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mika-writes-fanfics · 1 year

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Healing Touch

Dabi x Fem!Reader fan fiction

Synopsis: You encounter an injured Shigaraki and offer your healing quirk to his aid. Little did you know, healers were hard to come by in the underground and Shigaraki takes a liking to your skills. To further his cause, he kidnaps you and holds you captive under the watch of the LOV. You play the role of the LOV's little healer while you think of a way to escape. Unbeknownst to you, the pyromaniac with a cold heart begins to melt in your presence. Your compassion and wit draw him in, all the while he swears it's only curiosity he feels toward you. But when your touch heals his burns and your personality soothes his anguish, Dabi begins to wonder, what exactly is he feeling for you? And why the hell does he feel so torn up when you slip away?

Author's Note: I am aware this trope is cheesy as fuck, and no, I won’t change it.

Warnings/Tags: Stockholm syndrome, eventual smut, kidnapping, female/afab reader, healing quirk, canon typical violence, threats, arson, minor character deaths, death, injury, blood, suggestive for a second

Abbreviation Guide: Y/n (your name), e/c (eye color), f/c (favorite color)

Word Count: 2K

Chapter Three: You Should Really Knock First

The next couple of days around the base pass by quietly. You notice Dabi is absent more and more over the days. Shigaraki keeps sending Dabi on scouting missions, citing a need for new recruits to pull their next mission off. You have a feeling the league is planning something big, though you’re not sure what. Maybe there will be enough chaos for you to slip away. You can only hope that will be the case.

Dabi reasons Giran has to have some leads on possible new recruits. It wasn’t too long ago that he went to Giran himself and ended up in the LOV. Dabi slinks through less-traveled alleyways and past the deviants loitering about. Some jeer at him, but a passing glare and a warning of blue fire dancing in his palm is enough to scare most off. For the few who aren’t phased by his threats, a blast of his flames takes care of the problem. Dead men and ashes don’t talk back, after all.

Before long he’s faced with the door, giving it the secret knock and responding with the code when prompted. One of Giran’s goons opens the door, ushering Dabi inside before checking behind him. “I’m not dumb enough to let anyone follow me, close the damn door already,” he drones. The goon narrows his eyes in annoyance but closes the door anyways, locking it. Giran smokes a cigar while looking at his phone, legs propped up casually on the desk. He looks up and sees Dabi.

“Well well, if it isn’t the League’s arsonist himself, Dabi. What brings you to me?” Giran gloats.

“Need a favor. Boss has me looking for new recruits. Got any leads?” Dabi explains. Giran thinks for a moment before getting up and reaching into the filing cabinet. Who keeps paper files these days? The old geezer must be behind on the times. Giran pulls out a couple of files and throws them on the table.

“Here’s a couple candidates. Didn’t get a chance to track them down yet but you’re welcome to be my guest. Magne, Moonfish, Muscular, and Mustard seem likely to agree. All of them have a criminal record so they’re likely to sympathize with the cause. Most of them have fought and killed before, so they’re not unskilled,” Giran says in between puffs of his cigar. Dabi hums in approval. He skims the files, making mental notes of their last listed addresses. This should give him some ideas about where to find them.

“That’s a lotta M’s but I’ll take a look,” Dabi throws the files back on the table and heads out as quickly as he arrived, planning to track them down. He manages to find some of the other losers listed in Giran’s report but ends up coming off as threatening to the first few and causing a fight. He wins, of course, leaving behind some alleys with charred bodies and a couple fewer possible candidates. In the aftermath, he finds himself thinking about your little joke. Shit, maybe he is going about this the wrong way. He changes his approach and tries not to be as insulting or sarcastic with everyone he meets.

Moonfish was first and almost the hardest to convince, as his apparent bloodlust and hunger for flesh makes him a hard person to talk to. The psycho’s irrationality drove him to stab Dabi with his weird teeth. Dabi manages to dodge most of the bladed teeth, however, one of the razored teeth connects with Dabi’s abdomen. He cauterizes the wound with his own flame after he catches Moonfish’s metal teeth with his own hand. Cyan flames melt the metal, pooling at Dabi’s feet. Upon seeing Dabi’s quirk and hearing some threats and explanations, Moonfish backs down and hears him out. The selling point for Moonfish is that he may do what his heart desires so long as he doesn’t endanger the league’s members or cause.

Muscular and Mustard were unable to be tracked down at the time, but Dabi had considerably easier luck with Magne. Magne took an instant liking to him, hearing him out without much of a fuss. She agrees to talk to Giran about joining the league and comments how she can’t wait to work with him. The comment throws him off but he chooses to pay it no mind, the pain from Moonfish’s blow taking too much of his attention. He considers the mission a success until he turns down the wrong alley, encountering some seriously pissed-off gang members. It seems in his previous altercations, somebody saw their fellow thug had been charred to bits. His friends now gathered around in horror at what was left.

“What the hell are you?” One of them asks, unnerved.

“Your face makes me want to puke,” another insults. He’s used to such comments by now. He’s aware his appearance is horrifying to most, but that doesn’t mean he’ll just let the insults slide. He has a reputation and dignity to maintain. Consequences must be handed out to those who dare intimidate him.

“Keep looking at me like that and I’ll kill you!“ Another one threatens. Really, he wants to laugh at the notion. Instead, he raises his hand.

“Pity, you’re not needed,” he comments before shooting out flames from his hand. He braces himself for the kickback of his quirk. The action sends a sharp pain shooting down his side. Screams and groans erupt from the narrow passage. They all fall to the ground as he just walks on through the flame, ignoring the heat licking at his body. The pain makes him irritated, itching to throw insults at his victims in their last moments. Some still cling to life, writhing in pain. “Stay down, you make good fuel. Allow my flames to consume you.”

After the screaming has died down, he feels a liquid running down his abdomen. Curious and concerned, he lifts up his shirt to find the earlier wound had opened back up, most likely from the impact of his blast. He curses to himself, quickening his pace to the LOV. The flame user makes it back to the hideout with great difficulty. He’s slamming open doors as he leans against them, not having enough energy to open them normally and not giving enough a shit that everyone else is probably sleeping. He trudges up the stairs and sees light peeking out from underneath your door. He groans and quickly opens the door to your room, instantly slumping against the doorframe. You let out a surprised yelp and he’s equally surprised when he faces you.

It’s like a scene from a cliche manga. You’re half clothed, clad in only panties and with your shirt half pulled up. You must have been in the process of changing into night clothes for bed. He sees the emotions of anger and embarrassment cross your face before changing to a shocked expression. You can tell he’s injured somehow.

“I was going to yell at you for not knocking, but I’ll let it slide this time since it’s an emergency,” you murmur while looking away from him. He’s a bit dazed, whether that be from the blood loss or from seeing you in such a position. You quickly walk to your dresser and throw on some shorts, tugging them over and ending the impromptu show he received. You’re about to instruct him to lie down on your bed until you notice the blood.

“Jesus Christ, how did this happen?” You exclaim. You rush over to his spot in the door frame and instruct him to lie down where he is.

“What do you think? I got stabbed,” he grumbles in response. You lift up his shirt to get a better view, noticing that half of the wound has been cauterized. Healing a half-closed wound shouldn’t be too hard with your quirk, but you worry about internal bleeding. Under more inspection, you reason that since the wound isn’t that deep, it’s unlikely there’s organ puncture. All you could do was monitor him for signs should he have internal bleeding anyways.

“I know you were being a smartass but that’s helpful information. Getting stabbed has different injuries compared to getting slashed at. I need to know what I’m working with,” you explain. You press on his abdomen, checking for signs of swelling. You ask him a few questions about if he’s feeling nauseous or feverish to rule out internal bleeding. When he answers no, you find yourself feeling relieved. Wait, why do you care what happens to him anyways?

You push your thoughts aside to focus on Dabi’s wounds. “I don’t think your internal organs are bleeding, but that could change. You should let the others know so you could get more professional treatment, should the worst-case scenario happens. I can’t easily heal stuff like that without reaching in and touching the source,” He nods weakly and you activate your quirk. You apply pressure over the area to slow the bleeding until your quirk fuses the wounds together. He winces slightly at the gesture. After some time, the bleeding ceases. The only evidence left of the laceration is the bloodied floor.

“How’re you feeling, Dabi?” You ask.

“Like shit.”

“Well that’s understandable,” you laugh lightly. “Are you dizzy? Can you stand?” He tries to stand up, managing but just barely. You can see his movements are shaky and slightly uncoordinated. He’s lost a lot of blood, making him dizzy and weak.

“‘M fine,” He grumbles. It seems stubbornness is a recurring theme for him. He starts to trudge to his room, only for his steps to sway significantly. Dabi nearly stumbles into you in the process, much to his own chagrin.

“Uh huh, you were saying?” You tease. He merely huffs in response. You sling his arm over your shoulder and encourage him to lean on you. He seems taken aback, judging by his tensed body. You reason it’s because he’s too proud to ask for help.

“I know you hate this but just bear with me. It’ll be over once we get to your room,” you bargain. You felt a bit guilty for invading his space in such a way, but he was in no condition to walk on his own. “Wait, where is your room?”

“‘M next to yours,” he tiredly slurs out. You let out a soft ‘oh’ in response, embarrassed for not knowing. The two of you trudge on before meeting his door. You turn the knob and push the door forward with a foot. Dabi disentangles himself from you, leaning on the walls for support. He makes his way over to a dresser, pulling out some clean clothes while supporting himself on the furniture.

He pulls his shirt off, allowing you to see the expanse of his scars and the muscles on his back. You had assumed Dabi was extremely lanky, but you’re beginning to realize his baggy clothes hid a lot of his body. He’s skinny, but there’s a fair amount of muscle on him too. You find yourself growing flustered at your situation. Your mind betrays you by imagining the feeling of his body underneath your hands.

You clear your throat and attempt to steady your voice. “‘M gonna go clean up. Do you want me to heal your burns after?” He turns to you and shakes his head. You’re surprised at the sight of his unexpectedly toned body, once again.

“Just heal ‘em tomorrow,” He dismisses, voice laden with exhaustion. You nod and dismiss yourself back to your room. You’re thankful to have the chance to calm yourself. This night has been a roller coaster for you. You weren’t sure how much more your heart could take. At least cleaning would take your mind off of him.

You fetch some cleaning supplies and soon all signs of what transpired are erased. Next, you wash your hands and arms in the sink until the water running off of you turns clear. The adrenaline seems to have finally worn off as you find yourself crashing. You return to your now-cleaned room. Your bed has never seemed so inviting. You collapse into your bed without hesitation. You’re about to give yourself to sleep before your eyes snap open at your next thought.

‘Fuck, that could have been the perfect opportunity to escape. He was so out of it I may have been able to steal a key and pull it off,’ you think, cursing yourself for letting the chance go to waste. You sigh heavily and bury your head into the pillows. Your own good will frustrates you.

As disappointed as you are, there’s nothing else you can do about it now. Judging by the footfalls you hear padding down the halls, it’s probably from Shigaraki. Your window of opportunity has officially closed. You curse the league’s leader for having such a bizarre sleeping schedule, before drifting off to sleep.

Masterlist

Link to AO3

#dabi reader #dabi x reader #mha dabi #bnha dabi #dabi #dabi fanfic #dabi x female reader #dabi x you #mha healing quirk #healer reader #reader insert #tw: blood #tw: injury #tw: threats #tw: violence #tw: death #canon typical violence #dabi x y/n

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sidhewrites · 6 months

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Sixteen! Man I have no clue if this is even engaging anymore but I'm having fun. Some more implied violence against animals, but like again, Renfield is ultimately fine and just confused and scared.

Project Info

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

I barely get the door shut before Magnus lands on me, swearing and snarling like an animal as he tries to claw at my face. But while he's more agile, my arms are longer, and no matter what Magnus does, he's still in the body of an old, feeble cat. He gets a few scratches in, narrowly missing one of my eyes, before I hold him aloft, hissing and spitting. When he realizes he can no longer get to my vitals, he turns his rage on my hands and wrists, shredding the skin and biting down.

I react without thinking. I throw him across the room. Mercifully, he lands on the couch, and slides off onto the floor with only a light thump, but my heart stops all the same. I leap over the back of the sofa, and bend over, about to pick him up and coddle him, but Magnus only chuckles.

"What a vicious girl," he says. "I didn't think someone so young could do a thing like that."

"Leave us alone!" I shout, and reach down, thinking to scoop Renfield into my arms.

Magnus twists and bites me again, drawing more blood. There's a sick delight in his eyes. When he releases me, he flees to the top of my bookshelf, knocking over the last thing up there -- a plant in a plastic pot, that clatters to the ground. I barely get out of the way in time, only to step on something fragile, and feel it crunch beneath my feet. When I risk a glance down, my heart drops. A picture frame of Josie and myself on one of our favorite outings, laughing at the camera with cotton candy stuck in our hair. Mud smears the photo. There's no saving it.

"What's your name?" he asks, as if he hadn't just attacked me twice.

"What?"

He makes a sound like tsk-tsk. "I asked your name. I can't keep calling you girl, can I?"

Something in me bristles on instinct at being talked down to like that, but I don't know how else to respond than saying, "Uh. Kaz. Pine. Kaz Pine."

"Your name's not Kaz."

"If I tell you my birth name you're gonna use it. I'd rather you didn't."

He sniffs dismissively. "Look, Kaz, I'm going to make things very simple. I want the world to be quiet."

"Simple. Yeah."

"There's nothing but noise, and there's been nothing but noise since those damned mines opened up. Take me somewhere quiet to live out the rest of my eternal life, and I won't try to kill you in your sleep. Deal?" (Make this less melodramatic.)

"Leave us alone, Magnus. Leave my cat alone -- he doesn't have anything to do with this."

"Hm, no, I don't think I will. I quite like it in here, actually." He leaps from the bookshelf down to the table. "Spry in a way humans never were. I wonder if I'd do well in the woods."

My heart leaps to my chest, imagining Renfield out in the woods alone. If the coyotes don't get him, something will. He wouldn't last long.

"We're going to stop you. I don't know what you're planning, but we will."

[idk. Scene happens.]

Magnus laughs, a wicked and hateful cackle. The lights flare overhead, and then go out with a pop, leaving me with only the light filtering up from the street outside.

Suddenly, Renfield's eyes dilate. He looks around, ears flat, and vomits up another wad of black bile. I run to his side, catching him before he can run off the table and risk cutting his feet on the glass. Terrified, he burrows his face into my arms and desperately tries to calm himself with heavy purring.

I glance at my phone, abandoned by the door. I need to file a police report, or at least the building manager, but I don't know what I'd say. Hi, my possessed cat destroyed everything. Yeah, that sounds sane.

I need to do something. I need to call someone. Somehow, Renfield's fur seems even lighter than it had when I first came in. I tell myself it's a trick of the light. But when Josie comes to get me hours later, I'm sitting in the waiting room of a 24 hour pet hospital with gauze wrapped around my hands and arms, phone sitting uselessly on the low table in front of me. Despite any misgivings I might have had, I've called the Haunted Archivists ten more times, growing more frantic with each voicemail, desperate for someone who knows what they're doing to come and help.

I don't want to tell her that. I don't want to tell her anything.

The bell jingles when she opens the door, and she runs to my side in an instant. "Oh my god, Kaz. What happened?"

I shake my head, face pressed into her shoulder. "I don't know. I got home, and then he--" my voice catches, and I squeeze her tight. I'd given her a rambling, frantic explanation over the phone, barely making sense. In the end, all I did was tell her where I was, and she ran right over.

"Look at me," she says, pulling back, my face in her hands.

I snivel, letting her push hair out of my face and wipe my tears away.

"We're going to get him out of there. I don't know what he can do, but we can't let him stay We already know who he is and what he wants. Now we just have to figure out how to get rid of him. Right?"

Stupidly, I think about the movies. Dramatic exorcisms that hurt the victim as much as the demon, leaving everyone involved scarred forever. Renfield is already such an old, fragile cat. He barely knows where he is half the time. I shake my head, starting to plead, "We can't do that to him. We can't -- we can't do that--"

"We'll figure it out. We'll find something. Okay?" When I don't answer, she asks again, "okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

Josie pulls me back in, holding me tight. I don't know how long I stay there until the doctor steps out, bandages on his hand, blood already seeping through. He seems nonplussed. It makes sense, no doubt. He sees much larger animals who lash out than an old kitty, but I can't help but worry if it's infected or something.

"How is he?" Josie asks, keeping an arm around my shoulders.

When the doctor doesn't answer right away, I start to feel sick, and nearly stand up, ready to argue. I don't know about what, but it's got to be wrong.

But then he sighs. "I know you'll hate to hear this, but we don't know. We've taken a few blood samples, and we'll run a few tests. When your regular vet's office is open, we'll reach out and see if they have any insight, but..."

Josie nods. "How's his breathing? His vitals, or temperature, or...?"

"He's got a bit of a heightened temperature, but his breathing seems acceptable considering his medical history."

"Can I take him home?" I ask miserably, and Josie squeezes my shoulder.

The doctor sighs. "Let's keep him here until his temperature goes down. We'll see if we can get him to drink anything, and see if an inhaler will do him any good. Okay?"

I swallow back anything else, and nod. There's nothing else to say. The doctor's right. He should stay here.

But once I've paid the bill and stepped outside, I freeze. "What if Magnus...?"

"Then Magnus," Josie says, though she's lacking conviction. "Better to keep Renfield safe than keep the ghost a secret. Right?"

I want to argue. I want to take my baby home. He hates the vet. He hates being away from home. He's scared.

"Right," I say. "Right."

When we get back to my place, I realize Josie's right. Renfield can't come back to this. My place has been destroyed. The posters on the walls, the furniture. And that's just the living room.

"Christ," Josie says, taking it all in.

"I'm sorry..."

"No. No, it's okay. Have you slept at all?"

I let out a short, mirthless laugh.

"Sorry. Look -- go wash your face. Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. Then we can do the rest."

I let Josie guide me to the bathroom, and wince at the shattered mirror on the medicine cabinet. She makes quick work of moving the larger shards out of the way, and sits me down on the edge of the tub. Despite everything, I can't help but relax as she tends to me. She's always had a knack for caring for people. Patching up wounds, caring for them when they're distressed. She wipes my face and arms gently with a washcloth and warm water, careful not to press too hard. I can't help the stinging behind my eyes. Before too long, I'm crying again, hot tears running down my face, but she just wipes my nose and continues her work, disinfecting the wounds and covering them.

A stupid thought crosses my mind, a memory that still makes me smile despite the bitter sweetness that comes with it. "Remember when I got that first-aid kit?"

She smiles, nodding as she presses another bandage to my forearm. "I was ready to drag you to a drug store at midnight when I found out you didn't have one. I still don't know how you managed beforehand."

"I'm invincible," I say without thinking, and she laughs.

For a minute, we don't say anything. I look at her, tending to my wounds so carefully. Fighting the urge to apologize any time I flinch or hiss when she presses a bit too hard.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I've been an ass."

She looks up, mouth open, about to counter with her own apology -- then stops. We're alarmingly close, and for a split second, the thought occurs to me to lean forward. It wouldn't take much -- just a tilt of my head.

For half a second, I think I might actually do it.

But I look away, and so does she.

"Yep," Josie says, and stands up to toss out a few bandage wrappers, avoiding my gaze. "We...we both have, probably, but it's nice to be able to say I told you so."

I nod, pursing my lips. "You get bragging rights for life."

It's going to take time to get over her, but we both know it's for the best. As attracted as we are to each other, Josie and I don't have compatible personalities for a romantic relationship. We would only hurt each other worse if we even considered getting back together, and despite Lucy being something of a rebound at first ... I really do like her. I don't want to mess things up with either of them. Maybe if we could figure out how to go a few days without fighting after all this is over, we could be friends again. I've never been good at thinking before I speak, but I could always try. After all, if ghosts are real, who knows what else is possible?

When Josie's finished with me, I feel like a mummy. Gauze wraps around both my forearms, with adhesive bandages on more than half my fingers, as well as my face, neck, and chest. I guess I should be grateful Renfield's mouth was too small for Magnus to go for the jugular. But now that I'm back in one piece, that leaves the rest of my apartment to deal with.

Josie doesn't hesitate. She goes right out the bathroom door, but I hang back until she turns around.

"You coming?"

I don't want to. Everything is destroyed. There's so much to do -- the glass on the floor, the dirt from the plant, the furniture ripped up. There's too much to tackle, and I wouldn't know where to start.

But Josie does. And she knows me well enough to help me figure it out, too.

"Go get the vacuum. I'm gonna go try to save Winnifred."

"Who?"

She reddened. "It's what I named your fern."

"What?"

"I read that naming your plants helps create a bond and nurture growth."

"Oh. Okay." If I had more energy, I would try to logic out exactly why that didn't make sense -- but then I remembered we have studies that show talking to plants help them grow, and some of them seem to have some kind of memory. I try that whole thinking before I speak thing, and nod. "Okay. Go save ... Winnifred please."

She smiles uncertainly, and heads off to the living room, while I make my way to the closet in search of the vacuum.

It's slow going. As soon as I'm in the front room, my willpower disappears in an instant as the enormity of the damage sinks in. Nearly all my furniture has been damaged -- torn up fabric, scratched wood. Josie doesn't wait for me to sit down and take it all in, however. She points me towards the broken glass and puts me to work.

She calls Mr. Ngo for me, letting me know I won't be coming into work and apologizing on my behalf. She almost volunteers to come in and do my shift for me before I can take the phone from her hands, mumble out at last apology, and hang up before he can launch into an interrogation about my current state.

I let her heat up Pop-Tarts in my toaster for breakfast, but as soon as I sit down, all the energy falls away, and I almost fall asleep then and there.

"Go to bed," Josie says.

"But...?"

"Go on. I'll keep working at this, okay?"

"What about tonight?" We're supposed to meet up with Lucy and figure out our next steps.

"I'll call at seven to see if you're up for it. Okay?"

