead bleeding from his head. You stared at the body in disgust, blood spattered on your face and clothes. You dragged the poison and blew the smoke into the air. Steve slowly walked up to you cupped your face to look at him.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“I made sure he never does what he did to me to another woman ever again,” you said monotonously.

“Come here,” Steve picked you up and you tossed the cigarette on the dead man burning his bloodied face.

Steve carried you to your room and sat you on your bed. You stayed still staring at nothing while Steve grabbed you a towel. He cleaned the blood of your face and tears fell down your face. You felt humiliated and violated.

“Are you ok?” Steve whispered, afraid as if he spoke too loud he would startle you.

“Yeah,” you choked out.

“No, you’re not.”

“Steve, I am. Truthfully. If you hadn’t been there, I can’t even imagine what would have happened,” you breathed out heavily calming yourself.

“I owe you a great debt, Steve,” you said softly.

“No you don’t, I’m just doing my job.”

“Thank you,” you leaned in closely and brushed your nose against his.

Suddenly Steve felt small. He was always a confident man, something you deeply admired about him, but being able to make him feel this way, all bothered and shy, gave you a sense of even more power over him.

You brushed a hair from his face and moved to sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his thighs. You circled your hand down to his chin lifting it slightly to make him look at you with those gorgeous blue eyes; like sapphires.

“I see the way you look at me Steve,” you whispered.

“We can’t,” he said back.

“Why not? I know how bad you’ve wanted me,” you trailed your hand down his chest.

“Y/n, you’re vulnerable. I can’t take advantage of you like that,” he said. You have this desire to regain control after what happened and conquering Steve would do just that whether you admit it or not. He wants to so badly have his way with you but he knows he’s just a grievance. You’ll wake up the next morning and pretend this never happened, that the words he’d whisper to you are just that, words. The love he’d give you isn’t reciprocated. He can’t let you break him like that.

“What’s going on?” you asked seeing him in a sort of mental battle.

“Nothing, you should rest,” he said.

“I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to be alone,” you told him.

He looked at you with soft eyes, clenching his jaw tight. His hands were resting on your hips and he desperately fought the urge to move them; under your shirt, over your cheeks or thighs, anywhere, he wanted to feel you so bad.

“Steve,” you breathed out, practically moaning.

“Fuck,” Steve said with frustration.

“Please,” you cupped his face.

When he did say anything you got off of him and slowly made your way to the bathroom. Steve sat there regretful breathing out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. You were right there. In his arms and he pushed you away.

You came out again wearing simple nightwear and trotted to Steve once again. You didn’t sit on his lap despite the both of you secretly wishing you would again but you did sit fairly close; your shoulder pressed against his.

You rested your head on him, the both of your staring at the floor in silence. You slowly up at him cupping his bearded jaw with your delicate hand. You brushed the hairs with your fingers, you’d always preferred his beard than without. You had been the one to convince him not to shave and you had been the one he did it for.

You couldn’t stop yourself and neither could Steve when the two of you met in the middle, your lips pressing against each other perfectly. Your eyes fluttered closed at the feeling and his hands went to where they belonged on your hips. You two kissed for what felt like an eternity; an eternity of pure lust and ecstasy. Steve pushed you down to lay flat on your bed, his hips settling between your legs.

“Tell you want me, tell me how much you need me,” Steve said against your lips.

“I want you, I need you, so fucking bad,” you moaned.

“Tell me this is real,” he said with his eyes screwed shut.

Steve had been so enamored by you since the day he met you. He used to work for your father before he retired and he insisted that Steve worked alongside you, to protect you. You were hesitant about having him around, independency clouding your mind when you became leader, but little did Steve know you had become very fond of the man at your side everywhere you went.

He occupied every part of your mind for years now. The confidence he oozed, and sexiness he projected; how could anybody not fall in love? He was the source of the many nights you laid alone in bed, your hand between the junction of your thighs, writhing and panting dreaming of his body pressing against you just as he now.

Steve fought his desires just as long as you did. When he looks at you, he can’t help the stutters and skips his heart makes. When you laugh, especially at something he says, he feels like a little boy again talking to his crush from school. You’re just so beautiful and dauntless, graceful and fearless. He can’t help but fall in love. Anyone would.

“Steve, look at me, please.”

Steve’s eyes pried open, terrified you would disappear if he did.

“This is real. I want you so badly; I need you. Please make me feel good,” you whispered against his lips.

Steve kissed passionately before moving his lips across your jaw line, nipping and biting the soft skin. His hands held your waist firmly under your shirt, gently squeezing your sides making you giggle.

“That tickles,” you giggled.

“The scary mob boss is ticklish?” Steve joked.

“Stop it!” you shrieked when he tickled harder.

Steve laughed at you for a moment before capturing your lips in a kiss once again. He pulled up again sitting back on his knees bringing you with him up to his chest. He looked into your lust blown eyes carefully lifting your shirt. You eagerly raised your arms allowing him to discard it before you did the same to him.

You marveled at his toned body, your hands smoothing over his muscles and the little hairs that littered his chest. Steve's hands came up your side, his thumbs grazing lightly over your perked nipples making your body shiver with need.

He sat comfortably bringing you to your knees so he was in line with your chest. He leaned forward and kissed all over before wrapping his lips around your nipple. His tongue swirled around it and his teeth grazed the nub before releasing with a pop and doing the same with the other.

The feeling of his tongue made you extremely aroused soaking your panties. You breathed heavily relishing in his attention. Your fingers combed through his hair lightly pulling on his long strands. He groaned softly, his eyes fluttering in pleasure. You’ll keep that in mind.

You sank down fully sitting in his lap, when you felt him poking you through both of your fabrics. You hand snaked down in between your bodies and you pressed on his erection with your hand, making him groan again.

“Fuck, don’t tease me.”

“Then take these off.”

You quickly got off of his lap and he hurried to stand and take his pants off. You giggled at the sudden flurry of clothes but your face quickly turned to shock when you saw the size of Steve for the first time.

“Baby, that’s not going to fit in me,” you said, making him chuckle.

“We’ll never know if we don’t try,” he winked.

You bit your lip and laid back for him. He rubbed your legs softly curling his fingers over your bottoms and reluctantly pulled them down your legs. He kissed your legs up to your stomach before coming face to face with you once again.

He kissed you with need like he would never be able to again after tonight. He doesn’t feel convinced that this is real. That tomorrow when you wake up beside you’ll realize that maybe you don’t fancy him like you say right now.

You reached forward wrapping your hand around his cock looking up at him with faux innocent eyes licking and biting your lips seductively. Steve could help but groan as he laid atop of you, hard as rock.

Steve kissed your lips and he swears that he could stay like this forever. Your lips, although chapped and dry, were so addictive and obsessive. Your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms around his shoulders pulling him close to you as if he’d float away. He pushed slowly in you and you let out a shaky moan. Steve’s head that was buried lifted quickly, looked at you and whispered soft praises to you.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he whispered against your lips.

“Steve, move please,’ you moaned.

He snapped his hips back and rutted into you over and over again. He placed his hand on your lower belly and felt his cock poking with each thrust. He grabbed your hand and placed it there too and you gasped at the fleeing before moaning loudly.

“Fuck, Steve,” you whimpered.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, baby. God, you feel amazing. Pussy’s fucking perfect; you’re perfect,” he said against your ear. His words made your stomach flutter and your heart burst. He kissed the skin below it and your body shuddered at the feeling of his cool lips against your hot skin. Your hands raked through his long hair and you tugged on the locks bringing his head back up. You instantly attached your lips to his kissing him messily and passionately.

Your pants and moans became louder with each thrust he got closer to making you release. You moaned his name over and over like a prayer. Steve grunted and his chest tightened feeling overwhelmed by you.

His hips faltered and you pushed his shoulders rolling over with his cock still inside you. You quickly moved your hips back and forth, your hands pressing flat against his chest to support you, nails scratching his chest leaving dark red marks. Steve’s hands reached for your breasts, his thumbs grazing over your hardened nipples. His hands landed in their place on your hips guiding you, though you didn’t need it much.

“Fuck, baby. I’m gonna come,” he moaned.