It's enough, I guess. I let her send me off to bed. Josie just barely starts work again before I'm all but dead to the world. I wake up an hour before dawn to a few texts from Josie letting me know what happened. She'd called a few times around seven as promised, to no answer.

Hey, guess you're asleep still. I'm going to the graveyard in an hour. Text me if you wake up.

Obviously, I didn't.

Around eight, she texted again: Heading out now. Hope you're feeling better.

Then, two hours after that: I didn't see Lucy, or any other ghosts, but IDK if I ever will. But I talked to the night and said what happened, and I think she heard me. I think she's worried about you.

Finally, thirty seconds after that, Is that weird to say? Sorry. I hope it's ok. Text me when you're up, and let me know how you feel.

Good night, Kaz. I'm glad we're still friends.

I send a text back, I'm alive. Thank you. Good night/morning.

And as much as I want to go back to sleep, I have no choice. My normal shift starts in half an hour. I drag myself out of bed, take a shower, and prepare for whatever hell is waiting for me at work.I don't want to know if the Haunted Archivists got any of my calls. More than anything, I hope I'd somehow been calling the wrong number. If nothing else, I hope I have an hour or two of mowing the grass alone to figure out what to say.

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wench-and-jezebel · 1 year

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NCIS Reaction: Marine Down

Wench (@scripted-downfall) reacts [with (maybe) occasional asides by Jezebel (@typicalopposite)]: a transcript from a voice call

[Is always a dead person. Like, it’s never an inside job, never stealing, nothing. Just death]

Well, this is new… we don’t usually start out with a wake

[It’s Jim!] Well, that was weird [He’s not dead] Also, we also don’t usually start out with the person being not-dead… Also, so much for “always a dead person,” I guess

Tonyyy

Always confuses me why they have lab techs have gun training

[Is McGee here!?! 💕]

I mean, the cutout losing an ear isn't the end of the world… At least she's alive and not killed by the hostage-taker! [Noooo M3GAN ptsd!] We have to react to thattttt

[Damn not the phone going on the target] Love that Kate cared about her PDA but Tony cared more about the hat alskjdf [He’d have took my phone and I would have quit] We would both pass away if your phone died

I do appreciate the threat to the boat, though it’d be kinda sad to lose it :(

He gave Abby the hat! [Abbbyyyyy]

"Computers can sense fear" [I love Abby]

Gunpowder perfume seems awesome

Tony has Post-It notes everywhere… Even on his lamp

Wait, surely McGee's gotta come in: Abby's got a new perfume (huh… that was half-joke but I wonder if they're still a "thing")

It's Jim's ghost and you're watching Supernatural [Sam and Dean are gonna show up] Bringing back the long-forgotten the priest outfits

That was a very unsympathetic "You have our sympathies,” Kate

Sealed caskets? That's suspicious… Suspicious circs

Poor Tony, results redacted

[Poor Tony still looking sadly at the hat] Noooooo

Tony's (listed in the system as) DEAD?!?!?! I told you it was an SPN episode! [☠️☠️☠️]

Wait, was the PDA shot?

[“Not everything is a conspiracy” But it is Kate]

Why is Gibbs always making them move with absolutely no warning

THE PDA WAS SHOT [Poor phone ☠️☠️☠️]

And at least Tony got a new hat :)

"We can’t release how they died because of the way they died" WELL HOW'D THEY DIE THEN?!?!

Body language isn't thattttt accurate

[Quantico! Criminal Minds crossover!] alksdjf

What is it with higher-ups always interrupting their employees? Grissom in CSI does it too

What were those significant looks about??? (Serious question; that was not a very awe-inspiring reveal)

The layers of deception here though

I do appreciate that Gibbs and Tony tend to play off each other in terms of banter. I mean, they clearly know each other's interrogative strategies

[Why are they talking “secretive” stuff just… in the middle of the office]

Also, I thought Gibbs had clearance for the documents??? That was a whole conversation topic?

Abby's love language seems to be caffeine-drink reception [CafPow] Ducky gave her one during the MMORPG one

Kate and Tony are leaving together; gonna go burn Gibbs’ boat now

That was abrupt, Kate

Imagine being good at art [Shut up you are!] Uh-uh [Uh huh]

*artist jealousy intensifying*

[Tony is such a childdd! Like, in a Dean way]

The drawings though alksjfd [Uh oh, she’s got Gibbs drawn like one of her French girls]

I hate the whole "I need x time" "nah, take y (less than x) time” trope

Snow is pretty [Something we never get] Noooo

Creepy photography [He looks.. right at the camera… But doesn’t see the camera]

I like her turtleneck

Does Abby have a clown on her shirt? [Probably]

Such a coherent message [Yep total confirmation of him being alive]

"Hizzouse" was kinda obvious though, especially given context

Dude, the distortion though

Why do they even bother with the "I thought x, but was wrong" section of the debriefing? [☠️☠️☠️] They do it in every lab show

“We’ve got a dead man calling” I'm surprised that wasn't the title… What the hell does Marine Down even mean?

Why would you screw shut a coffin? Unless you're in Supernatural. Or the X Files. [Very true]

"Calls from grave" was a Supernatural episode summary, I remember it

Poor Ducky has not been in this episode [Well they never had a body] I miss him :(

I love the mini drill

[BUM BUM BUM] This. This is an SPN/X Files episode

– – –

Wench: I'm. Highly confused. It feels like they keep saying something and then backtracking. And then going forward again. And then backtracking. It’s like the circles thing, but a plot point not just a line/speech

Jezebel: Yeah! And, honestly, I can’t even remember this episode past the beginning when he calls her. So this all feels new to me too!

Wench: But for real, we haven’t actually had a plot because they just... "he dead" "he not dead" "he calling" "he not calling" "gibbs has access" "gibbs does not have access" "he dead" "oh wait he not dead" "he not calling" "oh wait he calling" "oh wait he dead"

Jezebel: Yeah it’s just dead guy called wife. And it’s mysterious.

Wench: Because to the extent that there is a plot, it just kinda.. ouroboros's in on itself? I don't know if I'm just missing stuff or if they're being unclear but what??? Like, they just said he looked alive?

Jezebel: I think they are confused

Wench: I will say... have you seen The Mummy? Because this makes me think of a scene where they open a sarcophagus and the contents are still decomposing and the line is literally: “Why does he look so… juicy?” in this really memorable exchange… (We better react to that or else) That is what's going through my head… EXCEPT THEY HAVEN'T SAID WHETHER HE'S DEAD

Jezebel: MYSTERIOUS

Wench: I will say that I haven't been especially annoyed by the characters. Gibbs hasn't been his usual bitchy self

Jezebel: This is the Gibbs the writers intended him to be

Wench: Kate's been decent too, and I appreciated her interactions with Tony. It kinda feels like they've that sibling energy they were talking about in the other episode, where they're bickering, but not nastily?

Jezebel: Yeah

Wench: Anyway, it kinda feels like the Dark Angels we've been watching where... nothing... happened.

Jezebel: Right. And they just kinda waffle back and forth, especially since they’re acting like something bad happened, but he looks all peaceful? So it’s like… It looks like he's dead and has been dead, in the position of being dead, and not like he was just up and around and calling his wife. So unless he decided to just go ahead and die, hands clasped over stomach, all we know is that something bad happened, except what if it didn’t

Wench: Right. And we still don’t know, is it bad in the context of his work or not?

Jezebel: Yeah

Wench: All I’m saying is, this be a Max POV episode

– – –

“We screwed that up” Screwed what up? What exactly could have gone differently?????

[Why does the guy whose picture is on the wall under bin Laden’s look like Michael Myers?]

"Unless your calling plan include an afterlife" SPN-coded

"Married four times" Has Gibbs really? Dang, boi!

[Look at Tony fangirling over gibbs]

Why do they keep talking in jargonnnnn

DUCKYYYYYY [Well… now he’s got a body]

Has he been embalmed or just consumed formaldehyde?

I told you Tony was a closet nerd!!! WHAT DID I SAY?!!?!?

Tony, stop ogling the dead dude [☠️☠️☠️☠️] Ya necrophiliac

I appreciate the recognition of the limits of autopsies and time-of-death estimations

The chuckle though

[This still doesn’t explain… HOW HE called the wifeeee]

THEY SAID THE DUDES WERE POISONED WITH FORMALDEHYDE; WHY ARE WE NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS???? [Because they have forgotten they said that] alksdjflaksdfj

Gibbs and his time pressures [Right?!]

Once again, the only appropriate explanation seems to be supernatural… (lower-case this time) [Isssa ghost]

What's with the random map in the background? [I think it’s just always running] What a waste of energy!

AGAIN WITH THE TIME PRESSURES [Gibbs: Chop chop]

OH NO THE PAPERWORK MIX-UP HAS A PURPOSE [Bum bum bummmmm is not Tony!]

Chickadee, you were not subtle about that turn though

[Blech]

Poor Ducky [Just wait til you meet Jimmy] Is that a good “wait” or a bad one? [He’s basically bby ducky] OH LOVELY [Glasses and all]

Ducky, ya good? That was a very abrupt motion [The cringe tho] BUDDY WHAT'S THE MATTER?!?!? [Oh shit he was shaking]

"I think he knew something was up" NO SHIT YOU WEREN'T SUBTLE [🤣🤣🤣]

Poor Tony, identity theft once again

Speaking of not subtle, this dude-

[I swear Tony always gets the short end of the stick]

WHERE DID THE GUN COME FROM?!? WHY IS THERE JUST RANDOM GUNFIRE?!?… Is this gonna be terrorists again!?!?

[Gibbs talking to himself now]

Woman, slow down with the numbers alskdfj

Um. Tony. Calmeth downeth the flirtingeth [“But I look good”]

Tony being very concerned about Gibbs right there… very sweet [He be like: boss you ok? 🥺🥺💕]

“How many agencies do you know that drive economy-class armoured cars?” I'd wager most of them actually

Tony and Gibbs have Connections [The way he looks at Kate like how can you NOT tell?]

"I have to get better at reading men" Bitch, you can't read people because you're not empathetic.. it's not a sex/gender thing; it’s a you thing

DUCKY STANDING UP FOR HIMSELF; THANK YOU

Gibbs did not help

Oh come on not the dumb!Tony trope again [Ooooof]

ONCE AGAIN IF THIS IS NOT ABOUT HIM DRINKING THE FORMALDEHYDE I’MA LOSE IT

Can you read the newspaper you just pulled from the dude’s body? [The newspaper in his neck made my eye twitch!]

TONY DOING THE TRANSLATION YESSSSS SMART TONY TRUTHERS ARE WINNING THIS EPISODEEEEE

aksdjflkasjf

Can we get some straight answers one of these days? Please? [So much is happening but so little is happening, and it’s confusing]

Tony recognizing Gibbs is pissed and thus dialling up his own anger… Love it [I got you bab- I mean boss]

I love her glovesssss

THEY ARE DIGGING UP A GRAVE IN A CEMETERY AT NIGHT. ONCE AGAIN: THIS IS A SUPERNATURAL EPISODE!!!

Where's the salt?

"It's not like we couldn't do this during daylight" *haunted Supernatural expression cast vaguely in Tony’s direction* Bitch, you don't know the struggle

"You afraid of ghosts?" How many times do I have to say it? SUPERNATURAL

[He keeps looking at Kate like, “see he’s so upset”]

Oop-, Tony knowing how to use the technology is awesome

That was a very abrupt scene change

Kate, this is why they invented coffee! [Kate needs a Caf-Pow] Weaklings. Imagine needing sleep!

ONCE AGAIN. I’M BEGGING Y’ALL TO REMEMBER THE POISONINGS

[Long pause…. “Poison”] lksadfjlsakdfjaldskfj WHAT IS WITH THE LONG PAUSES IN GENERAL THOUGH? [Old people] alksdjfaksldjf [Gotta be dramatic]

Dude made off with the ransom money? Rude

This conversation is so dramtically-paused for why

Dude, they're not backing off just because you say to. That never works. Ever.

SEE?!!?!?

[Ack] Unsafe flying conditions right there

Poor Kate

TONY STILL HARPING ON THE JETSSSS; I’m loving it

"Sure" That’s very convincing, Tony, bud

[Gibbs is asleep] Have you seen Aliens? If not... *whistles and adds it to the list* [A long time ago]

Tony knowing Gibbs well again

[Ok that was adorable] He has so much energy and for why [‘Cause he’s petty af]

See, HE understands coffee

Weakling. Just use the bag. Privacy be overrated! [Behind the boxes] IN the boxes

[Awww she Boujie… Now Kate’s gonna be upset]

It is kinda dumb for him to just stick around

She just better not be bitchy about it

Whenever a character says "humour us,” you're in trouble

Y'ALL ONCE WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THE POISONING?!!? They stick in random details for no reason and then never touch them again. Chekhov's gun just got unloaded and shipped off for scrap

[He a mordorerrrr]

It's so weird not seeing Weatherly in a wheelchair. Honestly, I kinda forget they're the same actor. Like, I can see it? But they're really different in character/personality/acting. [Which is crazy cause it’s only a few years difference]

This storyline is so confusing. What exactly is even happening? [I have no idea]

I might go read through the script before/during endpoint just to try and figure it out. And I'm not sure it'll help; they just kinda... jump from idea to idea [Good luck ☠️]

Tony taking off his cap to protect it from the gunfire alsdkfj

[btw I think they were oh this will be interesting for a plot] Right… And I mean… it was interesting. But only in the fever-dream kinda way. It doesn’t really make sense.

This poor marine

What is this dude's issue with Gibbs????

Oof [Well damn] Gibbs gonna feel real safe walking out after you just killed the last dude

"Just wanna talk" Y'all are talking now?!?

HOW ARE THERE ONLY THREE MINUTES LEFT IN THIS EPISODE!? [☠️☠️🤣🤣☠️☠️] HOW IS THIS POSSIBLY GONNA BE RESOLVED

Oop- return of the shooting range storyline! I saw those significant looks between Tony and Gibbs. Only problem: Tony gonna shoot the marine's ear off [Aghhh M3gan ptsd… again]

"I can't believe you trusted me" He didn't

[Well damn] That situation. Did not need that level of force. [Brutal] Bruh, why did they both shoot?!?!?! [In memory of the hat and phone] WHY DID THEY BOTH SHOOT MULTIPLE TIMES? EACH!?!?!? (Also, RIP hat and phone)

[Damn! That’s wholesome!]

Good for these people, but I feel bad for the wife who didn't get her husband back and now has to watch the other reunion [☠️☠️☠️]

And now has to watch the other reunion

The kids are precioussssss

NO BUT THE GUY’S EAR *&(#*&!(&R*(!&$)!(*&#@$!() I SAID IT! I CALLED IT! WHAT DID I SAYYYYY… I mean. At least Tony's a consistent shot?

This chick again! One of these days, we better figure out who she is!

Also, there's a random yellow ribbon around the tree and it's making me think of the song [You don’t know what that means tho? The yellow ribbon?] I know the song...? [No a yellow ribbon is for a lost loved one] Oh, damn. [🤣🤣]

– – –

Wench: Dude, we never found out what was going on with the person taking the photographs???

Jezebel: Could it have been the guy at the end? Who specifically wanted to speak to Gibbs?

Wench: I don't think so; wasn't he supposed to be in Colombia? ALSO WHAT WAS GOING ON WITH THE CALLS?!?!

Jezebel: I don’t know 🤣🤣

Wench: Honestly, my first reaction is a quite solid wtf. I have 0 clue what just happened. But at least it wasn't terrorists again?

Jezebel: Very much same 🤣🤣🤣

Wench: I wasn't cognizant of the fact that 45 minutes just passed. In terms of what happened, I feel like that was an episode worth of inconsistency and plot holes. Feels kinda harsh to say, but it's true

Jezebel: And they will never be filled ☠️🤣

Wench: I even looked at the wiki and just… wot? Very thorough wiki, with no answers to be had. (I honestly think the the thoroughness didn't help because it basically just recited the show, whereas I need some kind of broad summary to get what the hell was going on.)

Jezebel: Right

Wench: I did appreciate the characterization this time. And am very glad that Ducky got a chance to be annoyed about the "boring" allegations.

Jezebel: Yess

Wench: And calling out his assistant on the headphone thing

Jezebel: YESSSS

Wench: Especially because when I worked in a lab, they didn't let us put on headphones or play music or anything because we had to be able to hear if something went wrong. And admittedly that was a chem lab, not a morgue where (hopefully) things aren't moving — you know, in an ideal situation 🙂 — but it thus strikes me as weird that he had headphones on

Jezebel: I didn’t really remember him, tbh. I think most of the episodes I’m remembering are from s2, so I’m used to that version of Kate, and Tony, and Gibbs. And that’s the season with Jimmy, I think.

Wench: And McGee isn't here as much as you seem to remember either

Jezebel: Right. And I thought he was introduced as a side thing-

Wench: A one-shot character?

Jezebel: Yeah, and then he wasn’t in the episode after, but was in the one after that… And then he joined for good. So this is… weird.

Wench: Yeah, I definitely hear that

Jezebel: I will say, Ziva joins for a long time, and I do like her and Tony… I mean, they’re the actual canon thing developing. But she’s sometimes a bit… meh. And not as interesting as the thing with Tony and McGee.

Wench: So what I'm hearing is... pros of multishipping? I mean, ya know... Tony has two hands. That just seems to be the solution to all of our problems

Jezebel: Right 🙂 There’s also a ship that comes out of Mcgee and Abby dating…

Wench: Well, that already started, right? Or at their first date did

Jezebel: Yeah. I start getting into ick with ships like Gibbs and Abby. Because I don’t like that.

Wench: Oh, absolutely, that’s familial, not romantic. Same with Gibbs and Tony, tbh. Like, I can see joking about it, but it’s far more Tony hero-worshipping Gibbs than anything, and not more. I don’t think I like it.

Jezebel: Right. You can see how other people see it, right-

Wench: Yeah

Jezebel: But it’s like… It’s like shipping Dean and Jody. It’s just weird

Wench: I don't like thatttttttttt

Jezebel: Anyway... if I can come up with anything to say for endpoint... Uh. GOT IT. Abby's gloves were great! Honestly, highlight of the episode. ‘Til next time!

#ncis #ncis reactions #reactions #episode reactions #leroy jethro gibbs #kate todd #tony dinozzo #abby scuito #donald mallard #s01e09 #marine down #wench (pr)

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pulpman2 · 2 years

Text

The Unconventional Entrance

Barlow’s eyes widened as the window to his drawing room eased open and a shapely high heeled and nyloned female leg appeared followed by a blonde head that ducked under the frame. Yvonne Ellis, private eye, stepped in, shook her tousled hair, straightened her red coat and black skirt, and looked the man in the eye. “Mr Barlow,” she said a little breathlessly, “I’m so glad I caught you!” Barlow’s mouth opened and closed. “How did you…?” he began. “Yes, apologies for the unconventional entrance,” Yvonne replied, “but your light was on, although your fire escape does need attention.” Her eyes quickly scanned the room. “Going somewhere?” Her eyes sparkled as they alighted on his packed bags, stacked expectantly on the drawing room rug. “My taxi will be here in twenty minutes, Miss Ellis.” Barlow replied primly. “My flight to Marseille takes off in two hours.”

“You may need to claim a refund,” Yvonne smiled, “because when I pass my evidence to the police, I suspect you won’t be going anywhere.” Barlow blanched and made to stand up. “I think I will wait outside, you madwoman,” he muttered. Yvonne strode towards the art dealer, placed her hands on his shoulders and pressed him back into his seat. “Oh no you don’t,” she told him, “not until you hear the reasons why I know you did it. Besides, an unforced confession will reduce your sentence!” Barlow swallowed, surprised at the woman’s strength and the confidence of her tone, and sat back in the chair, remaining silent. Yvonne then took the crooked dealer through every forgery he had ever commissioned, every price he had fixed, and every fencing operation he had been involved in. “You can’t prove any of it,” Barlow said, glowering at her when she had finished. “No,” agreed the PI, “but I can prove about half of it, and I’m sure the police will enjoy poking around the rest!” Barlow glared at her. “What do you want, Miss Ellis?” he asked angrily. “Your confession,” she replied, “so I can take you in. That way I get my fee from my client, the Tetris Art Gallery, and you get less jail time. Or I can hand over all my files to the police - it’s up to you.” She smiled sweetly at him. There was a pause. “Damn you!” Barlow exclaimed at last.

Later, Yvonne looked with happy satisfaction at the two pages of notepaper comprising Barlow’s confession to art theft and forgery, and dropped them into the pocket of her coat. Barlow stared in bitter silence at her, still seated at his bureau desk. The fury of defeat shone in the man’s pale blue eyes, for Yvonne had tied him up with her scarf as soon as he had signed the paper, so he sat in helpless fury, his wrists bound securely behind his back. “Shall we go?” she asked her prisoner brightly, as the sound of a car pulling up sounded from the street below. “We can take your taxi to the art gallery - it’s a better fare for the driver than the airport!”

My interpretation of the story behind this cover to the Perry Mason novel, The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom by Erle Stanley Gardner (1949)

#pulp magazine #perry mason #woman detective #tie up #strong women

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mylovelies-docx · 2 years

Text

Power Over Me - Chapter 4

You’re taking cover from the hailstorm of bullets coming from the other side of the room. Nat is crouched next to you with a tablet in hand, hacking into the security system through the panel on the wall.

“How much longer, Nat?” you question and spin out on one knee from behind the wall to take pot shots at the HYDRA agents across the way. You crash back into your hiding spot to avoid injury.

“Less than a minute,” Natasha responds, tapping away at the screen.

You buzz into Sam. “Sammy, can you and Clint keep the others busy for a little bit longer?”

“Of course. You don’t even gotta ask,” Sam responds easily.

“What’s up, Y/N?” Clint chimes in from his vantage point outside. Sam and Clint are keeping the reinforcements from entering the building, while you and Natasha clear the inside and recover some documents hidden somewhere deep within the facility.

“There are more hostiles than we expected, so Nat and I can’t split up like planned. It’ll take us longer to search the building.” You unhook your last stun grenade and chuck it at the gathered forces. They scatter like ants when they see it land, but they’re too slow to avoid it.