“Come in me, fuck! Stevie, I want it all, give it to me,” you said staring at his lips.

“Fuck!”

Steve snapped his hips up and you felt his hot cum coating your walls. The feeling overwhelmed you and you came in time with him. Your eyes rolled back, your back arched, and you felt incredible. This career, if you can call it that, has run into plenty of lousy men and you wasted many hours with them but this, you could bask in the feeling of Steve’s arms and fully be content with life.

You fell forward and Steve wrapped his arms around you. You breathed heavily and Steve’s hand rubbed your head lovingly. Your eyelids felt heavy and you couldn’t help the tiredness that overcame you. Steve laid there carefully listening to your breathing even out. He couldn’t believe that you were actually laying, naked and beautifully, in his arms. He dreamed of this moment more than he liked to admit.

Hours later you felt yourself suddenly wake. You were in a cold sweat shaking uncontrollably. You got off Steve who was still sleeping soundly beneath you. His face was so angelic, no it was god like. He looked so at peace you felt awful disturbing his comfort when you crawled off him quietly.

You grabbed one of the thin sheets that had fallen to the floor and wrapped lazily around your body and walked to the large window of your room. You looked out the window before grabbing the pack of cigarettes and lighter sitting fixed on the window ledge waiting to be used during your lowest moments.

You felt vulnerable.

Steve laid on your bed and you really appreciated him. You genuinely liked him and you know he probably doesn’t believe you yet. He was so charming and compassionate. He protected you especially after what happened today.

What happened today. God, you can imagine what would happen, what you would do to get out of that awful situation but when it happens, when it becomes reality… you forget everything. You forget how to breathe, how to move. It was terrifying. Even after everything you’d seen being a boss.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Steve came up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around you.

“God! You fucking scared me,” you looked at him.

“Sorry,” he smirked.

He leaned forward and placed kisses along your shoulder and neck. You dragged the cigarette, closing your eyes at the delicious feeling of Steve’s kisses. His hands grazed under the sheet, his fingertips tickling the skin of your belly.

“Stop it,” you warned.

“Oh right, the scary mob lady is ticklish. I’ll keep that in mind,” he whispered, his lips against your ear.

“I swear to god, Steve. I’ll fire you,” you chuckled.

“Are you feeling any better? If that’s possible,” he said after a moment.

“You’re here with me,” you told him.

“Please don’t leave me,” you teared up. This was the first time Steve had ever seen you vulnerable, visibly upset, crying. He’s never seen you cry.

“I would never leave you; not unless you want me to,” he cupped your face.

“Thank you.”

Steve took the cigarette from your fingers and brought it to his lips dragging smoke and blowing it out the open window. You smiled at him before kissing his lips softly.

“Come back to bed; it’s cold,” he placed the cigarette in the ashtray.

You closed the window and Steve picked you up taking you to bed. You cuddled by his side, pressing your cold body against his warm one. You buried your face into his neck and fell sound asleep. He made you feel safe and protected. You easily let your guard down when you were with him and after tonight you really felt your walls coming down for him. And Steve was more than willing to come in.

===================

ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ: (For all my work)

@mathletemadison

@buckybarnes101

@l-sofiamia-l

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #marvel smut #marvel fics

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yoditorian · 3 years

Text

lacuna- part 1

din/reader

she’s here!!!!! she’s here!!!!! i decided to split it up into parts to give me more time to write and put u all (ellie) out of your misery. thank you for being patient, and thank you to everyone who was so kind about the teaser!!

set waaaaaay before the series, this is Target Practice Din

MASTERLIST

word count: just shy of 2.5k

warnings: some swears bc it’s me, overuse of italics, probably some spelling mistakes, non graphic smut but it is Highly Implied, so for that reason 18+ only pls no babies.

“Have you ever removed your helmet?”

“No.” He grits out.

“Has it ever been removed by others?”

“Never.”

He’s lying.

___________________

You practically fly down from the cockpit the second you touch down, shoving Ran between the shoulder blades. He stumbles down the last few feet of the ramp, and skids across the ground on his ass. In any other situation, you might have laughed. But in any other situation, you probably wouldn’t have pushed him.

“What the fuck was that?”

He only sputters out a half baked excuse about the mission, it’s enough to have you drawing your blaster. Only it's not in the holster you keep strapped to your thigh.

Your gaze is cold as ice as you turn to see your gun dangling from Mando’s index finger. He stands above you on the ramp, apparently unaffected by your outrage even though Ran’s actions could have ended very differently for all four of you. Xi’an laughs haughtily from a crate inside the ship, she’s lucky you’re unarmed.

“He almost got us killed.” You reason, not even sparing a glance at the man still cowering from you on the floor. Mando shrugs. Like it's nothing.

“And yet, we made it.” He says, dropping the blaster back into your holster as he descends the ramp.

You’re all only alive because you were quick enough on your feet to take over, because you were on the guns, because you made the lightspeed calculations mid-dogfight to get the fuck out of there. Something everyone else seems to have conveniently not noticed. Ran’s on his feet, dusting himself off, Mando has already stalked off into the hangar, and Xi’an’s hot on his heels. You heave an annoyed sigh, adrenaline leaching the energy from your bones, and scuff your boots the rest of the way down the ramp. Ran catches your arm when you pass him, grip just a little too tight to be friendly.

“Empire’s always looking for pilots, I could just put you back where I found you.” He says lowly as you rip your arm from him. It’s not an empty threat. He knows there’s nothing left for you on Corellia besides an arrest warrant and a swift execution. There’ll be bruises in the shape of his fingertips by morning, you can feel them already. It’s not the first time and, if you’re being honest, you know it won’t be the last. The pouch of credits Qin hands you for a job well done makes that particular pill a little easier to choke down, at least.

Your room at Ran’s space station isn’t much, but you’ve done what you can. There’s only a bed and a desk, the matching chair missing long before you moved in, a shelving unit and a viewport. An old blanket, loosely crocheted and full of holes, lies crumpled atop the sheets. It was white once, used to swaddle you as a baby, but that was before the sweat and the ash and the bloodstains. It’s the only thing you’d brought with you when you had to run, wrapped around your shoulders to shield you from the night’s chill at the last minute. You hadn’t even had time to put shoes on. The viewport window is another comfort, barely bigger than the datapad that lies forgotten on your pillow, but you pay the boss dearly for your view. Lights blinking on the ceiling reflect in the scratched glass, and the mismatched floor panels creak under your weight as they always do. It’s home, even if the space station itself feels like the loneliest place in the universe sometimes. With one last glance at the swirling stars as the station slowly turns, you’re practically asleep before your head hits the pillow.

You have to pee.

One look out into the corridor presents you with closed doors and lowered lights. Sleep hours, then. It’s hard to keep track of time when it’s always night outside, although living off-planet isn’t so bad once you get used to it. Rest here comes when you can get it, as opposed to the fancy artificial sunrise/sunset lighting cycles you’ve heard about on inner rim stations. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s awake to judge you for shuffling to the bathroom in your socks anyway.

The light is too bright in comparison to the dim hall, and you almost jump back from your reflection in the small mirror. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled shirt, you really should have done something with your hair before you passed out. You’re sure you’ve never looked more exhausted. Sleep hasn’t come easy in the few years you’ve spent on the station, dreams plagued by flashes of the reason you came here in the first place. Running, choking on the smoke in your lungs, an old friend’s blood splattering across your cheek. The only rest you really get is when you work yourself down to the bone, until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore, but you know you’re not the only one.

The door across from yours is open when you go back to your room, Mando standing in the frame, backlit by a lamp like he’s the hero from one of those propaganda movies you snuck into as a kid. You pause in your own doorway, it’s probably a bad idea to call him out on it. It’d probably only start an argument and then you’d have to deal with the only person you could count on to watch your six being mad at you.

“You should have backed me up earlier.” Your mouth takes the decision away from you. He waits for a moment, silently, like he’s expecting you to say more. But you leave it there.

“I did.”

You’re turning to shut the door when he finally answers, and it takes everything in you not to shout at him in the middle of the hall.

“If that’s what backing someone up looks like to Mandalorians, then I think I’d rather you didn’t at all.” You hiss, exhaustion feeding into your anger. It’s not the way you should be speaking to him, or anyone, but you’re just too tired to care.