Nat unplugs from the wall. “All the doors are open now, Y/N – let’s go,” she says as she slides the tech back into her suit and draws her pistols.

“Perfect timing, I just cleared the path.”

You and Natasha run through the facility, searching every room for computers or filing cabinets with the pertinent information Tony assures is here. It takes longer than you would have liked, but after another twenty hostiles and too many rooms to count, you locate the files and extract them from a dusty computer that has seen better days.

“We’re ready to roll, fellas,” Nat breathes into the mic as you’re both running towards the exit. You shoot behind you where you hear footsteps, knocking down two more HYDRA agents.

“Never gets old,” you muse to Nat with a smile. She looks at you with a crooked smile and agrees.

“Then let’s go,” Clint replies to Nat. “I’m starting up the quinjet now.”

You and Nat break out into the early winter sunshine to see Sam buzzing around the sky with a man dangling from his arms.

“Nice to see you again, ladies!” he calls down to you, dropping the man.

“That’s not nice, Sam,” you chide. “He could have been scared of heights.”

“Not any more, he’s not,” Natasha laughs next to you.

“Anything we can help you with?” you ask Sam as he lands a few yards in front of you.

Sam’s wings fold up and he jogs to reach you both. “Nope. Got it covered – I think that was the last of them. We can head out to Clint now.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” you laugh and begin running to the hidden quinjet. You three make it a race to see who reaches Clint first, the winner getting to choose take-out on the way back. Sam cheats and flies his way into the open bay door with Nat making it barely a second before you do.

“Damn you, Sam. You always do that.” You slam into a seat and pretend to pout as you catch your breath.

“Hey now, you never said I couldn’t fly,” he fights back. He’s quietly laughing at how flushed your face is, so you raise both middle fingers and flip him off.

“It’s kind of implied,” Nat retorts with a flick of her fingers in his face as she passes him. Sam rears back to avoid her red nails leaving any marks on his nose. Now it’s your turn to laugh at his face.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam slouches in the seat across from you and takes up the whole aisle with his legs. You kick at his feet until you’re both pinwheeling your feet in the air to kick each other. The quinjet is at cruising altitude and well on the way back to the compound when you finally call a truce.

You right yourself and make your way up to Nat and Clint in the pilot's chairs.

“Any updates from Steve and Bucky, yet?” you ask as you crouch down between them. You grab a drink from the cooler situated under the console and take a big gulp, the cool temperature and electrolytes helping to rebalance your body.

“Already back at the compound,” Clint tells you. “Apparently a short and sweet little mission.”

“Good,” you say, and walk back to Sam.

“Where’s mine?” he asks. You just shrug your shoulders and sit down next to him.

“You’re just as capable of walking up there as I was.”

“You would have grabbed Buck one,” he sulks at you.

“Of course I would; Bucky’s actually nice to me.”

“And you love him.”

“And I–” you stop abruptly and glare at him. “Shut up, Sam.”

He just grins and grabs the bottle from your hands, chugging the whole thing. Sam tries to toss the bottle back at you, but you dodge quickly.

You stick your tongue out at him and rifle under the seat, trying to locate a book you’d left there a while ago. You let out a little ‘aha!’ when your fingers grasp the well-loved novel, bringing it out and holding it in the air in victory.

Now you have something to do that isn’t listening to Sam tease you.

***

Since most of the team had gone out on missions, you all decide to celebrate your success with a group movie night in the theater room. The plush red sofas, dim lighting, and built in popcorn machine make it the ideal movie-watching spot.

It’s finally your turn to pick the movie, and since you’re still mad at Sam for his comment earlier, you pick his least favorite series just to mess with him. It’s also a long one, since you haven’t all gotten to hang out together in a while and no one gave you a time limit on tonight’s festivities.

You grab your favorite fuzzy blanket and park your ass in the two-seat sofa right smack in the middle of the room – the best spot for viewing. You’re scrolling through your phone to kill time and let everyone wander in when you feel the cushion sink next to you and a warm arm throws itself on the back of the couch behind your head. You look over and answer Bucky’s smile with one of your own. Your pulse buzzes in your ears as you lean into him and let him watch the funny videos that pop up on your FYP.

Your phone is put away and popcorn placed in your lap when the movie finally starts. Tony apologizes for being late, ‘but he’s a very busy man in high demand’ according to him. You snort and nudge Bucky to point out Tony’s red eyes and slouched posture.

“High, indeed,” you giggle to Bucky.

Everyone is sprawled across couches and chairs, while Clint makes himself a nest of blankets on the floor – Nat eventually joins him. Everyone enjoys the movie except for Sam who sighs heavily during any quiet moments, hoping to catch your attention. You ignore him easily and stay cuddled under Bucky’s arm the whole night.

After that night, you stopped holding yourself back. You’re just as affectionate with Bucky inside the compound as he is with you out in public. You’re constantly walking by and squeezing his arm or pushing the hair out of his face when you’re standing together. You catch the looks everyone throws at you both, but Bucky’s smile keeps you from feeling self-conscious.

You and Bucky have been ‘dating’ for a couple of months now, and you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to tell you he met someone and wants to pursue something with them. Your heart breaks at the thought, but you’ll let him go when the time comes.

You’ve never been in a relationship – you’re still not in a relationship – but being with Bucky like this is so easy. You don’t know how you’re going to go back to being regular friends when he finally decides he wants to go out on dates and be with someone he actually likes in that way.

Steve sat you down one day last week for a ‘very serious talk’. You usually roll your eyes at him or try to be snarky whenever he wants to have a little heart-to-heart, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it this time.

“What are you doing, Y/N?” he demands softly. You have to look away from his intense gaze, like he’s searching your soul. Steve grabs your shoulders and turns you back to him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stevie.” You cross your arms in front of your chest to protect yourself from the hurt this conversation will inevitably deal to your heart.

“What’s going on with you and Buck?” he clarifies.

“Nothing. We’re ‘dating’,” you use your fingers to show heavy air quotes around the word. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“I’m being serious, Y/N. Have you talked to him about this? About what you both want out of it?” Steve is so concerned for you and it’s sweet, it really is, but you can’t handle someone pointing a magnifying glass at the situation you’ve put yourself in.

“Yeah, of course I have Steve,” you reply. “When that article was first published. He said it was an easy way to keep random strangers from asking him out on the street. That’s what he’s getting out of this.”

“And what about you?”

He’s watching your face for any hint as to what you’re thinking. You can’t come up with an answer to give him without revealing the extent of your feelings for his best friend, so you just shrug half-heartedly and burrow down into yourself.

“Y/N,” Steve sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers before looking back at you. “Talk to him and see what he says about it now.”

You shake your head softly, “I assume it’ll be the same as when this started.” Steve furrows his brow in agitation at your avoidance. “Don’t worry, Stevie,” you say as you pat his thigh and stand up from the chair he cornered you in, “I can handle this thing with Bucky. I’m a big girl, you know?”

“Just – just talk to him. Please.” Steve begs you. “I think there’s something you’re both missing.”

You throw a smile over your shoulder as you walk out.

Chapter 5

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #Power Over Me (Bucky Barnes FanFic)#bucky fanfic

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turtle-steverogers · 3 years

Note

i was thinking but do you know the unsent project? it is this website where you can write a message to your first love that you never sent to them. now imagine steve writing one (or multiple) to bucky after he came out of the ice after nat told him about it... yeah

hello hi anon this broke me and it was too perfect not to turn into a ficlet klafjldskjfalskf thank you

Unsent Letters

To:

Steve’s fingers freeze over the keyboard, the cursor blinking at him. It feels like it’s taunting him-- teasing him with the burden of choking out a name. What should he even say? The sender is anonymous, but how many people are named Bucky out there? Would anyone even care?

To: Bu

Steve huffs and backspaces, his hands trembling as he curls them into fists. He isn’t sure what provoked Natasha to tell him about this website. It’s a cruel tease to everything he wishes he could say-- wished he could say before Bucky slipped through his fingers. And now his only option is yelling into an abyss. The text box is black and daunting. He turns it yellow. No, too happy. Green. Yes, that’s fine. Bucky’s favorite color was always green.

His gaze wanders away from the screen of his hefty Dell laptop and out the window of his apartment. DC’s low rising buildings span out in front of him. His gut aches; he misses New York already. But he knows being there would only mangle his soul further, seeing his already alien home torn to shreds by literal space whales. He huffs, thinking of Bucky’s comics. His stories came to life after all. Bucky would have probably vibrated out of his skin if he knew there was other life out there.

To: My astronaut

How’s space treating you? It’s treating me pretty badly, if I’m being honest. If only you could see what it’s done to Brooklyn. I think you’d be pretty mad at it if you knew…

Steve hesitates, reading back over what he’s typed. It’s stupid as hell, and he cringes, but he doesn’t backspace. His fingers find the keys again.

I miss you something awful. I don’t think that even encompasses how much I’m hurting without you. I feel so lost right now-- space is much bigger and scarier than you’d think. I know you’d love it. I wish you could see bits of it, but god, I just want to go home. I want you to come home.

Steve freezes again and finds the screen blurry where tears have welled in his eyes. His jaw clenches as he pictures the way Bucky would laugh at him-- teasing him for his dramatics and ruffling his hair. He wishes he could be there now, rolling his eyes and nudging Steve’s shoulder.

“What’re you upsetting yourself for?” He’d say, gently closing the laptop and coaxing Steve into his arms. “I’m right here, pal.”

And if Steve closes his eyes, he can almost feel Bucky’s warmth enveloping him. But he’s not there. He’s dead, and Steve’s a goddamn ghost, drifting through a future that doesn’t know him.

He opens his eyes and stares at the text box, then clicks submit.

The screen loads, and his message is gone, his pain forever documented in the abyss.

For someone who fought aliens two weeks after waking up from his impromptu seventy year sleep, Steve’s life is pretty monotonous. He contemplates this unfortunate fact as he stands in front of his toaster, hair sticking up on the back of his head as he nurses a mug of coffee and waits for his toast to pop.

It’s 5:45 in the morning and he tries to remember a time when he didn’t rise this early. Before the war, perhaps. Though, he’s always been a bit of an early bird. His home life was sporadic to put it lightly and he’d learned from an early age that the sooner he was awake, the better it was for everyone. Vigilance is not a new concept for Steve.

He hasn’t always stayed up late, though. That’s certainly new, and he feels this fact viscerally as he catches sight of his reflection in the microwave. There are bags under his eyes that will be gone by mid-morning thanks to the serum. Dermatologists hate him, Natasha says. Steve thinks he’s pretty lucky that the serum more or less equipped him with a built-in anti-aging agent. His father had started balding by thirty.

His toast pops and he starts a little, blinking blearily at the slightly burnt bread as he pulls it out of the toaster with his thumb and forefinger. He spreads on the same raspberry jam and butter that he uses every morning and tries not to think of how bland it tastes in his mouth as he eats it standing at the counter. Another routine.

He tries not to look at last night’s dishes in the sink as he stacks his plate and silverware on top and doesn’t bother sorting out his hair before pulling on his sneakers and slipping out of his apartment. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, only the beginning tendrils of light sneaking over the low tops of the DC buildings, and Steve vaguely regrets not grabbing a sweatshirt before he left. It’s not quite Summer yet and the mornings could still get pretty cool.

He’s about to take off down the street when he freezes. Natasha is sitting on the steps of his complex, wearing a pair of pink tinted sunglasses and tossing up and down the keys to her car. Steve blinks, rubs his eyes, then blinks again. Nope. She’s still there.

“Nat?”

Natasha looks up at him and smiles. “Hello.”

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. “Hi. You need something? Is there a mission?”

“No,” Natasha says lightly, standing. “You’re not running this morning, though. Come on, I’m taking you to Starbucks.”

“What?”

“Starbucks. You’re going to try it.”

“I don’t want--”

“Steve, you do the same thing every day. Step out of your comfort zone a little.”

Steve frowns, but Natasha’s right-- he really doesn’t ever stray from his routine.

“Fine,” he says, and twenty minutes later, they’re strolling into the nearest Starbucks.

He’s only been in one before, and that was to use the restroom while on a run. He’d bought a water bottle in an attempt to not be rude and use their facilities without giving them any business, but he hadn’t even considered the expansive menu. All the fancy names were too daunting.

They’re just as daunting now as he stares up at the board, heart hammering out of his chest as he’s faced with indecision. Natasha takes one look at his face, and reaches out to squeeze his arm.

“I’ll order something for you,” she says. “What kind of coffee do you like?”

Steve gives her a pained look. “Um… just coffee?”

Natasha quirks a smile and orders him something called a caramel macchiato. He’ll take it, he guesses.

The drink is too damn sweet and sugary and he almost gags. Still, he was always told to finish what he was given, so he drinks the whole thing.

To: Mr. Sweet Tooth

You’d fucking love it here. Everything is packed with sugar and sweetness-- enough to make even my teeth rot. I had something called a caramel macchiato today and it tasted like someone took your ma’s caramels and condensed them into a cup. I couldn’t stand it, but I know if you were here, you’d want at least twelve. I hope you’re enjoying all the sweets you can up in space.

Love, Mr. Boring

Steve’s fingers are stiff and frozen as he works at the straps of his stealth suit. The tangy taste of saltwater still sits heavy on his tongue, and he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering too harshly as he finally peels off his suit. It’s not much better, being naked, but at least the wet fabric isn’t clinging to him anymore.

The mission had been pretty straightforward until some alien tech managed to blast the quinjet to kingdom come, and they all free-fell straight into the freezing Atlantic.

Steve had managed to keep it together as they took down the goddamn mad scientist that fucked them over, but now that he’s home and alone, he can feel the adrenaline crashing.

He’s shaking from more than just the cold as he draws himself a warm bath, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to breathe through the panic that wants to engulf his entire being.

He loses time for a bit, and comes back to himself lying in his bed, burrowed under several thick layers. He feels so cold, down to his very soul-- a chill that he can never seem to truly shake, even when he’s warm.

Not for the first time, he wishes Bucky were there to hold him. He slips off to sleep thinking old, comforting thoughts of Bucky rubbing his hands between his own, coaxing his head under his chin to engulf him in that natural warmth of his. He always was a fucking furnace.

But when Steve wakes an hour later, shaking hard enough to move the bed with the force of the nightmare he’d dropped into, Bucky is not there to soothe away the ice.

To: JB

im so cold and i cant breathe ever and nothing feels right. I dont know what to do, u were always the problem solver between us and i cant think straight right now and i just want you here please. I cant do this anymore, im so tired please come back. I need you please

The Winter Soldier file sits in front of Steve-- a horrifying nightmare wrapped up in a neat brown folder. Residual nausea swirls around in his gut as he comes down from the horrible high of reading through the contents. His hands shake where they grasp the thick paper. His heart clenches hard in his chest.

Bucky is alive. Bucky is alive, and he’s been unmade.

Steve doesn’t know where he is-- if he’s escaped, or if Hydra found him again. It’s been three weeks now since the helicarriers, and he’s only just gotten the courage to sit down and wade through the shit that is Bucky’s reality.

He just hopes he’s safe. God, he hopes.

Sam says he’ll help him look, and Steve needs to know he’s at least out of danger, but he barely knows where to start.

And he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry.

Blinking out of his reverie, Steve looks at his laptop. He feels strange and detached as he reaches for it and logs in.

To: Bucky

And yes, that feels right. He should use his name, since he suspects no one has for a long, long time.

I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurting so quietly for so long. I understand if you’re not ready to come home-- I understand if you never are. I just hope that you know that there will always be a place with me that is safe. I love you so much and I’m here, forever and always.

Love, Steve.

He’s not naive. He knows it would be dangerous to submit that particular message, so he doesn’t. But that’s okay. That one’s just for him-- for them.

“Steve? What is the… Unsent Project?”

Steve frowns and pokes his head out of the kitchen. Bucky is sitting on the couch in the living room, using his laptop, because his own is having storage issues.

Bucky looks at him. “It’s one of your saved tabs. What is it?”

And oh, fuck. Steve had forgotten to remove that from his homepage-- it really wasn’t needed anymore. He blushes all the way to his ears.

“Oh, it’s-- nothing. Not anything important--”

But Bucky has already clicked on the tab.

“The Unsent Project,” he reads aloud. “A collection of unsent text messages to… first… loves…”

He trails off as he processes what he’s looking at, and Steve can’t quite read his expression when he looks at him again. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s looking at Steve like he’s some sort of kicked puppy. Steve shifts, uncomfortable.

“Were you sending me… messages? While I was dead?”

Steve swallows. “Um…” and now that Bucky says it out loud, it really does sound quite sad. He shrugs. “It’s Natasha’s fault?”

Bucky shakes his head, clicking on the search bar. He starts to type his name, but Steve shakes his head.

“I didn’t use your name.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, then frowns at him again. “What did you use?”

Steve blushes harder, sitting next to Bucky and taking the laptop from him.

“Um…” he hesitates, then types what he was sure he used as his first alias.

My astronaut

The screen buffers and loads, then fifty or so messages pop up. Steve scrolls down-- it doesn’t take long to find his.

They’re both quiet as they read, and Steve cringes. Jeez, he really had been pretty dramatic. Next to him, Bucky makes a hurt noise.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, taking the laptop back from Steve. He reads the message again, then once more, and reaches out for Steve. “Aw, I’m here now.”

Steve huffs, embarrassed. “I know,” he says. “That was way back, like, three weeks after I woke up.”

Bucky stills. “You fought aliens three weeks after you woke up?”

“... More like two.”

Bucky hums. “Are there others?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, reaching out to type on Bucky’s lap, because Bucky is holding him now and he’s quite reluctant to move. He thinks for a moment, then types in the next one he remembers.

Mr. Sweet Tooth

Bucky laughs, and Steve finds himself smiling.

“I find this funny,” Bucky says. “Because caramel macchiatos are definitely one of my favorites now.”

Steve laughs, too, and butts his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“If only I could tell that to myself back then-- he’d be thrilled.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky says. “Any more?”

Steve hesitates, thinking of the one he’d sent after that nightmare-- when he was low and hurting. Incoherent. He isn’t sure he wants Bucky to see that particular side of his soul, but Bucky has been more than generous in letting him in on his pains nowaday, and it’s not like Bucky hasn’t witnessed Steve’s own current nightmares.

He bites his lip and types in JB. That seems to yield a lot more results, and it takes a while for Steve to find the message.

He hides his face in Bucky’s neck as he reads. Bucky’s arms gradually tighten around him, and a moment later, he feels him kiss the top of his head.

“Honey, I hate that you were hurting so bad,” Bucky mutters against his hair.

Steve shrugs. “We both were,” he says, and it’s true. There’s something to be said about the guilt they both feel for not being able to save the other person at their lowest, but life hasn’t been kind to them. The vitriol, Steve thinks, should be directed at the goddamn universe for keeping them apart, not themselves for fucking dying. They’re working on it.

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says. “Is that it?”

Steve shakes his head. “But I never sent the last one.”

“Why not?”

“I wrote it after DC.”

He feels Bucky squeeze him again, and he squeezes back.

“Oh.”

“I just-- I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to come home. That I just wanted you to be safe; needed to know you were safe, but it was up to you. I just needed you to know I was here, if you needed me.”

Bucky pulls back then and cups his face, kissing him soundly. Steve’s surprised for only a moment before he’s kissing back.

“I did know that,” Bucky says against his lips. “I needed time-- I was lost-- but the first thing I knew when I remembered who you were was that you were a safe person, because you’d never force me anywhere.”

Steve kisses him again, then pulls him into a hug. “I’m glad you knew that.” It’s warm, where their chests meet, and Bucky is solid beneath him. Real. He isn’t speaking into an abyss anymore.

There’s a sticky note on Bucky’s pillow next to his head when he wakes up the next morning. Steve’s side of the bed is already vacant, and he can’t hear him downstairs. He must have already left for a run.

Propping himself on an elbow, Bucky plucks up the sticky note.

To: My Bucky

Thank you for choosing me to be your home, and thank you forever, for being mine.

I love you with everything I have.

Love, your Steve

Bucky smiles, heart light as he folds the notes. He’ll keep that one with him, he thinks. A little bit of home to bring wherever he goes.

anyway yeah fslkjflaskjfls i-- ouch. anything to do with letters w these two hurts me immensely

#i did not proofread this at all so i just kNOW im going to read this back later and find a whole bunch of typos oops #stucky #stucky fic #steve rogers #bucky barnes #idiots in love #sad stevie aw

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timextoxhajima · 3 years

Text

Accelerate [Dana’s 600 Special]

Track: Feel It by Michele Morrone / Drunk-Dazed by ENHYPHEN / Insanity by THE BOYZ

Member: I swear he’s not even my bias

Genre: i-ion know-

Word Count: it’s pretty damn long so please don’t make me write a part two

Taglist: @hyunjaethereal @lsangyeons

The first time you laid eyes on Lee Hyunjae, you were both in Italy as he was being blinded by a billion flashes in his face. The light reflects off his dark hair - which was once a brighter color - as he maintains that polite, miniscule smile on his face. Most of the photographers and interviewers were male, for the sole reason that female photographers and interviewers would be too stunned to continue at their job.

Not that the males rushing to get a shot of his face or a string of words out from him now weren’t stunned themselves.

Despite being hailed for looking like every woman’s wet dream, Lee Hyunjae was more known for being South Korea’s youngest first class F1 racer. Sure, if he ever bothered to utter a single syllable of speech to you, you could pass out on the spot.

But right now, all you wanted was to get an exclusive modelling contract from Louis Vuitton to his manager. Not Lee Hyunjae, not his bodyguards, his manager.

“Lee Hyunjae! Do you have anything you want to say before your final race of the season? How do you feel about being so close to coming out top?”

His manager stands a step behind him to Hyunjae’s right, and gives the racer the green light to respond. The flashes and sounds of clicking from the cameras were so overwhelming, it’s impossible for you to even imagine how it felt like being in the spotlight.

But the celebrity couldn’t receive the question any less gracefully, and offers one of those swoon-worthy smiles before leaning into the microphone.

“I feel nervous but I’ve prepared for this. Consistency is key and I believe in myself, so if that answers your question...”

“Do you have any other plan other than racing? Word has it that you’ve received offers to be the face of Gucci and Louis Vuitton!”

The contract in your briefcase is still ironed out safely in its file when you pull it behind your legs, away from plain sight.

Hyunjae turns to look at his manager when the question posed obviously isn’t one of those in the list prepared, so the manager steps forward, and coincidentally spots you at the back of the crowd. He recognises you from the meeting he had with your higher-up.

“My apologies but Mr Lee isn’t permitted to answer to any of these, so if this is all then we must be going. Thank you for coming to the conference tonight.”

Lee Hyunjae and his manager step back away from the microphone and bow for the press to continue their aggressive, merciless snapshotting. You wait patiently for the duo to disappear behind the conference area, and for the press to switch their attention to the pictures they have on their camera before you make your round backstage.

The 5-star hotel is grand in all the ways possible: chandelier, white wines and champagnes being served in waiting areas and water was served sparkling. Finally fishing out the tag that you were given at the registration for entry to the event, you hand it to the lady at the meetings’ conference registration counter.

You wonder how the Louis Vuitton logos on your clothes and briefcase had gone unnoticed earlier at the showcase. Even on the tag, the ‘LV’ logo was so apparent. How far does the company need to go in order for them to have the logo printed in some shiny, golden print on the tag-

“Welcome to the F1 internal press conference and meeting, Miss l/n!” She pulls a sticker off a page and presses it onto the tag below the LV logo. “If you need anything at all, please just approach one of our staffs. All waiters and staff concerned will have a red tie tonight.”

“Alright, thank you,” The tag gets slid across the table to you. “Where’s the nearest washroom?”

“Oh, she’ll show you the way,” The lady gestures behind her for one of the staff members with a red tie to accompany you.

“Oh-” Slightly taken aback by the aggressive escorting, the younger female grins at you before holding out her arm in the direction of the washroom. “Thanks.”

The hotel’s grandeur only gets more and more apparent as your heels click through the hallways and corridors. For an event night, the hotel’s pretty desolate. Then again, the press conference happened outside where all the photographers and journalists were. The one you were here for was an internal press meeting, and last you checked, there were fewer than 10 names on that list.

“I can find my way back to the main hall after,” The slight panic in your voice humors you when the staff member seemed ready to wait outside the washroom. “Thanks.”

She bows and takes her leave only after you enter the bathroom; you can tell from the sound of her shoes echoing down the corridor. The scent of lavender is so overwhelming, you could almost taste it. Walls of cream and silver strokes cut through the tiles, a vase made of bronze sits in the corner of the platform where the sinks were, filled with roses.

The crisp reflection of yourself stares down at you in the mirror; it’s one of the few times you were dressed in branded goods head to toe. None of the articles of clothing you were wearing right now, you owned. Usually, you’d be gaping in awe at how beautiful these places where - after all, you were in a five-star hotel in Italy.

But no, after almost five years of working with Louis Vuitton as a brand ambassador and subsequently becoming an assistant model-scout has numbed your habit of wandering eyes.

The LV briefcase gets set on a dry area of marble, your fingers automatically clutching the edges of the sink as the jewelry on your ears, neck and hands twinkle under the fluorescent lighting. The makeup looks close to perfect - because someone had done it for you. Your clothes and shoes fit right down to your skin - because they were tailored for you.

You were more upset you couldn’t sell it off and donate the money over having actual ownership of these fabrics.

News of the orphanage had reached you hours after you touched down in Italy, and your heart yearns to stop the ache that seeps through you. They had run out of funds to continue the orphanage, the kids already enrolled would be split and sent to other organizations instead.

What you had once called your home was going to be non-existent in another years’ time. Those whom you called your teachers, mentors, parents... were going to be in places you were not familiar with. The children that you always bring back food, clothes and toys for were going to be separated into different cities and states. As if not having a family was not bad enough, the people you now called your family was going to be split apart.

You hadn’t noticed your eyes were closed until you opened them, the weight of the makeup on your face urging you to rub your eyes and skin but the discipline written into your hands stop you from doing so.

Standing back to fix your posture, your eyes land on the one garnish on your body that doesn’t belong to Louis Vuitton - the ring on your middle finger. A gold band that looked more like a wedding ring than anything else.

It had the name of the orphanage engraved on the inner side, so it feels lighter on your hands than it would otherwise be.

A deep breath expands your chest as you take your briefcase and step away from the sink, attention scrutinising yourself more than you actually would.

The corridors of the hotel collect you back into its wealth again, drawing the thickest line between the realities of people like you and those who enjoy the luxurious life.

The racer’s manager was sitting at the end of the meeting table when you enter, and you immediately recognise half the list of names you had seen before. Gucci’s manager was here personally. Another racer and his manager were here too. Stefano Domenicali and Michael Masi were here.

Why were they here? Their names weren’t on the list.

“Ah, Miss l/n!” Masi gets off his seat and holds out his hand. “Such a pleasure to meet you!”

“Honor on my part,” Reaching out a palm, you smile the most graceful smile you can find in the muscles of your face.

“Can I get you a drink? We’re still waiting for Mr Lee before we begin our discussion on the collaboration.”

Collaboration?

“Pardon my ignorance but... I thought I was here for a sponsorship or a model-contract request for Mr Lee... I wasn’t expecting your attendance or... a collaboration.”

Domenicalli chuckles heartily at his seat as he whirls around to gesture to one of the staff members in the room. “Will you get her a Mojito?”

Then he stands up and pushes his glasses up his nose bridge. “We’ve been looking for a company that’s willing to do a three-way partnership with us and Mr Lee’s agency. Right now, it’s boiled down to both Louis Vuitton and Gucci so... it depends on which contract Mr Lee’s agency is more interested in.”

“Oh... Um, if that’s the case then I’m not entirely sure if the contract I have with me right now is appropriate-”

“Oh, it’s not. LV has already told us you’d sell them better unscripted than if planned,” Masi leans forward and mutters away from your ear. “Don’t tell Gucci though. Their manager’s only here because they panicked.”

He pulls away and before he can say anything else, the door clicks open with a staff member pushing the door open for the star of the night.

“My apologies,” He’s changed out of his formal suit and is in a more comfortable set of hoodie and baggy pants now. “Did I keep everybody waiting?”

“No, not at all!” Masi throws his hands up into the air and beckons you to meet Lee Hyunjae. “Might I introduce... Miss l/n from LV. She’ll be the one pitching the collaboration for LV today.”

Hyunjae’s eyes are wide and clear, despite his fringe covering his eyelids. “My pleasure,” He holds out his hand and you take it to shake, but he doesn’t stop there.

Lifting the back of your hand to his lips, the contact is soft and gentle on your skin.

Your hairs stand against your will and goosebumps erupt all over your neck when he pulls away, eyes now locked with yours. Nobody else in the room bothers to provide a reaction - it’s like he’s done this before and it’s perfectly normal.

The rest of the evening is spent listening to your own pitch, and Gucci’s, but you couldn’t really keep your head in the game when... all that was in Lee Hyunjae’s head was... you.

You’d be lying had you said you were comfortable with how much he was glancing at you across the table, obviously not listening to Gucci’s pitch at all. His manager was the one busy jotting down all kinds of things, almost like it was an act of dictation. But the racer’s eyes fail to leave you for any longer than five seconds, and it was becoming glaringly obvious that he wasn’t really paying attention to the pitch.

Gucci’s pitch finally finishes, giving you some kind of escape because now his manager is pummeling him for not listening to the benefits provided as Gucci’s ambassador. The contract document from LV was sitting before you, very single term and condition now inapplicable because you had just pitched something that wasn’t in the instruction manual.

God help me not to get fired.

“Mr Lee has some to a decision,” Masi claps his hands together, earning the attention of everybody in the room. “The Formula One federation would like to officially welcome Lee Hyunjae as the brand ambassador in a stellar collaboration... with Gucci.”

The Gucci ambassador scout smiles with triumph as the room provides a round of applause, you included.

“Thank you so much, Miss l/n, for coming down. Your pitch was nothing short of commendable and I will make sure your manager will hear of that, alright?” Masi and Domenicali take turns shaking your hand. In your peripheral vision, you watch the Gucci ambassador shake hands with both Lee Hyunjae and his manager.

Masi and Domenicali finish up with you, and Lee Hyunjae’s manager approaches you for the handshake with his client behind him. “That was a stellar... impromptu pitch, Miss l/n.”

A gentle chuckle rolls off your tongue as you pull your hand away, tightly clutching the briefcase. “I work better when things aren’t planned, so...”

“We’ll... we’ll keep in touch, LV. You’re an excellent scout with marvelous presentation skills. It makes me sad Mr Lee didn’t choose you.”

Your eyes drift to Hyunjae’s and he’s already looking at you like he hadn’t eaten in three days and you were a bowl of soup.

“Of course we’ll keep in touch. He’ll still be valuable asset and ambassador after his contract with Gucci ends,” Ignoring him, you return your attention to his manager.

“Now, let’s hope the Prince of Korea doesn’t screw anything up, yeah?” His manager grins as he pats Hyunjae on the back. “Anyway, it’s been a mighty pleasure. We’ll be in touch.”

You lower your head as a small nod, turning on your heels to exit the room. Even then you can feel his eyes on your back.

By the time you’re back in your hotel room (which was in the same hotel as you had the internal meeting), your feet are half dead from the heels you were wearing and the makeup on your face was starting to wear off. It took a nice, warm bath and a rather long conversation with your own manager on the phone as he congratulated on pulling through an impromptu pitch.

He finally finishes, and you drop your phone into the towel by the bathtub as the steam fogs up the mirror. But your peace is cut short when someone rings the doorbell of your room.

“Room service for Miss l/n!”

Tightening the robe around your waist, you pull open the door and watch the hotel staff hold out a bottle of wine and an envelop. “Mr Lee Hyunjae sends his regards, Miss.”

Surprised, you receive the bottle. The hotel staff bows and leaves, letting you turn around and the door click shut.

To: Miss l/n

I apologise for the inappropriate staring earlier this evening. This is an attempt to compensate for my behaviour. I’ll be leaving Italy the day after tomorrow so if you could do me the pleasure of having dinner with me tomorrow... I’d like to be acquainted.

I’ve made a reservation at La Terrazza for 7pm. I’ll meet you in the guest lobby downstairs at 6.30 to pick you up.

Love,

Lee Hyunjae

You can see how the material of the paper trembles a little between your fingers. The thought runs, So he’s a creep and a national treasure. He can’t hurt you, right?

Again, the evening gown is more than fitting on you. It’s been tailored to hug all your curves at your chest and your hips and thighs and it exposes your leg where the slit is. It’s like LV knew you had an important evening appointment coming up and had you pack all these different sets appropriate for the event.

The usher standing by the guest lobby nods when you head for the door, and he pushes it open to reveal only one person in it: Lee Hyunjae.

On the phone, he whirls around when he hears the doors swish against the carpet flooring. His eyes are glimmering under the soft, rosy lighting and the glossy collar of his suit looks like plastic from the reflection.

“I gotta go, I’ll call you back.”

The phone clicks to black before he opens his blazer and slides it into his inner breast pocket.

“I’m gonna guess that’s your manager,” Your fingers wrap around the clutch tightly as he takes a few steps toward you, obviously very stunned by how different you looked compared from the previous day.

“Uh, no, actually,” That million-dollar smile gleams at you. He reaches up to his forehead and scratches his brow. His hair is styled upwards so seeing the glory of his forehead was pretty enticing. “My mom. Making sure I’m doing well and fine here.”

He stops a safe distance away from you, finished with taking in whatever of you his eyes and memory can allow him. “Not gonna lie, I thought you were gonna stand me up.”

“I think LV would fire me if they knew I stood the Lee Hyunjae up.”

Hyunjae licks his lips then purses them together, attention finally peeling off your face as he reaches for your hand. He presses his lips into the back of your palm, then casually hooks your arm around his while he walks to your side. “Ready to go?”

At a loss of words for his flirtatious mannerism, all you can afford is a nod.

But as if your vocabulary bank wasn’t already exhausted, you can’t help but stare in complete astonishment when you are led to the matte black Sian Roadster already waiting at the drop-off point right outside the lobby.

“Have them send the Dior package to Miss l/n’s room by 9pm,” He instructs the bell boy by the hotel entrance as he reaches for the vehicle door.

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, Mr Lee.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait a minute,” Your vision is finally peeled off the car when Lee Hyunjae pulls the door open. “What Dior package?”

“Just a token of appreciation from me, that’s all,” He releases your arm as he guides you into the vehicle. “I knew if I gave it to you over dinner, you’d reject, so...”

Twitching his eyebrow, he smirks and retreats, closing the car door.

Flirt.

The vehicle moves off with a sharp rev of the engine, and you almost feel guilty for being able to be comfortable in in your clothes, shoes, sports car and on the way to a fancy-ass restaurant.

If only things could be like that for everybody and everything.

“So, when are you leaving Italy?”

“Oh, um... tomorrow too actually,” Rome’s lights are wondrous on the outside, some of them blinding you. “I have... something to attend.”

“Hmm, that’s... vague.”

You turn to eye him at his silent call for clarification. “I’m attending a closing event; help out with administrations.”

“Like... a pet store or something?”

“Yeah, ‘or something’.”

“That confidential, huh?” He lets out a soft chuckle.

The gut in your abdomen tells you not to look at him. He’ll see right through you, figure out that there’s something more to it than something ‘confidential’.

“Yeah,” You mask it with a sigh. “Funds and things.”

You can feel his attention sink into your back as silence befell the atmosphere.

There’s a kind of light in his eyes when he talks about racing. When he’s describing the feeling of adrenaline in his fingers, gripped around the steering wheel. He’s unexpectedly kind to the service at the restaurant, then again he was a celebrity and he had a reputation to uphold.

It’s the kind of light that made you panic throughout dinner, because there’s no way this specimen of a man would ever pay you a second thought. Maybe you were going to be his Italy fling that he would boast about to his friends and colleagues and they’d laugh at you without you even knowing.

What was a rich, handsome racer even doing, single? It was too good to be true, and even if it was, you? Of all people?

Dream on.

“It’s been... an amazing night. Thank you so much for dinner.”

Lee Hyunjae walks you into the lift, letting you press the button to your floor first.

“I’ll walk you back. I have time.”

Standing with your feet together, in the safety of your gown, your hands are holding your clutch like your life depended on it. You could tell that he wasn’t the most comfortable now, not with his hands over one another and placed politely on his abdomen.

When the lift door dings open, the silence remains. He trails behind you as you walk your way to your room, hands fumbling through your clutch to search for your keycard. The slick of the door is fast and you push the door open, with a black and silver box with the label ‘DIOR’ printed on it sitting at the foot of your bed.

“Oh, my God!” You rush in and grab the box, eyes widening as you turn to him, who has one arm extended to keep the door open. The box was almost as big as a pillow.

There’s a soft, warm smile on his face. A stark contrast to all his flirty ministrations throughout the evening. “Goodnight, Miss l/n. Sleep well and have a safe flight.”

“Wha-” Then he lowers his head, and turns around. “Wait!”

Without another moment of hesitation, he disappears down the corridor and the door swings shut.

It feels ironically empty. Your hands are carrying this Godforsaken box of a gift and yet you cannot think of a way to properly thank the person who gave it to you. With slight reluctance, your fingers find the edge of the cover.

It’s a beautiful Dior blazer, packaged with a perfume and a cosmetics set. The cream letter in it is handwritten and signed the racer himself.

I wish we had more time. Love, Lee Hyunjae

The nauseating sensation of your heart sinking in your chest beats all the logic in your brain when you find yourself reaching for the door handle. The box is mindlessly thrown back onto the bed as you rush out, kicking off your heels in the moment of folly. (Of course, remembering to use the door latch to keep the door open.)

“Hyunjae!” You call down the corridor, and he was just about to enter the lift. He turns, providing you with a gorgeous view of his jaw.

It feels like a fairytale, when you run down the carpeted corridor, barefooted and still in your gown. The urge to throw your arms around him far supercedes your brain yelling at you not to, but you do it anyway.

He catches you by the waist as your rest your forehead in his blazer, arms already struggling to meet the height of his shoulders.

A whisper. “I wish we had more time too.”

He pushes you back by your upper arms, tucking one bit of your hair behind your ear. “If time is what you want, then I’ll make time.”

“But... I- Will you get in trouble?”

He looks you dead in the eye and subtly shakes his head.

Time stops.

Fear. That’s what you’re feeling.

Then he tilts his head and slowly leans in.

“I don’t think I’d care if I do.”

His breath hits your upper lip and your instincts flutter your lids shut.

White wine and strawberries from dinner. That’s what he tastes like.

Warmth radiates off his palms and into your cheeks as he holds your face close to his, unable to resist the satisfaction and sweetness you were providing him. In this moment of intimacy, he loses all sense of realism and urgency - all he wants is you to himself, for the rest of the night until the sun rises.

Then he’d have to worry about never seeing you again because his manager had chosen Gucci over LV.

But right now, he has your heart and soul in his hands, as does his in yours.

Being the romantic and (probably) egoistic man of a celebrity he is, he lowers himself and slides his arms where the back of your knees would be, somehow never breaking the kiss. The material of the gown dribbles over the cotton of his suit and your arm circles behind his neck, only minimizing the distance between the two of you.

It feels like you’re getting married in this black and gold sparkly evening gown when he pushes the door open with his back. The scent of the room is inviting, but definitely none in comparison to the scent of his cologne beginning to stain your hands and your clothes.

Gently resting you into the cool sheets of the bed, he pulls away to remove the Dior package off the bed, placing it on the mini coffee table by the bed.

You were never one to deal with one night stands. Hell, the only person you’d ever slept with was some stupid kid back in the orphanage when your stupid teenage hormones were running-

He pulls off his blazer and leans in again, picking your awkward hands and resting them on the knot of his tie. His fingers are grazing the skin on your upper arm, trailing down to your cheek and then your hairline where he combs his hands through your hair.

The knot on the tie comes undone with some slight tugs, and you slide it out from under his collar. Undoing only the first one, you rest your palms against his chest, creating a small rift where the air rushes to your lips where his should be.

He’s slightly stunned at the slightest breakage, but he is overwhelmed with more care and concern than he was upset. “Why? What’s wrong?” He traces your jaw and rests his fingers on your chin, noses almost touching.

“Are you sure... You want to do this? I can’t risk you losing your career,” Your index finger traces the likes of his cheekbone. “You barely just started.”

Hyunjae shakes his head subtly, taking your hands to his lips and pressing them into the back of your palm. “When I saw you in that room, I was... star struck. You’d think being the celebrity in the room would mean everything, but I felt like I was nothing if I didn’t know you, much less be able to get close to you.”

And for someone who hasn’t really had a biological family to love, his words stuck.

“I just... knew. There are some things in the world you can work for, but I don’t think any amount of effort can give me you.”

His brown orbs find your gaze and it melts you thoroughly. Like ice cream on a hot day; like the way the ocean washes against the sand by the beach, taking grains of sand away with it - the same way Hyunjae was winning you bit by bit, if not already all of you.

Your hands find his collar again, and it tightens around the stiff material to pull him back down. He smiles into the kiss, hands pressing into the mattress by your hair while you undo the rest of his buttons. His skin is hot under the shirt, blood running on the adrenaline and tension he was riding on from the intimacy. Muscles pumped and heart racing, you finally get his shirt off and he does you the honor of dropping it to the ground.

He gives you time to gasp for air while he dips his nose into your neck, inhaling your perfume and the scent of the hotel shampoo in your hair. His back muscles tense up under your cold fingertips as you run them along his spine. It’s almost beast-like, when he flexes his arms and every single move shifts his shoulder blades under his skin. His lips leave gentle pecks in your neck and your exposed collar bone, letting goosebumps erupt all over your skin.

His hand caresses your waist as a way of request, and you arch your back just enough for him to find the zipper on the back of your gown. The vibrations of the zip being pulled downwards already feels like little bolts of electricity up your spine, and the straps around your shoulders loosen with every inch unzipped.

He’s done, when his fingers return to your shoulders to push the straps off. The cool air kisses your skin in spots where he isn’t touching with any part of his body. The silk of the gown gently slides off with every inch of a movement you make, more and more of your torso exposed to him.

Sliding one of his arms under your lower back, he pulls you out of the dress instead of stripping you of it as he helps you further up the bed. Your hands press into the mattress in a bid to help him shift yourself without breaking the sloppy, messy kiss. Your back finally meets the pillows and he pushes the gown off the bed with his leg.

Chin tilting to the ceiling, he finally creates some distance between the two of you, eyes drifting down to your collar bone and chest still covered. His palms are hot around your waist as he trails butterfly pecks on your cleavage, while your fingers find his hair to tousle and grip.

Goosebumps start to surface when his breath is heavy on your stomach, then he reaches your underwear and it’s almost embarrassing to have him kiss you.

Your clouded vision is manually stuck to the ceiling when you can feel your face burning with adrenaline. The tickle of the material when it gets pulled off your hips and down your legs bring your cheeks more color, and before you know it, Hyunjae has your breath hitched in your throat.

He rests your thighs on his shoulders as he works his way around, the bare minimum sanity left inside you decides to grip onto the sheets instead of ripping out his hair.

Chills shoot up your spine mercilessly, emanating in the form of lewd mewls directed into the air. The crown of your head meets the cushioned head board of the bed when his grip on your thighs tighten to keep you from squirming too much.

Without warning, he drags a finger down your sensitiveness and slides it in easily, the sensation erupting a more-than-shameful groan from you. Pulling away, he adds another finger before shifting his attention back to your upper body, now eyeing the last piece of material covering your chest. But he captures your lips first to earn your attention, and your arms naturally find your way around his neck to keep him close.

His free hand goes around your back to unhook your lingerie, and it’s nothing but a new addition to all the clothes on the carpet now. He removes his fingers, and breaks the kiss first, for the sole reason of giving you a perfect view of him licking his glistening skin.