Mando’s spine goes rigid and you almost regret the dig, not that you have time to think about it before he’s walking right towards you and backing you into the darkness of your room. You can just about see the ceiling panel lights blink in the reflection of his visor. It’s only as he moves that you spot the bag slung over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” You ask, barely a whisper. You’ve never been this close to him before, chest to chest, alone. The warmth you can feel even from under the armour threatens to make your head spin.

“Home.” He leaves it at that. Never one to use more words than he needs to. You didn’t even know he had a home to go back to. There’s a lot you don’t know about the man in front of you, but he’s loyal to the bone. That much is plain to see.

“Don’t you ever think about going home?”

“My home is here.” Your answer is final, although you can feel the raised eyebrow through his helmet. You’re no more attached to the space station than you are any of the planets you’ve yet to visit. It’s not home, nowhere is. But you’ve been here since you were sixteen, years before the rest of your team, it’s as close as you’ll get to belonging somewhere. Mando doesn’t respond, doesn’t ask any questions, only stands with you for a long moment. Breathing. He’s good like that. You’ve never felt the pressure to fill any silence with him, he seems to exist so comfortably in it. It’s easier that way, probably for you both. You don’t know much about Mandalorians, the only stories you’ve heard are the ones Qin told you drunk in a seedy cantina when Mando first joined. Horror stories. If his past is anything similar to yours, he’s grateful for the absence of questions too.

“So it’s goodbye, then?” You’re yet to break his stare.

“Yes.”

Is he closer, somehow?

“Would you have said goodbye if I wasn’t already awake?”

He’s definitely closer.

Mando reaches behind him to tap the control panel on the wall, sliding the door shut and leaving you in the darkness. He lets his bag slip off his shoulder, lowering it to the floor suspiciously silently for one you know is crammed with weaponry, and walks you further into the room. You can’t really see much at all, only the steady blinking of the little red lights in the ceiling.

“You trust me?” It’s so quiet, you wonder if you imagined the words.

He’s never given you a reason not to.

“Keep your eyes closed?”

“I promise.”

It takes a moment before he lifts the lip of the helmet high enough, and another long few seconds of just being without barriers for him to kiss you. And kiss you he does.

The breath you get in before your lips touch is all him, turning your insides to liquid gold. Everywhere he touches you sets a fire. For a man so rough, he is so careful, he handles you as though you’ll break at the slightest breeze. As though he is wholly undeserving of such sweetness. Part of you thinks he’s convinced he is. It’s a first and a last kiss, a hello and a goodbye kiss, the way he tries to suffocate himself in you is evidence enough that you won’t be here again. You won’t get to have him like this again. He stays close when you finally break apart, taking his helmet off completely and placing it down on your desk with a decisive thunk.

“Mando-”

“Din. My name is Din.” He shouldn’t tell you. He shouldn’t have taken his helmet off, he shouldn’t have even thought about it. Although his fear of losing everything he has is almost overwhelming, it’s nothing compared to this. The fear that you would never know him as he is, as he has always been. The relief that brings tears to his eyes when you don’t shy away, when you lean into him. Like you want him too. You shouldn’t hold his creed in your hands but he gives it willingly. Of course he does. He’s never really been able to deny you anything.

“Din.”

The smile is so clear in your voice as you whisper it back to him. The way you say his name sounds like a song. A prayer. Hushed and reverent like it’s something sacred, something holy. He knows it’s safe on your tongue. Din lays you back on the bed, gently, wool of the ratty blanket soft against your skin.

Din. He’s nothing but gentle with you. Hands barely there as they pull layers of clothing from the both of you, stripping himself of his armour, of The Mandalorian. Until there’s just him. Just a man, no more and no less than anybody else. A man who wishes he hadn’t been so stubborn and dismissive of his own desires; wishes he’d given in to this, to you, sooner. His mouth doesn’t leave your skin for a second, like he could digest you one kiss at a time if he tried hard enough. Part of him doesn’t want to leave, he wants to stay in this bed with you in the dark and just exist. Your body in his hands and your moans in his mouth and absolutely nothing else. He needs you in between his teeth, on his tongue. He’s never needed anything else quite so badly.