You can feel your brows furrow with frustration now, the warmth from him dissipating when he leans back on his heels in a kneeling position. By providing you a gorgeous view of his being while he undoes his belt, he’s only adding more fire to the fuel.

It’s significant enough to stretch out the material of his boxers, and so he climbs over you as he removes his last bit of clothing. He harshly yanks you downwards into a lying position by your ankle, and the sharp friction against your back is an addition to the heat between the two of you.

His breath is heavy on your lips as he rests his palms by your ears, weight pushing in the mattress. “Tell me if it hurts, love.”

Then he presses his lips into yours, like his life depended on it, and in one swift motion, he buries himself inside you like it was the most natural thing to do.

You suck all the breath out of him as you gasp into the kiss, and he finds your arms to hook around his neck and shoulders.

If you could feel the taste of honey throughout your body, this must be how it feels.

He gives you some moments before he starts grinding his hips slowly, his palms finding your thighs and digging into your flesh as he hooks them around his hips.

Breathless, you pull away first, whimpers in the back of your throat louder than what you would’ve expected. His nose dips into your neck again, arms now stretched out to use the headboard as support when he picks up the pace.

Cursing under your breath, you feel guilty for the bliss that was spreading through you. Your nerves are all heightened by the adrenaline and your vision is blurred from the sole nature of the intimate act.

He’s not fast, but every spot he’s hitting feels like cloud nine over and over again.

Like a spark in the dark, the sacred spot reveals itself in the form of harsher breaths and groans. Your fingernails dig into his back and your thighs are losing stamina to remain wrapped around him.

“That’s it,” He breaths into your ear, pressing a kiss into your lower jaw. “Come for me.”

Tremors burst through your body like lightning in a storm upon his request. He helps you ride it out with a few more thrusts before he pulls out himself, releasing on your stomach, chest heaving.

Resting his forehead on yours, he smiles. “Let’s hope that one day I wouldn’t have to worry about pulling out.”

You scoff, slightly tired. “We’ll see.”

You are woken up by the unfamiliar warmth you normally don’t have under the blanket. White sheets and tousled hair come into your field of vision before you can process the face, partially hidden, but eyes wide open.

“Jesus,” Your morning breath billows out between your lips and you swallow to dampen your dry throat. The room looks too damn bright for it to be morning. “What time is it?”

“7am. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time. My manager hasn’t called me so... we have time to spare.”

You shuffle around under the sheets and your arms slide under the pillow where its cool. He shifts and pulls out his arm to rest on his tricep, palm under his ear and hair as he perches up his head.

“What?” You pull the blanket up to your face and inhale the scent of it. It smells like him now.

“You look pretty when you’re asleep.”

“What?” You frown, but a smile is on your lips. “How long did you watch me sleep for?”

“Not long, don’t worry. I’m not a perv.”

“Well, considering we just slept together after 24 hours of knowing one another-”

“Hey, we’re both about to be deported back to Korea to work. Give us a break, would you?” He groans and shifts again, this time trying to pull you into his chest.

“Ah,” Snorting, you let him cradle you in his arms, his bare skin pressed warmly into yours. “‘Deport’? That’s what you call your job?”

“Only because you’re involved now,” He pecks you on the lips. “So... can I ask about your ‘administrative matters’ you said you needed to attend?”

Right. The orphanage is closing down.

The guilt washes through you again.

“Oh,” A look of seriousness overtakes your facials, and he notes the change in expression. “Um... I- Well... It’s an orphanage. It’s closing.”

He blinks at you, gaze filled with wander. “Were you a volunteer or...?”

Silence.

You can’t bring yourself to say it.

Unable to bear the incoming judgment he might provide you, your eyes dart away.

“Hey, hey,” He finds your chin and tilts it back up to his attention. “What’s wrong? I don’t see anything wrong with being who you are. Why are you ashamed?”

“I... I’ve lived all my life with that label. ‘Orphan’. It only got better when I came out to work.”

“Is that why you are so worried? That... we might affect something and possibly implicate that?”

“Maybe.”

He sighs, thumb stroking your cheek as he shakes his head. “Nah. It shouldn’t matter.” Pulling your head into his chest, you can hear the steady thumping of his heart through his skin. “’Administrative matters’, huh? Are you like a... committee member or donator?”

“I’m an unofficial sponsor ambassador from LV. Well, LV was supposed to arrange for official funding, but they just never really had the time or resources to build the rapport. The orphanage was doing too badly for any company or brand to want to help and invest their attention on.”

“Mm,” He hums, stroking your hair. “I’m sorry about that. I truly am.”

“It’s okay. Nothing could’ve been done about it anyway. All I hope now is for the kids to be safe, no matter where they go.”

It feels empty again, having Hyunjae being ripped from your side at the airport once the plane touched down. The manager was surprisingly not surprised to know that you had spent the night together, the only question he had asked being something that concerned a future pregnancy, which the two of you have already confirmed negative.

It’s late when you reach back your apartment, and you ready yourself for the private meeting with the committee members of the orphanage. Though tired and severely jet-lagged, you cannot miss this meeting. It’s the last time you’ll see all the caretakers and members of the organisation in the same room.

You shift into the taxi in a new set of clothes, but topped with the Dior blazer and smelling like the Dior perfume, you feel like you were probably going to get slapped once you reach the meeting.

The building of the orphanage looks so run-down, it could be mistaken for a prison had it not been for the words HILDA’S ORPHANAGE in big, block letters above the entrance. Before you can exit the taxi, your phone starts vibrating in your purse.

It’s the President of the orphanage.

“I’m right outside the building, going in soon,” You push open the car door and thank the driver.

“The meeting has been cancelled. Someone bought the orphanage and we’ll be managed under a new system.”

“What?”

“Surprise.”

You turn around and see the last person you’d expect to see here, in his hands, a folder of documents and a small bouquet of flowers.

“Um,” Your eyes are stuck to Hyunjae, but you’re still on the phone. “The buyer... Does it have anything to do with Gucci or F1?”

“Yes, it’s an F1 sponsorship but there will be more details into the managerial and planning system. Some things will have to change.”

“I’ll... I’ll call you back.”

Hyunjae watches you lock your phone in shock, attention unrivalled. He takes a few steps towards you and you now realise he’s still in the same clothes he was in on the plane. His eyebags are obvious but the prideful grin on his face makes him glow.

Stopping about an arms’ length away from you, he holds out the folder.

“I checked with my manager and he checked with F1. They green-lit it, but on a few conditions. I heard them out before I told them it would be more likely than not you’d accept it, so here are the legal documents. All the terms and conditions and sponsor contract are already in here, so you and the President can sign it when you deem fit.”

Taking the folder, you didn’t even notice your hands are trembling as you flip through it.

But your eyes flitter up from the page when you notice the printing:

OWNER’S SIGNATURE (Y/N L/N): ____________________

“It’s yours if you sign it.”

Now, he holds out the bouquet. “I thought of putting it under my name but I don’t want you to think you owe me a favour and have it bugging you all the time.”

Gently shaking your head, as if you could shake out the surprise, you close the file and look to him in awe. “But I’ll still owe you, big time. This is... this is everything, so thank you.”

He sucks in a deep breath and shakes the bouquet of flowers a little.

“You can return the favour by going out with me. Properly, whenever I have time, and I promise, no Dior packages.”

Taking the bouquet into hand, you throw your arms around his shoulders, tears welling in your eyes.

#hyunjae #lee hyunjae #hyunjae smut #tbz smut #the boyz smut #the boyz hyunjae #lee hyunjae smut #tbz scenarios #the boyz scenarios #hyunjae scenario #hyunjae fanfic

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mrs-gucci · 3 years

Text

Subliminal Pleasures {anesthesiologist!Kylo Ren x Reader}

author’s notes: hellooo! thanks to my good friend @safarigirlsp, I finally wrote my first darkfic. thanks for ruining me a little bit, Shannon! ;) I’ll warn you now, this is honestly the darkest thing I’ve ever written before, and at first I was a little nervous, but I’m surprisingly pleased with how it turned out. and hey, it’s called fanFICTION for a reason, right?

**THIS IS A DARKFIC THAT CONTAINS DARK THEMES/CONTENT!! please read the warnings and tw’s before proceeding!!**

warnings: smut. non-existent medical practice ethics. kylo’s a bad doctor, but damn, he looks good doing it. mentions of a medical procedure. some fingering. light dirty talk. masturbation. praise.

tw’s: noncon (but it’s not unpleasant, if that makes sense?). somnophilia.

word count: a touch over 2k

When you came into the hospital today for your dental surgery, no makeup and clad in baggy sweats, you weren’t prepared to meet anyone even remotely interesting or attractive, much less the anesthesiologist.

And, when he walked into the room, your heart immediately skipped a beat, maybe even two.

He was one of the most handsome men you’d ever seen before. Handsome seemed like an insult and injustice to his beauty when it came to the broad, raven-haired god. He wore a very stern expression as he sat over in the corner of the room in a stool much too small for his great size, gathering his tools.

“Hmm,” His eyes scan the file. “Miss Y/N?”

You nod over at him.

“That’s me.”

He turns back to preparing himself for surgery. “I’m Dr. Ren, the anesthesiologist.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Ren.”

A silence stretched between the two of you, the only sounds coming from his movements or your adjusting positions on the paper-covered seat. Then, he speaks again, voice even deeper and somewhat huskier than before. It sent a shiver down your spine.

“Have you ever previously been put under for a medical procedure, or otherwise?”

“I have.” You reply. “Although I didn’t think that I’d need it for this type of procedure?”

He turns around in the stool, a small smirk on his expression.

“Would you like to be awake when your teeth are hammered into pieces and pulled from your mouth?”

Normally, you would’ve laughed at this joking question, but his delivery and sinister demeanor chilled you to the bone. “N-No, not really.”

“Then you’ll be put under.” He simply states, pulling on a pair of latex gloves before handing you a fabric gown. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Strip and put this on. The snaps should be on your left shoulder, otherwise you’ve put it on incorrectly.”

Looking into his eyes takes your breath away, out of captivation or a bit of fear, you were unsure. He holds onto the gown a bit too long before releasing his grip, eyes lingering over your face before walking out of the room with commanding footsteps.

Despite his chilling intensity and seemingly emotionless demeanor, you still found yourself incredibly attracted to him. There was something...magnetic about him, like the mysterious aura surrounding him draws you in. The warm tingle between your thighs was undeniable as you stood and removed your clothes, tucking them in your bag off to the side before slipping the gown on over your mostly nude body.

Dr. Ren comes back in as soon as you lay back on the chair once again, his timing impeccable. He puts on a surgical mask and rolls the equipment over on a small cart, parking it next to your head.

“We’ll put you under now.”

“W-What?” Your eyes widen. “But the doctor hasn’t even come in yet.”

He glares down at you.

“Must I remind you who the medical professional in the room is?”

“No, sir.” You shake your head, lips pursing as your eyes dart away.

The mask is placed over your nose and mouth.

“Breathe in and out deeply, count to ten.”

Your eyelids grow heavy almost immediately as you begin taking deep breaths, letting the invisible medication into your lungs.

“One...two...three...four...five...s-six...sev-seven...eigh...t...”

Kylo grins when you’re finally under, body limp as you sleep peacefully under his influence. He loved his job, loved having complete control over someone’s consciousness, loved having the power between life and death.

His cock hardens in his pants as he reclines the chair so that you’re now laying flat. You don’t move a muscle, and he quickly removes his latex gloves along with his mask, tossing them into the bin.

He’s never had a patient like you before, so beautiful, so docile and obedient, so...seemingly innocent. He wants nothing more and would take great pleasure in absolutely ruining you, turning you into his pretty little slut.

The doctor wasn’t even here yet, as you were his first surgery patient today, but Kylo knew without doubt that he needed time alone with you. He needed to have his way with you.

With one last flicker to the locked door, he brings his hand down beneath his trousers and wraps it around his hardened cock, groaning under his breath with the first pump. Your vitals are stable as his other hand begins popping the snaps of your medical gown.

He pulls it open and lets it hang down over the side of the table, exposing your body to him. All you’re wearing is your undergarments, and yet, Kylo’s length pulses in his hand at the sight. You’re truly a sight to behold, even with your intimate areas covered.

You squirm just a bit when the doctor’s large hand grazes over your ankle, but he knows he won’t wake you, not completely anyways. His hand trails up over your calf, then over your thigh, climbing until he reaches the underwire of your flimsy bra.

There’s not enough time to remove it, to expose your pebbled nipples to his hungry gaze, but he spreads his large hand over the mound, squeezing it gently. In your unconscious state, your back arches slightly and a soft sigh escapes your lips under his touch.

His hand pumps his cock faster as he bends down and presses a few kisses to the fabric over your nipple, walking around to give your other breast a similar treatment. Then, he walks to the foot of the table and mounts it, kneeling between your legs.

Both his hands spread out on your inner thighs, gently spreading them apart before tracing his thick, calloused digits across the crotch of your panties. You squirm again, hips subconsciously rocking up to meet his touch.

“That’s a good girl.” He purrs, rubbing small, lazy circles on your clit over the fabric. “Even like this, you still want it. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Kylo dips his fingers beneath your panties, cock twitching under his pants as his fingers swipe through the considerable amount of slick there. He finds your clit, rubbing it gently, enough to stimulate but not disturb you.

“Look at this...you’re absolutely soaked for me, little dove, and you don’t even know it.”

His hands grip your hips and lift them up as he slides your panties down, revealing the glistening treasure that lay below. He lines a single finger up with your entrance, then pushes it in, growling softly when your cunt clenches.

You stir just a bit, but not nearly enough for him to worry. He lifts his digit up inside you, enjoying the way your hips suddenly jerk as he rubs over the spongy surface of that special spot. Then, he pushes another one of his fingers inside of you, hearing a soft whine from beneath the mask.

He begins fingering you gently, just enough to prepare you, making sure not to force you back into consciousness. Soon, it became too much for him, and he pulled his digits out gently, observing the slick that coats the two fingers. He brings them up and takes a quick whiff, cupping his clothed erection and squeezing as his tongue pokes out to lick some of the substance off, hips bucking forward at the semi-sweet taste.

“Oh, little one, you’ve got such a tight little pussy. And you taste so good, just as I knew you would.”

The young doctor wipes the rest off on the paper below, then makes quick work of his pants and underwear, pulling them down just enough to expose his aching length. It bobs in response, desperate for attention as another bead of precum forms over the slit. His finger spreads the semi-transparent substance over the fat mushroom head, groaning breathily.

After giving his thick length a few strokes, he brings it down to rub through your slick. They buck forward out of instinct when he slides over your puckered entrance, wanting so badly to be buried inside of you.

His body leans over you, one hand next to your head as the other lines himself up, aiding in direction as he presses his hips forward, burying himself inside your wet welcoming walls. His eyes flutter shut as he bottoms out, but quickly snap open when you moan.

Luckily, you hadn’t woken up with his intrusion, and he takes a long sigh of relief before drawing back and pressing forward again slowly. The table trembles on its legs, bolts creaking as he fucks you steadily but gently, extra cautious of your vital signs and level of alertness.

Part of him wishes that you were awake, that you could see what he was doing to you and enjoy him, but the feeling of knowing that even unconsciously, you were still wet and tight for him was one too good to resist. It was all so arousing; an ego feeding greater than his regular days work could ever offer.

Your face scrunches in pleasure with more rolls of his hips, moaning and whimpering each time he buries himself inside you. They’re all so gentle, your noises, and Kylo finds himself lost in each quiet breath.

“Good girl--fuck--oh, good girl.” He says quietly, using every bit of his willpower to keep from pounding into you. “Such a good little cunt, taking my cock so well.”

You tighten around him, then, and he growls, fists clenching next to your head. His teeth grind together as he picks up the pace ever so slightly, feeling his climax approaching quickly.

“T-That’s it, that’s a good girl.”

His head hangs, eyes squeezing shut. He’s close, now, and his own noises get a little bit louder and a lot more frequent as his balls begin to pull and tighten.

“Gonna cum, little dove, you’re g-gonna make me cum so hard with this tight pussy.”

Unbenounced to him, you wake up slightly, eyes opening just a crack. You see him on top of you, body flexing with each thrust, and you feel the obvious intrusion in your lower half. You’re surprisingly not bothered by it, nor do you feel uncomfortable with it. Before you can think on it further, you slip back into the blackness.

He can’t cum inside you, he knows that, so just as he teeters on orgasm, he pulls out as gently as he can and drags his pulsing cock against your lower stomach as thick white ropes paint your soft skin.

“O-Oh y-yes...so good, d-dove.”

Kylo takes himself through orgasm and right into oversensitivity, pulling away and sitting up when this happens. His length softens, the extra skin re-covering his head as it does so. He tucks himself back into his pants, prepares a wet cloth and wipes the cum from your abdomen before pulling your panties back up over your used cunt.

His fingers quickly re-button your gown and he runs a quick hand through his hair before the doctor comes in, completely oblivious as to what’s just happened. Kylo greets him nonchalantly and takes his place off to the side as the doctor begins the surgery.

Your eyes flutter open lazily, grogginess hitting as you awaken a couple of hours later. Immediately, you feel the pain in your mouth, but more noticeably, you feel a certain ache in your lower half. You have no recollection of what you saw, as this memory is now trapped in your subconscious, but somehow you just sort of knew what’d happened.

You’re disgusted at yourself that you don’t mind the idea, that you don’t feel violated or like you’d been assaulted. You should feel those things, he did those things without your express permission, but...you don’t.

In fact, you feel as if your feelings for the mysterious doctor have grown even stronger. The gaping hole he’d left, the orgasm he’d robbed you of, just ached to be fulfilled. It was an itch you couldn’t scratch, sensations you couldn’t recreate on your own.

Only he could satisfy this desire, this need.

And, as you sit up slowly and the doctor debriefs you, you know that you must fulfill this new destiny: Find Dr. Ren and make him yours once again.

#adamdriverwriter #adam driver #adam driver character #adam driver smut #kylo ren darkfic #kylo ren #darkfic #tw: noncon #tw: somnophilia #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren x reader smut #anesthesiologist!Kylo Ren #dr. kylo ren au #dr. ren

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unohanadaydreams · 3 years

Note

DAMAGE DONE FOR KENPACHI SOULMATE CAN YOU IMAGINE THE A N G S T AND CONFUSION

I know ppl who follow this blog have taste because you were the the first of four ppl to ask for this exact combo jdhdjsjs. We are all Kenpachi brain rot compliant.

Features: Cutting/self harm, a real shit start to a relationship, and angst.

Bleach Your Soul: Ask Meme

Kenpachi Zaraki + Damage:

So much of your life was defined by isolation. A patient treated terminal. Everyone paid you the same attention they would a ghost, fleeting smiles and tears that fell over your bed as though it were a grave.

How could you not feel tortured and angry, to be saddled with a soul mate determined to drag you through hell with them? There were times you truly believed were your last. Stabs too close to your guts. Slashes peeling open to far towards your heart.

There was little room in your thoughts to worry about who suffered with you, other than to curse them. Whether they struggled to live or delighted in violence, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. It was hard to care about anything while laying in your deathbed. Through childhood, your heart withered like the flowers always dying on your window sill. If only they’d throw you away for good, as well.

You garnered hobbies to keep busy rather than to enjoy them. Your stitching, calligraphy, and precocious little drawings stained in blood more often than not. The 4th division was your jail. Your soulmate, your warden. Keeping you there, always.

For years, you begged them. Desperate to be heard--to have a modicum of fucking control--, you carved words into your skin. Were they scared the first time you did it? Did they hate it? Did it hurt them?

Vindictive, you hoped all your horrible thoughts were so. When you cut ‘stop. stop. stop. stop.’ you did it on your side and hip, so it would reopen. Again. And again. And again. And--

They never responded. No matter what you wrote. ‘Please stop.’ ‘It hurts.’ ‘Doesn’t it hurt you?’ ‘I hate you.’ ‘Who are you.’ ‘Don’t you care?’ ‘Kill me.’ ‘Die.’ ‘I’m sorry.’

Slowly, then suddenly, the damage that had been near daily stopped for so many years stopped. Your family settled you back in the home, a living urn. They said your name and stroked your cheek and smiled too small when you spoke.

Your skin buzzed with the absence of what had plagued your entire youth. Was it sickness or shame that drove your blade through your skin still? Did you just miss it? Was the violence boiling you alive with no where to spill out anymore?

There were times you swore minuscule nicks would appear, healing too fast to smooth over, but staying long enough to feel. Older, able to be among people, you realized what that could mean. What kind of person you’d told to die as a pithy little tween.

Were they alive--really alive? Did anyone else care or were you the only one?

‘Songbirds.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘Your name?’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘Work sucks.’ ‘Too hot.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Hotpot.’ ‘Cut words.’ ‘Please.’ ‘Alive?’ ‘Shinigami.’ ‘13th.’ ‘Rank?’ ‘Rukongai?’ ‘I’m sorry.’

Retsu Unohana, the only woman he couldn’t quite look in the eye, was there to smile all serene-like over him. After he’d lost. Figures she’d be there when he fucking lost.

She asked him all those annoying questions about how his body felt and told him all the things he needed to heal from. He wanted to shake her like Yachiru did when he wasn’t paying attention enough for her liking. Who gave a shit about all that--he lost and got what he deserved. He had to get stronger. Just because she’d abandoned her pride didn’t mean he would.

“Your soulmate is here, too.”

Kenpachi couldn’t ignore that one. He never ignored that one. Not that they let him, with all their fucking writing. Saying the strangest shit sometimes too.

When he was young, he’d been paranoid, not knowing what the fuck was doing the writing. He’d swing his sword over his calf or side or thigh, expecting to lob and invisible arm off. Running, Kenpachi would try to out pace the fucker.

Yumichika explained it like having one was exciting. Ikkaku had yelped for Yumichika to knock it off as the man with beautifully kept hands had given himself a paper cut.