The emotion isn’t lost on you, it’s the first and last time you’ll ever be with him. He’ll go after this, you don’t pretend otherwise. You won’t get to have him, in any way you want to, after this. So you lose yourself in him, in everything he gives and takes on those threadbare blankets in your room. The taste of him gets committed to memory and you swear you’ll never eat again if it means his sweat stays on your tongue. You dig your nails hard into his shoulders, you hope he’ll look at them before they fade. Hope he’ll see the marks you gave him and know that he is wanted. He is so desperately wanted and he has no idea. You kiss him with reckless abandon, cards on the table in all but words. So he can know, so he can come back. If that’s what he wants.

You stay tangled with him for a long time. Spit cooled and sweat dried. You’ve never stayed this long with anybody, but you’re not speeding to the ‘fresher. You want to drench yourself in everything he is until you never feel without him again.

“Take the Razor Crest. She’s old but virtually untraceable, and faster than anything else in that hangar. I think you can handle her.” You laugh lightly, tracing a finger over the ridge of his wrist where his arm is curled tight around your chest. Din wishes he could drown in the sound.

He takes your advice, once you’re asleep. Once he’s convinced himself to pull away from your warmth and go back to the life he knows. The one without you. The Razor Crest looms over him in the empty hangar, but something about its presence is comforting when he knows you were the one to put her together.

“He took the fucking Crest!”

The shout from the corridor jolts you awake, significantly warmer than you should be, and you find your old shirt and sweatpants pulled back on your body. Din. The thought of him so carefully redressing you, touch gentle enough not to wake you, makes your heart swell. It shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. With a heavy sigh, you flick the lights on from the panel by your bed and pull yourself to your feet. The door slides open with a wave of your hand by the door panel and you’re met with a very angry, very red-faced, Ran.

“You wouldn’t know anything about this would you, sweetheart?” He grounds out, eyes zeroing in on the mark you know Din sucked into your shoulder only hours ago. You pull the neckline of your top back up to where it should be and shake your head tiredly. Even if you hadn’t been thoroughly rammed into your mattress the night before, it’s far too early for anyone to be shouting up a storm. The rest of the crew come filtering out, rubbing eyes and calling out accusations at each other. It’s enough to give you a headache.

Maybe a space station in the middle of nowhere isn’t a forever home after all. Maybe there’s somewhere else out there for you. Maybe it just took somebody else taking the leap to make up your mind.

You don’t know where you’ll end up, but you have a pretty good idea of where to start.

_________________

TAGLIST (people who showed interest pls lmk if u want to be removed)

@remmysbounty @aq-vetina @brothersdrxke

#everybody pray my tags work or i think i will actually cry #lacuna #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #star wars #fic #liz does words #smut

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fantastic-bby · 3 years

Text

SKZ vs. their embarrassed s/o doing aegyo

Pairing: Reader x Member

Word count: 1.9k

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Their s/o gets embarrassed while doing aegyo

Requested by @m4rshm4llow

Masterlist

Chan

Wouldn’t exactly force you into doing it

But if he knew you were comfortable, then he would be more teasing about it

Chan strikes me as the kind of person who can read people really easily esp if they’re his s/o

So he wouldn’t force you if he knows you don’t like it

But he would tease you into doing it if you don’t mind

And usually you wouldn’t mind doing it he asked

The problem is that you’re in the middle of the dance room with the rest of his members

They’re all watching you intently and waiting for you to do something bcs Jisung thought it would be good to ask you about it

“Do you not want to?”

“No, no, I can do it.”

Chan raises an eyebrow while you mentally prepare yourself

You raise your hands in front of yourself, ready to do the apple heart bite

When you remember everyone’s watching you

And you completely break

Your entire face goes red

Chan immediately goes (´∀｀)♡

You kinda bury yourself in his hoodie to shy away

He just laughs as he wraps his arms around you to let you hide away from his friends

Minho

He would be the reason you’re doing it in the first place

“Haha, (Y/n) does cute aegyo”

Because as much as Minho loves you, he likes to see you suffer sometimes

Everyone turns their attention to you at the mention of aegyo

“What?”