“See? It means the person you’re meant for feels everything you do on the battlefield.” His colorful eyelids narrowed, sights shifting between his captain and Ikkaku. “Or in the file cabinet, if either of you would bother to help out.”

The more he understood--and thought about it--the less he wanted to meet them. His soulmate. Kenpachi wasn’t a person who forgave weakeness and anyone meant for him wouldn’t either, right?

He’d been consumed by sleepless nights, futile attempts to nap, and brutal training sessions, trying to keep his failures out of mind after the realization. What if Yachiru had been forced to take every blow the same as he had? Whenever he tucked in his lieutenant, the question ate at him further.

With time, there had come some form of solace--one day he’d find the thrill of a horrible battle again, to drown the thoughts out. But what Ichigo Kurosaki had offered hadn’t been horrible in the way he’d imagined. And here he was, face turned away from Unohana’s thinly veiled impatience, his feelings too complicated to bother with fully.

“Well?”

Unohana stood, like she was disappointed and Kenpachi couldn’t help but snap at her, “Fine. Whatever.”

She smiled, soft as she’d gotten, and went to the door. “Fine to what? I only told you they’re here. But if you’re so determined to see them, Captain Zaraki, follow me.”

Grumbling about how much he hated ‘that sneaky shit’, Kenpachi did follow her, and went through the door she gestured at before being closed in with your recovering body. Your body hadn’t healed as fast as his, but that wasn’t a surprise--you’d be a captain for sure if you could pull that shit off.

Worst of all, you were awake, the scar lining one side of your face as thick as his own. No one else was in the room with you. There were no flowers or cards. And your mouth was hanging open.

“You’re alive.”

“Yeah well,” Kenpachi didn’t know what to say, trailing off as one of his fingers brushed over his thigh.

“Everyone is talking about your fight,” you said, filling his silence with a light shrug. “I figured it was more than coincidence that I ended up like this at the same time. I’m glad it was you and not the ryoka.”

“You thought that kid was your soulmate?”

“How was i supposed to know? No one’s seen him since your fight, or so they’re saying.”

“The scar’s pretty fucking obvious.”

“Uh, I’ve never seen you before and it’s not like you’re ever in the Seireitei Bulletin or...or wandering around where people could find you!”

Kenpachi winced, not because of your words, but because the closer he got, the more your sweat and shaking arms showed. You must’ve been like this for a lot of your life. A worming feeling of guilt he seldom felt curled in his belly. Now that he had a person to pin to the thought, it swelled large.

Maybe if he were a softer person, someone rounded out like the long gone Yachiru turned Unohana, he’d say something comforting or concerned or even charming. But his hand was still on his thigh and his mounting frustration at himself, all revolving around his lack of strength, felt thick on his tongue.

“This mean you’re gonna stop with the fucking words?”

You pulled your head back slow, looking up at him like you couldn’t decide between succumbing to exhaustion or lunging at him.

“What if I don’t? What if I just keep going till you respond?”

“You’ll keep going until ya die.”

“Well, great! There’s you’re answer,” you scoffed. “You’ll have to kill me.”

It was a shit start, all things considered, and the silence that took over the room as Kenpachi sat on the nearest chair, so hard it almost cracked, felt as horrible as his zanpakuto refusing to answer him.

“The name’s Kenpachi Zaraki,” he said, resolved to at least get your name.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Damn right, you do. Now tell me yours.”

You wouldn’t have introduced yourself if he hadn’t looked so...well, you couldn’t quite tell what he looked like. Tired, maybe. Tired and wanting something.

So you gave him your name, your relief that he was alive, that you hadn’t wished him to his grave in your youth, outweighing your anger. An apology for putting you here was like grasping at the sky and hoping to hold a star, if his reputation proceeded him. So you let it go as best you could.

And Kenpachi settled back in the chair, grunting in acknowledgement. He didn’t think learning your name was gonna make him stronger, but it felt nice to hear someone talking to him like a person and not a beast.

If he was being honest, it’d always felt nice to be given your words, when so many people refused to give him any. A bit awkwardly, he stayed while you fell victim to sleep, your breath slow before he spoke again.

“Thanks.”

#kenpachi zaraki #kenpachi x reader #kenpachi zaraki x reader #bleach imagines #bleach fanfic #kenpachi having to grapple with his love for battle having direct consequences on someone he comes to care for more and more #and reader having to decide if they can move past the fuck ton of harm he's done to them or if they can't make peace with it #especially since he is not going to apologize for it #like lmao Kenpachi you keep calling Unohana a weak coward in your mind but just you wait JUST YOU WAIT #can you bare to lose the only one who loves you when both yachirus are dead and no greater enemy than a god will ever come again #tybw with this au would be pain #bc tbh i don't think reader would make it #unless they were also put in a pod

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witchlyboo · 3 years

Text

Definitely, maybe.

Part five: The one who belongs to someone else.

Introduction. Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four.

Paring: Latina!reader x Logan Lerman x Tom Holland x Ben Hardy x Timothee Chalamet x Pedro Pascal x Michael B. Jordan

Warnings: Swearing, angst, misspellings, some Spanish, me learning how to write properly, and NY stuff that I've learned from movies that we all agree to pretend are real.

Word count: 6.4 k

a/n: You been asking for smut, I know, I know, I just wanted to introduce you to all the boys first, and we're getting there, just one more ahead. Also, I'm working on a masterlist because we are getting too many parts already.

All body types and skin tones friendly. You can also enjoy it as a no Hispanic reader. Constructive feedback and misspellings correction is always welcome.

Red and blue lights flash the driving mirror.

—No, no, no, por favor que no sea a mi—You beg to the sky looking at the patrol that is asking you to park, or someone else, there's a lot of cars in this part of the city, there's a big chance is the panic who's controlling your senses.—Dios, mi abuela fue a la iglesia cada domingo de su vida y nunca te pidió nada, please let me have some of her divina recompensa.—But that's not how it works, you end up parking with just a few seconds to think what to say. There's a perfect explication of why you are driving a car that is not yours in the middle of the night and smelling like a minibar.

Then this ridiculous thought comes to your mind, you look expensive, you've never seen the daughter of a senator but you must be close to it, it would make you less of a feminist if you just use your attributes? Ugh, you feel sick just to think about it but don't have enough money to pay a fine, and the constant paranoia of being chased all the time as an immigrant will only get stronger.

You pull down your dress a little so your neckline can do its job but you regret it immediately, and you're pretty sure you look more like an expensive prostitute who stole the car of his lover than some influential men's daughter.

—License and registration.—You hear him say when he approaches your window. You don't like this but you have to play the dumb tourist, the pretty foreign girl that is too stupid to be dangerous, with the look you have tonight it shouldn't be hard. But damn you hate cops, any uniformed man that works for the government is your eternal enemy, and you don't know how long you could keep the nice dumb Latina game before spit on his face.

—There's something wrong, officer? ...You?!—Your sexy and fake high voice is ruined when you see the face of the man who stopped you. This night couldn't get worse.

—Wait, what happened with the party?—Evan interrupts you while you finish some notes for work, little remainders for later when you don't have an eleven years old kid running around you, he's not usually this energic and you have to blame yourself for that, you're describing a life of excess and eccentric fun, something you let behind so many years ago that your own son doesn't know even a bit of it.

—Ugh, a nightmare doesn't worth telling.—You remember vaguely most of it but what keeps fresh in your mind is bad enough to don't want to bring it back.

—But if Timothée is my dad I have to know the important things, including the bad stuff.—Sounds perfectly reasonable and that's what makes you groan at him. Sometimes you feel blessed that your kid is better than you in any possible way, and sometimes you want to kill his brain with video games and reality shows like the rest of the parents.

—Ok, cool, but I'll keep all the +18 content for myself, so this part of the story might be blurry for you.—It kinda is for you anyway.

You should’ve known this night was cursed, you had a feeling because a) your earring fell off at the same time Timothée texted you to give you the party address and say he can't pick you up. And b) he won’t pick you up. Your mother would say that’s reason enough to not go, a real gentleman wouldn’t make you go to an unknown place in the middle of the night on your own in a city like this. But you decide to ignore it because you are a modern woman and because it’s worth it. It better be.

The outfit must be something special. You always take your time to choose what to wear, even if just another regular day, and since this isn't the case you thought about it for hours, that made your mind busy enough to not thinking about Tom and the whole love confession. He texted you saying he'll come for you to go to class together on Monday, which is completely impractical because he's way closer than you but is progress and you're going to take it.

You wanted to ask for Sheep's opinion but you thought she might not care, has been a few days since she started acting strange like she's bothered just to see you breathe. You want to blame his boyfriend to take all her time and attention from you but is probably just her new job, she got a small role in a Netflix show, and even when you're so happy for her, that's the event that has changed her into someone completely different. But you give her time, stress can do bad things to people.

The winner is the exact copy you made of the black and white striped dress Cameron Diaz wore in "The Mask" beautiful, classy, and sexy enough without being too scandalous, not that you have any problem with that, but this isn't the occasion, you don't want to feel like you're being too much or too little, just enough, it's supposed to be easy, right? you were born for this. Just adding some big shiny earrings you got on a thrift shop that look like real diamonds and you're ready, not that you own any to compare. Red lipstick, dark eyes, and a messy bun to get that disinterested pitch every look needs.

Getting there wasn't a problem, you were in the rich part of the city, everyone know who, where and what just to brag about it. The excitement is growing with every second, you check your makeup like thirty times in the elevator and send texts to your mom just to let her know where you are, and because you have to share that moment with someone and you are limited of friends these days.

Timothée opens the door with red eyes, drunk, high, or somewhere in between, you know then you were right about the bad feeling. He jumps on you to kiss you and no matter how much you try to explain the delicacy of your lipstick, he does it anyway, leaving a taste of alcohol and shrimps in your mouth. Taking you by the waist he walks you to a group of people you don't know while you're trying harder to fix the red color of your mouth without a mirror.

—Here is the companion I bought, look at her, that's how five grand per hour look like.—They laughed but you were too disoriented to process all the things he said, it was supposed to be a joke? if it is, why isn't he correcting? Instead, his hand goes straight to your ass and presses it to get you closer to him.

—I'm actually an intern in the costume designer department of the new version of "Sense and Sensibility".—You wanted to mention your recent promotion to hairstylist and makeup artist but that might be too pretentious. Anyway, they don't seem to care what you are or not, in fact, they don't even see you, all eyes are on Timothée

—Oh, well, is easy to forget when you're paying them—All laughs again. Who is this person? Who are all these people, actually? You recognize some influencers, a few cast members but there's no sign of the director, other main actors, not even his co-star. You feel like an extra in a movie where someone will be killed in a luxury party, hopefully not you. You take his hand from your body and clear your throat.—I'm just joking my love, she looks stunning, isn't she? I’ll get you a drink.

He leaves and the group of people surrounding you suddenly dissipated like boiling water, you were on your own again and despite some judgmental gazes is like you’re not there, you’re sure you could just take your dress off and throw it to someone’s face and unless Tim says something about it, no one would care. You’re there as his companion, an ornament, and that’s not enough to earn their attention because it’s too obvious you’re the one in turn.

You walk to the only window no one is smoking and check your phone, you know, the thing you do when you pretend you have important issues to attend, but no, you end reading some old messages, pictures, texting your mom of how much fun you’re having at the party, and somehow you check your filed Facebook messages to find Logan’s name. You cover the screen so fast you hurt your nail, his name is enough to make you tremble like a Chihuahua, you haven’t talked to him since that night, you know from his sister he lives in the house he bought for you two and he’s having the happiest life without you. You want to believe that because that means you took the right decision but deep inside… no, you can’t be that person, you want him to be happier than ever.

You find the guts to open the message, and you read as slowly as is humanly possible. “My angel, I hope this finds you in perfect health…” Dios, just Logan could start a message like that, your smile is almost too big to fit in your face so you bit your nail to cover it a little. “I recently found one of the human body drawings you made for me to study, you’ll be happy to know…”

—That’s a fucking long-ass message.—Tim appears behind you and takes your phone from your hand, spilling some of his drink on your dress in the process. Apparently, he's been there long enough to read part of the message.

—Give it back.—You command in the most severe voice you have, your magical moment got ruined and you remember the hole of hell you are.

—"My angel, I hope this finds you in perfect health. I recently found one of the human body drawings you made for me to study, you must know I still use them now and then"—Timothée starts reading the message, and even when no one is close enough to hear it and you don’t really care about this people’s opinion, that’s not for anyone to read, that’s one of the few parts of your life you treasure the most and you’re not ready to get over it.—You little slut, are you cheating on me with a med student?

—Give it to me.—You repeat trying to take the phone from his hand but he’s faster and walks away putting it out of your reach.

—"I meticulously preserve them, I certainly know any piece of art made by you will be priceless in the near future"—You don’t want to hear it coming from his drunk mocking voice, so you try to ignore what he’s saying and put more effort on chasing the phone.—Should I had kept the jeans where you left the wet spot on? I didn’t know you were an artist, my love.

—Timothée, por el amor de Dios.—Now you're trying to climb him, it wouldn't be that hard to take him down, he's skinny and you're fierce. That's what you thought but he's not moving even with you are on top of his shoulder and his opposite long arm keeps the phone away from you.

—Who is this guy and why is he talking to my girl like this?—You see the olive eyes getting darker and the tone of his voice went deeper than you thought he could do. You desist from taking the phone, you know the bullies love the attention, maybe that's exactly what he wants and give it to him just makes it worse.

—I'm not your girl.—You claim fixing up your dress having enough of games, and you have no reason to keep worrying about losing your job, the filming is done, and apparently your relationship with him too. You don't care about any of that anymore, just want to read Logan's text.

Even behind all the alcohol and the eyes injected in blood thanks for who knows what kind of drug, you can see the disappointment and anger, but it's not a broken heart, Is the hissy fit of a child that loses his balloon and now everyone will pay for it, especially you.

—Are you sure about that?—You can see him swallow hard, almost looking vulnerable, but his voice is defiant and threatening to prove you wrong. He just has to stretch out his arm to reach the open window with your phone in hand, his intentions are clear and the only thing you can do is raise your hands as a reflex.—You were mine the moment you put a foot on my trailer, and I don't fucking share my stuff.—Before you can say a word he drops the phone from the fourth floor.

You know is senseless but you find yourself running out of the party and going to search the device, using it also as an excuse to get away from that place. This is the first time someone makes you feel meaningless, you know the famous' world is cold and lacking in empathy but this is ridiculous, they're a bunch of parasites fed by attention and power. By Timothée.

The screen is crashed and the rest of it is probably beyond repair, not that you're surprised, its life is longer than you've been in the country and you admit you should have replaced it much earlier but you're not the kind to throw away things that still work. However, is not the phone you are worried about, not as much as what it contains.

—That was obsolete anyway, I'll get you a better one.—You didn't know he was following you, his voice interrupts your self-wailing. He sounds calmer and a little embarrassed, but not enough to say sorry, you don't think he's capable of saying it.

You shake your head and start to walk away without a word, you don't want anything from him, not materially, at least.

—Don't make a scandal out of it, it's just a phone!—He yells erasing any trace of regret in his voice. He doesn't see the reaction he expected and that's when he runs after you and with a hand on your upper arm pulls you back, you gasped for the sudden bluntness.—That annoying habit you have of leaving when I'm talking to you.

You push him away with all the strength you have, which resulted in him almost falling on the ground.

—I don't care about the stupid phone!—You finally break, but sadly is not as satisfactory as you thought it would be.—You are mean, vain, arrogant and the worst part is that you enjoy being this despicable human because you have absolutely no consequences to it. Everyone around you just accepts it and I feel so sorry for you because the only possible way for you to fill the void inside is to be surrounded by that crowd of mules licking your steps—To your surprise, he has nothing to say, he's just standing there with no facial expression, whatever he feels is easily covered by his years of experience acting, even drunk.—I can't give you that and it's obvious they don't want me either. What am I even doing here?—You ask yourself thinking where would be the best way of getting a cab, is a rich zone, must be easy.

—Everything is better when you're around—His voice is thin and fragile, you have to process what he said three times in your head to understand his words. You're not willing to look at him yet.—You're not like the others.

—Pure bullshit. You love to repeat that misogynist discourse of girls being in a certain way because is easier than be responsible for the people you choose to be—You were hugging yourself the whole time, is a cold night, but not enough to be bothersome, you enjoy Fall weather—You got me for a moment, I give you that, you fooled me but I'm too tired of guessing what version of you is real—When you return your gaze at him, he doesn't try to hide the guilt anymore, but there's still haughtiness in there.—Now, if you don't mind Mr. Chalamet, I need to get a cab.

—No, you came with me, you leave with me.—There's no trace of alcohol in his voice anymore, a good scolding is enough to put you sober, you know that thanks to your mom. Oh god, you're becoming her.

—You didn't bring me here, gigantic head—You look at him and put your hand in front of him with the palm up. He stares at it for several seconds before put his own on it—Not that!—You shake it and start looking inside his jeans pockets until you feel the metal of his key car.—You can't drive and I have to get home. You'll find it in the studio tomorrow.

That's how you ended with a car way more luxurious than you expected, driving so slowly and carefully that the police stopped you. What a night, but at this point, you couldn't care less about anything that is not that message, is been months and you can't get over it, over him. Not even Ben moans, Tom's comforting arms, or fight with a movie star at 3:00 am. is enough to get him out of your mind.

—So is true, you don't wear anything that hasn't appeared in a movie, huh?—Michael B. Jordan is leaning on the car window with a mocking smile and a sparkle of satisfaction that you would love to punch but his uniform keeps you in line, where you come from police is not equal to justice, most of the times is oppression.

—You know where it's from?—That was kind of comforting, no one at the party noticed. Not that you care.

—Is The Mask, not some Adam Hitchcock's blurb.—He smiles and even when you really don't like him, it's nice to be with a familiar face, you are really tired of running away, scaping for problems that are a result of your null capacity to deal with emotions. Ugh, what a word.

—Is Alfred Hitchcock, actually.—You didn't want to sound priggish, but you correct him with no time to stop yourself, an old habit.

—You got me, smarty, you know more than movies than me. Where did you get this car?—You feel really nervous even when you got this legally, you have your documents and license on time and he's being nice enough to not want to run away in a car that you technically borrowed for yourself.

—It's not mine.—No shit, Sherlock.

—No shit, Sherlock, I was asking where did you steal it.—You wanted to laugh but there's something with the uniform that just doesn't allow you to be yourself.—Are you drunk?

—No, no, fuck, no, it's just, I don't feel comfortable with cops—He raises his eyebrows but that is his only reaction.—Listen, is my boss' car, I'm doing the favor to take it to the studio, and I'm really nervous because is fucking expensive, he's an asshole, I haven't drive un almost a year because you people only use cars if you're rich or your work and lives depend on it. I'm starving.—The last part came out of nowhere, you haven't eaten anything in almost 13 hours, maybe that's the actual reason why you are that moody.

He doesn't answer right away, takes his time to look at you, what makes you blush, he's really close, closer than he's ever been. Does he smell like green apples? Not the actual apples, the artificial smell they had given to them.

—Get out of the car.—Oh no, is he arresting you? Is he finally taking revenge for every time you make fun of his Hawaiian-type shirts? You know you have too much karma accumulated and a cop making you pay for it when you don’t believe in their sense of justice is kinda poetic, and evil.

You don’t want to discuss with someone with a taser, gun, pepper spray, or who knows what else. So you take your bag, the key car, and get off defeated.

—My turn is almost over, I’ll take you to eat something, c’mon.—He walks back to his patrol and you stay still for a few seconds still processing his words, you must look totally devastated for him to offer that. How you see it you have two options, go with him and spend an awkward hour with a person you don’t like or risk getting a fine, Tim can pay it, it’s not a big deal but you don’t want to owe him even the minimal thing.

You get in the car holding on to your bag to feel calmer, this is the first time you’re fully alone with him since you found him half-naked in your kitchen. Those defined abs may never leave your brain.

—Are you cold?—He interrupts your thoughts with his question, you didn’t notice you were shaking. He looks for something under his seat and gives you an NYPD hoodie, you hold it doubting your next move, is not like you don’t appreciate the gesture but it’d be easier to take if it doesn’t get that words printed—Is clean.—He says chuckling when he sees the way you’re looking at it.

—Is not that, just, you know, fuck the police, defund the NYPD, demilitarize the pigs and that stuff.—You say putting on the hoodie anyway, is a cold night and you won't help the institution wearing their propaganda.

—Yeah, I get it, but you can't change the system just from within.—You decide is not the right moment to have a political conversation so you shrug your shoulders and discreetly smell the hoodie, a mix of cologne, green apples, and cheap soap, you know is cheap because you buy the exact same, do its job.

—I'm in the mood for pizza.—You say casually, making a deal to yourself to try to be his friend, he is a small part of your life anyway.—Domino's is open at this time of the night?

—Tell me you're not consuming that shit, dear Lord, you been here for how long, two years? I can't believe your idea of a good pizza is Domino's. Stella hasn't taught you anything?—You're surprised by the level of condescension with a pizza and you mirror his smile, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Your school program includes people from all around the world so you don't have that much experience with actual new yorkers. Logan is rich, so he doesn't really count.

—What's wrong with Domino's? I don't buy much street food, is cheaper to buy things on the food market. Besides, all pizza is good.—The mention of Sheep makes you a little tense, so you don't say anything about it, is not a conversation to have with him.

—Don't blaspheme in the patrol, I just washed it—You laugh, finally, after a terrible weekend. You can see why she likes him, there is something about his voice, smile, and his eyes that feel... calm, like watching Friends after a marathon of Lord of the Rings.—There are rules to survive this city, and I'm surprised you have made it this far without a proper guide.

—Chill out Mr. Miyagi, I'm not from the jungle, and I've learned a lot by myself.—He gives you a lopsided grin as a request, and you put your fingers up ready to enlist your acquired knowledge.—Walk fast, like you're about to be stabbed, something that actually happened to me, with an umbrella—He nods and laughs being related to it.—Number two, no small talk, no one cares, even if they ask. Number three, if you look a stranger in the eye, especially a homeless person, you have essentially invited them to approach you.

—Number four, we never eat from Domino's, Papa John's, Pizza hut, or any other chain restaurant, only trucks and local places are allowed.—You roll your eyes but you get the point, is just, again, you're not much into street food, it doesn't taste like home and the only way to eat food like that is preparing it yourself.

—Fine, fuck capitalism, let's support local places—You make an obvious fake enthusiastic tone but he nods proudly.—Number five, you don't need a car to live here, not even know how to drive. I would have successfully avoided this police brutality if I had followed that rule.

—For someone who is about to eat for free, you whine too much.—He parks the car and gives you a sign to go with him. You see him go to a pizza truck and order, you realize at the moment how ridiculous you look, so before chasing him you let your hair down, take your huge earrings off, and roll up the skirt of your dress until your mid-thighs letting the hoodie cover the rest, and clean the red lipstick with a Kleenex from your bag. Now you look more like a college person and not a rich girl who just got seized.

—Here you go.—He says giving you a slice as big as your head, looks oily and spreading cheese everywhere. Perfect.

—Is it vegan?—You ask receiving the food with an obnoxious face. His kind grind turned into a dread expression and you give him your second laugh of the day.—I'm kidding.

You are about to give it a bite when you see passing next to you a huge rat with the exact same slice as yours in its mouth, running into the dark of the night happy to have obtained the food for its family. They use to scare you when you just moved out but now they're like any other pigeon in the sky.

—Rule... whatever, a rat with a slice of pizza is a symbol for good luck, congratulations.—He pets your head awkwardly, not sure if you're ok with the physical contact, which, surprisingly, you are.

—I see rats with bagels all the time.—Pizza and bagels, that's the main culinary wonders of the city, you like it, not much to object but is hard not to compare it with your home's food.

—Is easy to confuse a rough diamond with a simple rock.—You both eat in silence, enjoying the mixed sounds of the city and all the different smells, the whole situation feels like one of those lofi music videos. You remember thinking about moments like this before getting the scholarship, what would it be like to feel normal in the city of your dreams.

—How do you know that much about movies?—He asks after a few minutes when you take a break to drink something, that pizza is not easy to take.

—When I was a kid a spent much time on my own, so my dad bought me a used DVD reproducer, and at the corner of my neighborhood was this movie store where you could buy 5 pirate movies for one dollar. They were blurred, with a terrible sound, and most of the time with the wrong movie inside but they helped me to not feel lonely. Eventually, the store closed but I've watched everything in it by then—He gives you a warm smile, you never told that story to anyone, not because is too intimate to share, but because no one asked, it doesn't sound like a question with a complex answer.—Anyway, I watched Marie Antoinette when I was like eight, and I decided at that moment that however is done I wanted to be part of that magic.

—You hear all kind of people chasing dreams in this city but is hard to find someone who actually deserves it.—You blush and you cover it with your hair but the smile on your voice is impossible to hide.

—Is that a compliment? You must really want me to like you to date Sheep.—You laugh but you can see his face tense, so you can guess your friend has been busy breaking everyone’s hearts.

—She hasn’t returned my calls in three days so I don’t think there’s much you can do—You nod, all this time you thought he was the reason she is ignoring you but apparently you are both in the same boat.—But yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking, what I should have said is, Marie Antoinette at eight? I can see where all the damage started.

You gasp and throw your napkin at his head, he easily catches it without even looking at it and laughs; that was unexpectedly attractive.

—Why a cop?—You ask, not sure where that question came from, maybe you authentically want to know more about him, he just bought you food, and honestly, that's the easiest way to win your trust.

—I wanted to be an actor when I was a child. This is the city of opportunities so you may think that if you want to chase the big wonder, this is the perfect place to do it. But I grow up surrounded by these people giving their entire lives to get something just given to one in a million so I decided is not worth it. For many years I wondered what I wanted to do with my life and the answer was really clear, my dad was a cop, a good one, or that’s what people say. I don’t remember much because he died when I was seven—Conversations about death are not your strength, everything can turn out uncomfortable if you choose the wrong words.—It might not be that glamorous but if my father died for it, it surely worth it.

—For the good ones.—You raise your almost empty can of Coke and he does the same with a grin that warms the cold weather of the night.

—For the good ones.

The next two hours passed like minutes talking about anything and everything. It just felt right to talk freely with him, you didn’t feel judged for your awkward family moments or your random thoughts, not even once because he told you his too. At some point of the night he borrowed you his gym sweatpants, any of you could just suggest going home but that was off the table, end that peace just for weather reasons would have been a tragedy.

—I read Timothée Chalamet is a dick. Is that true?—The mention of his name remains you of your life and everything that comes with it, including the middle semester project that you must dedicate your entire day, one that is about to start.—What, you can’t talk about it?

—He is a complete dick with no sense of privacy or human decency—And when he interrupts a deep kiss to look at your eyes, smile, and caress your chin, you feel like a character of his Victorian movies. But he didn’t ask that.—But the next week he’ll be no longer my problem.

—That’s why we have rule twenty-three, don’t ask for a picture of a celebrity unless they are local—You have heard about it before but you haven’t got the opportunity to decide if you like that rule because the only celebrities you have seen are from work and that club’s party opening.—That means you’ll be free to go to the Stephen Kings’ movie projection there will be for Halloween.

You don’t know if that was a proposition, a suggestion, or just a simple recommendation, and whatever it is, you noticed he was nervous to ask. Is it wrong? It feels wrong like you were betraying your friend accepting to hang out with his boyfriend without her consent. But he didn’t ask you to go with him so is safe to answer.

—Yeah, I guess—You get a moment, four seconds top, where you shared innocent, curious, and tenting gazes like three graders in the playground. And that’s the further you will allow yourself to go.—We better leave, if the sunlight touch me I’ll turn into dust.

You get off the car hood and go to the side door, but this time he opens it for you. You give him a “seriously?” Look, receiving a little push in your arm as a response.

↬☀︎︎

A distant voice asks you to wake up, softly whispers that turn into caresses on your cheek, your eyes feel so heavy, even when you are well aware of your environment your eyelids keep closed.

—Good morning, Princess—This is the first time Tom calls you that way, the change from silly nicknames to Princess is enough to get you out of hibernation. He is squatting beside your bed, his smile is the promise of a better day, and chasing that idea you give him one small back.—Your mom has been texting me desperately all day, she said you're not answering her calls and is worried.

—Fuck, my phone broke last night, can I call her from yours?—That’s an oversimplification but in the search for a better story, that's what you decide to believe and tell. Tom nods and gives it to you, he looks happy, beyond that, this is the first time you see that subtle blush on his cheeks and the eyes sparkling. You sit on the bed next to his body looking for your mom's number, slowly he moves between your legs, you have shorts and an oversized Back To The Future t-shirt, you got took the time to prepare yourself to bed last night and keep Michael’s clothes inside your closet to wash them, like The Tell-Tale Heart, a little innocent secret who feels dirty somehow

The conversations with your mom are always long, nostalgic and the tears are hard to hold for both parts; after a long life sharing almost every day with her, her absence never feels smaller. But this time is different, Tom is exploring the bare skin under your knee with his warm hands, asking for permission with curious eyes, and when you don’t object to the touch the British boy keeps his exploring mission cautiously, giving special attention to see your eyes in case something change. Is time to hang up when he gives a long and loving kiss to your knee, the less erotic kiss you could think of but so intimate to bristle your skin.

—Not nice to touch someone's daughter when is talking to her mom.—The protest of your voice loses strength at every word, he heard that and just straight his back to reach your face, the gap is almost extinct.

—We're okay, she likes me.—He assures holding your hips and pulling you a bit to him. Tom looks very comfortable with the new closeness authorization, you like it but are not very sure about it yet, most of you still think of him as your best friend.

—Did she tell you that? Are you talking with my mom behind my back?—You laugh when he does, almost like nothing changed.

—She adores me, I swear, I'm invited to Christmas, you know?—You're not surprised, she invites everyone, Logan was too but the first time he got family plans and didn't make it to the second.

—You should go, maybe we can do...—His lips touch yours in a peak at the middle phrase and makes you forget what you were about to say.—Man, the audacity to interrupt...—Then he kisses you again, deeply, using his tongue to taste your inner lip and his hands holding your shirt in fists. That's a twist of events.

—Is that ok?—You hear a weak whisper coming out of his voice but you got so mesmerized on his lips that decided to ignore it and kiss him back instead. He responds to your touch and starts to lean over you to make you lay on the bed.

Jesucristo bendito, is this happening? like, actually happening? you must look like trash, you barely took all the makeup from the night before and didn't take a shower, you start to get so worried about smells, feelings, and what that'll mean to your already too much-spoiled friendship.

However, the time of doubts is done when Sheep starts yelling in the living room, you both reacted running to the sound and looking for your blonde friend. Michael is there but doesn't look like the same as a few hours ago, is annoyed and tired for the lack of sleep, a look that doesn't match him at all.—What did you do?—You ask him fast assuming she's mad for something he did.

—Just in time, the star of the movie, I was wondering how much it will take you to be the protagonist of this.—That is Sheep's voice talking about you and what must be your heart breaking from her words.

—Excuse me?—You wish your tone would be less savage but you can't help respond the same way she did.

—Logan wasn't enough, then you got the drummer, fucking Timothée Chalamet, Tom and now my boyfriend. I'm so glad I didn't leave you alone with my dad or I'd be calling you mom now.—You have no words to that, Michael doesn't even dare to look at you, he must have told her something she misunderstood, but Sheep, or well, Stella is saying things she actually thinks and keep to herself. Tom walks in front of you whispering things to her to calm her down but she is not looking at him, you didn't tell her anything about Tom either so he's taking responsibility this time.—Go ahead and fuck the whole city, Michael if that please you but you're crossing the line with Tom and you know that, you're going to ruin him as you ruin every man that enters in your life.—She has a very you moment having the last word of the dispute and getting out of the apartment with Michael going after her but not putting much effort in it.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Taglist:

@eridanuswave @cjand10 @deluxeplanteater @rorodendra @navs-bhat @coxxxxxpi @leviosatothestars

Thanks for all the love and support, if you have opinions, suggestions, or want to be part of the tag list (Or don’t want to be part anymore) let me know, I appreciate every message.

#ben hardy imagine #michael b jordan fc #tom holland x reader #timothee chalamet fanfiction #pedro pascal #logan lerman fc #definitely maybe #fluff #angst #timothee chalamet #Tom Holland #Ben Hardy

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honeypiehotchner · 3 years

Text

Normal (Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader) -- oneshot

I know this is def not my normal content because y’all know I’m a huge Hotch girl, but sometimes I slip back into being a Reid girl. It’s hard not to! I see a lot of myself in him and it led me to write this, so enjoy this (very real, actually) glimpse inside my head in the form of a fluffy Reid story xx.

I listened to “Normal” by AJR a lot while I wrote this!

Summary: Spencer has recently returned to the BAU after a short period of leave, and he comes back to find you, an agent-in-training filling his Resident Genius shoes. He admires you for who you are. You think he hates you. He tries to convince you otherwise.

DR. SPENCER REID MASTERLIST

At first, you thought it was because of the way you read books.

You’ll never forget the first day you met the infamous Dr. Spencer Reid. He had returned from leave for his injured knee (he was shot, you were told) and this was apparently the second time he had attempted to step foot in the office. The first time didn’t go over well when Hotch found Spencer’s file that said his doctor did not clear him for work yet.

Regardless, you were sitting in your desk chair, legs crossed underneath you, “like a human pretzel,” Morgan always teases. You were reading a book, one of your favorites, to pass the time when Spencer walked in.

You knew it instantly because Morgan’s loud and affectionate, “Pretty. Boy!” could be heard all over the BAU.

You didn’t get up from your chair or stop reading -- besides the brief moment when you looked up to see what the commotion was about.

You still remember your internal monologue. Should I get up and hug him like Morgan? No, no, I don’t know him that well. I don’t want to hug anyone today, anyway. Shake his hand? You remember your hand tensing at the mere thought. Okay, not that either. I could wave, but I can’t tell if I even need to. I’ll just keep reading.

You had heard of Spencer before this. Hotch made it abundantly clear to you and the team that you were not replacing Spencer when you joined. You aren’t even officially a member of the BAU yet. You’re on a bit of a trial run, so to speak. That’s how Hotch explained it.

Yes, you were and still are well aware that the timing looks awful. An agent who is vital and loved in the BAU is shot and out of work right as a new, younger, and less experienced but surprisingly intelligent agent steps in for a “trial run” (which no one ever does).

To anyone else, it obviously looks like you were sent here to replace Dr. Reid under the disguise of a short “trial run.”

But that isn’t the case at all.

You thought Spencer didn’t like you because of the way you read books. You immerse yourself in them. You use a pencil to track what line you’re on, so nearly every page has a vertical, light gray line in the margin where the tip of your pencil lead barely grazed the page. You underline keywords and phrases. You draw arrows. You write commentary in the margins.

You thought that was what annoyed him until you saw him highlighting a book and writing in the margins, too. He doesn’t even necessarily need to, especially since he can read so damn fast and remember everything.

That’s also what you suspected -- that he didn’t like you because you could read almost as fast as him.

Keyword here: almost.

You can scan a page and spit the information back out in layman’s terms, sure. But you won’t remember what you read in great detail the next day, sometimes even the next hour -- especially when you were sort of filling the Resident Genius shoes and you’d have to read through stacks of evidence every hour.

You had thought your speed was just another thing Spencer didn’t like because it was just one more thing pointing to the conclusion that you were hired to replace him.

But he doesn’t care. You gladly let him read the evidence and memorize it, but you’ll help him out sometimes by scanning something first to see if it might have what he’s looking for. If it might, then he goes through and catches the fine details.

He’s never once acted as he hates you -- even though you’ve had “friends” who hated your guts and you had no idea (true story: high school is brutal and you were always shocked when your childhood best friend told you how “fake” others were acting toward you). But you’ve tried to look for specific signs, and he shows none of them.

You’re grasping at straws at this point. You’re on a profiling team and you had to Google how to tell if someone hates you. It’s pathetic, truly.

He doesn’t avoid you -- but he also is a really private person like you who likes his time alone.

He doesn’t drop a conversation with you after it’s been started -- but he also rambles so much anyway that you don’t know if he himself is capable of dropping a conversation abruptly.

He doesn’t avoid eye contact with you -- but even that one is tricky because you’re still working on it yourself, and you definitely have some days where you avoid eye contact. Sometimes you can hold it too well, though, and you always wonder if that’s rude.

Going through the rest of the signs that you found on Google goes exactly like that. He hasn’t done it, but then again… There’s always a catch.

It’s exhausting.

It’s a straight week of this before you finally cave and go to the one person you know you can always trust.

“Morgan, does Reid hate me?”

Derek stops stirring his coffee and tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows at you. “What?” He goes back to stirring before tossing the stick in the trash. “Kiddo, why would he hate you?”

You misread this, too, and think Derek is confirming that Reid has hated you all along. “I don’t know. Why would he? What did I do?”

Morgan pauses, staring at you for a second before he realizes. “Ah, alright. It’s not clicking?”

You and Morgan have this phrase for when things completely fly over your head. “It’s not clicking?” is all he has to ask and all you have to do is nod, and he explains things to you.

So, you nod.

“Okay, listen, he does not hate you,” Morgan says. “I mean that. He’s been struggling to get settled after being out, but he doesn’t hate you. He’s far from hating you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just, trust me. He doesn’t hate you.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. You do trust Morgan, but somehow his words don’t ease your mind this time. “Should I talk to him about it? Or is that overstepping?” You pause. “I don’t wanna be annoying.”

“Kiddo, you’re never annoying,” Morgan smiles, raising his coffee at you. “I’m serious. And sure, if you think talking to him about it will help, go for it.”

“Okay… How do I ask him?”

Morgan shrugs. “Say you’ve felt like there’s been underlying tension and you want to clear the air.”

“Underlying tension and I want to clear the air. Got it,” you chant to yourself. “Thanks, Morgan!”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

Fast forward an hour or two and you finally have enough courage worked up to confront Spencer. The first hour was spent rehearsing what you plan to say and the second was spent rehearsing what you might be asked and what you can say. And finally, you were ready to walk around the set of cubicles to get to Spencer’s.

Spencer looks up when he sees you walking over and he raises his eyebrows. “Oh, Y/N, I just found this really good book about the strategies of--”

“I’ve felt like there’s been a lot of underlying tension between you and me and I wanna clear the air,” you blurt.

Spencer pauses, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Are you mad at me?” You try again.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Do you hate me?”

“What? No!” Spencer sets his book down on his desk. “Of course I don’t hate you.”

“Oh...okay,” you nod slowly. “That’s...that’s all then.”

As you’re turning around to go back to your, Spencer stands. “Wait, Y/N.”

You raise your eyebrows in question. “Oh, right,” you chuckle nervously. “What book did you want to tell me about?”

“Oh,” Spencer looks down at his desk, then shakes his head. “I’ll tell you that later, I wanted to ask first if...if you wanted to get dinner later? There’s a reading downtown for this new poet and I thought you’d like to go.”

“Oh,” you nod. “Yes, I was actually already going, but yeah. We can get dinner.” You mentally rearrange things in your schedule as you speak.

“Okay,” he smiles softly. “Oh, the book. Here, you can--” He pauses and grabs a chair, rolling it over for you.

Derek watches from his desk as the two of you sit down and Reid starts rambling.

+++

You and Spencer leave straight from the BAU to get dinner before the reading.

One thing you’re grateful for that comes with spending time with Spencer is that you never have to worry about conversation. He carries it and if there’s ever a silence, he fills it. Or, like tonight, the two of you enjoy a mutual silence.

You opted for a table outside on the patio because the dinner rush was crowding the restaurant indoors, and it made the lights seem a little too bright. You could feel a headache coming on when Spencer asked if the two of you could sit outside.

It’s a little chilly outside, so you guys are alone, but you’re both always bundled up, so you aren’t cold. Spencer is always in some form of layers and a scarf, and you are, too. Minus the scarf, though, because some days it doesn’t feel right on your neck (and lately it doesn’t). But you’re always in a sweater and a cardigan.

Winter is your favorite season because of this. You can wear as many layers as you need and not suffer from a heatstroke.

After a quiet dinner (that you actually kind of needed, though you didn’t realize it at first), the two of you walk down the street to the small bookstore where the poetry reading is taking place.

“So, you said you were already coming,” Spencer begins.

“Hm?”

“To the poetry reading,” he clarifies.

“Oh, right,” you chuckle. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, unfazed. “Do you read a lot of poetry?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’ve always loved it, I think. I write some, too, but I don’t know how good it is. Probably not very since I’m in the FBI.”

Spencer laughs softly. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Do you write poetry?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “Not often, but sometimes.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I like it. Not enough to do it for a living, of course. Actually, I almost got a Masters in Poetry a few years ago.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I can’t imagine being a poet,” he says, slowing his steps as you reach the bookstore. “But I guess that’s why I’m not one.”

You’re not sure what else to say, so you stay quiet while he opens the door for you, gesturing for you to go inside.

Bookstores are your forever safe haven. The quiet stacks, the mutual agreement between everyone inside not to speak to anyone else unless it’s dire. Not to mention, being surrounded by words.

Even events like these are small. Every event you’ve been to, you’ve been one of maybe twenty people attending. It’s your Heaven. It’s the kind of social interaction you’re somewhat good at.

Spencer is surprised when you willingly sit in the front. He would’ve expected you to sit at the back, in the middle row, even, but not the front center. He doesn’t question it, though. He just quietly sits next to you.

You pull the poet’s book out of your bag and it’s a well-worn copy. You flip through the pages and Spencer catches glimpses of underlined words, commentary, everything that lets him know this must be your favorite.

“Do you um…” Spencer pauses, waiting until you tilt your head, showing your attention. “Do you come to readings here often?”

“Every month,” you nod. “It’s a weird routine I’ve had ever since I moved here. I went to readings almost every week in college, and I didn’t want to stop.”

“I don’t come to a lot for poetry,” Spencer says. “Mostly novels -- and mostly conventions for academia-based writings.”

“Those have always scared me,” you chuckle, only half joking.

“Really? Why?”

“Oh, just the idea of hundreds of people crowded in a hall. That kind of thing just isn’t my speed.”

“You know, if it’s too scary to go alone, you’re welcome to come with me,” Spencer offers.

“Okay.”

“There’s one next Friday,” Spencer says. “If we’re not out on a case, we can go together, right after work.”

“Okay, yeah,” you smile. “What time?”

“It starts at 7, so we could leave work at 5:30 and get dinner beforehand.”

You mentally begin piecing next Friday together in your head and you nod, thankful for his mention of specific times. “That sounds good.”

Soon the chairs around you are filled and you recognize a few people who smile at you, so you smile back. Before long, the manager of the store is stepping up to introduce tonight’s poet, and Spencer watches you eagerly crack open their book.

+++

Somehow, spending time with Spencer has gotten worked into your routine.

You go with him to academic readings, and he comes with you to your poetry ones. The two of you have dinner together most nights because it’s your routine to eat right after work, and most of the time he’s already rambling about something to you when 5 o’clock hits and you begin packing up your stuff.

Tonight is no different, only this time when you’re walking next to Spencer to the bookstore for another poetry reading, he fills the silence.

“Can I tell you something?”

You pause, but nod anyway, wondering why Spencer is asking this time when he hasn’t before -- not that you can recall.

Spencer takes a deep breath. “I know you thought I hated you, and honestly when you told me that, I couldn’t believe it. Because I don’t hate you and I never have. I...I like you a lot, Y/N.”

“Oh,” you let out a breathy chuckle. “I like you too, Spencer. I’m glad you don’t hate me and thanks for saying it again. Sometimes I need the reminder.”

He chews on his lower lip as he listens to you, and it’s obvious you didn’t catch what he is really trying to say. “Y/N, I mean...I like you. I have feelings for you -- romantic feelings,” he clarifies, watching your face intently.

You’ve never made the most facial expressions, but when you do, they can be exaggerated. Which is what happens now.