You turn to him and he’s giving you that smug smile on his face

“Yeah, you do cute aegyo ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)”

You want to punch him

You don’t do aegyo because you don’t really care much for it

Even if you do it it’s when you’re only with Minho

And it’s something like wanting to either annoy him or get him to do something for you

Like buying you food or stealing bites of whatever he's eating

But he has the look on his face that just lets you know you can’t escape

So you turn back to his friends who are watching you intently

You raise your finger to your cheek and you’re about to let out a whine when you break and cover your face with your hands

You’re blushing like crazy

Minho finally gives in and lets you off the hook

He pulls you into a hug because he kinda feels bad but he also just wanted to see how far you would go

But he still goes all ^-^ because he finds you so cute

Changbin

So we all know how Changbin is the fake maknae

He does aegyo a lot and when you started dating he realised that you might take his spot away

You do it because you like seeing how Binnie seems to challenge you to be cuter than you

So he turns to you and he pouts

“(Y/n), Binnie hungwy”

The moment you see him your heart kinda goes WHOOOOSH ( ˊᵕˋ )♡.°⑅

But you fight back

“(Y/n) is hungwy too, can Binnie get (Y/n) food?”

He subtly raises an eyebrow and turns to his friends

“If Binnie is cuter, then (Y/n) has to get it”

They all turn to you guys and they’re like !!! because they hear the mention of food but half of them are gagging bcs hhsjdhsd why

Oh, it’s on

“Binnie can’t be cuter because (Y/n) is always cuter!”

You’re starting to cringe internally because it finally hits you that his friends and managers can see you

“Binnie is the tiniest!”

You’re around to fight back when you make eye contact with Seungmin and that face he makes when he’s judging the people around him

Your face heats up and you immediately drop your head onto Changbin’s shoulder

“I can’t go on, it’s too embarrassing”

You bury your face into his shirt as he laughs

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll buy lunch instead”

Success!

But you’d never tell him that was your plan

His members can tell you planned it tho

Bcs everyone knows he’d do anything and everything for you

Hyunjin

Man doesn’t mind doing aegyo but he thinks it’s cute

You don’t really do it either, but Hyunjin LOVES when you do it

You don’t do it because you find it embarrassing

Hyunjin likes trying to pull it out of you anytime he gets

Bcs whenever you do it he gets so (｡♥‿♥｡)

So he tries to lure you into doing it one day

You’re at home just chilling on the couch when you see him eating ice cream

“What flavour is that?”

He sees the opportunity immediately

“Cookies and cream”

“Can I have some, please?”

Hyunjin turns to you and raises an eyebrow

“Do aegyo and I’ll consider it”

You’re already blushing because what

He gives you a look and it makes your face scrunch up in annoyance bcs you realise there’s no way out of it

“C-Can (Y/n) have some of J-Jinnies—”

Your voice is so soft

And you just cover your face with your hands before you finish because you feel embarrassed

“Are you okay?”

Hyunjin feels bad because he thought he heard you sniffle

His ice cream’s on the coffee table and he’s pulling you into him

“Baby, nooooooo I’m sorry”

You pull away and punch his arm lightly and Hyunjin laughs because he feels like he deserves it for making you do aegyo

Jisung

God he wouldn’t force you to do it, but whatever opportunity he gets to see you do it will make you do it

He would also probably most likely find ways to make you do it without him actually asking

So it’s like

Idk he would find a way to pull it out of you without making it seem like he’s doing anything

So if it just so happened that you were spending the night at the dorm and everyone was in the living room

It would be Jisung that would end up going “Whoever does the worst aegyo has to do the dishes”

And you’re like “umm I’m excluded because I’m not part of the band...right?”

And at first they’re all thinking yea that sounds pretty fair

Then Minho starts talking

“You’re here already, might as well join in”

You turn to him before turning back to Jisung

He can see the look in your eyes

But Jisung smiles

“You do cute aegyo, right, baby?”