Your eyes widen and you make what looks like a grimace with your lower lip. “I’m sorry,” you say, scrunching your nose. “Have these…have these all been dates?”

Spencer shrugs. “Only if you want them to be. I just like spending time with you.”

“I like spending time with you, too,” you smile softly. “You don’t hate me for not realizing, do you?”

“Of course not,” he laughs. “But I wanted to tell you because I like being honest with you and...if you feel the same, then...we can go from there, but if not, it’s okay. Like I said, I like spending time with you.”

“I do feel the same,” you blurt. “At least, I think I do. I don’t know. I might need to think, but I know I’m interested and...and I know I really like spending time with you.”

Spencer smiles. “Okay, uh...do you-- Can I hold your hand? Is that okay?”

You can’t help the smile that crawls onto your face in that moment, and you nod.

Spencer stretches out his hand and you take yours out of your pocket, hissing through your teeth for a moment at the cold air, but when Spencer’s fingers tangle with yours, you feel better.

Everything feels better when you’re with Spencer.

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just-another-blog-of-fluff · 3 years

Text

Never Back Down

Warnings: the usual - tickling, fluff

Word count: 2500

Ok, I know I just posted like 2 days ago, but this idea started plaguing me on my drive home from work today and I had to just get it written out on (virtual) paper. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

You don’t back down easily. Certainly not from a prank war. Especially when it meant you had captured the attention of a certain Asgardian.

Admittedly, you had been the one to start it. Although, you had good reason – Loki had been teasing you incessantly that day, doing everything in his power just to push your buttons. So, naturally, you did what any self-respecting Avenger would do, and stole his ‘secret’ stash of chocolate from his room when he wasn’t looking. It’s not like you ate it or anything (well, maybe just one… or two…) but it was still enough to poke the bear. Loki, of course, knew exactly who had taken it the moment he noticed it was missing.

The chocolate had disappeared from your room by the next morning. Along with every pair of shoes you owned.

It took much longer than you’d have liked to admit to track down all of your shoes hidden around the compound. You knew you had to step up your game. So that evening, you pulled the classic ‘hair dye in the shampoo bottle’ trick (temporary, of course). The look you received from the now green-haired god the next morning could have shattered glass, but you still couldn’t help but snicker at him.

You made sure you were cautious the rest of that day, knowing he would likely retaliate. Before showering that evening, you double and triple-checked the color of the soap and shampoo before using it to make sure there wasn’t anything unusual about it. You even ordered take-out for dinner; afraid he might try to tamper with your food if you tried to cook something.

Nothing happened. Which only made you more suspicious about what the trickster was planning.

You found out the next morning, when you went to exit your bedroom and suddenly were knocked backward onto the floor as your face struck an invisible barrier. Plastic wrap. Clever. As revenge, you slipped hot sauce into his morning coffee. Needless to say, he didn’t appreciate it.

At this point, you weren’t sure who was winning. The most likely answer was really neither of you, but you figured you should probably be on your toes anyway assuming he would probably be plotting vengeance after this morning. Luckily, there was a mission briefing that afternoon; you figured at least he wouldn’t be bold enough to try to pull something in front of an entire room of Avengers. Or, at least, you hoped.

Tony was having renovations done on your usual conference room, so the briefing had been moved to one of the smaller meeting rooms on the second floor. You were running late, having gotten lost trying to find your way to the new meeting location, and you were cursing yourself for it because you were really hoping to be assigned to this particular mission. By the time you located the room, everyone else had already arrived and taken their seats.

The room was much smaller than the conference room, with a few chairs surrounding a table in the center of the room and additional seating against the walls. You cringed when you saw the only remaining available seat was in the corner, directly next to Loki. He smirked when he noticed you in the doorway, patting the chair beside him as if being polite, but you knew him better by now. He had something planned, you were sure of it.

You quickly walked across the room, trying to minimize the time that you were blocking your teammates’ view of the front of the room where Steve was reviewing the mission location on a projector. Begrudgingly, you slouched down into the seat beside Loki and leaned against the wall.

“You’re late,” Loki leaned over and whispered in your ear.

“Shh! I want to hear about the mission. Steve was thinking of sending me this time,” you hissed, glaring at him.

Loki was silent for a few moments, so you turned your attention back to the front of the room. Steve now had some images up on the screen of the artifact the team would be responsible for retrieving, which had been stolen from one of the local museums. You wished you had thought to bring your notepad – you knew it would impress Steve if you were taking notes, and you really wanted to have the chance to prove yourself by going on this mission.

“He is insufferable to listen to.” Loki had leaned over again to whisper to you, his breath tickling your ear, and you reflexively shrugged your shoulder.

“Shh! Stop whispering!” you demanded.

“Shh! You should be listening,” he mocked, winking with a mischievous grin. You rolled your eyes and turned your attention back to the front.

Another few moments went by when suddenly you felt something soft tickling the shell of your ear. You flinched and swatted your hand up to your ear, realizing Loki had taken a loose strand of your hair and had experimentally swiped it across your ear.

“Loki!” you whispered, your face heating up. “Cut it out!”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, an expression of mock innocence on his face.

“You know what’s wrong. I’m trying to listen!”

“What is it? Are you… ticklish?” He emphasized his question by poking you swiftly in the side, causing you to jerk away from his touch.

“Loki… d-don’t get any ideas,” you warned, starting to get nervous. He scooted slightly closer to you in his chair.

“Hmm. Surely you must regret tampering with my coffee this morning, now, don’t you?” You narrowed your eyes at him, fixing your gaze on his. He snuck his hand up to your side out of your line of site and gently squeezed, making you jump. “Now, darling, you wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

“Y-you’re the one causing a scene!” you protested, glancing up to see if anyone had noticed this exchange yet. It seemed no one was the wiser to what was going on in your corner of the room, all watching Steve as he continued to provide intel for the upcoming mission.

While you were looking around the room, Loki slid his arm around your waist to attack your other side. You jolted again as you felt his fingertips gently scratching at both sides simultaneously, biting your tongue to keep from laughing. You refused to gratify Loki with a reaction, so you did your best to remain perfectly still as he continued to lightly trace your skin through your thin t-shirt. You could still see his smirk in your peripheral vision despite your attempt to focus on Steve’s briefing.

Gradually, Loki’s light touch became more of a gentle kneading of the soft skin of your sides. It was becoming more difficult not to move, and a reluctant smile started forcing itself across your face. You had to fight even harder as you felt his fingertips moving up your sides, moving agonizingly slowly, gently digging into the spaces between your lower ribs.

“Very good, pet,” Loki teased, his voice deep and smooth as he leaned close to your ear. You shuddered involuntarily, your face burning, flustering you in a way that only the god of mischief could. Unfortunately, Loki was perceptive, and noticed your sudden change in demeanor. His fingers crawled higher up your ribcage and it took everything you had not to let out a squeak. “It would seem that I’m not trying hard enough, wouldn’t it?”

“S-stop it!” you mumbled, leaning as far away from the god as you could with the wall on your other side holding you captive in your seat. He chuckled, low and deep in his throat, suddenly shifting the hand that wasn’t wrapped around you so he could flutter his fingertips against the back of your knee while continuing to torment your ribs with his other hand. You let out a nearly inaudible squeal, biting down on your knuckle in an effort to avoid laughing out loud. You were trembling now, trying desperately not to jerk away from his touch and draw attention to yourself.

“It’s unfortunate for you, really, that you’re so devastatingly ticklish. Tell me, darling – where are you more ticklish? Here?” He scribbled his fingers faster against the delicate skin on the underside of your knee, making you jolt your leg away from him, “Or here?” The slender fingers latched on your ribs squeezed more rapidly, and you arched your back slightly to evade his touch.

“I’m n-not telling you that!” you hissed.

“Alright, then.” The hand under your knee darted back up to your side, and in one swift motion he slipped his fingertips into the hollows under your arms. You couldn’t help but twist harshly, shaking in silent laughter as you leaned into him involuntarily. “I see I’ve found the answer.”

“I’ll be right back!” you announced suddenly, standing abruptly from your chair, and scurrying out of the room. You shut the door behind you and leaned against the wall, trying to catch your breath and regain your composure. Your cheeks were still on fire and your heart was beating a mile a minute in your chest. If it weren’t for the fact that you actually wanted to pay attention during this meeting, this whole interaction with Loki might have been more enjoyable. His persistent teasing had you completely flustered, though, and while under normal circumstances it may have made you feel giddy, you knew you couldn’t let the team see you like this.

You needn’t have worried, though – the door to the meeting room opened again only moments after you’d left the room, and everyone filed out into the hall, chattering amongst themselves, none the wiser to anything that had been going on in the back corner of the room. Loki was the last to leave, trailing behind the others with a few extra feet of distance between himself and the rest of the team. You took advantage of this, quickly grabbing his arm and yanking him off to the side, slamming him up against the wall with your forearm pressed across his chest.

“Damn it, Loki! What the hell!” you growled, glaring at him, although admittedly with less fire in your eyes than he probably deserved.

“Do you admit defeat?” he asked, grinning.

“Wha- no! Of course not!” you retorted. “You fight dirty, Loki!”

“God of mischief, darling,” he responded proudly, snaking his hand under your arm, and digging his fingers into your uppermost ribs. You shrieked and released him from the wall, stumbling backward to escape the torturous tickles. He was too quick for you, grasping your wrist and spinning you around so he could pin you against the wall where he previously stood. After grappling with you for a moment, he managed to grab your other wrist and pin both arms behind your back in one hand, spidering the fingers of his other hand randomly up and down your side. You snorted, now able to laugh and squirm freely. You managed to twist enough to break his hold, spinning around and sweeping his legs out from underneath him with your foot. He fell to the floor, a shocked expression fleeting across his face as you knelt down beside him.

“You know, I’m willing to bet you’re only good at this from personal experience,” you noted with a smirk. Before he could react, you latched both hands on his sides and squeezed, praying for a reaction. He let out a strangled laugh, jerking away from your touch.

“Don’t!” he demanded, sounding somewhat frantic.

“Aha! I knew it!” you gloated, scribbling your fingers into every possible ticklish spot you could think of, knowing it wouldn’t be long before he overpowered you and escaped your hold. He started to giggle – actually giggle – thrashing violently to throw you off. His laughter made you even more flustered than you were before, never having seen the god in such a state.

“Eheheh – I DEMAND you stop this!”

“Sorry Loki, it’s pretty hard to take you seriously when you’re giggling like a schoolchild,” you teased, working your fingers down to his belly. Unfortunately, this caused him to jolt so hard he knocked you off of him, not having expected the sudden motion. In a flash, he had you pinned to the floor, hovering over you with his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

“I-I am going to make you regret that,” he growled, his characteristic smirk returning as he resumed his tickle attack, his fingers darting across your skin, sending ticklish shocks through your nerves. He was agile, never staying in one spot for long enough for you to get used to the sensation before moving his torturous fingers somewhere else.

“L-LOKI! I CAHAHAN’T TAKE IHIHIHIT!!” you pleaded, pounding your feet against the floor in ticklish agony.

“You should have thought of this before crossing the god of mischief,” he retorted, pinning your legs down with his shin and pinching the skin just above your kneecap. Your abdominal muscles were too sore from laughter to even try to sit up and shove him off you. He slid his other hand under your knee to scratch at the sensitive skin there simultaneously.

“I YIELD! I YIELD! STAHAHAP!!” you begged, slapping the floor with your hand to tap out. Thankfully, he obeyed, releasing you so you could roll onto your side, holding your stomach as the last residual giggles bubbled from your lips.

After taking a moment to compose yourself, you sat up and grinned at the trickster. He raised his eyebrows at you.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I just never pegged you as the ticklish type,” you observed. He folded his arms indignantly across his chest.

“I am not ticklish. That is a weakness that only plagues mortals such as yourself,” he insisted. A sneaky poke to his side told you otherwise, causing the Asgardian to jolt and let out a strangled yelp.

“Mmhmm. Ticklish.”

Loki stared you down for a moment, and you started to worry that he might attack you again for that comment. You were surprised when he held out his hand, offering to help you off the floor.

“Truce?”

“Truce? … What are the conditions?” you asked warily, staring at his outstretched hand as if it might try to bite you.

“You keep this little… incident to yourself, and I will stop pranking you. Provided you do the same.” You squinted at him, trying to assess the sincerity in his expression. Satisfied, you grasped his hand in yours and allowed him to pull you to your feet.

“Deal.” You shook his hand once to seal the deal. You both turned to walk down the hallway to catch up with the rest of the team.

“I shall warn you, though – I made no promises that you would be safe from tickles around me. It’s quite amusing, tormenting you. Almost… adorable.” You felt your face flush hot again.

“Well… I guess I won’t protest too much to that.”

#loki tickle #ticklish!reader #tickle fluff #tickle fic #marvel tickle

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seijorhi · 4 years

Text

Nothing Fucks with My Baby

The (not so) long awaited Hitman AU 👀

Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader

TW Blood, minor violence, referenced/implied murder, stalking, implied kidnapping

Iwaizumi has one rule. No kids.

They could be the damn antichrist for all he cares, if they’re underage, they’re off limits. Anyone else is fair game - kind old ladies, rich corrupt businessmen, housewives, politicians. He doesn’t give a shit so long as he gets paid, and paid well.

You were fair game.

He never cares why. Iwa has better things to do than listen to meaningless justifications and vendettas. They make no difference either way - he’s being paid to kill, so he’ll kill, ruthlessly and without prejudice. All he wants is a name, a picture and whether or not they want brains splattered on pavement or something a little more refined. An address doesn’t go astray, but he’ll work with what he’s got, it’s the reason he can charge a fucking premium.

But you… you weren’t what he expected. He’s used to filth. Liars, cheaters, bottom of the barrel trash. Every once in a while some poor idiot gets caught up in something they don’t understand and ultimately pay the price for it, but good people don’t often end up in files splayed across Iwaizumi’s desk. He’s not used to innocence, and as far as he’s concerned, you’re as close as they come.

He supposes that things might have been different if they’d wanted you dead quickly.

Publicly.

But they didn’t want that. They wanted you to disappear without a fucking trace. It wasn’t a kindness - it just meant more work for him. It meant that instead of staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle perched in the window of an empty apartment across the street from yours, he’d have to get his hands dirty.

If you want somebody to blame, sweetheart, why don’t you start with them?

In hindsight, he probably didn’t need to go inside the little coffee joint you worked at. He could lie to himself and say that it was an excuse to get closer to you, to see if you had friends at your work who might try and get in the way, but the simple truth was that he’d been up since four in the fucking morning, and he might just have shot somebody out of sheer irritation if he didn’t get a hit of caffeine and soon.

Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?

And it wasn’t like you were going to recognise him. Three days in, and as far as Iwa can tell, you don’t have the slightest idea that you were being watched, much less that the pair of eyes watching belonged to a cold hearted killer.

People tend to be a little more scared when they sense he’s coming - there’s a kind of innate fear that seeps from every pore as they scurry about trying to hide, trying to put off the inevitable - but you, you’re just blissfully oblivious, flitting around with those wide doe eyes like you haven’t got a damn care in the world.

He honestly doesn’t know whether he wants to envy or pity you for that sweet naivety.

Currently though, he’s more concerned with whether or not you can make a half decent cup of coffee.

“I asked for an extra hot latte.”

Or he would be, if the asshole with slicked back hair and an expensive suit hadn’t cut him off just as he was about to step up to the counter to shove the coffee you’d just made him back in your face. He watches your eyes widen for a split second before you smile - apologetic and demure before you can even open your mouth.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it not hot enough?”

The moment the words leave your lips, you all but flinch. Both you and he know that despite the fact you mean them sincerely (which kind of surprises him, considering that if your situations were reversed he wouldn’t have been nearly so generous) they’re a mistake.

The asshole sneers down at you like you’re nothing more than scum on his shoes. “If it was fucking hot enough, I wouldn’t be wasting my time complaining, now would I?”

Even before he found himself dabbling in his current line of work, Iwaizumi never considered himself much of a knight in shining armour. The world’s a shitty place, it’s not his job to go around fixing things and softening blows. He’s not a cold, emotionless bastard, as most people assume, he just has better things to do than run around playing a damn bleeding heart and sticking his neck out for strangers. It’s not his problem and as far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t owe anybody shit.

Impassive olive eyes watch as you try and backtrack, apologising again, offering to make him a new drink, explaining that the reason the coffee wasn’t as hot as he wanted was because you were trying not to scorch the milk- for naught.

You in your naive little world don’t seem to realise that the asshole doesn’t actually give a shit about the coffee. He wants a power trip, and you’ve given him the perfect excuse. He wants to yell and scream and stamp his feet and take all of his repressed anger and feelings of inadequacy out on you so that he can feel like a big man. He wants to see you whimper and cry and bow down before him.

It’s pathetic, but Iwa’s content to watch it play out, drumming his fingers against the wallet in his hand, more irritated with the delay in getting his own coffee than the outburst itself-

Until the asshole reaches for his latte.

Iwa’s good at reading people, predicting their movements before they’re even made. It’s a necessary skill in his profession, one that’s saved his skin more times than he can count. He sees the little vein in the asshole’s temple throb, his jaw tighten, and the moment his hand twitches towards the still steaming cup of coffee, Iwa knows that he fully intends on throwing it at you.

He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to, an iron grip wrapping around the asshole’s wrist, squeezing. He glares, sneering down at the man who all of a sudden doesn’t seem quite so angry, much less imposing.

“Get out,” he hisses.

It’s not a request.

But the asshole either has a death wish or he’s trying to salvage what’s left of his fragile ego, because his beady eyes narrow and he opens his mouth - no doubt to spew more vitriolic bullshit.

Iwa twists.

Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that it sends the man to his knees, whimpering like a kicked puppy, desperate to relieve the pressure on his wrist.

“I said,” he begins, his voice colder than ice, “get out.”

Yet he doesn’t spare the asshole another glance, not even as he releases his grip and the man skitters away like he’s been burned. The cafe is deathly silent, and without even glancing around, Iwa knows that they’ve managed to draw the attention of most if not all of its patrons.

And for once, he doesn’t give a single fuck.

Iwa’s eyes, his attention, all of it is focused entirely on you - on the wide eyed, stunned look on your pretty face. It’s a violent outburst, not nearly close to what he’s truly capable of, but in the quiet little cafe on a dreary Tuesday morning, glaringly out of place.

Will you burst into tears, he wonders. Ignore it, brush it aside and pretend it never happened? Stutter out more apologies for causing a fuss, for making a simple mistake? He somehow doubts you’ll be the type to scold him for it. No, you’re far too meek for that.

You surprise him, smiling slowly instead, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm.

It’s a far cry from the contrite air you’d graced the asshole with earlier. It’s hesitant, nervous, but it’s very much real, and Iwa finds it difficult to stop the corners of his own lips from twitching upwards in response.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He inclines his head a fraction. “Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t charge him for the coffee, even when he practically shoves the bills across the counter into your hands.

“Don’t worry about it,” you shyly parrot back at him, and he almost fucking snorts when there’s a warmed chocolate chip muffin waiting with his coffee when it’s ready.

He’s being paid forty grand to make sure you’re dead by the end of the week, and you’re here giving him free muffins. Oikawa would see the humour in that. Of course, Oikawa would have absolutely no qualms in charming the absolute hell out of you seconds before he pulled the trigger. Realistically, he shouldn’t either. It’s his job, nothing personal.

To say he enjoys killing is probably a stretch, but he takes pride in it. Iwa’s good at what he does. It’s simple. Easy - so long as he follows his own rules.

This shouldn’t be any different. You’re cute, he supposes, in an odd sort of way. Innocent.

Endearing.

It shouldn’t have an effect on him.

It doesn’t, but-

He could have killed you two days ago. He’d be willing to bet good money that he could’ve walked right to your apartment, knocked on your door, made up some bullshit excuse on the spot and you would have smiled and invited him right inside.

And it’s not like you’d stand a chance of being able to fight him off.

Over the past few days there have been at least twelve different moments that Iwaizumi could have stepped in and snuffed that pretty little life of yours out without making a fuss and it would have been easy.

But he hadn’t.

There’s a difference between surveillance and stalking - it’s a fine line, a blurred one maybe, but it’s there all the same. After yet another night spent camped out watching you move about your apartment - cooking dinner for yourself, zoning out on the couch and fiddling with your phone while the tv plays in the background before finally curling up in bed in the early hours of the morning - Iwa comes to the realisation that he’s crossed it.

He wonders why it doesn’t bother him like it should.

The next day, he goes back to your little coffee shop. There’s no muffin this time, but your face brightens when he walks through the door and when he goes to pick up his coffee there’s a tiny, bite sized cookie sitting atop the lid.

“Don’t tell my boss,” you whisper, darting a glance back over your shoulder even as another pretty little smile graces your features.

Something unexpectedly warm and pleasant sings through his blood, and this time Iwa allows his own lips to twitch into the faintest hint of a grin in response.

You really are a truly awful judge of character.

Maybe that’s your downfall, that beautiful, naive innocence you just bleed. It’s a wonder that nobody’s come along to take advantage of you, especially when you are so very ripe for the taking.

Well, nobody until him, he supposes.

Iwa doesn’t know for certain why the men who want you dead do, he doesn’t particularly care either, but he does know that whatever their reasons are, it’s not enough.

Neither is forty thousand dollars.

It takes time, more than he’d like, to find the root of it all. It’s messy and he has to call in a few favours from old friends, but Iwa is nothing if not thorough.

He’s never particularly enjoyed killing, but there’s a certain satisfaction he gets from watching the light leave their desperate, pleading eyes knowing that he’s finally done his job. When he comes home, his shirt flecked with blood, his hands still dripping with it and coaxes your stricken, tear stained face up into a lingering kiss, Iwa feels content.

They wanted you to disappear entirely, he made sure that you did.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere iwaizumi #yandere iwaizumi hajime #yandere iwaizumi x reader #yandere iwaizumi hajime x reader #yandere fic #my writing #tw stalking #tw blood #tw minor violence & implied murder

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