“I hate you”

You turn back to his friends seeing that Changbin and Hyunjin have already went ahead with theirs

You raise your hands to your face but you stop halfway because it’s e m b a r r a s s i n g and all of his friends are watching

So you turn to Jisung and your face is red as hell

He starts panicking for a minute when you turn to him

His mind’s like ヘ（。□°）ヘ shit I made my baby uncomfortable

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to do it baby. We can exclude you”

He pulls you into his lap and lets you hide yourself while his friends bully him for being whipped

“That’s not fair!”

“Shut up, Hyunjin”

Felix

Genuinely feel like Felix would have regular aegyo interactions for not so basic things

Like he would do it randomly because he wants to or if he wants to get you to do something for him

And you would do it too

“Are you sure?”

You give him a nod

You made a bet saying if you can take his breath away with your super duper adorable aegyo then he has to buy you Animal Crossing for your Switch that you had also won through another bet

Felix watches you as he waits for your next move

You look him dead in the eye

If he’s being honest you look like a determined kitten and he loves it (｡♥‿♥｡)

And you press your fingers into both of your cheeks

“Can Lixie pwease get Animal Cwossing for meeeee? ... PFFFTTT”

You start laughing bcs you feel lowkey kinda cringey

The moment Felix realises that you broke he’s all giggly and starts to wrap his arms around you

“Aww babe”

You cover your face with your hands and just go AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

And Felix is just like uwu because he thinks his baby is so cute and precious

“You lost tho, babe”

“Shut up”

Seungmin

Would pretend he finds it cringey

So you use it as like a weapon against him

Because he’ll do things to make you stop

“Seungmin, I’ll sing the gwiyomi song if you won’t take me to have lunch at that stall by the 7 11”

“( - _ - ‘ )”

Seungmin loves it

He really loves it

And you know that he likes it because he always smiles or laughs whenever you actually do it bcs he can’t resist your adorable charm uwu

He also wouldn’t ask you to do it if he didn’t like it

“We can get jjajangmyeon if you do Back Door but aegyo”

“What…”

How are you supposed to aegyo BACK DOOR

You just stare at him like wtf while you try to figure it out bcs you want the jjajangmyeon

You raise your fist in the air like trying to do the choreo

And you realise that you probably look really silly doing it

“Min this is so weird”

Even though you’re alone with him it just feels so cringey and embarrassing

But the smug bitch is just smiling at you because he knows he’s won

Well

If you can’t do Back Door might as well try something else

So you pout and give him your best puppy eyes

“Minnie, don’t be so mean. Can we please get jjajangmyeon?”

BOOM

Seungmin’s heart goes (*≧∀≦*)

Even if he wouldn’t admit it

He absolutely L O V E S your puppy eyes

And he wouldn’t admit it but he seriously just can’t reject anything you ask of him whenever he sees your puppy eyes

Jeongin

I would assume that Jeongin would probably date someone who’s probably smol and soft like he is

So assumingly his s/o would probably be as shy as him or even more shy

And since you’re like technically his s/o

You’re a smol shy bean

Very smol

Very shy

Tinie (´∀｀)♡

Jeongin doesn’t strike me as someone who would do aegyo regularly bcs like I said he’s shy

So you probably wouldn’t do it that much either unless someone Jeongin would ask you to but even then I don’t see him asking you for aegyo regularly

I feel like it would be more of a joking kinda thing

Kinda like

“(Y/n) if you do aegyo then I’ll let you shoot me with this BB gun”

“Bet”

And you’d do it

But he wouldn’t actively force you into situations where you would have to do it because he would feel bad if you got like too embarrassed or anything of that sorts

It just so happened that when you were about to do aegyo in the dance room

His members walked in

And you had the biggest pout on your face and your hands poking your cheeks

That you kinda yanked onto Jeongin’s hoodie so that you could hug him to hide yourself

“Woah, (Y/n) was doing aegyo?”

And of course the rest of Stray Kids wanna tease you or Jeongin about it

“Do it again!”

“Yeah, you never do aegyo. I wanna see it c:”

But Innie would go all <(｀^´)>

Because he’s protective of you

“Don’t make fun of them!!!”

He just

Wraps his arms around you

And protects you while the guys end up teasing Jeongin instead

And he takes it as long as they don’t say anything to you uwu

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